I put a post on a discussions board asking for women to post some 
real life "mistaken identity" scenarios where they were mistaken 
for someone younger and presumably more spankable. 

Another member, "beachbunny," kindly responded with a true life 
incident, the first part of this story.  I wrote the story as a 
thank you for sharing your experience, Bun.  I hope you like it. 
  
 




                        LIGHT-UP NIGHT

                              by

                          Imreadonly


 

A few years back, I was a new leader with a national organization 
for girls.  It was light-up night, and our district (which involved 
a number of troops) decided to have a float in the light-up night 
parade.

Since I was responsible for the girls in my troop, I got on the 
float as well.  I'm small and had on my winter coat.  Apparently, 
I must've blended in with the girls much more than I realized.  
When the float came to the end of the parade route, the woman in 
charge announced that NO girls were to get off the float without 
their parents.  Everyone was to remain seated, and, when her 
parent comes to pick them up, her name would be called.

I was going to be taking a couple of the girls with me, so I got up 
to ask if we could go ahead and get off the float.  I approached 
this woman and said, "Excuse me, would it be okay if we went ahead 
and got off the float?"  

She turned around, looked at me (with that look that says "didn't 
you hear what I just said?") and finally replied, "I'm sorry, but 
you're JUST going to have to wait until your MOTHER comes to get 
you off the float."

I protested, "But I'm one of the LEADERS!" my voice sounding quite 
a bit more whiny and sing-songy than I intended.  The woman 
squinted at my lapel.  "Oh yeah?" she challenged.  "Where's your 
badge?"

I looked down at my jacket.  I had lost my "leaders badge."  Not 
surprising, since I'd been shepherding girls to and fro and 
bouncing around on a parade float all night, but nevertheless it 
was news to me. 

I searched around, hoping desperately that my badge of authority 
would somehow magically reappear and restore my leadership status.  
But this (as I was later to realize all too clearly) was not my 
lucky night.

I looked up at the frowning middle-aged woman who was watching my 
performance in a way that reminded me of the skeptical look Simon 
gets on "American Idol" when a contestant shatters his eardrums.

I don't know if it was the cold, or the fact that I had been riding 
around with teenagers all night, or the way the older woman was 
treating me, but my voice and demeanor had now magically morphed 
ten years off my actual age.  

"I...um...lost it," I said in a guilty-sounding voice, looking down 
at the ground again to avoid her piercing gaze.  "But I wanna go 
anyway."

"You're going to have to wait on the float with the others," she 
replied, in a voice that brooked no dissent.

"But I have to go to the bathroom!" I added for good measure, my 
voice now in full whine mode.  It WAS true, although it wasn't 
urgent, at least not yet.  The woman, obviously unimpressed by my 
brilliant improvisation, grabbed me by the arm and spun me around.  
"Back on the float!" she barked.  "Now!"

"Let go of me!" I shouted.  The woman was older than me, and quite 
a bit heavier.  She pulled.  I pulled back. 

Fortunately, before she made a wishbone of my arm, she lost her 
grip.  Unfortunately, this caused her to fall backwards, and she 
landed right on her big fat butt.

I laughed.  She was less amused.  "Grab her!" she shouted.

Turning, I saw two other frowning mothers heading straight at me. 

What does one do when one is being chased?  One runs.  Talk is 
cheap, and these women meant business.  I had no intention of 
letting three angry mothers manhandle me back to my float. 

Such was the logic of the instant, although in hindsight (pun 
intended) I realized that this was the worse possible decision.   
In fact, in comparison losing my badge and claiming a potty 
emergency had been inspired.

Where does one run on a crowded city street?  Nowhere fast.  I 
stumbled down the street, shoving past strangers, with three 
angry woman in hot pursuit, shouting, "Grab her!"  Several adults 
did make the attempt, although I managed to wiggle free. 

I rounded the corner and darted into a gift shop, hoping that 
they'd run past the store without looking in.  After all, it 
had worked for The Beatles in "A Hard Day's Night," right?

I wasn't as lucky as The Beatles.  I entered the store, breathless, 
and turned toward the door to locate my pursuers.  Unfortunately, 
as I was backing up, I blundered right into a shelf of ceramic 
mugs, knocking them to the floor.

The crash was deafening.  I broke the "In Dog Years, I'm dead," 
mug, the "She Who Must be OBEYED!" mug, the "It's my birthday, 
SPANK ME!" mug....

