Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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Anything But the Switch
(*****, F/f, Severe, nc schoolgirl switching)
A teen gets switched by her grandparents. (Approximately 4,390 words. Originally published 2003-12.)
There was nothing Samantha hated more than a switching. Her mother was infamous for the lessons over her knee with a woodspoon or hairbrush, and her father swung a mean leather belt, but both were cake and ice cream compared to a switching from her grandparents.
Whenever Samantha visited her grandparents, she was always on her best behavior. But it never failed: at some point during the visit she'd get in trouble and discover that she'd earned a switching.
Now she loved her Grandpa and Grandma dearly: they were kind, loving folk who spoiled their grandchildren with little gifts, homemade cooking, and gobs of attention. They were old-fashioned and didn't even have a television (well, they did, but it was black-and-white and only received two channels). But the grandkids didn't mind. There was always fun stuff to do on the farm: animals to care for and play with, a pond for swimming, woods to explore, a hillside to climb, horses to ride, and Grandpa and Grandma even made games out of the chores.
In the evenings, after a delicious supper and wonderful blackberry cobbler with fresh homemade ice cream, the grandkids would curl up in blankets on the porch and Grandpa and Grandma would sit on the wooden swing and tell stories of the old days, of when they were little, and it was strange and wonderful to imagine life when 78-year-old Grandpa Nelson was only five!
Grandpa and Grandma were great, but they were also strict, at least by liberal modern standards. They had rules on the farm and you had to obey them, and the penalty for disobedience was nothing short of a good old-fashioned switching.
Samantha hated switchings. Did I mention that? Switchings were the worst.
First, you had to take off all your clothes. Everything. Switchings were always given in your birthday suit. It didn't matter how young or old you were: everything came off. Grandpa and Grandma were old-fashioned, but nudity was considered just part of life on the farm. Skinny dipping was the norm for swimming in the pond, and while the farmhouse had modern plumbing now, it hadn't always, and Grandma was often more comfortable hosing off some muddy kids by the barn instead of having them march mud through the house on the way to the bathroom. It wasn't uncommon to see a group of naked boys and girls dripping wet and shivering on the porch, waiting for Grandma to return with some fluffy towels for them to dry off before they would be allowed inside.
The grandkids weren't unused to being naked on the farm -- it was part of what made life different there -- but when you _had_ to strip for a switching it was a miserable experience. As every layer of clothing came off it was with the knowledge that you were losing protection, and you could already imagine the sting of that switch across your bared skin.
After you'd stripped naked, you had to go and cut your switch. This was horrible: the only thing worse than walking the quarter-mile to the grove of trees behind the barn was the switching itself. Anyone who saw you, of course, knew exactly what was happening. The walk was long and boring, not to mention embarrassing, but you never wanted it to end.
Upon reaching the grove, you had to find some switches. Grandpa and Grandma were very particular about the switch. Depending on your age and the severity of your crime, it had to be a certain length and thickness, and you had to cut two in case the first one broke or wasn't satisfactory.
"Samantha Nelson! Why I'm ashamed of you, using language like that!" Grandma had scolded her one day. "You get yourself over to the grove and cut two switches. I want them long and stout: at least as thick as my thumb on one end and as long as your arm. You got that?"
Sniffling and crying already, Samantha had nodded and run off to do as bid. Naked as the day she was born, she felt infinitely more self-conscious at thirteen, and she'd had a difficult time cutting those switches. It wasn't easy finding branches that were fairly straight, the right size, and low enough you could grab them from the ground. And of course the whole time you were painfully aware that you were naked, punishment naked, that people might be watching you, and this was taking forever.
Once you'd found the switches, you had to peel off the twigs and smaller branches with a paring knife. When the switch appeared to be ready, if you were smart you tested it with a few swings through the air or slapping the side of a tree, to make sure it didn't have a hidden flaw that would make it break.
Woe be you if your switches broke! That had happened to Samantha's cousin Alan one summer and she'd never forgotten it. After just a few strokes his first switch had broke, and the second one did the same. Alan was crying loudly but there was a look of triumph on his face -- like the myth of the hangman's noose snapping freeing the condemned man, Alan assumed his switching was over.
