Story: The Emo Story

A sad, misc story that I decided to write.  Involves the spanking of a college-aged young woman by her friend.  And it's sad but sweet.  Not going to give anymore of a summary than that :)

The Emo Story
by Breanna Carter

Garth Brooks used to be my get drunk and party music. My best friend and I would drive to Texas with our mixed CD deafeningly loud, air conditioner on full blast, the summer sun in our eyes, talking and giggling about stupid shit. Then I moved to New Jersey. Now it seems the only time I listened to that CD was when I sat alone in my car, drinking a beer and talking on the phone, usually with tears streaming down my face. Like the night my mom called me, and I thought my world ended.

"I've been dreading making this phone call," she said.

I was afraid to ask what had happened. For legit reasons. "What is it?" I said in a half-whisper.

She took a deep breath in, quivering as she began. "Your grandma..." she broke off and my heart dropped. I heard a sob escape.

"Is... is she okay?"

There was a long pause on the end of the line, and I knew the answer to my question. I felt this knot in my throat and it was all of a sudden hard to swallow.

"Mom?" I croaked.

"She died this morning."

"What? You're kidding... tell me you're kidding."

"I'm sorry," she told me. "I don't want you to be upset." Hah, upset was an understatement. "She lived a full and happy life. She wouldn't want you to be upset." She paused, sniffling. "We can get a plane ticket for you to come home tomorrow night."

I nodded even though she couldn't see me, wiping the tears away as they fell.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah."

There was this long uncomfortable silence as we both held in our emotions. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Mom. Look... I need to go... Have a lot of school work."

"Call me if you want to talk," she said.

"Okay. Bye. Love you." Then I hung up the phone.

I stumbled into my apartment, numb-feeling, but not numb enough. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge, plopping down at my kitchen table. Everything was out of focus. My heart was racing. Throat still knotted. This couldn't be true. It had to be some fucked up dream. In a few minutes I'd wake up in a cold sweat, only to find out that none of this happened. Or I'd get a call from a friend saying it had just been a prank. A mean prank, but just a prank. I stared at my phone, waiting for the phone call. When it didn't come, I drank more. I don't know why I drank. I knew it wouldn't make me feel any better.

Yet I drank. I don't know how many beers I'd ingested when I went back to my car, cell phone in one hand, Blue Moon in the other. "Stupid fucking snow," I muttered, kicking at it as I opened the door. "Stupid fucking cold weather. Stupid fucking New Jersey."

I took another swig of my beer and dialed my best friend's number. Actually, I didn't have to dial anything, just press the "T" on my keypad -- T for Tori.

"I hate this town," I told her. "And I miss your face. Listen!" I turned up the Garth Brooks song on my CD. "'I coulda missed the pain, but I'd've had to miss, the danceeee!'" I sang. "Remember our roadtrips?"

"You're fucking crazy," she laughed. "Are you drunk?"

I laughed, too, but the laughter quickly turned into sobbing... uncontrollable sobbing. I told her the news I'd gotten just moments before. I don't know what she said. I don't even know if I gave her much time to talk as I was blubbering the sob story one minute, cussing New Jersey the next.

"Tori. Do I get to see your face when I come home for my g-ma's funeral?" I asked.

"Of course. We can hang out and drive through our old neighborhood again like we used to."

I hung up from her and called an array of other old friends, remembering good times with them and crying and swearing and promising to visit when I came into town. I knew I wouldn't be able to see them, but at the time this didn't matter. Half of them cared, half of them probably just wanted to get my crazy drunk ass off the phone. I threw my empty beer bottle in the backseat of the car and realized I had no more beer. This meant I could do one of two things: I could go to the liquor store, or go to someone who had beer.

I chose the latter.

Cranking up my car, I somehow managed to back out of my parking space and safely out of the parking lot. By the time I got onto the street, I realized how drunk I was and how unsafe of a situation I was putting myself in. But I was a little too tipsy to care. Besides, no one was really out. It's not like anything would happen driving the three blocks to Michael's apartment complex.

And it didn't.

