Happy Halloween!
Tag: ff
A Visit from HMAO
There is a knock on the door, and the doorbell rings. It’s not one of those fancy camera doorbells that could give her some sort of forewarning, so it is with surprise that Hannah opens the door to find a woman she doesn’t know dressed in a uniform that she doesn’t quite recognise.
“Mrs Hannah Ross?” the uniformed lady asks.
“Hum, yes?” Hannah answers, “What is this about?”
“Afternoon ma’am,” the woman says. Her voice is pleasant, her tone friendly. Her smile, however, does not reach her eyes. “I am Officer Jeanette Pearson with HMAO; may I come in, please?”
“I’m sorry,” Hannah says, confused, “H-M-what now?”
“HMAO, ma’am,” the uniformed lady says, “His Majesty’s Adultery Office”
“Hum… A-adultery…?” Hannah hesitates. Thoughts start racing in her head. What kind of joke is this?
“I really think it’s best if we have that conversation inside, Mrs Ross,, the woman insists, “We’ve no need to let the entire street have a listen, do we?”
Hannah hesitates, but the woman looks official. Her uniform is impeccable, not some cheap, jokey costume, and it doesn’t look like she is going anywhere. She makes a small nod and waves the woman in.
“Cup of tea?” Hannah offers, out of habit and to calm her own nerves. When she’s stressed, she tends to babble, get herself busy, play with her hair. And stressed she is, as anyone would be when someone knocks on your door unannounced, clearly on some sort of official business.
“I’m all right for tea, ma’am, thank you,” says the woman following her round the stairs and into the kitchen, “Lots to do today, you see.” The officer puts her briefcase on the tiled kitchen floor.
Hannah shrugs and pulls up a chair, inviting the officer to sit down, and the woman does so, taking her hat off and putting in in her lap. Hannah sits opposite her, still puzzled. She gets up again to make herself a cuppa. Nerves. She has to keep herself occupied.
“So, can you explain what this is about?,” she says, pouring water in the kettle, “I… I don’t think I’ve heard of… hum… HMAO, was it?”
The woman, Officer Patterson, nods: “Of course. Let me…” she reaches for the briefcase and puts it on the kitchen table. She unlocks it and the latches spring up with a clack that startles Hannah.
Patterson takes a folder out of the briefcase, one of about ten, as far as Hannah can see. The woman pulls a single, official-looking form out of that folder. She looks up at Hannah and says, “The Adultery Office has been made aware that for a period of approximately two months between April and June of this year you have been engaging in sexual activities with a…” She checks her form again, “a Mr Foreswith, first name Christopher?”
“I, hum, I…” Hannah stammers, blushing. The kettle boils, the sound of the bubbles a good representation of her noisy thoughts.
“Which is to say, not with your husband, Mr Ross, yes?” The Officer continues.
“Well I…” Hannah tries again, her mind gone blank, words struggling to reach her mouth. The kettle clicks.
“As I’m sure you are aware,” the woman continues, “this was against the terms of your marriage license.” Her tone is even and to the point, but there is an edge to the words that Hannah finds chilling.
“The… terms…?” Hannah asks, hesitant, while absent-mindedly pouring the boiling water in her mug where a teabag is waiting.
Patterson’s gaze pierces Hannah. “To be faithful, loving, and loyal, in sickness and in health, et caetara. You did read the forms before signing them, yes?”
Hannah bites her lip, adding a dash of milk to her tea, “Well it was my wedding day and… I’m sorry, why are you here exactly? I’m not sure how me having, hum, an affair, is a concern to the government…?”
She stirs the milk in, taps her spoon —clink, clink— against the mug, and puts the spoon down in the sink. The other woman, Patterson, waits for her to be ready.
Finally, Hannah sits down with her steaming cup of tea and wraps her hands around it. It is not cold in her house by any means but the warmth is comforting nonetheless.
“Oh it is a great concern, ma’am, it really is,” the Officer says with a firm nod, “His Majesty’s government is of the mind that the moral fibre of the country matters, you see. The French might be happy with their ménages à trois all over the shop, but this is England; there are standards.”
