Tag: writing

Headgirl (Hardwood Academy)

Kalidwen4 Comments

Now, Grace was smiling. It wasn’t the nice kind of smile; no, it was the smile of someone who knew they were going to get exactly what they wanted. And what Grace wanted was revenge.

That morning at the Hardwood Academy for Troubled Girls had started like any other, with Mrs Evans and Maddie, the Headgirl, doing their rounds. Beds were to be made, rooms were to be in order, underwear to be inspected, the usual, important things. Maddie was holding a clipboard and ticked boxes beside each of the girls’ names as they went. Tick, tick, tick, the sound of her pen was precise and mechanical as Mrs Evans greeted, inspected, congratulated the girls for a task well done.

Hardwood Academy, it was important to know, was not a place were girls were sent to be punished. Rather, it was a place where they were rehabilitated. Punishment was a necessary and, to be quite honest, frequent part of the process, but it was not the goal; it was merely an unfortunate consequence of the lack of discipline the girls had endured in whatever past lives had brought them into the care of the Academy.

Mrs Evans, now a veteran teacher of nearly thirty years, believed passionately that she was giving these girls the greatest gift that one could: that of a second chance. Young adults as they might be —between 18 and 25, typically, though the Academy had been known to take in older offenders— these girls had, for all intent and purposes, wasted their formative years. Being treated as students again, being taught again, being disciplined, and being kept to account: it all was in service to their future.

And so, every morning, Mrs Evans’ praise was genuine whenever girls got it right. Genuine, too, was her disappointment when the girls didn’t, and firm her hand punishing such failings. This morning, so far, she had had nothing but praise to give. Tick, tick, tick, Angela had gotten it right, as she had for the past seven days. That would earn her a gold star, which Maddie dutifully noted on her form. The Headgirl was in charge of handing out rewards at the end of each week, something she enjoyed immensely. Mrs Evans had moved on to Petra, tick, tick, tick, and Juliet, tick, tick, tick, and so it went. A very good morning, Maddie reflected, looking at her sheet where every box was ticked. Even Rachel, the latest arrival, was doing well. She was on her way to earn her first Gold Star. Maddie was looking forward to awarding it.

The school, with its routines, its rules, and its harsh discipline, made the girl form bonds very quickly. Part of it was the shared misery of the punishments —sometimes very public, often group ones— but it was also that all of them had stories of hardship that few outside these antique walls could relate to. In being sent to the Academy, they had found peers and, for some, genuine friends.

Maddie had sighed, a happy sigh far from her past worries, and checked her list. Just two girls left. Anna and Grace. Mrs Evans knocked on the door of the two girls’ room, at the end of the dorm corridor, and entered. Teachers did not wait for a response, as the girls always needed to be ready for inspection. Knocking was a courtesy, privacy was a privilege, and privilege was earned.

Anna and Grace jumped up from their beds, and stood by them as Mrs Evans threw a quick and experienced glance around the room. The wan sun of the English late autumn wasn’t the warmest, but it shone nonetheless through the dustless windows. Its rays illuminated the small room, the beds well made, the two study desks with neat piles of textbooks, the newly-polished shoes by the door. Mrs Evans turned to one of the girls, Anna, and the girl turned around, lifted her skirt and bent over slightly to present her underwear. Maddie noted that welts were still visible under the appropriate white knickers that Anna was wearing. The Headgirl had been present for that particular caning the previous day. A sordid affair of chocolates that had gone missing from the communal pantry, and a trail of wrappers fallen from Anna’s schoolbag. Maddie suppressed a smile. Theft was a serious offense, no matter how ridiculous the object of it was, or how clumsy the thief.

Anna had been summoned to the Headmaster’s office at once, and Maddie, as Headgirl, had been there to be a witness to the discipline. It was one of her duties, even if it was far from her favourite. Before being elevated to her current status, she had been on the receiving end of many a punishment herself. Hand spankings, rulers, paddles, tawses, straps, canes, she had had close encounters with all of them in her first two years at the Academy. Many tears, broken promises, mouth-soapings, long reflections in corner-times later, she was now a model student, soon to leave the Academy and to go back into the wider world a better person.

Helping other girls do the same was a fulfilling duty, even if it was sometimes hard to bear. Still, having another girl present for any punishment ensured that there was never a risk of impropriety, and that the one punished would have a sympathetic soul to comfort her as soon as the punishment was over.

Each of the twelve strokes that Anna had received had made Maddie shiver. The whip-crack! of the cane, followed by a cry, the wobbling of the legs, the bright red marks that criss-crossed Anna’s bottom… It was impossible not to feel bad for the poor girl, and yet Maddie knew it was for the best. Even as she shivered (or was it a little envy she felt?), she couldn’t look away, mesmerised by the round buttocks quivering, getting back up for the next stroke. The Headgirl had pressed her thighs together, her hands wrung behind her back, her cheeks blushing red.

