« Spanking Stories

Sat at her white marble kitchen island, Louise held the pretty, colorful slim-necked pouch. A color wave splashed across the white background like a rolling river. Royal blue through aqua transitioned to rich green down the pouch before twisting towards the edge, ascending from bright yellow into warm orange, spraying vibrant red dew drops, promising absolute hair perfection.

On her urging, her company had changed their pouch design, delivering one thousand small, flat white pouches to Patchwork Colors. Working nights, Kate had passed sheets of webbed pouches through their giant poster printer. In her palm, the result was compelling.

Persuading her company to support her hunch had demanded her entire sales experience. Feeling beautiful in ten seconds, she knew Ben's winning formula was a phenomenon. This afternoon her extraordinary hair memory had overtaken her. Invited by Kate, she'd admired the final filled pouches delivered by Ben's contract manufacturer. Kate's focus elsewhere, she'd slipped this pouch into her purse.

Printed below the color wave in orange and green, Hair Air rhymed. 'All Day' stamped on the pouch neck answered her original query. 'Sensational in Seconds' delivered Hair Air's promise in Kate's subtle rhythmic words. 'Burst your bubbles' along the bottom combined humor with clever instruction suggesting an enjoyable experience. The biodegradable pouch was pure female superpower. And theft.

Ben had resigned from KRT Cosmetics. Her friends were living on Kate's salary. He needed his one thousand pouches to pitch venture capitalists. She'd left him nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine. Perhaps he'd have presented this exact pouch to his perfect investor.

Diverted on her way home, she was still wearing her black blazer and lethal black stretchy skirt, studying her stolen pouch, when Andrew arrived home.

"Hey sexy," he said, setting down his laptop and leaving his navy suit coat on the stool beside her. Recognizing the pouch from her many avid descriptions, he admired Hair Air.

She saw the tiny pouch disappear in his huge hand, its striking visual attraction nothing next to its awesome power to provide perfection. Taking it back, she protected it. "I've only got one," she said.

"Ben's bet big," he said. "He needs them for potential investors."

Touching her cheek, her fingers cooled her overworked brain as his words swarmed her mountain of guilt. Heading to their bedroom, she hunted for a hiding spot. She'd save her precious pouch for a crucial occasion.

Andrew tilted his head. In contractual negotiations, he read opposing lawyers. His girlfriend's gesture showed stress. Following her sexy black blazer, skimming her high hemline, he replayed his words as realization dawned. "Louise, you have something to tell me?"

She turned, innocence failing to mask her fear. "W... What?"

Her stutter was conclusive proof. He kept her under his resolute gaze, waiting her out.

Clutching her pouch in both hands, she pleaded, "It's only one."

"Kate didn't give it to you?"

She shook her head, choosing gestures to confess her abominable transgression.

"Lose your blazer. You need caning."

Hanging her long black tailored blazer in her closet, she returned to confront him, her chic, slinky black, figure-hugging crop top teasing her sexy bareness below her blazer. On show for him, her flat stomach emphasized her slim waist encircled by her skin-tight, short black stretchy skirt.

She swept her long blonde hair over her shoulder. Revealed to her stern boyfriend, her bareness felt sexy, her crime didn't. Clutching the cane she'd collected from her closet, she handed it to him.

"Did you steal that pouch?" he demanded, grabbing the rattan rod.

She nodded. His direct question crashed her conscience into her core. She'd stolen from her best friend. Desperate to have Hair Air in case she needed it, her justification didn't measure up.

"Theft," he said.

His single word summary hurt her. Still clutching her pouch, she felt caught red-handed.

Beckoning, he led her to their living room. Sweeping aside the dining chair from the head of their table, his familiar gesture confirmed a formal caning.

"Shall we check our formal list?" he asked.

"No, Andrew. I stole this." She handed him her precious pouch.

He arranged it half-way down the table, in her eye line. "Bend over," he ordered.

Her bare stomach touched the cool oak dining table before her firm breasts pushed into the solid surface, enclosed in their slinky crop top. She spread her hands to the sides, gripping their table. Her fierce skirt stretched super tight across her obedient bottom, its already high hemline risen.

He hiked her stretchy skirt to her waist, blasting turbulent air over her bright green sporty string bikini panties. With her skirt bunched, she felt more exposed than if he'd ordered her out of it. Comforted by his harsh handling, she felt at home in his hands. Their rules required her punishment. She'd signed her name to their formal list.

"Twelve strokes, Louise."

She often got six for unacceptable behavior. For theft, she cherished his strict response.

"Count each stroke and thank me," he commanded.

Her sex plundered new depths under his sharp authority. The cane tip tapped her tight green cotton. Vivid green had advanced up her bright panty power base ever since he'd spanked her to an orgasm in them. Presenting her bottom for formal punishment, her sexy panties satisfied her. They should take their share of her pain for leading her astray.

Sting ripped across her cheeks as the cane's retort reverberated around her kitchen. Instant fire surged through her panties, testing her strict obedience as its smoldering fury incensed her sensitive skin. Demanding repentance, its cruel pain stole her concentration.

Remembering her obligation, she said, "One, thank you for caning me."

Confirming her correct call, the cane struck hard, below the last. Startled by her compound heat, her throat issued a plaintive whimper.

"Hurts to steal, doesn't it?"

"I'm sorry. Two, thank you for caning me."

Encouraged by her proper response, he raised the cane.

She sensed his intensity and gripped the table. Her knuckles turned white as piercing pain sliced into her deceptive bottom. She pictured Kate's back as she'd stolen her pouch. Agony clasped her mind, demanding she accept its fierce heat.

"Three, thank you for caning me." Her voice betrayed her struggle.

