Mike's pov

I grab my mail and Shane's out of our mail cubbies as we enter the NJC. We've just come from Julie's and Stacey's basketball game. The girls are following behind us, rehashing the highlights of the game. We stop outside my room as I hand Shane his mail.

"What's this?" he asks, holding an envelope addressed to him stating citation enclosed and red light safety program in the upper left corner.

I laugh, "Oh you got a red light ticket, Shane. Tsk tsk. Those are pricey. Shame on you, Admiral Donovan, you should know better than to flout the traffic laws." I'm rather enjoying giving him a hard time, I so rarely get the opportunity since Shane's such a boy scout.

Shane rips open the envelope, looking rather embarrassed by my good-natured ribbing.

"This picture's so dark," he says, "You can't even see anything. How do I even know this is me or my car?"

"Relax," I say. I can tell Shane's getting upset. "There should be a url that we can type in on-line and it will pull up the video feed from the camera. Come on, I'll show you on my laptop, plus you can see your license plate right there." I point to it in the picture.

Julie's pov

Shane follows Mike into his room to investigate his ticket while Stacey and I head to our room to get showered and changed. We sit on our beds and start watching stupid YouTube videos. Neither one of us is motivated enough to get up, shower, or even change out of our uniform.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, Shane lightly raps on our already open door and walks in with the letter in hand.

"There are five things wrong with this red light ticket notice," he says waving it in the air. "Either of you ladies care to venture a guess at one?"

Stacey: "The Queen found out you were driving on the wrong side of the road and she's pissed?"

Me: "Now there's an official government document indicating you drive a Passat?"

Stacey: "People over thirty shouldn't be out after 10pm on weekends?"

Me: "You're having trouble converting the fine from U.S. dollars to British pounds, thus jeopardizing your dual citizenship?"

Stacey: "You're still bitter we threw your crappy tea in the harbor and you were hoping for a written apology?"

Me: "You consider any words not penned by Shakespeare to be an affront to the English language and an assault on your ears?"

Stacey: "You were sure you were a finalist in the Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes and couldn't hide your disappointment in knowing your lifelong dream of being presented with that gigantic check will never come to fruition?"

Julie: "You wanted to ..."

"Let me stop you right there," Shane says, cutting me off mid sentence.

Awww, we were on a roll. Stacey and I are smiling broadly, quite proud of our amateur stand-up comedy routine.

Shane continues, "First, I said five things and second, we'll see if you're still laughing when I'm through with the two of you."

The smiles quickly fade from our faces, instantly replaced with a sense of dread. Shane's eyes are dark and any previous hint of whimsy in his voice has been erased. His tone is now stern and foreboding to say the least.

"#1 On the date of this ticket, I was in London on business and I did not give anyone permission to drive my car that night."

Ohhhh, fuck me. Stacey and I exchange panicked looks, realizing what Shane and Mike saw when they pulled up that video: me behind the wheel and Stacey in the passenger seat. We are so dead.

"#2 The video shows my fourteen-year-old, unlicensed daughter behind the wheel, failing to come to a complete stop while making a right on red."

Shit! Shit! Shit! We are so busted. There is no possible frickin' way we can get out of this. He's got fucking photographic evidence, for chrissake. We can kiss our butts goodbye.

"#3 The ticket was issued at 1:17am, curfew was 10:30pm."

"#4 Thelma and Louise were grounded at the time and prohibited from leaving this building."

"And #5 I'm not paying this ticket, the two of you are. Even if I have to take it out of your hides."

Shane slowly unbuckles his belt then rips it through his pant loops, making that whooshing sound that momentarily stops my heart before it starts beating right out of my chest. My stomach drops and my legs feel like lead weights. As he snaps the belt in front of us, my eyes become wide. I swallow hard knowing what's coming. My face becomes flushed, my cheeks red with heat, my mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara desert.

Shane doubles the belt over, gripping it tightly in his fist.

