« Spanking Stories

Jessica flung her iPhone onto her couch in disgust. Pouring scorn over herself, she imagined how guys must feel. Do I call? He could reject me. She would pretend she'd lost his card. She couldn't call. It wasn't her fault, just rotten luck.

Her iPhone mocked her. She'd saved his number, ready to call. Burying her head in her hands, her fears flowed. Picturing herself as an old lady, safe in her one-bedroom apartment, her feeble fears mushroomed.

Wandering her modern lounge, she ran out of space. Extending her procrastination to her bedroom, she surveyed her queen-size bed. She could masturbate about men, but calling one was beyond her female abilities.

If she allowed her worries to control her, she'd lose him. Pacing into her kitchen, she pictured Peter. She'd gambled on him and won. Aware she respected a sound spanking, he'd asked if she was single.

She returned to her bedroom. Since her train trip, she'd masturbated, touching her stripes and respecting Peter, imagining he'd caned her for a myriad of serious misdeeds. Her bottom almost flawless, she rubbed it in sympathy. Her sex clenched, ordering another round.

Staring at her bed, she eased her hand into her black leggings and slid it into her black cotton panties. Her proud clit welcomed her firm finger. Spreading her legs, she masturbated hard, standing. Stimulated by fear, her sex powered pleasure through her, speeding towards climax. Ripping her hand from her panties, she calmed herself by force.

She could masturbate about him, but lacked guts to call him. She didn't deserve pleasure. Accepting her fierce denial, she paced into her kitchen, packed with pent up sexual frustration. She hadn't lost his business card. It sat propped against her pasta jar.

Passengers surging from the train, he'd pressed it into her palm, their moment evaporating. Ten days had passed. He might have forgotten her.

Branded with thick red welts from Miss Roberts' punishment cane, work had swallowed her. She'd drafted contracts at speed, pacing her office to soothe her sore bottom. When it hurt worst, she recalled her crazy masturbation phase.

His business card said 'Investor'. Investors were busy. He'd have forgotten about her. Dithering over her simple phone call, her potential boyfriend would slip through her feeble fingers. Earlier, standing here, her pasta simmering, she'd picked up her phone and almost dialed.

Picturing her future pity party, she knew her piled shame would send her to Miss Roberts. Her bottom spanked, it still wouldn't win her Peter. Grabbing his business card, she compared his number against her stored one and tapped it.

Two soft rings warmed her ear. "Hi, it's Peter."

Wrapped in his resonant confidence, she said, "Peter, it's Jessica. I bumped into you last week." She grinned at her bold, witty opening.

"Jessica! I'm thrilled you called. I haven't stopped thinking about you. Please have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

"I'd love to," she said, her smile wide.

"Would you enjoy Lumiere?"

"They'll give you a table?" she exclaimed.

Lumiere's three Michelin stars promised legendary traditional food. They'd consigned her senior partner to their email waitlist, despite his prominence.

"They will," he confirmed. "I'll message you the time. Shall we meet there?"

Flinging her phone on her couch in glory, she dashed to her bedroom, hurled herself on her bed, ramming her hand into her panties. Her leggings tight, her panties tighter, she rubbed her clit with promised fury.

Driving her pent up power to its peak, his confidence ringing in her ears, she landed on her precipice, desperate to let go. He wanted her. He'd waited for her call. She made shit happen. She was that kind of girl. Celebrating her glorious tension, she kept her sex in exquisite denial, picturing his powerful aura. Shattering her tension, she exploded her juices, flooding her panties in sweet, sensational pleasure.

Marble pillars supported arched traditional stone ceilings as the Maitre D' led her through Lumiere. Light background music blossomed into the airy atmosphere. Glasses tinkled as conversations murmured.

Arriving alone, the Maitre D' had accosted her, checking her name. Expected with elegant grace, her feet floated across the diamond inlaid marble floor, reputed to have cost millions. Peter stood, greeting her with a lingering peck on her cheek.

"I'm impressed." Jessica smiled at him, glancing around.

"You look fantastic," he said.

Covered in pastel floral embroidery, her black intricate cut-work lace mini dress had a scalloped hem skimming her slender thighs. She wore no jewelry, her embroidery, all the embellishment required to highlight her curves. His eyes proved it.

Recognizing his black Armani suit in a glance, she enjoyed its failure to hide his muscular physique.

Sitting, she asked, "How did you swing this table?"

"I loaned the owner his first million."

She laughed. "You must eat here often."

"Just special occasions."

"Thank you." She blushed.

Grinning, he passed her the leather-bound menu, pleased he'd established their date was important to him.

She glanced at him over her menu. Clean shaven, his chiseled face defined crisp confidence. She'd liked him on the train. Sat here, her sex tightened. His rich baritone blended into attractive confidence. Spare millions added to his appeal.

Preparing for their date, she'd wondered how to address her dramatic revelation after their train crash. Her discipline seemed to impress him. Every conversation she imagined, their metaphorical elephant, remained in the room.