“I-I see…” says Hannah, even though she doesn’t see at all what the woman is getting at. The French have clearly offended Officer Patterson, and she wonders if there is a story there, but that doesn’t really relate to her, now, does it?
The Officer ignores her and continues, “Therefore, under the powers given to me by the Adultery Act 2004, I’m here to administer your punishment, Mrs Ross.”
“I’m sorry, what? A punishment?” Hannah says, startled. She blushes more than she thought possible.
“The spanking, yes?” Patterson says, an eyebrow raised. This all seems routine to her, the situation, the embarrassment, the questions.
“A sp— wait, wait, wait… You can’t be serious?!” Hannah asks as the realisation of what Officer Patterson is saying hits her properly.
The Officer sighs. “I see what’s happening here. I really wish people would read the fine prints… Ma’am, it’s all in the marriage license, under section 5, paragraphs 3 through 7, ‘consequences for infractions’.”
“I’m not going to get a spanking!” Hannah says, and she believes her tone is firm. The tremor in her voice is evident to Patterson, however. She has heard it all before.
“Listen, ma’am,” Patterson says, putting both hands flat on the table, “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, it’s in your best interest to come over my knees today and be done with it.”
“Absolutely not!” Hannah says, crossing her arms.
Patterson shrugs, “Then I’m afraid it will have to be escalated from a hand-and-hairbrush jobbie to a full-on caning at the station. You don’t want that, ma’am Ross. The Sarge, he’s got quite the heavy hand.”
“But… You can’t do this…” Hannah says, cracks already showing in her resolve. A caning? A sergeant? This does not sound good at all. But neither does anything this woman would do to her.
“Did you cheat on your husband, Mrs Ross?” Patterson asks, surprisingly gentle.
Hannah sighs, then nods coyly “Y-yes…”
“There are consequences for that, ma’am,” the Officer says, and Hannah cannot find fault in that simplest of arguments. Or course cheating is bad, of course she feels bad about it, but still, that’s none of the government’s business!
Hannah plays with her hair —again, nerves, fidget—, “But… A spanking, really? I will pay a fine! Or community service? I’ll do anything but that!”
“I’m afraid it has to be corporal punishment, ma’am,” the Officer says, as she has done dozens of times before, an argument well rehearsed, “Punishment must fit the crime, and all that.”
“Please?,” Hannah begs, “Could you give me a pass? Just a warning ? I’ve got money here, I could…”
Patterson crosses her arms, seemingly outraged, “Surely you are not trying to bribe an Officer, ma’am? There would be serious consequences for that…”
“N-no, no, of course, not at all…” Hannah stammers. The consequences seem severe enough as they are.
“Good, excellent,” says the Officer getting up, “Shall we then? In the lounge is best, usually. Although you might want to pull the curtains…”
“I… Will… will Harry— will my husband know about this?” Hannah asks, her eyes on the floor, resigned.
“We won’t notify him, if that’s what you want to know,” Patterson says, “We prefer to deal with the guilty parties directly… There isn’t much point in bringing awareness or pain to the victims. We do want your marriage to improve and flourish, Mrs Ross. Hopefully, this will be a first step! However, he might notice the aftermath, if you know what I mean.”
“Right…” Hannah sighs.
“The lounge, then?” Patterson says, getting up.
“This way…” Hannah offers in a whisper.
“Lush!” says her would-be tormentor.
It’s not lush at all, Hannah thinks, not one bit. The cup of tea still sits, untouched, on the kitchen table as they make their way to the small, but cosy, living-room.
Hannah pulls the curtains shut, and starts rearranging the cushions on the sofa, then wonders what the hell she is doing, and stops. She turns to the uniformed woman, who is looking at a bookshelf with feigned interest. She is carrying her briefcase, and Hannah has no doubt that there are sundry instruments of torture hidden in it. Whips, paddles, crops and the like! She can imagine Patterson dressed in the leathers of a cliché dominatrix. A shiver runs up her spine. A spanking…
She takes a deep breath, “So… How does it… Happen?”
