Petite robe

« Julie, il faut vraiment qu’on y aille, là.

— Oui oui, deux secondes…

— Mais ça fait une demi-heure que je t’attends.

— Attends, j’ai presque fini.

— Je ne fais que ça, attendre…

— T’en fais pas, on sera pile.

— Ah non, à cette heure-ci ça va être galère…

— Mais non, ça va passer crème, tu vas voir…

— C’est bon ?

— T’en penses quoi ?

— Oui, c’est joli.

— Ah ouais…

— Quoi ?

— C’est tout ?

— Julie, ne commence pas…

— Non mais si t’aimes pas…

— Mais si ! Je t’ai dit que c’était joli.

— Oui, ‘fin, avec ce ton…

— Mais n’importe quoi… Allez viens, on y va. Tu prends le gâteau ?

— Non mais attends, vu que t’aimes pas je vais me changer, hein.

— Mais non ! »

Elle hausse un sourcil et repart dans la chambre sans rien dire.

« Julie, reviens ici tout de suite ! »

Elle claque la porte. Il roule des yeux et soupire. Il pose la bouteille qu’il tenait à la main sur le meuble de l’entrée et va à la porte de la chambre. Il frappe, doucement, et ouvre. La robe est par terre. Elle est en train de finir d’enfiler un vieux jean. Elle attrape une polaire qu’elle avait jeté sur le lit et l’enfile par-dessus le t-shirt qu’elle portait déjà aujourd’hui.

« Tu ne crois pas que tu abuses, là ?

— Quoi ?

— Ben on sort, quand même…

— Et ? On va chez Sophie et Alain, hein, pas chez Maxim’s.

— Mais elle était très bien ta robe.

— Non, j’ai l’air énorme dedans.

— Tu t’entends ? C’est quoi ce cliché à deux balles ?

— On y va ? Parce que là, on n’est pas en avance…

— Julie…

— Quoi ?

— Fais un effort, s’il te plaît.

— Ça veut dire que je m’habille comme un sac d’habitude ?

— Mais non…

— Non mais si môsieur a un sens du style si développé…

— Ça suffit, Julie… »

Elle fait un geste dédaigneux de la main et s’avance vers la porte. Il l’attrape par le poignet. Elle essaye de se dégager. Il la regarde dans les yeux. Elle lui retourne son regard.

« Change-toi.

— Non, c’est bon.

— Je ne te demande pas, je te dis.

— T’es chiant.

— Pardon ?

— Non mais c’est vrai, quoi…

— Un, tu surveilles ton langage ; deux, je t’ai dit qu’elle était bien ta robe, alors arrête !

— Ben t’avais tort, voilà.

— Bon… »

Il la tire vers lui et empoigne son jean. Il défait le bouton d’un geste sec, ouvre la fermeture éclair, et baisse le jean à mi-cuisses. Sans attendre, ni écouter ses protestations, il la coince sous son bras et lâche une volée de claques sur sa culotte. Elle se débat. Il la tient fermement et tire la culotte vers le haut, découvrant ses fesses encore relativement blanches.

« Arrête ! »

Il frappe de plus belle. Ses fesses, le haut de ses cuisses. Des claques rapides, impatientes. Le blanc devient vite rose sous ses attentions. Elle cède.

« Arrête… Arrête… Je vais me changer… »

Une dernière grosse claque en point final.

« Tu te dépêches…

— C’est toi qui perds du temps, là…

— Fichu pour fichu… Tu en veux encore ?

— Non, non… »

Il la laisse aller se changer. Une autre petite robe, la bleue qu’il aime bien.

« Tu n’auras pas besoin de ta culotte

— Tu abuses…

— Oui. »

Il sourit. Elle se penche pour l’enlever.

« Je ne l’aime pas, elle heurte mon sens du style, tu comprends…

— Pffff…

— Prête ?

— Ben…

— Quoi ?

— Cinq minutes, hein, il faut que je me remaquille, maintenant ! »

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Aïe

« Oh pu—

— Julie !

— …rée…

— Mieux… Fais attention, je te l’ai déjà dit.

— Oui, ben je me suis fait mal, tu t’en fous ?

— Non, je ne m’en fiche pas… Ça va ?

— Oui…

— Qu’est ce que tu t’es fait ?

