The recent interest in Megan Lowry (see ‘An excellent High School girl paddling story') prompts me to include here another of her pieces hitherto buried in the archives. Entitled HAIRBRUSH VS. CUTOFFS, it originally appeared in Megan’s ‘Fiery Fannies’ Yahoo Group.




HAIRBRUSH VS. CUTOFFS

by Megan

North Carolina's mid-summer heat and humidity were more
oppressive than usual that afternoon as I drove over to the
neighborhood Dixie Mart to pick up a few items my mom needed.
Stopping at the pumps, I ran seven bucks worth of gas into my
Omni, and then ran inside where the air conditioning and chilly
tile floor were a welcome relief from the muggy air and
sunbaked asphalt outside.

After going to the dairy case and bread rack, I sauntered up to
the checkout in my faded Wrangler cutoffs and white halter top,
plus a light nylon windbreaker I had retrieved from the back
seat of the car and thrown on before coming into the store. As
a stood in line behind a mother and her two small kids and a
couple of guys around my age, I felt around in the pocket of my
windbreaker for the bills and change mom had given me. Quickly
counting it, I realized that even combined with my own meager
funds I wouldn't have enough left over to buy a pack of
cigarettes. This was a definite bummer, as they say, because
my last pack was running low and, despite the promise I'd made
to mom that I'd stopped smoking, I still did when out with
friends and occasionally even sneaked a puff in my room.

When it came my turn to check out, I placed mom's stuff on the
counter and told Mr. Mulroy, the store manager, that I owed him
for the gas, too. The phone jangled just then and he asked me
nicely to wait for "just a second" as he turned to answer it.
The "second" dragged into minutes as I listened to one side of
Mr. Mulroy's protracted conversation with someone I gathered
would be making a delivery to the store later that afternoon.
Bored, my eyes wandered around the brilliantly lit interior of
the convenience store and through the plate glass windows to
the steaming July day outside. Standing there, I idly wondered
whether there just might be sufficient loose change in the
Omni's glove compartment or under the front seat to cover the
price of a pack of smokes, and decided there probably wasn't.
It was at that moment, with Mr. Mulroy's back to me, that I
glanced towards the cash register and saw the aluminum
cigarette rack mere inches to its right. Temptation reared its
ugly head. It would be SO easy, I mused, and who would
know....?

"WAIT!" a little voice shouted inside me. "You weren't raised
to be a thief ! And what if you get caught?" I shifted my
weight from one foot to the other, wishing Mr. Mulroy would
hurry. Another voice, a much smoother one, snickered: "Oh, go
ahead! It'll be just this one time! And it isn't really
stealing anyway, and everyone does it!" Mr. Mulroy was still
occupied on the phone. Glancing furtively around, I noticed
there were no other customers in the store. In a heartbeat, I
succumbed. My hand darted over the counter and grabbed two
packs of Marlboro 100's that I quickly shoved deep into the
windbreaker's right pocket. My God! What had I done? My heart
was pounding like a jackhammer. Trying to look innocent, I
felt disbelief and sick fear welling up inside. I had the
crazy thought that I was about a feel a heavy hand on my
shoulder and turn to see a grim faced policeman ready to haul
my sorry butt off to jail. I had been a criminal only 15
seconds and already my conscience was tormenting me with worry
!

Mr. Mulroy hung up the phone and stepped quickly to the
counter. "Gosh, Megan, I'm sorry that took so long, but we've
been havin' some problems gettin' stuff delivered during the
week" he laughed, ringing up my purchases and taking my
crumpled Dollar bills. "No problem" I said, my knees weak.
"I'm in no hurry." We passed a couple of minutes talking about
Bob Hardy, our local high school football star who was turning
professional, and then I told him I had better get going. "Say
hi to your folks, Megan" he said as I picked up the plastic bag
from the counter and turned to leave. As I pushed open the
door the air hit me like a blast furnace, but I felt wierdly
cold and a million butterflies were fluttering in my stomach as
I scampered to my car. "YEAH! OKAY! I GOT AWAY WITH IT" I
thought to myself, giddy and almost light headed with relief.
"But never again, NEVER again!" Slipping off my windbreaker, I
tossed it through the window and onto the back seat, then slid
in behind the wheel.

