Missy Likes It – Chapter 01 of 05
Introduction:
A five part story of a young woman growing up in a BDSM family Chapter 01 goes back to the beginning of her urges and needs
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The Broadmore family was your typical suburban family according to any of their neighbors. The father and head of the household, Harold David Broadmore, was an investment broker who had done quite well, even in fluctuating markets. He had the knack of moving his money and investments, and those of his clients, just ahead of the manure hitting the ventilator.
Willamina Jane Broadmore, better known as Janie, was the typical suburban housewife who took her turn for the carpool and baked cookies for the school or softball team bake sales. She had once been a beautiful young bride, and through the years had progressed past the MILF phase to the OMILF (Older MILF) stage, but would still turn most heads as she jogged through the park on her morning run. There was just something overtly sexy about her, no matter where she was or how she was dressed.
Harold David was their oldest son. David had played softball in high school and had gotten an athletic scholarship at one of the state colleges.
Rebecca Jane, a year younger than David, was the head of the cheerleader squad in high school, and at the same time was team captain of the volley ball team. She was also riding an athletic scholarship with hopes of becoming a high school teacher and coach.
David William, two years younger than Becky, was brilliant, but shy and awkward. He was not quite a nerd, but he was definitely overshadowed by his older brother. His older brother even overshadowed his name, and he had to go by his middle name, Billy, since Harold went by his middle name, David.
Marion Michele, two years younger than Billy, was neither overly athletic or overly smart, but she was adequate in both areas and was able to maintain a high B average in high school that got her into the local teacher’s college with several small scholarships.
The youngest, and the reason I am writing this, was Melissa Sue Broadmore. Four years younger than her next oldest sister, Mary, and almost ten years younger than her oldest brother, David, she was the baby of the family. She was a 22 year old senior in college when she emailed me and asked if she could sit down and talk to me because she needed some advice about life. She signed the email, “Missy.”
I assumed that she had somehow gotten my email off the internet, and emailed back that I was not a counselor or therapist, but that I would gladly recommend several.
Her response was “SSSuzy said you would understand. I know her because I have stayed some weekends at the campground she and her husband run. She said that you might be the only person who wouldn’t judge me and would just listen to me and help me decide what to do.”
That got my attention. Self-Sub Suzy was a client of mine and would never have given my name and email to just anyone. Still, I was a little suspicious. One of the maxims I live by is “Just because you are paranoid, it doesn’t mean that there isn’t someone out there trying to get you.”
I sent back a response telling her to call me between 9:15 and 9:30 that night. I gave her the phone number of one of my pre-paid “burner phones.” I have boxes of them that I have purchased randomly from all over the nation as I travel. This one would be smashed up and in a dumpster by morning.
Using that phone I called SSSuzy. She answered with the name of the campground. I immediately said, “If you recognize my voice do not say my name. Just say yes.”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Do not say her name, but did you refer a young woman to me that needs advice?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Am I really the only one who can handle this?”
“I think so,” she replied. “It’s really complicated. David, her father…”
As soon as she said a name, I broke the connection. She had already told me everything I needed to know. My actions may sound overly controlling or even rude, but I keep too many people’s secrets. Keeping secrets is part of the service I am paid for. There is always someone trying to dig up other people’s secrets, so I always have to assume that every conversation is recorded.
At 9:10 I was pulled up into a rest stop on the interstate. What I like about this particular rest stop is that, because of the hilly terrain, there isn’t room for a rest stop on the other side. So, it is fed by traffic from both directions, and it is possible to return to the interstate in either direction. It has video surveillance, but only around the area of the rest rooms. There are no cameras on the entrances or exits. If this was a setup and someone tried to ping my cellphone position once I put the battery back in, I would be long gone before anyone could be there.
There is an overflow lot for cars behind the truck parking area. At this time of night, the trucks are packed in with shipments that have just come out of the city. The drivers are getting some down time before starting their long haul to wherever it is they are going. The slanted line of trucks not only blocked any view of the overflow lot from the highway or restrooms, it also blocked almost all light which meant that I was sitting in darkness. I still had, however, a clear view of both entrances.