— Je me suis cognée le pied.

— D’accord…

— Quoi ?

— Je ne sais pas, tu as l’air fâchée.

— Ben oui !

— Ah…

— Je me suis fait mal et toi tu ne penses qu’à me punir…

— Rhooo, mais non…

— Ah si, si…

— Non, je te dis…

— De toute façon t’aimes ça, que j’aie mal, non ?

— Non…

— Ah oui ? Tu aimes juste quand c’est toi qui me fais mal ?

— Euh… C’est pas ça…

— Bah ? C’est un peu ça, non ?

— Mais non… Moi j’aime quand tu t’améliores, quand tu fais de ton mieux… Si je te punis, c’est juste pour que tu sois meilleure.

— Oui, oui, c’est pour mon bien…

— Ben qu’est ce que t’as, là ?

— Rien, rien.

—Ah oui, ce genre de rien…

— Pffff…

— Ah bah pffff, oui… »

Elle fait la moue et regarde son téléphone. Il n’en rajoute pas. Il termine de lire l’article qu’il parcourait. Décidément, ça ne s’améliore pas, Trump. Ces amerloques, quand même… Il la regarde. Elle tire la tête, et elle le fait bien savoir. Il n’y a que son pouce qui bouge —tap, tap, tap, ça défile. Elle a les sourcils froncés, toujours une moue à la bouche.

« Mais ça va, ton pied, quand même ?

— Moui…

— Mais, dis-moi…

— Oui ?

— La douleur… Tu aimes bien, non ?

— Ah ouais, ça m’excite carrément de me cogner le pied. Je vais devoir aller changer de culotte là…

— Arrête…

— Ah mais non, mais je te dis. Tu devrais te méfier ; le pied de la table, là, il me fait de l’effet…

— Julie…

— Et puis le buffet, oh là là…

— Julie !

— … »

Elle retourne à son téléphone. Il se lève et va s’asseoir à son côté, sur le canapé.

« Julie… »

Elle ne le regarde pas —tap, tap, tap.

« Fais pas la tête… »

Tap, tap, une pause, « j’aime », tap, tap. Il lui pose un léger baiser sur l’épaule.

« Ah, j’ai quand même droit à un bisou ?

— Oh bah arrêtes, tu fais comme si j’étais tout le temps à te gronder.

— Non mais… Un peu, hein…

— Oh ? Tu penses vraiment ça ?

— Ben moi j’aime bien aussi quand tu me fesses juste comme ça…

— Pour le plaisir, tu veux dire ?

— Ben oui… »

Il lui caresse les cheveux, doucement.

« Tu crois que je fais ça mieux que le buffet ?

— Ah bah je ne sais pas, hein… Ça fait longtemps… »

Elle pose sa tête sur son épaule. Elle adore son parfum. Elle ferme les yeux.

« Tu veux ?… »

Elle ne répond rien et s’allonge sur ses genoux, les fesses légèrement relevées, comme une invitation.

« ‘Chais pas… Essaye, pour voir ? »

Il lui caresse les fesses, les jambes.

« ‘Pepep, on ne profite pas !”

Il lui claque les fesses, doucement.

« Bon ben je vais appeler le buffet, hein… »

La claque suivant la fait bondir un peu.

« Ah, c’est mieux, ça…

— Oui ? Comme ça ? »

Une autre, puis une autre, il enchaîne, un peu plus fort, un peu plus vite. Elle sourit et se mord légèrement la lèvre.

« C’est mieux… »

Il continue sur sa lancée, alternant fessées et caresses, des volées rapides et des claques plus appuyée. La jupe est relevée. Il continue. Le rose devient plus rouge. La culotte se retrouve à ses chevilles. Il l’entend gémir doucement, sa respiration est plus haletante, plus forte. Elle tourne la tête et lui jette un regard qui en dit long. Elle en veux encore. Elle écarte légèrement les jambes, lève ses fesses pour mieux se les faire rougir. Elle serre le coussin du canapé plus fort. Il continue, le sourire aux lèvres.