As I started the motor and leaned over to adjust the AM/FM to a
country and light rock station in Charlotte, I heard Mr.
Mulroy's voice at the window. "Megan?" My head snapped around
with a start. "I have to talk to you a minute. Would ya shut
the car off?" Suppressing panic, I twisted the igniton key and
heard the motor die.

"What?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I think you know what. Did you take something out of the
store without paying for it?"

"Me? No WAY!" I lied, trying to sound indignant.

"Look, my stockboy Ricky just told me he saw you pocket some
cigarettes. Did you?" Frowning, I shook my head and prayed
that he didn't notice my trembling.

Mr. Mulroy reached through the window and grabbed my
windbreaker from where I'd carelessly tossed it. "Hey!" I
yelled, trying to snatch it back. It was no use. Feeling
around, he took out the two damning packs of Marlboros and
stared hard at me.

"I...I bought those over at Walmart" I stammered, angry now,
and confused.

"Well, it's easy enough to find out. All we have to do is run
these over the scanner. You wanna come inside while I do
that? I mean, if you're right, if ya bought these out at Wally
World, I'll sure hell make Ricky apologize to you big time."
Gripping the wheel tightly, I stared silently at a lamp post
across the street.

"Megan, how about it?" He tossed my windbreaker back inside
the car. Suddenly breathless and on the verge of tears, I
understood I was caught. I bit my lip.

"I...I don't know what happened. I just...I don't know..."

"I know what happened" he curtly interrupted. "You tried
shoplifting and I caught you at it. What's not to know?" His
demeanor was nasty and authoritarian. I swallowed hard.

"Do...do you have to call the cops?" Taking my eyes from the
lamp post I looked up at him imploringly, hoping against hope
he'd give me a break just once.

"No, I guess not. Not this time."

"Oh god, alright, thanks" I sighed. For a terrifying minute I
had imagined myself handcuffed in the back of a patrol car
enroute to the Law Enforcement Center and an appearance in
juvenile court. "I, uh, I won't ever do anything like this
again..." I murmered, prickling with shame.

"You BETTER not ever pull anything like this again. Next time
I won't be so nice about it."

"I promise you I won't. Can I get going now?" An enormous
gasoline transport, its turn indicators flashing orange,
rumbled to a stop behind the Omni with a sharp "whoosh!" of
airbrakes. Mr. Mulroy waved up to the driver with a sweaty
smile and had to raise his voice to he heard above the racket
of the semi's heavy Diesel motor. He leaned down to the window
and nodded.

"Yeah, you can take off. I'm gonna be callin' your mom about
this, though." I winced. God DAMN it! Why couldn't he just
let it go? Because he'd let me off easy by not calling the
police I figured it was pretty hopeless to try arguing him out
of phoning mom, so I started the car and turned onto Davis
Street and headed home. As Faith Hill belted out "Wild One",
my brain worked in twenty directions at once for an excuse,
explaination or alibi to offer mom.

Parking in the driveway, I walked across the dry, tickly grass
toward the back porch. I was coming up the steps when mom
opened the kitchen door and looked out. The anger and
disappointment on her face told me everything: I was in
trouble. I handed her the Dixie Mart bag and walked into the
kitchen.

"Mom, listen..."

"WHAT do you have to say about this, young lady?" Mom demanded,
arms crossed.

"I...I'm sorry. I just don't know why it happened." Blushing,
I stared down at the linoleum floor. At five foot six and 119
pounds, I felt exactly like a misbehaving little brat of six.
"It's not that big a deal..."

CRACK !! "OUCH" I yelped, stunned, as mom's open palm slapped
my face. "Don't!" The slap stung but I resisted rubbing my
cheek.

"I want you to go up to your room. I'll come up in a few
minutes."

"Go upstairs? What for?"

"What for? 'Cuz you haven't had a good tanning since you were
eleven, and you're gonna get one now." We stared at each other
a good ten seconds.

"Whaddya mean?" Mom couldn't REALLY intend to spank me...could
she?

"I 'mean'", Mom answered with a note of sarcasm, "that you can
either get punished now, I'll do it, or you can wait for daddy
tonight. Up to you, but I don't think you want your dad to use
the belt, do you?"