When I pulled into the parking spot -- albeit quite crookedly -- I dialed his number.

"Hey. Do you have any beer?" I asked.

"Hey you. No beer here. What's up?"

"I need some more beer. I'm at your house. Open the door."

"What?" he said. By now I was ambling down the path to apartment #35, trying to walk in a straight line but failing miserably.

"I said I'm here. Open the damn door."

He stuck his head out about the same time I arrived at his doorstep. Clicking his phone shut, he pushed the door open for me to come inside. "Are you drunk?" he asked.

"Fuck my life, Michael," I responded, crashing onto his sofa. "I need more alcohol. Do you have anything at all? Tequila? Vodka? Hypnotic? Anything?"

He closed the door and sat down beside me, lifting my chin to look into his eyes. "Izzy, are you drunk?"

"I had a rough night."

He let go of my chin, softening up. "What happened?"

I began my story, as I had many times that night, explaining the conversation with my mom and ending up on a tantrum about how much I hated being so far away from home. "It sucks up here," I said. "It's all snowy and cold and stupid and I hate it. I should've never come up here for school. If I hadn't come up here, then I could've been with my grandma. I could've taken care of her. And she'd be okay right now," I said, ugly tears falling down my cheeks, fists pounding into the wall. "I hate myself so much."

Michael pulled me in close, holding me against his chest. "I'm here, Izzy," he promised me. "I'm here. Cry it all out."

"I can't do this."

"Yes you can," he assured me, stroking my hair.

"Whatever, I just need more to drink," I told him, pushing myself up.

"I think you've had enough to drink."

"Please, do you have anything?"

"I don't. Come on, let's get some sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," I argued.

He stood up now, speaking to me in a soft tone. "Come on, Iz," he said and held out a hand to me. "It's late and you have a long day tomorrow."

That's when I threw a tantrum, right there in my friend's living room, that ended with me chunking my keys against the wall and finally falling into his arms with muttered apologies. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I cried.

He didn't speak, just kept me close to him, holding me tightly. When I'd finally regained control of my breathing, he walked me to his room. He pulled back the blankets on his bed. "Get in, Iz," he said gently.

Wiping my eyes, I followed his directions like a four year old and snuggled up on his bed, letting him tuck me in. It seemed natural when he kissed me on the forehead. "Everything's gonna be all right," he sang. "Rockabye." He knew that was my favorite song.

The next morning when I woke, my head was throbbing and my hair was matted to my face from having cried so much. Michael was still next to me typing away at his laptop.

"What time is it?" I asked in a hoarse voice.

"Half past eleven."

"Holyshit," I yelped, bolting up. "I missed class."

"Don't worry about it. I emailed your professors for you and told them what happened."

"Y-you did?" I hadn't expected him to do this. I didn't even know he really knew my professors' names, much less email addresses. But I guess since he had taken most of the same classes, it couldn't have been too hard to figure out. Hm.

"Yes."

"What about work? Don't you have to go in today?"

"I called in. Told them I would work from home. Family emergency."

Family emergency. Did he consider me family?

He closed his laptop now and looked at me seriously. "We need to talk, Isabella," he said.

I looked down at my thumbs. "About what?" I hated it when he called me by my full name. Not only 'cause I hated my full name, but also 'cause I knew that meant I was in trouble.

He exhaled, putting his laptop on the floor and throwing an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me gently. "How are you feeling?"

I shrugged. "Been better."

"I'm really sorry about your grandma," he said.

I sniffled, trying to keep my tears on the inside. "Me too."

"I'm worried about you."

"Why?" I asked, still looking at my thumbs.

"Because last night you did something really dangerous. And that worries me."

"Oh."

He lifted my chin to look into my eyes. His were deep blue, just like mine, and were filled with genuine worry and concern. "Why did you drive over here, Izzy?"

I shrugged.

"Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"

"I guess," I whispered, ignoring the tear that slipped down my cheek.

"I know that this is a hard time for you. Believe me, I know. And I'm here for you ALWAYS. You know that, don't you?"

