Haron and I seem to be unusual amongst married couples visiting Rome at this time of year in (a) not being American, and (b) not being accompanied by two daughters in their early- or mid-20s. The city’s full of such quartets – young women who wouldn’t usually be seen dead on vacation with dad and mom, sacrificing their independence for a free all-expenses-covered trip to Europe.
Naturally, we assume that they’d be governed by the usual house rules that had applied when they’d lived at home. Picture the scene at dinner in some grand hotel restaurant: one of the daughters throws a tantrum, not liking the planned itinerary for the following day. Her father waits for her to fall silent, before commenting: “You have every right to express your opinion. But you don’t have the right to speak to your mother or to me like that.” He turns to the others at the table. “Please excuse us for a few moments.”
He’d take her upstairs to their suite. She’d be remorseful now. Apologetic: scared, distant, supressed memories flooding back.
“It seems to me that you need a reminder about how to behave properly.”
“No, daddy. Please…”
But it was, of course, by then too late to prevent the old routine from being replayed. She’d lower her trousers before bending over his knees; he’s take down her panties*. The first spank would be as shocking as ever; his hand would be as painful, as incessant, as it always had been. She’d still fight back the tears, too proud to show weakness – and then they’d still start to flow: more so, perhaps, given the passing of time.
He’d let her wait for a few moments after it was over, to compose herself before she scrambled to her feet and adjusted her clothing. And then he’d hold her very tight, telling her that he loved her and that he knew she was a good girl at heart. Protected and punished, she’d nestle in close.
She’d wash her face, adjust her make-up – and then they’d head back down to join the others in the restaurant, where dessert would be waiting and the others would pick up the conversation is if nothing had happened…
** the family being American, these being a rare case of the word ‘panties’ rather than ‘knickers’ being permissible in this blog
So everyone there knows that the girl is being taken away to be punished and will still be there when she gets back. The polite carrying on as though nothing had happened won’t stop her from the stomach churning knowledge that their party and plenty of others in the restaurant know what happened, and why and that she had brought it entirely upon herself.
Hope she can still enjoy dessert…
A lovely read to start my very vanilla Saturday. Thank you.
@Sarah, the same thought ran through my head.
Funny, I’ve just got back from a family holiday, (the whole all expenses paid holiday thing totally over rules the whole “I’m independent” thing). So many potentially hot scenarios (breaking curfew, bringing boys back to the apartment, sex on the beach, drugs on the beach ect) and yet sadly it’s my real family. So not really hot at all.
Abel, dear: I did enjoy this. I rather loved that she was being given a “reminder”. That word is close to my heart. And, that she was “protected and punished”. Very nice!
Thanks for all of the comments. I did like writing this.
Vesta, lovely to hear from you. It’s been waaaay too long!
Great vignette Abel!
This one has a ring of truth to it as well – I think that young adult children (particularly girls? not sure) slip pretty easily back into the “child’s” role to a certain degree. I was reminded of this a few months back when one young woman I came across spoke about “running away” from home (as a negative); as an adult, the term would be more appropriately “moving out” of home (as a positive), but her thought processes had not yet caught up with this reality.