Sometimes pictures speak for themselves, I think (I hope)
Sometimes pictures speak for themselves, I think (I hope)
Her bottom already crimson from the warm-up spanking over her master’s knees, Becky walked to the glass desk and put her hands on it as instructed, her legs slightly parted at her knees. Standing on the tip of her toes, she pushed her bottom up, a perfect target for what she knew was coming. The glass was cold to the touch under her palms, and she wished she could sit on it and cool her sore bottom.
She shivered; she hated the belt. She hated its burning touch, she hated how it made her cry out uncontrollably, she hated how it meant she had pushed him too far. He would not hold back, how ever few times he would strike her. She screwed her eyes shut as she heard her master’s belt buckle coming undone. He caressed her offered bottom with the cruel piece of leather. She softly moaned.
One lick for her attitude that day.
One for talking back.
One for unfinished chores.
One for snacking.
One for disappointing him.
One to make sure she learnt her lesson.
“Daddy!” the little boy said with a giggle as the door opened, and he ran towards his very confused father. His equally confused mum came followed in and closed the door.
“James? Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked, worried.
James giggled and threw his arms up with a big , adoring smile. His father lifted him up in his arms after putting his own coat away, and began searching through the house for the babysitter. There was a half-eaten pizza still on the sofa, James’s toys were strewn everywhere, the TV was on, showing some cartoons. Jessica, the babysitter, was nowhere to be found.
“Jessica?” the father called, “Jessica, where are you?” There was no answer but a noise upstairs caught his attention. He gave the boy to his mother and went up the stairs immediately, at once angry and worried. Was it a burglar? Had something happened to Jessica? The lights were on in the upstairs corridor, the doors all closed.
He paused and listened. A giggle came out of the spare bedroom and he moved in closer to the door, quietly. Another giggle. His worries burned away, leaving only anger, and he almost kicked the door open. As he’d suspected, the girl was there, with whom appeared to be a very surprised young man.
“Oh my God!” Jessica screamed, startled, as her boyfriend tried desperately to pull his jeans up. The father spared him but a glance.
“Out!” he said, pointing a finger at him and then at the door. He was trying his best to keep his voice down so as not to worry his young son. “Out now!”
The boyfriend hurried himself out without a word, leaving Jessica on the bed, mortified, looking down at the floor.
“I…” she started, then closed her mouth, not knowing what to say.
“Yes?” he said with a glare, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m sorry Mr. Jones, I…”
“How old are you again, Jessica?”
“I… Nineteen, sir, wh—”
“And you think that leaving a four year old on his own in front of a TV is a responsible kind of behaviour? Do you think that’s acceptable? Is that what we pay you for?”
Her blush intensified and she mumbles a little “No sir…”
“What was that?”
“No, sir… I’m sorry…”
“Sorry… You’re going to be sorry. Come downstairs. Right now,” he said, and took a step back against the door, freeing the doorway. She blushed and chewed on her lip a little.
“Yes, Mr Jones… It’s just that… I…” She paused, “I’m not wearing any trousers…”
He sneered, “Don’t worry about that, Jessica, you won’t need them, believe me…”
What followed was a long, hard lesson taught firmly over Mr. Jones’ knees. Mrs Jones, having finally put James into bed, came back to scold her while the slaps continued to pour down on her already crimson buttocks. Tears streamed down her face as she cried pitiful sorries to no avail.
When her bruised cheeks were finally given a rest, she was sent to the corner of the living room and told that she would have to clean up all the mess that she had left with her red, punished bottom on display before she’d be allowed to get her trousers back. She did as she was told, still sniffling and rubbing her round buttocks until she was finally handed her jeans. She winced and moaned softly as she pulled the rough fabric over her tender behind.
She stood by the door, about to leave, her head bowed.
“I’m really sorry, Mr and Mrs Jones…” she said coyly.
“A lesson only has value if it’s learnt, Jessica,” the father said.
She unconsciously rubbed her backside with a pout. “I’ve learnt my lesson, sir…”
“We’ll see, Jessica. Be there at six next Saturday, no delay, understood?”
She opened her eyes wide and nodded forcefully, “Yes, sir!”
