Rachel’s First Time (Hardwood Academy)

It’s not fair. That’s all I can think of. It’s bad enough that I was sent to this so-called “school”, now they expect me to wear a uniform and do homework like I’m still a fucking teenager… Pfft, even in my mind swearing makes me tense, like one of the so-called teachers in this place could hear me. They call it the “Hardwood Academy for Troubled Girls”. The Shitwood Shittydemy for Unfairly Treated Girls, more like.

I sigh. The bench is uncomfortable. I can’t believe I’m sitting by the Headmistress’ office, at 22 years of age, like some kind of schoolgirl. I tug on my ugly, scratchy skirt. I sigh again. Bloody uniform. I guess I am a schoolgirl at the minute… Still, it’s better than juvie, I guess. Barely… A reform school, the last chance at redemption, queue the strings and emotional music…

It’s not a fun place. It’s work, work, work, and you get in trouble for the slightest thing. They had me write “I must not smoke” a hundred times. By hand as well, like, have they never heard of copy and paste? Jokes aside, it’s pretty miserable. At least most of the other girls are all right. There’s even one teacher who’s got a nice ass, Mr Scott. He’s well boring, mind you, but he’s something to look at while the minutes go by. Slowly.

Still, it’s not fair. One, I shouldn’t even be there. Yes, I messed up, blah blah blah, driving without a license, blah-dee-blah, under the influence, yada-yada… Like they’ve never been young or something? There wasn’t even anyone in the car I hit. So yeah, I shouldn’t be here. In this… School, Academy, whatever.

But more importantly, I shouldn’t be here, waiting by the door to be called-in and scolded by that old bat, the Headmistress. Madame Dubois, they call her. She’s French or something. Don’t know, don’t care. She’s old, and she thinks she’s better than you, that’s what I know. She wears tight skirts and blouses, and peers at you from behind her frames, like an old owl. I haven’t had the pleasure of being called to her office yet, besides the introduction on the first day. They had my parents in as well; that was really uncalled for. I swear they were relieved to be rid of me for a few months. Rude. I haven’t had a party at home for months, I don’t know what they’re complaining about. Plus, if they want me to move out, in this economy, they can pay my rent. Boomers.

Anyway, I keep getting distracted. I didn’t do it. I didn’t bring the smokes in, I didn’t steal Nicole’s money or whatever, and I didn’t flood the toilets on the second floor. I’ve been here a week and I swear they’re just trying to pin stuff on me like it’s beasting season on Rachel’s bloody back. Oh yeah, I’m Rachel, by the way. Nice to meet you and all that, but please leave me alone, yeah? I’m not in the mood. I don’t know why I’m even here and it’s not f—

“Rachel?” comes the voice from inside. Sounds French. I don’t like it. I get up, nonetheless. Deep down, I know that if I behave, I’ll be out of here faster, so I might as well try, for now, and see what she wants.

I shuffle in, uncomfortable and stand in front of Madame Dubois’s desk. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t think she’ll like me crossing my arms. Do I put them behind my back? I miss jeans and pockets. In the end, I just let my arms hang loosely and try not to think about it. I feel pathetic. She hasn’t said anything, and she’s already made me mad. This is going to be fun…

“Rachel, how long have you been with us?” she asks. I know that she knows, I wish she would get to the bloody point.

“A week,” I reply.

“A week ma’am,” she corrects me. Does she think she’s the Queen or something? R.I.P., by the way.

“A week, ma’am,” I repeat back like a frigging parrot.

“Better” she says with a smile that cracks her old wrinkly face. She’s like, ancient. Older than my mum, which isn’t saying much, really, she had me young. That’s probably why I’m so troubled, the bloody counsellor told me. Can you believe it? Bang out of order, that.

I say nothing. If she’s got something to say, she can just say it, I’m not here for a little tea party and a chinwag.

“A week,” she says again like I’m deaf or something. “And already your teachers have been reporting to me that your behaviour is causing trouble.”