Maddie had walked Anna back to her room after that, and even offered to rub lotion on her aching bottom until if felt a little less sore. She kept a reserve of it in her room —an individual one, a perk of the position— just for that purpose. Anna had gladly accepted, and for the next half an hour, Maddie had gently rubbed and caressed Anna’s red, round bottom that she had been unable to keep her eyes from earlier. Maddie was glad now to note that the marks didn’t look as bad as they had done the day before.

“Maddie?” Mrs Evans asked, an eyebrow arched. The Headgirl snapped back to the present as Anna straightened up and brought her skirt down. Maddie nodded, blushing, and tick, tick, ticked the boxes in front of Anna’s name. Mrs Evans gently tapped Anna’s shoulder and whispered “Well done, girl…”. She turned to Grace, who hadn’t said a word and was keeping her eyes firmly on the ground.

“Now, Grace…” started Mrs Evans.

“I haven’t done anything!” said Grace, still looking at the floor.

Mrs Evans’ eyes narrowed, “No one said that you did, dear…”

The girl didn’t answer, her cheeks blushing. Mrs Evans let the silence hang uncomfortably, her eyes on Grace as Maddie and Anna looked at each other. The other girl made a little gesture with her head, looking down at Anna’s bed. Maddie raised and eyebrow and mouthed ‘What?’, but Anna shook her head quietly.

“Well girl?” said Mrs Evans, her eyes still fixed on Grace, “Something weighing on your conscience?”

“No Miss…” said the girl, unconvincingly.

“Mrs Evans…” Maddie started, “Do you mind if I have a look at the bed?”

Grace’s eyes widened, fixed on the Headgirl while Mrs Evans tutted and made a quick nod. “Go on, then, Maddie,” she said with a shake of her head, “I thought this morning would grace us with a flawless start, but it seems Grace here had other plans for us…”

Grace said nothing, still standing in front of the bed.

“Well, move aside, young lady,” said Mrs Evans impatiently, “and we might as well inspect your underwear while Maddie has a look at your bed.”

With a sigh, Grace moved to the side, turned to face the wall and bent over while pulling her skirt up in a fluid gesture that spoke to days and days of well-practiced routine. Mrs Evans passed a finger along the inner elastic that stretched across the girl’s presented rear, pulled on it slightly to adjust it. Grace couldn’t help but shiver, expecting to feel it being pulled further and it slapping back on her bare skin. Nothing happened. Mrs Evans didn’t comment either, clearly waiting for something. Then Grace heard the Headgirl’s voice, and her jaw hardened instantly.

“Mrs Evans…” Maddie said, “I think I found something.”

From her position, looking away and bent over at the waist, Grace couldn’t see what Maddie was handing over to Mrs Evans, but she closed her eyes in dismay and swore under her breath, knowing full-well that the damned Headgirl had found her—

“Cigarettes, Grace?” said and outraged Mrs Evans. It was not a question that expected an answer, just a statement of how disappointed the woman was. “I can’t believe it!” the teacher continued, “And you were doing so well…”

Cigarettes, of course, were not allowed on campus, and any girl found to be in possession of them —or worse, trying to sell them to others— could expect to be severely punished. Yet, as is often the case with prohibited items, there were always ways of procuring them, and there were always girls willing to take the risk.

Mrs Evans grabbed a pillow and all but threw it on in the middle of the bed. “Put your hands down on there,” she said tersely, and she gave Grace’s presented behind a slap to get her moving. Grace yelped and immediately did as she was told, pivoting to the bed and bracing herself on the pillow. She didn’t think to protest. She knew there was no point. She had been caught, and there were to be consequences. In a strange way, there was something reassuring about that certainty. She wasn’t glad to have been caught, and she would certainly regret it a lot more in a moment, but the anxious tension of the forbidden smokes hidden away inches from her could be hard to bear.

“Maddie, the hairbrush,” said Mrs Evans, and any thought of reassurance vanished in Grace’s head.

“I-I left it in my room,” the Headgirl stammered.

“Well run and get it, girl!” Mrs Evans exclaimed, exasperated.

“Y-yes Miss!” siad Maddie, and she disappeared through the door. The whole time, Anna had stood very still in the corner, and she was doing her best to stay quiet and not be noticed, lest Mrs Evans question her on how she hadn’t noticed the smell of the cigarettes on Grace and come to inform a teacher immediately.

Mrs Evans walked two steps to Grace and pulled her skirt down, them immediately started spanking her over it with her open palm, her other hand resting on the small of the girl’s back, pinning her in place. The slaps were heavy and loud, even over the skirt, and Grace, hardened as she was, winced in pain.

“Cigarettes,” Mrs Evans muttered, “filthy habit. And bad for you, as we’ll demonstrate…” Her hand fell some more in a staccato of pain, left-right-left, the metronome of a music teacher beating its steady rhythm on the bottom of the punished girl. But as stinging as it was, Grace new it was merely the overture, the prelude to the concerto and its wooden soloist, the hairbrush.

