“It’s not faaaaair!” she yells as the slaps rain down on her bottom. He doesn’t listen, his hand coming down hard and making her cry out in pain once more. Her bottom, red even before he pulled her panties down, is throbbing with pain. Added to the pain is the humiliation of knowing that her pussy is on display, wet with desire, all but begging for his cock. And he won’t give it to her.
“Please!” she pleads once more. He ignores her, the slaps steady and merciless.
“It’s extremely fair,” he says between two hard slaps.
“But…” She bites her lips, stiffling a moan as his hand spreads and caresses her burning cheeks.
“What was the rule?” he asks, punctuating the question with a sharp slap.
“Ooww!”
“What was the rule?” he asks again, spanking her harder.
“Oww! No… Oww!! No porn during working hours…”
“And what were you doing?”
“I… Please…”
“What *SMACK!* were *SMACK!* you *SMACK!* doing?”
“I was… watching… naughty things, but…
“But?”
“Working from home is so boooooring! It’s not fair!”
“You know how you get…” he says, his hand lightly brushing her dripping pussy, sending shivers up your spine, “You get yourself crazy excited, and then you come and distract me… I have to work too…”
“Mmmmhm… Yes… Distracting, yes…” she says, moaning. She feels his hard cock against her belly and his fingers linger, caressing, probing her. She closes her eyes. He finally realises that ending over his lap was her plan all along. “You’re not even sorry, are you?” he says.
If enough people are interested, we’ll do events, giveaways and behind the scenes over there. Plus gaming, chatting, and general naughtiness, of course! Come and say hi!
Il passe sa main sous la couette et la pose innocemment sur ses fesses.
—T’es sûre?
—…
Il tape ses fesses légèrement, une fois, deux fois, trois fois…
—Juliiiie…
—Pfff…
—Dernière chance.
—Ah bah ça, pas le temps pour une petite siestounette mais t’as le temps de me fesser, quoi. Franchement, c’est n’importe qu-
Il tire la couette d’un geste sec et sa main s’abat sans retenue sur le derrière offert —petite nuisette, petite dentelle, ça ne laisse pas beaucoup de place à l’imagination. Elle gémit et essaye de se tourner sur le dos. Il la retient d’une main et lui flanque des claques plein les fesses de l’autre. Elle se plaint ; il n’écoute plus. Elle gigote et se tortille ; il la tient plus fermement. Elle lui dit que c’est pas juste ; il lui dit que, justement, il est la main vengeresse de la Justice. Elle ne trouve pas ça drôle ; il trouve ça hilarant.
Elle est réveillée. Ses fesses brûlent. C’est lundi. Une bonne semaine qui s’annonce, elle le sent… Surtout dans le bas du dos…
Well, I figured reaching 100 posts here and 300 deviation on my deviantArt account was cause for celebration; and what better way than a line-up of spanked behinds to do such a thing? 😀
It was when food started to mysteriously vanish from his cabin that Captain Flintsworth became suspicious. Knowing his crew, there was little chance they would be drawn to fruit when there was plenty of jerky and ale below deck. The HMS Exultant was a 3rd rate ship of the line, and boasted a crew of nearly six hundred sailors, none of which, he thought, would risk being caught in his cabin just for some taste of aging fruit. That, and the fact his prized bottles of fine whisky and rums had been left undisturbed left him unsettled. Yes, he thought to himself, the case of the vanishing fruit was most suspicious indeed.
In more busy days, he would probably have forgotten about it, or, more likely, wouldn’t have noticed in the first place. A ship this big was like a little village, and there was always something to do, orders to give, people to supervise, courses to plan. The 70 guns that adorned the Exultant weren’t for show, and he had pirates to hunt for the glory of Britannia.
Still, the seas were calm, and they were a long way yet from the pirates’ most frequented routes. Smooth sailing so far had meant that the Captain had had time on his hands. One evening, after noticing that, once more, somebody had been in his cabin in his absence, he decided to catch the thief in the act. Insubordination was better dealt with while they were in untroubled waters. Who knew what could happen later… The next morning, he put a new display of fresh fruit —well, as fresh as he could have them— in evidence, and, having given discreet orders not to be disturbed for the day, he lay in wait, hidden behind a carved panel that cleverly concealed a little nook in the side of the cabin.
