« Spanking Stories

Morning sunlight flooded Kate's twelfth-floor studio as she smoothed her black cotton body-con micro dress over her bare bottom. Checking the result in her mirror, she plucked a wandering chestnut hair from her left cap-sleeve. With half an inch of coverage below her bottom, standing up protected her modesty. Sitting didn't.

Last night, her tumbling tresses, blow-dried across the shoulders of her rainbow cocktail dress, she'd prepared for her date in under forty minutes. Will had bored her in ten, droning on about his logistics job.

He'd asked her out in the gym. Sweat glistening her gym toned body, it was a fruitful hunting ground. Tiny, tight black shorts and colorful plunging vest tops guaranteed male attention. Their ardent gazes drove her harder. Pumping weights, she often daydreamed about them dealing with her for lack of effort. The hottest ones broke her concentration. Great for her ego, poor for her exercise. Will's bold invitation had disguised disappointing self-obsession.

She was blowing away her disappointing date with a Sexy Saturday. Packed with sexual tension, her deliberate naughtiness would end in tough punishment and a magnificent orgasm.

Hooking her foot stool from beside the couch which footed her bed, she sat before her mirror. Her black hemline crossed her hips, failing to reach her thighs. A bright triangle of white cotton broadcast between her legs. Her knees together, her position was graceful, but her dress continued its perfect failure to preserve her modesty. Crisp white panties displayed despite her apparent best efforts.

Naughtiness drove her desire. Firm men had always stimulated her saucy imagination. Committing a genuine offense justified her punishment, reality boosting its intensity. Unable to deliver meaningful pain herself, she'd bought a rattan cane online when she'd moved into her studio. Flicking it across her bared behind, her wrist could impart sharp sting. She'd sentence herself to forty light flicks for today's public disobedience, a stiff punishment in her dreams. In reality, her stinging bottom would yield only an hour's pleasure.

She craved a man's hard commands. Fear of the pain she must endure as she bent over his desk filled her fantasies. His cane cracked across her disobedient cheeks, scorching her skin, demanding her total obedience. In her dreams, she carried her lines with pride, suffering their sting for hours and their soreness for days, her pride soaring, her respect for him sky-high.

Packed with painful thrashings, her fantasies preluded reality. For a man she respected, she'd bend with grace, facing his tough authority and suffering her meaningful pain. He'd bring her bursts of naughtiness under his harsh control, powering intense sex. For now, she must denounce her disgraceful behavior and deliver weak cane flicks. Hence, forty was fair.

Reaching her assigned platform, she awaited her train. She imagined bumping into a co-worker. If seated, she'd brazen out her obvious wardrobe malfunction. A designer at Patchwork Colors, she drew digital perfection, producing glorious websites for her clients. At twenty-four, her career was under control, her love-life lacked drama.

Love for her included strict discipline. Had Will measured up, she'd have teased him, scrutinizing his responses for stern indicators. Despite success in seducing men, subtle hints had failed to deliver the discipline she desired.

Male eyes burned her bottom, her raised hemline guaranteeing instant results. Her Sexy Saturday dress was blatant. Two hours of delicious, deliberate disobedience awaited her on her round-trip to the next city. Glancing around, no male candidates for her fantasy stood out. It was early, her stance still protecting her panties.

Premier class cars flashed by as her train arrived. Boarding her standard class car, she headed for a table seating four. Experience had shown it afforded the largest stage for her performance. Seated near the window, her dress rose. Her table cleared a line-of-sight straight to her underwear.

Women could sometimes star in her fantasies. Receiving a harsh glare from a proud woman, she cast her as a stern headmistress. Bending over a wide desk in her headmistress' contemporary designed study, twelve cane strokes burned into her white cotton school panties. Storing her fantasy for later use, a blonde in jeans, her own age, passed, offering a smile. She pretended they were roommates. Her friend told her off for her public panty display. Of course her mate suggested she deserved a caning. Bending over their imaginary couch for six strokes, her roommate left her well sore. She wandered their apartment in skimpy panties, sharing her shameful marks.

Passengers didn't choose her table, women warned off by red-hot competition, men embarrassed by their attraction. Determined to keep their gaze straight, every man failed, boosting her ego. Tonight, she'd hang her head in shame and accept her punishment.