Lost in the metaphor, she jumped when she felt her skirt being pulled up again, her bottom warm bow under the white cotton knickers. That they had passed inspection would do little to help her case, and Mrs Evans was back to spanking her reddening cheeks soon enough. Without the heavier fabric of the skirt, the slaps felt more powerful, heavy palmfuls and stinging finger-tip slaps that stung like hell.

“Where is that silly Headg—” Mrs Evans started.

“I’m here, Miss!” Maddie said, breathless, and she help the hairbrush high.

Of course, this wasn’t just any hairbrush. It was made of a deep red wood, lacquered with care, and it was emblazoned with the crest of the Hardwood Academy, a grand Oak tree above crossed canes and a fleur-de-lys. Nobody had ever used it to actually brush any hair, but it was passed from Headgirl to Headgirl as a status symbol, and as a tool of discipline should they ever need it during a night-walk. Maddie had seldom needed to use it, and it had not featured in morning rounds in quite a while, since the faults that were found tended to be minor, and a quick but thorough hand-spanking usually sufficed. Today however…

Mrs Evans offered her open hand, and Maddie quickly shuffled over and hand her the wooden implement. Grace’s breathing was heavy with anticipation, her legs trembling slightly. Anna was still very quiet, unable to take her eyes off the red that showed just under the white knickers of her roommate. Maddie went to stand besides her, and grabbed her hand as Mrs Evans’ first swat of the brush fell on the misbehaving girl. The effect was immediate and stark, Grace’s hands tightening over the pillow and letting out a cry of pain and surprise. If the hand spanking had been vigorous, it was nothing in comparison to the wicked redwood that now danced over her ass. She did her very best to remain still, but her legs were buckling, her foot stomping, her head rearing back with each hit.

Maddie’s hand gripped Anna’s a little tighter as they both saw Mrs Evans stop and swiftly pull Grace’s white knickers down to mid-thigh. Tears were rolling down the girl’s face already, and all present knew that the worse was yet to come. Neither of the two girls could take their eyes away from Grace’s perfectly round buttocks, and they couldn’t help but glance down between her legs. Both girls had been in various degrees of nakedness in front of their classmates before, of course, and hey had long accepted that intimacy and privacy was not a comfort that they could enjoy during their time at the Academy, but there was something just so fascinating about it all. Mrs Evans turned to the Headgirl.

“Maddie, since you were kind enough to find the cigarettes for me, I think you should finish this,” she said, holding the hairbrush over to her. Maddie hesitated.

“Are you sure, Miss? I…”

“Do I look unsure, girl?” Mrs Evans said, and Maddie could see that her arm was trembling slightly. Age, perhaps? She nodded and took the offered hairbrush.

“How much…?” she said, unsure.

“I will tell you when to stop,” Mrs Evans simply said, nudging her head towards the heavily breathing Grace. Maddie stepped to her and raised the hairbrush.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered, and the swats that landed immediately made a liar out of her.

Grace very nearly let a shit escape her lips as the first dozen strikes hit her already tender behind. Maddie was not holding back, and the resentment that Grace felt towards her grew to hatred. Her left cheek was on fire, then her right, both peppered with explosions of pain that left her reeling. She bent her head low and clenched her teeth, tears fully streaming down her face and onto the pillow that she was about to tear in two with how hard she was gripping it. She moaned and cried, unable to keep silent any longer. The pain was agonising, and she hated hated hated the Headgirl. She hated Sarah, who had gotten her the cigarettes, she hated Anna, who clearly was a little snitch, she hated Mrs Evans, and she hated this stupid place. Most of all, she hated that she had been stupid enough to end up here. In the end, it always came down to that. She had been the one that had made all the wrong choices, she had been the one that had messed up her whole life, and she was the one who had landed herself in this mess. And so with each heavy impact of the hairbrush smashing against her sore bottom, she regretted her past mistakes a little more.

“That’ll do, Maddie,” Mrs Evans said after what felt like an eternity of agony.

When all was said and done, Maddie closed the door behind her and Mrs Evans, leaving Anna to administer some aftercare to Grace’s bruised bottom. The Headgirl had reminded Grace that she would need to have a follow-up punishment the next day, to which the chastised girl had only responded with a grunt. That had probably been for the best, as Maddie could guess the kind of thoughts that had been going through her head at that point. She sighed. Again, she had been there before. Being Headgirl wasn’t always easy, and she remembered well resenting the girl that had been hers in the past. Still, in the end, it was for the best of all. She trotted to Mrs Evans, who had started to walk back up the corridor.

“Do you need me for anything else, Miss?” asked the girl, and Mrs Evans shook her head. Maddie noticed that she was rubbing her arm. So she was in pain, she thought.

