All the characters of the story are over 18-years-old. This is the first story I published, comments are appreciated.
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Our Dad is the family disciplinarian. He is very strict when it comes to raising me and my older brother. When we got into trouble that meant we would get undressed and bend over his knee for a spanking. We fear the pain of being repeatedly slapped in the bare bottom with his calloused hand, or worse, being whipped with his leather tawse. That's why my brother and I did our best to stay out of trouble most of the time. We get to witness Mom being spanked for misbehaving too, but that's a story I will tell for another time.
One time when me and my twin brother are eighteen-years-old, Dad got into a minor accident while at work. The doctor said that his right arm had to remain in a cast for more than a month. Being right-handed, his boss allowed him to take a paid leave in order to heal his broken arm. He mostly stays in the couch watching television. Although I stayed in my best behavior as always, I thought that he would be unable to spank us if we ever managed to do something wrong. Mom is not interested punishing us for wrongdoing either, for she just leaves the punishing to our Dad. What I did on that day humiliated me greatly, and I will tell you why.
It was a Saturday. The only people in our house is me, Dad, and Brandon. Mom works at the local hospital as a nurse.
Being the only female left in the house means that I was not able to get a well-deserved rest after five days at school. At around seven o'clock in the morning Dad barged in my bedroom, pulled my blanket with his left hand, and yelled, "Emily, wake up from your damned beauty sleep and clean the house."
Still drowsy enough to stop myself from standing, Dad then slapped my butt with his left hand in order to coerce me to stand up. "Hurry up or else you'll get a spanking."
"But how would you spank me if your right arm is broken?" I didn't mean to talk back. I was just curious. He wasn't very good with his left arm. Ever since his right arm broke he has trouble using the utensils while eating, using the TV remote, typing on his computer, and as he claims, wiping his ass. Even the way he slapped by bottom is feeble.
"No talking back. Go eat your breakfast and do your chores now."
And so after I eat my breakfast I wash the dishes—Mom cooked breakfast for us but hasn't had the time to wash it, so the dishes just lie in the kitchen sink—did the laundry, wipe the windows clean, clean the bathrooms, and vacuum the floor. Meanwhile Dad just sat there watching TV. When I was about to vacuum the floor he simply lifted his leg up to let the vacuum cleaner pass by.
"That's my girl," he smiles.
Soon I have to clean the bedrooms. Brandon is still sleeping in his bedroom. Ugh, why is that guy allowed to sleep all day I while I slave away doing chores? ("It's because you're the girl," Dad would say.)
His bedroom floor is pretty much a junkyard. Empty packs of junk food, pieces of junk food, crumpled paper, and sheets of paper are scattered all over the floor. As quietly as possible I picked up the detritus and depose them in the garbage bag I am currently holding. I suppose I have to vacuum his bedroom later. I left the room with Brandon still snoring loudly.
I gathered up the litter from garbage bins all over our home and went outside to throw them in the dumpster.
"I'm all done," I told Dad after cleaning up the second floor, hoping to finally take a sit and relax as I plan to do on a Saturday.
Then suddenly Brandon came marching down the stairs.
"Who cleaned up my bedroom?" he demands, although he already knew from the way he is looking at me.
"I did," I confirm.
"Crap," he shouts in anger, "Where did you threw it?"
"The dumpster," although it is obvious as to where we throw out our trash.
"CRAP! It was the application form for college!"