All three proved apt.  Obviously the universe had chosen "Light-Up 
Night" as the perfect moment to have a laugh at my expense.

The old woman who ran the shop was not a student of irony.  
Horrified, I knelt before the display I had demolished and, 
in an effort of absurd futility, actually started fitting 
the shattered pieces together. 

The shop owner was unimpressed.  I had even broken the "If you 
break it, you BUY it!" sign. 

I felt queasy as she scowled down at me.  "Uh, I don't have my 
purse," I admitted sheepishly.

The good news is that my kneeling position concealed me from the 
three women pursuing me, who were standing just outside the shop, 
still searching for the fugitive from the float.  The bad news is 
that the shopkeeper saw them and instantly deduced who the angry 
adults were looking for.  (I mean, given my behavior in her store, 
it wasn't a hard deduction.)

She motioned the women forward, to the window, and then pointed 
down at me, as I busily tried to reassemble a "Mr. Fix It" mug 
into less than 30 pieces.  The door of the shop flew open, and 
I found myself on my knees, surrounded by 4 very angry moms. 

I looked up at the shopkeeper.  "Do you take Mastercard?" I asked 
weakly.

The tubby woman whom I had knocked over yanked me to my feet.  
There was no escaping her grip this time.  I was surrounded by 
four large, angry adults, and, after my bull in the china shop 
fiasco, I had finally realized it was best not to duke it out. 

"May I use your chair?" the woman asked the shop owner, already 
dragging me towards a wooden chair near the rear of the store, 
next to the restroom.  The chair was nominally for sale, but it's 
real purpose was to give bored husbands a place to sit as their 
wives spent hours trying to decide which ceramic cherub was the 
cutest.

Today, the chair was to be put to another use.  I gasped as the 
woman sat down and yanked me over her knee. 

"Should we call her mom first?" one of the women asked.

"Believe me, after her mom gets the bill, she won't mind one bit," 
the shopkeeper replied grimly.

Before I could respond I felt two hard spanks on my posterior, 
which was now pointed skyward over my new foster mom's knee.  
"Felt" was actually a misnomer.  With my heavy winter overcoat 
on I heard it more than I felt it, as the Gortex stuffing was 
now protecting me from the heat as well as the cold.

But not for long.  "She can't feel it through that jacket," one of 
the moms observed ruefully. 

"She doesn't need all that insulation," my new foster mom agreed.  
"I can heat up her bottom the old-fashioned way."

My jacket was soon rolled up over my bottom.  One of the other moms 
took the process a step further by pulling on the coat until it 
came up my arms and over my head. 

Coat gone.  Next, "Foster Mom," obviously into her role, flipped up 
my skirt.

I thought of the parade as a fun event, a chance to return to the 
carefree days of my youth.  Can you blame me for wearing the white 
panties with the little kittens?

Whatever my reason, the assortment of colorful cartoon characters 
frolicking playfully across my perky posterior did little to add 
to my gravitas, and several of the women laughed.  Their amusement 
at this indignity enraged me and triggered an understandable but 
extremely unwise reaction on my part.

"Let me go, you bitch!" I shouted.

The "B" word!  Girls, if you haven't been a teenager in a while, 
let me remind you that you want to avoid this word when you're 
over mommy's knee.   

"I've had enough of your lip, young lady!" my foster mom thundered, 
punctuating her displeasure with several hard spanks that I felt 
down to my toes.  And, if you don't stop struggling, it's going 
to be bare fanny."

The next part is NOT my fault, folks.  Really.  Remember, I was in 
a store.  I wasn't on the parade route, thankfully, but it was a 
public place.  This wasn't the sort of store that attracted kids, 
but there were a number of other customers there, all of whom had 
moved closer to watch the proceedings.  

There was an older couple nominally pretending to examine candy 
sticks; the old biddy stared at me with smug satisfaction, while 
her transfixed husband examined my bottom.  There was a janitor, 
examining my gyrating kittens and hypnotically mopping the same 
spot on the floor while utterly ignoring the ceramic war zone 
twenty feet away.  Worst of all, there were three young men, 
several years my junior, wearing college jackets.  They didn't 
even pretend to shop, but concentrated on positioning themselves 
for the show.

So in other words, I was in public, and my merciless "mom" had just 
threatened me with a bare bottom spanking.  I did what any girl 
would do.  I freaked and tried to free myself.