It, the spanking, the punishment, the humiliation. She doesn’t want to say it, because that would make it real. And she doesn’t want it to be real. Not even a smidge. More shivers up her spine, and she can feel her lip tremble, tears welling in her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry in front of that woman. She thinks to plead, to beg again, but she knows that Patterson means business. The uniformed cow, she must be enjoying this immensely. Why else would she be doing this job? Spanking innocent people on behalf of the government… Well, not so innocent maybe. The picture of the dominatrix flashes in her mind again. Officer Patterson would look good in leather, she muses for an instant. But still. Cow.
“Oh it’s very simple,” moos Patterson, “I’ll just sit on the sofa and… May I?”
Hannah invites her to with a hand-gesture, and the Officer sits down, her briefcase in front of her. Hannah just stands there in the middle of the room, her hands joined in front of her, eyes on the floor like a scolded schoolgirl. Appropriate, she thinks.
“Next you are going to come over my lap,” the Officer says, tapping said lap, “and I will begin with a warm-up hand-spanking.” She reaches for the briefcase and takes out a hairbrush —a mean-looking little wooden one— and a different form from before, “Then you’ll get the allotted swats with the hairbrush, and I’ll fill-in this form for our records. After that you’ll be free to put all of this behind you.” The briefcase snaps shut. “All clear?”
“When you say ‘allotted swats’…?” Hannah whispers, not daring to look up at the other woman.
“Standard rate is one hundred,” the uniformed woman says, and Hannah head jerks up to look at her.
“One hundred?!” she exclaims, “You can’t be serious…” Her hand fly to her bottom pre-emptively.
“It is meant to prevent reoffending,” Patterson says with a twist of the mouth. She is enjoying this, Hannah thinks. Cow! Bitch, even!
“However,” Patterson carries on, tapping the form, “as you are a first offender, the punishment can be reduced down to seventy-five swats at my discretion… Provided that you do what you are told, to the letter, and without complaint.”
Seventy swats of that evil-looking hairbrush seems awful, but it sounds so much better to Hannah than a hundred that she sighs with relief. Relief! As if it was a gift that Patterson was giving her! She feels powerless, guilty, angry —at Patterson, at herself—, and so, so small. She royally cocked up this whole thing, didn’t she? Harry’s not even a bad husband… She just… Wanted a bit of naughty fun, a bit of novelty… And now…
“I… I’ll be good! I’ll do whatever you say… Ma’am!” she says, awkwardly.
“Miss Patterson will do,” the Officer says.
“Yes, miss Patterson…” says Hannah, and she thinks of the flowery yoga leggings that she is wearing, and how silly she will look, dangling over Patterson’s lap. Should she offer to get changed into something more… serious, she begins to ask herself. Then she catches herself. Is it what she is worried about? Looking silly?
“Then,” Patterson says, oblivious to the internal drama unfolding in Hannah, “let’s get started.” She gestures for Hannah to come over, and she does as she is told, without complaining. Seventy-five, that’s what she has to get through. Then she can forget it. Will she ever forget how she’s feeling right now, as if on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump?
She takes a deep breath and lowers herself onto the Officer’s lap. She feels silly, fidgeting and squirming to find a comfortable position, even if she doubts that comfortable is the word. With her long knitted sweater over her yoga leggings, she might have some protection, but—
Patterson lifts the sweater up to her waist and rubs a hand over her bottom in a circle, once, then pats both cheeks a few times. Hannah squeals with surprise and embarrassment, but soon the pats turn into slaps, and her cries are more of pain than anything else. Patterson, it turns out, has a firm hand, and now that Hannah is over her knees, she clearly hasn’t got time for pleasantries. The slaps come in a crescendo, hitting her left cheek, her right, in quick succession, building up heat, pain. Hannah squirms, hears her breath become heavier. She balls her fists, bites her lip. Her bottom sways left and right with each slap, and she clenches between them to try and dull the pain. She knows that it’s just getting started, but she wants it to stop.
