&Discipline
<handspanking>
<bare-bottom>
if tears=remorseful {
//stop//
else {
//increase force//
}
(I have, of course, no notion of programming, don’t be mad OwO)
Programming
Tag: punishment
Réflexions
Ce n’est pas la fessée qui fait mal.
C’est la froideur de ta voix.
C’est la tristesse dans ton regard.
C’est ton haussement d’épaules.
C’est le secouement de ta tête.
Ce sont tes bras qui ne consolent pas.
Ce sont tes baisers qui ne viennent pas.
Ce n’est pas la fessée qui fait mal.
C’est de t’avoir encore déçu.
Clumsy Tamika
Tamika turned around and reached for a box of products she was to put in the display window of the department store. As she did so, her round hips slammed into one of the shelves, sending it crashing down with a thunderous bang. Reaching to try and save any of it, she banged her elbow into the second display shelf, sending it down as well. All the intricate, delicately arranged displays, hours of effort, lay ruined on the floor. The other employees shook their heads and facepalmed. This wasn’t the first time she’d had an ‘accident’. The manager, Mr Jones, walked up to the bashful Tamika, who stood frozen in the middle of the mess she’d created.
“Enough is enough!” said Mr. Jones, his tone sharp and angry “Tamika, follow me to me office.”
“Oh, but Sir…”
“No ‘buts’, young lady, I’ve had quite enough of your excuses!”
The young girl looked down and twisted her fingers, looking for something to say, something to save her from what she knew was to come. The other employees had warned her: Mr Jones, as nice and fair a boss as he was, was pretty old-school when it came to discipline. They had told her he routinely spanked employees if they messed up. Surely, she had thought, they had been messing with her. Surely, it was just a prank to scare the newbie… Surely…
Hesitantly, she followed Mr Jones to his office, and closed the door that displayed a gold-lettered ‘Manager’ sign behind her. She was blushing, feeling scared and ashamed. Mr Jones had been very kind to her, patient despite her repeated mistakes. Now he seemed really cross. Even then, she couldn’t deny a certain attraction towards him. She’d always like authority; she liked to know her place in the world and being told what to do eased her anxiety. Still, her clumsiness had, once again, landed her in trouble.
Mr Jones pulled an object out of the top drawer of his desk and set it down on said desk with a wooden, heavy thud.
“Do you know what this is, Tamika?”
Her eyes widened.
“Hum… A… A paddle, Sir.”
“A paddle, exactly. Were you ever spanked before?”
“Sp-spanked, Sir? I… Hum… No, no, never…”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t need to draw you a picture…”
“But Sir, you’re not… I mean, you can’t—”
“Can’t I? As I see it, this is very simple, Tamika. Either you take responsibility for your actions and accept your punishment, or you can go find another job.”
“No Sir, please! I love this job! But please…. That… That would be so humiliating…”
He nodded. “Yes. And hopefully that’ll stick with you.”
“I…”
“I’m not going to say it again. The spanking or the door, your decision.”
She hesitated, thinking about her job, her colleagues, her future, weighing her mistakes against the utter humiliation of being spanked like a little misbehaving brat. Then again, she had been careless —again— and she was ashamed of herself. She looked up at him, his groomed beard and neat, pulled back dreadlocks a picture of fatherly authority. She felt… something in her stomach, a mix of fear and desire. She bit her lip and looked down.
“I don’t want to lose my job…” she finally said.
Mr Jones nodded. “Very well then, I think you’re making the right decision.” He pointed at her, “Take your shirt and skirt off,” he said.
“But Sir… Mr Jones, please…”
“No arguing, Tamika! You’re not the first I’ve had to bring here for a ‘talk’”
“Yes, Sir…” she mumbled softly, and slowly unbuttoned her shirt. Her skirt was next, and she stood in front of him in her unflattering underwear, her cheeks already burning with humiliation. She felt tears welling in her eyes when she looked at the paddle again. Her hands behind her back, she tugged at the band of her panties, pulling them up in the vain hope of covering her large, round buttocks a little more. The fabric tensed between her legs and she felt a shiver of pleasure running up her spine.
Sitting in his office chair, he beckoned her over, and she came, submissively, to lay across his lap. His hand held her at the waist, firm, warm. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. She deserved to be punished, she knew it. The first blow of the paddle came as she was about to say how sorry she was. Instead, she moaned loudly and kicked her legs. The paddle came down again, slapping across her round ass, setting it on fire. She gritted her teeth, trying to keep as quiet as she could. With each of the hard, heavy hits that followed, she felt the guilt leaving her, the pain washing it all way. The paddle fell again and again, and the more she hurt, the better she felt. Tears were rolling freely down her cheeks, and she sobbed with abandon, having never felt that relieved despite the shame, the humiliation, and the pain.
