La disparition

(in English below)

Depuis le début du confinement, ils ont un système. Il a bien fallu, parce qu’au début, ça ne marchait pas. Dans les pieds l’un de l’autre toute la journée, c’était pas possible. Au bout d’une semaine, elle en était à trois, voire quatre fessées par jour. Ça ne laissait pas beaucoup de temps pour les réunions Zoom, ça, et franchement, ses fesses avaient un peu de mal à suivre. Et elles avaient mal tout court, aussi.

Donc, le système. Au lieu de passer à la proverbiale casserole tout de suite, il lui fait noter ses bêtises dans un petit carnet qu’ils laissent sur la table basse du salon. Ça donne quelque chose comme ça :

Lundi – 9h25 – lâché un ‘p*tain’ quand j’ai renversé mon café sur le bureau.

(Il n’aime pas les gros mots.)

Mardi – 10h40 – Dansé seins nus derrière son ordi portable pendant sa téléréunion avec le patron

(Il aime ses seins, mais là, il est au boulot.)

Mardi – 16h – fait la tête et refusé de lui parler jusqu’au diner parce qu’il ne voulait pas que je fasse des lasagnes pour le quatre-heure, mais honnêtement c’est vraiment [gribouillis illisibles]  

(ne pas garder la ligne, c’est une chose, mais se comporter comme une gamine capricieuse, c’est non)

Jeudi – 14h03 – Gribouillé un zizi dans le Grand Carnet de Punition Très Important

(Franchement ?!)

Arrivés en fin de semaine, ils font les comptes, et, si besoin, elle est punie. Jusqu’à présent, il y a eu besoin. Il se demande même si elle n’en profite pas un peu, la miss. Au final, une grosse punition, c’est sans doute moins que le cumul dans la semaine. Mais au moins, il peut lui faire rendre des comptes et, petit à petit, il y a moins de choses dans le carnet. Ou des choses moins sérieuses, au moins.

Cette semaine, cependant… Ce n’était pas une bonne semaine. C’est les nerfs, ça, et la pluie. Rester isolée, ça ne lui réussit pas, mais alors pas du tout. Bah ouais. Elle était grognon, là, elle l’avoue, c’est bon ? Pffff.

Il s’assoit sur le canapé pour faire les comptes. Pas de carnet. Sur le meuble télé, peut-être ? Elle ne sait pas, elle ne l’a pas vu. La dernière vois qu’elle l’a utilisé ? Bof, il y a deux semaines, peut être ? Sourire innocent. Sérieusement ? Peut-être hier… Oui elle l’a remis sur la table. Non, elle ne l’a pas caché. Elle n’oserait pas, voyons, quelle idée… Ce manque de confiance, alors, c’est consternant. Non, elle ne se moque pas. Non, non, elle ne prend pas ce ton moqueur exprès. Oui-oui, elle arrête tout-de-suite-sinon-ça -va-barder. Oui m’sieur.

Il fait le tour du salon, de la cuisine, pas de carnet. Il commence à perdre patience. Ils avaient un système ; si elle préfère les punitions instantanées, elle peut le dire ! Pas sur que ses fesses apprécient, mais c’est toujours une option ! Elle boude. Non, elle ne veut pas de fessées tous les jours, mais elle ne l’a pas, son fou… fichu carnet. De toute façon, il sait très bien ce qu’il y a dedans, non ?

Il le sait. Et c’est pas joli-joli… Mais il veut faire les choses correctement. Alors elle va chercher le carnet, elle a cinq minutes, après ça il va chercher le paddle, et elle ne va pas aimer ce qui va suivre.

—Mais je l’ai pas ton carnet, putain !

Elle se couvre la bouche des deux mains, les yeux écarquillés. Oh non. Oh non non non non… C’est sorti tout seul. Elle est stressée. Elle est désolée. Elle… Elle…

Elle est penchée sur le bureau, des larmes plein les joues. Ses fesses sont cramoisies, brulantes, douloureuses. Elle serre les dents quand un autre coup de paddle ajoute à sa douleur. Elle pleure. Elle est désolée, elle ne sait pas ce qu’elle a. Elle fera des efforts, promis. S’il te plait ? Il fait une pause. Elle souffle. Elle a les yeux fixés sur le bureau. Elle essaye de trouver quelque chose pour la distraire de l’incendie de sa croupe. Il n’y a rien. Des papier, des stylos, un carnet, un ordi… Un carnet ? Non mais… Il se fiche d’elle ?