At exactly 9:15 the cellphone rang. I picked up on the second ring and answered with “Don’t use any names on the phone. Not mine. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Do you understand that?”
“uhh… yes, I guess so. I just need to talk to someone about my mom and my dad and what I am and how I handle it and what I can do with my life.” She dissolved into crying.
“What are you?” I asked.
“I’m a pain slut – a severe masochist if you want to use the proper term, but its like a drug. I keep trying for more and more and I’m afraid I’m going to do something stupid.” She started crying again. Then she blurted out, “I don’t want to die. I just want the pleasure of suffering.” She was crying almost hysterically now. Her voice was shrill. “Nobody understands. Nobody.”
“I do,” I said calmly. “And I will help you. What I can do for you is to listen to you, and help you clarify what you are feeling. Then I can get you connected with a professional who will not judge you and will help you sort out what you want to do with your life.”
She was now just sniffling into the phone. I spoke clearly and sharply, “Missy, do you want me to do that for you?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Then be at the airport tomorrow at noon. Take a cab or park your car in long-term parking. I will pick you up at the passenger pick up area. That is for your safety. The pickup area is under constant video surveillance so there will be an official record of you leaving with me. We will go somewhere where we can talk. You will be safe there, but you might be gone at least for the weekend – perhaps even for the week. Can you mange that?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You think so, or you know so?”
“I know so.”
“Good, I will pick you up at noon tomorrow at the airport.”
At 12:01 the next day, I pulled though the airport pickup lane. I recognized Missy from a picture that SSSuzy had shown me when I stopped out at the camp. I popped the trunk, got out and opened the front passenger door for her. “Get in, if you’re coming,” I said and picked up her bag and stowed it in the trunk. Then I walked back around and got into the driver’s seat.
Missy started to say something to me, but I held up my hand. “Just relax, enjoy the ride, and we will talk when we get up to the cabin.”
After a short time, she lay her head back against the seat and fell asleep. Three hours and forty- five minutes later we were at my cabin on a lake in the middle of the woods. I own the lake. Actually, I own everything within about a five-mile radius of the cabin. The lake isn’t all that big, and the land isn’t worth much because it is inaccessible, but I own it and it provides a more than adequate insulation against the outside world. Besides, the people around here tend to stay out of each other’s business.
I took her upstairs and I let her get settled into her room. When she came back out, she had changed into sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. I offered her a drink and asked if she wanted to sit at the table or at the fireplace. She asked for white wine, and, not surprisingly, she chose the fireplace. There is something about a warm fire and a glass of wine that makes you feel safe and cozy.
She sipped her wine in silence for several minutes and then asked quietly, “Where should I begin?”
“I would start at wherever you think the beginning is,” I said.. “We have all the time that you need.”
She stared into the fire for a while as she was thinking, took a deep breath, and began. “I first knew that I was different at around age six or seven. I didn’t know what it was back then, but I knew that I was different.”
“We had a permanent kiddie pool about two feet deep right at the edge of our back patio. Dad called it ‘the goldfish pond,’ and always said that once we kids outgrew it, he was going to put Koi in it. It was brick on the outside and porcelain tiles on the inside. You could step right into it from the patio. In the summertime, all my little friends in the neighborhood liked to come over and splash around with me in the water. We could step over the wall and out onto the grass on the outside of it. Sometimes their moms would come over with them and we would all sit at the picnic tables in the yard and have lunch or snacks.”
“It was because of the picnic tables that I first realized how different I was. They were permanent circular metal tables supported by a large pillar in the middle. There were six little round metal seats around each of them that were also metal and were supported by pipe. The tables were painted white. The seats were painted a dark green.”
“The problem was that the dark green really got hot in the sun. Our moms would usually bring a cushion or towel over from the patio and set it down on the seat before sitting down. The other kids would usually bring some water over from the pool and pour it over the seat to cool it off. I would just sit down on the hot seat. I liked the way it really heated up my bottom. And as it heated my bottom it was like the heat flowed up toward my tummy and made me feel really good.”
