How Yulka's Stepmother Raised Her

Note: all participants in this cute story were well over the age of majority at the time of the described actions and are just playing around. Well, roleplay and all that)))

"Can you believe it, your Yulka didn't greet me again!" I heard the loud voice of our neighbor Galina Ivanovna as she rolled into our apartment. The neighbor was frankly a hefty woman, and her spatial movements were not at all difficult to notice.

"She's completely out of control!" My stepmother hurried to lament (I could just picture her dramatically shaking her head, clutching her cheeks with both hands), and then shouted much louder, "Yulka!"

Such a turn of events could

mean only one thing: I was about to be spanked, or, as these two ladies, well-known to me, preferred to put it, thrashed. I was thrashed often, and after a certain age, almost every week. If I got a C, stayed after school, or my homeroom teacher expressed something along the lines of Yulia lacking activity in public life, my little skirt would end up on my stomach, and I—in one of the kneeling positions. Dad initially tried to oppose such upbringing but gave up fairly quickly. He generally preferred not to participate in anything. Especially since by the time Dad returned from work, I was already well-brought-up and quite docile. In short, my problems were left exclusively to me.

Galina Ivanovna was our neighbor on the stairwell and played a very special role in my life. Ever since I was first humiliatingly spanked on her complaint several years ago (just a month after we moved to the new house), Galina Ivanovna never denied herself a little pleasure. She didn't strain herself much over the reason for the spanking, usually coming up with the first thing that popped into her head. However, sometimes her imagination ran so wild that it supplied the supposedly occurred story with exotic, even schizophrenic details. My stepmother readily believed Galina Ivanovna, and I invariably ended up thrashed that same day and hour, despite my feeble attempts to justify myself. Over time, the punishments became stricter, and the poses I had to assume, more humiliating.

So this time too, I ran into the living room and, not even hoping to justify myself, began hastily pulling down my white shorts and equally white panties. Galina Ivanovna sprawled in an armchair with a nasty little smile, cracking roasted sunflower seeds into a paper bag. They always spanked me with my bottom bare, while my tank top or T-shirt, if one happened to be on me by some miracle, was sometimes allowed to stay on. "So she remembers better," my stepmother smugly explained her educational methods to anyone interested. Neatly folding my plain clothes on a stool and not waiting for a reminder, I bent over, touched the floor with my fingertips, and prepared to listen to the lectures in this humiliating position. The spanking didn't start right away. erotic stories First, Galina Ivanovna would admire my protruding bottom and everything else visible from behind, gossip with my stepmother about how well-behaved and diligent children were in their early youth. And only then would I be honored with physical impact.

My stepmother returned to the room, menacingly waving her narrow belt, in response to which my buttocks involuntarily trembled, sensing trouble, and my stomach turned cold. I don't believe the tales of those who claim one can derive pleasure from a strict spanking, but that very feeling of anticipation was turning into increasingly unfamiliar emotions for me. I'm talking about that time when you stand a few meters from the hateful Galina Ivanovna, obediently sticking out your bare bottom towards her, and don't dare even move. You feel her arrogant and strangely excited, or something, gaze sliding demandingly over your pussy, thighs, down to your socks. From time to time, our eyes meet; she examines my face, red with shame and the peculiarity of the pose, as if saying, "You're about to be strictly spanked and won't even dare complain to anyone." And indeed, who could you tell about something you're even ashamed to remember alone? My crotch betrays me by getting wet, and I arch my back even more. Let her look, the viper, at how meekly I stand. Let her soak in my writhing under the belt a little later. Let her look if she likes it so much, but my day will come too. But each time it turned out that day was still far off.

"Let her get on the table," Galina Ivanovna grunted discontentedly, addressing my stepmother. With me, she preferred to communicate only with looks and sneering smirks, deliberately not deigning to use words.

Galina Ivanovna's decision is law, and I'm ordered to get on the table. This seems to be the most humiliating pose, because I lie on my back, desperately clutching myself below the knees and pulling them to my chest. In this state, I'm completely exposed to them, while I myself can't see anything. My vulva probably sticks out very shamefully against the background of my skinny thighs, in all its somewhat bald accessibility. Sometimes the belt lashes across it, and tears just flow from my eyes. When lying on your back, most of the blows land on the thighs. Which means you can forget about proper little skirts for at least a week.

I often dream that I'm sitting in class and some unfamiliar teacher calls on me to answer the homework. I desperately try to remember what was assigned, but unsuccessfully. And then events unfold lightning fast: skirt pulled up, a table on a dais like a lectern, knees to chest, pussy on display for everyone to see. And boys, boys, lots of boys around. Examining me from all sides, and for some reason I can't make myself close my eyes.

This time, my stepmother punished me especially slowly, taking her time and choosing spots on the lower part of my modest bottom with relish. After each received blow, I loudly announced their total number and begged for forgiveness. "Yes, I will greet my elders. Yes, I will obey. Yes, I will wash the floors." And so on ad infinitum. Once or twice, when the belt hit a painful spot twice in a row, I broke into a scream, but invariably uttered the necessary, memorized words. Finally, on the fifteenth blow, the spanking ended, and I was magnanimously allowed to straighten up. Galina Ivanovna, trying to lift her considerable bulk from the armchair, as always, snorted disgustingly and out of habit uttered something like, if I were her daughter... Well, thank God I'm not her daughter.

The piquant detail is that on the day of punishment, I'm forbidden to wear anything except a home T-shirt, specially saved for this occasion. So I don't forget I'm being punished, and so it's convenient for my stepmother to inspect the results. Over time and active use, I've stretched this T-shirt as much as I could, but it still only covers my bottom. Now at least, when serving dinner to my father, I don't have to flash you-know-what. Unfortunately, the T-shirt doesn't save me from the little one (my stepbrother), who knows everything perfectly well, sneaks up from behind for no reason, and hikes the hem up to my neck. I blush crimson with shame and squeal, which makes it even more fun for him. Understandable, he doesn't get thrashed, a man is growing up... The little one teases that when he grows up, he'll marry me (yeah, right!) and punish me exactly the same way. The little one actually has a lot of unbridled fantasies on this topic, but that's for another time.

And that's the end of the little tale, and whoever listened... In front of them, I hike up my little skirt, under which... hee!

Don't kick with your little feet, okay?)) Sincerely yours

^^ Yulia ^^