The hours passed with monotonous boredom. He could hear his first mate yelling at the sailors, the rush of the waves against the ship, and the wind blowing in her sails. Still, the food lay undisturbed. Maybe, he thought, this was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe he had just been eating the fruit himself, distracted by one of his many tasks. Maybe he had caught some illness of the mind… No! he told himself. He was sound of body and mind, he knew he was. That nagging doubt, that gut feeling was enough for him. He had risen to captaincy by trusting his instincts, and they wouldn’t let him down this time either.
Noon came and went, and he wished he had taken food with him in his secreted alcove. Yet, he prided himself for his self-discipline, and didn’t relent. He would catch the thief, and he would see to his punishment personally.
Another hour went by, and another. Finally, as he was about to give up, eyeing the dark brown rum bottle on the side to drown his sorrow, there was movement. To his surprise, it didn’t come from the cabin’s door, but from the windowed gallery that lined the stern. Someone was getting in through the narrow windows. Someone small and remarkably nimble. Young, for sure, one of the ship boys.
The intruder looked around, suspiciously, and got to the table where the fruit awaited. Quickly, he pocketed an apple, grabbed another and took a huge bite out of it. The Captain, triumphant that his instincts had been right, but confused as to who that ship boy was, all but lept out of his hiding place and grabbed the boy’s wrist.
“Now I have you, little thief!”
The boy let out an anguished cry that seemed an octave too high and tried to escape. As he did so, the Captain’s suspicion got stronger, and he grabbed the thief’s oilskin jacket, pulling it off.
Underneath it was, clearly, not a ship boy. Wearing a leather corset and a puffed-sleeves shirt that used to be white over a pair of leather breeches, the thief was a young woman.
“Let me go!” she pleaded, terrified.
“Who in the heavens are you?” he asked, sternly.
“No one! Let me go!”
“No one, huh? I don’t think so. I think you’re a stowaway, young lass, and a thieving one at that.”
“I was hungry, I was!”
“Why are you on board? Answer me!”
“I…”
“Well?”
“I want to sail the seas! I want to fight ’em pirates!”
“You… What?”
“For England! For the Queen!”
“Yes, yes, Glory to Britannia and all. It doesn’t explain how you got on my ship, and how you think you’re going to defeat pirates if you’re a thief, no better than them!”
“I… I was just hungry!”
“You will adress me as Captain, understood?”
“Y-yes…”
“Yes Captain!”
“Yes Captain…” the girl said, hesitantly.
“Better. Sit.”
He forced her down on a chair.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Is-Isabelle, Sir, Captain, Sir.”
“Captain will do.”
“Yes, Captain, Sir.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Right… What am I going to do with you, Isabelle?”
“I… I don’t know Sir, I mean, Captain.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I can’t have a woman on board.”
“But…”
“It’s bad luck.”
“You don’t—”
“But more importantly,” in interrupted, “there are 600 men on board, who haven’t seen a woman since we set sail. How did you stay hidden for weeks?”
“I know my way ’round ships, Captain… My da is a shipbuilder, he is.”
“I see… Well that doesn’t help me, does it…”
“Maybe…”
“Yes?”
“Maybe I could… Be your servant? Keep your room—”
“Cabin.”
“…Your cabin in order and such things?”
“A maid?”
“I would serve you well, Captain, been a maid since I was 6, me.”
He eyed her up and down.
“Were did you find these breeches? And the oilskin?”
“Nicked them from my brothers…”
“And the corset?”
“… A wench at the tavern…”
He shook his head.
“The shirt was mine!” she said with a warm smile. “Ma would have tanned my hide if I’d lost it”
“She would have, would she?”
“Oh for sure, Captain. ‘Never too old for a spanking’, my Ma says.” She nodded, gravely.
“Well, I agree with that!” the Captain said with a dry smile. “Get up”
She obeyed and he took her place on the chair.
“I cannot in good conscience let you out of the cabin, it is far too dangerous out there for a young lass. Maybe keeping you as a servant could work…”
She nodded enthusiastically and opened her mouth to say something, but the Captain lifted a finger up.
“However!” he continued, “thievery is a crime, and crimes must be punished. Your Ma is a wise woman, she must have had the measure of you.”
“What… What do you mean, S-sir? Captain!”
“I mean I’ll be the one to tan your hide, Isabelle, and you better believe I won’t go easy on you!”
“Oh but… Ca-Captain…”
“Pull your breeches down,” he said, his voice commanding.
She blushed and looked at the windows, then at the door. Finally, she looked back at him, his arms crossed over his chest. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed.
