« Spanking Stories

Super yacht Serena sliced through the crystal blue sea.

Amy hurried down the gangway, unaware of the beauty they were passing through. She had laundry to do. The family were on board for the first time this year. They would leave today with all clean laundry.

It's how it worked on a super yacht. Clothes were always clean and pressed, and she made it happen among a thousand other things.

Bianca was coming out of the laundry room as Amy arrived deep below deck.

"Hi, babe," Bianca smiled. She was as pleased as Amy to be back on board. "There's a pile to sort, six of the machines are running. You've got 20 minutes until the first one finishes."

"Thanks. I'm looking forward to three hours down here. I could do with the peace," Amy admitted.

"Enjoy," Bianca called back, already at the top of the stairs.

Amy glanced at the pile of clothes and the bank of new washing machines. The shipyard had upgraded them to the latest digital version, along with half the rest of the yacht.

The maintenance had taken months. She'd got used to living in a hotel, popping out for things as and when she needed with no forward planning. Back at sea, the gentle movement of the yacht settled her.

The final four days had been frenzied as the crew cleaned every inch of the boat and checked every device worked. One of the washing machines had failed right away, its replacement arriving just hours before departure.

Over the last three days, She'd served the family and enjoyed the sharp, ordered excellence of her profession.

She separated the whites at speed, checking the label on each item with care to ensure it should go in the machine.

She held up a white sleeveless mini dress with flirty lace layered over a thin cotton slip. Francesca had been wearing it yesterday afternoon. The owner's eighteen-year-old daughter had looked sensational without even trying. The decoration around the shaped neckline was delicate and pretty, much like Francesca. Amy had seen her go ashore wearing it with colorful flat bohemian sandals. The care label said machine washable. She added it to the pile.

Loading the fresh new machine, she fired it into action.

The laundry room was a warm place to work. She began ironing, ignoring the flat screen. Today she was in her own quiet thoughts. As she hung an ironed shirt on the rail, she glanced behind her. Something had caught her attention in the corner near the door. She looked again and moved closer. The last machine had pink swirling around.

"Shit, shit, shit," she hit the emergency stop. While the door refused her access, she racked her brain for where she'd failed. She had sorted everything according to its label. There had been nothing red in her pile, she was sure. But she must have screwed up somehow.

Her world didn't crash. She was a crisis operator. Hearing the door release click, she ripped it open and pulled everything out into a basket. Pink boxers, pink panties, pink shirts. Her heart tore as she lifted Francesca's dress. But there was nothing red.

Confused, she got down on her knees and put her head right in the door to look for anything left behind. She spun the drum, and the culprit revealed itself. Caught on the edge of the metal was a scrap of red material. She tried pulling it, but to no avail.

Declaring an emergency in her mind. She switched to the last machine, the only one available. Checking its drum with incredible care, she loaded the pink nightmare, added washing powder, non-chlorine bleach and white distilled vinegar, all kept on hand. They had trained her well, and she was a professional. Firing the machine into action on the right cycle, she leaned against it and caught her breath.

Standing up, she flicked her radio into life. "Engineer, Engineer, Amy."

"Engineer, Go ahead."

Her knight in white overalls heard the urgency in her voice on the open channel. So did her boss. Experience and pliers fixed the machine in minutes. She kept the patch of red cloth to explain.

The emergency cycle was finishing when her busy boss arrived to check on her. Together they pulled out the rectified clothes and scrutinized each article.

"You did well, in the circumstances," the chief stewardess said, adding more approved clothes to the pile. The men's shirts and Francesca's dress had fared less well. They were better, but would never make it.

Her heart dropped. "I wish it had been crew clothes," she said to her boss.

"It would have been better, but still unacceptable. Why didn't you check the machine first? It's in the crew manual."

"I didn't, just didn't. Sorry," Amy admitted.

"I will need to explain this to the boss," her own boss warned. "That's one of his shirts and I recognize the dress too," she said. "Get everything done that you can. Leave these aside. I'll deal with everything, then we'll talk."

Her boss kept her below decks until she joined her uniformed crew on the foredeck, when the family left by helicopter. Nobody said anything about her mistake and the family left with warm goodbyes.

She held her skirt in the sudden gust, as the dark blue airbus 145 lifted from the deck, the screaming engines deafening. In the still, following its departure, the captain addressed her, "Amy, see me on the bridge please."

She followed him along the port gangway, her boss following close behind. On the bridge, the captain removed his hat and picked up the scrap of red cloth. "I understand this caused our failure as a crew?"

"Yes, sir," Amy said.

