A bit late with that one, but Hermione was the “winner” (lol) of the February poll for the Discord pic of the month! The theme was ‘book characters’ so I didn’t set out to make her look like Emma Watson… But she kinda does anyway!
I fretted for a while about how to draw this, and who should be the spanker, etc. In the end, I decided that a Slytherin would find every opportunity to turn a duel into something a little more humiliating ^^
I’m really happy with how it turned out, that butt is quite glorious, if I say so myself
The knock on the door was the first indication that the two young students were in trouble. Mme Beauvoir, their landlady, had a very characteristic knock-knock-pause-knock that they had learnt to dread. Alice looked at Belinda, her German flatmate, with wide eyes.
“Bel?” she asked in French, “You did pay the rent on time, right? Right?”
Belinda didn’t answer. She was blushing, the wheels in her head turning, trying to remember words, trying to form a sentence in French. Nothing came. Alice put her palm to her forehead and bit her bottom lip.
Knock-knock-pause-knock, the sound came again, a little more forcefully. Clearly, Madame Beauvoir was losing patience. Alice had a quick glance around to make sure the mess wasn’t too awful, then went to answer the door while Belinda hid some takeaway boxes away and closed the door to her bedroom, where clothes had a tendency to pile up on the floor, unexpectedly. When she came back to the living-room, Alice was looking down at the floor, blushing hard, and Madame Beauvoir was in the middle of one of her dreaded tirades. Belinda wasn’t sure she understood every word, but she knew that tone, and where it lead. Instinctively, her hand went to her round, shapely bottom, and rubbed.
“Ah! Belinda!” Madame Beauvoir said, in her nasal accent, when she saw the blond girl. She switched to English, “I was saying to Alice here that again, the rent hasn’t been paid this month! This is completely unacceptable!
“Oui, Madame…” was all that Belinda could say. Alice said nothing, her eyes still firmly on the polished hardwood floor.
“And that’s after you promised last month that it wouldn’t happen again!”
“Oui, Madame,” Belinda replied with a shameful nod.
“I had warned you last month about what would happen if you were late again… didn’t I?” the landlady asked. Belinda just nodded this time.
Alice lifted her gaze and looked at her flatmate, equal parts fear and anger. “You said you would do it on time for sure!” she hissed. Belinda pouted. She had said it, that was true, and she had meant it too! She had just been… Distracted! There was this cute American boy at University. An exchange student, like her. And the Spanish one as well, plus a couple local French guys who found her accent charming and her ability to drink pint after pint of beer even more so. And… Well, maybe there had been a night or two —or five— at the bar, but that wasn’t so bad, was it? There was plenty of money… Or so she thought. After another fun night out, she had received a text from her bank… Not he good kind of text from the bank —if such a thing existed. She had been too afraid to ask Alice for money again. Surely, she would find a way to fix it before the rent was due? There was her little job at the boulangerie…
Then Clément had invited her to a party at his place, and she had forgotten all about it. Until now. Time seemed to snap back, and Madame Beauvoir was pointing to the sofa in the living room and saying something in French. She rustled in her little leather handbag and produced a key. Putting the bag down, she walked to the locked closet door at the other end of the lounge, the one that tenants couldn’t open. She unlocked it with a turn of the key. Alice gasped as she saw the dozen or so implements hanging on the inside of the door. Martinets, belts, leather and hardwood paddle, a crop, a tawse… Belinda wondered whether the strict Madame Beauvoir had been a Dominatrix in a past life, or whether she had had a lot of problem tenants. Either way, she let out a little moan of anguish when the landlady took one of the wooden paddles off its hook and closed the door. The woman’s heels clacked rhythmically on the hardwood floor as she made her way back to them, tapping the paddle ominously in her open left palm.
She barked something in French, and Belinda looked at Alice in confusion. The dark-haired French girl glared. In English, she said “Take your leggings down…”
“Was? Quoi? What?” Belinda stammered. Getting punished was one thing, but surely, not on the bare?
Alice shook her head and started to undo her jeans. “It’s so unfair!” she hissed again, “I gave you the money!”
“Ja, I know, Alice, I’m sorry…” Belinda said, hesitantly pulling her leggings and underwear down.
“After this, you and I are going to have a talk!” Alice promised, anger in her voice. Belinda said nothing.
“Mesdemoiselles!” Mme Beauvoir called, “I have other things to do today, so I would advise you to get in position quickly!”
As she said so, she gave the implement cupboard’s door a glance, a promise of what would happen if they didn’t hurry up. Within seconds, the two flatmates were in position over the back of the sofa, their trousers down to their thighs and their round white bottoms up in the air. Alice was muttering in French, and Belinda wondered how she always ended up in these situations.
Her questions were cut short by the sound of Alice screaming when the paddle came down on her ass with a loud ‘WHACK!” that she swore made the windows tremble. She looked up behind her and saw the paddle swing down again toward the French girl’s derrière. Alice screamed again, and again, and again as more swats landed on her tender cheeks. Belinda closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, knowing that she would be next. Then, suddenly, pain exploded in her rear. She opened her eyes wide as tears streamed down her face and she let out a pained cry. Just as with Alice, Mme Beauvoir poured hard smacks on her bottom, warming it to a burning sear within half a minute. As suddenly as it had started, her torment stopped, and she heard Alice screaming again. A few moments later, the paddle came back for her, and on and on it went, the two girls taking turns screaming, begging and kicking their legs.
