Clara Does The Dishes 

    A few days after my niece Clara moved in and had settled into her new room, I began to assign her a few chores around the house.  Among these, was doing the dinner dishes on alternate evenings.  On her first turn, she and I did the dishes together, she washing, me drying.  I showed her where to put everything away, explained why kitchen scraps went onto the compost pile in the garden rather than into the trash, and so forth.  She was a pleasant and cheerful little helper throughout.  Indeed, earlier that afternoon she had vacuumed the entire house without being asked, and even shamed me into straightening up my bedroom a bit by standing in the doorway and crinkling her nose distastefully at my mess.  Hence I was surprised when, two evenings later, after we had just finished dinner and I had reminded her that it was her night to do the dishes, to hear her whine, "Aw, Uncle Mark, I don't wanna."

    "It doesn't matter whether you 'wanna' or not, Clara," I chided gently, "Dishes don't clean themselves.   A person has to do the job for them.  And I am afraid tonight is your turn to be that person."

    She made a face and looked down at her plate.

    "Do them now, Clara.  Otherwise they will dry out and be harder to get clean."

    "Ohhh... OK," she sighed, resignedly.

    "Good girl, I said, patting her on the shoulder as I walked past her chair and into the living room.  I settled into the big armchair to read the newspaper.  Clara must have come in and turned on the TV at some point although I was too engrossed at the moment to notice.   After finishing a long feature article, I looked up from my paper to see her stretched out on her tummy on the living room rug in her favorite TV viewing position: shoes off, chin on fists, legs from the knees down bent back again over her thighs, ankles crossed, toes pointing ceiling ward.  I wished I'd had a camera just then.  She looked awfully cute lying there, her golden brown hair tied in a white satin bow, dressed in a navy blue sweater, a blue and white plaid pleated skirt, and pale blue knee socks.

    I have always adored my two little nieces.  Ever since Clara and her sister Ginny were very small I was their doting Uncle Mark, playing with them, taking them places, buying them gifts, and generally spoiling them, all to their considerable delight.  Never had I imagined that I would wind up raising one of them someday.  The auto accident which killed my sister and brother-in-law came as a complete thunderbolt, of course, and having a little girl to raise has certainly changed my lifestyle.  Not that I object, mind you.  The alternative for Clara would have been an institution or foster care, and I couldn't allow that. Her only other available relative, a paternal grandmother living on a fixed income, could only manage one of the girls but not both of them.  Clara's sister is quieter and would be easier for an elderly lady to take care of, so I agreed to take Clara.  The formal adoption process continues with glacial slowness, but eventually the current arrangement will become official.

    Clara is smart, bright as a whip, with a sunny disposition.  Her presence can brighten up any room she sets her mind to brightening.  She is inquisitive, loves to learn, and is an avid reader.  Her keen little mind is full of questions about everything, many of which send me scurrying to the encyclopedia in refuge from my ignorance.  She is very affectionate and knows how to charm me into near helplessness when she wants something from me.  She can be moody, though, and she definitely has a will of her own.  Put bluntly, she can be a real handful at times.  Of course, I suppose that is not at all uncommon in a girl her age.  At any rate, it has taken a major effort on my part to shift roles from indulgent Uncle to primary parent figure, with the increased need for authority which that shift implies.

    "Clara?"

    "Ummm," she replied absently, eyes still glued to the TV screen.

    "Did you finish washing the dishes?"

    "I will."

    I laid my paper aside.  "The dishes are to be done immediately after supper, Clara.  You know that.  I want you to go into the kitchen and wash them at once."

    She suddenly turned her gaze from the screen for the first time, fixing me with her most beguiling pout, "Please Uncle Mark! Please just let me finish watching this show!  Please?  Oh ple-e-ease?!"

    "Well..." I paused, frowning.  "Well... all right.  But after your show ends, no more TV until you have finished the dishes. Is that understood.?"

    "Uh huh," she said, staring at the screen once more.

    I retreated behind my paper again, a little cross with myself for my lack of firmness.  I have a real difficulty saying 'no' to her sometimes, a habit born from years of avuncular indulgence.

    A good bit of time passed while I read the rest of the features, the editorials, the funnies, and scanned the help-wanteds for a part-time job to help meet the added expenses of sudden step parenthood.  When I set the paper down and glanced at my watch I knew that Clara's show had ended 19 minutes ago and she hadn't budged from her place.

    "Clara," I said sharply, determined to assert myself this time, "turn off the television and do the dishes at once."

    "In a minute," she said absently, without looking away from the screen.

`    "No.  Not 'in a minute.'  Right now!"  I walked over and turned off the TV, provoking a wail of indignation from my niece.  "Do as you're told," I commanded, pointing towards the kitchen.