Elle se relève, le carnet à la main. Et c’est quoi ça ? Ce serait pas le divin carnet ? Ah oui, il l’avait pris hier soir pour jeter un œil. Ah bah il est gonflé, le monsieur. Oui, oui, elle devait être punie mais il a fait fort là, non ? Et il l’a accusée pour rien ? Franchement, c’est pas juste.

Ah non, non, les bisous ça suffit pas ! Il se prend pour qui ? Ça, c’est un mois d’amnistie, minimum. Bon, une semaine ? Quatre jours, okay. Mais s’il le perd encore, c’est elle qui brandira le paddle, non mais oh…

Since the start of lockdown, they have a system. They had to because at the start of it, things just didn’t work. In each other’s way all day, it just wasn’t doing it. After a week, she was getting three or even four spankings a day. It didn’t leave much time for Zoom meetings and, honestly, her bottom was having trouble keeping up.

Thus, the system. Instead of getting it there and then, he asks her to write all her misbehaviours in a little notebook that they leave on the living room’s table. It goes a little like this:

Monday – 9:25am – said ‘f*ck’ when I spilled my coffee all over the desk

(He doesn’t like rude words)

Tuesday – 10:40am – Danced topless behind his laptop as he was having an online meeting with his boss

(he likes her breasts, but he’s working)

Tuesday – 4pm – sulked and refused to talk to him until dinner because he wouldn’t let me make lasagne for an afternoon snack, but frankly that’s [illegible scribbles]

(not keeping to the diet is one thing, but acting like a wilful brat is a no-no)

Thursday – 2:03pm – Scribbled a willy in the Big Big Very Important Punishment Notebook

(Honestly?!)

At the end of the week, they tally it up and, if needs be, she gets punished. So far, she’s needed it. He even wonders if she doesn’t do a little of it on purpose. After all, one big punishment is still probably less than the sum of all of her misbehaviours in the week. But at least he can hold her accountable and, little by little, there are less things in the notebook. Or less serious things, at least.

This week however… It wasn’t a good week. It must be nerves. And the rain. Being isolated doesn’t become her, not at all. Yeah, she was grumpy, so? She admits it, all right? Pffft.

He sits on the sofa to make the tally. No notebook. On the TV stand perhaps? She doesn’t know, she hasn’t seen it. Last time she saw it? Meh, two weeks ago maybe? Innocent smile. Honestly? Maybe yesterday… Yes, she put it back on the table. No, she didn’t hide it. She wouldn’t dare, of course… That lack of trust is just appalling… No, she’s not being funny. No, no, that mocking tone isn’t on purpose. Yes, yes, she stops it right now or-else-she’s-going-to-regret-it. Yes, Sir.

He goes around the living room, around the kitchen, no notebook. He’s starting to lose patience. They had a system; if she prefers instant punishments, she just has to say! Not sure her bottom would like it, but it’s always been an option! She sulks. No, she doesn’t want daily spankings, but she doesn’t have his fu… fudging notebook. Anyway, he knows what’s in it, doesn’t he?

He knows. But he wants to do things fairly. Thus, she will get the notebook; she’s got five minutes, then he’s going to get the paddle, and she won’t like what is going to follow.

“But I don’t have your damn notebook, for fuck’s sake!”

She covers her mouth with both her hands, eyes wide. Oh no. Oh no no no no… It just came out. She is stressed. She is sorry. She… She…

She is bent over the desk, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her buttocks are crimson, burning, painful. She grits her teeth when another slam of the paddle adds to her pain. She’s crying. She is sorry; she doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She will make lots of efforts, she promises. Please? He pauses. She breathes. Her eyes are down, looking at the desk. She tries to find something to distract her from the burning fire in her rump. There isn’t anything. Papers, pens, a notebook, a laptop… A notebook? Is he kidding her?

She gets up, notebook in hand. What’s this? Isn’t it the Holy Notebook? Ah, yeah, he had taken it last night to have a look. Well he’s got some nerve, mister. Yes, yes, she had to be punished, but he went a bit overboard, didn’t he? And he falsely accused her? Honestly, it’s unfair.

Oh no no, kisses aren’t enough! Who does he think he is? It’s a month’s amnesty, at least. Right, a week? Four days, okay. But if he loses it again, she’ll be the one wielding the paddle…

This too shall pass

Be kind to each other.

