This time last year I was 24 years old and had just moved into my first apartment. It was an exciting stage of my life. I had just finished graduate school and accepted my dream job. I had known what my goals were since the start of high school and had focused all of my attention on achieving those goals.

My intense focus resulted in people misunderstanding me. People mistook my drive for being stuck-up. I’m actually a very friendly person, but I knew that if I spent time socializing and dating it would be easy to become distracted from my goals. I came from a poor family, so my only chance at the college education I wanted was to get an academic scholarship. Once I was in college, my only chance for a graduate degree was to get a research assistantship. Even with a graduate degree, I would still need to stand out to get a great job.

Standing out isn’t something that comes naturally to me. I stood out as a teenager because I was the last girl in school to start developing. Changing in gym class was the worst. All of the other girls had pubic hair and noticeable breasts. I was bald and didn’t even need a training bra. I didn’t exactly have to turn down a bunch of requests for dates in high school. My biology lab partner did ask me to senior prom. I was probably the only one in the school nerdier than he was. Our awkward attempt at kissing after prom was the only time I had kissed a guy.

College didn’t change being small. I’m 5’ tall if I really stretch and even when my breasts finally developed they never were much more than little bumps on my chest. I was still a nerdy looking who rarely wears makeup. Somehow makeup always makes me look like an even younger girls trying too hard to look older. College was different in one very important way, being a late-blooming geeky girl didn’t stop a steady stream of guys from hitting on me.

In hindsight, I wonder if my no-dating policy really was the best idea. It seemed like the more guys that I told no, the more intensely other guys hit on me. It was like I was a challenge that they couldn’t resist. But I was determined to focus on my studies and get my dream job. I didn’t date anyone throughout college and graduate school.

I was 24 years old and had never even french kissed a guy. But now I had my dream job and I rented a loft in an area that was undergoing gentrification. I would have preferred a loft just a few blocks south, where the area was already fully converted, but that wasn’t in my price range. Still, I was within walking distance of the best nightlife in town and was ready to start dating. My only rule was that i refused to date anyone from work. No chance I was going to let anyone assume that I was being promoted for anything other than my brains and hard work.

All of my plans went up in smoke less than 3 weeks after moving in. I was sitting on my balcony enjoying the crisp September evening. I had the lights off so that I wouldn’t attract bugs. My attention was drawn to an argument over drugs in the street below. I watched as 2 men efficiently shot and killed 4 other guys. It happened much faster than what you see in the movies. I was about to go inside for my cell phone to call 911 when I heard the 2 men on the radio reporting the shooting. They were police officers. I stayed on my balcony until a loud truck idled nearby. I hoped the truck would cover the sound of my door opening and closing. I didn’t turn on any lights or adjust any blinds. I didn’t want anything that could alert the police to what I had seen. I wasn’t sure I could trust anyone on the force. The next morning I called the FBI. By evening I was completing paperwork to enter witness protection.

The Marshal who came to the office to process my paperwork into the program looked familiar. When he introduced himself he mentioned that we went to college together.

“I thought that you looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place your face.”

“I didn’t figure that you would. I was in several classes with you, but wasn’t very successful at getting your attention.”

“It wasn’t personal, I was completely focused on my school work.”

“No worries. That was so long ago I barely remember it.”

I suspected he was lying. He sounded a little edgy about it.

“Right now the most important thing is keeping you safe. And the best way to be safe is to be hidden in a place that no one would look. I discussed it with my boss and we have the perfect plan. We are going to hide you as a teenager in foster care.”

“What?” I’m not sure whether I was more shocked or angry.

“Hear me out. We aren’t sure yet how widespread the corruption is within the police department. That will take the FBI a month or so to start figuring out. Hiding someone’s identity from criminals is hard. It is many times harder to hide it from police who are motivated to find someone. One of the best precautions I can take is to avoid any new government issued photo identifications. A teenage girl without photo identification is normal. An adult would draw immediate suspicion. It shouldn’t take more than a couple months.”

I calmed down when I heard his very logical explanation. “I’m sorry, I guess that makes a lot of sense.”

“I’m glad you understand, because some aspects of this aren’t going to be all that pleasant. I need to make you young enough that you wouldn’t have a driver’s license or even a learner’s permit. You are going to be pretending to be 14. To make that more realistic, you will undergo several cosmetic procedures. You will be getting braces. A doctor will inject you with a modified birth control implant that will give you highly irregular periods, simulating a late-blooming 14 year old. Do you wax your bikini area?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“A very necessary one. If you do, you might need to be extra careful if you let in grow in that no one notices how suddenly your amount of hair changes. Any little thing could be the trigger that raises someone’s suspicion or causes them to talk about you. The less people talk about you, the better.”