    "NO FAIR!" cried Clara sullenly, springing to her feet and glowering up at me, arms folded across her chest.

    "Clara," I rumbled ominously, feeling my temper begin to rise, "Do you want a spanking?"  I waited.  I had already spanked her once before, the first night she moved in.  So she knew I meant it.  Pouting, she lowered her gaze but said nothing.  "Answer me!" I snapped.  A moment passed.  Then, sulkily, she murmured the word "no" almost under her breath.  "Clara, I am not going to ask you again.  You have two choices.  You can do the dishes this instant.   Or if you prefer, I can take you over my knee right now and spank you.   And then you can do the dishes.  Which would you prefer?"

    With a petulant glance over her shoulder, she stomped off into the kitchen without a word, slamming the door behind her.  I took a deep breath and counted to ten.  I wish it weren't necessary to lay down the law that way, but sometimes I just don't know what else to do with that child.  The clatter of plates being angrily scraped and stacked into the sink receded as I mounted the stairs to my bedroom.

    For a couple of hours, I sat in front of the computer, trying to make some headway with the novel, but things just weren't coming together.  The feeling of financial pressure, the sense that I had to hurry up and publish the darned thing, wasn't doing wonders for my creative powers.  Difficult though she can be on occasions, I love Clara with all my heart, as much as any father could love a daughter, I think.  She is so deserving - I really want the very best for her.  But the very best costs money.  I inherited her unpaid dental bills.  She needs a new soccer uniform, school supplies,  new shoes.  Then there's her dancing lessons; they are expensive but I'd just hate to have to ask her to give them up, knowing how much they mean to her.

    When I realized I had been staring at the flashing cursor on the screen for over ten minutes, thinking about expenses, and hadn't written a word, I knew it was time for a coffee break.  I hit the 'Save' command and walked to the door as the disk drive softly crunched my latest efforts onto vinyl.

    The hallway, like the rest of the house, was dark except for a flood of light across the hallway from Clara's room.  Clara turns off lights assiduously.  She is concerned about helping the environment by saving energy, and her chidings have prodded me to be a bit less careless about such things myself.  I paused by her door and quietly looked in on her, curled up on her bed, absorbed in her Judy Blume novel.  I felt an upwelling of protective tenderness for my little girl as I watched her.  She didn't notice my presence, and I thought it best not to interrupt her with the kiss-and-a-hug I felt like giving all of a sudden.  It was almost her bedtime.  I would save it for when I tucked her in.

    Quietly, I descended the stairs and made my way through the dim living room into the kitchen.  A slight movement caught my eye as I turned on the kitchen light - a roach scurring for cover under the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink.  Clara still hadn't finished the dishes, even after the scene we'd had earlier!  I was suddenly furious and in an abrupt change of mood, had the impulse to charge upstairs and give her the spanking I had promised her right then and there.  But I remembered what my dear mother, rest her soul, used to say, "Never spank a child in anger," and the memory of Mom's cooler head prevailed over my own.

    So I poured myself a cup from the coffee maker, sat down at the table, sipped, and thought.  I was mighty steamed at Clara.  Here I was knocking myself out to try and support her and I couldn't even get that girl to do the dishes once in awhile!  Clara had disobeyed me three times over those dishes, first at the table, then in the living room, and now this - strike three.  I took several long sips of my coffee, which was starting to cool off some.  Clearly Clara needed to be spanked.  I wished it weren't necessary, but the child had, in effect, thrown down the gauntlet, challenging my authority head-on.  She wanted to see exactly where her limits were.  Once I finished my coffee, I would show her.

    I took my time drinking the lukewarm dregs of my cup, steeling myself to properly discipline my stepchild.  At length, I set down the empty cup, took a deep breath, rose and walked into the living room, flicking on the light as I entered.

    "Clara!?! Come down here!  Now!" I bellowed from the foot of the stairs.  I heard her bedsprings creak and the scampering of small, stockinged feet in the upstairs hallway.  My tone of voice had left no doubt in her mind that she was in trouble.

    As she hurried down the steps toward  me she said, a little too cheerily, "Hi, Uncle Mark, I was just... uh... gonna... um, do the dishes now!"

    "Not so fast, young lady," I replied, taking hold of her sweatered arm as she tried to slip past me toward the kitchen.  I turned her to face me.  "Did I or did I not tell you over two hours ago to do the dishes right away?" I inquired, sternly.  "Clara... look at me when I am speaking to you!"

    "Yes, Uncle Mark," she said, hesitantly, still not quite meeting my gaze.

    "And what did I say was going to happen if you didn't do as you were told?"

    She bit her lip and shifted position uncomfortably, eyes darting from side to side looking in every direction except mine, as she tried to think her way out of her predicament.  I repeated the question, but Clara merely swallowed hard and shrugged her shoulders as if she couldn't remember.