“It’s all right, Maddie,” Mrs Evans said, “I’ll see you in class this afternoon”

“Yes Miss,” Maddie nodded. Another morning done.

***

The day went by as most did, with little excitement to report. Mr Javeed, the business teacher, had to correct two girls —Gemma and Lilly— who had “forgotten” to write their assignments for the day. However, given that they both appeared to magically find their completed work minutes after being taken over Mr Javeed’s lap, Maddie suspected that both girls had a crush on the young, handsome teacher, and that he was still too naïve to notice that that had been exactly what they had been looking for. Maddie had to admit that the man was a snack, and that she wouldn’t mind having his hands all over her, but she had not pushed that thought quite as far as the two other girls. She made a mental note to make a comment in passing to Mrs Evans so that she might give the young teacher some warning. Still, there had been little harm, and the day had been a good one.

Back in her own room, Maddie thought back to the morning, and to the thrashing she had given Grace. Truth be told, she felt a little guilty. She rarely had to punish another girl quite so severely, and she had thought that Mrs Evans would make her stop long before what had actually happened. By the time she had been done, Grace’s bottom had been a crimson shade of red, deep and throbbing. Before pulling her underwear back up, she had rubbed her hand in circles over the crimson cheeks, marvelling at how blazing hot they were. In more ways than one, she thought, and her hand found its way beneath her skirt and between her thighs. She closed her eyes and sighed happily. Unbeknownst to Mrs Evans, Maddie had not been wearing any knickers that morning during the rounds, and, in fact, had not been wearing any all day. The daring act made her even more wet as she thought of how hard she would have been punished if she had been found out. Mrs Evans liked her —that was how she knew that her undies wouldn’t be inspected— but nothing would stop her from given her ass a tanning for the ages if she found out that she had been taking advantage of her trust. Her fingers found their ways inside her, and she moaned softly. She thought of Grace and her perfect little ass. So red, so…

She jumped as she heard the door close with a clack. Grace was standing in front of her bed, arms crossed, a hard look on her face.

“Well well, look at you, Headgirl…” Grace said, “And not even wearing knickers, huh?”

“I… I took them off… I…” stammered Maddie

“Yeah right…” said Grace, “I think we all noticed when you bent over to to get your pen in maths…”

“N-no, I… You would have said something then!” Maddie said, getting up defiantly.

“Oh yeah?” said Grace, staring, “And deny myself the pleasure of dealing with you myself?”

Maddie crossed her arms, mirroring Grace’s pose, “You… you can’t prove anything!” she said.

“Like I said, at least five of us saw it, so…” Grace shrugged, “I thought I’d do you a favour…”

“A favour?” asked Maddie.

“Whatever I’m going to do to you, it’ll be nothing compared to the caning you’d get for going commando the whole day!” promised Grace. “The Headgirl, no less…”

“I… I…” tried Maddie, but nothing came to her.

And so now, Grace was smiling. It wasn’t the nice kind of smile; no, it was the smile of someone who knew they were going to get exactly what they wanted. And what Grace wanted was revenge. She pulled a chair and sat down without another word.

Head bowed, Maddie shuffled to the other girl. To think that a moment before, she had been thinking of her and… Maddie blushed, unsure what to feel about that. Grace was angry, and that made her even more attractive, in a way. Maddie lowered herself over the girl’s lap. Grace didn’t bother starting over the skirt, electing instead to bare the Headgirl’s bottom immediately. She caressed it with her nails, eliciting a soft moan from Maddie. Her hand grabbed one of the Headgirl’s buttocks and squeezed hard. Maddie moaned harder.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” she asked, fidgeting.

“Judging the merchandise…” Grace grinned.

“The.. what?” Maddie said, confused, aroused, shocked. She had not been expecting that.

“Nice ass…” Grace simply said.

Maddie had not expected that at all. But before she could answer, Grace’s hand had lifted high and come crashing down hard on Maddie’s exposed, quivering bottom. The pain exploded in her backside, travelling all the way up her spine and making her gasp. The hand came down again and again and again, driven by revenge, by pain, and by lust. Maddie felt it fall on her bottom, over her sitspots, over her thighs. Fingers got lost on their way, caressing her, probing her between her thighs. Breathless, she didn’t know what to think. Grace was relentless, punishing one moment, caressing the next, and Maddie could only guess what was going to come next.

It didn’t take long for Grace to grab the hairbrush from the table on which Maddie had put it earlier that day, and with relish, she brought it down on the quivering Headgirl who didn’t know whether to scream with pain or with the need she had to feel Grace’s hands and tongue all over her, inside her. She squirmed and panted, and moaned and cried, giving herself all to her tormentor. Her ass was on fire. Her thighs were wet with desire. Her tears were flowing and her nipples were hard. She tensed and pressed her legs together, hoping for release. Grace was still spanking her, punishing her. Maddie yelped as a hard stroke found her thigh. The hairbrush clattered to the floor and she felt Grace’s hand forcing itself between her legs. She parted them, giving the girl access to anything she wanted.