“I don’t do any regular grooming down there. Since I’m not dating anyone or going to the beach, it didn’t seem to matter that much.”

“That is actually perfect. We will arrange for you to have a custom laser hair removal. Instead of taking all of the hair, I am told that it can be carefully done to simply thin the hair. What grows back is supposed to be slower and finer than waxing or shaving, so the specialists tell me that it will resemble more of what would naturally happen for a young lady. There is one final thing, and this is also a little uncomfortable.”

“After discussing my pubic grooming habits?”

“Discussing your new bras. You will be custom fitted with bras that make you look smaller, more like a developing teen.”

“I’ve got news for you. It won’t take any special bras to make me look like that. It takes special bras to keep me from looking like that now.”

“Then let’s get started. By tomorrow you will be meeting your new foster family. To make sure that you are safe, the only 2 people in the world who will know that aren’t really a 14 year old girl will be me and my boss.”

I stood in front of a full length mirror at the hotel where I was hidden. I had already taken my shower for the morning, but wasn’t dressed yet. The laser treatment had removed more hair than I expected. I wasn’t completely bald, but there were only a few wisps of hair that didn’t do anything to hide my girl parts.

My breasts were the same size they have been for almost a decade, tiny. The braces certainly sold the look that I was young. I might have a hard time convincing people that I was 14, instead of being even younger. The Marshal was right, even though I was less than an hour away from the city, there was virtually no chance that anyone would think I was an adult with a real job.

On the drive to my new home I learned more about what to expect. I was already registered to attend a small, Christian school. The size of the school assured that they wouldn’t be taking any picture IDs. I would be living with a family that was filing adoption paperwork to make me a permanent member of their family. As a result, the school was registering me under the family’s last name. The couple was in their late 30’s and had two teenage boys.

We arrived at the house just as the family was preparing to eat supper. The Marshal carried my single suitcase to the door.

“Are you with the adoption agency?”

“Yes, I am. Allow me to introduce Sharon.”

They had kept the name change small so that it would be easier for me to recognize. Instead of Sherri, I was now Sharon.

“Sharon, why don’t you change into a dress and join us for dinner.”

“I don’t have any dresses.”

“Then head straight into the kitchen, I’ll be there in a minute.”

I could overhear the discussion about my adoption paperwork. They had described the process as a formality to me saying that I probably wouldn’t be here long enough that the paperwork would even get started. But the Marshal was telling my new Dad that the papers should all be signed by the judge in the next couple of days. That was my first clue that everything might not be exactly what it seemed.

You might have noticed that I never refer to the Marshal by name. I don’t believe that he ever told me and I was too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t remember him at all from school. That turned out to be a big problem later when I wanted to leave witness protection.

The Thompson’s insisted that I call them Mom and Dad beginning with our first interaction. That first interaction surprised me.

“Sharon, why did you choose to flaunt your disobedience of our house rules on arrival? Are you trying to test us?”

“No, I’m not testing anyone. I wasn’t aware of the house rules.”

“Please don’t start our relationship by lying to us. We provided the list of rules to the agency, and they assured us that you had reviewed them.”

I am beginning to suspect that I was set-up by the young man I had rejected in college.

“Sorry, the agency has so many forms to read and sign that I didn’t read everything as carefully as I should have. I wasn’t lying to you. I truly wasn’t aware of the house rules, but that appears to have been my fault.”

“Taking responsibility for your mistakes is always better than trying to blame others, so I will reduce your punishment. But you still deserve to be punished for breaking the rules. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes sir.”

I expected that I would have to go to bed early or maybe be grounded for a couple of days.

“Take off your jeans and bend over a chair for a spanking. Caleb, show your sister the right position.”

Caleb was my younger brother. Yes, both boys were much younger than me; but Caleb was a few months younger than Sharon. Caleb stood up, faced the seat of his chair, bent over and placed his forearms on the seat of the chair.

“You want me to undress in front of boys?”

“Quit stalling and get those jeans off or your brothers will be watching you get a bare bottom spanking.”

I recall getting a couple quick swats of the hand to my backside before I started school, but my parents hadn’t believed in spanking kids. The fear of the spanking was even greater than the humiliation of teenage boys seeing me in my underwear. I stepped out of my jeans quickly and bent over the chair.

“Don’t make a mess. Fold those jeans neatly.”

I quickly folded the jeans and placed them under the chair. I assumed my position again on the chair. It was one of the few times that I was glad to be as short as I am. I didn’t have to bend over that far to place my elbows on the seat.

“Have you ever been spanked with a belt before?”

“No sir I haven’t”

“This will not be pleasant. Do your best to stay in that position no matter how much it hurts. Since this is your first spanking with a belt, I won’t give you any extra swat for moving out of position. But you will get back into position quickly. Today’s punishment will only be 10 swats. Are you ready?”

