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
…”

La confiance règne

«Dis, tu me fais confiance?

—Euh… En général oui, pourquoi ?

—En général ?

—Bah quand tu me poses ce genre de question, je me demande un peu…

—Non non, c’est juste une question…

—Ah oui ? Juste une question ?

—Oui oui… Juste une—

—Juliiie ?

—Oui mon chérie d’amour ?

—Qu’est ce que t’as fait ?

—Mais, euh, rien !

—Qu’est ce que t’as pas fait, alors ?

—Je… Ne t’ai pas donné assez de bisous aujourd’hui, mon nounours adoré ?

—Mouais, tu vois Julie, j’ai de moins en moins confiance, là…

—Mais, mon roudoudou d’amour…

—Mmh, la confiance négative, ça s’appelle comment ?

—…

—Julie ? Il y a quelque chose que tu veux me dire ?

—Rien que je veuille dire, non…

—Et quelque chose que tu devrais me dire, alors ?

—Oui, je devrais p’têt…

—Parce que je serai encore plus fâché si je le découvre plus tard ?

—Tu n’es pas obligé d’être fâché, hein…

—Dis donc, ça doit être un sacré pot…

—Hein ?

—Ah bah oui, il doit être immense, le pot, vu le temps que tu mets à tourner autour…

—Dis, elle est un peu torturée, ta métaphore… Sadique va…

—Bon, comme les enfants, je vais compter jusqu’à trois…

—Rhoo, mais non…

—Un…

—Arrête, c’est la honte…

—Deux…

—S’il te plait…

—Tr-

—D’accooord! D’accord, stop!

—Alors ?

—J’ai p’têt oublié de payer la facture…

—Quelle facture ?

—Internet…

—Celle avec la relance ?

—Celle-là…

—Celle que tu m’as promis de faire le weekend dernier ?

—Oui…

—Celle qui dit que sinon on n’a plus internet ?

—Bah c’est la facture internet alors bon…

—Et ma réunion zoom demain ?

—Ben…

—Julie ?

—…

—Tu te fiches de moi ?»

Sans un mot, elle défait son pantalon et le baisse aux genoux, la culotte avec. Elle connait la chanson. Il lève les yeux au ciel. Il la prend sur ses genoux, la tient en place fermement.

«Franchement, t’es pas croyable…»

Il lève la main, profitant de la vue un instant. La première claque s’abat, brève et sèche. Elle gémit et serre les fesses.

«Ah ! Je le savais !» dit-elle, triomphante.

«Quoi ?

—Que tu me faisais pas confiance !

—Hein ?

—Rhoo, je l’ai payée, la facture…

—Quoi ?

—C’était pour voir si tu me faisais conf… Aïe ! Mais ! Aïïïe ! Arrête !»

Une centaine de claques et beaucoup de larmes plus tard, elle se love dans ses bras, la moue aux lèvres.

«C’est pas juste…

—Julie…

—C’était pas vrai…

—Exactement, c’était pas vrai, et les mensonges, Julie, c’est non !»

Adven 21 – A Perfect Evening

When he came home, I thought we would have the most perfect evening. We had said we were going to put the tree up that night, something I’d been looking forward to for weeks in this bleakest of years. I had put mulled wine to warm up on the stove, Christmas music was playing…

But the minute he passed the door, everything seemed to go wrong. Well, I say passed the door… I had left my keys in it, locked, and he had to bang on the door for five minutes before I heard him, busy as I was bellowing Christmas songs from the kitchen. Mortified, blushing and looking down, I let him take his coat and shoes off before starting to apologise as best I could. He didn’t let me finish, dismissing me with a wave, and my heart sank.

Sheepishly, I followed him to the living-room where I’d laid out the tree and the many boxes of decorations that we have accumulated over the years. I was ready to put a silly Christmas film on and forget the door incident. But he sighed.

‘Are we doing this tonight?’ he asked, clearly not up for it.