“You love that, don’t you, you slut?” said Grace.

“Y-yes…” Maddie said, breathless.

“Say it” Grace barked.

“I-I love it…” Maddie panted

“Say you’re a slut” Grace ordered, her fingers deep in the other girl, twisting and twirling maddeningly.

“YES!” Maddie yelled, “Yes! I-I’m a slut, please… Don’t… Don’t stop…”

“Say it again…” Grace said, her breath heavy now too.

“I… I’m a dirty little slut… Who likes to… Aah… Who likes to go around without… Oh god… Without any underwear…”

“I see…” grinned Grace, “What else?”

“I… I touch myself and…”

“And?”

“I was thinking of…”

“Yes?”

Maddie erupted in spasms as Grace continued to work her lustful magic in her. With a laugh, Grace let her fall softly to the floor and got up, towering over her as she still jolted in ecstasy.

“You owe me smokes, Headgirl”

“Y-yes, Grace… What-Whatever you want…”

“And next time…” Grace started, then she paused, pensive.

“Y-yes?” Maddie said.

“Next time I get to cum…” said Grace, and she left the room.

Fin

You can find other stories taking place in Hardwood Academy here

Work indiscretion

Kalidwen1 Comment

“Samantha? In my office please”

It wasn’t often that Samantha Parker —Sam to her friends and most of her colleagues— was called to her boss’ office, and the call from across the open-plan floorspace startled her.

The plump, 25 year-old brunette took her earbuds off, got up, blushing, and quickly trotted her way to her boss’ door, all the while trying to ignore the bemused and quizzing looks that people were giving her. Summoned into the principal’s office in front of the whole class, that was what it felt like.

She knocked on the door, despite it being open.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Lawson?” she asked, timidly. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and her work had been as good as always, so why did it feel like she was in trouble? God she felt like an idiot. Have a bit of self-confidence, Sam! she told herself. If only it were that simple…

Mr. Lawson gestured for her to come in. “Close the door,” he added. She did as told, and approached the desk that was taking most of the space in the busy office.

“Have a seat, Samantha,” her boss said with another wave of the hand towards the furniture, and again she did as told. The chair was comfortable, if a bit small for her round behind. She crossed her hands on her lap, not knowing what to say. Several seconds went by. Mr. Lawson was looking away at his computer screen, the clicks of his mouse and the ticks of a clock that she could not see were the only sounds breaking the heavy silence.

Finally, with one last click, he turned to her, took his glasses off and pinched the brow of his nose. He looked at her, “Honestly, Samantha, I don’t know what to say.”

“A-about what, Sir?” Sam asked, worried. What was he on about? was she actually in trouble?

“You’ve been a good employee, very good record, good numbers…” Mr Lawson continued.

“Thank you sir…?” she said hesitantly. It did sound like there was a but coming…

“But,” he began —there it was—, “I don’t know what to make of this I.T. report I just got.”

“I.T., Sir?” Sam asked again, “I don’t really do I.T., I’m sure you know? I do marketing and—”

“I know what you do,” he interrupted, “But you do it all on company computers and phones, correct?”

“Well, yes…” Sam said, still unsure where this was going, though a knot of worry was forming in her belly.

“And you know it’s all monitored, yes?” her boss asked, his gaze unflinching. The knot got bigger, tighter.

“Of course…” she said in a small voice. The pieces were starting to fall into place but surely there was no way that—

“Even the incognito windows in your browser… Yes…?” her boss pressed on, his piercing gaze unflinching.

Samantha blushed like she had never blushed before. Oh no, no, no, she thought, not the private windows… That was safe, right? Nobody could see that… surely? She opened her mouth to reply but nothing was coming out.

Mr Lawson sighed, “I think you’re beginning to see the issue?”

She closed her mouth and swallowed.

“‘Archive of Our Own’, is it?” he asked, “What a strange name for a website… They tell me here it’s… stories? Fan-fiction, whatever that is?”

Sam nodded, looking away. Mr Lawson continued, “But it’s not just any kind of stories you were reading during work hours, miss Parker, was it? More of the… Well, you know the kind.”

Again, all that Sam could do was nod shyly, looking down at the floor, blushing. She didn’t want him to list the various degrees of depravity that she enjoyed reading about. There were lots of tags that she enjoyed, none of which she would like to admit to, most of which revolving around discipline, punishments and naughty girls getting their comeuppance. How ironic, she thought.

But Mr Lawson was not done yet, to her great dismay. He looked back at his screen and scrolled down. “And then there is the matter of…” he took a deep breath, “Spanking-tube-dot-com?” He paused a moment, seemingly taken aback that the words had even left his mouth. He looked back at Samantha, who was squirming in her chair, all manners of thoughts racing through her head.