"What? No smartass remarks, ladies? No snappy comebacks?"

Stacey and I sit silently, paralyzed by fear. We don't dare speak, afraid whatever we say will only make things worse. Make his eyes darker and colder. Make the veins in his neck and forehead bulge more and pulsate faster. Make his posture more rigid and foreboding. Make his tone of voice harsher, more unforgiving. Make him swing that belt harder.

Shane is standing with his right pointer finger over his closed lips, his thumb under his chin, his nostrils flaring. He's giving us the most icy stare we've seen to date. He exhales audibly through his nose, his lips still tightly closed.

"You have exactly two minutes to explain yourselves. I want to know why you broke the conditions of your grounding, why you broke curfew, why you stole my car, why you drove without a license and most importantly, why I shouldn't spank the living daylights out of the two of you with this belt."

Stacey and I jump as he slaps the belt into his left palm. He's so angry he's visibly shaking.

"START. TALKING. LADIES!" he shouts sternly, while slowly emphasizing each word.

I look at Stacey, hopeful she can find the words to diffuse this situation. My hopes are dashed as I see her eyes darting nervously around the room while she's wringing her hands and practically hyperventilating.

"We're sorry, Shane," I say in a voice so timid, I don't even recognize it as my own. I'd really like to keep my derriere intact as the bruises on my behind from Shane's Admiral's belt have only been healed for about a week now.

"No. No." Shane's looking at the floor, shaking his head from side to side. "You are yet to be sorry. You have no idea how sorry you will be when I'm through blistering your behinds with my belt." His voice is escalating in volume with each sentence.

"No, you do not get to erase this with an 'I'm sorry'. Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in right now? Do you have any idea how idiotic and dangerous your actions were that night? I WANT AN EXPLANATION AND I WANT IT NOW. WHERE DID YOU GO THAT NIGHT?"

During the whole grounded for vaping punishment, Stacey and I were going a little stir crazy and we just needed to blow off some steam. Tests, term papers, grueling basketball practices, and Lisa's pissy mood thanks to her nicotine withdrawal were stressors desperately requiring relief. With electronics being forbidden, we had lost our typical method of escapism. No mindless computer games, no asinine YouTube videos, no stupid memes, no Snapchat, no FaceTime, no reruns of Friends or Supernatural, and no music make Jack a dull boy. Yeah, my cousin and I were ready to blow up the boiler room. Luckily, we were invited to a party which seemed like a great way to regain our sanity.

"We went to a pool party at Bridget's house." I lied because there was no way in Hell I was going to tell him the party was at a guy's house, or that we each spent a lot of time making out with a guy that night, or that all the guys there were drinking beer. None of that information was germane to this conversation. I convinced myself the lie was for Shane's benefit. The truth would only serve to upset him more and that wouldn't be good for his health. "Her parents were out of town so she decided to have a party."

Shane hissed through clenched teeth, "Was there alcohol at this party?"

"We weren't drinking that night, Shane, I swear." Notice how I avoided answering the actual question so as not to lie, that time anyway. I just skipped ahead to a truthful statement. We really weren't drinking that night, only because all they had there was warm Bud light, gross I know.

"Stacey?" Shane cocked his eyebrow, asking her for confirmation.

"Honestly, Shane, we didn't have any alcohol that night," Stacey responded quickly.

I could tell Shane was trying to determine if we were telling the truth about drinking that night. He looked intently at Stacey for a tell but she was being honest so she didn't provide one. Good, he seemed satisfied with our answers.

He closed his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Bend over the bed, girls."

I'm sorry, what now? I don't know why I was surprised he said that. I guess I was caught up in celebrating our 'we weren't drinking' victory. I just can't seem to stay out of trouble for more than a few days at a time lately. Stacey didn't move either.

Shane opened his eyes and saw we hadn't moved.

"I believe I told you two to bend over the bed," he repeated coldly.

"But we weren't drinking, Shane." My cousin was as surprised as I was that we weren't getting out of this punishment.

