It was a chilly evening in the small Midwestern town in the 1950s. Marianne, a teen with rebellious streak, found herself in an unfortunate situation. Her school report card lay on the kitchen table, a damning testament of her lack of focus.

Her parents, stern but loving, believed in discipline. They had decided to punish her, not out of spite, but in an attempt to straighten her out. Their method of choice? A belt spanking.

The bedroom was eerily silent, except for the ominous sound of leather sliding through belt loops. Marianne lay face-down on her bed, pillows propping up her bottom, her face buried in the blanket.

Her heart pounded against her chest as she braced herself, her nightgown lifted and knickers lowered. She was scared, but she knew she had brought this on herself. She had to endure it.

Her father’s hand came down, and the belt whistled through the air before landing. The sting was immediate and intense. Marianne bit her lip, holding back a cry.

Each subsequent lash felt sharper than the one before. She clenched her fists, tears streaming down her face. Her bottom felt like it was on fire, the pain punctuated by a deep, throbbing ache.

Anger surged through her, but she tried to swallow it down. It wasn't fair, but she knew arguing wouldn't help. She just had to wait until it was over.

The spanking seemed to last an eternity, but eventually, it ended. Marianne was left in the corner, her bottom exposed and throbbing, her knickers still lowered.

She wasn't allowed to rub the sore skin, just stand there until her parents said she could leave. Her bottom was a deep red, with light bruising starting to form.