A tough day for Belinda

Belinda Krüger is the alter-ego of Gesperax, and she very kindly wrote a sequel to the latest story, ‘A Visit from the Landlady. I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did!

A tall, buxom blonde looked around in a hugger-mugger, and carefully, trying not to draw any attention, rubbed her plump bottom tightly clad in a pair of a black leather pants. She always liked to wear tight things which accentuated her curves, but not this day. The only reason she had put on these leather pants was that those were the best choice to ride a motorcycle.

Of course, it was not the best day for such a ride, but a bicycle or car would have only been worse. Belinda Krüger rubbed her sore bottom again and sighed. The German blonde had no idea how she would be able to sit down during all her classes that day. All the bruises Madame Beauvoir’s paddle had left on her plump buttocks were terribly sore. Belinda sighed again. The worst thing was that she had no wish to make anyone even suspect that her bottom was aching. Yes, it was only her fault that she and her flatmate Alice had gotten into such trouble with their landlady.

Slowly, Belinda walked into an auditorium and very carefully sat down at her place, trying not to wince when the burning in her sore buttocks became stronger. Madame Beauvoir’s paddle had been really bad, but that day had gotten much worse. Belinda couldn’t blame Alice for her ire, since she had brought both of them into trouble. But she really didn’t expect how furious she would be.

***

“Alice, bitte, I am sorry!” Belinda said, rubbing her sore bottom nervously “Look, if you want to spank me, right now it will be really painful just with your hand!” she gulped.

“Maybe,” the French girl replied, focusing her attention on a clasp-pin with which she was picking the lock on the closet where Madame Beauvoir kept all her dreadful arsenal.

“But I really want to be sure I’ll drive the message home! And since you introduced me to many things about German culture, I want to repay a debt and introduce to you one very important thing from French culture!”

***

Belinda shook her head, trying to focus at the lecture, but every time she was moving even a bit, the sharp pain in her buttocks was making her bite her lips and even more wiggling, trying to find a position, in which she would be able to sit comfortably even a bit.

***

The lock finally gave up, and the closet opened, and both girls gulped again, seeing all Madame Beauvoir’s dreadful arsenal once again.

“I bet, if Frau Beauvoir finds out you picked her closet she will be even more mad, than today…” Belinda trembled.

“Well, I’ll think about that, when she visits us next time…” Alice grinned, gazing at all the implements in the closet. “And now I need to choose my little assistant for our very long talk!”

***

Belinda noticed some curious and suspecting glances from the students, which were sitting near her, and again tried her best not to wiggle and sniff. She felt like she was sitting on a sizzling hot stove. Or like a cat on a hot tin roof. Or like a dog, who got boiled for howling or barking under a window. And the class was still far from over! And it was just the first one… This day would be very long for sure! Those thoughts and feelings made her focus more on the memories, which were fresh enough, than on the lecture.

***

Alice finally made her choice. She took the martinet and looked at Belinda. The German sniffed and rubbed her bottom.

“Alice, bitte… Maybe this is not that necessary?” she trembled, looking at her flatmate’s weapon.

“It is!” the French nodded strictly. “When you asked me for help, I gave you a hand. But, since you turned it into nothing more, but a problem for both of us, I guess, I need to give you a hand in some different way!” she growled. “Now take off your pants and panties and stay on all fours! You’d better hurry, or I’ll start adding some extra strokes for every second I’ll wait!”

Belinda mumbled something in German, but looking at martinet in Alice’s hand she cowardly took off her leggings and panties for the second time that day. But this time, she also lost her heels. So, bared for the waist down, she stood on all fours in front of her flatmate.

Alice grinned, looking at her already bruised backside. “Well, when I’ll finish with you, you’ll recall this for the rest of the week!” she said and overstepped Belinda, locking her between her legs. “And now I’ll give your fesses a bonne fessée!”

Belinda gulped and closed her eyes, mumbling a prayer. For a few seconds a complete silence filled the room. And then with a whistling sound martinet swished air and with a sound clap it’s lashes landed on a big round German buttock, which was already very tender after the paddling from landlady, with a loud switching sound, and then even more loud girlish howling filled the room.

“AUTSCH!!!! AU!!! AU!!! But Alice! Are we not friends?!” Belinda wept.

“Yes, we are!” Alice replied in a stern voice “But sometimes being a friend means to be strict!” and she raised her hand again.

The martinet was falling down on Belinda’s sore buttocks again and again, leaving deep red stripes over her buttocks, which were already spotted with some bruises after the paddling. Belinda howled and wept. She kicked her legs, almost falling on the floor, and wagged her bottom, trying to save it from the retribution, but Alice held her in position strong enough to make her unable to escape.

***

One of Krüger’s usual problems was that she often could easily fall asleep, listening to lectures. But not today. The sharp burning pain in her first paddled and then whipped buttocks was too strong for that. But on the other hand, that pain also made her unable to really listen to the professor.

***

“I just want to make the things clear!” Alice said, giving a hard, burning stroke to Belinda’s ass at each word “When you’re asking me for any help, I’m expecting that you’ll keep your promises but not to get me into trouble! And I’m also expecting that you’ll be as good as your word!” she raised her voice to talk down Belinda’s crying and howling “And if you’ll behave yourself like an untrustworthy naughty girl, I will treat you like one! Even if that’ll mean that I’ll hide this German ass of yours like there’s no tomorrow!”

And Belinda really felt it like there wouldn’t be any tomorrow. She had ended up like this quite often, and she could say that this was one of the worst that had ever happened to her buttocks. Now she was sorry for all her misdeeds. She wasn’t totally agreeing with Alice that she deserved such a merciless punishment, but she was ashamed enough to take it from her.