“Some of my friends would ask, ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ and I would answer, ‘No, it feels good.’ One day one of the mothers expressed concern that I might actually have burned myself, and asked to see my bottom to see if it was overly red. I stood up and turned around to show her my bottom and one of my friends said, ‘You really can’t tell with your swimsuit on,’ so I lowered my little swimsuit to the ground and bent over to show them that my bottom wasn’t burned.”
“All of a sudden, the heat in my tummy got very warm and squishy. No, I wasn’t getting wet. I was too young for that, but I just felt ‘squishy’ inside. I stayed bent over until another of my friends said, ‘I think she likes showing us her bottom,’ and they all started laughing.”
“My mom was sitting at the other table and hadn’t really noticed what was going on until she heard the laughter. She shouted, ‘Missy,’ and I grabbed my suit and straightened up, pulling it up with my hands as I stood up.”
“‘What are you doing?” she shouted at me, and I answered, ‘I was just showing them that I hadn’t burned my bottom.'”
“She answered, ‘If I catch you taking your suit off outside again, I’ll burn your bottom.'”
“Suddenly I had the image in my mind of her sitting there at the table with me naked over her lap, spanking me in front of all my friends and their parents. It should have scared me, but instead, it made me even more warm and squishy inside. I really didn’t understand what was going on.”
“A week or so later, several of my friends and I were playing in the pool. It was a really hot day, so their mothers had just dropped them off. My mom was mostly staying inside where it was cool. She did, however, bring us out some snacks and some juice or something to drink. She set it up on one of the picnic tables and went back into the house. My friends and I got out of the water and ran over to the table. The first girl there touched one of the seats and yelled, ‘That’s WAY too hot,’ and ran back to get water from the pool. All my friends used various toys from the pool to cool down their seats before sitting down. I just stood watching them.”
“Chrissy, who was sort of the leader of us girls, looked over at me and said, ‘Missy likes to sit on hot seats. I bet she would like it even more if she sat on it naked.'”
“All the girls laughed, but Chrissy was right. The reason I was just standing there was that I was thinking what it would feel like if I took off my suit bottom and sat directly on the hot metal seat.”
“‘Dare you to sit on it naked,’ yelled Chrissy, and I took off my suit – not just the bottom, but the whole suit so I was truly naked. Then I walked over and hopped onto the seat.”
“It was hot – really hot, and as I squirmed on the hot metal, all my friends were laughing at me, but I didn’t care. The heat from the seat was pouring into me and my tummy was feeling warmer and more squishy than it ever had before.”
“Chrissy began to yell in a sing-song voice, ‘Missy likes a hot butt, Missy likes a hot butt…'”
“I just closed my eyes, gripped the table, and let the warmth flow into me.”
“Then my mom came running out of the house yelling, ‘Melissa Susan WHAT are you doing?!!'”
“She grabbed me and pulled me over to the side of the kiddie pool where she sat down, pulled me across her lap and began spanking me. I started crying and yelling something. Mom kept spanking for few minutes, but then suddenly stood up and dropped me to the ground. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was standing open.”
“She stood me up and held me by the shoulders. She was crying. ‘Oh, no,’ she said in a shuddering voice. ‘You are way too young. And you are even more-so than me.’ Then she ran back into the house.”
“I turned around and my friends were staring at me. Mary asked timidly, ‘Did you really mean it?'”
“‘Did I mean what?’ I asked.”
“Chrissy answered, ‘You were yelling for your mom to hit your harder and asking for more. Did you mean it? Do you really LIKE being spanked'”
“‘Of course not,’ I answered, but the truth is I did. I really, really, really liked being spanked – especially wet and naked in front of my friends. It made me warmer and squishier than anything else that had ever happened to me.”