“Who said that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Does it matter?” she answers. I shrug.

“I haven’t done anything,” I say, and it’s true, I haven’t. Not really.

“Let’s see…” she says, opening a notebook. Not a computer file, no-no, a green notebook with a handwritten sticker on it. I swear these people hate technology. Everything is musty and old. Old classroom with tables and benches, blackboards and chalk, the whole shebang. I think I visited a school museum as a kid that had more modern equipment than that. Oh, and no phones allowed, of course. I guess they’re afraid that we’ll call for help to escape this hellhole.

She flips a few pages of dense handwriting. It looks alright, I guess. I do like calligraphy, it’s about the only fun thing they have us do. That and the showers after P.E., but I don’t think we’re supposed to do that the way that we do. Finally, she finds the page. It has my name at the top. There’s a lot of lines filled in. I feel a knot in my stomach. It can’t be all bad stuff, right.

“Well,” she says with a very dry smile, “it seems that every teacher had something to report, miss Bennet.”

Rachel Bennett, that’s me. My friends call me Rach. Don’t call me Rach, we’re not friends. I shrug again.

“Just getting used to the rules, I guess…” I say, “Ma’am,” I add.

She nods. Her finger goes down the list of things that I’ve supposedly done. She tuts and shakes her head slightly. I blush in spite of myself. She seems genuinely disappointed, and for some reason, I seem to care. Bloody nonsense. I shuffle on my feet.

“Have the other girls told you about how we deal with behaviour here, miss Bennett?” she asks, her gaze fixing me. Kind of intense, the old lady. I swallow.

“I’ve… heard… things…” I say, unsure. It’s true, I have heard things, but it’s mostly been stuff that’s been made up to wind me up. Like, I know they’re old school, but they’re not that backwards.

“What sort of things?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“I… Some of the girls say that you still do, like, corporal punishment and stuff…” I say, “I can give you their names, if you want, like, they’re spreading rumours…”

“Rumours are unfounded pieces of information, my dear,” Madame Dubois says, “And this is anything but. Corporal punishment is a fundamental part of our process here at Hardwood Academy. It’s written there, in your agreement, the one that you signed.”

I scratch my hand uncomfortably. Yeah, I did sign that thing, it was better than jail, but did I read it? Did I read it bollocks. Still, I would have remembered something about getting my ass spanked in there. Right, there was this girl the other night, Helena, who was crying, and Nicole told me that it was because she had been spanked, yeah? But I didn’t believe her, of course, because that’s ridiculous. I did notice she didn’t shower with us the next day, but that must have been unrelated, right?…

Right?

“Anything to say, Rachel?” the old bat asks.

“No ma’am,” I say, “I’ve done nothing, like I told you.”

“Rude comments to Mr O’Leary, drawing a penis in your book in Mrs Schwartz’s class, hiding your classmate’s underwear in P.E., caught smoking by Mr Lewis,” she enumerates, “Need I go on?”

All right, there were a few things. The schlong was funny, though, it had veins and everything. Haley found it hilarious, that why Mrs Schwartz saw it. I try not to smile at the memory. I fail.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you, young lady?” she says, the tip of her fingers on her desk.

“N-no…” I say. She might be ancient, but there’s something scary about her, I don’t know what it is. She glares, and a shiver runs up my spine. “I’m sorry, ma’am…” I say a sincerely as I can, which is not much. I shouldn’t be here, and if I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t be drawing dicks and hiding Molly’s fugly knickers. She’s got a fat ass anyway, Molly. I don’t like Molly.

“Well,” Madame Dubois says, “I think that once you understand exactly how things are done here, your behaviour is bound to improve dramatically.”

The knot in my stomach tightens as she drags a chair from behind her desk.

“Please, ma’am…” I say, “Just… like, give me a chance. I’ll earn it back, okay? There’s really no need for…” I can’t even say it. I’m not getting spanked. I’m 22, not 12, and even then, my mum never did. I wonder what the counsellor would think of that. Wanker.