"Hey, I am seventeen years old. I don't have to let....."

"Megan, I SAID to go up to your ROOM and right NOW!" She
snapped her fingers and pointed towards the stairs, looking
bitchier than I ever seen her before. Pouting, red faced, I
tried to talk my way out of the mess I'd made. "Mom,
please..it's just that I....."

CRACK!! Mom's hand delivered another hot, humiliating slap to
my face.

"MOVE IT, MEGAN!" Head down, I walked quickly through the
living room and upstairs, crying with frustration and anger.
Sitting dejectedly on the edge of my bed, I hated mom, I hated
myself for the nightmare I'd created, and I hated the whole
world. What was I gonna do? Would my mom really come in here
and...? ? At seventeen, I saw myself as a grown woman, and the
idea of being spanked like a child would have seemed laughable
had the possibility not suddenly become so chillingly real.
What if I wouldn't let her? Would she actually tell daddy? I
thought back to when I was 13 and my older sister sassed him
over breaking her curfew, the dread I'd felt in the pit of my
stomach overhearing her wails and screams punctuated by a dozen
fast, snapping cracks with his heavy leather belt across the
seat of her jeans, and how she'd laid on her bed crying her
heart out for the better part of an hour. I hadn't been
spanked by dad since I was eight, a punishment that had
consisted of just a few not very painful swats with his hand,
but I was certain that if he had to do the job now I'd be in
for the same as my sis, if not worse. And, needless to say, I
didn't want that! The same little voice of conscience I'd
ignored 45 minutes ago suddenly piped up: "That was a stupid
thing to do" it whispered vindictively. "Aren't ya sorry now?"
Yeah, I was. Sorrier than I'd ever been about anything in my
whole life. If ONLY I could relive this last hour, I'd give
anything, I thought, just to undo this . . .

My bedroom door opened and mom walked in, the heavy oak
hairbrush in her right hand. I hadn't felt its sting for six
years, and I didn't want to now. I looked at it, and up at
her.

"Megan" she said. Mom didn't sound angry anymore. I shrugged,
wishing to appear cool and uncaring.

"What?"

"C'mon, hon." Mom reached down and took my left wrist. I
stood, unresisting but frightened, and came with her a few
steps to the end of the bed where she sat down. She looked up,
nodded, and patted her lap. "Oh God, just like when I was
little, I'm gonna have to go over her knee!" I realized
sickly. I rolled my eyes and gave a sigh of exhasperation,
hoping to make her think I saw all of this as silly and no real
punishment at all. With my mind in a fog of disbelief, I
lowered myself over mom's lap while it occured to me that my
faded cutoff jeans and skimpy cotton panties weren't going to
offer me much protection against what I knew was coming.
Feeling small and vulnerable and ashamed, I adjusted myself
over mom's lap while that little voice screamed at me again:
"YOU'RE A KID AND YOU WERE BAD...YOU'RE GETTIN' A SPANKIN' !!
YEAH, A SPANKIN' !!" Mom's tummy was warm against my left
side. She took my right wrist and held it tightly against the
small of my back. My brain was focused on the happy,
summertime sounds of the little kids across the street yelling
and giggling as they ran through the lawn sprinkler......

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Fast, hard and punishing, mom
slapped the heavy brush down, alternating from left to right.
Wanting not to cry, I tensed my muscles and squirmed. Six
years is a long time, long enough to forget how bad mom's
spankings really did HURT !!

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! "owwwwwwwwwwwwww" I gasped,
"Moooooommmm..." Please, God, I thought, let this be all of
it, no more... But the spanks kept raining down, right to left,
as my misbehaving little teenage tush began to burn as if I'd
just sat in boiling water.

THWACK! SMACK! CRACK! WHACK! Hot, salty tears began flowing in
earnest now, the sizzling anguish of the spanking 10 times more
intense than I could ever remember, as the hardwood brush
stoked up the hellfire raging in my reddening, sore and scalded
butt cheeks. I screamed. "YEOWWWCHHHHH !!!!! MOMMMEEEYYYYYYYY
!!!!!!!!!" Squirming and struggling across my mom's lap, bare
feet kicking furiously, the spanking seared away all my adult
pretensions as I dissolved into tears of shame and wailing
cries of well-earned punishment PAIN.

