Musings & fessées
Sometimes, even in this day and age, you sit down and just put a random channel on. And wouldn’t you know, ITV2 was showing A New Hope. I’m always up for some Star Wars, and I hadn’t seen it in ages, so why not! And Stormtrooper do look awesome. So…
Just a bit of fun ^^
I know, I know, creation should be its own reward —and it certainly can be! If I’m perfectly honest, all that I draw and write is for my own enjoyment first, and there are many things that I have made that will never be shared. Believe me, it’s for the best.
As an aside, I am fascinated by people who will share every little doodle that they make, half-baked first drafts, bad ideas and failed attempts. I don’t think there is anything wrong with that, and I admire the courage, but I could never do it. looking back on old drawings or re-reading through some stories is painful as it is!
But! As self-serving as I am in my creations, I am very glad that other people get to appreciate them, engage with them, and find their own meaning in them. Or just jerk off to them. Or a mix of all of that! I am glad for every view, every comment, every share, and like, and criticism, follow, email, and compliment, and so many little interactions that I have had with so many of you over the years.
So thank you, thank you, thank you, dear reader, because even if I create things for myself first, I wouldn’t have kept going if it weren’t for you.
Much love,
–Kalidwen
“Why do you have to be such a BITCH?!”
The last word seems to hang in the still air for a moment, echoing in the tastefully decorated living-room. Freya puts her hand to her mouth, blushing, realising what she has just said.
“I, I’m sorry, I didn’t m-mean…,” she stutters, but there is no taking the words back. Well, the word, singular.
Her mother was already telling her off for the messy room, the overdue paper for Uni, the laundry piling up in her room. Now she looks at her daughter with a mixture of fury and hurt on her face. Freya feels a knot in her stomach.
She hadn’t really meant it, of course. She is just stressed, tired… and her mum is right. She is always right, it seems, the perfect mother, perfect housewife, perfect woman, perfect, perfect, perfect. How do you measure up to that? But as frustrating as she can be, her mother always means well.
And now… Well now what? Neither of them has said another word, and the longer it goes, the longer Freya is aware of the awkward silence, the burning fire in her cheeks, the tears already welling in her eyes.
“Mum…?,” she says, hesitantly.
Her mother raises a single digit, her index finger, as if to tell her to wait.
“Stay here, I’ll be back,” her mother finally says, and her voice cracks a little, just like Freya’s heart.
What has she done?
Her mother turns around and walks out into the corridor, her heels clacking on the hardwood floors. Freya chews her bottom lip, as she often does when she is stressed.
She sits down on the back of the white, velvet sofa, her arms crossed, her head bowed, feeling cold despite how warm the house is. Should she go after her? She doesn’t like knowing that she hurt her mum. But she was told to wait. Wait for what? They argue sometimes, but it’s never about important things, and she has never snapped like this. She doesn’t recognise herself, really. Swearing is not a habit of hers, and certainly not when she is at home. More lip chewing. Is her mum okay? Should she go and check?
She hears the click-clack of her mum’s heels coming back, and exhales the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
“Mum? I’m sorry…,” she says as her mother walks back into the room. Then she looks down. Her mum is holding what looks to be a hairbrush at first glance except, strangely, it has no bristles. Just a small, flat piece of wood on both sides, with a curvy edge. Freya looks back up at her mum.
“Mum?…,” she asks again, and her voice trembles a little.
“It took me a while to find this,” her mother says, holding the strange wooden object up.
“What is it…?” Freya asks.
“This, young lady, is a paddle,” he mum says, “Your dad got it for me years ago. I think this issue we’re having is about discipline, and that’s what paddles are for…”
Freya blushes, “Mum? What are you even saying?!”
“I’m saying that sometimes, things start to slide: standards, attitude, behaviour…” Her mother says, “and unless it is firmly addressed and corrected, it only gets worse. Believe me, I know…”
“But the… Paddle…”, Freya hesitates, “do you mean…
Her mum looks at her more sharply. “What I mean, Freya May Davies, is that you are going to get a proper spanking.”