“Y-yes, Captain…”
Her leather breeches pulled half-way down her thighs, she came to lay upon his lap, a thin piece of home-sewed undergarment barely covering her pearly white buttocks. He wasted no time asserting control and pulled them down to her thighs as well. She let out a pip of embarrassment but said nothing, fully aware that her fate was, quite literally, in his hands.
Immediately, his large, callous hands fell down on her rear, making her yelp and scream. She kicked her legs as more slaps rained down, accompanied by the Captain’s scolding. Theft, lies, deception, hiding herself aboard his ship, there were countless things to atone for. Her bottom jiggled and bounced under the slaps, and tears streamed down her blushing cheeks. Both the heavy slaps and her cries were covered by the waves, the sails and the creaking of the boat. Still, she expected the door to barge open at any point, letting in countless sailors to witness her humiliation and exposed intimacy.
The door stayed closed, mercifully, but the punishment only gained in intensity. Large, broad slaps were falling down on her burning ass, and she begged the Captain for mercy, for leniency, for respite. She promised him everything she could promess, she said again and again that she was sorry, that she would make it up to him. She wore it on her Ma, on her Dad and on the Throne of England. She cried, and moaned and begged again until, at last, he relented and let her catch her breath.
Getting her off his knees, he led her to the hitherto hidden alcove and had her stand in it, her hands over her head, her bruising, fire-red bottom on display for his enjoyment. Bad luck or not, he thought, she was there to stay. He found that he didn’t mind. He was sure Britannia would understand. Call it a gut-feeling.
Older or not, Madame’s hand didn’t seem to tire, and Belinda kept clenching and unclenching her buttocks, moaning in pain, begging for mercy.
*SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* it continued.
It had all started when Madame Clairmont had left that morning, leaving Belinda, her German maid, to do her usual cleaning of the house. As she did every morning, Belinda had opened the windows to let the fresh morning air in. Suddenly, a cat had jumped through the window, and proceeded to run straight for the kitchen. “Was zur Hölle!” exclaimed the young, surprised Belinda, and she ran after it. As she did so, her feather-duster hit Madame’s jewellery stand and the precious earrings and necklaces fell on the floor. As she paused to try and pick some off the floor, she heard a loud crash in the living room. She hurried herself there, only to find a vase in pieces on the floor. Oh Scheiße… she thought and went after the cat.
It had reached the kitchen, making straight for the work surface where food lay, ready to be prepared. The fresh fish seemed to be of particular interest to the kitty, and, having grabbed one, it jumped back towards the living room, passing between Belinda’s legs. She turned around only to see the cat dragging the wet, smelly fish all over the dense, expensive carpet. Ach du heilige Scheiße!
“Komm hierher!” she called the cat, who let the fish fall down on the carpet in a wet splosh to meow at her. Just as she thought she might catch the elusive intruder, it run away again, and in her hurry, Belinda slipped on the fish. She fell down and crashed into the coffee table, sending the ashtray that was on it to the ground. Of course, she hadn’t emptied it yet. Madame tended to smoke a few cigarettes in the morning, she knew. It was now all over the fishy carpet. Das kann doch nicht wahr sein!!!
The accursed Katze meowed again, as if mocking her, and she got up, her vengeful feather-duster held high. Finally, she managed to chase the cat out the window it had come in. As she caught her breath, trying to process what had just happened, she heard the unmistakable click of the front door opening. She closed her eyes. Surely, this was all a bad dream.
“OH MON DIEU!” she heard Madame Clairmont say, and then a loud “BELINDA!”
Before she could offer an explanation, stammering as she was in a mix of German and French, Madame had pulled her over her lap, pulled her skirt up and started raining hard slaps on her quivering bottom. The small thong that she was wearing didn’t afford her any protection, and she felt Madame’s anger in full. “Unacceptable, Belinda,” Madame Clairmont was saying in her thick French accent, “Totally unacceptable!”
And the slaps came, and came, and came again. Belinda was crying, begging, still trying to explain what had happened as her bottom turned from pink to red to dark, throbbing crimson. As more slaps came down, she could swear she heard a mocking meow in the background.
[No cats were harmed in the making of this blog. They all love to be spanked.] Exploring the psychology 'behind' spanking through fiction and poetry. Because, nothing says 'I love you' better than a red, sore, bare bottom. Comments welcome and discussion encouraged. I believe spanking between consenting adults leads to closer and more intimate relationships. Spanking is not a kink, not a fetish, not a lifestyle, but rather, a healthy and honest means of communication. Let your mind free and respect will follow. Contact me lurvspanking@gmail.com