After twenty hard slaps, mom stopped. She helped me up and I
stood before her, no longer a sassy mouthed teen but a well
chastised, sobbing little girl trying to rub away the
blistering hurt of a spankin' she knew was deserved. Mom laid
the brush on my dresser, tunred back and drew me close, rubbing
my shoulders.

"Don't cry, honey. It's all right now" mom soothed, as I
continued to whimper. Giving me a light kiss on the cheek, she
left my room, and I lay face down on my bed, crying softly into
the pillow, and reaching back to gingerly massage my throbbing
little bottom. In pain from the tanning, aching and contrite,
I suddenly understood it all. I had seriously and deliberately
screwed up and had merited some serious consequences. Those
"consequences" had made my buttocks glow red and had left my
face hot and wet with tears, but those consequences had
balanced the scales: the spanking mom gave me let me suffer and
make up for my guilt and my stupid, bratty behavior. It was
okay now. It was over and done with. Mom's spanking, really
and truly, was an act of love.

A while later I came downstairs. Mom sat at the table having a
Pepsi before she started dinner. Recovered somewhat by now, I
sat down opposit her. "Uh, I'm sorry, mom" I began, "this
won't happen again..."

"I Know it won't Megan. You just made a mistake, that's all. I
guess everybody does sometimes."

"Uh, are you gonna tell Daddy what happened?" Mom shook her
head. "Nah, you feel bad enough as it is without dad scolding
and yelling at you too. We don't have to say anything." This
was a huge relief. I Knew dad wouldn't spank me again, but he
might possibly ground me...until I was about 35.

"You won't ever have to punish me again, either."

"I hope not, Honey. You don't know how much I hated this
today."

"You don't know how much I hated this today!" I managed a weak
smile and mom laughed. She offered me a Pepsi and we didn't
talk about it anymore.

This was the last spankin' mom ever had to give me, and it's
one I'll always remember. The twang and discomfort in my
backside served as a three day reminder that it was time to
grow up, time to stop acting like a kid and time to stop
getting into the kind of trouble that would mean being punished
like a kid. Having to sleep on your tummy for a few nights
really drives that message home!

About a week later, as my boyfriend Dave and I sat watching a
three quarter moon rise over White Lake, I 'fessed up what I'd
done and what happened when I'd gotten home. At first he
didn't believe me.

"What? She SPANKED you?"

"Yeah."

"Right...No way!" Dave laughed.

"YES way !!!! You think I'd make this up?"

Dave took a bit of convincing that I was telling the truth.
When he finally understood I wasn't fibbing, for some reason he
found the whole thing just real aumsing. That's a guy for
you. Anyway, the mental image of his almost-of-legal-age
girlfriend over her mom's knee having her fanny tanned elicited
his sympathy. He tenderly "comforted" me and made it all
better. (grin)

http://images.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://64.13.133.31/pics/up-TDLU1LDQK41VI0P3-m&imgrefurl=http://www.topix.com/forum/family/adolescents/TEDJFV48V73Q1SVFQ&h=50&w=50&sz=1&hl=en&start=5&um=1&tbnid=8UViJP_GXEwx6M:&tbnh=50&tbnw=50&prev=/images%3Fq%3D%2522megan%2Blowry%2522%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26rlz%3D1T4ADBF_en-GBGB244GB244%26sa%3DN

After a couple of nights trawling the net,Megan's basic story here about nicking fags from Walmart/The nearest garage turned up on 23 different sites/posts. All were girls, all got spanked by irate parents and all in the time period 1987-1993.

Not one used a credit-to buy fags, not effect the spanking!

Oh, and Megan's other story re the smoking in school paddling-19 different sites & again ALL girls,ALL caught in possession on campus & not actually smoking,so they were unable to follow Lenny Bruce's famous maxim & deny it,even if caught red-handed.

Even worse,15 of the 19 detailed Marlboro, which is bringing my brand of smokes into disrepute. 14 of 19 detailed the colour of panties on paddling day-yep, whites 14 all-blacks nil!


Steve M

http://www.network54.com/Forum/209127/thread/1218916310/last-1218937820/CHECK+IT+OUT

See messages 3 & 8.