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.

A Tropical Vacation

“NeuNunDNeUnZig LuFtBaLlons!…”

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
…”

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.

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.

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.

20.png

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…”