My Naughty Babysitter

My parents go out about once a week —their night they call it— and even though I’m a teenager and definitely old enough to take care of myself, they want someone to keep an eye on me and my younger sister, Judy. So once a week, Lucille comes to our house.

Lucille is a pretty cool babysitter, truth be told. She’s 19, not much older than I am (16), and she’s pretty cute. She lets me play games, and isn’t too strict with bedtimes and stuff for Judy. She even ordered pizza for us all one night! To be honest, I kinda look forward to her coming every week. I think about her, her hips, her small waist… She’s got a nice rack to, and a cute butt. As the weather gets warmer, she tends to be wearing shorts, skirts, hotpants… Yeah, I think about her a lot.

So last week, I was playing some game in my room when I thought I heard Lucille call. That was after Judy’s bedtime so I took my headphones off and called back. She didn’t answer but I could still hear her talking. Now, my parents are quite strict about her not having people over, or even being on the phone with her boyfriend, in case something happens to us. My parents are quite strict in general. So I got to the living room door and I could hear her more clearly. She was moaning, I peeked through the ajar door and saw that she was holding her phone up and caressing herself in front of it, playing with her boobs, making cute little faces. She passed a hand between her legs and let out another little moan. “Subscribe for more!” she said.

I opened the door suddenly and she jumped, crying “Oh my god!” and trying to put her phone away.

“Jack!” she said, “Hum… Are you okay?”

“I guess…” I said.

“Hum… Did you…”

“See that?”

“Yeah…”

“I guess I did…”

“I… It was nothing, don’t worry…” She looked embarrassed.

“It didn’t look like nothing…” I said.

“I…”

“It looked like you were filming some OnlyFans vids in my parent’s living-room?”

“Are… aren’t you a little young to know what that is?” she said, half-defiantly.

“Hum, no, I’m 16… Believe me, I know…”

“Okay, well… Don’t…”

“Tell my parents?”

“Please?”

“I think they’d like to know…”

“No! Please! They’d never call me again!”

“And they’d probably tell your parents…”

“No! Just… Don’t tell them, okay? It was just a stupid video…”

“You know what they’d do to you if they knew you were doing that in their home?”

“What?…”

“You’d definitely get a spanking…”

“A what?”

“You know… A spanking? Over the knees…”

“I… I don’t…”

“Just saying…”

“What are you saying exactly, Jack?”

“I’m saying, Lucille, that if you don’t want me to tell, then you have to let me give you a spanking!”

“What? No!”

“Fair enough,” I shrugged, and took my phone out, “I’ll call them right now…”

“No! Wait!”

I held the phone up, my finger next to the ‘call’ icon. “Your choice…”

“Fine! Fine! Don’t tell them… My parents would kill me…”

With a grin, I pulled out a chair from the table and sat on it. She looked at me, paralysed. I could see a lot of things going through her head.

“Well?” I said “I can still call them if you prefer…”

“No!” she said, and came towards me. I indicated my lap and, blushing, she came down over it. She was wearing a pair of tight denim shorts over her round ass, and I could feel her chest pressing against my thigh. She was hot, and having her at my mercy made it even hotter. I’m sure she could feel what effect she was already having on me, but she said nothing. I patted her bottom a few time, getting a good feel of her round cheeks, then slapped her hard in the middle of her ass.

“Oww!” she cried, “Okay, are you done?”

“Are you kidding?” I said, “That was one slap!” To demonstrate, I gave her another, and another, and another. She tensed and I grabbed her waist a little more firmly. I kept slapping her bottom, feeling the rough fabric under my hand. She started kicking her legs a little, and protested wordlessly.

“Jack, please…” she said after a few dozen slaps. “You… You’ve had your fun!…”

“Oh I don’t think so… If you don’t want me to tell, then your shorts are coming down!”

“What? But… But…”

“I need to check that your ass is properly red” I said with a grin, and continued to spank her.

“No… Oww!”

“Yes…”

“No, please…” she begged.

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

“…”

I stopped slapping and grabbed the waistband of her shorts, pulling them up tight against her crotch. “Unbutton these and come back down” I said, trying to sound as authoritarian as I could. It probably worked, because she didn’t protest anymore and gingerly pulled her shorts down, revealing a little skimpy white thong. We both blushed.