“Miss Parker?” he said.

“Yes…” she managed to squeak, still not looking up, “I’m… I’m sorry Sir…”

“You’re sorry,” he echoed.

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I… I wasn’t thinking…”

“No, you clearly weren’t… You work in marketing, right? What do you think this does to your image, to your personal brand, so to speak?”

“Nothing good…” Sam said.

“Nothing good,” he echoed again.

“Are you… Am I getting fired?…” she asked, a few tears now rolling down her bright red cheeks.

“Misuse of company property is quite a serious offence…” he said, ominously.

Sam covered her mouth with her hand, holding back a cry.

“However,” Mr Lawson continued, “given the circumstances I think there is another way we can deal with this… indiscretion. Or indiscretions, plural, I should say…”

Sam finally looked up. “Anything, Sir, I’ll do anything!”

Her boss got up and cleared his throat, “Well then, I think it is fitting that given your… track record… you should see what all you’ve been reading is actually like. No?”

The cogs were turning in Sam’s head. “Do you mean…”

“A spanking, yes. Over my knees, right in this office,” he said, and instantly Sam felt a warmth spreading between her pressed legs. She chewed on her lip, her heartrate shot up, and she could have sworn her eyelashes futtered for an instant.

“Oh but, Sir…” she tried to plead, unconvincingly. What was there even to say? Please don’t punish my round, pale, deserving, naughty bottom, Sir? was probably not going to cut it, and it was all that she could think of right now.

“You can take it or go and pack your desk, Miss Parker. I think you are well-positioned to understand that there should be consequences to one’s actions, yes?”

Suddenly, all these stories, all the fantasy felt very real. A spanking, really? On her boss’ lap? That sounded like the premise of too many videos that she had stroked herself to. On company time, maybe, but that didn’t hurt anyone… Well, except her bottom, if they went through with it…

Her boss looked at his watch. “Well? What is it to be?”

“I… I—” Sam stammered.

“You’ve been naughty, haven’t you, miss Parker?” he said, and the way he said it, the little smile he was wearing betrayed how much he was enjoying this. Shit, she had fantasised about this exact scenario before. In fact, she had daydreamed about her boss’ large, callous hands taking her and—

“Y-yes…” she heard herself say,

“Yes who?” he said, sternly. Shit, shit, shit, he knew exactly what he was doing! Was he… was her boss a spanko?!

“Yes, Sir!” she said, as if they had done it a thousand times before.

“And naughty girls get punished,” Mr Lawson said. He was not asking.

“Yes, Sir,” she said again, feeling her breathing deepen and quicken. She felt the familiar warmth spreading now. She knew that she was as wet as she was ashamed. And she was very, very ashamed. “Will you s-spank me on my b-bare bottom, Sir?” she asked, looking up at him, simpering a little. This was all a game to him, wasn’t it? He knew what she wanted…

“Is there any other way?” he asked, moving his chair away from his desk and tapping his lap.

“No, Sir,” she said, smiling now, biting her lip. She got up and went to him. “Should I take it off now, Sir?” she asked, her hand on her hips, doe eyes looking sideways. Two could play that game.

“Don’t be so hasty,” he said, “we have all the time we need… We’re on company time”

And with a smile she lowered herself upon his lap for the punishment that she had dreamed of for a lifetime.

a man in a suit spanking a big bottomed girl over his knees. Her dress is pulled up, her underwear pulled down to her thighs and she is crying. Her bottom is a dark crimson and fully exposed. She is blushing and looking back.

A Visit from HMAO

Kalidwen2 Comments

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.

Officer Patterson, of HMAO

“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.

Officer Patterson giving an otk hand-spanking to Hannah, with her yoga leggings and knickers down. her bottom is bright red and she is crying

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

Kalidwen4 Comments

“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?

An illustration of Freya, a young 20 year old girl, spanked by her mother over the knee with a small wooden paddle. Her jeans and panties are pulled down and she is crying

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.”

Horoscope

Kalidwen1 Comment

“Is it… Is it really necessary, Sir?” Ryleigh asked, her panties only slightly pulled down, the elastic band taught in her fingers.

“Down they go, Ryleigh,” he said firmly. Mr Wright was not in the habit of repeating himself.

“But it’s so… humiliating,” she pleaded, “I’m in my underwear already, surely that is—”

“Did I ask for an opinion, or did I ask you to take your panties off, young lady?” came the reply, cutting her short.

“Yes, Sir,” she mouthed, and she felt the caress of the fabric on her long, shapely legs as the panties fell to the floor. Despite her embarrassment —or was it because of it? — she shivered.

Without another word, he indicated his lap and, blushing red, she shuffled towards him and her impending punishment. “This can’t be happening”, she thought. And yet, it was. A spanking, she was going to get a spanking like a misbehaving child, her bottom bared for her boss to see and punish as he saw fit.

