The Shot Tower Ch. 01

My name is Marian. I am 18. I am on my knees and forearms ... naked ... my bottom up, my head down. A pimply nerd from my high school is about to shag me in my well-spanked, paddled, switched and very sore bottom. Oh, did I mention that we are outdoors and that a number of people from my town are watching? But I've got ahead of myself. Let me tell you the story of this town, so you'll understand why I'm in this position.

Who I Am

I was born and raised in London, England. I'm what people call a "classic English rose": I'm brunette with pale white skin and red lips. My proportions are about average, maybe a mite bigger in the chest than most. As I mentioned, I'm 18. A year ago I applied at my secondary school to spend my final year in school abroad in an exchange program. I was desperate to gain some independence from my parents, who still treated me like a little girl. I was accepted and assigned to the high school at Springdale, California. I had been hoping for someplace more sophisticated, like Paris or Berlin; but even a small town in America was better than spending another year under the same roof with my suffocating Mum and Dad.

So the first of last September I arrived in America. My host parents, Brian and Jane Forbes, picked me up at the San Jose airport and drove me to their home in Springdale. I fancied them immediately. They were in their mid-thirties, about 10 years younger than my parents, and they seemed so much more relaxed and free about everything. I discovered on that first drive that they even listened to some of the same pop stars that I fancied. They insisted that I call them by their first names. That took some getting used to. I'd never called an adult by his or her given name before; but it made me feel older and worldly, like I was an adult, too. I was looking forward to nine months with them.

The time has rushed by and I enjoyed it even more than I thought I would. By mid-May when graduation was not far off, I was sad to think that soon I'd be going back to England for university. I was going to miss Brian and Jane.

The only disappointing thing about my school year in America was the quality of my fellow students. Or rather I should say, lack of quality. I found them crude. I much preferred to spend time with my host parents and other adults. The Yanks my age seemed to know little about what was going on in the world and they knew even less of literature and the arts. I didn't respect them and I made no attempt to hide my disdain. They regarded me as an English snob, but I didn't care.

One twit in particular was the most horrid. He is called 'Lumpy' and I can't think of a more appropriate name. He is chubby and pimply and crude. On my first day at my American high school, he approached a flat-chested girl standing next to me and said "Hey, I got a joke that will knock your tits off. ... Oh, I see you already heard it!" He then strolled away laughing. I hated him instantly.

There was one exception to my general contempt for the Yank high schoolers: Bobby. His last name isn't important. He played one of those awful, violent American sports. I think it is the one where boys in thick padding slam into each other while one of them carries an oblong ball around, or maybe it's the one where the boys skate around on ice in baggy shorts and hit a little black thing with sticks, stopping frequently to clobber each other. But Bobby's athletics were not what interested me. He is tall and handsome, with a confident but gentle smile. Even his eyes seem to smile. His shoulders and chest are broad and strong. He was the only boy in the school who could turn me into a giggly schoolgirl, and there were many nights that school year when I had a wank in the bathtub while I indulged a lewd fantasy about Bobby ravishing me.

There's one more thing I have got to explain about Springdale before I can continue with the story: The Shot Tower.

The Shot Tower

A shot tower was where bullets were made in olden times. Until about a 150 years ago, bullets were just little round balls of lead called musket balls. They had to be pretty nearly perfectly round and it was hard to make them until somebody discovered that if you dropped a teaspoon of molten lead from a tall height, the drop of lead would be almost perfectly round by the time it reached the ground. That's when people began building shot towers. A shot tower is a brick or stone tower about 15 stories tall, but it doesn't really have any floors, except at the very top and bottom. There is a shaft down the middle of it and a big basin of cold water at the bottom the shaft. At the top of the tower there is a brick oven in which lead is melted. The workers would drop dollops of molten lead down the shaft. The falling lead becomes perfectly round by the time it plops into the water tank at the bottom. The water cools it and at the end of the day, the workers empty the tank and they've got several hundred near perfect musket balls.

But for my story, the important part of a shot tower isn't the shaft, it's the stairs. The workers needed a way to get to the top, so shot towers had stairways wound around the shaft along the inside of the walls of the tower. Some towers were round, so the stairway was a continuous spiral going all the way up to the top where there was a floor and the oven. But some shot towers were square, so the stairs had landings in every corner.