“I’m keeping that on,” she said, I nodded.

Not that it hid any of her gorgeous ass, to be fair, and it was already starting to get quite red. I held her back down and started spanking her again, harder this time, watching her cheeks bounce as she moaned and cried out. I spanked her down her thighs as well, making her yelp with pain. The more I spanked her round ass, the redder it became, until she really started crying and begging me to stop.

When I finally let her go, her ass was engraved in my memory forever. She rubbed it thoroughly in front of me, probably not even thinking about it, and pulled her shorts back up with a sniffle. She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“Your parents will be home soon,” she said.

“I’ll be in my room,” I said with a smile.

She nodded.

“Do you want me to subscribe to your OnlyFans, then?” I said with a wide grin.

She flipped me the bird, “Don’t push it, Jack!”

My parents never guessed what happened. In fact, Lucille is going to come back tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to it!

Naughty Teacher

As a Geography teacher newly appointed to the school, Jennifer had heard a few stories about the Principal’s firm hand. She had always thought that only applied to the students at the Academy, and she did value a clear, enforced behaviour policy. It just made the job easier. So when she was summoned to the Headmaster’s office, she thought nothing of it.

When she got in the office, he was sitting behind his large, oaken desk. Besides a monitor and keyboard, the desk was empty, save for a mean-looking, straight ratan cane. It was at that moment that she realised that she might be in trouble. She cleared her throat, uneasy.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, timidly.

“Close the door, miss Hill,” was all he said.

“Certainly… What is this about?” she asked again, doing as she had been told.

He pointed to his screen.

“I’ve had very… Interesting emails from parents,” he said.

“Emails, Sir?”

“Emails, pictures.”

“I don’t follow…”

The headmaster pivoted his screen around to show her exactly what he meant. On the screen was a single picture. She blushed and murmured a small oh my God as she covered her mouth in horror.

It was a picture of herself, in her classroom, bending over to pick a fallen pen off the ground. Not only was her skirt riding up, it was plain to see that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how unacceptable that is, miss Hill?”

“Oh, no, Sir, I… I never meant…”

“To expose yourself to a class of young, impressionable teenagers?”

“I… I am so sorry, I don’t know how that happened…”

“You don’t know how you came to work with no underwear on?”

“…”

“Well?” he snapped.

“It’s more comfortable, Sir…”

He shook his head.

“Well, as you can imagine, parents are less than impressed, and I have many calling for your immediate dismissal, at least.”

“Oh no! Please, sir! It was an accident! I… I would never…”

“As much as I would like to believe that, I think you know I can’t let this go without consequences.”

She looked down at the cane. She felt dread running down her spine.

“Consequences, sir…?”

“I’m sure you’re well aware of the kind of punishments that we apply at this school.”

“Yes, sir…”

“I think you can agree that we can’t have a lower standard for our teachers than we do for our students.”

“No sir but…”

“I would consider your objections carefully, miss Hill. You are on thin ice as it is.”

She looked down, her cheeks crimson with embarrassment. She said nothing.

“There, much better,” he said. “Now, miss Hill, are you wearing any today?”

“What, sir?”

“Underwear, miss Hill! Underwear!”

She bit her lip and looked away. He threw his arms up in despair.

“Well I would say that shows the absolute need for discipline! Get your skirt down, right this instant.”

“Sir… Please…”

“Would you rather I invited the board of Governors and some parents to attend?”

“No, no! Please!”

“Your skirt, young lady.”

“Y-yes, sir…”

She slowly, awkwardly pulled her skirt down and crossed her hands in front of her, exposed and ashamed.

He walked up to her.

“Since you like to expose yourself, I think we should go one step further.” He grabbed her shirt and ripped it open, exposing her large, round breasts. She whimpered, tears in her eyes.

“Go bend over the desk!” he barked, and she did so.

Her legs quivered as he took the cane and whipped it a few times through the air. The noise was already terrifying. She closed her eyes. He applied the cane to her behind and tapped her naked cheeks a few times.

Then she screamed.

And she screamed.

And she screamed again.