“Harwood Academy is your chance, Rachel,” she says, and sits down. She can dream on; I’m not going to go over her lap. I’m not.

“You, like all the girls here, have got an opportunity to seize,” she continues, “and it is my duty, as is the duty of every other teacher here, to make sure that you do. We all want you to succeed, Rachel, and if that means punishing you when you go astray then, well, we’ll do it.”

She’s got a point, it’s pretty much my last chance before things get bad bad. Still. No way.

“I-I don’t think there’s any need for… This…” I say, still unable to say it.

“A spanking,” she says, looking at me past her glasses. It sounds weird in her accent. “You are going to come over my knees and get spanked over your skirt. Then, I’ll lift that skirt, and your knickers will go down. A bare-bottom spanking, young lady. That’s what’s going to happen.”

She doesn’t smile, but I swear that there is a glint in her eyes. She’s loving this, isn’t she? Perverted old lady…

“And if I refuse?” I say. I wish I could sound more confident.

“Then all that you’ll achieve is making the punishment harder, my dear.” Now she’s smiling. “I haven’t used the cane in a long time, but rest assured it is ready.”

I shake my head “N-no, not the cane…” I stutter. I’m embarrassing myself.

“Then over my lap, young lady,” she says sternly.

“No…” I say, unable to argue further.

“One condition of your remaining here in our care is that you abide by the rules that you signed. If not, I’m afraid there is only one way out… And even if you think this place is not to your taste, let me tell you that His Majesty’s Prisons are a lot less… Refined.”

That’s low. Straight to the prison threats. It’s also pretty effective. I take a step towards her. She says nothing, like she knows what’s going through my head at the moment. Okay. I messed up. It’s been a week and I didn’t really try to keep a low-profile. Maybe she cares. Maybe. She’s not even mad. She’s not yelling. It’s bloody awful. At least with my dad, I knew where I stood. When the door slams, you know, you know? But she’s just calm, she’s just telling me that’s she’s going to spank my naked arse like it’s nothing…

I take another step. I disgust myself. I should run away from this bloody office, and that smug French woman. But I don’t. I take one more step. She’s still saying nothing. I suddenly notice she has a ruler in one hand. Bloody brilliant… I stand two steps away from her.

“I’m sorry,” I say. She nods.

“Do you want to tell me why?” she asks. I chew on my lip.

“For not trying very hard…” I finally say. I leave it at that. There’s no need to go through the whole list, is there? She doesn’t care about the list. Well, she might care, I don’t know, but I don’t. I don’t think it’s what I did that’s getting me the… spanking. It’s that I’m not making any progress, or any change at all. Shit. I feel… bad about it.

“Do you want to try harder?” she asks, and her voice seems surprisingly soft. I feel tears coming to my eyes. I nod and sniffle. I shuffle two steps forward and lower myself over her knees. That seems to answer her question.

Her hand pats my skirt a few times as a adjust my position over her lap, then she holds my hip firmly and slams her palm into my ass. I let out a cry of surprise and tears start running down my face. It’s not the pain, though the following quick succession of slaps make my bum warm-up in no time. No, it’s not the pain but the sudden realisation that makes me cry. It’s that for the first time, I realise that I’m really in trouble; I fucked up badly and it’s taken me this long to realise it. Not when the police got drunk old me out of the car. Not when I saw the judge, not even when my dad started yelling at my mum because of me. I shrugged it all off back then. But look at me now? How low do you have to get to find yourself over an old woman’s knees, getting your bottom battered? She keeps spanking me, and the tears keep coming.

I fucked up. Badly.

Soon, my skirt comes up, and I don’t even think about the embarrassment of it. I don’t think I have any more shame left to wallow in. Her hand feels cold against my warmed-up cheeks, even with my pants still on. I know it won’t last, and that she’s not even nearly done with me. The pain is brutal, radiating from my bottom upwards. My eyes hurt as well, my whole face is burning in wet embarrassment. This whole time, she hasn’t said anything. Does she know what I’m thinking?

