Her bottom hurt. It burned, it throbbed, and she didn’t dare look at it. She could imagine how bright red it was, and her Mistress’ handprints all over it. She moaned as she felt a hand grabbing her tender butt-cheek.
“Are we starting to learn, Nelly?” said a calm, sensual voice. The hand squeezed.
“Y-Yes, Mistress…” Nelly answered.
“You disappointed me…” the voice said again, and a hard slap landed on her burning ass.
She yelped and more tears streamed down her face. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed
“I’m sorry Mistress” came the reply, two more slaps punctuating it.
Nelly was standing up, her hands against the wall. Her little summer dress had been pulled up and rested on her hips, with her simple white panties down to her knees. Her legs trembled and for a second, she considered begging her Mistress to stop. She knew better, and she buried the idea as fresh pain exploded in her rear. Her Mistress was disappointed. Not mad, disappointed. Her Mistress never got mad, and she loved her for it. But she had high expectation, and Nelly knew she was far from perfect. Far from good, even.
More slaps. More pain. More tears. Sobs, moans, yelps, and the sweet voice of her Mistress scolding her. It felt right. It was right. It was what she deserved.
“You had one simple task today, Nelly…”
“And you didn’t even start on it…”
“I’m sorry, Mistress…”
“How do you think it’s making me feel, Nelly?”
“I… S-sad, Mistress? Disappointed in your little slut?”
“Never again, you hear me?”
The longer it went on, the better she felt. She would do it. She would make her Mistress proud. Her bottom hurt. It burned, it throbbed, and she didn’t dare look at it, but she didn’t care. The only thing that was really painful was the disappointment in her Mistress’ eyes.
The theme for the January Discord pic was ‘Celebrities’, but seeing as actresses from two prominent franchises won… It turned into a Comicon Specialtm! So here is Brie Larson giving Daisy Ridley a piece of her mind, no doubt to the delight of the watching fans!
The girl’s screams echo across the large, mostly empty room, a perfect counterpoint to the rhythmic, sharp noise of the slaps raining down on her ass. Again and again, her tormentor’s hand falls, delivering heavy slaps that make the girl’s tender bottom wobble and redden a little more with each blow.
Once more, she begs, begs for mercy, begs for it to stop, begs, wails and promises. It will never happen again, she cries; she has learnt her lesson, she swears; there is no need to continue, she pleads.
Time and time again, her pleas fall on deaf ears, or on ears that don’t care for her empty promises, at least. Without pausing her spanking, the stern disciplinarian says, “I’ve heard all of this before, Ella. And not just once…”
Only a wail answers. More slaps, more cries.
“I’ve warned you,” the spanker continues, “I’ve told you what would happen.”
Only sobs answer back. She carries on, matter-of-factly, “And yet you chose to take my car… Again…”
“But…” Ella manages between two sobs
“But nothing, young lady!” the other woman snaps, punctuating it with a nasty slap down between Ella’s legs. The young, curly girl howls in pain. Her skirt up, panties dangling off her leg, there is nothing to cover her bottom, or her dignity. Nothing to protect her from the wrathful slaps either.
Her mother continues, “You took the car; you took it and you got caught speeding… Again…”
The heavy palmfuls continue to rain down.
“I’m sorry muuuum!” Ella whimpers, “Please, mummy…”
The begging, as before, does nothing to attenuate the regular explosions of pain in her backside.
“You thought I wouldn’t find out, huh? Whose name is on the ticket, do you think? Who’s got to pay a fine?”
“Mum, please!” she wails.
“Wait until your father comes home…” her mother says, menacingly. Ella doesn’t think it could get any worse, but she knows better than to answer. Her father, whilst strict, usually softens up when she cries and sobs. Her mother… not so much.
As if to prove her right, a series of hard slaps come down on Ella’s thighs, making her kick her legs in agony.
“All of that for what, huh?” her mum asks.
“To impress your boyfriend? Is it?”
“Mum, pleaaaase! Pleeease stoooooop!”
“Is that what this is, Lucas? Are you impressed right now?” the mother says, turning her head to the right.
Sat on the sofa, straight in front of Ella’s spread legs and exposed intimacy, Lucas shakes his head, not daring to say a word. Eyes open wide, his blushing cheeks are almost as red as Ella’s bottom. His mind is racing, his cock as hard as it’s ever been, painful against his tight jeans.
To be honest, he doesn’t know what turns him on more, Ella’s crimson ass and shamefully dripping pussy, or her stern, dominatrix of a mother.
As Gesperax pointed out, there aren’t any Batarian females in the games! That’s all the excuse I needed, really, but now that the Mass Effect trilogy remaster has been officially announced andthat another game is in development… 😀
I tend not to get political on here, and I won’t tell my American friends and visitors who to vote for. It’s your country, not mine.
What I will say, though, is that with civil rights come duties, the primary of which is simply to vote. A democracy can only be a healthy one if people actually vote. So vote, people. Or else!
Please do not make political comments about the election or either candidate below, I have no interest in housing a debate here, I think there are places far better suited to it all around the internet. And mostly, at this point, I think people have made their mind, one way or another. One thing about this election is that the choices are so diametrically opposed that I can’t imagine people being on the fence.
In any case, if you haven’t yet, please vote! Have your voice heard!
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.
[No cats were harmed in the making of this blog. They all love to be spanked.] Exploring the psychology 'behind' spanking through fiction and poetry. Because, nothing says 'I love you' better than a red, sore, bare bottom. Comments welcome and discussion encouraged. I believe spanking between consenting adults leads to closer and more intimate relationships. Spanking is not a kink, not a fetish, not a lifestyle, but rather, a healthy and honest means of communication. Let your mind free and respect will follow. Contact me email@example.com