This is just a re-count of something that really happened to me. It’s very personal, but I wanted to share it with a friend and thought it might be worthy of posting on the blog. It’s the first true story I’ve ever really told like this… so be easy on me!!
The last year of my master’s program, I decided to do an internship in Santiago, Chile. It was about a nine-week-long stay, where I spent the first week and a half with my professor and other students from my school, learning about Chile’s history and culture and hanging out with a few locals who would be my contacts throughout the trip. The following seven and a half weeks, I stayed with one other student and worked in a local organization. Well, work is hardly the word I’d use to describe it. We mostly just baked in the stuffy wooden building, trying to figure out if we’d felt a “temblor” or if it was just our imagination. The other student (I’ll call her Amy) would spend most of her internship hours doing homework or translating documents for our supervisor, while I played on Facebook and chatted with long lost friends and family. It was grand.
At the beginning of my second month in the magnificent country of Chile, I was going through a phase of homesickness when I moved in with Amy and our host family — an older man and woman, and their two grown sons. We had started off kinda badly with them (as well as with some of the other locals) because many of the other students we had traveled the first week with weren’t exactly “culturally competent” and really made us all look like a bunch of dumb gringas. Amy had tried to smooth things over and it seemed to have been working out for her, but they never seemed to be really that fond of me as a person. Especially the younger of the two sons. Between the snide remarks about how much the U.S. sucks, he took every opportunity he could to tell me how cold and closed I was. It didn’t take long before I hated him as much as he hated me.
Now let me just make a slight disclaimer — I’m generally one of the easiest people to get along with. I’m very easy-going, I love adventure and I’m quite rebellious. I’m caring and accepting, and I always try to help everyone. And, if I do say so myself, I’m reasonably intelligent. That’s not to say I don’t have my own faults… I have plenty! And part of my faults are in the good things about myself… sometimes I can be too nice and caring. And I can also be very introverted and shy. I’ve been able to overpower those traits in certain situations, but in Chile it didn’t work at all. I think I felt like I couldn’t make up for the negative opinion they’d already formed about me, so why even try? It was like I just became everything they hated about gringa culture, even though I don’t normally consider myself that at all. So in some ways, I do understand why they hated me… I don’t blame them at all, and not all Chileans are like this by any means. But it definitely adds to the story so that’s why I felt the need to mention it!
Anyway, I think it was the first weekend after I’d moved in with my host family that the youngest son and his friend (let’s call the son JC and the friend JA) were going to take a trip. They were going to a city in southern Chile to spend the donation money my professor had collected to assist those affected by the big earthquake the year before. We were invited to go along, and since it would be a great learning experience, both agreed. I still wasn’t too fond of JC or JA, they had both been jerks to me, but I decided I’d make the best out of it anyway.
I had a miserable time. We took an overnight bus, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep. When we arrived the next morning, I was cranky and as introverted as could be. But we had work to do. We checked out the camps we were donating to, then hiked hours through the city, trying to find the right item to spend our money on. The conversations were intense… the guys had to make a decision, and they wanted our input. Dismissing the fact that I could only understand half of their Chilean dialect, I’m always indecisive as it is! And then if I suggested anything they shot it down. So here I am, trying to be outgoing like they want, but they respond by telling me how stupid my ideas are. Plus, we’ve been walking all day in the sun, I can feel my cheeks blushing from what will soon be a sunburn, I’m sweaty and tired. I gave up on trying to be like Amy. I just shut down and let them tease me more about how cold and closed I am.
The next day I was determined to prove them wrong again, with no avail. They still taunted me, suggesting that I’m a racist (because I asked to borrow sunscreen) and telling me that I don’t like to do new things (because I wasn’t into eating seafood). I’ll show them! I thought. Later that evening when we went to a restaurant because there was this “awesome” drink that the guys insisted we try. It was an alcoholic beverage that contained sea urchin (I think). Sounds tasty, right? Yeah. It was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tried. After choking down the first sip and expressing my sentiments towards the drink, they insisted that I have one more sip, just to be sure. I figured, what the hell? and went for it. It was still disgusting.