Agreeing on La Grande Annee vintage Bollinger and Beef Wellington, they ordered. Free from interruption, Peter leaned in, sweeping away their elephant. "You shocked me on the train. I bet you assumed we wouldn't meet again."

"Guilty," she smiled. His kind concern had demanded a reasonable response. Her thrashed bottom had encouraged honesty.

"Can I ask about your discipline?"

"You may," she said, pleased he'd brought it up.

"Is it a private arrangement?"

"She's a professional disciplinarian. I've seen her for years."

"Given your demeanor on the train, I'm guessing its proper painful punishment, not mild spankings?"

She nodded. "It's formal. She questions me about whatever I've done, announces my sentence, and punishes me hard. It needs to hurt to work."

"I'm impressed," he said. "I've dated girls who I imagine needed spanking. They wouldn't have asked for it."

"It takes strength. I admit my mistakes, suffer my appropriate punishment, and get on with my life. Guilt doesn't derail me. My self-respect remains strong."

"Are you still marked?"

"Only a little, but you won't be seeing them." She grinned. "I'm not sleeping with you tonight."

"Nor should you," he agreed, "but I want to," he added, returning her grin.

Despite her attempts to ignore it, her sex contracted at his words. "Good," she laughed.

He hadn't asked her what she'd done to deserve her serious caning. His manners pleased her. She'd have declined to say. It was too personal. Sometimes admitting her punishable offense enhanced her pleasurable humiliation.

"May I ask again when I know you better?"

"You may. I'm proud of my discipline."

Her beautiful confidence hardened his manhood. She'd sailed into his life with consummate ease. He wouldn't let her disappear.

Savoring him over her food, she listened to his stories. Family wealth had led him into investing. Their delicious meal proved he could recognize an opportunity.

She dived into politics, determined to discover their differences. He parried her controversial challenges, showing his views matched hers. His bold manner turned her on. They shared a general desire for a family, if it happened. His candor felt like they'd been friends forever. Under the table, she crossed her legs, tightening her pleasure.

Lingering over coffee, neither encouraged their evening to end.

"Fancy a walk?" he asked.

Glad for her wise choice of footwear, she nodded. "I'd love that." Her black open-toe heels had sexy ankle straps. She could walk for miles in them.

They wandered through quiet city streets to the river. The cool river breeze brought his suit jacket onto her shoulders and his firm arm around her. In perfect step, they paused next to a stone wall, city traffic behind them, their future in front.

He pulled her into him. His lips skimmed hers, full of promise. He offered a millisecond for her protest before locking onto her lips. He tasted of coffee and firm, kind man. The longest kiss in living memory lodged in hers. Her clenched sex refused further ignorance.

Breathless, they separated, leaning on the stone wall, watching city lights reflect off the river.

He said. "I feel I already know you well."

"And you wish to ask about my discipline?"

He nodded.

"It's okay. It brought us together."

"I got caned, growing up," he said. "It's excruciating. I didn't resent my spankings. My father explained my wrongdoing, checking if I disagreed."

"Did you ever disagree?"

"No. If he'd decided I needed caning, I'd earned it. The fierce pain forces respect. It taught me valuable lessons, improving my behavior."

"Were you caned on your bare bottom?" she asked.

"No, my underpants. Although they provided little protection, believe me."

"It's how I'm caned. It's very effective," she agreed. "Were you punished in private?"

"Yes. He made me touch my toes in my bedroom. It forces you to be humble."

"I bend over a desk," she told him. "Touching my toes would require incredible obedience, I imagine. You don't need discipline anymore?"

"For guys, it's less effective as we grow up," he explained. "We're packed with testosterone. Hurting us increases our aggression. It used to bring me calm relief, but these days it wouldn't."

She hadn't considered discipline for guys. He made sense. "It's different for me," she said. "Fair punishment clears my guilt, but I'm not stuffed with testosterone."

Grinning, she leaned her elbow on their wall. He moved in concert.

"When I left home, my father gave me my cane, saying I'd meet a girl who needed it." His gaze held hers. "I'll expect you to bend over and accept strict discipline from me. I want a girlfriend who respects obedience. I adore you," he said. "But it won't prevent me from punishing you."

Her heart raced. She burst into a smile. "I won't give up my disciplinarian. Sometimes a woman's perspective is essential. I have a friend whose boyfriends punishes her. She also sees the same lady. I'd struggle to respect a boyfriend unless he punished me. I'm intelligent and strong-willed. However I benefit from a sound thrashing."

Her splurge of words showed he'd surprised her. "I understand," he said. "After we've got the whole sleeping together bit sorted, we'll decide how to handle your punishment between us."

"Agreed," she said.

"You realize you just agreed to sleep with me."

Grinning, she nodded., "I do."

He delivered the firm kiss of a dominant boyfriend. It promised everything her heart craved.

Lips singed, his kiss powered her from the wall. Crossing the sidewalk, she raised her hand. Her stunning cut-work lace mini dress did its job. Two taxis stopped. The rear one pulled away, realizing it had lost its prize.

Opening the taxi door, her sex offered firm approval. Meeting his surprised expression, she asked, "What's your address?"