“I yelled for everyone to get back into the pool and we did, but I didn’t put my suit back on. I was the only one naked, and every so often Chrissy would smack my bottom while we were playing. Whenever she did, she would look at me and smile and say, ‘Missy likes it.'”
“Eventually my mom yelled from the house, “It’s almost time to go, girls. Time to shower and change.’ So, we all went into the house and down to the basement where we had originally changed into our swimsuits. After we had all showered and changed into regular clothes, mom drove everyone home. On the way back, she said to me, ‘Missy, we need to talk.'”
“When we got home she had me come into the kitchen and sit on one of the hard wooden stools at the kitchen counter. ‘Missy,’ she began, ‘there are a couple of things that you need to know about yourself. You are different than most people. You are not better or worse than anyone else, you are just different. You react to pain differently.'”
“‘I know,’ I interrupted her. ‘Sitting on the hot seat naked made me all warm and squishy inside. And when you spanked me naked in front of my friends, I felt even warmer and squishier.'”
“She asked, ‘Was it the pain of the spanking or the fact that it was naked in front of your friends that you liked?”
“‘Both,’ I answered. ‘But being forced to be naked in front of Chrissy and the other girls made it even more so.'”
“‘That’s what I mean,’ mom said. ‘Most girls your age would not like being spanked, and they definitely would not like being spanked naked in front of their friends.'”
“In childish innocence, I asked, ‘Do you like being spanked naked in front of your friends, mommy?'”
“She turned very red and answered, ‘We are talking about YOU Missy. What adults do is one thing, but you are a child and you don’t understand that there are people out there who can hurt you very badly.'”
“‘What do you mean, mommy?’ I asked.”
“‘Honey, there are some people who get all warm and squishy hurting other people. And they might take advantage of you and hurt you very much. I don’t want you to get hurt, so I am asking you not to tell anyone else that you like getting spanked and don’t take off your clothes in public. OK?'”
“‘Will you still spank me if I am bad?’ I asked.
“‘No honey, I won’t. I don’t think that would be a good idea.'”
“‘But what if I am really bad,’ I whined.
“‘If you are really bad, I will let David do it in private. You won’t like that, but he will.’ She suddenly put her hand to her mouth and got very pale. ‘I really shouldn’t have said it that way,’ she stuttered. ‘Don’t ever tell David – or your father, that I said that.'”
“Mom never spanked me again. She did send me to David several times. He told me that he was supposed to spank me over my panties, but I took them off and said, ‘If you don’t tell Mom, I won’t.’ He didn’t.”
“Whenever David spanked me, I screamed and yelled like it was really hurting me. It did somewhat, but I at the same time I would get my warm and squishy feeling. It wasn’t as good as when Mom spanked me in front of my friends, but it was good enough for me to keep doing something really wrong every month or so just to have David have to spank me. I think he liked it, too, because sometimes I could feel him getting hard under me as he spanked me, and sometimes there was a big wet spot on his pants by the time we had finished. I really didn’t know what all that meant then, but even at 8 years old, I knew that if a boy was ‘turned on’ he got hard. David was getting ‘turned on’ so he must like spanking me.”
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Missy suddenly looked up at me and asked, “You got anything interesting to eat in this place?”
I guess that was a good a way as any of telling me that this conversation was over for the time being.
“Tell you what,” I answered. “I will get some steaks and onion rings out of the freezer and you decide what wine you want. The wine cellar is that thin closet by the basement door.”
It was well past ten by the time we had finished eating. After some innocuous chit-chat at the table, I suggested that we both get some sleep. “I will let you sleep in as late as you want in the morning,” I told her, “but after lunch, you are continuing your story. OK?”
Missy yawned and shook her head and said, “Yeah, I guess so. I’ll do the dishes in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about it. Right now you are a guest in my house. Go get some sleep. I will clean up the kitchen and come upstairs after I have locked up and set the alarms.”
“SSSuzy said you were paranoid,” she responded.
“Doesn’t mean that someone isn’t out to get you.” I answered as she headed up the stairs to her bedroom.
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END CHAPTER ONE OF FIVE
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