Instead, a furious Grandma grabbed him by the earlobe and dragged him all the way to the grove of trees. There she made him stand and wait while she cut two extra-strong, extra-long switches, and then she wore _both_ out on his hide. That's right, he received two switchings in a row, on the bare, right there in front of God and everybody.
Samantha had been only six years and her blood ran cold at the memory. From the first time, at age nine, she'd been ordered to cut herself some switches, until now, at age seventeen, she still winced every time she thought of Alan's switching. She made sure that her switches were always stout, long, and whippy. Though she knew how much they would hurt, one switching was enough: she had no interest in sharing Alan's awful fate.
Once you'd cut two good switches, it was time to return to the farmhouse for your medicine. While it looked like a long distance, for some odd reason it seemed to only take seconds. Way too quickly you were back, breathing heavily, palms sweating, throat aching, eyes burning, and your stomach doing uncomfortable flipflops as you handed Grandma or Grandpa the switches.
At that moment you were praying for a miracle. Anything to avoid the punishment to come. Perhaps a bear would attack the livestock, the barn would catch on fire, or a meteor would crash into the pond. Maybe Grandpa or Grandma would suddenly have mercy and give you a reprieve. You'd look up with puppy dog eyes brimming with tears and silently beg (coherent vocalization is beyond you at this point).
But of course there was no reprieve. The governer would never call with the pardon. The natural disaster didn't happen. No, you'd been sentenced to a switching and a switching you received.
Damn, Samantha hated switchings. Swithings were the worst thing in the entire world. After all the shame of stripping naked, walking the long walk to the grove, cutting the switches, and returning, it was time for the pain. And oh, the pain was intense.
Samantha had been paddled at school on three occasions: once by the principal, and twice by her gym teacher. The principal's office had been formal discipline and had only been four pops. It was over before she felt it. Her gym teacher, on the other hand, kept the matter between them but gave her a dozen licks. Both times she had thought it pretty bad, for the paddle was heavy and hard, but it was nothing compared to a switching.
Hairbrushings from her mother were fierce, intense affairs. Draped across her mother's lap, her buttocks bared and scarlet as the heavy brush pounded down, Samantha always thought she was about to die her butt hurt so bad. But she'd take hairbrushings every night for a week instead of a single switching.
Baring her bottom in her father's study as she bent over a chair for a licking with his wide leather belt was a joy compared to a switching. He swung hard and fast, usually giving her a few dozen, painting her buttocks with magenta swatches, and it hurt something awful, but it was a smile compared to a switching.
Did I mention that Samantha hated switchings?
Part of the reason was that switchings at Grandpa and Grandma's were always given in the kitchen. They had a huge farm kitchen, with wide open doorways to the main entryway and the family room, as well as a side door to the back yard. That door was usually closed, but during the summer months it was only a screen door: anyone passed within fifty yards of the house could see right into the kitchen.
If you know anything about country living, you know that the kitchen is central to farm life. Everything happens in or around the kitchen. There's always someone going or coming or hanging out. There was no hiding in the kitchen. You were totally exposed from several sides, and Grandma usually kept the curtains open on the large bay window by the kitchen table. That was where switchings took place.
The rule was you had to spread your legs wide, keep your feet flat on the ground, and your palms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn't get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly, to demonstrate your contriteness. If you didn't stay in position, be ready to repeat the switching. Grandpa and Grandma only gave a couple warnings during a switching, and if you couldn't handle it they'd call the other to hold you down and after it was all over you'd be told that the switching didn't count and your real punishment would come the next day.
It was embarrassing to be getting switched in the first place, of course, but having to be held was the ultimate pariah. Samantha learned from her cousins there was pride in being able to take a switching properly, and shame in making a fuss. She had to be held for her first switching, at age nine, but after enduring the mockery of her cousins, she took her repeat dose bravely.
The switching itself was hell. Samantha had no doubt in her mind that hell was being switched 24/7 for all eternity. There could be nothing worse.
The thin, whippy branch stung like red-hot wires as it lashed across your flesh. You'd scream, absolutely certain that your bottom had been sliced open and warm blood was pouring out from the wound. But of course there was no blood. A thin weal, yes, puffy and swelling, crimson in color, and horribly sensitive. But no blood.