I suddenly realise that the slaps have stopped echoing around the wood-panelled office. I sniffle and turn my head round to look up at Madame Dubois.

“Are we learning something, miss Bennett?” she asks.

I noddle and try to wipe my nose. I feel like a year 7. “Yes ma’am…” I say between the tears.

“You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?”

I nod again and clench my buttocks in anticipation.

“Y-you’re going to… take my pants down…” I say. I can’t believe it. Rachel, how have you let it go this far?

“I am,” she confirms, “And I will spank you with the ruler.”

“Oh ma’am… Please…” That’s all the protest I can muster. My ass is already on fire, and that was just a warm-up to her.

“A bare-bottomed spanking, young lady, that’s how it’s done. And that’s how it will be done any time that you need to be reminded to keep your behaviour to the straight and narrow.”

“Please…” I try again, knowing full well that it won’t change a thing. She doesn’t even reply, and I feel her fingers grabbing the elastic band of my knickers and pulling them down to my thighs. The tears roll down my cheeks once more. She takes the ruler that was resting over the small of my back in her hand.

The pain is like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s like fire raining down on my bottom every time the wooden ruler smacks it, and it does so hard and quickly. Right, left, right, left, Madame Dubois is relentless and systematic. Soon, there isn’t an inch of my round cheeks that isn’t marked and painful. She continues. I’ve long since abandoned any pretence of dignity, and I’m bawling like a baby, promising to whomever is listening that I’ll be good, that I’ll try hard.

And I do mean it. For one, I never want to be over her lap again, it hurts so much I know I won’t be able to sit for the next ten years. I know why Helena didn’t come to shower that night; these marks are going to be there a while. And it burns. I never want to feel so much pain again. I bet that childbirth is nothing compared to this. I cry all the tears I have left.

But I do mean it because I want to try. I owe it to myself. It’s my last chance to make a choice for myself. I need to— fuuuuuuck, she hits my thighs with that damn ruler, and I bellow in pain. I hate her. So much. But I stay over her lap and take it. She does it again, and again. I take the pain. I’ll do better.

No matter what, I’m never getting spanked again. I swear. Never.

At least not for a month.

A girl’s gotta start somewhere.

Customer service

It was a quiet day, it seemed, and the shop was empty. After the festive rush, it was no surprise. People had had their fill of shopping and crowds for a while. That, or they were all still in a food coma. Bliss, Liam thought. He walked towards the back of the shop and found the till, behind which stood a very bored young woman, staring at and twiddling on her phone.

Liam came to stand in front of the now-ubiquitous plexiglass screen and made a little polite wave.

“Heya,” he said. “Happy New Year.”

“Yes? Can I help you?” the young woman said, a practiced look of indifference on her face.

“Hum, yes, it’s for a return. I bought this for a gift and it—” the man started.

“Do you have a receipt?” she interrupted him.

“Pardon me?”

She rolled her eyes. “A receipt. Piece of paper with the price on it. Proof of purchase, yeah?”

“Hum, I’m not sure, I…” Liam hesitated

“Next!” she yelled, looking behind his shoulder.

“What?”

“No proof, no service. Next!” she yelled again.

He turned around.

“… There’s nobody else here…”

“Right, guess I get a break, then.” She smiled and looked back at her phone

“And my return?”

“Can’t help ya.”

“Could you just take a look?” he asked, ticked.

“Did you find you receipt?”

“No but…”

“Can’t help you.” She cut him.

“Please? It’s unopened.” He showed her.

“Nah.”

“Listen, I’m not trying to be a pain here. I have a customer account here, you can probably—”

“Like I said, nah,” she cut him again

He looked around again. “Can I speak to someone else?”

“What is it, Karen? You want to talk to the manager?” she grinned.

“That’s not what I said. Listen, I’m really not trying to be difficult. I’m just trying to return something and, quite frankly, you’re just being rude, you know?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. The customer is always right, isn’t he? And I, the poor little employee should so whatever you want. Is that it?”

