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.
Elle le regarde et soupire. Il a l’air si calme quand il dort.
Elle, elle ne dort pas très bien en ce moment. Elle a besoin d’un câlin, mais elle ne veut pas le déranger. Il marmonne quelque chose dans son sommeil ; ça sonne comme un «je t’aime, Julie» et ça la fait sourire. Enfin, ça sonnait comme un «bletem brulimgh», mais elle choisit de croire. La foi, c’est important. Elle soupire de nouveau. Bon, il y a un choix, une alternative : elle peut le laisser dormir, calme, en paix… Ou elle peut le réveiller et avoir de l’attention. Décisions, décisions…
En général, elle est gentille, elle est respectueuse, elle est trèèès sage. Mais là, elle a vraiment besoin d’un câlin. Et puis. il est 5h du matin, c’est pas si tôt ; il y a plein de gens qui se lèvent à 5h, non ? Elle se mordille la lèvre. Ah bah, une preuve de plus qu’elle est stressée ; ça vaut bien un câlin, c’est sûr ! P’têt même deux.
Mais elle hésite. Lui, il est un peu ours. Le poil, certainement, mais aussi la tendance à hiberner. Le sommeil, chez lui, c’est sacré. D’ailleurs, il abuse, et elle le lui dira, un jour. Huit heures par nuit, pfff… Et elle, alors, elle a le droit à huit heures d’attention ? C’est pas juste, voilà. Manquerait plus qu’il soit en train de rêver d’une autre femme. Ah, le salaud ! Elle souffle. Bon, le problème, c’est que si elle le réveille… il va être grognon. Il va être grognon et ronchon. Et ça, c’est pas une bonne combinaison.
Elle va se retrouver en travers de ses genoux, c’est sûr… La chemise de nuit (glamour suprême) retroussée, la petite culotte (coton, à poix, elle fait fort) baissée à mi-cuisses… Ce serait dommage… Elle la sent déjà, sa main qui s’abat sur ses pauvres fesses… La douleur, les petits gémissements… Elle ne peut pas s’empêcher, c’est réflexe ! D’ailleurs. rien que d’y penser… Ça aussi, c’est réflexe… Sa main se perd sous la couette. Enfin, façon de parler, elle sait exactement où elle va, sa main. Comme quoi, les mains…
Elle gémit, doucement, mais pas de douleur. Il s’agite dans son sommeil. Pff, il pense à qui, hein? Laurène? Carole ? Ah, le salaud… Elle, elle ne pense qu’à lui, qu’à ses mais qui la maintiennent en place, qui la punissent, qui la caressent, la cajolent… Sa respiration se fait haletante, elle frissonne et ferme les yeux. Elle imagine sa tête se perdant dans son cou, ses baisers sur sa nuque, ses mains qui la caressent, la bouche qui l’explore, sa peau contre la sienne…
Elle ouvre les yeux grand, surprise. Sa main se fige. Elle retient sa respiration quelques secondes. Il va se rendormir.
«Julie, tout va bien ?
—Oui, oui, mon coeur, rendors-toi
—Il est quelle heure ?
—Tu veux pas un câlin ?
—Oh bah, si t’insistes…»
Comme quoi, certains jours commencent mieux que d’autres.
“Please…” she whined to no effect, “Please, no more…”
Her crimson buttocks felt like they were pulsating, sending waves of rich, hot pain up her spine with each of her shallow breaths. She swallowed and pleaded again, hearing no response. She didn’t dare look back, but she knew that the paddle was high in the air, just about to come dow—
“Oww!” she yelped as the hard wood connected with her bruised flesh once more. Tears streamed down her face, dripping over the desk. Her boss’ desk. He was mad. he was more than mad; he was furious. She had messed up. Again.
“OWW!” she cried, louder, another hard swat landing on her tender, plump bottom. For a few seconds, the pain became her whole world; it was all that she could think of. Then, it receded, leaving her ass burning, her legs trembling… and her panties wet.
She didn’t argue, because she knew that it was futile. When he had called her in his office, there had been no ambiguity as to her fate. She had walked in expecting to be punished, and she knew that she deserved it. She had closed the door behind her, and started to undress without a word. She had been through it a few times already.