***

Belinda wiggled again, making the students, more of which were watching her mystery distress, then listening to the professor, smirking and giggling. They all were pretty sure of what had happened to naughty blonde, since it was not the first time that she had had some troubles with sitting down during the classes, what she always tried to hide but always not very successfully. Belinda tried to sit on her hip. It helped for some time, but it wasn’t very comfortable, so she had no choice, but to sit on the other.

***

After some minutes, some very painful and humiliating minutes for Belinda, Alice finally stopped and touched the very sore and very sorry flatmate’s bottom, checking the welts from the martinet.

“Well, I hope you learned your lesson!” she said, giving Belinda a slap with her hand, making the German scream “Now get up!” she continued, and slapped Belinda’s buttocks again.

Belinda jumped up and started the brat war-dance, clutching her burning bottom and howling in pain. Alice giggled at her flatmate’s discomfort and, after a few minutes, which Belinda spend dancing in pain, caught her by the hand.

“Now you’ll return to the corner and will stay there, until I’ll say, you can leave!” she said and made the tear-stained girl stand in a corner her nose to the wall with her hands on her head.

Belinda whimpered and moaned, feeling totally embarrassed.

***

When the class was finally over, Belinda slowly went out from the auditorium, trying not to pay any attention to any suspicious grins. She followed to the restroom, where she could finally put her too-tight-for-this-day pants down and give some relief to her poor, sore buttocks. She tried to imagine how she would survive all the classes, if even the first one had been such a torture, and burst into tears.

While the Cat’s Away…

“Unacceptable!” Madame Clairmont muttered as her hand came down on her maid’s already reddened bottom.

“Just unacceptable!” she said again, her ire making her slaps all the harder.

“Nein! Madame, please!” Belinda pleaded, tears rolling down her blushing cheeks.

The stern older woman kept repeating the same word, like a mantra, marking every syllable with a heavy slap.

“Un- *SMACK!* ac- *SMACK!* cept- *SMACK!* ta- *SMACK!* ble!”

Older or not, Madame’s hand didn’t seem to tire, and Belinda kept clenching and unclenching her buttocks, moaning in pain, begging for mercy.

*SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* it continued.

It had all started when Madame Clairmont had left that morning, leaving Belinda, her German maid, to do her usual cleaning of the house. As she did every morning, Belinda had opened the windows to let the fresh morning air in. Suddenly, a cat had jumped through the window, and proceeded to run straight for the kitchen. “Was zur Hölle!” exclaimed the young, surprised Belinda, and she ran after it.  As she did so, her feather-duster hit Madame’s jewellery stand and the precious earrings and necklaces fell on the floor. As she paused to try and pick some off the floor, she heard a loud crash in the living room. She hurried herself there, only to find a vase in pieces on the floor. Oh Scheiße… she thought and went after the cat.

It had reached the kitchen, making straight for the work surface where food lay, ready to be prepared. The fresh fish seemed to be of particular interest to the kitty, and, having grabbed one, it jumped back towards the living room, passing between Belinda’s legs. She turned around only to see the cat dragging the wet, smelly fish all over the dense, expensive carpet. Ach du heilige Scheiße!

“Komm hierher!” she called the cat, who let the fish fall down on the carpet in a wet splosh to meow at her. Just as she thought she might catch the elusive intruder, it run away again, and in her hurry, Belinda slipped on the fish. She fell down and crashed into the coffee table, sending the ashtray that was on it to the ground. Of course, she hadn’t emptied it yet. Madame tended to smoke a few cigarettes in the morning, she knew. It was now all over the fishy carpet. Das kann doch nicht wahr sein!!!

The accursed Katze meowed again, as if mocking her, and she got up, her vengeful feather-duster held high. Finally, she managed to chase the cat out the window it had come in. As she caught her breath, trying to process what had just happened, she heard the unmistakable click of the front door opening. She closed her eyes. Surely, this was all a bad dream.

“OH MON DIEU!” she heard Madame Clairmont say, and then a loud “BELINDA!”

Before she could offer an explanation, stammering as she was in a mix of German and French, Madame had pulled her over her lap, pulled her skirt up and started raining hard slaps on her quivering bottom. The small thong that she was wearing didn’t afford her any protection, and she felt Madame’s anger in full. “Unacceptable, Belinda,” Madame Clairmont was saying in her thick French accent, “Totally unacceptable!”

And the slaps came, and came, and came again. Belinda was crying, begging, still trying to explain what had happened as her bottom turned from pink to red to dark, throbbing crimson. As more slaps came down, she could swear she heard a mocking meow in the background.

Elle est chou

Alors même qu’il devrait être fâché, et que sa main s’abat violement sur l’arrière-train de sa Julie, il ne peut s’empêcher de sourire. Il est chanceux, il le sait. Son sourire, elle ne risque pas de le voir, allongée comme elle est en travers de ses genoux. Elle gigotte et remue, ses fesses déjà rouges. Un beau rouge, cramoisi. Ah, ses fesses… Les plus belles de Paris, il le lui a déjà dit, la plus belle paire de fesses d’Ile de France. Evidemment, elle lui a demandé s’il avait maté tous les culs de Paris pour être aussi catégorique. Elle est comme ça, Julie, elle trouve toujours la pire interprétation, même (surtout ?) pour les compliments. Elle est chou. Il l’aime.