Grandpa and Grandma were both expert switches, and the nature of a switching is that the force of the blows isn't much of a factor in the pain quotient. Grandma, though not as strong as Grandpa, could give a switching that was every bit as painful as one of Grandpa's. They'd stand behind you and switch back and forth, stripping the sides of your hips and legs with weals. It was fast, it was hard, and it was hideous.
The worst part of a switching was that it lasted for hours. At least it felt like that. The blows would keep coming and coming and coming, on and on and on, until you wondered, seriously, if it would ever end. Several times Samantha had wondered if she really was in hell. "Maybe I died and this is hell," she thought miserably. "This will go on forever and ever and ever!"
Eventually, of course, the switching would end. But not before every inch of exposed backside flesh was scorched with crimson weals. From the top of your ass crack to the backs of your knees you'd be one huge welt. Even worse, the stripes wrapped around both sides of your legs, including the tender inner thighs, and the outsides of your buttocks, areas that were usually neglected during a hairbrush spanking or paddling. For the next twenty-four hours just being alive would hurt, and after that you'd only be in pain when you moved or sat down. The marks would only last for several days, though some of the worst ones would be around for a week or more. Within a couple weeks you'd be healed and all trace of the switching would be gone, but it was an uncomfortable two weeks.
Now it was one thing to get a switching when you were a mere child, a twelve-year-old, for instance, visiting Grandpa and Grandma for the summer. Then you probably deserved it. But as a teenager, especially an older teen -- a young _woman_, in fact -- it was ridiculous.
But Grandpa and Grandma didn't care how old you were. If you broke a house rule, the consequence was always a proper switching, and it didn't matter if you were ten or twenty.
Seventeen-year-old Samantha knew that from painful experience. But she still couldn't figure out how she'd managed to get in this position again. She was just visiting Grandpa and Grandma for the weekend, but once again she was stripping for a switching. How _could_ she have been stupid enough to bring her cigarettes with her? She hadn't intended to smoke them during her visit, of course -- that would have been insane, considering her grandparents stand on smoking -- but it hadn't occurred to her that Grandma might notice the pack in her purse. Not here five minutes and already she was in trouble.
Naked, she sighed, took the paring knife Grandma handed her, and headed out on the long walk to cut her switches. It was early evening and chilly, especially when you didn't have on any clothes, and Samantha hurried as fast as she could. She knew from experience it was better to just get the punishment over with, though she was anything but eager to begin the switching.
After years of cutting switches, she was now an expert at it. It only took her a few minutes to find and trim two wicked three foot rods. She swung them through the air as a test, and the whistle and swish made her flesh tingle in dreadful anticipation of the stinging whipping to come. She'd gotten a switching on her last visit, just a couple months ago, and it had been a doozy. She'd vowed she'd never earn another, and yet here she was. Her bowels felt weak so she wisely took the time for a quick pee behind a bush before returning to the farmhouse with the switches.
Trotting back carrying the switches, she was humiliated to notice a couple teenage boys perched on a fence at the edge of her grandfather's property. They were watching her intently. She covered her breasts with arms and ran on, her face beet red with embarrassment, but there was nothing she could do. She knew the boys, too. They were Josh and Eric and lived about a half mile down the road. They often came and swam in her grandparents' pond. She'd even skinny dipped with them a few times. But there was a huge difference between skinny dipping and being undressed for a whipping.
Samantha reached the safety of the front porch and darted into the house, glad to be out of the sight of the boys, but when she saw Grandma waiting with a stern look on her face, she remembered that she was anything but safe.
"These look decent," nodded Grandma grimly, bending one of the switches. "We'll see how they stand up to a good old fashioned switching!"
Trembling, eyes already wet with tears, Samantha leaned against the kitchen table. Her legs were shoulder-width apart, hands flat on the table. Her naked butt stuck out behind her, feeling huge and incredibly vulnerable. She took a deep breath and waited for the first sting.