Again, one word, a heavy silence, as if the universe is taking a breath.
“B-but…” Freya stammers, getting up from the back of the sofa and reflexively putting a hand to her backside. She has never been spanked before, and at twenty years of age, she is much too old for that anyway! And why would her dad buy a paddle in the first place?!
“But nothing, Freya,” her mother snaps, “You are behaving like a little brat, being lazy with your chores, letting your work slide, and, most of all, I will not be talked to like that, especially not under my own roof.”
“No, wait, mum! I’m sorry! You know I didn’t mean it…” Freya says, a few tears already rolling down her face, “Y-you’ve made your point…”
Her mother crosses her arms, paddle still firmly in hand.
“You are going to come over my lap,” she says, calmly, “And you are going to be spanked until I am certain that your behaviour will improve.”
Freya is frozen, speechless. She can’t even think. Surely, this is not happening. A spanking? No, not a chance.
She barely notices her mother taking her hand and leading her to the front of the sofa, where she stands, dumbstruck, as her mum sits down and flattens her tailored skirt.
The paddle now lays on the arm of the sofa, she notices absently. Her mum is talking to her. What is she saying? The rush of blood in her ears, the cacophony of thoughts and panic in her head, that’s all she hears.
“What?” she asks, softly.
Her mother sighs, “Your jeans,” she repeats, “take them down.”
“Mum, I—” she starts, but her mother raises a finger again, silencing her; then she flicks it down towards the grey pair of jeans that feel like the only armour that Freya has right now, her last line of defence.
“Down,” her mother says, and even though it is not said unkindly, there is no arguing with her tone.
And so Freya reaches for the buttons of her tight, high-waisted jeans. Reality comes crashing down. This is happening, she is going to get a spanking. A spanking! This is like that saucy novel she read once, only in that case the woman was enjoying it very much. Freya doesn’t think she is going to enjoy it at all.
Soon enough, she has placed herself over her mum’s lap, her jeans down to mid-thigh, thin, light blue underwear the only thing protecting her dignity. She is glad nobody else is in the house. Would it even make a difference? Could she feel any more humiliated? Would she—
The thought is interrupted by the bite of her mother’s hand slapping her bottom. It’s a sharp, vicious pain that jolts through her like an electric shock, and instantly more tears come streaming down her face.
She cries out, more in surprise than in pain, more out of shame than hurt. Another slap, another shock, and another, and another. The pain mounts, so does the humiliation. Her mum keeps raining palmfuls of shame over Freya bouncing bottom as the girl squirms and frets.
“I. Will. Not,” her mother says, slaps punctuating each word, “Allow. You. To. Let. Yourself. Down.” She pauses, her hand high in the air. “Understood?” she asks, and the palm falls down once more, striking Freya’s sit-spot like a fiery hammer before she can offer an answer.
“Understood!” Freya cries out, tensing, clenching, reaching out to cover her painful rear. “Mum, please!”
But her mother moves her hand away, and reaches for the paddle.
“Pleased, please, please, Mum!” Freya begs. “Please don’t do this.”
Her mother ignores her, and instead pulls her knickers down on one side, then the other in turn.
“Mum! Not on the bare! Mum!” Freya tries, kicking her legs. A swift and merciless swing of the mean little paddle puts an end to the squirming. The panties come down fully. Freya doesn’t see it, but her bottom is a bright pink already. She can certainly feel the heat radiating from it. She thinks about protesting some more, but the sting of that last slap makes her forget that idea.
“It’s important that we go through with it, darling,” her mum says in the most matter-of-fact tone. “It is the only way it will stick.” A pause, then more quietly “Believe me.”
Then Freya wonders. Was her mum not always this… Perfect? Has she been punished before? Was her behaviour corrected, as she put it? She thinks about the paddle, about her dad buying it… She shivers. She doesn’t want to know. And yet she does. Her mother? Spanked? Did she find herself over a lap, just like Freya is now? Her bottom exposed, her cheeks on fire, begging for it to stop?