She moans when Patterson delivers a slap stronger than any previous ones. Tears are rolling down her face. She squirms some more, as more slaps become more forceful. And this is just her hand? How is she supposed to… She thinks of protesting, then thinks seventy-five, seventy-five, seventy-five… She doesn’t know how she is going to last until the brush even comes into play.
“There!” Patterson says, a large slap punctuating her pronouncement. “Now, let’s see what we have here…”
Before it happens, Hannah knows what is coming. She knows her bottom is going to be bared, exposed to that woman, that officer, that cow… She closes her eyes, feeling the Officer gripping the fabric of her leggings, pulling them down. She feels her knickers going down with her leggings, and the cooler air against her bare, tender skin. She shivers with shame.
“No, no, no, no…” she whispers, but does nothing to stop the inevitable.
The leggings and knickers end up at mid-thighs, and she presses them together to try and preserve any semblance of dignity. As if, she thinks. More slaps fall down, sharper now that her bottom is exposed. The sting is made worse by the thought of the Officer’s gaze on her naked behind. She imagines Patterson inspecting her bottom, that she reckons is bright red already. It certainly feels on fire. She wonders what the Officer thinks of her round, heart-shaped bottom. Does she like what she sees? She thinks of her husband caressing it. Harry always said he liked her bum. She wonders if he would like to see her like this. Would he spank her if she asked? She thinks of his smile, his hands. She thinks of his perfume, of his stupid jokes. She thinks of his cooking, his dancing, his favourite cocktail, and she thinks of his dirty socks on a chair, the seat of the toilets left up, and the half-empty mugs of coffee left around the house. She weighs them against each other and thinks of all that they have built together. She has it good. The sweet little routines they have, the flowers on Saturdays, the date-nights on Monday, the pint at the local on Friday… She thought it got stale. As sweet as it is, routine can be… Well, boring. But of course she loves him. She wants him here right now. She wants him to take her in his arms and tell her it’s all going to be okay. She wants him to rub her bottom and make her feel better. And then… She thinks of Christopher. Fuck. She hates herself. She does deserve this, she deserves it all.
There is a pause in the barrage of hard slaps. Hannah lets out a long sigh, and sniffles.
“Miss Patterson?” she asks, her voice shaking.
“Yes ma’am Ross?” the Officer says, grabbing the hairbrush.
“P-please punish me… I.. I deserve it…” Hannah says, and breaks down in tears before the brush even touches her bare, guilty bottom.
Seventy-five swats later —and not one more—, she hasn’t said another word. But in her head, after each one, she has said ‘I’m sorry, Harry’. When the onslaught of pain stops, she lays on Patterson’s lap for a while, sobbing.
“Mrs Ross?” the Officer says, softly.
Hannah sniffles “Y-yes?”
“Let’s get you to the corner while I fill the form, shall we?” the woman says, with a few rubs on Hannah’s bottom that make her wince at first, then push into the Officer’s hand as the circles soothe her burning pain. Hannah nods and gets up, then lets herself be guided to the corner of the room, by the bookshelf. Without being instructed to, she crosses her arms behind her back. Her head rests against the wall, and she feels lighter than she has in a long, long time.
She hears the scritch-scritch of Patterson’s pen filling the form, then the clack of the briefcase opening and closing. She hears the Officer get up and flatten her uniform. She feels a soft touch on her shoulder and turns around with another sniffle. She keeps her hands behind her back. To her surprise, Patterson gives her a little hug, woman to woman, rather than punisher to punished. Letting her go, the officer gives her a quick nod. “Have a good life, Mrs Ross,” she says, “and I hope we will never meet again!”
***
Closing the door behind her, Patterson leaves the house. Hannah is still in the living-room, in the corner, her crimson bottom on display. Patterson wonders if the husband will find her like that. Would he add to the punishment, she wonders? It is not for her to know.