Sa main tombe une fois de plus, faisant rebondir l’objet de toute son attention. Il n’y a pas à dire, sur les genoux c’est ce qu’il préfère… Ça fait une belle vue… Le galbe de ses cuisses, la rondeur de ses petites fesses, sa taille, son dos… Elle est nue, c’est le matin. Son pyjama n’est pas resté bien longtemps. Elle regrette peut-être d’avoir dormi sans culotte la nuit dernière. Peut-être pas. Lui, en tout cas, il ne regrette rien. Il se dit qu’il devrait dire quelque chose, des remontrances, mais ce cul l’obsède et l’hypnotise. Il ne va pas lui dire, elle trouvera le moyen de se vexer— « Quoi ? Tu m’aimes que pour mes fesses ? » — ou d’essayer d’échapper à sa punition— « Elles sont si belles… tu voudrais pas les abimer quand même ? » Elle est chou. Il l’aime.

Elle est brave, il ne peut pas le lui reprocher, même si elle gémit et marmonne des choses qu’il fait mine de ne pas entendre, elle prend toujours ses punitions jusqu’au bout, sans vraiment broncher. Elle fait des efforts, aussi. Elle déteste le décevoir. Et pour ça, il l’aime encore plus, même si elle n’y arrive pas toujours. Au moins, il sait que ce n’est jamais de la malice, juste un manque de discipline ou de motivation. De la motivation, il en a plein les mains. Et ses mains sont partageuses. Elle lâche un petit gémissement lorsqu’il va des ses fesses à ses cuisses. Elle se tend, serre les fesses dans le vain espoir que la prochaine fasse moins mal. Mais elle ne se plaint pas. Il la fesse encore. Elle est chou. Il l’aime.

Finalement satisfait, il pose sa main sur la croupe de sa Julie. Ses fesses sont brulantes. Il adore ça. Elle frissonne alors qu’il la masse gentiment. Il se penche et dépose des baisers sur son épaule, son dos. Il la caresse le long de la colonne vertébrale, s’attarde sur sa taille. Il glisse sa main le long de ses reins, de ses côtes, des ses seins. Elle cambre son dos, halète, gémit, tend le cou pour le regarder. Il lui caresse les cheveux. Sa main, vengeresse il y a encore un instant, se perd entre ses cuisses. Il ne voit pas comment elle va trouver à se plaindre quand il se sera occupé d’elle. Mais elle trouvera quelque chose. Elle est comme ça, Julie. Elle est chou.

Et il l’aime.

Les choses simples

« C’est intéressant, ton Facebook?

– Mmh? J’suis pas sur Facebook, je lis. »

Il hausse un sourcil, « D’accord… Et c’est intéressant, ce que tu lis?

– Juste des histoires.

– Ça parle de quoi?

– Rien, t’en fais pas.

– Je m’en fais pas, je te demande.

– Vraiment ? Je veux juste lire un peu… »

Il fait une moue, une perle de colère dans son regard.

« Okay. »

Elle soupire et pose son téléphone sur la couette.

« Sois pas comme ça, on dirait moi… T’aimes pas quand je te dérange quand tu lis, si ? »

Il hausse les épaules.

« Ça ne t’empêche pas d’essayer.

– Oui, et je me fais punir, alors bon… »

Elle reprend son portable, lis quelques lignes et soupire.

« Tu penses que la plupart des auteurs sont autobiographiques malgré eux ?

– Pardon ?

– Je veux dire… Est-ce qu’il y a toujours une part d’eux dans ce qu’ils écrivent ?

– J’sais pas… Sûrement ?

– Oui, tu penses ?

– Je veux dire… Si t’as pas vécu quelque chose, c’est dur de le décrire, non ?

– Oui enfin, un auteur de SF…

– Non, bien sûr, mais au delà de la trame, ce sont des personnages, des émotions, non ?

– Ouais, j’imagine.

– Donc je pense que ces personnages, il y toujours une part d’auteur…

– D’accord… »

Elle retourne ses yeux à son portable.

« C’est intéressant, ce que tu lis, donc ?

– Juste un truc sur un blog.

– Ah, un de tes blogs…

– Oui, et ? »

Il passe sa main sous la couette et le long de sa cuisse.

« En général, ça te donne des idées…

Elle prend sa main et la pose sur le matelas.

« Oui, mais non.

– Ben qu’est ce qu’il y a ?

– Je ne suis pas trop d’humeur; c’est tout.

– Okay…

– C’est rien.

– T’es sûre ?

– Oui. Tu me prends dans tes bras ?

– Pas de caresses ? Pas de fessée ?

– Non, prends-moi juste dans tes bras. »

Elle pose sa tête sur son torse. Ce sont les choses simples qui sont les plus compliquées à dire.

« Tu me manques.

– Mais je suis là ?

– Quand tu ne l’es pas. »

Vacances

« C’est une blague ?

— Ben…

— Je rêve…

— Ne te fâche pas…

— Julie. Tu as vérifié quatre fois que tu avais bien éteint le gaz, trois fois que tu avais bien fermé la porte d’entrée…

— Je sais mais…

— Je t’ai demandé si c’était bon, non ? Tu m’as dit que tu avais tout.

— Oui… Je sais…

— Mais… Comment on peut oublier sa propre valise ?

— Ben oui mais… Entre la tente, le pique-nique, ta valise, les sacs de rando, les chaussures…

— Ah bah ça, ton sac de chaussures, tu l’as, mais pas l’autre, quoi…

— Oui…

— Je ferais bien un commentaire mais ça risque méchant…

— Oui, non, on va éviter…

— Tu m’agaces…

— Je sais…

— Non mais là, tu m’agaces vraiment…

— Je sais…

— Arrête de dire que tu sais, ça m’agace.

