Spelling Bee

When I was twelve years old, I took second place in my state’s regional spelling bee. Kids who take first place in their regional spelling bee get a free trip to Washington, D.C. to compete in the National Spelling Bee. But not second place. I took second. My mom still has the photos of me in my childish blue dress; an awkward pre-pubescent nymphet perched precariously at center stage, hands clapped at my wait, feet together, blond hair tied in an independent ponytail, obviously still more concerned with soccer and books than boys. The little girl standing behind me in the photo is Lisa Lipscombe. Little ten-year-old Lisa Lipscombe, her pudgy face grinning absurdly behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. It was either me or her. One of us was going to Washington D.C., and the other was in for a long car ride home.

I stood there. My mom snapped the photo somewhere out in the audience. It was my turn. I looked over at the judge as he leaned forward into his microphone.

“Larrup,” he said.

I swallowed. I stared at the people in the audience. Larrup. Never heard of it. I looked to the judge. “Can I have the definition please?”

“To defeat reluctantly.”

Not much help there. I was about to be larruped if I couldn’t spell this word.

“Can I have the language of origin please?”

“Origin unknown.”

I got real nervous. “Larrup,” I croaked. “L…” “A…” “R…” I don’t even remember how I misspelled it. Maybe I forgot one of the R’s. Maybe I used an O or an A instead of a U. I heard the horrifying ‘ding’ of the bell at the judges’ table and the hushed auditible dismay of the audience. I stared down at my feet. Little ten-year-old Lisa Lipscombe marched confidently to the front of the stage and spelled larrup. The audience Cheered. She went to the National Spelling Bee. I got in the car with my mom and went home, larrupted by a ten-year-old.

It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I stumbled upon my old lexicological nemesis inthe Merriam-Webster and discovered that larrup has a second—and much more interesting— definition: larrup, v. to whip soundly, i.e. by flogging. I suppose I didn’t think much of it at the time, but this latter definition was in the forefront of my mind fifteen years after my larruping by Lisa Lipscombe…

Whoosh, crack!

His will switch slashed across my bare bottom. I stiffened and blurted out a Surprised cry of pain. Eyes snapped open staring numbly into the blindfold. Jesus Christ, that hurt. I took a few anxious deep breaths. The sting resonated across my backside.

“Cordaites,” He repeated.

The pain didn’t subside. I couldn’t see anything through the blindfold, but I could imagine the angry red stripe his switch must have emblazoned on my buttocks. I took a few more deep breaths.

“Cordaites.” I said. “C…” Apparently there is no H, as in chord. “O…” “R…” “D…” “A…” Hesitated a little. “T…”

Whoosh, crack!

I yelped. My wrists jerked against the nylon rope that bound them to the bedpost, just a little too tightly. I buried my face in the comforter. God dammit.

“Cordaites.” He repeated again.

I tried to ignore the throbbing pain amplifying on my bottom. “Cordaites,” I said. “C…” “O…” “R…” “D…” “A…” “I…” “T…” “E…” “S.” “Cordaites.” No switch this time. But it took me three tries. Fucking cordaites, whatever they are. Maybe I’m not as good a speller as I thought.

I heard him handle a sheet of paper. His word list. I scooted my knees farther underneath me, closer to my elbows, to get more comfortable. I couldn’t help but feel erotic being bent over like that, blindfolded, with my wrists bound in front of me, my naked ass exposed and vulnerable. Like I was about to be fucked doggystyle. It felt sexy. Naughty.

“Obloquy.” He said.

I wouldn’t have a problem with this one. Still, there was appreciated in my voice. “Obloquy.” I said. “O…” “B…” “L…” “O…” “Q…” “U…””Y.” “Obloquy.”

Satisfied with myself, I relaxed a little. My ass was still throbbing painfully. I thought about the two singing switch-marks cris-crossing over my backside.

“Serrefine.” He said.

I envisioned several ways of spelling this. “Serrefine,” I said. “S…” “E…” “R…” I hesitated. Is it like seraph? SERAPHINE? I took a breath, repeated the first three letters in my head. S – E – R… Wincing a little, I said, “A…”

Whoosh, crack!

I gasped. Pain coursed through by body. I fought the urge to suddenly cry.

“Serrefine.” He repeated.

Stunned, I began again. “S…” Breathe. “E…” “R…” I thought for a moment, trying to clear my mind. My brain was panic mode. “E…”

Whoosh, crack!

This time I practically screamed. My back arched in reaction. I caught my breath. Breaths came out more like sobs. I could feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, making tiny little damp spots on the inside of the blindfold.

“Serrefine.” He repeated again.

“S…” I choked. “E…” Another deep breath, fighting the pain. “R…” I winced… “R…” “E…” “F…” It was so hard to concentrate. “E…”

Whoosh, crack!

The switch lacened into my ass. I screamed in pain. Then the tears came.

“Serrefine.”