The next morning as Amy and I returned to Santiago, my tummy began to rumble, and so did hers. We pondered what it might have been (having almost forgotten about the drink by this time). It wasn’t until after I’d been vomiting for 2 days that we remembered the Seafood Drink. I had gotten more sick than she had — I had drank more than she had (she’d refused the second sip).
As you can imagine, by this point, I was feeling quite shitty, for lack of a better term. While I’m usually independent and the one who cares for others, I felt none of this now. I was scared and alone in this random country with a stupid culture and stupid food that made me sick and I just wanted to go home and see my family, but I was going to try and stay strong. I was going to make it. I wasn’t going to give up. I was going to suck it up and have a good time anyway! Even if I wasn’t sure which foods were safe and which ones weren’t.
So with my newly regained strength, I went to my internship that Tuesday. I was late, like always. I have issues with being on time, but usually in Latin American countries they don’t care too much. My stomach was still sensitive, but I was glad to get out of the house for a bit. I still felt awkward even though my host parents were nice enough. I still felt judged. Still felt like they didn’t like me (of course, who can blame them… I puked all over their sheets!). I think I even actually did some work in my internship that day… neither my supervisor nor Amy were there, so I just enjoyed the alone time and carried on the occasional conversation with a co-worker.
When I got back home, I greeted my family and locked myself away in my room with the excuse that I still wasn’t feeling too well. I think I took a nap and maybe chatted online a little. Usually the family called me for dinner when it started getting dark outside, so I saw nothing unusual about Amy coming to my room. And when she handed me the telephone, I also didn’t find it odd that my mom was calling me — after all, I had just been sick and she has the tendency to worry.
But when I heard her voice, I knew something had happened. I expected the worst — my grandma had died? Was my worst nightmare coming true?….
“Your dad is dead.”
I totally hadn’t been expecting it. I mean, yeah, my dad was kind of old… nearly 80. But he hadn’t been sick or anything…
“Okay,” I said simply. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset. I felt a little of both… I was relieved that it hadn’t been my grandmother… but of course upset that my dad was really dead, even though my parents had been divorced over twenty years and I hadn’t been terribly close to him. But still confused. How did this even happen?
I started crying. I couldn’t keep strong anymore. I hate my mom knowing that I cry… but this time I couldn’t hold it in. The tears just fell down my face as I asked for details, wondering what the next step would be. She tried to soothe me, and I just let her, reminding myself that my grandma was still alive, that this wasn’t the end of the world, that I wouldn’t even notice — I barely talked to my dad anyway! Everything was going to be all right. I convinced myself of it!
I kept myself locked in my room the next day, too. I tried to seem okay to my host family… tried to convince them that I was fine, yet truly grieving in privacy. I suppose I was actually doing that anyway, but I think mostly I was just avoiding it. Using it as an excuse to lock myself up alone and lament about how much I hated Chile and how much I wanted to go home.
But then I didn’t let myself. I said: no, you came to Chile to have a good time. Go have a good time dammit!
So on Thursday, I wrote the letter giving permission for someone to cremate my dad, wrote an open message on Facebook for all to know of my decision to stay in Chile the original length of time planned, and asked Amy if she wanted to go to Argentina the following day. Now, at this time I think I was still pretending to be friends with her, but really didn’t care for her too much. I kept giving her a try even though we’re total opposites — she is very extroverted, outdoors-y, and Type A personality. She wants to plan everything in exact detail weeks in advance and goes ape-shit (crazy) when something goes wrong. Yeah. I’m not any of that. So we clashed a little.
But in spite of her preference for planning, she agreed to take the trip because she, too, wanted that stamp on her passport. And since I really only wanted to go so I could have a steak and buy a leather belt, it would only be a day trip: we would leave Friday morning, and come back on the overnight bus.
Before we left, I asked Amy if she’d told our host family about our trip to Argentina. She told me that she had been talking to the father and JC at dinner while I’d been at the cafe, and told them of our plans. I trusted her on that. But I didn’t really care if they knew or not. Well, not at first anyway. But we went to Argentina — it’s an amazing bus ride! — and had our awesome steak and found exactly the belt I wanted. We made it back to the station just in time for our 10 o’clock bus. Except there was no 10 o’clock bus. Apparently there had been a mudslide in the Andes and a huge rock had fallen on top of a bridge/tunnel and made it impossible to make the trip via automobile. They weren’t sure how long the delay would last. We’d have to come back the following day to find out.