Wouldn't you?  Of course you would.  Who wouldn't try to get away, 
after being threatened with the ultimate indignity, a bare bottom 
spanking, in PUBLIC?  Paradoxically, the only sensible reaction to 
such an outrageous threat on a young woman's modesty is to 
struggle, which forces the young woman to violate the very rule 
that causes her underpants to come down.

Catch 22!  

My understanding of Aristotelian logic did nothing to spare my 
dignity as my foster mom inserted her beefy thumbs into the 
waistband of my cute-as-a-button underpants and rolled them 
down-down-down over my curvy bottom and right to my knees. 

My humiliation complete and my dignity a thing of the past, my 
punishment began in earnest. 

SPANK!  SPANK!  SPANK!

Ow!  Ow!  OWWWWW!

She wasn't screwing around.  This was a REAL spanking! 

I weighed my options.  If she didn't believe my verbal 
protestations of my adulthood before, she'd hardly believe 
them now that my fanny was on the line.

I knew that I was going to be waving on a parade float all night, 
so I had purposely left my purse with my brother, Walter.  Stupid, 
clueless Walter, who was doubtlessly enjoying a beer in some bar 
while I was getting my backside tanned.  Men!

My mind raced.

No identification.  SPANK!

No credit cards.  SPANK!

No money.  SPANK!

No way out.  SPANK!  SPANK!  SPANK!

I did the only thing I could do.  I regressed totally, 100% into my 
role.  "I'm sorry I was bad!" I cried.

My wicked stepmother paused.  "Are you sorry you pushed me?"

Since she punctuated her question with three crisp SPANKS, I 
pledged that I was very sorry indeed.

"How are you going to pay for this damage, young lady?"  the store 
owner demanded.

"Will you take a check?" was the wrong answer, and in truth, I 
didn't even think of it.  With my underpants down around my knees 
and my bottom on fire, I was past witticisms.  I had totally 
regressed into the role of a naughty teenager, getting her due. 

As the spanking progressed through its normal, predictable, but 
extremely effective course I began to kick, causing my little 
kittens to playfully scoot down to my calves, over my ankles, 
onto my shoes, and finally off altogether.  The enthusiasm of my 
spanking dance caused the three college frat rats and the old man 
to reposition themselves in a way that allowed them to study 
everything I didn't want them to see.  The little kittens lay 
discarded on the floor.

Not that it mattered to me at that point.  I was too busy answering 
questions.

"Do you promise to be good?"  SPANK! 

"Yes!" I cried out, meaning it with all my heart.

"Do you promise to mind your betters?"   

"Yes, Mommy!" I said.  I still don't know why I said that, but it 
seemed to please the group, and she paused to rub my well-spanked 
bottom.

"Have you learned your lesson, young lady?"

"Yes, Mommy!" I said.  Truly, I had.  No more running away from 
parade floats for me.

I later learned that one of the witnesses DID know me and knew that 
I was an adult.  One of the college boys worked at the grocery 
store I shop at; he had taken my groceries to the car on several 
occasions.  I didn't recognize him at the time -– how much 
attention do any of us pay to bag boys?  I suppose also that I 
didn't recognize him out of context.  But he certainly knew me, 
and I'm sure the fact that he was watching the comeuppance of one 
of the countless housewives who ordered him about all day for chump 
change was enormously satisfying for him.

He certainly seemed pleased when I met him in the grocery store a 
few days after the event.  As I blushed crimson, he introduced 
himself as "Matt" and explained that he had been in that store 
that night to pick up a paddle for his fraternity.  

Matt even offered a sort of quasi-apology, explaining that he knew 
who I was, but he didn't want to interrupt my spanking or explain 
that I was an adult, "since I figured it would be easier for you 
to just get it over with."

His mea culpa made no sense at all, and it was delivered with a 
sly smile that made it clear that he didn't regret watching me 
get my bare bottom toasted one bit.  His obvious delight in my 
embarrassment was underscored when my ladies' razor fell out of 
my bag while he was loading my car.  Grinning, he handed it back 
to me, remaking that, "Here.  I know you like to shave close."  

BLUSH!  

Matt's tortured logic that he was "making it easier on me" doesn't 
explain why he had moved behind me to watch my kicking legs during 
my spanking, or why, when I thought my spanking was over, he handed 
my "mom" the spanking paddle he had just purchased.

