« Spanking Stories

« Charlotte, Amelia, Imogen and Takisha


16. Before You Enter

Spanking Story


Forgetting to knock before entering, a girl is caned for poor manners

«Beginning Part 17»

While David worked on acquiring the old country house, Charlotte's attic room remained their headquarters. Equipment from stationary to music mix desks arrived daily. There was no point in climbing the stairs with weight, so she'd taken over a first-floor bedroom to store their boxes.

Takisha had taken charge of a spreadsheet on the door of the room, updated daily to reflect its contents.

This morning, Imogen had demanded their presence at headquarters as early as possible. With the least distance to travel, Charlotte was ready at 6.30am and so was everyone else to her distinct pleasure. They'd agreed to an early start because she had lunch at her parents' house today.

"I've got a marketing concept to fill the gap on our plan," Imogen said. Takisha and Charlotte leaned back in their recliners to listen.

"Takisha, chime in whenever, I'm expecting you to be all over this."

Her friend nodded.

"We're going to run a public contest on YouTube for the best, most talented, girls who want a shot at getting our help. We run for two months with videos uploaded using the hash tag #GirlAct."

"How do you promote it?" Takisha asked.

"Get every singer who is anything on YouTube to talk about it."

"That will work. Saffron will mention it, although for security she cannot be the first."

"If I get three or four to do it, with your help it should mushroom in minutes."

"Then what?" Charlotte asked.

"That's the good bit," Imogen smiled. "We judge them as they come in. On the Girl Act website, which we'd better hurry along with, we announce twelve finalists."

"Is the final online too?" Takisha asked.

"No. The final isn't a singing contest. They all deserve our help. But are they good enough?" Imogen drew it out, teasing her co-founders.

Her friends waited.

"We invite them to dinner at our country house to meet the founders of Girl Act, knowing that we'll only choose three or four of them as clients, based on their manners."

"Doesn't sound like much of a final," Charlotte said.

"It's a test of etiquette and manners. They'll meet the founders all right, but they just won't know it. We'll be the waiting staff. We'll serve them all evening. They'll never notice us. It will give us a fly on the wall view of all of them."

"Oh! That's killer," Takisha said.

"Awesome. Outstanding. Phenomenal." Charlotte added.

"We'll pick the best," Imogen said, smiling at the praise, "and at the end of the evening take off our aprons and welcome the winners."

"Beyond clever," Charlotte said.

"Have you forgotten your manners, Charlotte?" her father asked, his tone sharp, as she entered his study.

"Sorry." She retreated a few steps, knocked twice on the already open door, before re-entering the room.

Her navy cotton jersey dress hugged her curves, decorating the tops of her long bare legs. Her ash blonde hair, cut yesterday, graced her face. She smiled at her father, "Lunch is ready"

She looked around his study at the bookcases and worn old desk. It was nice to be at home for a few hours. She had fond memories of this room, some soft and some hard, but they were all fond. Her parents had been tough on her growing up. She'd been in this study, many times, to be caned, standing in much the same place before her father's desk.

It was a decent upbringing. They'd taught her good manners and given her fair limits for her behavior. When she crossed them, she got a hard spanking or the cane. As she got older, it was always the cane. Unlike most of her friends, they would discipline her hard for minor infractions of etiquette. She didn't mind. She appreciated being a well-mannered girl.

It hadn't been easy when she'd had to touch her toes or bend over the desk for a serious caning, but she was proud of who she'd become and relished maintaining her standards with the help of David's firm hand. Her husband was the find of a lifetime. A jogged coffee, a splashed dress, four strokes of the cane and she'd found her man. It wasn't how she told the story to others, but she and David knew the bond that bound them.

"I've just had another one of those journalists on the phone," her father said, standing to leave the room with her.

Her parents still got calls from journalists or media outlets asking for an interview. They always declined for her. She'd left the stage to deafening applause. No good came from re-living the past. People should move on. She had.

But today, excited by Imogen's genius scheme, she was recalculating.

"Dad, could I have their details this time. I might have a use for some exposure."

He picked up the green post-it note from his desk. He always scribbled down who it was out of habit. Once it had mattered. She took the treasure, her mind in a flurry.

When she got home in the late afternoon, her father's strict words were still bouncing around her head. He hadn't dealt with her. As she'd stepped back earlier, to knock on his study door according him proper etiquette, she'd almost turned, placed her hands on it, lifted her dress to her waist, and presented her panty clad bottom for the cane.

She'd only just managed not to. Instead, she'd apologized with grace, knocked and repeated her entrance. Now, in her own home and her husband's study, she needed the cane. Nothing else would do. She'd received a strict reprimand and expected a caning for her fault. Her bottom had tingled all afternoon, having missed out.

David was at his desk, right where she needed him. She explained her mistake and her father's reprimand.

"Has it been running around in your head all afternoon?" he asked.

He knew her well. For such an obvious mistake, she would have expected four sharp strokes of the cane across her underwear in short order.

"I'm old enough to know better."

"But do you?" he asked, his tone heavy.

"It would seem not. I need four hard strokes. It's been agony waiting. Please deal with me," she begged.

"Okay," he said. He left the study to fetch the cane from the lounge.