Normally I would’ve been thrilled. Awesome! Stuck in Argentina, no idea when we’ll be able to get back to Chile, what an adventure! You can’t make this shit up! But I wasn’t in the mood. And Amy was going apeshit. “What are we going to do? We don’t have money… we don’t have a hotel… we’re supposed to be back home tomorrow morning… what if we’re stuck here all week?… what are we going to tell our supervisor?…”
She went on and on with her worrying, but I just held a hand up and said, “I got this.” I found the nearest worker and asked them if they knew of a hostel around here, and he was extremely nice and drew us a map of where it was and how to get there. It was really just across the street too! So we went there and rang the doorbell and another extremely nice person told us that they did have beds and they were ridiculously cheap, like $12 each, which we both had, as soon as we went back to the ATM to get out some cash. Well, I had to do that, because Amy was too concerned about not having the money and I didn’t care. I told her she could just trade Chilean pesos for Argentine pesos.
So it was set. We had a place to sleep, and I think we’d even brought over an extra pair of clothes “just in case”! Oh, and more good news, the hostel had free wifi, so I used my phone to contact JA via Facebook and ask him to tell our family we were stuck in Argentina without a way to contact them, but would be back soon.
The bad news came when he replied. I don’t remember his exact words, but basically he was telling us that our host family didn’t even know where we were. Which I thought was odd, since Amy had clearly told them. So I replied asking him to send our deepest apologies, and explained that we were under the impression that they knew, and I also added that I appreciated him talking to them for us. Meanwhile, I posted a semi-enthusiastic status about being stuck in Argentina, to which he commented something about how Amy and I are “typical gringas” who never care about other people. As if it wasn’t bad enough that all the other shit had happened… now I had to deal with this jackass (now you know where I get the name JA from hehehe). I was trying to maintain peace, but it wasn’t working at all.
We were able to get back to Santiago the following night, but let me tell you — it was the scariest bus ride I’ve ever taken! We were on a double-decker bus on the top floor in the front. There was a huge window where you could see the vast darkness ahead, and sometimes even fog. With the high winds and twists and turns, sleeping was impossible! All I could do was plan my funeral, if they could even find the bits and pieces of my body strewn across the Andes Mountains.
So this is where I think I was psychologically “done”. I was finished trying to enjoy this country. I felt weak, damaged, destroyed. It took every ounce of energy inside of me to get up in the mornings and go to an internship that I didn’t like, sit with a girl I didn’t like, eat food I didn’t like, communicate with people I didn’t like, live with a family I didn’t like. I was defeated. I had been forced to submit. I’d never felt like that before in my life. I’d come very close to it a few times, but nothing compares to being in an unfamiliar culture with unfamiliar attitudes and languages, and unfriendly people, and being taunted, getting sick, having a parent pass away, knocking on death’s door… I was one step lower than usual. I was not the same independent, intelligent, confident individual that I usually am. I was broken.
I started chatting with more Chileans on the internet. I wanted a spanking experience. I knew I’d have to be miserable the next three weeks, so I shifted my goals. Now, in order to make the most out of my experience, I’d have to get adequately spanked. I was on a mission!
I started talking to this guy I’d had on my alt-Facebook friend list for a while, but had always chickened out of contacting him. He was 32, married and a professional. I expressed to him my desires and needs very matter-of-factly. I didn’t have time to get to know him as a friend, but a session would be fun, so I had to be upfront and honest without letting my shyness get in the way. And he responded well. He liked many of the same things as me and expressed an interest in meeting up. We exchanged phone numbers and within a few days, he was calling me to see if I had plans for the evening.
