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.”
“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.
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.