It is late autumn, and the sun hangs low in the sky already. She has other visits to do today, but she takes a minute to bask in the warm sunlight. Another job well done, she thinks, another step towards a brighter future for her country. With a happy sigh, she hums God Save the King as she walks down the street. Unbeknownst to her, a woman sat in a car opposite takes a picture of her, and scribbles a note.
“You’re going down, Patterson…” the woman in the car thinks to herself, and she drives away.
Her mum’s daughter
“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.”
A Spanking for Tiffany’s Stepmother
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”.
Night talk
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.
Her Boss’ Mistress
Janet checked the clasp of her garter-belt’s strap one last time. She wanted everything to look good for Him. No, not good, perfect. She pulled on the strap and let it snap against her thigh with a satisfying clack. A delicious shiver ran up her spine at the thought of His eyes running up and down her long legs clad in their dark stockings, of His gaze admiring her lacy corset and the smoky make-up look that she had spent an hour perfecting. She imagined His hands caressing the small of her back, tracing lines across her legs, the nape of her neck. She dreamt of His lips kissing her neck, her chest, and of His teeth biting her lips, teasing her with promises of pleasures to come.
She checked herself in the mirror one last time. Getting dressed in the office’s bathroom was not the most ideal of situations, but when you were having an affair with your boss, some sacrifices had to be made. Besides, He treated her really well, and that was not just the mind-bending sex. What could she say? A man who knew what he was doing was worth all the trouble, the secrets, the lies… And the fact that she found herself in a company bathroom at eleven at night wearing a rather naughty lingerie ensemble. She smacked her lips after applying a last touch of red to them. She was ready for Him.
Her heels click-clacking on the floor, she made her way to her boss’ office. The workspaces around her were dark, save the glow of a few computer screens that had not been turned off. Through the large windows beyond, she could see the lights of the skyscrapers of the city below. With a frisson of naughtiness, she wondered if a late-night worker in another building would catch a glimpse of her hips swaying in her skimpy outfit. Smothering a giggle, she placed her hand on the doorknob and knocked softly. She opened the door.
The office was dark. He did like the theatricality of it. It was part of His charm, really. He would always make her feel like every part of their secret time together was lifted from the pages of a book. Every minute an adventure, and she always loved the endings. The thought made her smile. The lights suddenly turned on, and she smiled broadly, her hand shooting to cover her eyes.
“Ooh!” she purred, “You surprised m—”
She cut herself short when she saw that the person sat behind the large oak desk was not her boss at all. It was…
“Sally? W-what are you doing here?” she asked, an arm covering the ample bosom that her corset flattered. The attempt at modesty was somewhat defeated by the rest of the outfit, frilly panties and all, but her mind was busy racing to find anything to say, and trying to understand why Sally, her boss’ personal assistant, was sitting there instead of Him.
“Hello, Janet,” Sally said, with venom in her voice as she spoke her name. “I was hoping to have a chat with you…”
“A… chat?” Janet asked, troubled by the other woman’s commanding tone. She was nothing like the demure, discreet assistant that she was used to seeing during the day.
“Yes… A chat. You seem surprised to see me here? Maybe you were expecting someone else?”
“I think you already know…” Janet answered, blushing. Her secrets didn’t seem so well guarded after all…
Sally got up from behind the desk and walked to her. With a smirk, she looked up and down the embarrassed younger woman.
“Yes. I’m afraid Jim won’t be coming… He has a dinner tonight,” Sally said after an uncomfortably long silence.
“D-does he?” Janet stuttered.
“Yes, he does… With his wife.”
Janet said nothing. Right. Think, what could Sally want? Money? She wasn’t particularly rich, but He had made her gifts that she could sell for good money. Maybe Sally would stay quiet for that pair of diamond earrings that He had gotten her last time. Think, think! She needed to stall for time.
“Did… did she send you?” she asked, “Does she know about… this?” she pointed to herself and to her outfit as she said the last word.
“What?” Sally scoffed, “That stupid frigid hag doesn’t know anything, nor does she care, really.”