Sabrina, or a Woman’s Scorn

Sabrina walked down the corridor to the hotel room where she was to meet her next client, a semi-regular she knew as Roy. Her high heels clacked on the floor as she checked her make-up in her pocket mirror. Room 207, that was it. She knocked on the door. Roy was a little, shy man, a tad overweight. He always tried to make her smile, and often brought her gifts, on top of the money she asked. She found him amusing if a little pathetic. She was wearing a pair of earrings he’d gotten her in the past.

She checked that her hold-up stockings were still up, readjusted her hair. He liked lingerie, Roy, stockings, corsets, that kind of thing. He probably like to pretend he was fucking some high-class bitch for a time. Men and their power fantasies. She mentally shrugged. Whatever floated his boat, really; he payed well, wasn’t complicated to please and had never been violent in any form.  She heard a click, and the door opened. She put on a sultry voice, “Hey Roy, wh—”

It wasn’t Roy. Instead of the short, balding man she was expecting, a middle-aged woman stood in front of her. She looked furious.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Sabrina said, “I must have the wrong room.”

“Are you Sabrina?” the woman said, sneering as she said her name.

“Yes, but—”

“Come in.”

Startled, she obeyed, and the woman closed the door behind her.

“Roy didn’t tell me there would be another—”

“Roy isn’t coming.”

“Oh…”

“And I’m his wife.” The woman glared. She was tall, slim, she wore heels, a neatly cut blouse and matching skirt. This was his wife? Sabrina was starting to think that there was more to Roy’s tastes than she had thought.

“Oh… Roy never mentioned…”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” the wife said, grabbing Sabrina’s wrist “That little weasel…”

She pulled her towards a chair that was set in the middle of the room.

“What are you doing?” Sabrina cried out.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson, you little whore!”

“What? Let me go!”

The woman said nothing, sat down, and pulled Sabrina over her lap.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” Sabrina cried again.

The answer came in the form of a hand smashing down on her bottom with a loud *SLAP!*. She cried out, in pain and in surprise.

“Stop! What the fuck! I’m not a kid!”

“Well, I’m surprised a whore like you isn’t used to that kind of thing,” the woman said dismissively as she lifted the young girl’s skirt and slapped her ass again, harder.

“Stop or I’ll call—”

“The police? Your pimp?”

Sabrina said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” the woman said with a cruel smile as she kept slapping and smacking Sabrina’s poor bottom. After a few minutes of hard slaps from her and protests from the young call-girl, the woman grabbed Sabrina’s lacy thong and pulled it down to her thighs.

“Stop! That’s enough!” Sabrina said, trying in vain to reach out behind her and protect her bruised behind.

“You’re going to take it like a good little slut,” the woman said, her tone cold as ice, “and you are never to see my husband again, understood?”

Frigid bitch, Sabrina thought.

“But he’s the… OOoow! He’s the one that.. Ow! Oww!”

“Un *SLAP!* der *SLAP!* stood? *SLAP!*

“Yes! Yes! God’s sake! Leave me alone you crazy bitch!”

“Oh you’re going to regret this…” the woman said. Her hand still firmly holding Sabrina’s waist, she reached into her purse and took out a spatula. Sabrina saw it and hated it at once. She hated it even more when the first hit came. It was biting, vicious, that little silicon thing. It made her cry out, and tears began to roll down her powdered cheeks as the slighted wife got her revenge on her crimson ass. The spatula came down again and again, leaving marks and welts as it went, making her cry, beg, and scream. From experience, she knew that that hotel had well sound-proofed rooms —it was one of the reasons she met clients here— and nobody would come to save her from this mad woman.

“Count them,” the woman said.

“What?” Sabrina said through her tears.

“Count. *SMACK!* Them.” *SMACK!*

“Oww One! What do you want from— Owww! Two! Three!”

“Atta girl. I’m starting to enjoy this.”

Sabrina said nothing, the fire in her bottom robbing her of any witty retort. The spatula kept hitting, and the crying call-girl did as she was told, counting them as they came down. Ten, twenty. She squirmed and kicked and screamed to no avail. Thirty, forty. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t do anything but focus on the pain, not daring to think what would happen if she missed the count.

“Owww! Forty eight! Owww! Forty nine! OWW! Fifty! Please! Please!” Sabrina begged.

“And one for good luck,” the woman sniggered and hit her full force with the spatula. Sabrina cried out. There was a wet patch on the carpet were her tears had been continuously falling.

