Tag: story

Landlord visit

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Claire whistled as she came down the stairs. The 22-year-old student was in a good mood, and was ready to go out with her friends, global pandemic be damned. She jumped over a pile of random boxes and glanced at the kitchen sink as she passed it in the corridor. It was full —had been for a week, really. But who cared? Sure, there was an ecosystem developing in there, but wasn’t like she was getting visitors, and doing the washing-up was boring anyway.

She slipped-on a pair of trainers and was about to open the door when somebody knocked. She jumped. As far as she knew, she wasn’t expecting any delivery. Startled, she adjusted the glasses on her nose and hesitantly unlocked and opened the door. In the corridor stood her landlord, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Ah, Claire, there you are!” he said, “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks!”

“Hum, err, I…” she mumbled, blushing. Yes, there was that little issue of the rent not having been paid for the last two months; that had totally slipped her mind.

“Can I come in?” he said, his tone making it clear the question was purely rhetorical. She moved away from the door to let him in.

He looked around and raised a concerned eyebrow gazing at the absolute mess, the old pizza boxes, the dirty socks, the empty bottles, and more besides. Claire was looking down at the floor, twisting her hands together as her cheeks burned with shame.

“I…” she started, not finding anything more to say. The pink-haired student, normally so bubbly, couldn’t see a way to justify how she had let herself go so badly. Blame it on COVID, she thought, half-heartedly. She knew it wasn’t that. She was a procrastinating slob at the moment, and she could only blame herself for it.

Her landlord, Mr Dawson, seemed at a loss for words just as much as she was. He was slowly shaking his head in disbelief and making his way towards the kitchen. Panic settled in Claire’s gut and she blurted out, “Wh-what can I do for you, Sir?”

He turned around, his hands on his hips. “Well, I came to check you were all right, since you weren’t answering your phone, or emails, or texts…”

“Hum… Yes… I was, err, I’ve been very busy you see and…”

“I can see that…” he said, looking around in dismay. She nodded nervously and looked down, her blushing showing no sign of going away. He continued, “Mostly, we need to talk about your unpaid rent…”

She looked up, shyly, then down again. “I know, I’m sorry…” she mumbled.

“I know things are tough at the moment, Claire,” he started, then pointed at all the delivery food packages strewn around, “But I’m not sure you have your priorities straight…”

“No Sir…” she whispered.

“What was that?”

“No Sir,” she said again, louder.

“Do you think this how you should keep your flat?” he continued, gesturing at their surroundings.

“No Sir…”

“And about the rent?”

“I will pay it, Sir…” she said, her head still bowed.

“In full and on time?”

“Y-yes, Sir…”

“All right, I’ll give you until the end of the week…”

“Thank you, s—”

“I’m not finished!” Mr Dawson interrupted, “I will be back on Sunday to check that you’ve cleaned this mess, and for the rent. And before I go, I’m going to give you a taste of the consequences, should either not be done by then.”

“Con-consequences, Sir?” she said, looking up at him worriedly.

He cleaned an old Domino’s box off a chair. “You are going to come over my lap, and I’m going to spank your bare bottom, young lady.”

Young lady? She thought. He was not a decade older than she was. Wait, that wasn’t even the point, she corrected herself. A spanking? What was he talking about?

“I… I don’t think you can do that…” she said, looking away.

“No? Don’t you think you deserve one? Look at this place! It was just re-done when you came in. I remember your mother telling me how you were a very neat and ordered student…”

“Yes…”

“Do you want her to know about this mess you’ve done?”

“No! Please…”

“And I can only guess at how your university work is going…”

She said nothing. Tears were welling in her eyes. She was a mess, she knew it. She missed home, she missed rules, she missed being held accountable. Yet… a spanking?! Like a misbehaving brat?…

He sat down on the chair, waiting for the cogs to stop turning in her head. Finally, she bowed her head and shuffled her way to him, walking around a mouldy curry tupperware and what looked like the rest of some Chinese. He pointed at her jeans. “Pull them down”

“Please, Sir…”

“Pull. Them. Down.” he said, unmoved by the tears of shame that already had started rolling down her cheeks. She bit her lip and undid her belt buckle, then pushed her tight jeans down, revealing a tiny pair of white panties. He was gracious enough not to comment further and indicated her over with a shove of his head. She approached, closed her eyes, and went to lay across his lap. She felt his firm hand holding her side and she shuffled slightly, trying to find some comfortable position despite the shame and humiliation. Her comfort, however, was the least of Mr Dawson’s concerns, and he made that very clear when the first of many heavy slaps landed on her perky, offered bottom.