Given a minute to compose herself, she appreciated his generosity. She deserved harsh treatment. Accepting her caning with dignity was crucial to her. He'd introduced discipline to keep her. Every time she bent before him, she honored his original decision to punish her faults.

Composed, his powerful strokes sliced into her skin, burning fresh welts destined to hurt for days. Forced to thank him for her pain, every utterance humbled her. Repeating her words with greater refinement, her sorrow deepened as their flexible rattan whipped her deceitful bottom.

Twelve heartfelt responses echoed from their walls. Twelves fiery lines licked her tender skin. Standing on his command, she said, "Thank you for caning me. I deserved that. Thank you for being so severe."

He studied his penitent girlfriend. The cane reduced her to perfect obedience without debate. He loved her spirited nature, her eagerness to experiment and play. He loved every inch of her, but her honesty trumped it all. Her explicit tone showed her gratitude. He'd given her severe strokes.

He smiled, drawing her into his arms. "You're worth it," he whispered.

Heat blasting into her core, her sex demanded its share. She craved his manhood. Breaking free of his arms, she kneeled in the corner of her cream couch, her arms on the backrest, her bare knees on the soft linen. "Fuck me," she cried.

Unbuckling his belt, he traced her welted bottom. She flinched. His fingers withdrew.

"Do that again," she begged. "Don't be kind. You marked me."

His cruel fingers taking pleasure from her pain, she heard his suit pants drop. Desperate for his manhood, she pushed her caned bottom out. His hardness shoved her panties aside. Bowing her shoulders below her bookcase, she forced herself onto his manhood, taking him deep inside her.

His muscled stomach stung her burning cheeks as he thrust into her. Gripping his hardness, her sex defied his demands, losing as her twelve angry red stripes burned into her bottom, firing her obedience as he powered her towards her pleasure.

Held on his hardness, she cried, "Twelve painful strokes."

"You deserved it," he growled. "Thank me again, or I'll double it."

She panted, teetering on her fragile edge. "Thank you for caning me. I deserved my thrashing."

Forced to thank him again for striking her tender bottom with his punishing cane, her pleasure burst, pouring liquid thanks over his hardness. Soaked in her gratitude, he exploded his admiration into her as she bucked her pleasure-driven hips, processing a plethora of orgasms planted in her sex by his powerful punishment.

Slumped over her couch, his hard body keeping her warm, she slithered down to lie in comfort, taking his warm embrace with her.

The colorful pouch on their dining table screamed its vibrance across their living room. Seeing his gaze, she begged, "Don't make me give it back. I couldn't stand it."

"You shouldn't benefit from your crime."

Racking her brain, she searched for a punishment so terrible it would stop him from making her return her pouch. He could cane her for a week. She'd accept it. Enlightened by her imagination-packed memory, she caressed his firm face. "You could make me wear my boring white bikini panties. You know I loathe them. Being denied my sexy colors for an entire week will punish me, I promise. I'll get constant reminders whenever I catch sight of my boring white panties."

He thought it over, picturing plain white panties on her gorgeous bottom. "Plus six strokes before you stop wearing them."

She nodded, accepting his tough sentence. Her white panties would be terrible, but worth it to protect her pouch.

Stroking her sore bottom, he spanked her hard, "Change now."

Skipping to her bedroom drawers, fresh sting suffusing her skin, she withdrew her plain white panties from the bottom of a pile, counting seven pairs. Peeling off her beautiful green panties, she battled her crop top over her head, laying it with her skirt.

Taking her top pair of plain white panties, she returned naked to him. Standing before him, she stepped into her clean, dull panties. Sliding them up her legs, she felt every inch of his strict censure. Each day she must wear his punishment or lose her precious pouch. Snapping her elastic around her hips under his steadfast gaze, she kneeled on her red and blue patterned rug, drawing his hard approval into her mouth.

Slick with saliva, she slid her tongue down his length, burying his dominance in the back of her throat. Wearing her punishment, her caned bottom throbbed through her obedient white cotton. Respecting her tough man, she gave ultimate thanks with her tongue. Her expression of profound pleasure and utter obedience spurted his desire down her throat, his hard body thrusting into her as he came. Releasing him, she licked her lips, swallowing his gift.

"You're amazing," he moaned.

"And compliant," she said, standing so he could appreciate the white cotton obedience stamped across her hips.

"Turn," he ordered.

Obeying, his impassioned eyes poured heat on her burning bottom. She traced the welts spreading from her pristine panties. Her reverence conveying respect, she said, "You hurt me."

"It's my duty. Turn."

Loving his strict orders, she obeyed, her white panty covered sex hot under his hard gaze.

"Those are your panties this week. Disobey my order and I'll cane you. Twenty strokes. You're under strict punishment."

"I won't disobey you," she said, shuddering with pleasure at her forced surrender.

He smiled. "This lasting punishment will test you. Don't wither. Be my strong girl. But accept that beneath your smart skirt, you're receiving shameful punishment you need. Constant discipline won't hurt you, just remind you."

Kate opened the passion-packed brown cardboard box sitting on Ben's desk. Removing pouches of Hair Air, she counted seven for each of her fantastic girlfriends. Their crucial help had packaged and named Ben's revolutionary hair product.  

Admiring their remarkable creation, she hadn't thought to offer pouches to Louise yesterday. Setting aside seven for Louise's blonde locks, she separated seven for the friend who'd named Hair Air. Remembering her co-pilot, she added an eighth for friendship. Packing them in a drawstring luxury soap bag for protection, she arranged them into her care package. Diane deserved love, care and foods from home. Imagining her friend soaring over the endless, remote Australian outback, she wondered how Diane was coping without regular paddling.