Without a thought for who could hear, the secretary, any waiting parent or teacher, she screamed.

She screamed and she cried heavy, ugly tears.

She screamed and she begged.

She screamed and she sobbed loudly.

She screamed and trembled, arching her back.

She screamed and kicked her feet, gritted her teeth, screwed her eyes shut.

She screamed and prayed for it to just end.

And it did. Ten strokes, that was all it had taken to reduce her to a trembling, begging, sniffling mess. The headmaster grabbed her arm and, without a word, lead her to the corner of his office.

“Arms behind your back,” he said matter-of-factly.

She did as he commanded. He adjusted her hands and rested the cane over her half-bent fingers. She was still quietly sobbing and said nothing.

“Now, miss Hill… Do you think my word that you have been properly disciplined will be enough for the parents, or will they need photographic evidence as well?”

Sequoias

As I was finishing this commision for a client, I was looking through a dictionary of the Monachi language, spoken by the Native American Mon people that live in the Southern Sierra Nevada (yes, that is quite random, but I love learning about other languages).

Here are some words you should know 😉

cete or pihqo are buttocks

the clitoris is a kwyky

a pretty girl is a syjatyhmy

tyni’ is a master

pata-kwini means naked

hawa means to scold


And here’s an alternate version of the picture ^^

Carabistouilles

«–Mais c’est pas juste!

–Comment ça, «pas juste» ? Tu m’as menti oui ou non?

–Ben oui…

–Dit-elle, comme une évidence…

–Rhoo ça va…

–Ben non, ça va pas !

–Mais c’était pas important, j’voulais pas que tu t’inquiètes…

–Ah bah ça va être de ma faute, en plus ?

–Ben techniquement…

–Je rêve… Et puis c’est même pas la question.

–Ah non ?

–Non, la question c’est une question de principe.

–Ça fait deux fois question.

–Quoi ?

–C’est pas très joli. Enfin moi je dis ça, j’dis rien. Tu disais ? Des vacances en Martinique ?

–De quoi ?

–Ben l’an prochain, les vacances ?

–Elle se croit fine…

–Quoi ? Tu insinues que j’ai pris du poids ? Franchement, tu ne manques pas de culot…

–Arrête.

–Quoi, c’est vrai…

–Stop. J’en ai marre de tes âneries, là. Tu m’as menti, et tu sais que j’ai horreur de ça.

–Oui mais…

–Pas de mais.

–Mais bêtise, paf, fessée, c’est trop simple. Je préfère te faire tourner en bourrique ; c’est bien plus drôle.

–T’as fini ?

–Pas vraiment mais je sens que je ferais mieux de me taire.

–Et ?

–D’aller chercher la brosse…

–Puis ?

–De venir sur tes genoux…

–Tu vois, simple, j’aime bien.

–Et si je te dis que la brosse est cassée ?

–Julie… Les mensonges, c’est non.

–Mais c’est qu’un tout p’tit mensonge…

–Et c’est la même punition…

-Tu vois, j’l’avais bien dit. C’est pas juste !»

Réflexions

Ce n’est pas la fessée qui fait mal.

C’est la froideur de ta voix.

C’est la tristesse dans ton regard.

C’est ton haussement d’épaules.

C’est le secouement de ta tête.

Ce sont tes bras qui ne consolent pas.

Ce sont tes baisers qui ne viennent pas.


Ce n’est pas la fessée qui fait mal.

C’est de t’avoir encore déçu.

Clumsy Tamika

Tamika turned around and reached for a box of products she was to put in the display window of the department store. As she did so, her round hips slammed into one of the shelves, sending it crashing down with a thunderous bang. Reaching to try and save any of it, she banged her elbow into the second display shelf, sending it down as well. All the intricate, delicately arranged displays, hours of effort, lay ruined on the floor. The other employees shook their heads and facepalmed. This wasn’t the first time she’d had an ‘accident’. The manager, Mr Jones, walked up to the bashful Tamika, who stood frozen in the middle of the mess she’d created.

“Enough is enough!” said Mr. Jones, his tone sharp and angry “Tamika, follow me to me office.”

“Oh, but Sir…”

“No ‘buts’, young lady, I’ve had quite enough of your excuses!”