“Owww!” she yelled out in pain and surprise. Sure, she’d been spanked before, but he was clearly not going easy on her. Each slap made her wince in pain and kick her legs. After a dozen slaps, she was already crying openly. “Please! Sir! Mr Dawson!” she cried, trying to wiggle her way off his lap. He held her in place, unwavering. Clearly, he had done that before. “That’s enough! Owww! I’ll clean up! Please!” Relentless, the slaps came, hard and fast, a staccato of pain on her rump.

“STOP!” she yelled and tried to protect her burning cheeks with her hand. He paused. For a moment, she thought he had listened, and that her nightmare was over. she lowered her shoulders and sniffled. “Let me go, Sir… I..” Then his hand grabbed the elastic band of her panties, and she panicked.

“No! Nonononono! Please!”

“I told you I was going to spank your bare bottom.” he said, matter-of-factly.

“No, please! I’ll clean! I’ll pay the rent on time! I’ll do anything you want!”

With one pull, her panties were down to her mid-thighs and her bottom bared for him to admire and punish as he willed. She clenched her buttocks, foolishly hoping to hide her intimacy and to make what she knew was coming hurt less. With the first slap, she knew it wouldn’t work.

The thin fabric of her panties hadn’t protected her much, she knew, and maybe it was all psychological, but the flesh-on-flesh slaps felt ten times worse. Maybe it was that her bottom was already burning, maybe it was the sheer humiliation of having her ass bared for a man —pretty much a stranger— to see. She wailed with every merciless slap, knowing that there was nothing she could do to stop them. Through her tears, she looked at the mess around her, and knew that it was what she needed. I will change she thought with every stroke of Mr Dawson’s large hand, I will change, I will change, I will change, I will change…

Finally, after an eternity of pain and tears, she found herself standing in the corner, her hands over her head, her burning cheeks on display. Her phone on the coffee table was counting down 45 minutes, and even though she knew that Mr Dawson had left, she dared not move away from the corner. The mantra kept repeating in her head, I will change, I will change, I will change, I will change…

She would make him proud on Sunday. Her burning bottom was a dire reminder of the consequences if she didn’t. But mostly, she knew that she would make herself proud.

Rhetorical

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“It’s not faaaaair!” she yells as the slaps rain down on her bottom. He doesn’t listen, his hand coming down hard and making her cry out in pain once more. Her bottom, red even before he pulled her panties down, is throbbing with pain. Added to the pain is the humiliation of knowing that her pussy is on display, wet with desire, all but begging for his cock. And he won’t give it to her.

“Please!” she pleads once more. He ignores her, the slaps steady and merciless.

“It’s extremely fair,” he says between two hard slaps.

“But…” She bites her lips, stiffling a moan as his hand spreads and caresses her burning cheeks.

“What was the rule?” he asks, punctuating the question with a sharp slap.

“Ooww!”

“What was the rule?” he asks again, spanking her harder.

“Oww! No… Oww!! No porn during working hours…”

“And what were you doing?”

“I… Please…”

“What *SMACK!* were *SMACK!* you *SMACK!* doing?”

“I was… watching… naughty things, but…

“But?”

“Working from home is so boooooring! It’s not fair!”

“You know how you get…” he says, his hand lightly brushing her dripping pussy, sending shivers up your spine, “You get yourself crazy excited, and then you come and distract me… I have to work too…”

“Mmmmhm… Yes… Distracting, yes…” she says, moaning. She feels his hard cock against her belly and his fingers linger, caressing, probing her. She closes her eyes. He finally realises that ending over his lap was her plan all along. “You’re not even sorry, are you?” he says.

A rhetorical question.

Stowaway

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It was when food started to mysteriously vanish from his cabin that Captain Flintsworth became suspicious. Knowing his crew, there was little chance they would be drawn to fruit when there was plenty of jerky and ale below deck. The HMS Exultant was a 3rd rate ship of the line, and boasted a crew of nearly six hundred sailors, none of which, he thought, would risk being caught in his cabin just for some taste of aging fruit. That, and the fact his prized bottles of fine whisky and rums had been left undisturbed left him unsettled. Yes, he thought to himself, the case of the vanishing fruit was most suspicious indeed.