I looked down. ‘Well, we’d said we…’

‘I know, I know, fine…’ he said. My eyes were down, but I could feel his eyes rolling.

‘Did you have a bad day?’ I asked, gently.

‘No, I’m fine, just tired’ was all he said.

Suddenly, I remembered the wine on the stove. ‘Shit!’ I said and ran over there. As I’d feared, it had started to boil. Not a tragedy, in the grand scheme of things, but still… One more thing that wasn’t going right.

‘Can you grab me a beer while you’re in there?’ he called from the living-room. With a sigh, I served a single mugful of mulled wine and got him a beer.

When I came back to the living-room, the tree was up, bare as it was. He was rummaging around in one of the boxes, looking for something. I set the drinks on the table. Well, I tried to. I tripped on a bunch of lights and everything went crashing to the floor, lights, drinks and all. He jumped and took my hand, genuinely worried.

‘Are you okay?’

I sighed.

‘It’s not the evening I wanted…’

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘just pick a movie, I’ll get a mop, yeah? Then we can decorate, wrap presents, and it’ll all be okay.’

I wiped tears from my eyes and nodded. He went to get a mop, and I started browsing. Maybe things would be fine after all.

‘Honey?’ he called from the kitchen, ‘What’s in the oven?’

The oven? I thought. The oven. Fuck! The oatmeal cookies I had made were probably completely burnt… I rushed to the oven and, sure enough, smoke billowed out when I opened the door. I bit my lip, and felt tears running down my cheeks.

‘Honey?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’

‘No…’ I managed in a tearful little voice, ‘It’s really not…’

‘They’re just cookies, my love, it doesn’t matter…’

‘It’s…’ I started, hesitating, then everything came out at once, ‘It’s everything, it’s covid, it’s not seeing family this year, then the door, and you’re mad about the tree and I burnt the cookies and spilled the wine and…

He shushed me gently and took me in his big, bear arms. I cried my eyes out in his chest. His hand came up to stroke my hair and slowly, I calmed down.

‘Tell me what you need…’ he said.

‘I… I feel so bad, about everything…’

‘Honey… It’s okay…’

‘No… Will you… Will you spank me? And then we can start over…’

‘A nice, cathartic spanking?’

‘Yes… I want to be over your knees… I want to let go… Please?’

Gently, carefully, he took my hand and led me to a chair in the kitchen, where he sat down. I took my jeans down. He was smiling up at me. I blushed. Lovingly, he put me down over his knees, and I abandoned myself to his embrace, to his loving discipline. Despite the pain, I smiled as the guilt left me with each slap of his hand.

Once it was all over, and my tears were exhausted, we decorated the tree, drinking freshly made mugs of mulled wine; we watched a silly Christmas film just like I wanted, and nibbled on burnt cookies while laughing at each other’s awful Christmas pun. All the while, my bottom was burning, and I loved him all the more for it.

Sources

«Dis?

—Oui, ma belle?

—Tu me fais un câlin ?

—Je sais pas… Tu mérites ?

—Bah oui, hein. Toujours !

—C’est pas ce qu’on m’a dit…

—Ah oui, et c’est qui ‘on’ ?

—Oh bah tu sais, j’ai mes sources…

—Mouais, des sources…

—Très haut placées…

—Ah oui? Je voyais ça plus bas…

—Plus bas ?

—Ouais, genre dans ton…

—Pfff, c’est fin ça, Julie…»

Elle lui tire la langue.

«C’est toi qui m’accuses !

—J’ai tort ?

—Voui, je suis un ange ces jours-ci…

—Carrément ?

—Bah ouais. J’ai payé la facture de gaz en temps et en heure, la cuisine est nickel, pas un mél en retard au boulot. Un ange, je te dis.

—Donc on va ignorer le caprice d’hier soir, les gros mots ce matin…

—C’est le foutu réveil !