Elle regarde le plafond. Il est bien plus tard. Ils sont nus, sur le lit. Elle sourit. Elle a mal aux fesses, et elle ne peut pas s’arrêter de sourire. Elle ne le voit pas. Elle l’entend respirer près d’elle. Elle aime son parfum. Ses mains. Ses yeux. Elle aime tout chez lui, elle aime ce qu’il lui fait. Elle aime qu’il en ait quelque chose à ficher d’elle, de son comportement, de ses bêtises. Elle aime qu’il soit fier d’elle.

Elle soupire de plaisir et se lève pour aller aux toilettes.

Le pied du lit. Un amant de plus.

« Ah fait ch… »

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 ?

Exchange student

“Stop!” she yelled, “Stop spanking meeeee!”

He didn’t. In fact, it only made him spank her harder. Left-right, left-right, heavy, punitive slaps. Her small bottom was bouncing and wriggling under his painful attentions, and tears were streaming down her face over her blushing cheeks.

“It’s not… oww!… it’s not fair!”

He said nothing, readjusting her over his lap and resuming the spanking impassively.

“I mean… Ooow! Stop!… It wasn’t that bad…”

He rolled his eyes and pulled her skirt up in a swift, sharp move. He couldn’t help but pause, not because of her outraged cries and pitiful attempts at getting her skirt back down, but rather mesmerised by the two perfect little pink globes he had revealed. She was wearing the smallest pair of panties —hardly any protection at all— and her fretting made her bottom wiggle and bounce in a most alluring manner. He lifted his arm up again.

 

39

Oooooow! How dare you! It was just— Oww!! It was just a little prank!”

He clenched his jaw at the memory, and slapped her tight bottom harder than ever. Just a prank… The nerves on this one…

“Okay… Okay! I’m sorry! It was… OoooOoow!!… just to welcome you… Ow, ow, oOOow! It’s tradition ! Don’t you have traditions like that in Europe?”

“Oh we have many traditions in Europe,” he said with a hint of an accent, “Most of which don’t involve humiliating other people…” he landed a couple more swats and went on:

“But first of all, the swastikas are really offensive,” he said, punctuating each word with a hearty slap, “And second of all, I’m not even German!”

Oow! But Europe…”

“Is a continent, not a country. Consider this your first lesson, the first of many!”

Diner with his boss

He had warned her once: “Watch your language, Nina.”

She had rolled her eyes and nodded. Yes she would, she was sorry. He’d heard it all before, but he wanted to believe her. He had invited his boss and her husband over, and he wanted her to make a good impression; a promotion was not on the table yet, but he wanted all the chances he could get. So Nina had been told to behave. So far, so good.

His boss was sat on the sofa, enjoying a glass of sparkling wine and enjoying a handful of almonds. Nina had gone to the kitchen to keep an eye on the roast and get another bottle of cava. He poured his boss’ husband a glass of red wine —finishing the bottle— and started talking about rugby. Scotland, he argued, was past due for a comeback and—

“Oh shit!” he heard coming from the kitchen with a loud noise of broken glass.

He blushed and excused himself immediately. He got to the kitchen, where Nina was squatting over the broken glass with a dustpan and a brush.

“What happened?” he asked

“What do you think?” she shrugged, “The fu… I mean, the glass fell, and it broke. It’s what tends to happen when glass falls…”

“Nina…” he warned “Watch your tone…”

She said nothing and pushed the last bits of glass in the pan, then got up to empty it in the bin. She adjusted her tight skirt and looked up at him shyly.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s just a glass… But…”

She lowered her voice “But I’ll watch my mouth… Sir…”

“Good girl. You know what will happen if you don’t…”

They went back to the living room. and resumed the vacuous small-talk as if nothing had happened. The radio was on, some easy listening station, and a pleasant smell was coming from the kitchen.

He looked at her pouring herself another glass of bubbly and raised an eyebrow. She caught his expression and mouthed a “What?” while opening her eyes wide and shaking her head a little. She put the bottle down and emptied half of her glass in one gulp.

Distracted, he asked the husband to repeat what he’d just said when Nina spilled her glass all over her new, cotly dress.

Shit, shit shit!” she cried, immediately getting up and patting herself down. His boss was looking at him quizzingly. He got up.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll get you some clothes…”

She did as she was told and he followed her to their en-suite bedroom after apologizing profusely and making sure his guests had all they needed. He got in and closed the door.

“Nina?” he called, softly.

She came out of the bathroom in a tank-top and her panties. She was blushing and kept her eyes down.