Most of the world's shot towers were torn down long ago, and Springdale has the last one still standing in California. It is a square one and it is the world's widest shot tower, each side being 30 feet long. But it is far from the tallest. In fact, it was never completed: the builder went bankrupt when the tower was only about eight stories high. This was 150 years ago. He couldn't pay his taxes, so the town of Springdale seized the tower, and the land around it. It became Springdale's Shot Tower Park. The city put a roof on the tower and built a safety parapet around the sides of the roof, so it looks a bit like a square castle. It has been open to the public ever since. Anyone can go in and climb to the top. There are windows along the stairway, but not on the outside walls where they would give a view of the park and the town. Instead, they are on the inside so you can look into the shaft, one window on each landing. There are 16 landings in all. Each flight of steps between the landings goes up half-a-story. The echo in the shaft is so loud that they say if you drop a penny from the highest window, just before the stairway opens onto the roof, you can hear it hit the bottom 95 feet below.

I know all this, by the way, because in the spring of my American year, my history teacher, Mr Ventor, required a 15 page paper about local history and I chose to write mine about the shot tower, so I had to do a lot of research, and, of course, I visited the shot tower several times and climbed its steps to the top. Apparently, I was the first student to write about it, because my host parents and librarians looked surprised when I told them that I was researching the shot tower. So did Mr Ventor and everyone else I told, or at least every other adult. In fact, some of them looked down right alarmed, as if I was some kind of English girl spy out to steal America's secret shot tower technology.

Complications

In early May, barely 6 weeks before graduation, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, when I heard my host parents, Jane and Brian, talking in the next room about some tradition or other, except they kept saying "the tradition" as if there was only one tradition in the world. I didn't really pay attention, until I heard them mentioning the shot tower in connection with this tradition. None of my research into the shot tower had revealed any special tradition.

When I heard one of them mention the shot tower again, I got up from the table, opened the door and said "What about the shot tower?"

Well, maybe I should have knocked first, because they both jumped like startled deer.

"Marian!" Jane said, "you scared the life out of me ... uh ... how long have you been standing there?"

"Yes ... um ..." Brian asked, "how much did you hear?" He seemed as nervous as Jane. You'd think they'd been planning a bank robbery from their guilty looks.

I explained that I had been doing my homework when I heard them mention the shot tower, and they both seemed to relax. But when I asked them to explain this tradition they were talking about and to tell me what it had to do with the shot tower, they became evasive.

"It's nothing, really, Marian, and it's too ... uh ... complicated to explain," Brian said.

"I can't forget it," I pointed out. "If there's a tradition connected with the shot tower, Mr Ventor, my history teacher, will know about it and I'll get a bad grade if my paper doesn't mention it."

They seemed at a loss for how to respond to this and they looked at each other quizzically as if each hoped to see the answer in the face of the other. Finally, Brian got an 'I've got it!" look on his face and he spoke.

"It's a picnic—Yes, that's it. The town has an annual picnic on the Saturday before Memorial Day in Shot Tower Park. So the picnic ... uh ... you see ... is a tradition!"

He said this in an oddly triumphant tone, as if he had only just now made the earth-shaking discovery that the town's annual picnic was a tradition.

"Why, yes," Jane added with a tone of wondrous surprise, "that's it exactly! The tradition is the picnic!"

I looked from one to the other and back again. They both beamed satisfaction at me, silly grins of relief on their faces. Two more obvious liars would be hard to find outside of a convention of swindlers and politicians.

"So, what are the complications?" I asked.

"Huh?" was Brian's brilliant response. They both started looking nervous again.

"You said the tradition was too complicated to explain. Those were your exact words, so I'm asking you now, what are the complications?"

"The complications!" Brian said, suddenly remembering his earlier evasion. "Yes ... Right ... The complications ... Well, the complications are ... Well ... actually Jane can tell you about the complications. Go ahead, Jane, tell Marian about the complications."

"What?!" Jane erupted, looking at him crossly, "You were the one who said there were complications!"