"I believe you didn't drink that night and that's the only reason I'm belting you over your shorts. Understand?"

"No, I don't understand, Shane. We didn't even do anything wrong. We just went to a small pool party." Stacey's getting louder and becoming more belligerent with each word.

"Wow." Shane shook his head and chuckled in disbelief at my cousin's preposterous denial of any wrongdoings. "Stacey, if I truly believed you were that delusional, I would have you involuntarily committed to a mental health facility tonight." Shane crossed his arms over his chest and stared Stacey down.

"I'd probably have more freedom there," Stacey muttered quietly, avoiding Shane's cold look.

Having heard Stacey's snide remark, Shane responded, "You really don't want to test my patience right now. BOTH OF YOU BEND OVER THE BLOODY BED, NOW!"

That really left no room for interpretation so Stacey and I immediately bent over my bed, bracing ourselves. Anticipating the first stroke of the belt is always worse than the actual pain it causes. Somehow you always forget exactly how it's going to feel. I mean you know it hurts but your brain blocks it out of your memory as a sort of coping mechanism so each time it's like a super un-fun surprise.

Shane delivered the first stroke harshly to our behinds. It did not disappoint as I was indeed taken by surprise by the pain it elicited on my clenched cheeks.

The second stroke, however, is a whole different story. That motherfucker hurts like a son of a bitch.

FUCK, my ass was on fire already. I shifted my legs to try and alleviate some of the pain. These basketball shorts don't offer much protection from the sting of the belt. Each stroke cuts right through. I swear, somehow the material magnifies the burn, acting as some kind of pain conductor.

"Hold still, Julie!" he warns me. Shane proceeds to land a hard punishment stroke on my thighs. I continue to fidget uncomfortably. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes sir," I respond quickly, not wanting a repeat stroke on my thighs.

"I cannot put into words how disappointed I am in the choices you made that night."

Aww, now I feel bad, there's a sadness in his voice.

"So I guess I'll just let my belt do the talking for me."

Shit, now I feel really bad 'cause this is gonna hurt.

Shane rapidly delivers three expertly placed strokes to our bottoms.

"I mean honestly, girls. Stealing my car!"

Shane continues to drive the lesson home by spanking us with his belt multiple times as he recites each of our transgressions from that night. Fuck, that hurts. Right across the upper thigh.

"Driving without a license."

Shane has become quite adept at wielding that evil leather strap. When he focuses on punishing a specific spot, his accuracy is dead on. I hiss through clenched teeth as I struggle to stay in place.

"Breaking curfew."

Use your words. Please don't let your belt do the talking for you. Those two strokes definitely left marks. The tears are flowing freely now.

"Violating the terms of your grounding."

For the love of God, somebody get this man a dictionary.

Stacey reaches back and rubs her bottom.

"Please don't hit my thighs. Please," Stacey pleads, through tears.

Shane glares at her but decides not to give her a punishment stroke on the thighs for moving out of position.

"Last five, ladies. Count them out with sir."

Shane makes these last five the ones to remember. We're really hurting now but Stacey and I manage to count out the next four strokes as instructed. It's almost impossible to hold still. One more, just one more. I brace myself to accept the final stroke.

Shane reaches way back and puts a lot of muscle behind this last one.

"Five, sir."

We both go limp, crying into my comforter, clutching it tightly as we finally release the breath we've been unconsciously holding in anticipation of braving the harshest slap. I reach back and rub my bottom, desperately trying to alleviate some of the pain. The sting from that last stroke caused my right buttcheek to go numb.

Shane throws his belt down on my bed and pulls us into his open arms. The tears keep falling as we cling to him, needing the comfort his strong arms can provide.

After calming us down, he says, "Don't ever pull a stunt like that again." Shane releases us and swats our bottoms, causing us to wince from the pain. "I mean it!" he says sternly, pointing his finger in our faces before picking up his belt and leaving our room.