My name is Tom, and when I was 17 my sister talked me into picking some lovely cherries from Mrs Nelson’s cherry orchard. That may seem like a lot of trees but she supplied cherries to a local brewer who made a seasonal cherry beer. This was against my better judgement as my oldest sister, Maggie, and Mrs Nelson’s youngest daughter, Pat, had stripped two of her 60+ trees about 8 seasons ago and both ended up getting the spanking of a lifetime.
My sister, Tracey, then aged 18, begged me to help as she had been dared to do this at school. After about 20 minutes pleading and after I had reminded her about Maggie’s misfortunes, I reluctantly agreed and asked we get it over with. Tracey had to gather a big bucket-full and then take a photo to show to her friends by Monday.
Armed with said bucket, we arrived at the back fence of the orchard, which lay behind Mrs Nelson’s garden, some 100 metres or so from her kitchen window. Tracey ninja-style crept from tree to tree keeping as much foliage between us and the window. She selected a tree and we quickly set to work. Our hands worked quickly and soon we had half-filled the bucket, but needed to relocate as we had used all the low hanging fruit available.
Tracey moved to the next tree quickly, but was greeted with a bellowing, “Don’t you dare move, girl. Stay right where you are!”
We were busted. Unknown to us, Mrs Nelson was walking her two dogs at the other side of the orchard and she caught sight of Tracey as we relocated. We froze.
“What do we do now?” Tracey said nervously.
“Told you this was a stupid idea. We’ll get the same as Maggie did!”
“Oh it’s you. Didn’t I once catch your sister and my daughter stealing my crop as well?” Mrs Nelson shouted as she approached. ” Right you two, back to the house. Go on, get a move on.” She was properly angry.
The walk seemed to take forever but was probably just a couple of minutes. We were told to stop at the patio whilst Mrs Nelson took the dogs inside and closed the door.
“OK, what’s the story?” insisted Mrs Nelson.
“I was dared by the girls at school. I’m so sorry, we meant no harm,” Tracey pleaded.
“I get £4.00 per kilo for those beauties, and you must have at least 8-10 kg here, so you have stolen £40. Not exactly harmless.”
“Sorry Mrs Nelson,” I piped up. “How about you let us pick some more for you tomorrow to make up for this?”
“An excellent idea. You can both come back at 11.00 in the morning and spend a couple of hours helping me pick the crop. Hopefully, by then you will be able to sit down after the spankings you are both about to get!”
“Told you, Tracey. This was a very stupid thing to do!” I said pointedly, to make it clear I was forced into it.
“Stop bickering!” demanded Mrs Nelson, sitting herself on a garden chair. “You first, boy. Get over here and over my knee. Now!”
I could hardly believe I was doing this. Mrs Nelson was a reasonably good-looking lady in her late 40s and to feel myself bending across her lap was not exactly what I had expected to be doing when I got up that morning. I felt her hand in the small of my back and then smack!
I jumped and gasped as a second slap found its mark across my shorts-clad backside. She continued for what must have been a couple of minutes, and the stinging became more and more unbearable. At the same time, on another level, I was actually starting to enjoy it at the same time. Thankfully, at that point she stopped and let me up.
“Stand over there!” she instructed. “And you, girl, take his place.”
Tracey did as she was told. She was wearing a thigh-length denim skirt which rode up her thighs as she bent over. Mrs Nelson repeated the punishment I had just received, letting the first half dozen spanks rain down on my sister’s shapely bum. Then she stopped.
‘That is hardly fair,’ I began to say to myself.
“Stand up and take that skirt off. You’ll not feel anything through that thing,” instructed Mrs Nelson.
“But, er, but,” stuttered Tracey.
“Quiet! Take it off!” she ordered.
Reluctantly, and very slowly, Tracey did as she was told and revealed a pair of lacy white knickers. She was most embarrassed (as was I) having to do this in front of her kid brother. She bent back across Mrs Nelson’s lap and the spanking resumed.
Boy, did she lay into those knickers! Tracey was soon bawling like a toddler and I could see Tracey’s bottom changing from white, to pink to red, almost matching some of the lighter coloured cherries by the time the spanking came to an end.
“Now get up, get dressed and get out of my site. I expect you at 11.00 sharp tomorrow, otherwise I will be telling your parents what you have done and be suggesting they let me do this again!” demanded Mrs Nelson.
We nodded and apologised one more time as Tracey continued to sob whilst she popped her skirt back on.
“Thank you for that, Tracey!” I said, partly out of sarcasm and partly as a result of the newfound experience I had just had.
Needless to say, we were at Mrs Nelson’s good and early and made sure we were true to our word and picked a load of cherries for the beer. Tracey did take a sneaky photo for her friends, and I wish we had just offered to help Mrs Nelson in the first place.