When her bottom felt like it couldn’t take any more of a beating, Mr Jones finally relented, and let her go. He directed her to the corner, where she stayed a long while, her hands over her head. Thoughts were racing through her head. She felt like the greatest weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She felt liberated. She knew now that there would be consequences for her mistakes. She didn’t have to internalise all the guilt anymore. She didn’t have to do it alone. She dared a glance back at Mr Jones, who was busy working at his desk. Her bottom was still burning hot. She loved it.
Sportsmanship
Truth be told, Lola had always been a bit of a bitch, to her classmates, to her teammates, to her younger sibling, and to any student that she deemed not good enough for her. That included me, and pretty much everyone outside her very exclusive clique. As devious as she was smart, she had all the teachers convinced that she was a perfect little angel, never late, rude, or troublesome. The one person she had never managed to get in her pocket was the football coach, Mr. Makarov. Notoriously bad-tempered, he had threatened multiple times to get us what we deserved if we weren’t playing fair or showed poor sportsmanship. Up until that day, no one had known what what we deserved meant.
That day, we were losing, badly. By half-time, the other team was leading three-nil, and Lola was losing her temper. She mouthed off one of the defence players on our team, berating her last play and mocking her for having messy hair, freckles, no friends and whatever else she could think of. The girl was on the verge of tears, which only made Lola more vicious. When Mr. Makarov came in the changing room, though, no one was brave enough to complain to him, knowing that Lola would make our lives hell once the game was over if we did.
The second half came, and Lola was still fuming. Come on, you bunch of losers, she muttered as we went back to the field.
“What was that?” Mr Makarov’s voice came from behind her.
“Nothing, sir,” Lola said with a perfectly innocent smile. She rolled her eyes as she ran away to take her place in the team. The match went on, and even though we were holding our own, we weren’t marking any goals. Time was ticking. More and more frustrated, she was getting aggressive, physical. When Carly lost the ball on a promising move, she started cursing at her, checking first that Mr Makarov was far on the other side. We said nothing. When the other team went on the attack, she pursued their star player and, with a little angry cry as her adversary was about to get away with the ball, she spitefully tackled her from behind, sending her tumbling down face first in the mud. Getting up with a satisfied smile, she even kicked the downed girl for good measure. Grinning, she went for the ball when she realised that the referee had been frantically blowing his whistle and running towards her. On his heels was Mr Makarov. He did not look impressed.
What followed was probably the greatest thing we saw all year. Mr Makarov, I kid you not, proceeded to take Lola over his knee, and give her the spanking of a lifetime! She was crying, sobbing, yelling, and we were all looking at her, us and the other team. He pulled her shorts down and carried on spanking her with his large, scary hands. The referee was taking care of the poor girl who’d faceplanted and seemed to be totally ignoring what was going on, but I could see he was grinning too. There was a murmured OoooOOOooh when Mr Makarov pulled Lola’s panties down, exposing her to everyone. By then, she was begging and begging for him to stop, threatening to tell everyone from her mum to the Prime Minister; I don’t think Mr Makarov cared, and she wouldn’t have found a single witness to back her up. Once we cropped him out, though, nothing stopped the pictures from making the rounds, and for the rest of the year, Lola got a taste of her own medicine as everyone, even her previous “friends” mocked or ignored her in equal measure.
Hardwood Academy – New Headteacher
Extension
Hell’s kitchen
Some roommates are easier to live with than others 😉
La disparition
(in English below)
Depuis le début du confinement, ils ont un système. Il a bien fallu, parce qu’au début, ça ne marchait pas. Dans les pieds l’un de l’autre toute la journée, c’était pas possible. Au bout d’une semaine, elle en était à trois, voire quatre fessées par jour. Ça ne laissait pas beaucoup de temps pour les réunions Zoom, ça, et franchement, ses fesses avaient un peu de mal à suivre. Et elles avaient mal tout court, aussi.
Donc, le système. Au lieu de passer à la proverbiale casserole tout de suite, il lui fait noter ses bêtises dans un petit carnet qu’ils laissent sur la table basse du salon. Ça donne quelque chose comme ça :
Lundi – 9h25 – lâché un ‘p*tain’ quand j’ai renversé mon café sur le bureau.
