CHAPTER SEVEN
Lena
At seventeen, shortly after getting my driver’s license, I swerved to avoid a drunk driver who came into my lane. I was on a mountain road just north of Orange County, California, and I went over the edge and down a steep incline. My mother, who was with me in the car, described it as the most terrifying event of our lives. The drunk driver didn’t even know what he did, but he ran off the road, flipped over nine or ten times, and ended up in the hospital for almost six months. Thankfully, another driver saw it all and recorded it on her cell phone. It made the insurance situation easier to handle.
Back when that happened, the terror was overwhelming. I went off the road, having to steer with little control over the car until I found a grove of trees I thought could stop us without killing us. I managed to steer in that direction, and we stopped, two hundred feet beneath the road, banged up but alive. The entire time, the feelings of terror were unlike anything I had ever experienced. I know nothing scarier than that accident, until now.
The look in Waylon’s eyes tells me he’s going to teach me a lesson that goes well beyond what I might imagine. At least with the car, I remained in the driver’s seat and had a little control or at least the illusion of control. I am helpless with Waylon.
Completely and utterly helpless.
Dear God above, I can’t do a damned thing.
I look at him and the darkness in his eyes as he steps in and closes the door. I wish I hadn’t sent all of my friends away because some kind of buffer right now would be fantastic. He steps forward, and I don’t even realize what’s happening before I’m staring at the floor, tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I’m so shocked by how effortlessly he threw me over his shoulder, and I don’t even cry out. He walks to my bedroom and tosses me on the bed.
I stare up at him, completely terrified. He reaches forward and grabs my ankle, yanking me to him. I yelp as he pulls me and then positions me, so I’m at the edge of the bed. He sits down, and, again, he moves with such strength and such power I don’t even have time or, more likely, the mental capacity to react. He yanks my sweatpants down to my ankles with a quick movement and flips me over his lap.
“Little girl, I told you that you were never to call yourself worthless or put yourself down, didn’t I?”
I blurt out, “Yes, Daddy.”
His hand comes down in a brutal spank over my ass cheeks. The pain of the impact stuns me, and the sting and humiliation seem to reverberate through my mind and body. I’m shocked with my mouth wide open and my mind unable to respond. “Didn’t I?” he asks again.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say hoarsely.
His hand falls again, and the second spank seems worse than the first. I yelp and then start crying. The humiliation of the spanking is even worse than the pain. “Didn’t I?” he asks one more time.
“Yes, Daddy,” I weep.
His hand falls again.
“Didn’t I?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Spank.
It happens again and again, and I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the situation. How many times does his hand fall? Fifteen? Twenty? I don’t know. All I know is that my ass cheeks feel like they are on fire, and I can’t even begin to wrap my head around things. I have never been spanked before, not even by my parents when I was a little kid. I lose count of how many times he asks me if I was instructed not to put myself down.
Finally, he stops spanking and strokes my hair as I weep. I can’t believe what’s happened, and more than the fact that my ass feels like it’s never going to feel normal again, I am amazed at how little my mind is racing, as it had before the spanking. I feel centered and fine suddenly, and I can objectively think about what has happened as I cry. I finally stop crying and just lay over his lap.
“I told you never to call yourself worthless,” Waylon says. “Didn’t I?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper.
And his hand hits my ass again! I shriek as the pain explodes over me again, and I immediately start weeping again. Somehow, the spanking is.. good?
Dear God, the spanking is good!
I don’t understand it, and I most certainly don’t enjoy it.
But I need it.
That’s the part I don’t understand. It’s almost as though every spank drives away my self-doubt and worry, or, at least, punishes the self-doubt. That’s the point, I think. It punishes the self-doubt and not me. The emotion is so intricately linked to me, to who I am, that when a spank lands, the self-doubt tries to get away, but I cling to it and pull it back.
I can feel it getting looser with each spank, and every time Waylon says, “I told you never to call yourself worthless, didn’t I?”
Every “Yes, Daddy” weakens the bond that fear of failure and worthless feeling has over me as well.