The young girl looked down and twisted her fingers, looking for something to say, something to save her from what she knew was to come. The other employees had warned her: Mr Jones, as nice and fair a boss as he was, was pretty old-school when it came to discipline. They had told her he routinely spanked employees if they messed up. Surely, she had thought, they had been messing with her. Surely, it was just a prank to scare the newbie… Surely…

Hesitantly, she followed Mr Jones to his office, and closed the door that displayed a gold-lettered ‘Manager’ sign behind her. She was blushing, feeling scared and ashamed. Mr Jones had been very kind to her, patient despite her repeated mistakes. Now he seemed really cross. Even then, she couldn’t deny a certain attraction towards him. She’d always like authority; she liked to know her place in the world and being told what to do eased her anxiety. Still, her clumsiness had, once again, landed her in trouble.

Mr Jones pulled an object out of the top drawer of his desk and set it down on said desk with a wooden, heavy thud.

“Do you know what this is, Tamika?”

Her eyes widened.

“Hum… A… A paddle, Sir.”

“A paddle, exactly. Were you ever spanked before?”

“Sp-spanked, Sir? I… Hum… No, no, never…”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t need to draw you a picture…”

“But Sir, you’re not… I mean, you can’t—”

“Can’t I? As I see it, this is very simple, Tamika. Either you take responsibility for your actions and accept your punishment, or you can go find another job.”

“No Sir, please! I love this job! But please…. That… That would be so humiliating…”

He nodded. “Yes. And hopefully that’ll stick with you.”

“I…”

“I’m not going to say it again. The spanking or the door, your decision.”

She hesitated, thinking about her job, her colleagues, her future, weighing her mistakes against the utter humiliation of being spanked like a little misbehaving brat. Then again, she had been careless —again— and she was ashamed of herself. She looked up at him, his groomed beard and neat, pulled back dreadlocks a picture of fatherly authority. She felt… something in her stomach, a mix of fear and desire. She bit her lip and looked down.

“I don’t want to lose my job…” she finally said.

Mr Jones nodded. “Very well then, I think you’re making the right decision.” He pointed at her, “Take your shirt and skirt off,” he said.

“But Sir… Mr Jones, please…”

“No arguing, Tamika! You’re not the first I’ve had to bring here for a ‘talk’”

“Yes, Sir…” she mumbled softly, and slowly unbuttoned her shirt. Her skirt was next, and she stood in front of him in her unflattering underwear, her cheeks already burning with humiliation. She felt tears welling in her eyes when she looked at the paddle again. Her hands behind her back, she tugged at the band of her panties, pulling them up in the vain hope of covering her large, round buttocks a little more. The fabric tensed between her legs and she felt a shiver of pleasure running up her spine.

Sitting in his office chair, he beckoned her over, and she came, submissively, to lay across his lap. His hand held her at the waist, firm, warm. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. She deserved to be punished, she knew it. The first blow of the paddle came as she was about to say how sorry she was. Instead, she moaned loudly and kicked her legs. The paddle came down again, slapping across her round ass, setting it on fire. She gritted her teeth, trying to keep as quiet as she could. With each of the hard, heavy hits that followed, she felt the guilt leaving her, the pain washing it all way. The paddle fell again and again, and the more she hurt, the better she felt. Tears were rolling freely down her cheeks, and she sobbed with abandon, having never felt that relieved despite the shame, the humiliation, and the pain.

When her bottom felt like it couldn’t take any more of a beating, Mr Jones finally relented, and let her go. He directed her to the corner, where she stayed a long while, her hands over her head. Thoughts were racing through her head. She felt like the greatest weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She felt liberated. She knew now that there would be consequences for her mistakes. She didn’t have to internalise all the guilt anymore. She didn’t have to do it alone. She dared a glance back at Mr Jones, who was busy working at his desk. Her bottom was still burning hot. She loved it.