— Je… euh… Oui, mon chéri…

— Bon… On fait comment, maintenant ?

— Ben…

— Pfff…

— Bah sinon, on peut faire du shopping, hein…

— Bah tiens, ça t’arrangerait bien…

— Te fâche pas…

— Ça fait quoi, deux heures qu’on est parti ? On va perdre quatre heures, quoi.

— Je s… Oui…

— Bah c’est super.

— On est pas pressé…

— Oh bah t’as raison, on va faire des tours de ronds-points pour s’occuper, aussi. Ça fera Disneyland.

— Arrête, s’il te plait…

— Tu m’énerves.

— Je ne t’agace plus ?

— Aussi.

— D’accord… »

Il prend la sortie suivante et fait demi-tour. Silence. Elle allume la radio. Ça capte mal. Elle voit son regard furieux dans le rétroviseur à chaque craquement. Elle éteint.

« Tu veux de l’eau ?

— Non.

— D’accord… Un biscuit ?

— Non, Julie, je ne veux pas de biscuit.

— Oui, mon cœur.

— Arrête.

— Quoi ?

— D’essayer de m’amadouer.

— Mais…

— Chut.

— Je sais que tu es fâché mais bon…

— Mais bon quoi ?

— Ben j’ai pas fait exprès…

— Et ?

— Et rien… C’était pas pour t’embêter, quoi…

— Tu m’as dit que c’était bon. Il faut toujours que je passe après toi ?

— Mais non, mais… »

Elle ne dit rien de plus. Elle a les larmes aux yeux. Elle tourne la tête et regarde le paysage défiler par la fenêtre. Il ne dit rien non plus, la mâchoire serrée. Trente minute. Pas un mot. Une heure. Elle se retient de pleurer. Au moins, s’il l’engueulait, ça passerait vite, là, le silence, c’est pire que tout. Ça commence mal, les vacances. Il met le clignotant.

« On s’arrête ?

— Oui.

— D’accord.

— Que tu dois d’accord ou pas, hein.

— C’est juste façon de parler…

— Je sais.

— Sois pas fâché comme ça… S’il te plaît… Je suis vraiment désolée.

— Rappelle-moi pourquoi on est parti tôt ce matin ?

— Pour éviter les bouchons…

— Et il va se passer quoi, maintenant ?

— On va tous se les taper…

— Voilà.

— Je peux conduire, si tu veux.

— C’est bon.

— D’accord… »

Ils s’arrêtent sur une petite aire de repos. Il se gare à l’ombre et éteint le moteur.

« Bon. On va s’occuper de ta fessée.

— Quoi ?

— Tu m’as très bien entendu.

— Mais…

— Mais rien du tout.

— On peut attendre d’être à la maison, au moins ? S’il te plait…

— Non. On est à mi-chemin et j’ai besoin d’une pause.

— Ben justement, il fau te reposer, mon chéri… Ça va te fatiguer…

— Incline ton siège jusqu’au bout et allonge-toi.

— Non, s’il te plaît… Ça va se voir.

— Il n’y a personne, ça va.

— Mais…

— Ne me fais pas répéter ou ce sera sur le capot, bien visible, même de la route.

— T’oserais pas…

— Tu veux tenter ta chance ?

— Non…

— Alors incline ton siège. »

Elle s’exécute, incline le siège et s’y couche tant bien que mal, les fesses un brin surélevées, offertes à ses douloureuses attentions. Il ne perd pas de temps et relève sa petite robe à fleurs avant de lui flanquer une première volée de claques par-dessus la culotte. Elle gémit doucement. La culotte se retrouve vite à ses genoux, pour le peu de différence qu’elle fait. Elle n’ose pas jeter un œil par la fenêtre pour vérifier que personne ne les voit. Les claques se font plus dures, sa respiration plus haletante. Elle ferme les yeux. Il continue, encore et encore, ses fesses, ses cuisses, il ne se retient pas.

Ils sont repartis. Elle gigote sur son siège, incapable de trouver une position confortable. Ses fesses brûlent. Bon, au moins il a allumé la radio et semble de bien meilleure humeur. Il lui en a promis une autre en arrivant à la maison. « Fichu pour fichu », qu’il lui a dit, « autant prendre notre temps, maintenant ». Quand ça l’arrange…

Facture

«Juliiiiie ?

Quoooooooi ?

— Viens par ici.

Pourquoooooi ?

— Viens ici.

— C’est urgent ?

Viens !

— Bon… Oui, quoi ?

— C’est quoi, ça ?

— Ben une enveloppe ? Mystère résolu ! Tu m’excuses, mais j’ai mon livre là et…

— Et dans l’enveloppe, il y a quoi ?

— C’est toi qui l’as, hein… »

Il soupire et retire les papiers de la fameuse enveloppe. Il les lui les tend.

« Ah… Ça…

— Oui, je t’écoute ?

— Ben tu sais, je t’avais dit…

— Tu m’avais dit ? Mais encore ?

— Ben… Lafacturedugazenretarddumoisdernier

— Pardon?

— C’est le gaz…

— Quoi le gaz ?

— La régularisation… Tu sais ?

— Encore ? C’est réglé depuis longtemps ça…

— Non… »

Elle baisse la tête, se mord nerveusement la lèvre. Elle n’ose pas le regarder, il est furieux et elle le sait.

« J’ai complètement zappé…

— Tu as zappé.