We skipped the coffee and headed straight for an apartment that you can rent by the hour. I had been chattering away in Spanish, nervous about my encounter and realizing the risk I was taking. I didn’t get bad vibes from him, but we hadn’t known each other long enough for me to really be able to make a good judgment call. I was also well-aware of my psychological state of submissiveness. Well, maybe I wouldn’t have called it that at the time… but I was certainly feeling like an authority figure wouldn’t have to say much to get me to follow his or her directions. And that’s just in normal life.
When we got to the room we sat down on opposite sides of the sofa. He had just gotten off of work and was still dressed nicely in a long-sleeved button up shirt and a tie, and I was just in my normal fifteen year old girl attire (jeans and a T-shirt). I fell silent for a moment and he looked at me with a serious expression, as if saying let’s get this started.
“So, Breanna,” he said in Spanish. “How have you been behaving since you’ve been here in Chile?”
I think I was instantly transformed into believing this was some sort of advisor or mentor of mine. Maybe someone my school had appointed to make sure that I stayed on the right track during my time abroad. This caused me to chew on my fingernail.
“Oh, you know… I’ve been… more or less behaving.”
“More or less?” he questioned.
When I nodded and didn’t offer further explanation, he pressed.
“What does that mean?” he wanted to know.
“How have you been doing with your schedule?”
I shrugged again, chewing deeper into my fingernail. My heart was pounding and I was finding it a bit difficult to breathe. I was really going to be in trouble…
“Have you been getting to your internship on time? Completing your homework assignments on time?”
“No,” I said weakly, looking at the floor.
He pried further, wanting to know how often I’d been late (almost everyday in my entire life), how late I’d been yesterday (an hour and fifteen minutes), why I’d been late so much (besides the fact that I’m always late? Probably because I stay up too late…), what my supervisor said (nothing, I’m only late on the days he’s not there). He wanted to know about my homework and I gave him the same lame excuses I’d given my professors (although they were probably legit!) and he just shook his head at me. “Go to the corner,” he said, “and pull your pants and panties down.”
“Oh, um, now?” I stammered.
I pushed myself off the couch and walked slowly and obediently to the corner. My whole body was tingling by this time in nervous anticipation of what was going to come. From the corner, I peered over my shoulder with a pathetic look and said, “this is so embarrassing…”
“You should be embarrassed of having been late so many times,” he commented.
I couldn’t argue with that, so just unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped them, pushing them and my panties to my knees and staring at the wall. I fidgeted a little, conscious of my bare bottom on display for this disciplinarian to see. I worried about what he was thinking… if he hated me like JC and JA… or if he hated Americans, like some of the other Chileans I’d met. There was an obvious class difference between us, too, as noted by our clothing choices. Did he think I was just another pathetic gringa who thought she could get away with anything she wanted? Was I not enough of an intellectual for him?
I also wondered how he was going to spank me… he had seemed really nice at first, but very strict… did that mean he was going to be severe? Or a softie?
He didn’t give me long to ponder these ideas. Within a minute or two, he had appeared behind me and was tugging my pants and panties to the ground. And then he began questioning me in a very strict disciplinarian way, and in a tone I’d never heard in Spanish before.
“So you were an hour and fifteen minutes late to your internship yesterday?” he asked, towering over me.
“Yes or no?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, swallowing a ball of nervous energy down my throat.
“An hour and fifteen minutes. That’s seventy-five minutes late to your internship. Do you have anything to say for yourself, Young Lady?”
I thought for a moment of what I could say that would make this situation any better. “I’m sorry…” I said, in English, because I never know the correct way to say it in Spanish.
“I’m sorry?” he repeated, in English, too, which almost made me giggle, but then I noticed that he was dead serious and not very happy. “Is that all you can say? You were seventy-five minutes late for your internship! Do you not care about your responsibilities? Do you not care that you have people counting on you to be there on time?”
He paused and I guessed he did not mean those to be rhetorical questions, so I assured him that I did indeed care.
“What would happen if a client came in to see you and you weren’t there to attend to them?”
“I don’t know…” I said shyly.
“How do you think that makes you look? How do you think that makes your school look?”