The paddle dances its evil jig on her behind, and with each stroke it leaves a mark, on Freya’s sore flesh and in her very core. She has never known pain like that. She has never felt more sorry. She pleads, apologises, cries, cries, and cries. Her bottom is crimson, it is burning, it is throbbing, and the heat fills her whole.
Suddenly, she realises the smacks are not coming anymore. The silence shyly comes back to the room after the concerto of slaps, smacks and tears. Freya still sobs, but quietly now, mumbling little apologies. After a while, her mother sits her up over her lap, and Freya winces as her sore bottom presses against her mum’s legs.
She feels the warmth of arms surrounding her, and she buries her face in her mother’s embrace. She stays there a long time, her bottom still aching, but slowly going from searing pain to a more comforting warmth. She sighs, and feels her shame, stress, worries weigh less on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, mum” she says again, and her mother keeps stroking her hair gently.
“It’s all over now, darling,” her mother whispers, “I’ll go an get some lotion, that’ll help sooth the pain.” A pause, then she adds, “Believe me.”
Well, I’m slowly dragging myself out of the pits of despondency I’ve been trudging through for the past few months/year, so here’s a little something to get things going. To new beginnings?
The reason for this doodle, besides getting my atrophied drawing muscles back to the proverbial art gym (if you’ll excuse the tortured metaphor), was that you can now find me on Bluesky for (hopefully) more lil’ updates, in between publishing new lil’ stories here and getting back on Discord and whatnot. Given the cesspool that Twitter has become (and I’m not an American, but the politics of its owner are not necessarily helping either), it was the right time to move on. That change, even if it’s a small one, really was the nudge that I needed to get things rolling again.
For the past few months, I’ve been paralysed by the number of things that I want to do. Any time spent on one thing means that another isn’t happening, and faced with too many things, I ended up doing nothing. There is an irony in that, and I’m sure that the Germans have a word for it. Some might also call it laziness, and I’m not sure I could confidently say they are wrong. I know I retire into myself when things become too much, and it can be addictive to do nothing, because if I do nothing, then nothing can go wrong. Or can it? There is a lot that’s been on hold for far too long, and the more I wait for the right time to start again, the less likely it is that there will be a right time.
So, no time like the present! It’s unfortunately true that if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing poorly (i.e. rather than not doing the thing at all). Now is not yet the time for New Resolutions™, but in the spirit of Christmas (if you celebrate) and the holidays (if you have any), let’s have a bit of cheer and lift our spirits up with some art, some naughtiness, and some saucy writing.
Of course, spanked bottoms are always the best way to do it, so let’s drink to that! (alcohol-free beverages are available)
Should I promise more regular updates? Haha, no.
Will there be some, though? Yes.
Promise? I said no.
Why not? …
Ah, darn it, you’re right. I promise some updates this month.
And next year? Let’s not get carried away, shall we?
Pour quelqu’un qui sait bien ce qu’elle mérite
«Ah non, tu ne peux pas me punir aujourd’hui…
—Ah bon ?
—C’est mon anniversaire !
—Oui, et?
—Je fais c’que j’veux aujourd’hui !
—Non.
—Comment ça, non?
—Anniversaire ou pas anniversaire, les règles s’appliquent, Julie…
—Pfff… Les règles, j’t’en fou–ficherai, moi, des règles…
—… T’es belle quand t’es ronchon…
—C’est pas vrai…
—Si, si ; t’es belle quand tu boudes…
—J’boude pas, d’abord !
—Comment ça se fait que tu sois si belle, alors ?
—Pff… Tu veux dire que je suis belle que quand je boude?!
—Euh, non, c’est pas ce que—
—T’es vraiment gonflé, Thomas… Me dire que je suis moche, le jour de mon anniversaire !