— Bah… Oui…

— Donc quand je te l’ai rappelé la dernière fois et que tu m’as dit « oui oui c’est bon »…

— Mais je voulais vraiment le faire… C’est juste que…

— Que quoi ?

— Ben j’ai été distraite…

— Julie, c’était déjà un rappel !

— Je sais… Pardon…

Pardon, ça ne paie pas les factures…

— Non mais… euh… Les fessées non plus ?

— Bien essayé…

Il n’a pas besoin d’en dire plus ; tête baissée, elle remonte jusqu’à la chambre pour en redescendre sans son jean, sa brosse à cheveux à la main. Elle la lui tend avec un regard suppliant. La brosse, elle déteste ça, surtout celle-là, d’ailleurs. Le bois, comme ça, la rigidité, ça lui met les fesses en feu dès le premier coup. Et ça marque, de beaux bleus qui lui durent quelques jours. Mais ce n’est pas la première fois, et elle se penche sur le dossier du canapé sans broncher. Il pose la facture sur un coussin devant son nez.

« Lis-moi ce qu’il y a marqué.

— Tout ?

— Commence là.

— Rappel… »

*CLAC!* Il commence déjà.

« Régularisation annuelle… »

*CLAC!*CLAC!*  Il continue, ponctuant chaque mot d’un coup sec de la lourde brosse. Elle sent les larmes qui monte, et sa vision se brouille un peu.

« Je dois vraiment tout lire ?

— Lis-moi le chiffre en gras à la fin.

— Mais c’est un nombre…

— Quoi ?

— Ben… Les chiffres c’est juste de zéro à neuf et…

Une volée de coup l’interrompt.

« Lis *CLAC!* moi *CLAC!*  le *CLAC!*  nombre *CLAC!* à *CLAC!*  la *CLAC!* fin ! »

Elle hurle, « Aïe ! Aaaaaïe ! Pardon ! Pardoooon ! Trois cent aaaïe quatre-vingt-treeeizaaaaïe !

— Ah, bah voilà, c’est mieux !

— Tu ne vas pas faire ça, hein ?

— Ah si.

— Non non, c’est beaucoup trop, je ne suis pas maso à ce point-là !

— Tu comptes.

— Non… J’aime pas… S’il te plaît…

— C’est pas fait pour te faire plaisir !

— Mais je suis nulle pour ça… S’il te plaît…

— C’est comme pour les factures, tu vas apprendre…

— Juste les chiffres ? C’est bien, déjà, non ?

Il lève les yeux au ciel et ne répond pas. Il pose la brosse à plat contre ses fesses déjà rougies. Elle frissonne et ferme les yeux. Les dix premiers coups ne se font pas attendre ; elle les énumère un à un. Une pause. Dix de plus, tous du même coté. Elle serre les dents. Dix autres, il aime la symmétrie.

« Trente !

— Ça commence à rentrer ?

— Je ne sais pas exactement de quoi tu parles mais oui, oui, promis, c’est rentré…

— Elle part aujourd’hui, la facture.

— Oui… Promis… »

Elle s’essuie le coin des yeux du plat de la main.

« J’essaye, tu sais…

— Vraiment ?

— Mais… Oui… »

Les larmes reviennent, plus que la honte, plus que la douleur, c’est cette simple question qui la fait pleurer. Bien sûr qu’elle essaye. Elle fait de son mieux, elle veut qu’il soit fier d’elle. Dans ce « Vraiment ? », elle entend toute sa déception. Elle pleure, elle murmure des « Je fais ce que je peux …»

Il la relève et la serre dans ses bras, sans rien dire. Sa colère s’évapore ; il lui caresse doucement les cheveux. Elle pleure dans sa chemise. Son mascara soi-disant waterproof —bien trop cher— ruine sans doute la chemise pour de bon. Il s’en fiche.

« Je sais que tu fais des efforts… »

Elle ne répond pas. Elle n’y arrive pas. Il lui répète.

« Je sais que tu fais des efforts… Et je suis fier de toi, en général, tu sais ?»

Elle renifle.

« C’est vrai ? »

Il sourit et passe la main dans ses cheveux.

« Tu sais bien que tu es la championne du monde des sales gosses…»

Elle  lui donne un petit coup de poing sur le torse et sourit malgré elle. Elle est bien, là, contre lui.

Enfin, elle a mal au fesse, quand même. Pas étonnant que les factures, on appelle ça des “douloureuses”…

Habitudes

Pour une petite fée de passage

« Le problème, Julie, c’est l’attitude.

— Comment ça, l’attitude ?

— Eh bien, ton attitude, en général.

— Ouais bah qu’est ce qu’elle a, mon attitude en général ? »

Il soupire.

« Bah quoi ? » dit-elle avec un léger mouvement de tête.

« Ça, justement, cette façon de répondre, ça frôle l’insolence…

— Ça frise l’insolence, tu veux dire ? » Elle rigole, « En bon français ? »

Il ferme les yeux. Sa machoire se crispe. Elle lève les yeux au ciel.

« Pardon… Tu disais ?

— Tu sais très bien ce que je disais.

— L’attitude…

— L’attitude, oui, le comportement…

— Ah mais non, l’attitude et le comportement, ce n’est pas la même chose…

— Ne commence pas…

— Oui bah… Je suis déjà sur tes genoux, alors…

— Justement, oui, ça devrait t’inciter à rester sage.

— Mais je suis sage.

— Et donc c’est par hasard que tu es sur mes genoux, ta culotte a mi-cuisses ? »

Elle fait la moue et pose la tête sur le dos de sa main. Elle marmonne quelque chose.