Returning, he pointed at the door, a stern look on his face. She'd told him long ago about her punishments. They were always relevant. For not knocking on a door, it was that very door she must lean against to take her strokes. It reinforced the message.

Quivering with anticipation and guilt, she walked over to the open door, turned and placed her hands on it. Stepping back one pace, she lifted her tight dress before leaning forward again, her hands on the door, her thin panties presented for punishment.

It was the correct position in which to be punished when failing to knock. She'd assumed it many times. It felt right to assume it again, albeit several hours late.

David lined up the cane against her black bikini panties. He knew his wife wanted hard discipline for her bad manners and he wouldn't fail her.

"You must respect doors, Charlotte, even when they're open. You shouldn't need this lesson by now."

"I'm sorry," she said, engulfed in shame, multiplied by the hours in between.

Intense pain soared across the middle of her panties as the cane taught her a fierce lesson. Heavy hurt carried through her, driving her against the door. Supporting herself on her hands, she had to push back. The position was a clever way to make her contribute to her punishment. It ensured she pushed her bottom into the oncoming cane, doubling her pain.

Pleasure in her husband making her take her punishment burst heat into her sex as the cane burned fierce agony into her bottom. Harsh weals from its fresh impact erupted on her cheeks.

Punishing pain in her bottom drove fire inside her sex. She wanted this. It was just redress for her lazy inattention. She admired her willpower. As the cane thrashed heat and hurt in her bottom, her self-respect rose, fueling the fire in her sex.

She pushed her bottom out to show her willing acceptance. She was a forgetful girl, being taught a necessary lesson, a lesson which had to hurt. The next stroke burned into her bottom, searing her soft skin through her panties. She held herself still against the open door, her hands planted.

He laid the cane against her bottom to warn of the last stroke, then flicked it hard, searing a fresh red weal across the barest part of her bum. It was a solid caning, meant to punish. The physical pain hurt. There was no escape from it. It was necessary, but the mental achievement of taking her punishment with grace and respect turned her on with a vengeance.

She stood back, lowered her dress and looked him in the eye, "Thank you for caning me. I'm sorry for my bad manners."

He hugged her tight and left her to contemplate herself in the study, while he replaced the cane.

When he returned, she said, "I'd like to watch TV together and have to sit on my sore bottom. It was how it used to be. When I got a punishment, life went on as normal afterwards, sore or not."

"We have several movies lined up to watch, let's choose," he said.

She was looking forward to bed. She'd learned early that pride in herself was a hot aphrodisiac. It was the antidote to necessary pain. A good night's sleep always followed.

The movie was a poor choice. It pleased her because she could justify turning it off and going to bed. She put their glasses next to the sink and turned to find his gentle lips on hers. He took her hand and led her to the kitchen wall.

His light touch turned firm as he placed her back against the wall. He planted her hands together above her head. She stayed where he'd put her as he shimmied her dress to her waist and nudged her legs with his foot. She obeyed and spread them.

He ripped open his belt and shoved his suit pants down. Breaking his manhood free from his trunks, he held her hands in place with one of his, slid her black cotton aside with the other, and thrust his hardness into her.

Pinned in place by his masculinity, her hands spread and held by his, she was spread-eagled and pinned for his pleasure. He powered up into her and released her hands. She grabbed around his neck as her sex fired every synapse in her brain. Fixed to the wall by his manhood, she swung her legs around his waist and pulled him deep into her.

His commanding hardness impaled her sex, and she craved each stroke like she'd never had it before. Nothing was enough. He scrubbed the wall with her caned bottom. The heat and pain drove down through her sex, met his manhood and blasted back through her.

Her man held her in place and took her. If she'd ever had a 'handle with care' label, he'd ripped it off long ago. This was how she needed to be looked after, caned hard and fucked harder.

Her thoughts of the day crashed together as her mind took every bit of pain from her bottom, processed it into pride and pumped it into her sex, stamped with permission to feel good about herself.

She tried to hold herself on the brink. She squeezed herself tight, resisting with every muscle in her sex and her mind, gripping him tight while he cupped her sore bottom and pushed her up the wall. With every quiver, she squeezed herself tighter, her mind closing off any hope of release. With every thrust, he pried her open. It was a battle of wills, a battle she must lose. But she fought it with everything she had, holding herself on the crystal thin edge of pleasure for as long as she had the strength.

He came hard, lifting her high up the wall. She stayed there, flying in her own bliss for the sweetest of seconds before crashing back to be held on his hardness, shuddering through a stream of orgasms, taking her sweet flow of natural pleasure.

His powerful arms kept her safe as she treasured every vibration and held her when there were no more left.

Next morning, they began at nine with her on fire. She told Imogen to get her plan in action and launch the competition, they'd have the country house ready one way or another in the two months it took to run the contest.

She'd called the journalist, first thing, to ask what his angle was. It was the usual 'Where's Shannon Taylor now?' sort of article, but this time she didn't mind. She was somewhere worth talking about. They were due to speak in a couple of days for an article going out in two weeks.

Nobody argued. It all made sense. Takisha set to work for Imogen, scripting emails promoting the Girl Act contest, which would appeal to singers on YouTube.

Charlotte drafted some replies to questions she knew she'd get asked and smiled as she looked over her team. It was perfect timing, and they were the perfect girls to launch Girl Act.