The woman all but threw the young girl on the floor, were she lay, trembling and sobbing, her bottom throbbing with pain. She caught a glimpse of her bottom in the full-length mirror on the wall and gasped. It was a deep, crimson red, marked and blotched with bruises. She heard the woman putting the spatula back in her handbag. After a minute, the wife came to stand over her, a smug look on her face, waving her finger as one would in front of a misbehaving child.

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, Sabrina,” she said, saying her name with venom still.

Sabrina nodded frantically.

“I won’t see R— your husband ever again.”

The woman scoffed, “You better hope so.”

Sabrina sniffed and winced as she rubbed her bruised ass. She wouldn’t be able to see any clients for a while. There was a lot she wanted to say to that woman, none of them good things, but she felt it wiser to stay silent.

“Oh, and by the way,” the woman said, “I don’t even want to know what my little prick of a husband paid you, but I rather enjoyed this, so there.” She let a few banknotes fall down on the call-girl.

In a way, that was the most humiliating of it all.

Teenage taming

Quick Note

I have edited the pictures in the last few posts so that they link to a bigger version if you click on them 🙂

If you enjoy the pictures, feel free to visit my deviantArt page (272 drawings and counting!)

Keep safe and wash your hands!

Jenny’s first time

Jenny and I had been friend since the first day we’d met at the start of high school. Maybe it was that we both came from far away and knew nobody there, or maybe it had been pure luck that had put us in first period together. Whatever the reason, we had immediately clicked. She was funny, a little nerdy at times, and she put up with my awkward sense of humour. Although we grew close as can be, the idea of dating had never even crossed our minds. In fact, the thought had always seemed preposterous. She was more like a sister to me, and you wouldn’t date your sister —no matter was a certain subgenre of naughty films would have you believe.

We had gotten through high school together and, as luck would have it, found ourselves going for the same college a few towns over. Naturally, we moved-in together. After a few months of this new life, Jenny found herself a boyfriend, and in the following weeks she was around less and less. We were still friends, mind, and we had fun talking, playing videogames, and cooking together whenever she was home, but it was not really the same. Nevertheless, I was happy for her. Life goes on.

One night, I heard the door quite late in the evening, and somebody trying to muffle sobs. I popped my head out of my door only to find Jenny sat on the floor in the hallway, her hand on her forehead, crying heavy tears. I sat beside her wordlessly and held her. She turned around and buried her head in my chest to cry some more. After a while, her sobs quieted down, and I felt I needed to ask, “What’s going on, Jen?”

“It’s Lucas,” she said.

“What about him?” I asked. Lucas was her boyfriend, of course. Not a bad dude at all, in fact. We’d spent a few evenings together with no issue, and I’d heard plenty about him from Jenny, but never anything bad.

“He left me!” Her voice cracked and she started sobbing again.

“Well, he’s an idiot then… What happened? Did he hurt you?”

“No…” she said, quietly.

“What happened, Jen?”

“I…”

“You’re worrying me now…”

“No, no, nothing bad happened, I promise” she said, shaking her head and sniffling.

“Okay…”

“It’s… kind of the problem…”

I was even more confused than before.

“What do you—” she interrupted me before I could finish the first of many questions that were tumbling in my head.

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise to just listen, okay? Say nothing, just listen. All right?”

“I mean, uh…”

“Promise me?”

“Fine, no problem, I’ll just listen.”

“Okay so… Lucas and I were… You’ll let me finish, okay?”

I just nodded.

“So, Lucas…” she continued, “We were, like, talking and… We got to talking about our fetishes and stuff…” She blushed visibly. “And it turns out he’s… Pretty vanilla, you know?”

“Okay?” I said, hesitantly.

“No talking!” she said, gently slapping my forearm. I passed two fingers across my lips, zipping it shut.

She carried on, “So I told him what I’m into and… Well, he didn’t take it well at all.” Tears were welling up in her eyes again.

“He called me a deviant and… and a freak and… he said he didn’t want anything to do with me if… if I was that kind of s-s-slut” Tears were freely running down her cheeks again.

“What an asshole,” I muttered beneath my breath.

For a few minutes, we were both quiet as she calmed herself down again.

“So…” I started… “Is your fetish, like, that bad?” I blushed.

“Seems so…”

“I always knew you were into midget granny scat porn, you know?”

She let out a little laugh and punched my arm.