« Quelque chose à dire ?

— Non…

— Tu es sûre ?

— …

— Pas un petit mot d’excuse ?

— Je suis désolée ? Ça va ça ? Niveau attitude ? Oui ? »

La claque la fait bondir, sèche, dure. Ses fesses sont déjà cramoisies, et malgré son air bravache, elle commence à bien la sentir, la punition. Il n’attend pas et lui en colle une autre, exactement au même endroit. Une troisième, une quatrième. Il est vraiment fâché, ce coup-ci. Sa main s’abat plus bas, sur ses cuisses. La douleur est cinglante.

« Non ! Pas là… »

Elle jette son bras en arrière dans le vain espoir de se protéger. Il le lui attrape et le lui coince dans le dos. Les claques pleuvent sur ses cuisses. Les larmes perlent au coin de ses yeux.

« S’il te plaît… »

Il arrête un instant et relâche son bras.

« Je t’écoute ?

— Je suis désolée… Vraiment…

— Et pourquoi es-tu désolée ?

— Ben parce que j’ai mal, là… »

Il lui flanque une dizaine de claques de plus à pleine main.

« De quoi es-tu désolée, Julie ?

— Ah tu vois, c’est mieux…

— Tu en veux encore ?

— Non ! Non, non… Pardon…

— Donc ?

— Je suis désolée d’être pénible…

— Et ?

— Et je ferai des efforts ? Pour mon attitude…

— Et ton comportement, tant qu’à faire…

— Oui oui… Promis…

Il a l’habitude d’entendre ça. Elle le dit sincèrement à chaque fois, il en est certain, ce qui ne l’empêche pas de se retrouver régulièrement sur ses genoux. Il jette un regard approbateur à ses fesses uniformément rougies, le regard averti d’un amateur du travail bien fait.

« Bon, je crois que tu sais ce qui t’attends ?

— S’il te plaît… J’aime pas ça…

— Et c’est bien pour ça que tu y vas.

— Mais je suis désolée ! Promis, j’ai bien compris la leçon…

— Et moi je veux qu’elle reste, la leçon que tu as compris… Alors, au coin.

— …

— Quoi ?

— La leçon que j’ai comprise, tu veux dire ? Non ?

Payback for Corinne

She closed the door to the chief’s office and sat in the offered seat. The desk was a mess of papers, pens, empty coffee cups and napkins. There was a plaque on display, it read : Capitaine Ballanger. He was looking at her, his fingers joined at the tip, his lips pursed in a moue of annoyance.

“Corinne, ” he said, “do you know why you’re here?”

The young policewoman shifted uncomfortably in her seat and scratched the back of her neck.

“I don’t know, monsieur, did something come up about the Durier case?”

“No, no, nothing yet, that’s not why I asked you here.”

“Oh,” she said simply and waited. The captain was a patient man, and he liked to take his time. He would get to the point eventually.

“There were… troubling reports about you, Corinne…”

“Troubling, monsieur?”

“Troubling indeed,” he said, and got up from his chair. He walked around the desk and went to the window overlooking the open space in which the policemen were all at their busy work. He closed the venetian blinds and turned back to her. She hadn’t moved.

“There were calls, quite a number of them,” he continued laconically.

“Calls? About what?”

“About a policewoman spanking a young woman on the roadside!” he boomed, “Apparently, you put on quite a show. Do you have anything to say about that, lieutenant?”

“I…” she hesitated, unsure what to do, “I don’t think hearsay is…”

“Heresay? Do you think twenty people coordinated to call us and invent such a tale?”

“Did that… ‘young woman’ call you? Was there a formal complaint, monsieur?”

He didn’t answer, raising one finger up. He went to his desk and pressed a button on his phone. “She’s here with me now, Vincent,” he said, and let go of the button without waiting for an answer. A few seconds later there was a tap at the door and one of her colleagues entered, a very familiar young German girl in tow.

“Now, Corinne, do you recognise her at all?” he said with a mock grin.

She bit her lip, blushing. The other woman didn’t seem much more at ease.

“What were you trying to accomplish, lieutenant? Start a diplomatic incident with Germany?”

“I think you’re over-reacting a little…” she muttered,

“I beg your pardon, junior lieutenant?” he said, frowning.

“But sir… she was speeding, she had no papers and…”

“Do you have any record of that? Did you file any report? Any paperwork?”

“No, I mean… Huh…”

“Did you see anywhere in the law that you could just… Spank people at will? Is that your vision of justice?”

She was silent, head bowed. The captain went on:

“Thankfully for you, mademoiselle Fischer here doesn’t want to fill any claim against you…

Corinne kept looking at the floor, nodding shyly.

“However,” the captain continued, “I thought it was only fair that she would be present for this.”

She raised her head up at him. “This?” she asked.

“You thought there would be no consequences?”

“I… I suppose an official reprimand in in order, Capitaine but…”

“A reprimand?”

“I…”

“You’re getting a spanking, just like you thought fit to give the lady here, ” he gestured to the other policeman in the room, “Vincent, leave us.”

“But… but…” the young lieutenant said, her mouth agape with incredulity. The blond German, Emma Fischer, couldn’t help a cruel little smile.

“Get up, Corinne,” the captain said as he moved to clean a portion of his desk. “I think you know how these things go!”

She slowly rose, panic numbing her. She had never thought she would end up on the receiving side of a spanking… Especially not like this, in her boss’ office, in front of a total stranger… Well, maybe she was a little more than a stranger, but the reversal made it all the more humiliating.

