~FAILING IN REVERSE~ (spanking story)

Chapter 2: Blah Blah. Rules and such

~So.......look who decided to update this book! This blob did! I hope you like it :) I would love it if you'd like to take a guess what happens next ;)

FYI: longer chapter. About 4,500 words. This is a spanking story, so beware. Also beware, lots of uncensored swearing.

A thought bubbles just above the surface of your mind.

Your new guardians are insane, and you won't stand for this.

Then another thought. A convenient solution.

The very first chance you get, you're calling your caseworker Chase.

And better yet—

He is GOING TO let you out of this strange hell. Pronto. Kicking and screaming, if need be. Because this has gotta be some sort of law violation. Just gotta be. And you hope the slapping left a red mark, for proof.

First, you freak the hell out. Obscenities galore. Panic. Feverish pacing and pulling of hair. "What the ever loving fuck was that, man? Seriously? What do I look like to you? A toddler? For Christ–"

FOOMP.

Another thwack. A heavy one right on your crack. Splits you in two and makes you wheeze a little. This is gonna get so old. Very. Quick.

"Ow-how-how, dude," you whine, rubbing your blistered ass. You've never had one of these before, except for today. Today, you've had four. Was it four? Something like that. But four too many. You won't admit it, but really, your ego is more blistered than your ass. And you still can't quite believe this is happening. It's outrageous. Uncalled for, royally.

Heck, you wanna give the man an earful and punch him straight on the lip. But his eyes. His brows. Those creviced lines like the grand canyon and that one crooked, popping vein in the middle of his forehead all tell you to just shut the fuck up. And you do just that, while you cover your backside with the wall.

You don't realize it, but you are breathing super heavy, until your shirt is grabbed by that lunatic of a man. That rapid last breath hitches, at least for a few seconds.

"You," He spits, "Y/N, are going to sit with your hands on your head facing the wall until me and your mother are finished getting all your stuff arranged on the coffee table. And I don't want to hear a single peep out of you. Now are you going to listen, or will I need to repeat my warning gesture?"

Warning gesture? That was a warning?

If that was a warning tap, you wonder what the real deal is like. And you hope you never have to find out. If you were honest with yourself, you'd know that pain is your kryptonite. Makes your toughness melt away, leaving you exposed and infantile. Stiff and small. You hate that more than anything else—to be seen as weak. Weakness is how you get knocked around.

You forget to answer because his comment about touching your stuff peaks your interest. Why are they touching your stuff? And why are they laying it out and poking through it?

Damn. You forgot you left some—your secret stash—in with your things. Awe well, you think, too late now. You surrender the thought to whatever fate these "parents" give you. You have no choice.

A stabbing pressure appears on your chest. His jabbing, accusing finger challenging your patience. "Hey, buddy, I asked you a question, and I expect a respectful answer, and it wouldn't hurt to tack on a 'sir' at the end."

Oh, that's right. You forgot he wanted you to answer. What was the question again? "I-I guess I sort of forgot the question, sorry." You don't really feel sorry. It's more out of survival and saving your ass. Literally.