Janet gasped, and Sally went on: “As long as he keeps her bank account well cushioned, I don’t think she gives a damn what he does, really. Or who.”
“But then… What’s all this? Why are you here? And… What do you want?”
Sally came closer, glaring. She frowned and cusped Janet’s chin between two fingers.
“Jim is mine,” she hissed, “and he has been mine for much longer than you have even worked here.”
“Wh-what?!” Janet said, blushing at her other woman’s touch.
“I’ve been his mistress for years and I’m not about to let him ruin everything for some bimbo who thinks dressing like that is what he likes!”
Janet was too stunned to speak. Sally? Sweet, boring, in-the-background Sally? She couldn’t imagine Him with her, no. No. That was a lie, it had to be! Janet had been seeing Him for over a month, she would have noticed something, she…
“I won’t let you have him,” Sally said again, “and I’m going to teach you a lesson…”
Without another word, her hand flew to Janet’s ear, and she was dragging her towards the desk. With cries of pain, Janet followed.
“Stop! What are you doing!” she moaned, to no avail.
“I’ll show you what little sluts like you deserve…” Sally muttered through gritted teeth. Sitting down in His chair, she forced the younger girl over her knees.
“You can’t be serious!” Janet protested, incredulous, “who do you think you—”
The first slap landing on her ample bottom broke her train of thought. It hurt! She kicked her legs and tried to get off, but Sally was surprisingly strong, and, peppering her bottom with one hand, she held her firmly with the other. Within seconds, the pain seemed to spread, and Sally was not stopping.
“You can’t do this!” Janet cried out, somewhat unconvincingly. Her eyes were tearing up as her bottom was warming, and she tried to cover it with her hand. Scoffing, Sally pushed it away, and it only made her spank harder. The panties, as nice as they were, offered little protection against the ire of the scorned woman.
“Jim deserves the best,” Sally said, “and I always make sure he gets it…”
“Well, then,” Janet said defiantly, “then you should let him have me, rather than having to deal with your saggy tits…”
Silence. The slaps stopped as both Sally and Janet fell silent. The latter couldn’t believe that she had just said that. The former stunned into apoplexy that this girl, this airhead, this slut would dare talk to her like that.
“You did NOT just say that,” she roared, and grabbed Janet’s panties to lower them down to her thighs. “I’ll show you just what you deserve…”
The slaps fell fast and hard, as did the scolding, the belittling, the insults. Clearly, Janet had unknowingly struck a nerve. Unfortunately for her, she was in too much pain to appreciate it. Her bottom was burning, her sit spots were on fire, and Sally was not stopping. Tears were now running down Janet’s face, and she didn’t know how this was all going to end.
“Please…” she begged between two sobs, “I’ll do whatever you want…”
“You won’t see Jim again?” Sally asked, holding her hand up menacingly.
“Well, I…” Janet hesitated. Sally hand slapped her offered bottom once again.
“Shouldn’t He get to decide?” Janet sobbed, “Why did He get with me in the first place, huh?”
“He…” Sally hesitated, “He can be like that, sometimes… He gets distracted…”
Janet waited for the slaps to come. The silence stretched. Taking deep breaths to try and calm the raging fire in her behind, she asked:
“Has… Has this happened before? I mean, am I the first one that—”
“No.” Sally cut her, bitterly. “No, you’re not the first… mistake… that he made. I had to… Correct some other girls’ silly ideas… Like I said, he gets distracted…”
She fell silent once more. Janet didn’t dare move to soothe her blistered behind, for fear that the other woman would start spanking her again.
“But…” Sally began, “He always comes back to me…”
Janet could hear the hurt in that voice, the slightest twitch of regret. Her hatred of the other woman seemed to fly away in that instant.
“Oh, Sally…” she said, moving to get up. The older woman said nothing and didn’t stop her. Janet stood up in front of her tormentor, her hands unconsciously flying to clutch her bruised bottom. She winced, then looked at Sally. Tears were running down her face as well.
“Oh, Sally…” Janet said again, and against all instincts, she took the woman in her arms.