Jamais

Au début, ce n’était pas assez fort. Genre, c’est une fessée, pas une caressée, ah là là… Mais pas trop fort non plus, en tout cas pas tout de suite. C’est un cul, pas une enclume… Ensuite, c’était trop prévisible. Droite-gauche, droite gauche, on s’en lasse. Il faut être un peu joueur, taquin, okay ? Un coup par-ci, un coup par là, plus vite, moins fort… Et les cuisses de temps en temps… Mais pas trop, hein, ça fait mal. Après, il laissait la culotte trop longtemps. Si c’est pas une déculottée, ça ne compte pas. C’est comme ça, c’est la règle. Mais ensuite il la baissait trop tôt, du coup. Il faut laisser la pression monter un peu, mon p’tit monsieur, sinon c’est pas du jeu. Et c’est toujours sur les genoux ? C’est pas super confortable après un moment… Sur le lit, moui… Ou le canapé, peut-être ? Ah oui, penchée sur la chaise, j’aime bien. Contre le mur, hein… On peut essayer… Bon, la main, c’est bien, hein, mais on peut p’têt tenter autre chose ? Oh, elle est un peu lourde, la brosse, là, non ? Mmh, j’aime pas trop la spatule… Ah non, la canne ça laisse trop de marques… Le paddle ? Moui… C’est un peu cliché, non ? Faut s’habiller en petite écolière aussi ? Pervers, va. Oh bah non, le martinet c’est démodé. Dis, elle fait mal la cravache. Tu me fesses à la main ? Bah sur tes genoux ? Bah quoi ?

Les filles, elles sont jamais contentes.

Sportsmanship

Truth be told, Lola had always been a bit of a bitch, to her classmates, to her teammates, to her younger sibling, and to any student that she deemed not good enough for her. That included me, and pretty much everyone outside her very exclusive clique. As devious as she was smart, she had all the teachers convinced that she was a perfect little angel, never late, rude, or troublesome. The one person she had never managed to get in her pocket was the football coach, Mr. Makarov. Notoriously bad-tempered, he had threatened multiple times to get us  what we deserved if we weren’t playing fair or showed poor sportsmanship. Up until that day, no one had known what what we deserved meant.

That day, we were losing, badly. By half-time, the other team was leading three-nil, and Lola was losing her temper. She mouthed off one of the defence players on our team, berating her last play and mocking her for having messy hair, freckles, no friends and whatever else she could think of. The girl was on the verge of tears, which only made Lola more vicious. When Mr. Makarov came in the changing room, though, no one was brave enough to complain to him, knowing that Lola would make our lives hell once the game was over if we did.

The second half came, and Lola was still fuming. Come on, you bunch of losers, she muttered as we went back to the field.

“What was that?” Mr Makarov’s voice came from behind her.

“Nothing, sir,” Lola said with a perfectly innocent smile. She rolled her eyes as she ran away to take her place in the team. The match went on, and even though we were holding our own, we weren’t marking any goals. Time was ticking. More and more frustrated, she was getting aggressive, physical. When Carly lost the ball on a promising move, she started cursing at her, checking first that Mr Makarov was far on the other side. We said nothing. When the other team went on the attack, she pursued their star player and, with a little angry cry as her adversary was about to get away with the ball, she spitefully tackled her from behind, sending her tumbling down face first in the mud. Getting up with a satisfied smile, she even kicked the downed girl for good measure. Grinning, she went for the ball when she realised that the referee had been frantically blowing his whistle and running towards her. On his heels was Mr Makarov. He did not look impressed.

What followed was probably the greatest thing we saw all year. Mr Makarov, I kid you not, proceeded to take Lola over his knee, and give her the spanking of a lifetime! She was crying, sobbing, yelling, and we were all looking at her, us and the other team. He pulled her shorts down and carried on spanking her with his large, scary hands. The referee was taking care of the poor girl who’d faceplanted and seemed to be totally ignoring what was going on, but I could see he was grinning too. There was a murmured OoooOOOooh when Mr Makarov pulled Lola’s panties down, exposing her to everyone. By then, she was begging and begging for him to stop, threatening to tell everyone from her mum to the Prime Minister; I don’t think Mr Makarov cared, and she wouldn’t have found a single witness to back her up. Once we cropped him out, though, nothing stopped the pictures from making the rounds, and for the rest of the year, Lola got a taste of her own medicine as everyone, even her previous “friends” mocked or ignored her in equal measure.