—Mais non, je…
—Ah bah désolée d’être une souillon, hein, et de te dégouter… Le goût de mes lèvres doit être une torture à chaque fois que tu m’embrasses…
—…
—Un peu trop dramatique ?
—Un peu, oui, Julie…
—C’est l’émotion… Je suis une princesse très sensible, moi…
—Émotions ou pas, ça fait cinq minutes que tu devrais être sur mes genoux, la belle au bois grognant…
—Mais…
—Tu veux me faire croire que t’en rêves pas depuis ce matin ?
—Bah si, mais c’est plus drôle si je mérite, non ? Idiot, va…»
Et donc, juste avant que la main vengeresse ne s’abatte, elle a le sourire jusqu’aux oreilles. C’est son anniversaire, et elle a eu exactement ce qu’elle voulait.
… is better shared!
When Tiffany walked into the living room, her stepmother was sat on the sofa, her back straight, hands slightly curled over her knees. Her head was bent down, her eyes gazing at the deep-pile light grey carpet. She was frowning. Tiffany could also see her stepmum’s cheeks blushing, but the older woman didn’t make a sound or acknowledge her stepdaughter coming in. Tiffany remembered being in that exact position numerous times when her stepmum had told her to “wait for her in the lounge”. There had been no need to say what she would be waiting for. Instinctively, she put her hand to her rear and rubbed it softly before remembering herself. Her stepmother still didn’t say a word. Tiffany crossed her arms.
“Well?” she said, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Her stepmother, Kelly, pursed her lips, clearly wanting to make a comment, but knowing she would come to regret it if she did.
“You don’t want to explain yourself, Kelly?”
Still nothing.
“I remember you were quite fond of making me tell you why I was getting punished…”
“It was always for a good reason…” her stepmother muttered.
“Oh, I’m sure …” Tiffany said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure you had a very good reason to spank me in front of all my friends that one time!”
“You…” Kelly started, then went quiet. There was no need to rehash an old argument. Besides, who has sleepovers at their mum and dad’s at twenty years of age? With alcohol, loud music, and all… And that was years in the past now.
“Anyway…” Tiffany said, “You know why you’re here, but I think I’d like to hear it from you…”
“I’m here because I don’t have a choice…” Kelly said, dryly.
“That’s one way of putting it…” Tiffany snapped. “You know, I can still wait for Dad to be home, if you’d rather?”
Kelly stiffened. “No…” she said in a small voice. She turned her head away slightly.
“Look at me,” Tiffany said. Kelly didn’t move.
“Look at me!” Tiffany repeated, in sterner voice. Her stepmother reluctantly did as she was told. Her eyes were glistening. Was it fear? Was it anger? Either way, Tiffany liked it. Truth be told, she had liked Kelly, loved her even, despite the numerous tanning her backside had received over the years. Her stepmum had raised her and her little sister like her own. She had loved them; she had given them all that she could without conditions. Couldn’t deny that. And, more importantly, she had made her old man happy for years and years, and that was what mattered. That was the only reason they were having this little tête-à-tête rather than a whole-family discussion.
“Now tell me why we’re here,” Tiffany ordered, “And don’t you dare look away.”
“I…” Kelly started, her cheeks blushing ever more, and tears welling up in her green eyes. Tiffany glared.
“I’m here because…” Kelly continued, “because I…”
“Yes?” Tiffany said, losing patience.
“B-because I… I was… Stupid…”
“You can say that again,” Tiffany said, rolling her eyes.
“I never meant to hurt John!” Kelly pleaded. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“If that were true you wouldn’t have cheated on him, would you?!” Tiffany said furiously.
“He… He doesn’t know…”
“No, he doesn’t, yet” Tiffany said coldly, “And if you do exactly as you’re told, he will never know. But if you do anything else to hurt my dad in any way…”
“I won’t!” Kelly cried, “I love your dad, you know that…”
“Oh please… How could I believe that right now?” said Tiffany with a huff.