This was not how she had pictured the day going. In fact, according to the horoscope that she was reading with her breakfast that morning, it was going to be “a day to try new things”. That had sounded exciting then! On her way to work, she had decided to take that advice to heart and instead of her usual black coffee, no sugar, no milk, thank you very much, she had even ordered a fancy, multisyllabic, sort-of-Italian-sounding monstrosity of a drink. Sipping on the surprisingly tasty sugary drink, she had wondered what else she might discover she liked that day.

The morning had been her usual mix of boring admin and exciting gossip with Samantha, who always had the tea to spill. Mr Wright had fired his assistant; she had told him. Apparently, said assistant had made a mess of a big client’s account, and Mr Wright had had to spend two days patching things up. But that was not the juicy part! According to Samantha —who had a reputation for embellishing the truth for dramatic effect, in all fairness—, Mr Wright had given her assistant a choice: being fired on the spot, and possibly sued by the company, or receiving a punishment and being let go with a generous severance package. Giggling like a schoolgirl at a sleepover, Ryleigh had asked Samantha what she meant by “a punishment”, to which the latter had answered, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “A big ol’ fashioned spanking!”

Ryleigh had laughed out loud at the absurdity. Samantha really had a wild imagination, but she was good fun.

Later that day, a company-wide email had been sent, advertising the position of Mr Wright’s assistant. It came with quite a few benefits, flexible hours, and a big pay increase. Ryleigh remembered the horoscope. “A day to try new things.” Maybe that was the opportunity she had been waiting for? After all, there was nothing to lose. Gathering her courage, she had gone and knocked on Mr Wright’s door.

She estimated that he was in his early 40s, with dark hair just starting to turn grey. Tall, athletic, she had never seen him in anything but smart clothes, even on casual Fridays. Mr Wright was someone who took pride in his work, and who expected a lot of those under him. Samantha had told her that she had tried to invite him on a date —such a Samantha thing to do—, but he had told her that he had, quote, “no time for dating.” Not that that had stopped Samantha trying again several times, but to no avail.

“Ah, Ryleigh, is it?” Mr Wright had said as he opened the door to his office to let her in. She had been pleasantly surprised that he even knew who she was. “Yes, Sir,” she’d said, feeling like a schoolgirl in front of a headmaster. “I would like to apply for the position…”

“Of course, of course”, he’d said, sitting down behind his impeccably kept desk. In fact, the entire office was tidy. There was not a scrap of paper out of place, the books on the shelves were organised alphabetically, the plants symmetrically arranged on the windowsill. “Well,” he continued, “we can certainly give it a go today and see how it goes. But I have to warn you: I have high expectations. If you are not prepared to give this your all, then I would not bother trying.”

She had nodded, “Of course, Sir, I wouldn’t expect anything else!”

“I can assume you have read the job description and all its conditions?” he asked.

“Yes of course.” She hadn’t, really, not all of it. It was a PA job, nothing too novel, and the tasks and duties were the normal fare. Or so she had thought.

“Perfect, let’s sign your contract and you can begin your trial period, shall we?”

And just like that, she had become Mr Wright’s assistant. That had been four hours previously.

The memories still rushing through her mind, she lowered herself onto his lap, trying to ignore the shame, the mere idea that she was laying over her boss’ lap, her bare bottom on display… All that she was wearing now were a pair of high heels and her bra. Her skirt and blouse were on the desk, neatly folded. Her panties were still on the floor where they had fallen off her legs. Somehow, it was worse than being naked. She shivered again. His hand felt warm against her waist where he held her in place. She could smell his cologne, and she caught herself thinking that it smelled quite nice, like Samantha had said it did. “What the hell is wrong with me?” she thought, “Of all the things to be thinking of…”

Her train of thought was immediately interrupted as his other hand tapped her perky bottom a few times, surprisingly gentle. “Was that it, then? Had it all been a big joke to see how far she would go? That was quite—” His hand slammed into her bottom, and she let out a loud cry. The pain was as immediate as it was searing.  Without giving her time to catch her breath, another slap came down, targeting her other cheek, then came another, and another, and one more, relentless, heavy, painful slaps that made her kick her legs and brought tears to her eyes.

The new job had started easily. Her task had been to get acquainted with the accounts that her new boss was handling personally. Ryleigh an eye for detail, numbers, facts, and she was eager to please. Within the hour, she had written a memo detailing the most important aspects of each client, and he had praised her on her diligence. She had even found an error that the previous assistant, Clara, had made. He had muttered something about Clara getting off easy, but she had not dared enquire further. Ryleigh was positively glowing. This was going to be a great career move; she was sure of it. Then things had started to get more complex, and she had made a few mistakes. Nothing big: typos, files in the wrong folder, or in the wrong order. Mr Wright hadn’t said anything bad to her then, but simply tutted as he had rearranged the pages or pointed the mistakes. Blushing, she had made all the changes immediately, of course. Thinking back, the blushing had been foreshadowing, it seemed. From then, it had only gotten more complex, and she found herself struggling to keep up with the amount of detail that she was expected to remember. But all would have been fine if not for the email. The one email that clearly said “confidential”, the same email that had now been forwarded to the company’s entire mailing-list. The problem with working for people high up at a company was that mistakes came with a lot more consequences, as she had been about to painfully find out.