“I… I’m sorry, Sir…”

He sat on the bed and beckoned her over.

“No… Please… Sir… Love… Your boss, they…”

“Don’t make me ask you again, Nina,” he said firmly, and with a little nod, she came and wrapped herself over his knees. He immediately grabbed her pink panties and pulled them up in a painful wedgie, revealing the little that they covered. The slaps fell, hard and relentless, and soon she began softly crying and whispering little “sorries” in between sobs. Her bottom turned pink, then red, then a bright crimson as he poured spank after spank on it. Mindful of his boss waiting and the roast about to be cooked, he stopped and grabbed her hair, bending her head backwards and whispering in her ear.

wedgie2

A few minutes later they were both back in the living-room, where no comment was made and the rest of the evening went by with no incidents.

A week later, he received an email from his boss, praising him for his people skill and how he knew how to handle troublesome elements. She praised him over the discipline he had been showing in his work, and the firm hand he showed in negotiation. She was offering him a promotion.

She had added a post-scriptum : Thank your lovely wife for the opportunity she gave me to appreciate your dedication.

The belt for Becky

Her bottom already crimson from the warm-up spanking over her master’s knees, Becky walked to the glass desk and put her hands on it as instructed, her legs slightly parted at her knees. Standing on the tip of her toes, she pushed her bottom up, a perfect target for what she knew was coming. The glass was cold to the touch under her palms, and she wished she could sit on it and cool her sore bottom.

She shivered; she hated the belt. She hated its burning touch, she hated how it made her cry out uncontrollably, she hated how it meant she had pushed him too far. He would not hold back, how ever few times he would strike her. She screwed her eyes shut as she heard her master’s belt buckle coming undone. He caressed her offered bottom with the cruel piece of leather. She softly moaned.

WHACK!

One lick for her attitude that day.

WHACK!

One for talking back.

WHACK!

One for unfinished chores.

WHACK!

One for snacking.

WHACK!

One for disappointing him.

WHACK!

One to make sure she learnt her lesson.

34

The babysitter

Daddy!” the little boy said with a giggle as the door opened, and he ran towards his very confused father. His equally confused mum came followed in and closed the door.

“James? Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked, worried.

James giggled and threw his arms up with a big , adoring smile. His father lifted him up in his arms after putting his own coat away, and began searching through the house for the babysitter. There was a half-eaten pizza still on the sofa, James’s toys were strewn everywhere, the TV was on, showing some cartoons. Jessica, the babysitter, was nowhere to be found.

“Jessica?” the father called, “Jessica, where are you?” There was no answer but a noise upstairs caught his attention. He gave the boy to his mother and went up the stairs immediately, at once angry and worried. Was it a burglar? Had something happened to Jessica? The lights were on in the upstairs corridor, the doors all closed.

He paused and listened. A giggle came out of the spare bedroom and he moved in closer to the door, quietly. Another giggle. His worries burned away, leaving only anger, and he almost kicked the door open. As he’d suspected, the girl was there, with whom appeared to be a very surprised young man.

“Oh my God!” Jessica screamed, startled, as her boyfriend tried desperately to pull his jeans up. The father spared him but a glance.

“Out!” he said, pointing a finger at him and then at the door. He was trying his best to keep his voice down so as not to worry his young son. “Out now!”

The boyfriend hurried himself out without a word, leaving Jessica on the bed, mortified, looking down at the floor.

“I…” she started, then closed her mouth, not knowing what to say.

“Yes?” he said with a glare, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m sorry Mr. Jones, I…”

“How old are you again, Jessica?”

“I… Nineteen, sir, wh—”

“And you think that leaving a four year old on his own in front of a TV is a responsible kind of behaviour? Do you think that’s acceptable? Is that what we pay you for?”

Her blush intensified and she mumbles a little “No sir…”

“What was that?”

“No, sir… I’m sorry…”

“Sorry… You’re going to be sorry. Come downstairs. Right now,” he said, and took a step back against the door, freeing the doorway. She blushed and chewed on her lip a little.

“Yes, Mr Jones… It’s just that… I…” She paused, “I’m not wearing any trousers…”

He sneered, “Don’t worry about that, Jessica, you won’t need them, believe me…”

38

What followed was a long, hard lesson taught firmly over Mr. Jones’ knees. Mrs Jones, having finally put James into bed, came back to scold her while the slaps continued to pour down on her already crimson buttocks. Tears streamed down her face as she cried pitiful sorries to no avail.