(Il n’aime pas les gros mots.)
Mardi – 10h40 – Dansé seins nus derrière son ordi portable pendant sa téléréunion avec le patron
(Il aime ses seins, mais là, il est au boulot.)
Mardi – 16h – fait la tête et refusé de lui parler jusqu’au diner parce qu’il ne voulait pas que je fasse des lasagnes pour le quatre-heure, mais honnêtement c’est vraiment [gribouillis illisibles]
(ne pas garder la ligne, c’est une chose, mais se comporter comme une gamine capricieuse, c’est non)
Jeudi – 14h03 – Gribouillé un zizi dans le Grand Carnet de Punition Très Important
(Franchement ?!)
Arrivés en fin de semaine, ils font les comptes, et, si besoin, elle est punie. Jusqu’à présent, il y a eu besoin. Il se demande même si elle n’en profite pas un peu, la miss. Au final, une grosse punition, c’est sans doute moins que le cumul dans la semaine. Mais au moins, il peut lui faire rendre des comptes et, petit à petit, il y a moins de choses dans le carnet. Ou des choses moins sérieuses, au moins.
Cette semaine, cependant… Ce n’était pas une bonne semaine. C’est les nerfs, ça, et la pluie. Rester isolée, ça ne lui réussit pas, mais alors pas du tout. Bah ouais. Elle était grognon, là, elle l’avoue, c’est bon ? Pffff.
Il s’assoit sur le canapé pour faire les comptes. Pas de carnet. Sur le meuble télé, peut-être ? Elle ne sait pas, elle ne l’a pas vu. La dernière vois qu’elle l’a utilisé ? Bof, il y a deux semaines, peut être ? Sourire innocent. Sérieusement ? Peut-être hier… Oui elle l’a remis sur la table. Non, elle ne l’a pas caché. Elle n’oserait pas, voyons, quelle idée… Ce manque de confiance, alors, c’est consternant. Non, elle ne se moque pas. Non, non, elle ne prend pas ce ton moqueur exprès. Oui-oui, elle arrête tout-de-suite-sinon-ça -va-barder. Oui m’sieur.
Il fait le tour du salon, de la cuisine, pas de carnet. Il commence à perdre patience. Ils avaient un système ; si elle préfère les punitions instantanées, elle peut le dire ! Pas sur que ses fesses apprécient, mais c’est toujours une option ! Elle boude. Non, elle ne veut pas de fessées tous les jours, mais elle ne l’a pas, son fou… fichu carnet. De toute façon, il sait très bien ce qu’il y a dedans, non ?
Il le sait. Et c’est pas joli-joli… Mais il veut faire les choses correctement. Alors elle va chercher le carnet, elle a cinq minutes, après ça il va chercher le paddle, et elle ne va pas aimer ce qui va suivre.
—Mais je l’ai pas ton carnet, putain !
Elle se couvre la bouche des deux mains, les yeux écarquillés. Oh non. Oh non non non non… C’est sorti tout seul. Elle est stressée. Elle est désolée. Elle… Elle…
Elle est penchée sur le bureau, des larmes plein les joues. Ses fesses sont cramoisies, brulantes, douloureuses. Elle serre les dents quand un autre coup de paddle ajoute à sa douleur. Elle pleure. Elle est désolée, elle ne sait pas ce qu’elle a. Elle fera des efforts, promis. S’il te plait ? Il fait une pause. Elle souffle. Elle a les yeux fixés sur le bureau. Elle essaye de trouver quelque chose pour la distraire de l’incendie de sa croupe. Il n’y a rien. Des papier, des stylos, un carnet, un ordi… Un carnet ? Non mais… Il se fiche d’elle ?
Elle se relève, le carnet à la main. Et c’est quoi ça ? Ce serait pas le divin carnet ? Ah oui, il l’avait pris hier soir pour jeter un œil. Ah bah il est gonflé, le monsieur. Oui, oui, elle devait être punie mais il a fait fort là, non ? Et il l’a accusée pour rien ? Franchement, c’est pas juste.
Ah non, non, les bisous ça suffit pas ! Il se prend pour qui ? Ça, c’est un mois d’amnistie, minimum. Bon, une semaine ? Quatre jours, okay. Mais s’il le perd encore, c’est elle qui brandira le paddle, non mais oh…
Since the start of lockdown, they have a system. They had to because at the start of it, things just didn’t work. In each other’s way all day, it just wasn’t doing it. After a week, she was getting three or even four spankings a day. It didn’t leave much time for Zoom meetings and, honestly, her bottom was having trouble keeping up.