I wanted to scream “hell no, I’ll never be ready for a spanking” but that didn’t seem prudent. So getting this over with as quickly as possible seemed like the best idea.

“Yes sir”

I heard the belt swish through the air followed by a loud crack. There was a delay between the sound and the pain. I had enough time to think “that wasn’t so bad” before the sting hit me. I stood up and grabbed my butt.

“Remember, try to stay in position. Get ready for the next swat.”

I bent over and grabbed the edges of the chair to hold my position.

I tolerated the next few swats and stayed bent over the chair. I had lost track of what number we were on, but with the next swat my knees buckled. My entire bottom felt like it was on fire. I was crying so hard my body was shaking.

“Get back into position, you only have three more swats to go.”

I forced myself to straighten my legs. I think that my new Dad may have gone a little easier on the final 3 swats. Or maybe my butt just hurt so much already that the additional swats weren’t that much worse.

“You are allowed to put your jeans back on, but I will warn you that jeans that tight will probably hurt to wear. Your alternative is to spend the evening wearing just your panties.”

My new Dad let me try on my jeans. He was right, they hurt like hell. Funny, the Marshal had suggested that really tight jeans would help me look younger. I can’t help but suspect that he knew exactly what would happen. I spent the evening around my new Dad and teenage step brothers wearing nothing below my waist except for my panties. It is true that my panties covered more than most swimsuits would, but they were also thinner. I still felt exposed the whole night. Fortunately, Dad wouldn’t have tolerated my brothers staring at me, unless they wanted the same thing I had just experienced. I only had to put up with occasional glances.

Mom checked with me for sizes and went shopping right after dinner. The clothes were much more plain than anything I would picked out for myself, but at least I could comply with the family rules. Speaking of which, Dad gave me a new copy of the rules to review before I went to bed. The rules shouldn’t have been that hard to follow. I could summarize them as: dress conservatively, do your chores, respect your parents, and stay out of trouble at school.

Fortunately my new parents weren’t completely overboard on what constituted acceptable female clothing. Some families require girls to wear skirts, even if they have pants or shorts on underneath because of the physical nature of the activity. My parents were far more realistic. If I was doing a sporting event, I could wear clothing appropriate for that sport. I just need to make sure that it was conservative. Likewise, work or leisure activities that were most appropriately performed in something other than a dress, didn’t require a dress. If the family was going bouldering, Mom and I wore jeans. Jeans were obviously more modest than trying to climb rocks in skirt.

I stayed out of trouble at school and at home for almost 2 weeks. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut when one of the ignorant teachers was completely wrong in how he was explaining a science concept. When I challenged him on the information, he accused me of being insubordinate and called me to the front of the room for a spanking.

The school was, I felt, rather lenient on how and when a student could be spanked. A teacher was allowed to pull up someone’s skirt or have them drop their pants as long as the student’s bottom was facing away from their classmates. I bent over his desk and he raised my skirt. His twenty swats with the wooden ruler were mostly on my thighs rather than my butt, so they hurt even more.

Getting spanked in front of my classmates should have warned me enough to keep my knowledge to myself. However, being wrongly spanked just raised my indignation even more. I spoke up again and was sent to the principal/pastor’s office.

“Apparently a ruler over your panties doesn’t get your attention. Take off everything except your bra and kneel on my desk.”

“Why can’t I just lift my skirt?”

“It is that exact attitude that is getting you into trouble. I’m going to amend your punishment, take off everything and kneel on my desk.”

That shut me up quick. I knew that I could expect the same punishment at home that I received at school. I wondered if that included taking off all of my clothes. Part of me hoped that it did. The first swat with the strap stopped my mind from wandering.

It didn’t seem like our principal spanked as hard as my Dad did. Or maybe that was just because it was my first time in his office. Either way, I was able to stay in position for all 15 swats with the strap. I was crying. My bottom ached. But I felt a small sense of victory that I had stayed completely still for the entire spanking.

“Stay in exactly that position until you are done crying and ready to go back to class. Then you can get dressed and return.”

This was the first I realized just what an exposed position I was in. The principal sat in his chair and his face was level with my privates. I didn’t dare turn my head to see if he was looking at me, but I felt like he was staring right at my cunt. It was the first time that any man had seen me completely naked. I wondered if he liked what he saw. I could feel myself getting damp between my legs, like when I rubbed myself against a pillow. I know, I was plenty old enough that I could have had a dildo before I came to Hicksville. But I never had. I think I was afraid that if I liked that too much, I might lose focus on my studies. I never bought a sex toy. I never even touched myself. But I did rub myself against my pillow and stuffed animals.