It went on like this for a while, the intense questions, and also a few random swats when I decided to nod instead of saying “yes, Sir” like he wanted me to. I began to feel powerless, as if this scene were real and I was getting a typical punishment. As if this was the culture’s typical way of dealing with bratty little girls like me. I felt like I deserved it, because he was the authority figure and he had determined that my behavior was inexcusable.
After the scolding, he grabbed my ear and hauled me to the sofa, demanding that I leave my pants and panties in a heap on the floor. He ordered me over the arm of the couch and I obeyed, putting myself in position, burying my face in the cushions. I clenched my fingers around the sides of the cushion because I had a feeling that he wouldn’t be too happy with me reaching back during the spanking.
He began rolling up his sleeves. “Seventy-five minutes late to your internship,” he said. Then, when he’d finished rolling up his sleeves, he looked into my eyes and said, “I want you to count out loud.”
He gave me the first seventy-five swats with his hands, and I did a decent job of counting aloud in Spanish until I got into the forties. By then my bottom was on fire and he was spanking in a quicker pace, so I begged him to let me count in English instead. After those spanks, I watched as he unbuckled his belt and scolded me some more about being so late to work, ordering that I begin to go to bed earlier in order to avoid such situations in the future. I was very shy and obedient, only answering when questioned and adding a very polite “Sir” to almost everything I said.
He doubled the belt and told me to count again. I would receive seventy-five with the belt.
It was one of those thick, heavy belts, kind of like the one I’d gotten in Argentina. And someone as posh as this guy would never settle for anything other than the finest leather… so believe me when I say that the belt hurt. He covered my entire bottom, sit spots, upper thighs. I was crying out with nearly every swat, trying to hold the tears in by reminding myself to be strong like I had the last couple of weeks. But the belting stung so badly…
He finished up and I wondered if that would be all. My bottom was throbbing and surely it was bright red by this time…
But it wasn’t over. He sent me to the bedroom and told me to wait for him, no rubbing, he would be in there shortly.
“Yes, Sir,” I said weakly and followed his directions.
In the bedroom, I anxiously chewed on my fingernail again. My adrenaline was pumping and endorphins had me feeling elated. I found myself in a cross between dreading and welcoming his arrival. I wanted to get it over with, yet I wanted to prolong it as long as possible. Tears were threatening to form, too, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Would that be the ultimate sign of submission? Or would it be a sign of weakness, rebellion?
He came into the room while I was deep into thought, belt still in hand. He towered over me again, talking about my homework assignments and how I always make excuses for myself and about my laziness and slacking off in general. I felt like a little kid now… in a world where I have no control over anything, where people use big words that I don’t understand, where I will get spanked if I disobey… Because, essentially, it was all so true. I really didn’t have control over anything, and people were always using words and doing things I never understood… and now it was true that I was being spanked for disobeying! Can you imagine that headspace? I’d never felt that way ever before. I always had some sense of control… some sense of knowledge… even though I act fifteen, I’m really older… I’m an adult… I have control over many aspects of my life. But in Chile, in the room of that apartment, I didn’t have control over anything… not my dad’s death, not the mudslide that hindered our trip, and not in this spanking I was about to get.
He told me to get on my hands and knees on the bed. I tried to do this as modestly as possible, but he would have nothing of it. He tapped my thigh with the belt and told me to get in a more appropriate position, and so I just blushed and did as he said. He didn’t have me count out loud this time. He just spanked me with the belt over and over, and I held on tightly to the blankets trying to keep as much dignity as possible. But I was squirming now and unable to stay that great in position, even though I obediently returned as quickly as possible anytime I moved too much. He was still scolding me, and I was as close to crying as I’ve ever been… just couldn’t get it out…
When it was over, he took me to the bathroom to show me the damage that had been done to my poor bottom.
“This is what happens when you’re late, Breanna. Understood?” he said.
I nodded, “yes, Sir.”
I rubbed my bottom a little as I looked at it in the mirror, feeling its warmth. It was dark red and starting to bruise in some places. He definitely hadn’t gone easy on me… he’d taken my advice… and I didn’t regret it one bit.
We walked back to the living room so I could retrieve my pants and panties. “Thanks,” I said.
He just smiled down at me and gave me a hug. “Anytime.”