Thus, the system. Instead of getting it there and then, he asks her to write all her misbehaviours in a little notebook that they leave on the living room’s table. It goes a little like this:
Monday – 9:25am – said ‘f*ck’ when I spilled my coffee all over the desk
(He doesn’t like rude words)
Tuesday – 10:40am – Danced topless behind his laptop as he was having an online meeting with his boss
(he likes her breasts, but he’s working)
Tuesday – 4pm – sulked and refused to talk to him until dinner because he wouldn’t let me make lasagne for an afternoon snack, but frankly that’s [illegible scribbles]
(not keeping to the diet is one thing, but acting like a wilful brat is a no-no)
Thursday – 2:03pm – Scribbled a willy in the Big Big Very Important Punishment Notebook
(Honestly?!)
At the end of the week, they tally it up and, if needs be, she gets punished. So far, she’s needed it. He even wonders if she doesn’t do a little of it on purpose. After all, one big punishment is still probably less than the sum of all of her misbehaviours in the week. But at least he can hold her accountable and, little by little, there are less things in the notebook. Or less serious things, at least.
This week however… It wasn’t a good week. It must be nerves. And the rain. Being isolated doesn’t become her, not at all. Yeah, she was grumpy, so? She admits it, all right? Pffft.
He sits on the sofa to make the tally. No notebook. On the TV stand perhaps? She doesn’t know, she hasn’t seen it. Last time she saw it? Meh, two weeks ago maybe? Innocent smile. Honestly? Maybe yesterday… Yes, she put it back on the table. No, she didn’t hide it. She wouldn’t dare, of course… That lack of trust is just appalling… No, she’s not being funny. No, no, that mocking tone isn’t on purpose. Yes, yes, she stops it right now or-else-she’s-going-to-regret-it. Yes, Sir.
He goes around the living room, around the kitchen, no notebook. He’s starting to lose patience. They had a system; if she prefers instant punishments, she just has to say! Not sure her bottom would like it, but it’s always been an option! She sulks. No, she doesn’t want daily spankings, but she doesn’t have his fu… fudging notebook. Anyway, he knows what’s in it, doesn’t he?
He knows. But he wants to do things fairly. Thus, she will get the notebook; she’s got five minutes, then he’s going to get the paddle, and she won’t like what is going to follow.
“But I don’t have your damn notebook, for fuck’s sake!”
She covers her mouth with both her hands, eyes wide. Oh no. Oh no no no no… It just came out. She is stressed. She is sorry. She… She…
She is bent over the desk, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her buttocks are crimson, burning, painful. She grits her teeth when another slam of the paddle adds to her pain. She’s crying. She is sorry; she doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She will make lots of efforts, she promises. Please? He pauses. She breathes. Her eyes are down, looking at the desk. She tries to find something to distract her from the burning fire in her rump. There isn’t anything. Papers, pens, a notebook, a laptop… A notebook? Is he kidding her?
She gets up, notebook in hand. What’s this? Isn’t it the Holy Notebook? Ah, yeah, he had taken it last night to have a look. Well he’s got some nerve, mister. Yes, yes, she had to be punished, but he went a bit overboard, didn’t he? And he falsely accused her? Honestly, it’s unfair.
Oh no no, kisses aren’t enough! Who does he think he is? It’s a month’s amnesty, at least. Right, a week? Four days, okay. But if he loses it again, she’ll be the one wielding the paddle…
Sabrina, or a Woman’s Scorn
Sabrina walked down the corridor to the hotel room where she was to meet her next client, a semi-regular she knew as Roy. Her high heels clacked on the floor as she checked her make-up in her pocket mirror. Room 207, that was it. She knocked on the door. Roy was a little, shy man, a tad overweight. He always tried to make her smile, and often brought her gifts, on top of the money she asked. She found him amusing if a little pathetic. She was wearing a pair of earrings he’d gotten her in the past.
She checked that her hold-up stockings were still up, readjusted her hair. He liked lingerie, Roy, stockings, corsets, that kind of thing. He probably like to pretend he was fucking some high-class bitch for a time. Men and their power fantasies. She mentally shrugged. Whatever floated his boat, really; he payed well, wasn’t complicated to please and had never been violent in any form. She heard a click, and the door opened. She put on a sultry voice, “Hey Roy, wh—”
It wasn’t Roy. Instead of the short, balding man she was expecting, a middle-aged woman stood in front of her. She looked furious.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Sabrina said, “I must have the wrong room.”