When her bruised cheeks were finally given a rest, she was sent to the corner of the living room and told that she would have to clean up all the mess that she had left with her red, punished bottom on display before she’d be allowed to get her trousers back. She did as she was told, still sniffling and rubbing her round buttocks until she was finally handed her jeans. She winced and moaned softly as she pulled the rough fabric over her tender behind.

She stood by the door, about to leave, her head bowed.

“I’m really sorry, Mr and Mrs Jones…” she said coyly.

“A lesson only has value if it’s learnt, Jessica,” the father said.

She unconsciously rubbed her backside with a pout. “I’ve learnt my lesson, sir…”

“We’ll see, Jessica. Be there at six next Saturday, no delay, understood?”

She opened her eyes wide and nodded forcefully, “Yes, sir!”

A letter

It had started very simply, with a letter. It was a simple, white envelope among all the others that had come that day. She had paid it no mind and it had sat on the pile of letters waiting for him when he got home.

The afternoon had been pleasant; she had baked cupcakes, spent an hour reading her favourite book for the tenth time, browsed Pinterest for a while in search of inspiration for her living-room decoration. Dinner had been simmering on the stove when he’d come home, filling the house with a delicious smell. Five minutes before he came home, she was waiting by the door, her hands behind her back, head bowed subserviently, as she knew she had to be.

He had kissed her, deeply, complimented her on the spotless state of the house, on the mouth-watering smell that came from the kitchen, and had asked her how her day had been. He was in a good mood, tender and loving. She had a happy sigh as she went and fetched him a drink.

Then he got to the letters. He opened the first one and his smile instantly turned into a frown. She came back from the kitchen with a glass of martini in hand and was about to say something when she saw the expression on his face. She froze.

“Ashley?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “Can you explain what I’m looking at?”

“I… I… I don’t know, sir, wha-what is it?” she stammered, red in the face.

“It’s a very formal letter from our credit card company, Ashley.”

“Oh…” she said, her eyes widening.

“Maybe you’d care to explain to me how we are maxed out on it? I don’t remember any purchases lately?”

She bit her lip. “Well…”

“Well?”

“Well I was… I was on the internet and…” She was still holding the glass, and the ice cubes tinked as she shivered with dread. “I’m sorry, sir,” she tried.

“You were on the internet and what, young lady?” he said, getting up, the letter still in his hand.

“I might have… bought a few things?” Tears were gathering in her eyes and she bit her lip harder than before.

“That’s more than a few things, Ashley!” he yelled, holding the letter up to her face.

She started crying, “They were nice and… I didn’t want to wait for my birthday and…”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply. He took the glass from her hand and gently set it down on the nearby coffee table.

“Well, whatever it is that you bought —handbag, shoes, tablet, believe me, I’ll find out—, you’re sending it all back.”

“No, ple…” she started.

“And!” he interrupted her, grabbing her ear like a scolded schoolgirl, “I’ll give you a taste of what you’ll be receiving every night for the next two weeks.”

“Nooo! Owww… Please!…”

Ignoring her pleading and muffled cries, he dragged her to the sofa and across his knees, pulled her jeans down and started generously slapping her round bottom, quickly turning it from creamy white to bright pink, and then from pink to a deep, warm red. She begged and pleaded at first, bawled her eyes out, then gritted her teeth, held tight to the sofa as her punishment went on.

33b

The food in the kitchen started to smell like burning when he finally relented, after he got a long, sincere and heartfelt apology from her in between her sobs. He pulled her jeans all the way off and sent her to save their dinner with a final slap on her bruised bottom. She would have to plan it better for the coming two weeks ; her evenings were going to be a lot less pleasant.

An interview…

Khalisah al-Jilani, for those not familiar with the MassEffect series of games, is a journalist. And a damn annoying one at that, very hostile in her on-camera interviews with you, the protagonist, and always trying to paint you into a corner. She appears in the 3 first games of the series and never gets less infuriating… Ever since I first stumbled into her web of lies and deceits, I’ve been thinking that she deserved a good spanking… On camera of course!

garrus3