“Sally, you deserve so much better…”
“I don’t want better,” Sally sobbed, “I want him.”
***
In the end, it turned out that when both women brought proof of what Jim had been doing for all these years, his wife did actually care about it very much. Far form the stupid, pampered bimbo that Janet had imagined from Sally’s description, his wife had been generous and empathetic. Most importantly, she had gotten mad at him rather than at the other women. As the high-profile divorce made headline for months, all three women found themselves forming an unexpected friendship, and saw each other often long after.
More surprisingly still, Janet found herself over Sally’s lap again, numerous times. That night in the office had opened doors in her that she hadn’t known existed, and she had been eager to cross that threshold again, but with a friend, a lover, that time. Sally, it turned out, had been just as eager.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!
Remember, what happens in Supermac’s stays in Supermac’s!
Have a good time, everyone, and enjoy the craic (and the buttcraic, in this case!)
Is breá liom sibh go léir!
Last time, mom!
Melany had had enough. It just had to stop, and it would stop tonight. She had spent an hour or so getting ready, putting her makeup on, straightening her long, dark hair, changing her outfit three times before settling on the first one that she had tried. The usual. She hadn’t been out in ages and she was intending on having fun. What she was not intending on was her mum coming along for the ride. Again.
It had started in the summer. Her parents had gotten divorced (for the best, really), and her mum had needed a chance of place (her words). Therefore, she had decided to join her daughter Melany in California, where the young brunette was attending college. At first, Melany had been quite happy to have her mum around, as Michigan was too far for regular visits. Her mum worked from home, and she offered to move in together, even do her laundry like when she was still living at home in the Great Lake State. It was cute, and the two had always gotten along. So Melany had said yes.
Then her mum had started feeling lonely. To Melany’s horror, she had downloader Tinder, and even gone on a few dates. Thankfully, none that had gone so well that she’d brought a man to their cosy flat. But the thought made Melany shiver. Still, she was supportive. Her mum deserved to be happy, that wasn’t the issue. No, the issues had started when Sheila —her mum— had suggested they go out together.
“You want to go have diner some place?” Melany had asked.
“No, go out out,” her mum had answered.
And so they’d done just that. Once, twice, five times. Now every time Melany got herself ready, her mum ran to the bathroom and started doing the same. Not only that, her mum partied hard. After a few weeks, she was already getting a reputation, and not a particularly good one. The shots of tequila and the borderline grinding on boys at the club had forced Melany to drag her mum home the last time they’d been out.
So tonight, it would stop.
Melany admired herself one last time in the mirror —long legs clad in a short skirt, hair and eyebrows on fleek, revealing but-not-too-revealing top, she was ready for a fun night. She stepped out of her bedroom. Her mother was in the corridor, putting her heels on. She was wearing a short dress that was way too tight for Melany’s comfort. To be fair to her mother, Sheila had kept herself in shape, and was a beautiful woman still. The milf jokes in college had been relentless.
“Mom…” Melany started.
“Oh please, sweetie! I know you said last time that I embarrassed you, but I promise I will be on my best behavior tonight!”
“Mom… I love you, but maybe I could have one night out on my own, for a change?”
“Oh but sweetie, I got myself all pretty and…”
Melany sighed.
“I’m not dragging you out of the club again!” she said,
“No no, I promise! Best behavior, nothing embarrassing,” her mum replied.
Melany pouted.
“You remember what would happen when I misbehaved as a kid?” she asked, innocently.
“When bratty Melany came out?” her mother said with a smile.
“Yeah, that…”
“Well, I…” her mum stuttered
“You spanked me, right?”
“Well, hum, yes…”
“So, if you don’t behave tonight…”
“Oh, you can’t possibly mean…” Sheila said, blushing.
Melany crossed her arms.
“Either you agree to it or I’m going alone.”
It was Sheila’s turn to pout, blushing hard.
“I’m not going to embarrass you…” she started.
“Mom! Promise me,” the young girl insisted.
“I promise!”
