Quite by Accident

It's a crowded house. Privacy is accidental at best. [Story Depicts Spanking]

I stepped from the bathroom, still clad in the sleepy warmth of a recent shower and soft bathrobe to be greeted by my little redheaded cousin butt naked in the middle of the hallway and her mother, my aunt, half way through a high-spirited swat. My cousin, a pale-skinned, green-eyed waif of twelve cried out in alarm, pain, and embarrassment as her mother, a woman of similar coloring and proportions, but much taller, landed two more before she noticed me.

Aunt Jenny's shoulders, neck, and cheeks turned a shade I could only assume was similar to that of her daughter's backside.

"Oh Adrian, I'm so sorry you had to see that," she said, her southern bell accent thick with embarrassment. "This brat has had me at my wit's end all morning."

"You're apologizing to him?" my cousin, Evelyn, wailed, "It's me who's naked!"

Aunt Jenny grabbed Evelyn's arm and marched her toward the bathroom. I made way, and couldn't help but look around at my cousin's bare butt; the pale mounds were splotched with bright red.

"If you had gotten up on time like I told you to..." Aunt Jenny admonished. The rest of her lecture was cut off by the firm closing of the bathroom door, but I could still hear the sharp crack of palm on bottom and wailing cries of protest.

I stifled my grin and my quickly beating heart and made the trek down the long hall to my tiny bedroom. The upper floor of my father's house was more crowded than it had ever been. After the hurricane and resultant flood, my father had opened his ancestral home to all who might need it. It had quickly filled. Of the five bedrooms on the third floor, only two had their own bathrooms, which left me sharing with two other families, one of whom was Aunt Jenny, my father's youngest sister, and her daughter Evelyn.

"Hello, Adrian."

Halfway down the hall I was greeted by Terrance Grace, my math teacher and track coach. He was a tall man with dark skin and black hair. He, his wife and twin daughters, who were freshmen at my school, all lived in one of the bedrooms that had an attached bathroom. It was too small for a family of four, but they made due. At least they had their own bathroom.

"See you at school, Mr. Grace," I said as he hurried down the stairs, already dressed for school, brief case under his arm.

Another sharp smack caught my attention and for a moment, I thought poor cousin Evelyn was still getting her little backside blistered before I realized the sound came from the half open door of the Grace family's room. I looked before I could think better of it and caught sight of the Grace girls lying face down over their parents' bed, panties halfway down their ample thighs, mother wielding a heavy-looking hairbrush.

"Mama, please, we're sorry," wailed one of the girls, Tia or Tamara, I never could keep them straight. I did note that it was the girl whose lowered panties were bright, neon green.

Mrs. Grace smacked that girl's bare bottom with the flat of the hairbrush, eliciting a yowl. Both bottoms were darkened with the spanking.

Mrs. Grace swatted her daughter twice more before saying, "You should have told us last night about this detention!"

"But we were afraid daddy would spank us," explained the other sister, tears in her tone. Her panties were royal purple.

Mrs. Grace moved her attention to the other girl. "Of course he would have spanked you. What made you think I wouldn't?" And she spanked her daughter, three quick strokes.

I hurried on before I could be noticed, but the sounds of the spanking followed me. Two witnessed spankings in one morning was almost too much to be borne; I was fairly quivering with excitement. And both bare! Though the damage wrought by the hurricane was terrible, and the cramped quarters of my once expansive living arrangement were inconvenient, I nevertheless continued to be both terrified and thrilled by the sheer number of spankings I had witnessed since my father had made his open offer and the house had filled with refugees of a natural disaster.

I was nearly to the door to my room when the door just before it opened suddenly.

Courtney was a tall, lovely girl in my class, the daughter of an Indian mother and Caucasian father, she had raven hair and smooth brown skin. She would never have noticed a shy, chubby nerd like me had we not been living so close to each other. She was the prettiest, smartest, most popular girl at school.

Her father had died in the flood.

"Oh," she said in mild surprise. "Hello, Adrian."

"Hi," I murmured.

Courtney was clad in only a short bathrobe that showed off her shapely legs. I tried hard not to stare. She and her mother were the others who had to share a bathroom with me.

"Uh, Evelyn and Aunt Jenny are in there right now, you might want to wait a bit," I said. The sound of the Grace girls' spanking still sounded down the hall.

Courtney sighed. "That's what I get for waiting so long. Sounds like the twins are in for it again, huh?"

"Yeah," I nodded. This was the longest conversation we'd ever had and I was dearly hoping not to say anything stupid. I gestured at my own door. "Well, I gotta get ready. Don't want to be late." 

She smiled and disappeared back into the bedroom she and her mother shared.

My room had once been the walk in closet of the room now shared by Courtney and her mother. My father and I had applied our inexperienced handyman skills to create my tiny bedroom. I really didn't mind the lack of floor space, though it was cramped, it was almost cave like, my stuff all neatly put away on the closet shelves, which we had left in place. My bed was up on thick posts, like just the half top of a bunk bed, leaving me space for a small desk where I kept all my writing stuff. It was here I sat now and took down the notebook from the shelves  to quickly chronicle the spankings I'd witnessed in as much detail as I could.

I described my cousin's bare body: her pale skin dotted with freckles, tiny pink n*****s, springy, wild red hair, green eyes brightened with tears and embarrassment. I described the tight-lipped frustration of my aunt, the rigidness of her arm, the speed of her spanking. I described the forbidden thrill of an accidentally half-open door, the voyeuristic delight of a private moment, the fear of getting caught versus the interest to stay and watch. I described the bright colored panties against dark brown skin, heavy backed hairbrush, and repentant squeals.

I was so drawn into my description, that I almost missed it: voices raised in argument, protestation, demand.

"Mother, please don't do this. I'm not a child."

Courtney's mother responded in her heavily accented English. "Then you must not act like one. Now, come here or I shall tell your father!"

The silence that followed drowned the chaos of a house full of families getting ready for the day. Courtney's mother suddenly burst into tears. I closed my eyes in silent sympathy. The crying lasted for only half a minute or so. Then, without warning, the spanking started.

As quietly as I could, I clambered onto my bed. Because once my tiny room had been that bedroom's closet, my father and I had only had to remove the closet door and replace it with a bit of wall. We hadn't done that great a job and now, while on my bed, if I was at just the right angle, I had a surprisingly good view from my room into their room through a narrow crack where the top of the door had once been. I was terribly ashamed of my interest of course, but I could not help myself; spankings excited me, mentally, emotionally, physically.

Courtney was lying over her mother's knees, her bathrobe pulled up to bare her bottom, which was quickly reddening under her mother's palm. Courtney, the prettiest, smartest, most popular senior at school, squirmed, kicked, and cried like a little girl. I watched, taking in every spank, every cry, every squirm, locking it in my memory.

The spanking was over less than a minute later. Courtney stood and hugged her mother tightly. They clung to each other and cried together for longer than the spanking had been. I climbed down from my bed quietly to finish my records for the morning.

When I finished, I dressed: faded jeans with a black button up and an old sports jacket of my father's and joined my family, and the seven other families we now hosted, for a chaotic breakfast. By providence, I sat next to Courtney in the formal dining room, only one of three rooms we used for meals. It was much less formal with such frequent use. Courtney's mother had not come down to breakfast.

She looked up at me as I sat, and I knew that she knew I had heard it all.

We ate in silent companionship.