“S…” “E…” “R…” “R…” “R…” “E…” “F…” “I…” “N…” “E.” “Seraphine!”

I cried into the blindfold. Through the throbbing pain, I felt the familiar cleaning opiate of complete submission. I felt used… I felt owned.

The next word came. “Lagniappe,” He said. I had no idea how to spell it. It sounded like (lan-yap). I tried my best.

Whoosh, crack! The first mistake.

Whoosh, crack! The second mistake.

I was sobbing, moaning. The pain was incredible. With each piercing sting of that switch as he laid it across my raw, whipped ass, I yelped like a puppy.

Whoosh, crack!

The letters of the words I was trying to spell became mumbled sobs.

Whoosh, crackk!

My wrists squirmed in their restraints.

Whoosh, crack!

Tears soaked through the blindfold and drizzled down my cheeks, dripping off my jaw and making little damp dots on the comforter. Still he whipped me. Relentlessly, with each mistake, the switch bit into my soft flesh.

“Smaragdine.”

“Foulard.”

“Carafe.”

“Duumvir.”

One mistake after another, I felt the switch. I screamed and I sobbed.

“Chautauqua.”

It sounded like (shuh-taw-kwuh). I’ve never even heard of this word. No definitions or languages ​​of origin to be had here. I don’t get that luxury. Grimly, I took a shot in the dark, anticipating the next cruel switch-cut.

“Chautauqua.” I sobbed. A pause, punctuated by a sniffle, and then, “C.” The pain was almost overwhelming. “H.” I envisioned vicious crisis strokes painted across my ass. “A.” God, they stung. “T.” I had to pause and take a few breaths, trying to collect myself. “”A.” I hesitated for a moment. Wincing, I said, “Q…”

Whoosh, crack!

His stroke cut across my upper thighs, just below the cream of my buttocks. I clinched my hands into fists and let out a disoriented, tortured moan. I broke down into more pitiful sobbing. More tears. I was sure my makeup had started to smear down my cheeks, staining the blindfold.

“Chautauqua.” He repeated coldly over my sobs.

Throbbing, courting, furious pain assaulted my mind. I must have been nearing the breaking point. I resolved myself to the fact that I was going to be whipped senseless. Slowly, carefully, I spelled chautauqua. I stopped sobbing and took calculated breaths.

“Appoggiatura.” He demanded.

“Appoggiatura.” I echoed obediently. Jesus. “A…” “P…” “O…”

Whoosh, crack!

“A…” “P…” “P…” “P…” “O…” “G…” “I…”

Whoosh, crack!

“A…” “P…” “P…” “O…” “G…” “I…” “A…” “T…” “U…” “R…” “A.” “A.” “Appoggiatura.”

There was a moment of uncertain silence. I concentrated on my breathing, struggling to dissipate the pain. God… the pain. I winced. I clinched and unclenched my teeth. I tensed the muscles in my body. All I could hear was my own fractured breath and wet sniffles, punctuated with involuntary, miserable weeping. The ropes hurt my wrists a little. My ass saturated like tenderloin. Then I felt the depression of his body weight as he climbed onto the bed behind me.

“Good job, slut.” He said.

The tip of his hard cock pressed against my labia and he slid himself inside. I gasped, with the sudden pleasure of being filled, and the sudden pain of his lower abdomen pressing into my freshly-whipped backside. A pair of firm hands gripped the flesh of my hips and he started to thrust.

“Ah! Ah…” I moaned. He thrust harder. I bore the little shocks of pain that came with each thrust.

He raised his right hand and smoked my tender ass.

“Fuck!” I screamed. He spanked me again. Then he shoved my face down into the bedspread, muffling my murder-victim screaming. I screamed into the blankets.

Pain and pleasure exploded in my mind like fireworks, flashing rhythmically to the symphony of my scrill seagull-cries, the thwock-thwock of hips against flesh, and the slap, smack, slap of his open palm spanking my rump. Reaching forward, he gripped a fistful of my hair and yanked it tight. My head snapped up. With each cock-thrust he tugged on that bundle of blond strands, and my wrists strained in their bonds with the tension. I yelped and moaned like an animal.

“Fuck me.”

He grunted and moaned.

“Fuck me!” I repeated. “Fuck me, fuck me, FUCK ME!” Awash in the blissful state of submission, my mind descended into that primary, chaos miasma that comes with all semblance of reason being fucked out of me, and having been whipped and used like a toy for his pleasure. Relentless pain radiated from its traumatized sources; I felt the intoxicating cocktail all the way down in my toes.

Breathing raggedly, I feel each little spelling mistaken labeled across my ass, every raw stripe throbbing on its own. I don’t know why, but I thought about Lisa Lipscombe. Little Lisa Lipscombe… all grown up. I wondered if she had ever discovered the real meaning of larrup. Maybe she’d be up for a rematch. You know, defend her title. Maybe I’ll look her up. In any case, I’m going to need some more practice.