"Ok, you two," I said as I folded my arms. "I know you're hiding something. Enough of the nonsense please. What really is the tradition and what does it have to do with the shot tower?"

Jane signed in defeat and looked at Brian, saying "She's over 18, Brian, she's allowed to know. In fact, she's allowed to participate."

He gave a sigh that matched hers and said, "Ok, but, Marian, I'm not sure how you'll react: you see, Springdale does have an annual picnic on the Saturday before Memorial Day, but there is another ... uh ... very ... uh ... unusual tradition that takes place that evening. As your host father, I don't feel comfortable telling you about ... uh ... the tradition. Jane, can you explain it to her?"

"Wait," said Jane, "I've got a better idea. Let's send her to Pam. Pam can explain it better than we can anyway. After all, she was there when it started."

Brian looked like he'd got a reprieve from a death sentence. He readily agreed and gave me the address of a woman named Pam Sneed.

"Go talk to her, Marian. Tell her you're over 18 and ask her to tell you about ... well... how it all began."

The Beginning

Pam Sneed turned out to be a woman in her mid-thirties, like Brian and Jane, but single. When I explained the mission that had brought me to her door, she was initially reluctant to tell me about the tradition; but it turned out that when she had been my age she had travelled in England and that she had basically run away to see the world just as I had come to America. After a little chin-wagging she said that I reminded her of herself, and she agreed to fill me in about the tradition.

"Since you are over 18 now," she began, "you are eligible to know about the tradition and even to participate this year, if you want. I can tell you how it originated. It started 12 years ago at the annual community barbecue that is held on the Saturday of every Memorial Day weekend at the park surrounding the shot tower. Various members of the community volunteer each year for different tasks. One person is to get 50 bags of potato chips, another brings hundreds of lemons to make lemonade, still another brings hundreds of hamburger and hot dog buns, and so on. The money comes from the town treasury. Anyway, in that particular year ... uh ... a certain young woman, 24 years old, volunteered to arrange with the local grocery stores to have hundreds of hot dogs and 100 lbs. of hamburger meat delivered to the park the afternoon of the barbecue.

"Now ... uh ... this particular woman had been kind of a wild child. Her parents did not believe in disciplining children at all, so she had grown up without any self-discipline. She'd never had to pay a price for misbehavior and as a result she had a reputation for being irresponsible. Some people in the town were concerned when they heard she'd been given the assignment to get the meat to the barbecue, but they didn't say anything, perhaps out of a belief that she should have a chance to prove herself.

"Well, all she ended up proving is that she was still a self-absorbed brat. She strolled into the park about 3 pm that day, long after the meat was supposed to have arrived. When the other volunteers asked her where the meat was, she looked puzzled at first. Then she got one of those 'Ohhh, Yeahhh.' looks on her face, like people do when they suddenly remember something.

"She said 'I was supposed to arrange for the meat wasn't I? Oh, well, we'll just have to make do with beer and chips. No big deal.'

"With that, she strolled off toward the beer table.

"They were all furious with her. The children were complaining that they were hungry, so families started leaving. The picnic was ruined. Several of the younger men without families stayed to drink the beer and they got very drunk. When they saw ... uh ... this woman wander into the shot tower, they followed. They confronted her at the bottom of the stairs and began to chew her out for neglecting to get the meat.

"She just laughed and said 'If you guys are hungry for meat, why don't you chow down on each other's hot dogs?'

"That was the turning point. One of the men staggered forward and swatted her on the seat of her pants, telling her she ought to be spanked like any brat. She whirled around to face him and another man swatted her bottom from the other direction.

"Nervously, she tried to laugh it off: 'Ok, you guys, you got me. We're even now.'

"Then she tried to exit the tower, but the several men blocked her and she felt three more spanks land. Panicking, she reversed course and ran up the shot tower stairway. The men chased and caught her on the second landing. They bent her over the sill of the window that opened into the shaft and began to spank her hard. Her squeals echoed up and down the shaft. This struck the men as uproariously funny and they began to laugh and let her go.