In more busy days, he would probably have forgotten about it, or, more likely, wouldn’t have noticed in the first place. A ship this big was like a little village, and there was always something to do, orders to give, people to supervise, courses to plan. The 70 guns that adorned the Exultant weren’t for show, and he had pirates to hunt for the glory of Britannia.

Still, the seas were calm, and they were a long way yet from the pirates’ most frequented routes. Smooth sailing so far had meant that the Captain had had time on his hands. One evening, after noticing that, once more, somebody had been in his cabin in his absence, he decided to catch the thief in the act. Insubordination was better dealt with while they were in untroubled waters. Who knew what could happen later… The next morning, he put a new display of fresh fruit —well, as fresh as he could have them— in evidence, and, having given discreet orders not to be disturbed for the day, he lay in wait, hidden behind a carved panel that cleverly concealed a little nook in the side of the cabin.

The hours passed with monotonous boredom. He could hear his first mate yelling at the sailors, the rush of the waves against the ship, and the wind blowing in her sails. Still, the food lay undisturbed. Maybe, he thought, this was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe he had just been eating the fruit himself, distracted by one of his many tasks. Maybe he had caught some illness of the mind… No! he told himself. He was sound of body and mind, he knew he was. That nagging doubt, that gut feeling was enough for him. He had risen to captaincy by trusting his instincts, and they wouldn’t let him down this time either.

Noon came and went, and he wished he had taken food with him in his secreted alcove. Yet, he prided himself for his self-discipline, and didn’t relent. He would catch the thief, and he would see to his punishment personally.

Another hour went by, and another. Finally, as he was about to give up, eyeing the dark brown rum bottle on the side to drown his sorrow, there was movement. To his surprise, it didn’t come from the cabin’s door, but from the windowed gallery that lined the stern. Someone was getting in through the narrow windows. Someone small and remarkably nimble. Young, for sure, one of the ship boys.

The intruder looked around, suspiciously, and got to the table where the fruit awaited. Quickly, he pocketed an apple, grabbed another and took a huge bite out of it. The Captain, triumphant that his instincts had been right, but confused as to who that ship boy was, all but lept out of his hiding place and grabbed the boy’s wrist.

“Now I have you, little thief!”

The boy let out an anguished cry that seemed an octave too high and tried to escape. As he did so, the Captain’s suspicion got stronger, and he grabbed the thief’s oilskin jacket, pulling it off.

Underneath it was, clearly, not a ship boy. Wearing a leather corset and a puffed-sleeves shirt that used to be white over a pair of leather breeches, the thief was a young woman.

“Let me go!” she pleaded, terrified.

“Who in the heavens are you?” he asked, sternly.

“No one! Let me go!”

“No one, huh? I don’t think so. I think you’re a stowaway, young lass, and a thieving one at that.”

“I was hungry, I was!”

“Why are you on board? Answer me!”

“I…”

“Well?”

“I want to sail the seas! I want to fight ’em pirates!”

“You… What?”

“For England! For the Queen!”

“Yes, yes, Glory to Britannia and all. It doesn’t explain how you got on my ship, and how you think you’re going to defeat pirates if you’re a thief, no better than them!”

“I… I was just hungry!”

“You will adress me as Captain, understood?”

“Y-yes…”

“Yes Captain!”

“Yes Captain…” the girl said, hesitantly.

“Better. Sit.”

He forced her down on a chair.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Is-Isabelle, Sir, Captain, Sir.”

“Captain will do.”

“Yes, Captain, Sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Right… What am I going to do with you, Isabelle?”

“I… I don’t know Sir, I mean, Captain.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t have a woman on board.”

“But…”

“It’s bad luck.”

“You don’t—”

“But more importantly,” in interrupted, “there are 600 men on board, who haven’t seen a woman since we set sail. How did you stay hidden for weeks?”

“I know my way ’round ships, Captain… My da is a shipbuilder, he is.”

“I see… Well that doesn’t help me, does it…”

“Maybe…”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I could… Be your servant? Keep your room—”

“Cabin.”

“…Your cabin in order and such things?”

“A maid?”

“I would serve you well, Captain, been a maid since I was 6, me.”

He eyed her up and down.

“Were did you find these breeches? And the oilskin?”

“Nicked them from my brothers…”

“And the corset?”

“… A wench at the tavern…”

He shook his head.