—Les gros mots d’aujourd’hui, donc…

—Pfff…

—Ton linge par terre de ton côté du lit, ta tasse de thé qui moisit sur la table basse…

—C’est rien ça…

—Le dossier que t’as pas encore fini qui devait être sur le bureau de ta cheffe la semaine dernière dernier délai…

—Oui euh…

—L’assurance de la voiture…

—Euh…

—Ta plante verte qui se meurt…

—T’abuses…

—T’as pas fini tes mots croisés…

—Non mais…

—Tu ne t’es pas assez hydratée aujourd’hui…

—Oui, bon, j’ai pas fait la paix dans le monde non plus, hein..

—Je sais ! Mes sources…

—Ah oui, tes sources… ‘Savent tout… C’est comme Google…

—Ce qu’elles savent, c’est qu’avant ton câlin, tu vas venir sur mes genoux…

—Ah oui ?

—C’est ce qu’elles me disent…

—Elle prédisent l’avenir en plus ?

—C’est comme la météo, vague de chaleur sur les fesses de Julie.

—Je sors le bikini, alors ?

—On va faire ‘plage nudiste’, plutôt.

—Ça me va, mais après j’ai un câlin, oui ?

—Après, t’en auras plein.»

Landlord visit

Claire whistled as she came down the stairs. The 22-year-old student was in a good mood, and was ready to go out with her friends, global pandemic be damned. She jumped over a pile of random boxes and glanced at the kitchen sink as she passed it in the corridor. It was full —had been for a week, really. But who cared? Sure, there was an ecosystem developing in there, but wasn’t like she was getting visitors, and doing the washing-up was boring anyway.

She slipped-on a pair of trainers and was about to open the door when somebody knocked. She jumped. As far as she knew, she wasn’t expecting any delivery. Startled, she adjusted the glasses on her nose and hesitantly unlocked and opened the door. In the corridor stood her landlord, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Ah, Claire, there you are!” he said, “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks!”

“Hum, err, I…” she mumbled, blushing. Yes, there was that little issue of the rent not having been paid for the last two months; that had totally slipped her mind.

“Can I come in?” he said, his tone making it clear the question was purely rhetorical. She moved away from the door to let him in.

He looked around and raised a concerned eyebrow gazing at the absolute mess, the old pizza boxes, the dirty socks, the empty bottles, and more besides. Claire was looking down at the floor, twisting her hands together as her cheeks burned with shame.

“I…” she started, not finding anything more to say. The pink-haired student, normally so bubbly, couldn’t see a way to justify how she had let herself go so badly. Blame it on COVID, she thought, half-heartedly. She knew it wasn’t that. She was a procrastinating slob at the moment, and she could only blame herself for it.

Her landlord, Mr Dawson, seemed at a loss for words just as much as she was. He was slowly shaking his head in disbelief and making his way towards the kitchen. Panic settled in Claire’s gut and she blurted out, “Wh-what can I do for you, Sir?”

He turned around, his hands on his hips. “Well, I came to check you were all right, since you weren’t answering your phone, or emails, or texts…”

“Hum… Yes… I was, err, I’ve been very busy you see and…”

“I can see that…” he said, looking around in dismay. She nodded nervously and looked down, her blushing showing no sign of going away. He continued, “Mostly, we need to talk about your unpaid rent…”

She looked up, shyly, then down again. “I know, I’m sorry…” she mumbled.

“I know things are tough at the moment, Claire,” he started, then pointed at all the delivery food packages strewn around, “But I’m not sure you have your priorities straight…”

“No Sir…” she whispered.

“What was that?”

“No Sir,” she said again, louder.

“Do you think this how you should keep your flat?” he continued, gesturing at their surroundings.

“No Sir…”

“And about the rent?”

“I will pay it, Sir…” she said, her head still bowed.

“In full and on time?”

“Y-yes, Sir…”

“All right, I’ll give you until the end of the week…”

“Thank you, s—”

“I’m not finished!” Mr Dawson interrupted, “I will be back on Sunday to check that you’ve cleaned this mess, and for the rent. And before I go, I’m going to give you a taste of the consequences, should either not be done by then.”