“Shut up, everyone isn’t like you…”

“Nah, I’m one of a kind…”

“Yeah…”

She fell silent again. I was out of awkward jokes, so I asked the obvious question.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“You’ll think I’m a freak as well…”

“I’m not about to kink-shame you, Jen… Whatever you fantasise about in that weird head of yours is your business. It’s just… I don’t know, maybe I can make you feel better about it?”

She stayed quiet for a minute. Then she murmured, “I like spankings.”

“Hmm?”

“Spanking. I’m, like, into that,” she said, audibly this time.

“Okay and?”

“What do you mean and?”

“Well pretty much everybody is into a little bit of rough play, aren’t they? What’s the other thing?”

“No, no, that’s it…”

“What, really?”

“Yeah…”

“What a fucking idiot.”

“See, I knew you were going to hate me as well…” her voice broke again.

“No not you! Not you! That big fat idiot Lucas! What is wrong with that guy?”

“Oh!” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“I was expecting something, like, extreme…” I said

She shrugged. “That was too extreme for him apparently.”

“He really left you over that?”

“Yup.”

“You didn’t fart in front of him? Clog his toilet?”

“Nope.”

“Did he… give it a go?”

“What?”

“Well, spanking?”

“Did it sound like he was willing to give it a go?”

“Hum… I suppose not.”

“Well there you go…”

“I see…” I thought for a moment, then asked, “And so have you ever…”

“What?”

“Like… Done it?”

“You know Lucas was my first boyfriend…”

“Hey, maybe you have guy after guy come here to punish you like a naughty, naughty girl when I’m not around, I don’t know!”

She shook her head in disbelief and pushed me away jokingly. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I make you smile so…”

“That’s true.”

“So… You wanna be like, a dominatrix? Leather and all?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know what kind of porn you’re into but no. I… Hum… Would like to be… On the receiving end.”

“I see… So…” I asked again, “never been spanked?”

“Nope.

“Your parents?”

“No.”

“Good, your mum is terrifying enough as it is.”

“Shut up!” She sighed. “You promise it’s not that bad?”

“It’s like, kinda normal, I think?” I said, honestly.

“I don’t know”

“Plus you’ve never tried”

“So?”

“So maybe you won’t like it, maybe it’s just a fantasy, really.”

“Maybe…”

“Plus, you’re a wuss so…”

She shrugged. I wasn’t nearly as funny as I thought I was.

“It was a joke,” I said, miserably.

“I…” she started, and blushed crimson. “I’ve done it to myself before, a little.”

“What? Like, spanked yourself?”

“Yeah… To… to see what it’s like”

“Oh…”

“…”

“And?” I asked.

“I don’t know, it wasn’t bad but it’s not the same, like.” She was still blushing, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Well… Thank you,” I said with a smile.

 “What for?” she asked.

“For trusting me with this.”

“He made me feel so bad about it, I… I’m glad you don’t think the same way.”

“He’s an idiot. And he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, like, you’re awesome, anybody would be lucky to have you. He’s just a dumb idiot.”

“Thanks, but that feels a little hollow right now…”

“Plus, I’m sure your butt is great to spank.”

She looked up, shocked.

“What?”

“Your butt. It could definitely do with a spanking. And you left dirty dishes in the sink so…”

She blushed again and buried her face in her hands. “Stop!”

“Well, you never tried it and… I don’t know, maybe it would make you feel better? And those dishes, damn! There’s a type-2 civilisation in there!”

She laughed. “Are you… Are you serious, though? You want to…”

“I can’t promise you I’ll be good at it, but I you wanna try…”

She shot me a weird glance and looked away. She went quiet. A minute went by, then two. It’s then that what I’d just suggested actually dawned on me. I couldn’t believe myself. The words had just come out. Maybe I thought I was being funny again. What an idiot. She was going to hate me. She was going to think I was taking advantage of her. She was going to ask me to leave. She was—

“I’d like you to.” she said

“W-what?” I said, a look of utter surprise on my face.

“If-if you were serious?” she said, hesitantly, looking away.

“Of course! But…”

“…”

“Will you tell me how?”

“Your hand. My butt.” She laughed.

I blushed and nervously laughed in turn. She got up and took my hand, helping me up. Nervous, she led me to the sofa and told me to sit down.

“So,” she said, “we’re going to do it, like, oh-tee-kay”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Over the knees.”

“Oh! Okay, soz, I don’t know the lingo.”

“Pfft, amateur,” she winked. Her mood seemed to have transformed in a flash and she was smiling widely. “I’m going to lie over your lap, okay? And then… Well it’s kinda obvious.”