“The shirt was mine!” she said with a warm smile. “Ma would have tanned my hide if I’d lost it”

“She would have, would she?”

“Oh for sure, Captain. ‘Never too old for a spanking’, my Ma says.” She nodded, gravely.

“Well, I agree with that!” the Captain said with a dry smile. “Get up”

She obeyed and he took her place on the chair.

“I cannot in good conscience let you out of the cabin, it is far too dangerous out there for a young lass. Maybe keeping you as a servant could work…”

She nodded enthusiastically and opened her mouth to say something, but the Captain lifted a finger up.

“However!” he continued, “thievery is a crime, and crimes must be punished. Your Ma is a wise woman, she must have had the measure of you.”

“What… What do you mean, S-sir? Captain!”

“I mean I’ll be the one to tan your hide, Isabelle, and you better believe I won’t go easy on you!”

“Oh but… Ca-Captain…”

“Pull your breeches down,” he said, his voice commanding.

She blushed and looked at the windows, then at the door. Finally, she looked back at him, his arms crossed over his chest. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed.

“Y-yes, Captain…”

Her leather breeches pulled half-way down her thighs, she came to lay upon his lap, a thin piece of home-sewed undergarment barely covering her pearly white buttocks. He wasted no time asserting control and pulled them down to her thighs as well. She let out a pip of embarrassment but said nothing, fully aware that her fate was, quite literally, in his hands.

Immediately, his large, callous hands fell down on her rear, making her yelp and scream. She kicked her legs as more slaps rained down, accompanied by the Captain’s scolding. Theft, lies, deception, hiding herself aboard his ship, there were countless things to atone for. Her bottom jiggled and bounced under the slaps, and tears streamed down her blushing cheeks. Both the heavy slaps and her cries were covered by the waves, the sails and the creaking of the boat. Still, she expected the door to barge open at any point, letting in countless sailors to witness her humiliation and exposed intimacy.

The door stayed closed, mercifully, but the punishment only gained in intensity. Large, broad slaps were falling down on her burning ass, and she begged the Captain for mercy, for leniency, for respite. She promised him everything she could promess, she said again and again that she was sorry, that she would make it up to him. She wore it on her Ma, on her Dad and on the Throne of England. She cried, and moaned and begged again until, at last, he relented and let her catch her breath.

Getting her off his knees, he led her to the hitherto hidden alcove and had her stand in it, her hands over her head, her bruising, fire-red bottom on display for his enjoyment. Bad luck or not, he thought, she was there to stay. He found that he didn’t mind. He was sure Britannia would understand. Call it a gut-feeling.

While the Cat’s Away…

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“Unacceptable!” Madame Clairmont muttered as her hand came down on her maid’s already reddened bottom.

“Just unacceptable!” she said again, her ire making her slaps all the harder.

“Nein! Madame, please!” Belinda pleaded, tears rolling down her blushing cheeks.

The stern older woman kept repeating the same word, like a mantra, marking every syllable with a heavy slap.

“Un- *SMACK!* ac- *SMACK!* cept- *SMACK!* ta- *SMACK!* ble!”

Older or not, Madame’s hand didn’t seem to tire, and Belinda kept clenching and unclenching her buttocks, moaning in pain, begging for mercy.

*SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* it continued.

It had all started when Madame Clairmont had left that morning, leaving Belinda, her German maid, to do her usual cleaning of the house. As she did every morning, Belinda had opened the windows to let the fresh morning air in. Suddenly, a cat had jumped through the window, and proceeded to run straight for the kitchen. “Was zur Hölle!” exclaimed the young, surprised Belinda, and she ran after it.  As she did so, her feather-duster hit Madame’s jewellery stand and the precious earrings and necklaces fell on the floor. As she paused to try and pick some off the floor, she heard a loud crash in the living room. She hurried herself there, only to find a vase in pieces on the floor. Oh Scheiße… she thought and went after the cat.

It had reached the kitchen, making straight for the work surface where food lay, ready to be prepared. The fresh fish seemed to be of particular interest to the kitty, and, having grabbed one, it jumped back towards the living room, passing between Belinda’s legs. She turned around only to see the cat dragging the wet, smelly fish all over the dense, expensive carpet. Ach du heilige Scheiße!