It came quickly, wave after wave of pain. As always, the first minute was the worst. The pain went from mere imaginings to a reality so fierce it seemed impossible. For the first minute, the pain kept increasing in intensity. The lashing twig laid on stripes of fire that burned impossibly bright, like red-hot electric wires pressed into her skin.
Grandma went back and forth with the switch, striking first the right cheek with a right-to-left motion, then coming across the left buttock with a backhand blow. The result was a non-stop whipping at an incredible pace. Within that first agonizing sixty seconds Grandma managed at least a hundred blows, and as always, the first minute was the most difficult to remain in position.
"Stay still," grunted Grandma at around the fifty-five second mark, for Samantha was writhing so much her bottom was a moving target. Gasping for breath and sobbing loudly, the teenager struggled to hold herself in position and willingly offer her bottom for the agonizing lash.
By the second minute, the initial horror was muted slightly. The pain reached a sort of peak. Sure, every time the branch caught fresh, unwhipped flesh the torment was intense, but there was already so much agony the pain was no longer doubling with every blow. This was where the pain settled into a steady rhythm of anguish, sparked by the occasional really sharp cut which hit like a bolt of lightening.
The worst part of being switched as she got older, Samantha felt, besides the acute embarrassment of being punished like a child, was that her growing body provided more of a target. Over the past couple of years her hips had swelled wide, and while that attracted the fascination of male gender, it also meant there was considerably more surface area requiring discipline. She was positive this middle portion of the whipping lasted much, much longer than it used to when she was twelve or thirteen.
After a long while, minutes that felt like hours, there was little fresh flesh left. There were welts on top of welts, and every stroke felt like rolling surges of electrical current, but the peaks and valleys of the punishment were gone. Now it was just torment. Samantha's body ached and screamed with pain regardless of what the switch was doing. Grandma had slowed down the pace of the switching, taking more time to aim and really putting some energy behind the blows.
This portion of the punishment was what Samantha called the _denouement_: the gradual descent to the finish. She liked the fact that the switching was approaching its conclusion, but the gentle slow-down meant the denouement could last for hours (at least it felt like that). Sometimes it seemed as though Grandma would pause for a full minute, switch up to her shoulder, waiting for the right time and spot to lash down more pain. At least during the fiercest, fastest part of the switching there was no time to think about the upcoming stroke: they came on like water flowing over you. Now, however, Samantha could think of nothing _but_ the next stroke, cringing and writhing, waiting, waiting, waiting. The stroke she imagined coming was always worse than the reality, and yet paradoxically never as intense, meaning that she suffered during both the wait and the blow.
By this point in the switching Samantha was exhausted. Her body was drenched with sweat and tears, and her arms and legs and back ached from staying in the same position -- leaning over the kitchen table with her naked butt thrust out -- for so long. Her belly felt scraped from rubbing against the table edge, and her breasts throbbed from dangling uncomfortably and being constantly bounced about. Maybe her pains were her imagination: she even hurt in places that didn't make any sense! Her neck felt sore, like her hair was too heavy for her head, and her toes were achingly stiff like when your feet were frozen from walking in the snow. In short, her body was nothing but pain.
Oddly, it was always during the denouement that Samantha felt the strangest sensations between her legs. The torture of the switching would grow dim and distant. In a fog, she could feel and hear the switch cracking down across her haunches, and her body would react with cries and moans and frantic wiggles, but it was like she wasn't there. Then she'd become aware of a blossoming tingling in her sex: arousal. She was wet. She supposed it was a defense mechanism to the pain. Or perhaps it was because she was naked, or because the switching's target was in close proximity to her sex organ.
But the reason was irrelevant. What mattered was the blissful pleasure she felt coursing through her body. Oh, it truthfully wasn't much pleasure at all, not in the amount of pain she was in: just the faintest tingling, a hint of potential pleasure, if she'd only scratch the itch. But in her situation the slightest pleasant feelings were earth-shattering. For instance, during a brief pause in the switching she'd might feel a light breeze across her scorched buttocks, and to her that wonderful coolness felt the way a scented bubble bath feels after a long, laborious day. The hunger between her legs was the same way. Her mind magnified it, focused on it, and it soon it became all she could think about. In some ways it felt so good it was almost worth the switching she'd endured to get to this point. Almost.