“Shouldn’t we have, like, a safeword?”

“Aaah! So you know what you’re doing, huh? Such a naughty boy…”

“Hey! You said that wasn’t your thing!”

She laughed, “Cactus!”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Cactus, it’ll be the safeword.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Well…” she said, and undid her jeans without another word. My jaw fell to the floor just as her jeans did. She turned to face me, her hand crossed in front of her panties. “I… I think bare-bottom would be a bit much…” She bit her bottom lip oh-so-sensually. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling very mixed emotions. Not so sisterly after all, it turned out.

She came over and put herself over my knees. She was warm, soft, a little heavier than I would have thought. With her looking away, I finally let myself look at her bottom. I forgot to breathe for a moment. I’d never noticed how shapely, how round her ass was. Two pearly white globes in need of attention. She repositioned herself slightly and her cheeks bounced a little. They were perfect. And, for a time, they were entirely mine.

“Are you done gazing?” she said with a smile, and I died a little inside.

“Just making sure my calibrations are correct, miss.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled.

“You know, even now that you’re like, tall and sorta good-looking…”

“Sorta?”

“… you’re still a massive dork.”

“A massive dork who’s about to spank your bottom, missy, so pipe down!”

She bit her lip. “Yes, Sir…” she said.

“Finally, a bit of respect!” I said and let my hand fall on her bottom for the first time. A glorious *SLAP* seemed to echo around the room as my hand met her firm flesh, and she let out a little “Oh!” of surprise.

“I’m sorry, was that too hard?”

“No, no, carry on!”

I gave her another one, *SLAP!* The sound was sharp. It was loud, much louder that I had thought it would be. Her bottom was still fresh to the touch. It bounced hypnotically, and before I even realised it, my hand was coming down again, and again, leaving faint red marks were my finger struck.

“Mmmh…” she said quietly.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Can you try… harder?” she said, covering her smile.

“You mean can you try harder Sir?” I said, giving her a harder slap.

“Mmmmh, yes, Sir… Sorry Sir…”

“Like… That?” I tried, putting a little more force into it. Her left cheek was turning pink. I gave her right one another couple slaps for good measure.

“Exactly like that… Sir…” she said, happily.

I carried on, feeling my jeans getting tighter as I peppered her perfect bottom with hard slaps. From white, to pink, to red. She started squirming as spank after hard spanked rained down on her. I could hear her trying to hold her moans. She was failing.

After another dozen hard slaps, I paused and my hand instinctively went to rub her crimson bottom. Slowly, in circles, I soothed her burning pain.

“Mmmh…” she sighed happily, “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Yes, I’m sure, but…”

“Yes?”

“If you want, I’ll do it again…”

Sophie’s Choice

Exchange student

Johanna finished cleaning the dishes and put them away on the drying rack. She glanced around the kitchen, making sure everything was in order. The twenty-year old exchange student was very grateful to the family that housed her, and she always tried her best to repay their kindness with chores around the house. The French family, the Dumonts, were a little old-fashioned, but that appealed to her desire for rules and neatness. Maybe there was something to the German stereotypes after all.

She undid the apron she was wearing —it had been a present from Madame Dumont— and hung it up behind the kitchen’s door. She liked that kitchen; it was big, bright, and full of delicious food. Madame Dumont was a fine cook, and Johanna loved spending time with her, learning French recipes and showing her some German specialities as well. What could she say, she loved food and she loved cooking it. It was no surprise then that she was quite the plump girl, with ample hips, a round bottom and heavy breasts, but she liked it that way. Humming a popular pop song, she went to the living room.

Madame Dumont came down the stairs at the same time. She was a middle-aged woman, a few years younger than her sterner husband, and wore her years very well. Blond, with shoulder-length hair, she was a petite woman whom Johanna had nearly always seen dressed in tailored suits with jewellery to match. Even when cooking she managed to keep her white shirts immaculate. ‘With your whole arm, side to side!’ she said as she whisked away, not a single drip escaping the bowl. That always made Johanna smile, for some reason.

Today however, Madame Dumont was wearing jeans and a blouse that made her look ten years younger and accentuated her thin waist. Johanna gasped and smiled as she saw her.

“Oh, Madame!” she said, surprised.

“Oui, Johanna?” the woman asked with a warm smile.