“I… It was a mistake!” her stepmother sobbed, “I want to make things better, I do, Tiffany… That’s… That’s why I’m here…” she continued.
“So, you know what’s going to happen, yes?” the younger girl asked.
“Y-yes…” Kelly said, hesitantly, brushing a tear away.
“Tell me, then?” Tiffany said with a hint of glee in her voice.
“You… You are going to s-spank me…” Kelly answered, softly, as though she couldn’t admit it to herself yet.
“On the bare…” her stepdaughter grinned.
“Yes…” Kelly said.
“Yes ma’am” Tiffany corrected her.
“Y-yes ma’am…” Kelly said, biting her lip.
“Right…” Tiffany nodded.
“But your father must never know!” Kelly begged, then added, “Ma’am…?”
Tiffany didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, she sat down on the sofa beside her stepmother and nodded. “You know how it goes, right? Even though it was usually the other way around…”
Kelly said nothing, and with a little sigh and an almost inaudible moan, she pressed herself over her stepdaughter’s lap. Her dress clung to her shapely bottom, revealing the contours of the underwear she knew would be dangling between her legs very soon. A shiver of fear went up her spine. Oh, how she regretted her affair now. It seemed so stupid. One night of raunchy fun against a lifetime of happiness and commitment. How foolish she had been to take that turn. She wasn’t proud, and she doubted the shame would ever go away.
“Well?” Tiffany asked, and Kelly realised she hadn’t heard what her stepdaughter had been asking.
“S-sorry, hum… What was that dear?” she said with what she hoped was enough contrition.
“I asked you if you had anything more to say?” Tiffany hissed, less than impressed.
“I…” Kelly hesitated. There was no getting out of this, just like there was no rewinding the past to fix her mistakes. All she could do now was suffer the consequences and be grateful that Tiffany was even offering her this chance rather than destroying her reputation, her relationship… She shook her head. Then she squeaked “I love your father…” in a flood of tears.
If Tiffany took pity on her, the first slap that landed on her behind didn’t show it at all. The loud sound of it echoed in the living-room and she cried out in pain. The next one was just as hard, as were the two dozen after that, palmful after palmful of her stepdaughter’s wrath raining down on her guilty bottom. She cried and yelped and kicked her legs, knowing full well that it was but a start to her punishment. Twenty more slaps came down before she felt Tiffany grabbing the skirt of her dress and lifting it up. She clenched and unclenched her round buttocks, trying to make the pain go away. It was in vain, but she relished the few seconds of respite.
Tiffany passed a finger along her knickers and readjusted them, a familiar gesture that Kelly used to do when punishing the girls. It was like a bizarre, shared tradition passed from mother to daughter, she thought, and it made her feel good for a few seconds. Then the pain exploded again, the sound of her stepdaughter’s hand against her exposed flesh crisp and sharp. It hurt more than before, and Tiffany was relentless, just as Kelly knew she would be. And just as she knew she deserved. Under Tiffany’s hand, her sitspots were on fire, her fleshy bottom was agony. With only the thin fabric of her knickers protecting her behind and what was left of her dignity, Kelly was under no illusion that things would get better any time soon.
In a way, the worst part was the silence. Not dead silence, of course, as slap after slap sounded and echoed around the room, but Tiffany was quiet, focused on giving her wayward mother the punishment of a lifetime. No scolding, no comments, just utter discipline, and a commitment to making every inch of her stepmum’s bottom an ocean of pain. Kelly felt oddly proud. Slaps fell down on her thighs, on her bare cheeks, over her knickers; she kicked her legs, she fidgeted, she clenched her teeth and held on to the sofa’s fabric. She let go, she cried out, she begged then fell silent. Again, and again the cycle continued. Through it, Tiffany’s hand fell like a merciless metronome. Then she paused.
Between sobs, Kelly tried to speak. “Tiff-sniff– Tiffany… I’m so sorry…”
“What was it you used to say?” Tiffany whispered.
“I…” Kelly sniffled again.