“Hurry up, Corinne, I have other matters to attend to,” the captain growled, and she lay her arms and torso upon his desk as ordered. The fabric of her standard uniform trousers stretched over over round bottom, leaving little to the imagination as unflattering as they were said to be. The blond German was offered a seat, and she took it, wincing a little as she sat down and made herself comfortable for the show that was put on just for her.

The captain put a hand on the small of Corinne’s back and pinned her down on the table. She clenched her teeth and sore she wouldn’t give that mademoiselle Fischer the satisfaction of any cries or moans. Her boss patted her plump bottom a few times and *SMACK!*, he gave her the first real slap. Instantly, pain exploded in her bottom, her eyes widened, her fingers curled up into fist. *SMACK!* another, right on the same spot, and then another, and one more, *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*

There was barely a pause in between them, and she could feel the heat and pain building up. Then he switched side and *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*, proceeded to give it the same treatment. Her legs were trembling already, and it was all she could do not to try and cover her bottom. She felt her cheeks blushing more and more as her bottom was covered in slaps going from side to side now, setting her bottom on fire and shaming her with each blow. Everyone in the precinct could hear it, she was sure of it.

“Is that what you did to mademoiselle Fischer, Corinne?” the captain asked, pausing a moment. She was breathing heavily, trying not to let the tears flow.

“I… Y-yes, monsieur…”

The other girl cleared her throat. “You didn’t let me keep my trousers on…” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “That filthy little…” Corinne thought, but said nothing.

“Well?” the captain said, slapping her hard on her right cheek

“Aaaah! I…”

He slapped her again, on the left, harder.

“Ooow… It’s true, it’s true, I…”

“Right…” the captain nodded, “Trousers down, lieutenant.”

“But monsieur…”

“No arguing, Corinne, you know what you deserve.”

“Yes…” She closed her eyes and a tear rolled across her blushing cheeks. She got up with a moan of pain and undid her belt, put her equipment on the floor and slowly slid the trousers to the middle of her thighs. She had put on a simple white thong that wouldn’ t protect anything at all, and leave everything on display for the captain and their… guest… Her two large globes were a bright pink already.  He was quite a muscular man, and quite evidently didn’t hold up his slaps. She got back into position over the desk.

She had always been a little hot-headed and she could clearly feel he was enjoying putting her back in her place. He was a nice enough superior, always polite and understanding, he seldom raised his voice. But he was clearly angry this time. She could feel a tingle of excitement between her legs and buried her face in her hands, trying not to think of her intimacy on display, barely hidden behind that tiny thong.

The captain rummaged in a cabinet and she felt something hard and cold patting against her buttocks. Was that…

*WHACK!*

“OooooOOooow!!” She couldn’t help it. The paddle had taken her completely by suprise and God, it hurt

*WHACK!*

“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” she cried out, and tapped her feet on the ground, trying in vain to get the pain to go away. “Please…”

*WHACK!*

The captain was not holding back.

“Please mons—”

*WHACK!*

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaïe… Please, please…”

*WHACK!*

payback

The tears were streaming now, and all she could do was beg for him to stop. She held the position, knowing that it would only get worse if she didn’t.

*WHACK!*

She clenched her teeth and buttcheeks.

*WHACK!*

She closed her eyes, breathing heavily.

*WHACK!*

She could feel the warmth between her legs. She knew she was wet as a fountain. She had never felt so much pain and yet…

*WHACK!*

She moaned and cried even more. The German girl wasn’t missing any of it, she was rubbing her thighs together, one hand over her chest that was rising and falling quickly. She was blushing too, looking at the furious captain dispensing justice. There was something about those French uniforms…

*WHACK!*

“And that’s ten,” the captain announced.

Corinne was bawling over the desk and he got her up and led her into a corner of his office. She instinctively put her hands over her head, still silently crying. The captain was talking to mademoiselle Fischer. She didn’t listen or care, all she could feel was her poor, bruised, crimson bottom. Somehow, she wondered what it would be like to be laying over the captain’s lap… His hands falling rhythmically on her bouncy bottom… She had a little smile through the tears. It was just like her to think about that in her situation.

She heard the door open and close behind her. Papers being put away. Plastic cups falling in the bin. The captain was cleaning up his desk. Good, that meant she wouldn’t have to get back over it. But… Why did he have a paddle in his office?

In the thirty minutes that she spent in the corner, she had many such questions pop into her head. Vincent had come to talk to the captain, and Ludovic too. A third person had come as well but she hadn’t known who it was. Maybe Sophie? She knew that she would never hear the end of it now. Finally, the captain allowed her to put her trousers back on. She did so and turned around, biting her lip a little.

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” she said in a little voice.

He nodded. “Good. I hope you’ve learned your lesson today.”

She nodded back, “Yes, Capitaine Ballanger, I have…”

“Next time an idea like this pops into your head…

“Yes?”

“At least do it away from the public’s eye…”

 

Emma’s Speeding

Emma took a quick look in her mirror, pouting her lips and rearranging her hair. It was the third time this month that her car was pulled over by the police for speeding. So far, not a single ticket, she knew how to take them. She pulled her top down a little and pushed her breasts up. It was crass but it worked. Lowering the music on her radio, she put on her nicest smile, opened her window all the way and purred :

“Oh, I’m so sorry officer… I was distracted… I’m sure that you can—” she abruptly stopped as her eyes went up and saw the lady in a police uniform, her arm crossed over her chest, an eyebrow lifted.