“Con-consequences, Sir?” she said, looking up at him worriedly.

He cleaned an old Domino’s box off a chair. “You are going to come over my lap, and I’m going to spank your bare bottom, young lady.”

Young lady? She thought. He was not a decade older than she was. Wait, that wasn’t even the point, she corrected herself. A spanking? What was he talking about?

“I… I don’t think you can do that…” she said, looking away.

“No? Don’t you think you deserve one? Look at this place! It was just re-done when you came in. I remember your mother telling me how you were a very neat and ordered student…”

“Yes…”

“Do you want her to know about this mess you’ve done?”

“No! Please…”

“And I can only guess at how your university work is going…”

She said nothing. Tears were welling in her eyes. She was a mess, she knew it. She missed home, she missed rules, she missed being held accountable. Yet… a spanking?! Like a misbehaving brat?…

He sat down on the chair, waiting for the cogs to stop turning in her head. Finally, she bowed her head and shuffled her way to him, walking around a mouldy curry tupperware and what looked like the rest of some Chinese. He pointed at her jeans. “Pull them down”

“Please, Sir…”

“Pull. Them. Down.” he said, unmoved by the tears of shame that already had started rolling down her cheeks. She bit her lip and undid her belt buckle, then pushed her tight jeans down, revealing a tiny pair of white panties. He was gracious enough not to comment further and indicated her over with a shove of his head. She approached, closed her eyes, and went to lay across his lap. She felt his firm hand holding her side and she shuffled slightly, trying to find some comfortable position despite the shame and humiliation. Her comfort, however, was the least of Mr Dawson’s concerns, and he made that very clear when the first of many heavy slaps landed on her perky, offered bottom.

“Owww!” she yelled out in pain and surprise. Sure, she’d been spanked before, but he was clearly not going easy on her. Each slap made her wince in pain and kick her legs. After a dozen slaps, she was already crying openly. “Please! Sir! Mr Dawson!” she cried, trying to wiggle her way off his lap. He held her in place, unwavering. Clearly, he had done that before. “That’s enough! Owww! I’ll clean up! Please!” Relentless, the slaps came, hard and fast, a staccato of pain on her rump.

“STOP!” she yelled and tried to protect her burning cheeks with her hand. He paused. For a moment, she thought he had listened, and that her nightmare was over. she lowered her shoulders and sniffled. “Let me go, Sir… I..” Then his hand grabbed the elastic band of her panties, and she panicked.

“No! Nonononono! Please!”

“I told you I was going to spank your bare bottom.” he said, matter-of-factly.

“No, please! I’ll clean! I’ll pay the rent on time! I’ll do anything you want!”

With one pull, her panties were down to her mid-thighs and her bottom bared for him to admire and punish as he willed. She clenched her buttocks, foolishly hoping to hide her intimacy and to make what she knew was coming hurt less. With the first slap, she knew it wouldn’t work.

The thin fabric of her panties hadn’t protected her much, she knew, and maybe it was all psychological, but the flesh-on-flesh slaps felt ten times worse. Maybe it was that her bottom was already burning, maybe it was the sheer humiliation of having her ass bared for a man —pretty much a stranger— to see. She wailed with every merciless slap, knowing that there was nothing she could do to stop them. Through her tears, she looked at the mess around her, and knew that it was what she needed. I will change she thought with every stroke of Mr Dawson’s large hand, I will change, I will change, I will change, I will change…

Finally, after an eternity of pain and tears, she found herself standing in the corner, her hands over her head, her burning cheeks on display. Her phone on the coffee table was counting down 45 minutes, and even though she knew that Mr Dawson had left, she dared not move away from the corner. The mantra kept repeating in her head, I will change, I will change, I will change, I will change…

She would make him proud on Sunday. Her burning bottom was a dire reminder of the consequences if she didn’t. But mostly, she knew that she would make herself proud.