“Think before you act and you won’t have to be sorry, right? Isn’t that what you used to say, mum?”
The fact that Tiffany had called her mum for the first time that day didn’t escape Kelly. It made the punishment all the more worth it if it mended their relationship in the slightest…
“Y-yes ma’am…” she said softly, “That’s… that’s what I used to say…”
Tiffany nodded, grabbing her stepmum’s knickers with both hands and sliding them down one side at a time until they rested midway down Kelly’s thighs. The older woman pressed her legs together and clenched her bruised bottom, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“When you’re in the corner, later,” said Tiffany, “I’ll make sure to take some pictures”.
“Wh-what for?” Kelly asked, horrified.
“If I hear anything from dad I don’t like…” Tiffany said, letting the threat hang.
“There won’t be anything… I promise…” Kelly whimpered.
“There better not be…” Tiffany said, tapping her stepmum’s bright red cheeks. Kelly winced with every tap.
“And I think we should make this a weekly thing for the foreseeable future,” Tiffany added, “To make sure you keep in line…”
Kelly screwed her eyes shut but didn’t argue. In a twisted way, it was a relief, and she wanted it. She wanted to see her daughter. She wanted to know that Tiffany still cared about her relationship with her father enough to come and punish her every week. It was humiliating, it hurt like nothing else, but deep down, it was comforting.
Then the spanking resumed, and all ideas of comfort and relief vanished in a wave of deserved pain. Burning, stinging, her bottom was nothing but misery. She doubted she would be able to sit ever again, just as she doubted she would look Tiffany in the eyes again after the humiliation she was enduring. Was there anything left to hide, was there any pride left to burn? Could anything be more shameful than being disciplined by your own daughter? Still, as the spanking continued, and as her flesh was marked with a darker and darker red, she whispered “I love you, Tiffany”, and she could have sworn that, between two loud and painful slaps, she heard her daughter whisper back “I love you too”.
There was no denying it, Naomi had screwed up. Big time. Worse than that, she had been caught. That was really the issue. Her girlfriend Sandra had been waiting for her as she had opened the door to their shared flat, arms crossed over her chest, eyes blazing with anger.
“Well, well,” Sandra had said, “Look what the cat brought in…”
“We’re not allowed pets in here, you know that…” Naomi said, trying to deflect with humour as she usually did. It didn’t go well, and Sandra’s glare only intensified.
“Care to explain where you’ve been?” her girlfriend said, icily.
“Just a little walk…” Naomi replied, eyes looking everywhere but at Sandra.
“At two in the morning?” Sandra asked.
“Well… Hum…”
“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” Sandra continued, not bothering to wait for the lie that was sure to come.
“I thought…”
“Yes?”
“I thought you’d still be asleep…”
“Oh, so that makes it all right, then, yeah?”
“I just don’t want to fight…”
“So maybe, just maybe you should stop lying to me?!” Sandra hissed, trying not to outright yell. As sweet as their elderly neighbours where, she doubted they would take kindly to being woken up in the middle of the night by a shouting match.
“I’m sorry…” Naomi said, her cheeks blushing. Shit. She really was sorry, but she knew that it didn’t look that way at all. She hated disappointing Sandra, but she always had had a defiant streak in her.
Sandra extended a hand, palm up. “Give it to me,” she said, and her tone brooked no argument. A pause.
“G-give you what?” Naomi said, innocently.
Sandra flicked her fingers. “Don’t make me ask again, Naomi Jane Harper…”
Oh god, the middle-name. Now she felt like she was twelve, being scolded by her parents for yet another bad school report. She sighed.
“Please…” she said, “Just this once…”
“You made a promise, Naomi,” Sandra said, “Hand. It. Over.”
Another sigh, more blushing. Naomi finally reached into her bag and slowly took out a pack of smokes. She held it up for a second, then reluctantly placed it in her very cute, but very irate girlfriend’s hand. Sandra curled her lip.