“You look…” The young German student hesitated a moment. Sometimes, words still didn’t come that easily to her, even after months of living abroad. “You look really… salopp today!” She smiled broadly for a second, then noticed the look of utter shock on Madame Dumont’s face. Shock turned into anger, and the woman stormed off, muttering angrily in French and slamming the door behind her.

Johanna stood in the middle of the living room, shocked. Had she said something wrong? That jean-and-t-shirt look was pretty casual, wasn’t it? She didn’t think that Madame Dumont would take it so badly… Puzzled, she wondered whether she should go after her to apologise, or at least try to understand why she seemed so angry. She heard a car start, then leave. She shrugged. She would bring it up in the evening; it was just a misunderstanding, she was sure.

A couple hours later, as she sat on the sofa reading a book, she heard a car park in front of the house. She put her book down, expecting Madame back, but it was her husband, Monsieur Dumont, who came through the door, a frown on his face.

‘Johanna!’ he said as soon as he saw her. ‘We need to talk.’

Shocked by the dryness of his tone, she stuttered ‘O-oui, Monsieur? Is there something wrong?’

‘Are you mocking me, mademoiselle?’ he asked, crossing his arms. She was thoroughly confused.

‘N-no? No, Monsieur, I would never…’

‘How dare you, Johanna? How dare you?’ He seemed really angry now. He was an older gentleman, all beard and moustache on a thin, wiry frame. He had a college professor look about him, Johanna had often thought to herself. Nevertheless, he was quite scary when he got angry, as she was discovering.

“W-wie bitte? Pardon?”

“Have we not taken good care of you? Have we not made you welcome in our home?”

“J-ja, oui, of course!” she was stammering and going from one language to the other without thinking, so troubled was she.

“And you think that the way to repay that is to call my wife a slut?”

She blanked. What was he talking about?

“But Monsieur, I never…”

“Are you calling her a liar?” he roared. She shook her head, eyes wide open. She dared not say another word. He continued, “Well that will not do, Johanna. I won’t have my wife disrespected in my own house.”

He pointed at her. “Don’t move,” he said.

He went upstairs and she stood there, trying to process what had just happened. She didn’t even think about disobeying the stern Frenchman. A minute later, he came back downstairs, holding a ping-pong paddle. This was getting more confusing by the minute.

“I won’t tolerate that kind of language in my house, mademoiselle. I think you need some good old-fashioned discipline. And Hélène will be expecting an apology.”

“Di-discipline, Monsieur?” she asked, eyeing the paddle uncomfortably.

“It’s been a while since the children have left the house, but I think I still know how to give a proper spanking, Fräulein.”

“But… but…”

“Unless you’d rather go back to Germany on the first flight tomorrow?”

“W-wa? Nein! No, no, I like it here!”

He sat on a chair he’d pulled away from the table.

“Then over my knees, mademoiselle. Tout de suite !”

Stunned, she obeyed without even thinking about it. She walked to him, blushing, eyes watering. She bent over and he put her down in position, her round, plump bottom up, offered to his punishment. The skirt that she was wearing didn’t cover much, and she had a feeling it wouldn’t stay on for long. Just as the thought crossed her mind, the first slap came down over it. Just a hand-slap, it hurt as much as it surprised her, and she let out a little cry. The hand fell again, making her round bottom bounce. Slaps came and came again, quickly settling into a rhythm, left-right, left-right. She was squirming, biting her lip not to cry. He paused only to readjust her over his lap. With each slap, her large breasts bounced against his thigh. In spite of herself, she felt a warm sensation spreading through her belly, and lower.

When he grabbed her skirt, she tried to stop him, darting her hand to protect her dignity and sore cheeks.

“Nein! Bitte!”

He ignored her and folded the skirt up on her back. The next slap was sharper than ever, and she cried out, her hand reaching back to put the skirt down again. He immediately took it back up and rewarded her with a series of ten slaps in close succession, harder and harder. She howled in pain.

“Very well, off it goes, then!” he said, sternly. He got her up. There was no arguing with the glare he offered her. She undid her belt and the skirt hit the floor. She was left in her skimpy panties. Tears down her face, still unsure of what she’d done wrong.

“But monsieur…” she tried, “What have I—” before she could finish, he caught her wrist and forced her back down over his knees. After a few more dozen slaps, he pulled her panties down to her thighs. She didn’t even think about protesting that time. She had never felt so exposed, so humiliated. He grabbed the paddle from the table and didn’t waste a second in putting it to good use. The sting was immediate, and she cried out once more. He scolded her again, punctuating each word with a hard slap of the paddle.