“Komm hierher!” she called the cat, who let the fish fall down on the carpet in a wet splosh to meow at her. Just as she thought she might catch the elusive intruder, it run away again, and in her hurry, Belinda slipped on the fish. She fell down and crashed into the coffee table, sending the ashtray that was on it to the ground. Of course, she hadn’t emptied it yet. Madame tended to smoke a few cigarettes in the morning, she knew. It was now all over the fishy carpet. Das kann doch nicht wahr sein!!!

The accursed Katze meowed again, as if mocking her, and she got up, her vengeful feather-duster held high. Finally, she managed to chase the cat out the window it had come in. As she caught her breath, trying to process what had just happened, she heard the unmistakable click of the front door opening. She closed her eyes. Surely, this was all a bad dream.

“OH MON DIEU!” she heard Madame Clairmont say, and then a loud “BELINDA!”

Before she could offer an explanation, stammering as she was in a mix of German and French, Madame had pulled her over her lap, pulled her skirt up and started raining hard slaps on her quivering bottom. The small thong that she was wearing didn’t afford her any protection, and she felt Madame’s anger in full. “Unacceptable, Belinda,” Madame Clairmont was saying in her thick French accent, “Totally unacceptable!”

And the slaps came, and came, and came again. Belinda was crying, begging, still trying to explain what had happened as her bottom turned from pink to red to dark, throbbing crimson. As more slaps came down, she could swear she heard a mocking meow in the background.

My Naughty Babysitter

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess…” I said.

“Hum… Did you…”

“See that?”

“Yeah…”

“I guess I did…”

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

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

“I…”

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

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

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

“Okay, well… Don’t…”

“Tell my parents?”

“Please?”

“I think they’d like to know…”

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

“And they’d probably tell your parents…”

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

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

“What?…”

“You’d definitely get a spanking…”

“A what?”

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

“I… I don’t…”

“Just saying…”

“What are you saying exactly, Jack?”

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

“What? No!”

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

“No! Wait!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? But… But…”

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

“No… Oww!”

“Yes…”

“No, please…” she begged.

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

“…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

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

Naughty Teacher

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

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

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

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

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

He pointed to his screen.

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

“Emails, Sir?”

“Emails, pictures.”

“I don’t follow…”

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

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

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

“Oh, no, Sir, I… I never meant…”

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

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

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

“…”

“Well?” he snapped.

“It’s more comfortable, Sir…”

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

“Consequences, sir…?”

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

“Yes, sir…”

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

“No sir but…”

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

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

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

“What, sir?”

“Underwear, miss Hill! Underwear!”

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

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

“Sir… Please…”

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

“No, no! Please!”

“Your skirt, young lady.”

“Y-yes, sir…”

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

He walked up to her.

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

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

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

Then she screamed.

And she screamed.

And she screamed again.

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

She screamed and she cried heavy, ugly tears.

She screamed and she begged.

She screamed and she sobbed loudly.

She screamed and trembled, arching her back.

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

She screamed and prayed for it to just end.

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

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

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

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

Clumsy Tamika

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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.

Nope

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“Owwww!” Lexi cried out, “Owww! Stop!”

“Nope…” said Keisha, her hand coming down once more on Lexi’s bare bottom.

“You made your point!” Lexi cried again.

“Nope…” Keisha said, nonchalantly, landing another hard slap. Lexi’s ass was a deep red by now, and Keisha’s added a few hard slaps to her thighs for good measure.

“Keisha… Owww! Please! Please!”

“I think I’ve told you I would stop once I was happy with your punishment?” Keisha’s hand hurt, but she didn’t let up, spanking her roommate without a pause.

“But surely… Owww! Surely by now…”

“Nope…” The slaps came again and again, hard, strict, painful.

“Keishaaa…”

“That’s my name, yes?” Her hand went down once more, unwavering.

“I’m sorry…”

“There are two things I can’t stand, Lex…” Keisha said, her hand like that of the law, heavy and punishing.

“Yes?”

“Liars and thieves.” Merciless, she kept landing slap after hard slap on Lexi’s bruised, crimson round cheeks.

“I’ll make it back to you! I’ll buy it all back!”

“I’m sure you will.” She went for the thighs again, making Lexi cried out in pain. She wouldn’t be able to sit for a while, that was a given. Good.

“Keish—Oww! I’m sorryyyy…”

“Yup.” She went from full-palmed hand slaps to dry, quick one with the tip of her fingers. Lexi’s bottom wiggled and bounced as she winced and wiggled, helpless.

“Please stop…”

“Nope…”

La disparition

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(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

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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.