“Well that explains the 10 quid I’m missing from my wallet, doesn’t it…” she said, dismissively.
“Sandy, love…”
“You don’t get to ‘Sandy-love’ me right now, missy.”
“I just…” Naomi started.
Sandra cut her off; “You just broke your promise, and stole some money from me too…”
“I didn’t smoke any!” Naomi protested. “I promised I wouldn’t smoke anymore, and I didn’t!”
“So you bought them just to look at the packet?”
There was little to defend, here, really. Naomi knew she was being stubborn, but in for a penny, in for a pound, she might be able to salvage this. Surely…
“Well, no, but… I could have smoked one on the way back and…” she tried to explain, stumbling over her words a little.
“And why didn’t you?” Sandra asked, an eyebrow raised.
“I…”
All right, she hadn’t thought this one ahead, had she…
“Yes?”
“I didn’t have a lighter,” Naomi confessed, defeated.
Sandra rolled her eyes. “Perfect. Just perfect…”
“Sandy, please…”
“Please what?”
“Don’t be angry…”
“Oh, all right then. What should I be?” Sandra asked, not as quiet as before.
“Well… Hum…”
“Tell me how I should feel, Naomi?” Sandra asked again.
Without waiting for an answer, she went to the kitchen bin and slammed the packet of cigarettes down into it. She had her back to Naomi now, and had Naomi looked at her, her anger would still have been plain to see in the tension of her posture, the slight trembling of her arms, the shallowness of her breathing. Naomi would have also thought that she was beautiful in her anger and would have wanted nothing but to hold her tight and tell her how sorry she was, how stupid she felt. She would have begged for another chance and promised to do better.
But Naomi saw nothing, and said nothing, her eyes fixed on the floor. Pride, defiance. She couldn’t help herself.
“Disappointed? Hurt?” Sandra pressed, loud and angry now, “How should I feel?”
“I don’t know…” was all that Naomi could say.
“Right, well, I am all of these things” Sandra said, turning around. “Come here.”
“Wh-what for?” Naomi hesitated.
“You made a promise, yes?”
“Yes… I’m not deny—”
“And you broke it, yes?”
“Well…”
“Yes or no?”
“… Yes… I broke it…”
“Right. So, I think it’s fair that you should be punished.”
“P-punished?” Naomi said, wide-eyed, “Wh-what do you mean?”
Sandra pulled a chair from under the kitchen table and sat down. With a finger, she pointed to her lap. “Come here,” she said.
“You… You want me to sit on your lap?” Naomi asked, confused. Sandra rolled her eyes.
“No, Naomi Jane, I’m telling to come over my lap. Because I’m going to spank you, and you’re going to be sorry.” She said the last words with what sounded like absolute certainty.
Fear. Panic. An explosion of warmth between her legs? Naomi didn’t know what to say, what to do. She had never seen Sandra like that. So… Assertive. Angry, yes, but that only made her more beautiful. Now she saw it.
A split second later, Sandra clapped her hands. “I’m waiting, young lady,” she said, “And my patience is running dry.”
Had she just called her young lady? She took one step. Was she really going to spank her? Another step. Wh-why did she feel like she wanted this? No… She… She deserved it, didn’t she? But a spanking? Surely, that was ridiculous, she wouldn’t…
And then, she realised that she already was over Sandra’s lap, and her skirt was already being lifted and— oh no.
“Wait!” she said, but the first slap was already falling, and when it connected, her mind went blank. It hurt! Well of course it hurt, but it hurt hurt! And more slaps were already raining down on her barely covered cheeks. Curse these lace panties, and these stupid cigarettes and her stupid promise and—
Sandra’s hand fell harder.
And harder.
And faster.
And it hurt.
And she cried.
And she begged.
And she promised.
And she was forgiven.
And…
She loved it.