She looked back at me, her crimson bottom almost glowing in the subdued lighting. Tears were still rolling silently down her cheeks, even now that the sobbing had stopped. She had her hands against the wall, her tender, round, and bruised bottom on display. The cane strokes had left clear marks on it, straights line on the curves of her buttocks, whiter at their center where the rattan had struck. I could almost still hear the dry, cruel crack of it against her pale skin, a fraction of a second before her cries of pain.
She had not protested when she had been told to bend over the back of the sofa, her hands flat on the cushions, her pale orbs high up in the air. She had shivered and moaned as I had caressed her with the cane —a prelude to the pain to come— but she hadn’t said a word.
The cane had risen and fallen again and again, coming down hard, criss-crossing her behind in fiery lines of pain. She was in tears by the second stroke, bawling by the sixth, stomping her feet in between each hard stroke in the vain hope that it would make the burn go away. She had clenched her cheeks, shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, and withered the storm like the good girl she knew I wanted her to be.
It had started very simply, with a letter. It was a simple, white envelope among all the others that had come that day. She had paid it no mind and it had sat on the pile of letters waiting for him when he got home.
The afternoon had been pleasant; she had baked cupcakes, spent an hour reading her favourite book for the tenth time, browsed Pinterest for a while in search of inspiration for her living-room decoration. Dinner had been simmering on the stove when he’d come home, filling the house with a delicious smell. Five minutes before he came home, she was waiting by the door, her hands behind her back, head bowed subserviently, as she knew she had to be.
He had kissed her, deeply, complimented her on the spotless state of the house, on the mouth-watering smell that came from the kitchen, and had asked her how her day had been. He was in a good mood, tender and loving. She had a happy sigh as she went and fetched him a drink.
Then he got to the letters. He opened the first one and his smile instantly turned into a frown. She came back from the kitchen with a glass of martini in hand and was about to say something when she saw the expression on his face. She froze.
“Ashley?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “Can you explain what I’m looking at?”
“I… I… I don’t know, sir, wha-what is it?” she stammered, red in the face.
“It’s a very formal letter from our credit card company, Ashley.”
“Oh…” she said, her eyes widening.
“Maybe you’d care to explain to me how we are maxed out on it? I don’t remember any purchases lately?”
She bit her lip. “Well…”
“Well I was… I was on the internet and…” She was still holding the glass, and the ice cubes tinked as she shivered with dread. “I’m sorry, sir,” she tried.
“You were on the internet and what, young lady?” he said, getting up, the letter still in his hand.
“I might have… bought a few things?” Tears were gathering in her eyes and she bit her lip harder than before.
“That’s more than a few things, Ashley!” he yelled, holding the letter up to her face.
She started crying, “They were nice and… I didn’t want to wait for my birthday and…”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply. He took the glass from her hand and gently set it down on the nearby coffee table.
“Well, whatever it is that you bought —handbag, shoes, tablet, believe me, I’ll find out—, you’re sending it all back.”
“No, ple…” she started.
“And!” he interrupted her, grabbing her ear like a scolded schoolgirl, “I’ll give you a taste of what you’ll be receiving every night for the next two weeks.”
“Nooo! Owww… Please!…”
Ignoring her pleading and muffled cries, he dragged her to the sofa and across his knees, pulled her jeans down and started generously slapping her round bottom, quickly turning it from creamy white to bright pink, and then from pink to a deep, warm red. She begged and pleaded at first, bawled her eyes out, then gritted her teeth, held tight to the sofa as her punishment went on.
The food in the kitchen started to smell like burning when he finally relented, after he got a long, sincere and heartfelt apology from her in between her sobs. He pulled her jeans all the way off and sent her to save their dinner with a final slap on her bruised bottom. She would have to plan it better for the coming two weeks ; her evenings were going to be a lot less pleasant.
f/f spanking stories/ 18 and above
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[No cats were harmed in the making of this blog. They all love to be spanked.] Exploring the psychology 'behind' spanking through fiction and poetry. Because, nothing says 'I love you' better than a red, sore, bare bottom. Comments welcome and discussion encouraged. I believe spanking between consenting adults leads to closer and more intimate relationships. Spanking is not a kink, not a fetish, not a lifestyle, but rather, a healthy and honest means of communication. Let your mind free and respect will follow. Contact me email@example.com
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