The irregular cuts of the switch, landing whenever Grandma found a spot that needed punishing, were rude intrusions to this mind-bliss. Samantha writhed and moaned, begging for it to stop, and her resentment of that whippy stick grew with every stinging stroke. Why couldn't she just be left alone to enjoy this moment? Why did that evil switch have to keep intruding?
Then, as always, so abrubtly it came as a shock, Grandma said, "All right, just a few more," and her arm flashed back and forth with a flurry of horrible blows that drove all sexual thoughts from Samantha's mind. The lashes came down across her swollen, scarlet buttocks and thighs, criss-crossing scores of puffy weals and welts, and Samantha screamed and screamed. The flurry lasted only a few seconds, a final burst of pain to conclude the punishment, but somehow, after the lull, it always felt like the worst part of the entire switching.
As soon as it was over Samantha was up, jumping around the kitchen, yelping and grabbing her ass. The flesh was too welted to rub, so she'd just squeeze the cheeks and moan, fresh tears from some hidden source suddenly flowing. It was always here that Samantha, even at seventeen, was the smallest, most contrite little girl on the planet.
It was tradition to hug her punisher at this point, and so she did, embracing Grandma and sobbing uncontrollably against her shoulder. Grandma hugged back, muttering soothing words and gentle encouragement. The whipping was over, she was forgiven, and Grandma was all Grandma now, loving and kind.
Samantha cried for several minutes, only stopping when she heard a low voice say, "Did my favorite grandchild earn herself another switching?"
"Oh Grandpa," moaned Samantha running to her grandfather and hugging him. "It was so awful and it still hurts so bad."
Grandpa turned the teen around to study her swollen and blistered buttocks and he gave a low whistle. "Well, that's nicely done, as usual. Your grandmother knows how to switch."
"I'll say," sighed Samantha, reaching back to oh-so-gently palm her welted ass.
"What on earth did you do, you naughty girl?"
Samantha blushed, too embarrassed to say anything, but Grandma helped her out. "When she threw her purse on her bed, a pack of cigarettes fell out."
"Cigarettes!" Grandpa's kind face became stern. "Samantha Marie Nelson! How could you."
"I'm sorry, Grandpa. I wasn't smoking them, honest. They -- they're my friend Sarah's. I was just keeping them for her."
"Are you lying to me?" growled Grandpa sternly. "Because I'll take a switch to you myself if you are!"
Samantha's mouth went dry and her belly tightened at the thought of enduring another switching. She shook her head frantically. "No, no, please, not that!"
"All right, then. Tell me the truth: was that your packet of cigarettes?"
Suddenly poor Samantha found herself in a bind. She desperately wanted to lie, but the consequences of being caught were unthinkable. What if Grandpa telephoned Sarah? It was too great a risk. But if she told the truth, she might be asking for more punishment?
She bowed her head. "They're mind, Grandpa. I smoke occasionally, just a few a week. A lot of kids do it. I figure it's better than doing hard drugs or drinking."
"By that logic, playing Russian Roulette with a pistol is safer than with a live nuclear warhead," said the old man grimly. "But either way it's a stupid risk to take!"
Samantha nodded. "I'm sorry."
"Are you? I'm not so sure. I think another switching _is_ in order."
"Noooooo!" moaned Samantha, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks. "Please no, please no. Oh, Grandpa, please! My bottom hurts _so_ bad. You can't switch me again. You just can't! I won't have any skin left!"
Grandpa appeared to consider this, taking another look at Samantha's stripped buttocks. "Hmmm. Perhaps you are right. Your backside is a little tender right now. All right. We'll postpone your switching until Sunday evening. That will give you time to heal."
That wasn't what Samantha wanted, but it was better than bending over for another switching now. "Oh Grandpa, can't you let me off this once? I swear I'll never smoke again, never!"
"After Sunday night, I'm sure you won't," muttered the old man. "I'll make sure of that."
Samantha groaned miserably, but there was nothing she could do. In forty-eight hours, she'd be cutting switches again. That was the way life worked. Oh, her poor bottom! Driving home Monday morning was going to be hell.