Question : ça veut dire quoi, « trop » ? Elle est où, la ligne ? Parce que c’est bien gentil de me dire « tu pousses, là, Julie… » ou « attention, Julie, t’es limite, là ». Mais c’est pas très clair, quoi… Je pousse quoi ? Je suis à la limite de quoi ? C’est très vague, moi j’dis… C’est quoi la prochaine ? « Attention, Julie, tu vas bientôt dépasser les bornes des limites ? »
Je suis pas un poisson rouge, mais c’est pas évident de me rappeler de tous les différentes règles, tu vois… Sur les routes il y a des panneaux qui te les rappellent, les limites de vitesse… Moi j’dis que si j’ai pas de rappel, c’est pas juste que je sois punie…
Quoi ? Non je ne me moque pas… Je pose des questions, c’est tout… Et—
Non, c’était pas très poli, ce que j’ai dit…
… Mais si, je l’adore, ta mère…
Bah non, je savais pas que t’étais en haut-parleur !…
Oui, j’ai mal aux fesses, oui…
…
Même sans me retourner, je le vois, ton air satisfait, Thomas…
Non, ça ira, merci, je pense que tu t’es bien fait comprendre il y a cinq minutes… Pas la peine d’en rajouter…
… Mais bon, quand même, tu dois bien avouer que—
Les mains sur la tête, oui, oui… Mais…
Aïe !! Okay, okay, je dis plus rien !
…
C’est juste que… parfois j’abuse un peu et tu rigoles… Et parfois, paf !, je me retrouve avec les fesses dans cet état… Un peu de clarté, ce serait mieux pour tout le monde, non ?… C’est comme si la limitation de vitesse changeait au jour le jour.
Ha ha, très drôle… Non, j’étais pas à 200 à l’heure… J’étais à 5 au dessus, max… Et pas en zone urbaine ! Z’êtes juste un peu inégal, m’sieur l’agent ! Un jour ça passe, et le lendemain…
Mais non, Thomas, je veux pas que tu deviennes un tyran, rhooo… Qui exagère, là ?
Je dis pas que je veux jamais être punie non plus… Ce serait pas marrant… C’est juste que parfois je dis bien pire que ce que j’ai dit tout à l’heure… Et tu rigoles… Mais là, bim ! Fessée !
Rhooo… Fais pas le grognon… Je sais que je méritais… Mais je sais aussi qu’au fond t’adores quand je suis—
Non, pas une chipie, non… J’ai pas 5 ans, merci… J’vais pas t’appeler ‘monsieur’ non plus… Mais, comme je disais, au fond, t’adores quand j’abuse…
Mais si…
Mais si…
Mais s… Oh, dis donc, Thomas, les mensonges c’est n— aïe !! Aïe-euh, mes fesses ! Arrête !! Je dis plus rien !
…
C’est pas juste…
Mais non, j’abuse pas, là !… Je fais la conversation…
Bah oui, j’y suis, au coin… J’ai pas bougé… Je me suis pas retournée, j’ai les mains sur la tête, tout comme tu m’as dit… Bah oui je parle mais je voudrais pas que tu t’ennuies… Je t’aime bien trop pour ça, mon lapinouchounet d’amour…
Comment ça je suis limite encore ? Un ton moqueur ? Moi ? Jamais…
J’ai pas vu de panneau « moquerie interdite », de tout façon… Puis tu m’as déjà punie alors bon…
Moi, je pense que tu veux pas en parler parce que tu sais bien que j’ai raison. Et donc je pense que vu que les règles ne sont pas claires, pour les deux prochaines semaines je devrais avoir une immunité.
Euh… C’était quoi, ce bruit ? C’était pas ta ceinture, hein ?
Happy Pride Month, everyone!
May you get all the kindness you deserve… And all the spankings, too!
Place to post my stories.
f/f spanking stories/ 18 and above
(Formerly Miss D) A place for me to journal about my BDSM lifestyle
Keep Looking Back Over your Shoulder
Sharing my authentic self (mature audience only, please NSFW)
Married submissive: The love, the kink and the connection.
[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
NSFW; F/F Spanking Stories