“That is… Not what I said either? I’m fine with just an exchange. See? It’s in perfect condition.” He showed her.

“Nah, you see, I’m very busy, I don’t have time to deal with stuff like that.”

“You… don’t look very busy?” Liam said through gritted teeth, his patience wearing thin.

She waved her phone. “Uh, yeah? I’m talking to people?” she said, dismissively. She looked him up and down. “Yeah, it’s probably not a problem that you’d have…”

He frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means leave me alone, you creep.”

“Right, where’s the owner then?”

“On hols. It’s just you and me. And I’m busy.”

“You’re rude is what you are.”

“Whatever.”

“No, not whatever!”

“What, what are you gonna do, big man? Bore me to death?”

“Clearly, someone should have taught you some manners…”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Can you please leave me alone, thank you. Is that polite enough for you?”

“I would have been gone already if you’d just had a look, you know?”

“Good grief, you just can’t take a hint, can you?” she sighed. She put her phone up and looked at the screen, pouting, “Hey guys!” she said to the phone, “This is the creep that’s harassing me at work! Say hello, creep!” She turned the phone around to face him, and Liam could see himself on video.

“What the hell? Are you filming me?”

“Yeah, say hi!”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Unbelievable…” He turned around and started to walk back out. She came out of her booth and followed him, her phone still held high.

“And there you have it, you guys, that’s how you deal with rude-ass custom—”

Suddenly turning around, he grabbed the phone out of her hand and looked into the camera.

“You think I’m rude? I came here to ask politely for a return”

“Hey! Give it back!” she yelled.

He moved it away from her grasp, still talking to the camera. “This young lady is anything but polite, she thought that tapping away at her phone was more important than actually doing her job.

“Give me my phone!” she yelled again.

“So I think I’ll give her a piece or my mind…” he continued.

“Give me my—”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward what looked like a footstool. With the girl still protesting and trying to get away, he placed the phone on a shelf, camera still recording. He sat and pulled her over his lap in one fluid movement.

“What are you doing?!” she cried. The camera was pointing at her bottom, perched as it was over his knees. He turned to the camera once more. One of his hands was holding her tight by the waist, his other hand went up.

“And this, you guys, is what happens to rude girls…”

With a resounding ‘SLAP!’, his open palm came down on her rear, making her jump and yelp instantly.

“Stop!!” she cried, but it was much too late.

The smacks, slaps and spanks began pouring down one after another over her short dress, and it wasn’t long before she was crying and wriggling, hopelessly trying to get away from his firm grip. She hurled insults and invectives at him, from comments on his mother’s proclivities to questions about his manhood and what he could go do to himself with an impressive diversity of objects. Through it all, he said nothing, hitting her bottom, her thighs with the satisfaction of someone who’d been dreaming of it for a while.

He grabbed her dress and lifted it up to her midriff, exposing a little pair of white knickers.

“No! What are you doing you fucking pervert??” she yelled.

“What someone should have done a long time ago…” he replied with a grin and pulled the underwear down as well. Without missing another beat, the slaps resumed. Twenty more hard slaps and the pale pink had turned bright red. Thirty more, forty, and she was begging him to stop, kicking her legs, grabbing and holding to his leg. He held her firmly in place, relentless.

“So, do you have other comments to make?” he asked.

“N-no…” she said and sniffed.

“I thought so…”

His hand came down again slammed against her tender, hurt bottom. She cried out and whimpered. “Please…”

“Oh I don’t think so,” he said, the slaps falling without a pause. Left-right, left-right, evenly covering her naked, throbbing cheeks. She moaned and protested, tears rolling down her cheeks. He carried on without a word, enjoying the spectacle of her ass jiggling and bouncing under his undivided attention. Little by little, as her bottom became a darker and darker shade of red, her invectives died down and she started crying more. The insults became begging, became pleading, became apologies.