“And if you do embarrass me?” asked Melany again.
“Then… you can s-spank me…” her mum stammered, a nervous finger on her lips.
Melany nodded, “I’ll hold you to it!” she said, then went to the door, and they both left for the club.
Not two hours later, the door opened again, and a furious Melany was dragging her mother in by the wrist.
“But sweeeetie!” the older woman was saying, “It was just a couple shots and…”
“You were GRABBING his BUTT in middle of the dancefloor, MOM!” Melany yelled.
“Well, it was quite firm, really…”
“Mom, you’re drunk!”
“Oh, maybe, but it’s so fun!”
“That guy is in my class, mom!”
“Well, you didn’t tell me they had nice asses in your class, you know!”
“MOM!”
“Whaaat?” Sheila asked, smiling.
“You remember what we said, right?”
“About what?”
“About you embarrassing me again!”
“Oh that… You didn’t really mean it, sweetie, did you?”
“Oh, didn’t I?” Melany said with a glare.
“You wouldn’t spank your own mother…” Sheila said, shaking her head with a grin. “Now if that boy was to put me over his knees…”
“MOM!” Melany yelled again, and still holding her mum’s wrist, she pulled a chair. Sitting down, she forced the older woman over her lap. Drunk as she was, it took Sheila until the first slap landed on her firm behind to realise what was going on.
“Oww!” she cried out, “Melany? What are you doing?”
“What I should have done a while ago,” her daughter said, landing five slaps in quick succession on her mother’s rear. The woman wriggled her bottom, trying to escape or avoid the heavy slaps somehow, but Melany was holding her firmly in place, and slap after hard slap landed with only the thin fabric of the dress and panties to shield her bottom.
After twenty more, Sheila was feeling the warmth growing in her behind. “All right, okay!” she cried out, “You’ve made your point! I’ll be good.”
“Really, mom?” Melany frowned. “I think I remember my spankings being a lot more bare.”
“Y-yes but…”
“Oh no ifs or buts, mom,” said her daughter with a vicious grin. How she had dreamed of this as a teenager when her mum pulled her over her lap. This was payback, she thought, for spanking her in front of her friends that one time. The dress came up, and her hand fell down hard again, and again, and again. By then, her mother was clearly sobering up, and feeling the pain and humiliation much more clearly. The amused comments became little cried, became pleas, became tears.
“All right! I’m sorry! Melany, please…”
The pink cheeks were turning red, much to Melany’s delight, but she wasn’t done yet. The panties were still covering most of her mother’s round, toned bottom, and there was no way they would stay up. “If you’re really sorry, you’ll agree that your panties must come down as well, right?” she asked.
Her mother gasped. “No, please…” she said, “this is so humiliating already…”
“Oh is it?” Melany said with a frown, “And you think my mom groping boys in the club in front of me isn’t?”
“Melany, sweetie…”
“Men your own age from now on, Mom!”
“Yes, sweetie…”
“And don’t even think about bringing one in here!”
“Y-yes, sweetie” her mother sobbed.
“Am I taking your panties down?”
“I…”
“Do you deserve a good, bare bottom spanking?”
Sheila didn’t answer but didn’t protest further when her daughter grabbed her panties’ waist band and lowered them to mid-thigh. From then on, there was nothing but raw pain and the sound of hard slaps filling the room, punctuated by Sheila’s sobs and sniffles. She knew her daughter and how she always achieved what she set her mind to. This spanking was going to end when Melany decided it would, and not a second before. Sheila’s bottom and thighs were burning, probably bright red by now, and she wondered if she would be able to sit at all come the morning. At the very least, she would be sleeping on her side tonight, she knew.
Still, she thought, that boy in the club had had one hell of a cute ass.
Satisfaction…
I think she is!
In the Red Midwinter
A secret santa gift for a friend over on the Discord (come join us!)!
It seems the Elves have lovely winter traditions of their own — less ‘eggnog’, more ‘ass-throb’!
I hope you all had a great Christmas (or just a quiet time, whichever suits you best!)