I nodded.

"Why didn't you just call me? I would've come over, brought you back here. I would've done anything."

I didn't say anything.

"You were completely trashed last night and in absolutely no condition to drive. Not to mention you really weren't in the condition to drink in the first place."

"I know," I muttered softly, closing my eyes as a few more tears fell down.

He let go of my chin and hugged me tightly. "You know I love you, kiddo," he said in a gentle voice. "You've been a great friend of mine ever since we met in Philosophy 101 three years ago."

I couldn't help but laugh slightly at that statement. I remembered being a freshman, my first time ever in New Jersey, sitting next to the hott senior in one of the most boring classes ever. We'd clicked instantly because of our interest in sociology, and he'd helped me get through my first year of homesickness and procrastination. And I'd helped him get an A on his research study. And all because of that first semester philosophy class.

"I've seen you grow so much," he continued. "And you're almost finished. You're almost there. Are you going to throw that all away now? What if you'd have been in an accident? Gotten hurt? Gotten killed? And this close to graduating... this close to being the first college graduate from your family... all for what?"

"To kill the pain."

"Isabella, this isn't killing the pain," he said. "And you know it. It's just numbing it. And if one of those things had happened, it would've just added more, wouldn't it?"

I nodded, crying now. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know. I don't even have a good excuse. It just hurts so much."

He pulled away from me now, wiping my tears away and looking me in the eyes. "I know it does. But there are other ways to deal with that, okay? Ways that won't jeopardize your life and well being."

I nodded again. I noticed his eyes were also filling with tears. It felt awful to make him worry so much.

"Promise me you won't do this again?"

"I promise."

He swallowed hard and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

Was that all? He was just going to scold me a little? I thought that I must've been dreaming.

But he didn't say anything else. And I wasn't quite sure how to take it. If it'd been under any other circumstances, he would've worn my ass out -- literally. How do you think I made it through three years of college? My bare backside had felt the wrath of his belt more times than I'd like to admit. Otherwise I would've probably flunked out long ago.

"Michael?" I said in a weak voice.

"Yes?"

"Are you gonna... um... spank me?"

He sighed. "I don't want to," he answered.

"I don't want you to either."

There was a bit of an awkward silence.

"But maybe you should?" I said in a questioning tone.

"Maybe I should," he repeated.

I nodded. "I feel kinda guilty."

"I don't know if right now is the time... After all you've been through... It seems kinda cruel."

I shook my head. "It's not." I wanted to tell him that the endorphin rush would be amazing and just the general feeling of being cared-for would make up for any physical pain I would have to endure, but I didn't really know how to say it. And besides, all it took was a pathetic look into his eyes and I think he knew. But that's 'cause he knew me so well anyway.

He stood up and took my hand, pulling me up with him. We walked to the living room where he sat down on the sofa and I stood in front of him. He tugged at the button on my jeans, took down the zipper, and pulled my pants down to my knees. Then he held out his hand. "Come on, Izzy. Over my lap."

I did as told, grabbing a hold of his hand to help me over and positioning myself as comfortably as possible. I buried my face in my arms. I felt him peel my panties down, then rest a cool hand on my bare bum.

"Do you have anything to say before I get started?" he asked.

He always asked this question before he started the spanking -- I guess it was an attempt to get me to admit to any other wrongdoings before he went on with what he was doing. Or maybe it was so he could see how sorry I really was for what I'd done. At any rate, my answer was the same as usual: "No."

He lifted his hand and began the spanking. At first it was pretty mild. He spanked methodically with a slow pace, working his way from my sit spots to the top of my bottom, covering both cheeks. The spanking became harder as he progressed, but he took his time, never quick to rush the punishment along.

I squirmed slightly with each swat, crying out a little every so often, but was mostly subdued. He didn't scold me much during the actual spanking, mostly because he knew I couldn't listen much with so much pain being inflicted upon my posterior region.

"Ow... okay... ahh, oww! Michael, ow! I'm sorry!"