    "When I tell you to do something, Clara, I expect prompt obedience the first time I ask.  Not 'in a minute' or three hours later.  Dinner was over three hours ago and the dishes still haven't been done.  You've been a very bad girl!"  Keeping a firm hold on her arm I lead her across the room to the sofa.  She followed reluctantly by my side, wide brown eyes gazing up at me, face etched with anxious concern.  "Well?" I demanded as I seated myself on the edge of the sofa, and stood her in front of me,  "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

    "I-I'm sorry, Uncle Mark, honest I am!  I-I didn't mean to!  I just...um... forgot... I guess..."  Her voice trailed off.  She looked at me, then down at my lap, then back at me again.  Suddenly, unable to contain herself any longer, out popped the question foremost in her mind.  "Uncle Mark a-are you..." she paused and swallowed, "...are you g-gonna spank me?!?"

    I allowed the question to hang in the air for several seconds while she fidgeted anxiously.  Then, softly but with great finality, I answered her question.  "Yes Clara.  I am going to spank you."

    "NOOOO!!" squealed Clara in alarm as I drew her firmly down across my left leg.  All at once I had a frantically kicking bundle of resistance on my hands as my little girl strove to squirm into any position except the one she knew I intended.  I made a mental note to do something about this defiant behavior of hers, but for the moment I concentrated on bringing her under control. After just a few moments  her two thighs were securely pinned between my own and her wrists held tightly in my left hand.  Clara's feet were touching the floor, but her face and chest were on the sofa.  The little plaid seat of her skirt was centered across my left thigh.

    "So, you say you are sorry and you forgot," I intoned, lightly patting her rump as I spoke.  "Well, young lady, I promise you will feel an awful lot sorrier in a minute. Uncle Mark is going to give you something you won't forget for a very long time."

    Helpless across my lap, Clara looked back imploringly over her right shoulder.  As I tucked her skirt and slip up above her waist, exposing the seat of her pale blue panties, she tried desperately to negotiate a bargain of some sort.  I couldn't help smiling just a bit as I noticed that her little cotton briefs, covered with small blue floral designs, perfectly matched her light blue knee socks.  When Clara decides to dress in matching colors, she goes all the way!

    I paid no heed to her pleas for second chances or proposals for alternative punishments.  She had already had three chances, and I was determined to give her the spanking she deserved.  Her entreaties took on a new timbre of urgency as I took hold of the waistband of her panties panties.  She frantically offered to do the dishes every night for a month as she felt me pull them across the summits of her buttocks and down, well past her little rounded backside.  I felt a pang of regret as I tugged the small garment as far as it would go, baring her from her waist to the middle of her thighs.  Her soft, clear skin looked so very sensitive, framed between her lowered panties and the disheveled blue and white heap of her raised skirts.  My poor dear, little Clara.  I was really and truly about to spank her!  How I wished it weren't necessary!  But unfortunately, her conduct had left me with no alternative.

    "Young lady, you were told to do the dishes and you disobeyed me.  I am afraid I am going to have to give you a good old-fashioned spanking on your-" Clara, her eyes moistening with tears, broke in at this moment with wailing pleas and entreaties of redoubled urgency.  "Clara, hush! And don't interrupt when I am speaking to you!" I admonished sharply, "As I was saying, you are going to be spanked on your bare bottom for not doing the dishes.  However, it was also very naughty of you to try and resist me just now when I took you over my lap.  From now on, when it is time for a spanking, I expect you to lie down over my lap like a good girl.  Do you understand?"  Miserably, she nodded assent.  "For struggling, you will receive a separate spanking on your thighs."

    Before she could protest, I raised my hand high and gave my stepchild a good, solid swat squarely across the spot she sits on.  I was startled when she let out a piercing shriek, as if she were being murdered.  I knew it must have hurt.  A faint pink outline of my hand was already starting to appear across the surfaces of her two bottom cheeks.  But it couldn't have hurt that much.  Then, my hand still frozen in mid-air, I remembered my late sister, Clara's mother, jokingly telling me about her eldest daughter's technique of screaming loudly at the onset of a spanking in the hope of earning less punishment.  Clara was up to her old tricks.  Ignoring her racket, I began to administer steady, hard wallops with my palm, always to the same spot, so that the sensation she experienced would grow with each spank.  After just a few of these, her voice cracked and the fakey screams vanished as she burst into tears.  All at once, she no longer sounded like a murder victim, but like a dearly loved but rather naughty young child, receiving a well deserved spanking across her parent's knee.