“Are you Sabrina?” the woman said, sneering as she said her name.
“Yes, but—”
“Come in.”
Startled, she obeyed, and the woman closed the door behind her.
“Roy didn’t tell me there would be another—”
“Roy isn’t coming.”
“Oh…”
“And I’m his wife.” The woman glared. She was tall, slim, she wore heels, a neatly cut blouse and matching skirt. This was his wife? Sabrina was starting to think that there was more to Roy’s tastes than she had thought.
“Oh… Roy never mentioned…”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” the wife said, grabbing Sabrina’s wrist “That little weasel…”
She pulled her towards a chair that was set in the middle of the room.
“What are you doing?” Sabrina cried out.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson, you little whore!”
“What? Let me go!”
The woman said nothing, sat down, and pulled Sabrina over her lap.
“Wh-what are you doing?!” Sabrina cried again.
The answer came in the form of a hand smashing down on her bottom with a loud *SLAP!*. She cried out, in pain and in surprise.
“Stop! What the fuck! I’m not a kid!”
“Well, I’m surprised a whore like you isn’t used to that kind of thing,” the woman said dismissively as she lifted the young girl’s skirt and slapped her ass again, harder.
“Stop or I’ll call—”
“The police? Your pimp?”
Sabrina said nothing.
“That’s what I thought,” the woman said with a cruel smile as she kept slapping and smacking Sabrina’s poor bottom. After a few minutes of hard slaps from her and protests from the young call-girl, the woman grabbed Sabrina’s lacy thong and pulled it down to her thighs.
“Stop! That’s enough!” Sabrina said, trying in vain to reach out behind her and protect her bruised behind.
“You’re going to take it like a good little slut,” the woman said, her tone cold as ice, “and you are never to see my husband again, understood?”
Frigid bitch, Sabrina thought.
“But he’s the… OOoow! He’s the one that.. Ow! Oww!”
“Un *SLAP!* der *SLAP!* stood? *SLAP!*
“Yes! Yes! God’s sake! Leave me alone you crazy bitch!”
“Oh you’re going to regret this…” the woman said. Her hand still firmly holding Sabrina’s waist, she reached into her purse and took out a spatula. Sabrina saw it and hated it at once. She hated it even more when the first hit came. It was biting, vicious, that little silicon thing. It made her cry out, and tears began to roll down her powdered cheeks as the slighted wife got her revenge on her crimson ass. The spatula came down again and again, leaving marks and welts as it went, making her cry, beg, and scream. From experience, she knew that that hotel had well sound-proofed rooms —it was one of the reasons she met clients here— and nobody would come to save her from this mad woman.
“Count them,” the woman said.
“What?” Sabrina said through her tears.
“Count. *SMACK!* Them.” *SMACK!*
“Oww One! What do you want from— Owww! Two! Three!”
“Atta girl. I’m starting to enjoy this.”
Sabrina said nothing, the fire in her bottom robbing her of any witty retort. The spatula kept hitting, and the crying call-girl did as she was told, counting them as they came down. Ten, twenty. She squirmed and kicked and screamed to no avail. Thirty, forty. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t do anything but focus on the pain, not daring to think what would happen if she missed the count.
“Owww! Forty eight! Owww! Forty nine! OWW! Fifty! Please! Please!” Sabrina begged.
“And one for good luck,” the woman sniggered and hit her full force with the spatula. Sabrina cried out. There was a wet patch on the carpet were her tears had been continuously falling.
The woman all but threw the young girl on the floor, were she lay, trembling and sobbing, her bottom throbbing with pain. She caught a glimpse of her bottom in the full-length mirror on the wall and gasped. It was a deep, crimson red, marked and blotched with bruises. She heard the woman putting the spatula back in her handbag. After a minute, the wife came to stand over her, a smug look on her face, waving her finger as one would in front of a misbehaving child.
“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, Sabrina,” she said, saying her name with venom still.
Sabrina nodded frantically.
“I won’t see R— your husband ever again.”
The woman scoffed, “You better hope so.”
Sabrina sniffed and winced as she rubbed her bruised ass. She wouldn’t be able to see any clients for a while. There was a lot she wanted to say to that woman, none of them good things, but she felt it wiser to stay silent.
“Oh, and by the way,” the woman said, “I don’t even want to know what my little prick of a husband paid you, but I rather enjoyed this, so there.” She let a few banknotes fall down on the call-girl.
In a way, that was the most humiliating of it all.
Teenage taming