"She ran up the stairs again, and behind her she could hear the men conversing in low voices. Running up steps is exhausting and she had to stop on the fifth landing to catch her breath. She made the mistake of not looking behind her as she sagged against the wall gasping. One of the men had taken off his shoes and silently run behind her. He grabbed her and held her until the other men arrived. They took off her shoes and socks and threw them through the window into the shaft. They landed on the bottom with a booming echo. They bent her over the window sill just as they had on the lower landing, but this time, before spanking her, one man undid the snap of her slacks and yanked them down. She gave out a little shriek of embarrassment but the men were not deterred. The slacks were pulled off one foot and then the other and tossed into the shaft. As they resumed spanking her pantied bottom, she began whimpering apologies and promising to buy them all the hot dogs and hamburgers they could want if only they'd let her go. The tearful apology resounded up and down the shaft.

"The men released her and she again ran up the stairs, this time looking back behind her to be sure she wasn't followed. On the eighth landing, farther up, she found two other men waiting. She recognized one of them as a local minister.

"'Oh, thank goodness!' she exclaimed, 'Please help me. Some men are stripping me and spanking me.' As she said this, she tried to hide her underwear by squatting a bit and pulling the hem of her top down in front to the top of her thighs.

"'Actually,' the minister replied, with a grin, 'we've heard what's been happening through the shaft and it sounds to me like you are getting what you deserve.'

"With that the minister and the man with him each grabbed one of her arms and pulled her over to the landing's window. They were about to bend her over the sill when the other men arrived.

"'Wait just a second, Reverend,' one of the men requested. Then he grabbed the hem of her top and at a nod from him, the minister and his friend let go of her arms so her top could be pulled up and off in one sudden motion. There were hoots from the men and calls to remove her bra. The minister's friend chuckled at this and obliged the small male crowd. Both garments were tossed into the shaft as the woman crossed her arms over her breasts. But her arms were quickly pinned to her side again and chorus of men murmured and whistled there approval at the sight of her bare breasts still heaving from her long run upstairs.

"She was bent over the window sill and spanked again. By this time her bum was getting pretty sore and her 'ouch's and cries of pain echoed in the shaft.

"'Please ... st- stop,' she stammered, 'I- I've learned my lesson. Ow! I'll never do it again.'

"'I am getting tired,' one of the men complained. Most of the others were breathing hard, too.

"Alright,' said the minister, 'I have an idea. We're near the top, let's end this when she reaches the top, but in exchange she'll have to walk up past each of us, like an old-fashioned gauntlet.'

"The men murmured their approval, so the minister made her the offer: 'If you cooperate in the rest of your punishment, it will end when you reach the top of the tower. Otherwise, this might go on all evening. There are plenty men still down there in the park who would be glad to take a turn swatting your naughty ass.'

"She realized that her least bad option was to take the deal and so she agreed. The men cheered at this and then went upstairs and spread themselves evenly along the stairs, while the minister and his friend stayed with her to make sure she didn't welch on the deal and try to run downstairs.

"When everyone was positioned, the minister ordered the woman to walk up the stairs to be spanked by each man she passed. She was not allowed to cover any part of herself with her hands. Sniffling, she nodded her assent to this and began to walk up the steps with her arms at her sides, her breasts jiggling a little with each step.

"The men were spaced about every third or fourth step and each one gave her a strong spank on her silk-pantied butt. After she passed, each man joined the group following her up. Other men, hearing the commotion had come up to, so now there was quite a crowd.

"When she reached the last of the men, she was still three landings from the top. The men passed her and again distributed themselves evenly on the stairs above her. There were so many of them that there was one almost every other step. Before she could continue, however, they made the shame-faced woman peel off her panties and toss them into the shaft to flutter down to the bottom. Also, for this last passage through the gauntlet, she was required to stop beside each man, bend forward to stick out her bottom, and ask politely for a spank. Then she had to thank the man for the spank and continue. "When, at last, she reached to the top, her face was as red as her bottom. But her shame was not quite finished yet. The men refused to let her go back down the staircase and fetch her clothes at the bottom of the shaft. Instead, she was required to climb down via the outside fire escape in full view of the remaining people in the park. Even when she reached the bottom, she was not allowed to dress, so she had to run home with just her hands to cover her nakedness. Each hungry person she passed laughed at the sight of her pink, well-spanked butt."