“You *SMACK* called *SMACK* my *SMACK* wife *SMACK* a *SMACK* slut!” *SMACK* *SMACK* *SMACK*

“Nein! Nein! I didn’t!”

“Salope! *SMACK*  That’s what you said!” *SMACK* *SMACK* *SMACK*

“But that’s not… Owww! Bitte! Nein! That’s not what it means! Owww! Owww!

“You think you know French better than we do?” *SMACK* *SMACK* *SMACK*

“Nein! Nein! Owww! Casual! That’s what it means! Owww! Salopp means casual in German! I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”

Finally, her ordeal stopped. Her bottom was on fire, her blushing crimson cheeks were covered in tears and she couldn’t look Monsieur Dumont in the face. For his part, having finally understood what had happened, he seemed just as embarrassed.

Sniffling, Johanna pulled her panties back up, apologising. Monsieur Dumont called his wife, and once they were all together— and Johanna wearing her skirt again— they had a long conversation about words, false friends and misunderstandings. All apologised profusely. Johanna stood up the whole time.

When she finally went back to her room that evening, she winced as she sat down on her bed. Her bottom was still sore and warm. She still couldn’t believe what had happened to her. She felt like she should tell someone. But to whom could she tell such a story? Blushing, she remembered Monsieur Dumont’s hand grabbing her panties and severely pulling them down, exposing her intimacy. She remembered his hand slapping her bottom, lecturing her, holding her down… She shivered in a mixture of embarrassment and delight. She… She wondered if… Maybe if she slacked at uni?… Maybe she would need to be put on the straight and narrow… Or maybe Madame could… Her hand found its way into her panties, and Johanna went to sleep a very sore, but very happy girl that night.

BDSM 101

It should be offered in any University or College, surely?

Anticipation

3:35pm

Aaliyah had been waiting all day for him to come back. The waiting only made it worse. He knew it. He knew it very well, and she knew it was part of her punishment. Every time her phone pinged with one of his messages was a reminder of what was coming. Since the morning, he had drip-fed her instructions. She knew better than to argue or try to ignore him. He would be back at five, after work. She would be standing at the door, hands behind her back. Her head would be bowed; she wouldn’t look up; she wasn’t to say a word. She would be naked.

3:52pm

She had felt pitifully relieved that he hadn’t had her wait at the window, like that one time. She didn’t know that a neighbour had stolen a passing glance, but the possibility was enough for her to cover her face in shame every time she thought about it. The punishment that day had kept her straight for a month. Her phone pinged. She was to gather a paddle, a hairbrush, a belt, a wooden spoon, and the riding-crop. He would pick one, or two, or none, but it was best to be prepared. She didn’t like the sound of any of them.

4:10pm

But of course, she had slipped. And she knew she deserved what was coming. She had been mad at herself, and she had made it worse by being mad at him for no reason. He was a very supportive boyfriend, but he had no tolerance for her misdirected anger. She liked that about him; he made her better, more measured. Her phone pinged. He would be home in fifty minutes. She looked at the time. He would be home at five, like he had said. He hadn’t needed to tell her again but, just as he wanted, she felt a pang of fear. And guilt. And anticipation.

4:38pm

The flat was spotless —there was no reason to make it harder for herself. She sat on the sofa, twiddling her thumbs, unable to concentrate on anything. It had been on her mind all day. They had had the argument the night before. He never punished her in anger, that was not really him. He had let her know that they would deal with it the next day. He had kissed her in the morning and told her to be ready for her punishment later today. Then, he had simply left, without scolding or berating her. That would come, in a calm and measured tone, to the sound of his hand battering her poor bottom. She shivered. Fear? Desire? The phone pinged again. She was to get the big piece of ginger from the fridge and get it ready. She moaned as she read the message, passing a hand between her thighs.

4:57pm

She folded her clothes up on the bed, biting her lip, and straightened the covers. All the implements were neatly laid out, as was the ginger. She caught a look of herself in the mirror and blushed. She tip-toed to the door and looked up at the big clock hanging off the wall. Were her hands supposed to be over her head? No, behind her back. I think? He wouldn’t be too pleased if she got it wrong, but she couldn’t go and check her phone, for fear he would come in at that exact moment.

5:00pm

She looked down. The door clicked open, then shut. He put something down. His bag, probably. She dared not look up. He lifted her head with a finger under her chin and kissed her softly.

“Let’s take care of you,” he said.