It had started with a playful joke one day, about how she had messed up with a client. Her boss had been understanding, but she had carried on telling him how bad she felt, how guilty. He had brushed it off at first, until she had said these fateful words, as a jest: “Sometimes I wish I could get spanked again!”
He had raised an eyebrow, and she had let a little embarrassed laugh out.
“What do you mean, Caroline?” he’d asked, softly. She had instantly turned into a stuttering mess, cheeks as red as a ripe tomato.
“I… Hum… My mother, she… She used to spank me, you know? And, well, it wasn’t pleasant, but at least I didn’t feel the guilt anymore afterwards.”
“I see…” he had simply answered. He had kept his eyes on her, and she had carried on. She wasn’t sure why she had kept talking then, but the words had just kept spilling from her mouth.
“It’s… It’s like, cathartic, the punishment, the… pain… It takes the guilt away. Well, it did then…”
He had nodded. She had stared at the floor. She couldn’t look at him.
“And so… Caroline…”
“You think a spanking would help you do a better job with the next client?”
Her eyes had widened. That little off-hand joke hadn’t seemed like a joke anymore. It had seemed very, very real. That day, she had received her first proper spanking as an adult, right there over her boss’ lap. As she had been quietly weeping in the corner afterward, he had defined a few rules. First, this was purely disciplinary, he was faithful to his wife, thank you very much. As such, she would get to keep her panties. She thought it a little odd, and a little hypocritical, but was in no position to argue ethics.
Second, any further punishment would increase in severity, going from hand-spankings to hairbrushes, paddles, the cane… She had shivered. And for a time, it had kept her on the straight and narrow. Then mistakes had happened. She had been late finishing a report. She had overslept and missed an early appointment. Paperwork got filed in the wrong place…
True to his word, he had summoned her in his office each time, and each time, the punishment had been more severe. And as much as she dreaded it, she knew she needed it, the discipline, the atonement. She needed it and desired it. Not enough to make her make mistakes on purpose, no! But she loved how it pushed her to do better. And indeed, after each session, she knew that her work got better. For a time, she was a model employee, employee of the month even! And then the slip started again. A little longer each time, knowing that the punishment would get harsher, but it always happened.
And so, as the paddle slammed into her ass once more, leaving a deep red mark, she cried her shame out and let the guilt leave her. The hard wood fell again, making her yell. No walls were thick enough to keep people from hearing, she was sure of it. Her panties were drenched —so much for keeping it modest— and she was heaving, sobbing, sniffling between each hard slap.
She knew she would be forgiven but— OWW!
She knew she deserved it and— OOWW!!
She knew she would be better, she would— OWW!!
She clenched her buttocks, knowing full well it would do nothing. She could feel the bruises coming, she imagined the marks. She bit her lip, waiting for the next one.
“Get up, Caroline,” he boss said.
In her heels and underwear, she made her way to the corner, knowing what was expected of her. She would stay put while he fixed her mistake, her fingers interlocked above her head. No more mistakes, she silently vowed, no more screw ups. And for a time, she knew she wouldn’t. She closed her eyes and let the pain radiating from her crimson ass fill her mind.
—Oui bah c’est mon cul, hein ; t’as dit que c’était pour me faire plaisir, pas pour l’esthétique…
Elle souffle et serre les dents. Les claques se font plus dures, plus fortes, plus rapides. Il y va à pleine main, la serrant contre lui. Elle a le feu aux joues comme aux fesses, et elle sent ses larmes perler au coin des yeux. La chaleur se propage, radiant de ses fesses vers son ventre, ses cuisses, son bas-ventre. Elle gémit encore, halète et se cambre en rythme avec la délicieuse musique de sa main sur sa chair.
—J’ai pas arrêté…
—Ben n’arrête pas…
—J’en avais pas l’intention…
—Tais-toi… Et frappe…
—Je suis pas un boucher, non plus…
—Oh s’il te plait…
—Je fais dans la finesse, moi…»
Elle pouffe. Avec ses mains de brute et son air d’ours mal léché, ça se saurait… Cela dit, il sait toujours exactement comment la rendre folle… De lui, de ses mains, de ce qu’il lui fait… Il en joue, en profite… Au moins autant qu’elle, vraiment. Le seul problème, c’est que quand il n’est pas fâché, il se retient. Il est mignon…
[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 firstname.lastname@example.org