“I… Hum…” she started again,

“So you’re that German girl I’ve been hearing about…” the policewoman interrupted, “Seems like a warning isn’t enough for you, huh?”

“No, I mean… It’s is… Ma’am…” she stuttered, blushing. This wasn’t going according to plan at all.

“I need your driving licence and the car’s registration,” the lady said matter-of-factly.

Emma nodded and ruffled through her bag to find her purse.

“I… It’s in here somewhere…”

“You don’t have your papers with you?”

“No I do… It’s just… Hum…”

“You realise you’re in another country, fraülein, right?” she said dismissively and crossed her arms over her chest again.

“I…” Emma blushed even more, looking in her bag again, desperately emptying it over the passenger’s seat.

The policewoman rolled her eyes.

“Come out of the vehicle, mademoiselle.”

“What? Why?”

“Come out of your car,” she said again with a stern look. There was no arguing with her and Emma knew she was in enough trouble already ; apparently that woman knew she had been caught speeding before, she didn’t have any papers with her, she should play nice. The young blonde girl opened the door and gingerly stepped out. Cars were flashing by on the motorway by the dozens.

“Do you know what country you’re in?” the officer said with a smile.

Frankreich? I mean, France?”

“Yes. And we don’t have autobahns here, you understand? Speed is limited. Everywhere. But you know that, don’t you?”

“I…”

“You know that because my colleagues have told you so before.”

“How… How do you know it was me?” she said, a little defiant.

“Blond, German girl in her late twenties driving a white BMW at reckless speeds and trying to entice young policemen? There are surprisingly few of those.”

“Still doesn’t prove—”

“I’ve gotten them to give me your plate number, mademoiselle,” she cut her.

Emma blushed and looked down, her hands nervously twisting.

“Now, I think there’s only one thing to do… I’ll have to take you to the station. We’ll arrange for your car to be towed…” the policewoman continued.

“No, please… I’m sure my papers are in there… I… I’m sorry… Bitte… Please…”

“I don’t want to know how you got out of trouble before, I’ve only heard the other guys bragging about ‘that German hottie in her white car’, but it’s not going to work on me, I can tell you that.”

“Please, Madame, I… I was going to be late to an appointment… It’s really important…”

“Well look at you now! You’re not going to make the appointment at all!”

“I beg you…” she teared up, her lip quivering, “I will lose my job…”

The policewoman looked at the young German girl in silence while tears rolled down her face. With her hair cut to shoulder length, her big, flashy sunglasses up in her hair, the fancy clothes and car, she was everything the French woman despised. She was young and well off and thought herself above the rules and laws. “I’ll show her…” she thought.

“Fine,” she said, “Step over to the front of the vehicle and put your hands on the hood.”

Emma sniffled and did as she was told. The hood was warm to the touch. She looked back at the officer over her shoulder.

“Are… Are you going to search me? I don’t do drugs, I…”

“No, mademoiselle, I’m going to spank you.”

“You’re going to wh—”

The first slap interrupted her, her head jolting up in surprise. “Oooow!” she yelped. The slaps came in quick successions, heating up her bottom through her tight jeans. She tried to cover her behind and only got harder slaps for her trouble.

“Keep your hands down or it’ll get a lot worse for you,” the woman warned as more heavy smacks rained down on her poor teutonic buttocks. Cars were still zipping by, some of them honking as they passed them.

Emma tried to get up again. “That’s enough!” she said, her voice trembling with humiliation and anger.

“You had been warned!” the policewoman said, putting her hand on her back and pushing her back down. Then, with her left, she grabbed Emma’s jeans and yanked them down to her thighs.

“Nooo!!” Emma cried, “You can’t do that!”

“I don’t think you have a say in the matter, mademoiselle,” the officer answered as she pulled the pair of white panties down as well. “Now don’t move!”

Emma was wincing and clenching her round cheeks as the spanking began anew with renewed fury over her bare, exposed bottom. It was now in full view to all the people driving along the road, and she heard people yell encouragements to the police officer through their car windows. She struggled to stay still, rising on her toes with each hard slap. She had never been so humiliated in her life! That… monster was pouring spank after hard spank on her round cheeks. The burning was intense, the shame unbearable, and still she went on.

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The spanking went on for what seemed like an eternity to the poor Emma, her roasted bottom on display and sending wave of heat and pain up her core. She clenched her teeth and tried not to give the policewoman the satisfactions of the moans of pain, but failed miserably.

“Oooooooow! Oow! Aaaaa…”

The woman, on the other hand, was enjoying herself fully, dishing out pain and justice with every hard blow. That dumb German bimbo thought she could get the better of the French police? Well who was having the last laugh now? She grinned as she spanked the girl’s two red orbs, marking them with deep red handprints.

When the officer finally relented, the poor girl almost fell down on the hood of her car, sobbing, rubbing her poor, thoroughly punished bottom. She wasn’t thinking of the people passing by anymore, she wasn’t even thinking about the policewoman or her appointment, all she could think of was how much her bottom hurt.

The policewoman rubbed her hands together, sore as they were, and cleared her throat.

“Consider this a warning, then,” she said with a cruel smile. “I’ll give you a form so that you can make it to your appointment even without your licence…”

The girl sobbed and nodded a little “Danke,” still rubbing her bottom.

A few minutes later, she was back in her car, trying to fix her makeup as most of it had run down her cheeks. She had cringed and yelped as she had pulled her jeans up over her burning, crimson behind, and again as she had sat on the leather seats, her bottom sore and swollen.

“Well,” she thought, “at least I got away with it again… But that woman spanked a lot harder than the other policemen…”