"I'm glad to hear that," he said. "I'm sorry, too. Sorry about your grandmother, and sorry that you've earned this spanking." Just 'cause he was sorry, though, doesn't mean that he stopped. And he didn't. If anything, he started spanking harder.

"Okay okay owww!" I said, reaching back now. "I won't do it again."

He caught my hand, holding it to the small of my back but continuing the spanking. "I know you won't do it again." He then gave me a flurry of swats to my sit spots and stopped, releasing my hand and resting his once again on my bum. "You know how come I know you won't do it again? Because I know that you realize how much of a danger you put yourself in. And I know that you realize how much I care about you. And I also know that you're going to have a painful reminder of what will happen if you ever pull a stunt like this again. Stand up."

I pushed myself up, standing beside him, chewing on my lower lip. Tears threatened to spill out from my eyes, but I tried my damnedest not to let them.

"Go get the wooden spoon."

Ugh. I hate the damn wooden spoon. Probably more than I hate his belt.

"Get movin'," he said, giving me a hearty swat to my thigh.

Whining, I scampered to the kitchen, opening the silverware drawer. There were actually two wooden spoons in there, but only one of them was actually used for cooking. The other was especially reserved for warming my backside. It made me cringe when I saw it. I tried to tell myself that I deserved this and I'd feel better afterwards when I was all forgiven. That didn't convince me to get it.

In fact, I think the only thing that convinced me to get it was Michael's soft but stern voice saying, "today, Isabella."

I looked over at him, then back down in the drawer. The spanking spoon was bigger and heavier than the cooking spoon. I wondered what he'd do if I brought him the wrong one. Eh, probably wear me out with 'em both. Not worth chancing.

I picked up the damn spanking spoon and closed the drawer, then hobbled back towards him. "Do you really hafta use that?" I whined.

"Yes, ma'am, I do," he said. "And you know I do. Come on, back over." He helped me across his lap.

"I think I've learned my lesson with just the hand spanking," I said, my final pathetic attempt to get out of this.

He didn't even respond to me. I should've known he wouldn't.

Or I guess he did respond... just not in the way I wanted. He responded with the wooden spoon. It came crashing down, causing me to wince and squirm right away. I tried to think of something other than the awful fire that had been ignited on my bottom, but it proved to be very difficult. I tried singing comforting songs to myself in my head... you know, like Mary Had a Little Lamb... but only got to the third or fourth word before the pain distracted me. I couldn't help but reach back again.

"Please," I begged.

He held onto my hand, continuing the spanking. He was so methodic with his swats -- I felt each one loud and clear.

"I'm sorry," I pleaded, left hand threatening to reach back now since he had my right one already restrained.

"I don't want to ever hear of you putting yourself in jeopardy like that again, Young Lady, do you understand me?"

The use of "Young Lady" made my stomach drop. And it made it impossible for me to answer any way other than "yes, sir."

He increased the intensity of the swats and I kicked slightly, squirming to dodge, but my efforts to get the spanking to cease were futile. He continued on and on for what seemed like hours. The pain was becoming unbearable. But I wasn't going to break. I wasn't going to cry. I don't know why I'm stubborn like this.

Except then he said: "I worry about you, Izzy."

And I broke down.

"When you do things like this, it makes me worry more."

I'd never meant to worry him, and I certainly didn't want to make him worry more. I didn't even feel worth worrying about most of the time. But he still worried.

"I care about you like you're my own little sister."

As if my first break down wasn't enough, I was now sobbing like a small child. This was his cue to give the last few swats... not that I could really feel them by this time anyway... and then he set the spoon down and rubbed my back.

"I'm sorry," I choked out.

"I know, baby. I know." He scooped me into his arms then, sitting me on his lap (yes, I winced at sitting on my well-spanked and tender bottom) and holding me close. He rocked me back and forth, ignoring the fact that my face was red, puffy, and ugly. He just held onto me. And that's what I needed. And that's how I stayed until I had calmed down enough and my breathing was steady again.

"My flight home is going to suck," I said, glancing up at him.

His eyes met mine and he smirked slightly. "Yeah, it is. It really is."