    As each swat landed upon the sobbing little girl's smarting posterior, her wails of discomfort grew in urgency, and the pink hue of her bottom grew more noticeable.  Still, I did not ease up, but continued spanking my child as emphatically as before, and ignoring the nagging unpleasant sensations from my own palm.   I didn't want to have to do this in the future any more often than I could avoid.  So there would be no half measures for Clara now,  only a thoroughly sound spanking.  This needed to be a punishment which would  leave a lasting impression on my child.  I simply had to impress upon her that in this house willful disobedience carried a heavy price.  Perhaps next in the future she would do as she was told the first time, and not force me to bring matters to this juncture; but only if I steeled my heart against her cries, poignant though they were, and resisted the impulse to let her off lightly.

    Clara turned her head to one side on the sofa and continued to bawl as I continued to smack her bottom in  a steady, measured rhythm.  Moist strands of hair which had come loose from her hair ribbon were pasted across her flushed, tear moistened cheeks.  I paused for a minute to give my smarting palm a rest while Clara continued to cry as hard as before.  There was nothing the least bit fakey about her tears. Her bottom was by now a sore looking shade of pink.  I decided she had been sufficiently punished on that part of her anatomy for not doing the dishes, and I wished my paternal disciplinary duty were over.  But Clara had also misbehaved in another way that evening.  So I began to give crisp, stinging slaps across the backs of her thighs, just  below the base of her buttocks, first one thigh, then the other, and back again.  She howled from surprise as much as from pain as her punishment resumed in this new and unfamiliar way  - kicking her legs from the knees down and wriggling and squirming over my knee from the sting as I gave her about a dozen on each plump little thigh.  In fact, as I administered the last half dozen smacks, I noticed that she had kicked one of  her knee socks half off, it's lower half flailing up and down in the air with each kick.

    At last, Clara's punishment was truly over, although I continued to hold her in position.  As my well spanked little niece lay bawling across my knee,  I gingerly raised her flowery blue panties until they were snugly in place once again over the hot, smarting cheeks of her bottom.  Then I smoothed Clara's slip and skirt back into place around her legs and released her wrists, permitting her to rub her hind parts while her tears, sobs and sniffles gradually diminished.  But I kept my hand resting lightly on her back to indicate that she did not yet have permission to get up.

    When I felt that she had regained enough composure to listen to directions, I gently guided her to her feet.  It was a thoroughly chastened and submissive little girl who stood before me then.  Red, puffy eyes downcast, still blubbering weepily, she kept both hands over her backside, except to briefly wipe each side of her tear soaked face on sleeve of her sweater.

    "Clara, it is your turn to do the dishes tonight," I said, in a soft, calm tone of voice.  "Please wash the dishes at once.  When you are finished, come tell me and I will check to make sure you did a  good job.  Is that understood?"

    Meekly, she nodded her head, stammered "Y-yes, Uncle M-M-Mark," and walked straight to the kitchen without another word, stopping only to pull up her loose sock.

    Standing on a small stool, Clara promptly washed everything in the sink, pausing at intervals to rub the seat of her skirt with her knuckles.  When she was finished, I praised her warmly for the excellent job she had done.  Then I instructed her to go upstairs, wash, brush, and get ready for bed.  After this, I added, she was to come back downstairs to have a little talk with me.  Again, she obeyed immediately without a hint of protest.
 
 

    Awhile later, Clara reappeared clad in her nightie, and sat down gingerly on the sofa beside me, regarding me with soft brown eyes opened wide.  I spoke gently to her, explaining that I was sorry I'd had to give her a spanking, but that she simply must learn to do as she was told.  Her obedience to my word was essential if I was to nurture her, protect her, and guide her on the path to womanhood.  I would expect obedience from her always, whether it meant doing the dishes the first time she was asked, or lying down properly across my lap when it was time for a spanking.

And although I hoped it would never become necessary again, she must expect to be spanked each and every time she disobeyed.  Her eyes moistened and her lower lip quivered as she apologized for not doing the dishes and for resisting her discipline, and she promised to be a better behaved girl from now on.  Although I had planned to lecture her further, I could see she was on the verge of tears, and that she had learned her lesson.  My heart melted and I put my arms around my child and drew her onto my lap.  I rocked and cuddled her and smoothed her hair as I told her how much I would always treasure her, and that she would always be Uncle Mark's very special little girl.   Clara relaxed and nestled her head against my chest.  I held my precious cargo closely while she closed her eyes and drifted contentedly towards sleep.

    After a good quarter of an hour in my arms, I patted her bottom lightly and whispered.  "It's past your bedtime, Pumpkin... and it's a school night.  So off you go now."

    But instead of obeying, she just held on tighter than before, looking up at me with a giggly impish smile.  "Carry me!" she chirped.  So I carried her in my arms all the way up the steps, down the hall, right up to her bedside.  After she had said her prayers, I tenderly tucked her under the covers and gave her a goodnight kiss before bidding her pleasant dreams.
 

(c) Handprince 2001