The moment the send confirmation sound had pinged off the computer, she had known that she was in trouble. Blushing still, head bowed and eyes wet with incoming tears, she had knocked softly on Mr Wright’s door. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t needed to. She knew that she was going to be fired, that was clear. Not even half a day into the job, and she had made the biggest blunder of her career.

“You know what your contract says,” he had said, an affirmation rather than a question.

“A-about termination?” she had said, sheepishly.

“About dealing with grave misconduct or severe mistakes.”

“I…” she had hesitated, “I don’t…”

“Let’s have a look again, shall we?”

And there it was, black on white, with her signature right underneath: “In case of gross negligence, the employee acknowledges that they will submit themselves to corporal punishment, namely one (1) bare bottomed spanking taken over the knees of their direct line manager.”

Her eyes had widened as she had read and re-read the passage several times. It couldn’t be true. And yet, that was the contract that she had signed. She had swallowed, not daring to look Mr Wright in the eyes, and thought of Samantha’s silly gossip. Not so silly after all…

“I think that is pretty clear, yes?” he had asked.

“I-I…” she had stammered.

“To be clear, you are not being fired, miss Collins.”

“I… I’m not?”

“No, but you understand that mistakes must have consequences.”

“Yes but… A spanking, Sir?”

“A time-tested method, absolutely.”

“But Sir…”

“It’s your career and your reputation on the line, Ryleigh. I would rather shoulder the responsibility for that mistake and keep you as my assistant, but I cannot tolerate mistakes going unpunished.”

“Is that… Is that what happened to Clara? Did she choose not to be punished like… that?”

“Clara was… How could I put it… Clara kept a tube of soothing cream in her desk drawer.”

“For…”

“For her bottom, yes… That’s how often it had to happen. I do not think you will need it quite as much…”

“I…”

“Unless you’d rather walk out the door and pack your things, that is entirely up to you…”

“No I…”

A day to try new things, the horoscope had said. That was all bollocks, right? Stars didn’t really control anything… And yet, here she was, pondering whether a spanking was so bad after all…

Without a word, she had nodded.

“Right!” he had said, slapping his thigh and getting up from behind the desk. “Your skirt and blouse, if you please,” he had continued.

“Ex-excuse me?” she had stuttered, getting more flustered by the minute.

“It’s standard procedure… Blouse and skirt off.”

She hadn’t even thought of protesting further. She had already accepted her fate, what more was that now? With trembling fingers, she had unbuttoned her blouse, and folded it on the desk. Her pencil skirt had been next, and within a minute, she was standing in her underwear in front of Mr Wright, her boss. “What would Sam give to be in that position?” she thought. It almost made her grin. Almost.

Then he had said it. “Your panties too, Ryleigh. It’s a bare bottomed spanking.”

“Is it… Is it really necessary, Sir?”

The slaps kept coming and coming. The tears were freely rolling down her blushing cheeks now, and the burn form her bottom was overwhelming all her senses. Seeing that the only effect kicking her legs had had was to make him spank her harder, she had stopped struggling within minutes of the spanking starting, and had now fully submitted herself to his discipline.

“I expect you to learn from this!” he was saying, and in her mind, she was answering “Yes! Yes, I will!” But all that came out of her mouth were sobs and little cries of pain. She couldn’t see, but she imagined her bottom was crimson by now. She didn’t think she would be able to sit in days.

“With Clara, I had to resort to using a wooden paddle…” he continued, half-comment, half-warning.

She couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. That alone had her promise herself to never have a slip-up that bad again. There were mysteries that were best left alone, and the feeling of a paddle on her bare cheeks was definitely one of them.

After a few more interminable minutes of agony, shame, tears and a good deal of pleading for it to stop, Mr Wright finally did so. She didn’t dare get up, in case he was just taking a break, but a few gentle taps gave her the go-ahead. She got herself up, then let him guide her to the corner of his office were she naturally found herself, hands on her head. Despite never having been punished before, it had seemed like a natural continuation to the punishment. A moment to reflect and gather herself while her bottom cooled. As she would later discover, Clara had left her cream in the desk, a fact that she would be forever thankful for.

Years later, and after many more spankings of varying intensity over Mr Wright’s lap, Ryleigh found herself in the corner once again, and randomly thought back to that silly horoscope, on that fateful day. A day to try new things, it had said, and, thinking about it, it was probably the best advice she’d ever gotten.

Last time, mom!

Kalidwen6 Comments

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.