“I will give you until the end of the week to pay your rent, ladies,” the woman was saying. “And I’ll warn you now, next time, my husband will be the one to come — and he’s not as nice as I am… Understood?”
In between sniffles and cries, the girls nodded vigorously and said, “Yes ma’m, sorry ma’m.” The paddle came down again, a dozen smacks each until their bottoms were covered in red, throbbing marks.
Seemingly satisfied, Madame Beauvoir put the paddle down on the sofa. Neither of the girls dared to move. Belinda felt a blissfully fresh hand on her bottom, inspecting the marks. She heard a grunt of satisfaction, and the landlady moved on to Alice. Belinda heard her gasp. “Well well, Alice,” Mme Beauvoir said, “It seems you didn’t hate that as much as I thought…” Alice closed her eyes and buried her face in the sofa, blushing as hard as one could. Standing between the two punished girls, the landlady slapped both their bottoms in unison with her open hands. They yelped.
“To the corner, girls!” she announced, and they both got up without protestation. “Take your trousers fully off,” Mme Beauvoir continued. Again, they said nothing, sliding their trousers over their shoes and leaving them on the back of the sofa. They made their way to the corner and Alice put her hands over her head. Belinda looked back at the landlady, who gave a sharp nod towards the French girl. Belinda put her arm over her head as well.
They heard the sound of the paddle being hooked back in the closet, and the door being locked. Madame Beauvoir walked around the flat, commenting on the mess, the dirty dishes, the recycling that needed to come down. She opened Belinda’s room’s door, and from the gasp, she wasn’t happy about it. Mercifully, she said nothing and carried on. Both girls could feel their bottom burning, and wanted nothing more than to rub it, dance around to ease the pain, but they didn’t dare, for fear more punishment would come their way. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the front door opened and closed.
For a full five minutes, neither of the girls moved, not wanting to tempt fate. Finally, Belinda took a deep breath and looked back.
“I think she’s gone…” she said
“Shhhh!” came the reply, “Don’t!! My butt is bruised enough already…”
They waited another five minutes, just to be on the safe side, then finally put their arms down and rubbed their crimson bottoms with little cried of pain and big sighs of relief.
“I have some lotion in my room if you want,” said Belinda, shyly.
“I think you’ve done enough, quite frankly!” said Alice.
“Alice, I’m sorry…” the German girl said, biting her lip, “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble…”
Belinda said nothing, still rubbing her round bottom.
“What will you do?” she asked, finally.
“Well, you said we would have a talk…”
“Oh!” said Alice with a grin, “Well, first, I’m going to figure out how to unlock that closet!”
To be honest, I appreciate spankings much more when there is a reason behind them. It might not be a very serious reason, and it sometimes it can be a game to pretty much invent one in the spur of the moment, but I find that it brings so much more to the experience than a simple, ‘just for fun’ spanking.
Maybe it’s because I have known some very playful spankees for whom the threat of a spanking to come was just as fun as the spanking itself; maybe it’s because of these games of hide and seek, of playful banter and exasperation that culminates in a —well deserved by then— reddening of buttocks. It may also be that enjoying hurting someone is easier to accept when the hurting seems justified (no unwilling cheeks were hurt in the making of this post), but that’s a topic for another day.
Of course, spanking isn’t one thing. There isn’t one spanking, there are spankings, plural, and they come in many shades of red. Depending on the reason, on the occasion, on the spankee and on the spanker, there will be many ways to enjoy and punish as is fit. There is a simple pleasure in pale cheeks turning red (or dark cheeks, all skin tones are welcome), in resistance giving way, in breathing becoming harder as the burning increases. I hope that for the spankees, there is something also in having a fault, however small, being expiated, forgiven and forgotten. A clean slate for a red bottom, it seems a fair trade.
It’s not to say that funishment is not… well, fun; but it’s always nice to have a scolding to accompany the smacks, like lyrics to the music, if you will. Isn’t it?
The shrill voice of an intoxicated Belinda Krüger blared through the bar’s speakers. After the pandemic had ended, the young German blonde had decided that she needed a vacation, and what better vacation than a paradise island, white sandy beaches and happy hour cocktail nights?
She’d packed her bag, mostly bikinis and beach towels, all in the colours of the German flag. She found that it was always a great conversation starter when she was abroad, and she liked meeting new people… even though it often ended up with her bottom a burning, bright red. She didn’t really know why, but it was the way these things went. Thinking about it, she had also packed a few bottles of lotion, just in case…
That night, much to her delight, was Karaoke night at the bar she had found herself frequenting. The place was nice, the drinks cheap and well mixed. There was a stage where concerts, lectures, improv had happened before, and where the singers were that night. Well, singer, singular. With most patrons busy drinking and socialising, she was already on her third song. More than a few drinks in, she had started badly, and it wasn’t getting any better.