“PLEASE! I’M SORRY!” she yelled at last. He did pause at that.

“Are you going to do your job?” he asked, punctuating the question with a slap.

“Yes! Yes, please!”

“Was it so hard?” Another slap.

“N-no…”

“No sir” Smack!

“Ow! N-no sir!”

“There we go… Get up!” he said with one final slap.

“Oww! Yes, sir…”

As she did so, he reached for the phone and, pointing it to her bruised bottom first, brought it up to her face.

“Something you want to say?” he asked, nodding towards the phone.

“I… I’m sorry… I’ll be m-more professional…” she mumbled

“How should you treat your customers?”

“R-respectfully?”

“And?”

“K-kindly?”

“And?”

“P-p-politely?”

Liam turned to the camera one last time.

“And there you have, you guys! A lesson well learnt!” he said.

Titan

The story is from the commissioner:

One Saturday, Raven and her group of friends were on their way to the beach after seeing a movie.

Making their way down the street, talking back and forth, Raven could sense despair. She looked around and then a wave of black smoke in the air signalled a fire. The group of ten run down the street while calling 911.

The fire department had not arrived yet, though you could hear the screaming of sirens. The 5-story building was in a blaze. The fire was hot enough to feel it from the other side of the road. Knowing there were people inside, Raven knew she had to do something.

She snuck away from her friends, since to them she was only Rachel Roth. Going around the trees behind them, she teleported inside the burning building. She took a deep breath and made her way to the people inside.

A mother holding her kids on the floor were the first people she got to. “Raven!” the little boy yelled cheerfully as his hero appeared to have blown away the burning hot door that had trapped him and his family. He rushed to hug her “please help us” he cried with tears in his eyes. Raven got to his level “It is going to be okay” she said in her monotone voice. She waved the family over. Using her powers, she moved the burning debris to make a path as they made their way to collect people alone the way out. She took no fear away from them, though she did give them courage.

Once the fire department got there, the fire was dying down, Raven had tried to snuff what she could and guided everyone out.  Everyone cheered as a large group of people ran out unharmed.

Though something was not right. Raven sensed there was someone left. She turned and went back inside looking for the last soul.

An elderly woman in her room clinging on to her cane. She was frozen in fear. Raven, like many times before blew the door off. She saw the woman “it is okay, you are safe now” the woman shook her head as she did not want to leave. She did not want to let go of the pictures and belongings she had because that was all she had left of her late husband.

Raven nodded, looking around. She didn’t want to tarry, but she knew that it was not only lives that would be lost to the fire, but memories as well.

Outside, a black dome covered the building. The air inside was burned by the fire until there was no fire left.

Meanwhile Rachel’s friends called out for her, they started to worry.  As the old woman stepped outside as well, one of Rachel’s friends spotted her coming from behind the burnt building. “What the hell? What were you doing back there?” One of them yelled, worried.

Unable to tell her friends what had happened or why it looked as if she put herself in danger, they scolded her as they walked to the beach.

They set up a small campfire and sat around it and talked about the movie they had seen, though they could not get over how Rachel had put herself in danger. They talked and then came up with the idea to teach the new girl of the group a lesson. One of the girls took Rachel’s arm and pulled her over her lap and pulled her pants down.

“You could have hurt yourself! You need to let the professionals and the heroes help other people and not put yourself in danger!” Her friend scolded her.

Rachel yelped and begged “you don’t understand” she pleaded to no avail. After ten minutes Rachel was passed to Dan, the guy next to Beth. He began spanking Rachel over his lap over and over, scolding her the same about how they are all worried about her.

After Ten minutes of spanking by Dan she was passed again to another friend who continued her punishment.  All five of Rachel’s fiends took turns spanking her on the beach around the campfire. Rachel just cried, tears running down her face as her butt burned from the stinging pain of her long, hard spanking.

Though her butt was sore, and she was humiliated, she still couldn’t tell them that she was Raven of the Titans!

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
…”