"Here," he suggested brightly, placing the paddle in her hands.  
"You can finish her off with this."

I had never tipped Matt, and, when there's a sale I like to stock 
up on those heavy canned goods that can be a bear to squeeze into 
my tiny car.  I'll admit that to me he was just some hulking 
19-year-old put on earth to haul my crap out to my car in the rain. 
Now, my arrogance piqued his resentment over the hundreds of snotty 
customers he had to deal with.

My stepmother used the paddle to guide me through a recital of the 
scout law:

"I will do my best... SWAT!

"To be honest and fair... SWAT!

"Friendly and helpful... SWAT!

"Considerate and caring... SWAT!

"Courageous and strong... SWAT!

"And responsible for what I say and do...."  SWAT!

(Geez, was THAT true!)

As the spanks rained down, I felt the genuine regret that any 
well-spanked girl feels. 

I was sorry I lost my badge. 

I was sorry I knocked my "mom" over.

I was sorry I ran, and pushed past all those people, and knocked 
over the stupid, stupid, ceramic mugs. 

I was sorry I was bad. 

My recital continued:

"I will respect myself and others... SWAT!

"Respect authority...."  SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!  ("Mommy" laid three 
strokes on, extra crispy.)

"Use resources wisely... SWAT!

"Make the world a better place... SWAT!

"And be a sister to every Girl Scout."  SWAT!

At last, the spanking was over.  I was allowed to use the bathroom, 
which I really did need to do at this point, although I managed to 
do it without actually sitting. 

No such luxury was afforded me at the parade float.  My new mother 
marched me back and SAT me down on my non-padded chair with orders 
to stay PUT.  I didn't argue.

Most of the other girls had gone home by that time, so I sat there, 
on my very hot bottom, struggling unsuccessfully to keep my weight 
on my legs.  My "mom" was watching me like a hawk, so I didn't dare 
stand.

Finally, Walter arrived.  "Did you enjoy the parade?" he asked 
stupidly.

Men!  Do they get bonus points for being clueless?

None of the girls I was guiding knew what had happened or ever 
found out, but the adults did, much to my chagrin.  I endured 
quite a bit of teasing afterward, and one of the moms even 
thoughtfully embroidered an "Over-The-Knee" merit badge for me, 
featuring my bare, spanked bottom over a maternal knee.  Even 
though I had certainly earned it, I declined to sew it on my sash.

I had broken 22 mugs at an average cost of $15 each, plus tax.  
You do the math.   Walter was not pleased, but as I had already 
been punished, and then some, he let me off with a scolding.  
However, looking back, the experience wasn't all bad.

Walter bought me the chair from the store, as a memento.  (Blush!)

I earned a merit badge that none of the other girls in my troop 
has...or would want.  (Double blush!)

Matt told all his friends.  When I shop, I am followed around by 
strapping young men eager to carry my groceries. (TRIPLE blush, 
with a red cherry on top.) 

Finally, I will never, ever, ever forget the Girl Scout Law.

______________________________

Author's Notes:

I DO like to work an element of "bad luck" into this sort of story. 
In this case, a lot of the "bad luck" was in the original true 
account that Bun posted: her youthful appearance, the fact that 
she was the only adult in a group of girls, the tenuous ID being 
her only proof of her real identity, and (most importantly) the 
strict "mom" in no mood for argument.
 
From a plot point of view these various strokes of misfortune 
explain how a young woman in her twenties can end up over 
someone's knee. 
 
However, some crucial elements of her "bad luck" (at least in my 
expansion of her story) were self-induced -- her whiny, petulant 
tone when challenged, her decision to make a run for it, her 
choice of underwear, and (most notably) her decision to struggle 
when told that struggling was precisely the behavior that would 
bring her panties down to her knees.  Her bratiness suggests that, 
on some level, the woman WANTS to be punished.  Fate complies, by 
adding some elements of misfortune (such as the broken mugs and 
Matt, the grinning bagboy) designed to make her punishment as 
memorable and humiliating as possible. 
 
This element of "asking for it" is somewhat less apparent in this 
story than in some of my other ones ("Jodie's Bare Bottom 
Dissertation," for example) since this scenario is based on a 
real situation, but I tried to work it in, within the framework 
that Bun so kindly provided.  I think the story is more 
interesting, on both a thematic and a plot level, when the 
heroine is an active instigator of events.
 


Edited by C. Lakewood