"No, miss. It's you," he snapped. "This rag is innocent. It didn't put itself in the machine. I expect that was the maintenance worker who fitted it. You should have checked. The rules are clear," he admonished her.

"Yes, sir," she repeated. It was all she could say. The collective failure of the crew fell on her shoulders. She knew she was to blame, but hearing it said out loud crushed her.

Her boss berated her. "You should have checked the machine. It's the responsible thing to do, and it's in the manual. There's a copy of the manual in the laundry room. You could have checked your actions against the relevant checklist."

"The owner was not at all pleased," the captain's strict voice continued to punish her. "He pays your wages and the millions it costs to float this boat. Perfection is the point and you've let yourself, and your crew, down. It only takes one slip up to ruin perfection. This was yours. I suggest you own it."

"Sir, ma'am, I didn't do my job. You're right. I should have checked the machine. It was lazy and unprofessional. I'm very sorry and I have no excuse. I began this conversation in the wrong manner. The person responsible for our failure as a crew, is me and I am well aware I've let everyone down," she finished.

"I'm glad to hear it," the captain said. "I'll leave it with your boss. Dismissed."

He turned to his screens and Amy left with her boss.

In the Sky Lounge, Amy's boss looked at her hard. She'd heard the girl's powerful admission and apology. They had to move forward as a crew. "You're not the most popular person on board right now," she said.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't like myself much either. It was lazy and complacent."

"And inattentive," her boss added. "It would benefit the rest of the crew to see you being punished. They all suffered loss of stature because of you, and some shame will do you good."

"Yes, ma'am. I deserve it," Amy replied, unsure what was coming, but certain she deserved huge helpings of shame.

"We're underway for the next five days, with an afternoon stop on the way. You won't get shore leave. For the next five days you'll dress all the time in your formal uniform and work from 6am to 10pm, with normal breaks."

Amy nodded.

"Every morning you'll meet me here, in the Sky Lounge, and bring a yoga mat. You'll do ten push-ups without your shoes but in full uniform out there on the deck in the scorching morning sun. Anyone nearby is welcome to watch their disobedient crew mate being punished. After your push-ups, I'll inspect your uniform in here. You must be perfect, no sweat marks. If there are any imperfections, I'll run out of ways to punish you, but I'll think of something and it will be a lot worse."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry. I deserve it."

Amy accepted her tough duty roster and her regular morning shame. Next morning, she held her posture straight, dead straight. Her toes held her firm on the yoga mat as the sun beat down on her tight black miniskirt, heating her backside. Her boss watched from the air-conditioned Sky Lounge. Her arms burned as her nose grazed the mat and lifted again. She was fit. She could do this. It was her uniform, the heat, and the pressure to not break a sweat which presented the challenge.

Humility touched her as the occasional deckhand watched her obedient bottom rise and fall. Her uniform made it obvious she was being punished. After her punishment, she stood taller each morning as her boss inspected the front and back of her blouse. She had to raise her arms to show there were no sweat marks. Slipping down her skirt a few inches to show her tight white bikini panties increased her pride. She wanted to obey and take her punishment so she could get forgiveness from her crew.

Every day she felt better. Her arms burned while her humility was on public display. Her confidence increased each time her boss gave her uniform the nod. Nobody aboard forgot she was under punishment, their casual crew kit in marked contrast to her professional uniform.

Their canceled afternoon ashore disappointed Dan, and she would make it up to him. She loved him and would do anything to please him, but first she had to go through this alone. He spent his shore leave buying her a special present, something he knew she needed, while she remained onboard and sent emails.

A ping on her phone interrupted her lonely afternoon. VIP email pinged.

One word. 'Forgiven'. All alone with a full stop. The most important person had forgiven her. It was a tremendous relief. She asked the boss's assistant for Francesca's email.

She added her job title, in case Francesca wasn't clear who she was, and marked her VIP. Like her dad, she responded straight away.

She took coffee to the bridge with a smile. She was getting back in the good graces of all her crew. Her public punishment had ensured it. She respected her boss's wisdom, but now she must think about herself.

Laziness at work was unacceptable. Had the rules permitted her captain to lash her to the mast and flog her, she'd have bared herself, embracing her public spanking. However, the First Officer was her boyfriend. Their strict relationship permitted him to punish her as he saw fit. She'd let her standards drop. Dan would hold her to account. Spankings suited her nature.

When the punishment from her boss was over, she would ask Dan for no choice. He must dictate her discipline. She would not react or request mercy. She'd give no reaction at all to her sentence. But, on his command, she would bend.