“Auf iHrEm WeG zUm HoRiZOnt!…”
She continued belting out the words, out of tune and slightly behind on the music. In her drunk ears, it sounded perfect, and she bellowed the lyrics in what she thought was a sultry singer’s voice. More and more patrons were looking at her, frowning. Some were shaking their heads, some wincing and covering their ears. Even the barmen and barmaids were rising an eyebrow. With drunk tourists coming around every Karaoke night, they should have been used to it, but she was particularly bad. Belinda turned around and started wiggling her bikini-clad round buttocks while the song played on, oblivious to the increasingly disapproving crowd.
As she was about to start butchering the third verse, a man got up to her. An athletic, mid-thirties guy, he was only wearing knee-long shorts and sandals, with a lei, a flower garland, covering his muscular chest. Not bad looking, Belinda thought, looking over her shoulder as he came closer. Eastern European, maybe? Maybe Russian? In a heavily accented English, he said:
“I think it’s time you stop!”
Definitely Russian. She ignored him and carried on singing and waggling her derrière enticingly. What was he going to do, huh? She laughed and jumbled the next words in the song.
“Hey! Devochka! I’m talking to you!” the man said, and she made a show of ignoring him. The man banged his glass down on a nearby table and leapt on stage, going for her microphone. She splashed the drink she was holding in his face, and it went all over the flower garland. If she was hoping it would stop him, she was very wrong. With a grunt, he grabbed the microphone in one hand and her arm in the other.
“Oh you like singing, da? I have a song for you!”
Frowning, he dragged a stool over with his foot and sat down, still on stage, bringing her down over his knees in one swift movement. The music was still playing.
“Was?” Belinda cried, “What are you doing?! Hör auf! Stop!”
“Nyet!” was the only response as his hand came slamming down on her ass, over the German-coloured bikini bottoms. She yelled, in anger, surprise, and in pain. How dare he! He was ruining the song! In her drunken state, she hadn’t registered yet that everybody in the bar had stopped their conversation and were staring at them.
Slap! Slap! Slap!, the man started smacking her bottom to the rhythm of the song. She could see the metronome on screen counting 193 bpm. A few seconds in and her bottom was already burning. AUTSCH! she yelled, “Stop! Mein Popo!”
“Sing, then, little njémka! What are the lyrics again?”, the Russian man laughed, and he mockingly started singing “Ninety nine red bottoms… Spanked in the summer bar!”
The slap continued, and so did the song, “Ninety-nine slaps of the hand… For a very drunk German!”
Somehow, the bad rhyme worked in his accent. Slap! Slap! Slap!, he didn’t miss a beat. She bit her lip not to cry out in pain. Someone from the public yelled:
“Ninety-nine well spanked buttocks… I like my whisky on the rocks!”
The whole bar erupted in laughter, and tears of pain streamed down Belinda’s cheeks. Her drunken haze was clearing out fast, and her bottom burned with pain. Another patron came to the stage and grabbed the microphone:
“Ninety-nine bad girls in town… Let’s pull her bikini down!” he sang with a grin.
More laughter, and the microphone got passed around as the Russian man grabbed her bikini bottoms and pulled them down to her thighs. “Nein! Nein!Das kannst du nicht machen! You can’t!” Belinda yelled, and tried to get them back up, or at least cover herself, but there was nothing she could do and the slaps fell harder on her naked cheeks. Crimson as they were, they were only getting redder by the minute. More people joined in the song:
“Ninety-nine smacks, that’s quite rough… But I don’t think she’s had enough!”
Laughs and appreciative whistling, more hard slaps on her bottom. People were holding their phone up, filming the whole thing. Someone pushed a button on the Karaoke machine and the song started playing again from the start. “Ach du großer Gott!”, Belinda moaned.
“Ninety-nine hard slaps and more… I think she needs an encore!” sang a woman. Slaps hit Belinda’s thighs and made her cry out. She kicked her legs, but it only made her round cheeks wiggle more, much to the delight of the audience. There were cheers and laughs as they bounced and wobbled with each slap, the noise blending with the music.
“Ninety-nine slaps on her butt… That’ll teach that German slut!” sang a young local that she had been flirting with earlier. Again and again, the Russian man’s big hands fell down on her ass. It would be bruised for days, she thought! And she only had bikinis to wear… Even if she went to a different part of the island, there would be no way to hide her shame… And with the videos being filmed, or even livestreamed, even people at home might see… “Ach, scheiße…”, she murmured…
“Ninety-nine smacks on her ass… Serves her well, that cheeky lass!” said an Irishman next, and on and on it went, people having the time of their life while her bottom was thoroughly punished, and her dignity reduced to nothing.
After the song was played a third time, she was sobbing and begging, and the Russian man took pity on her at last. But her ordeal was far from over. Lifting her up, he made her stand on stage, her hands over her head while people came up to take pictures and selfies next to her glowing red bottom. When the bar finally closed , she pulled her bikini bottoms up and ran into the night and to her hotel. Once in her room, she was glad to have packed lotion. Once more, she would have to sleep on her belly. And in her head, she could still hear the song…
“Denkst du vielleicht grad an mich? Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich…”
[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