Extracting today's newspaper from her matching black tote distracted her fevered mind. Wearing a gorgeous black suit, that amazing girl Diane's picture occupied the entire title page, 'Hero' emblazoned in giant white letters. The newspaper described her undeniable flying feat for the second day. Pictures of her plane landing on the runway accompanied adoring text.

At a co-worker's prompting, she'd downloaded Diane's radio conversation. Scared witless, her desperate humanity had shone through. Focused on obeying the remote pilot's commands, her astounding calm guaranteed a Hollywood movie must follow.

Her cityscape exchanged for lush countryside, fresh green fields slipped past her window. As she stared out, she remembered she was a wicked girl, facing certain discipline. Her sex tightened in pleasure.

"Excuse me, may I sit here?"

Glancing up, pale-blue eyes, a shrewd smile, and a sharp, chiseled jaw grabbed her full attention.

"You're welcome," she said.

He sat opposite, his height affording a clear view of her blatant white string panties. She smiled at him, offering him an opening.

"Hi, I'm Ben," he said, extending his hand.

"Kate," she replied, shaking across their table. His short black hair, worn brown leather jacket, radiant smile and respectful manner boosted her day.

Pulling a short white card from his jacket pocket, he placed it facing her. The gold title, 'Hair Survey', captured her attention.

"Would you complete my quick survey about women's hair? I'm a cosmetic scientist for KRT. I'm designing an instant hair perfection product for women in my spare time. You're stunning, Kate. I'd appreciate your opinion."

She beamed, her ego buoyed. If he'd asked her out, she'd have dated him.

"I'd love to," she said, pulling his survey card closer.

He handed her a pencil.

A grin crept onto her face. Very scientist. A pencil. She didn't care.

"How does your product help me?" she asked.

"Can I answer after you've completed my survey? I don't want to influence your opinions."

"Of course," she said, chastened. She poised her pencil over his survey questions.

'How often do you wash your hair?'

Scanning her options, she ticked 'every three days'. An easy start.

'How many hair products do you use?'

Rolling the pencil between her fingers, she counted her products. Shampoo, conditioner, serum, mousse. She scribbled four in the box, unsure if it made her neurotic or confident.

'How long since your last bad hair day?'

Easy. Two days ago. Waking late, her day had been continual stress, starting with her hair.

She glanced at her fit companion. Staring out the window, he was leaving her to provide honest answers.

'Do you use a hair dryer or straighteners often?'

Ticking both, she remembered blow drying her hair for her pointless date. Ben had already made her feel interesting, and he'd called her stunning.

'How long since you tried a new hair product?'

She ticked 'Ages ago'. Her established routine gave her no reason.

'What do your hair products cost each month?'

Scribbling fifty bucks, she wondered how it compared to other girls.

Checking his attention remained elsewhere, she flipped her card, jotting her name and number. Sliding her card and pencil across the table, she received another powerful smile.

"Thank you. I appreciate your time."

"It's a pleasure. How can you give a girl instant hair perfection?"

"My product provides shine, lift and strength in ten seconds."

"I bet it doesn't last. Rain messes up hair."

He grinned. "The organic rice molecular coating protects each strand, preserving its structure. Water slides off. I'm designing special packaging which forms a mist over your hair for ten seconds. Then, you're ready."

"No way," she said, her tone emphatic.

"Would it interest you, if it were true?"

"Maybe," she admitted. "I'd have to try it."

He smiled. "I'm working on the delivery mechanism, but I've painted my solution onto mannequins. Testing in a wind tunnel in a one hundred mile per hour gale, the hair moved as you'd expect, returning to its prior perfection when the wind stopped."

She nodded. Hair testing sounded dull. "Don't sell it like that. It isn't sexy."

He nodded. "Noted. Thank you."

He enquired about her work. Explaining her digital design skills, his engaging conversation kept her attention for the full hour. Reaching the station, she was sorry their trip was ending. The return would be less interesting. Watching Ben's tight backside disappear into the crowd, she contemplated her unusual cosmetic scientist. He hadn't seemed crazy.

Enjoying a coffee and tuna salad lunch to justify her journey, she boarded her returning train. As expected, nobody joined her table. Ben had been the exception.

As the car filled up, male glances blazed into her panties, her sexy game in play. As the scenery unfolded beside her, she wondered about Ben. He hadn't appeared to notice her obvious panties. Closer than anybody else, he couldn't have missed her naughtiness, but he'd showed no sign he'd seen her shameless display.

Picturing Ben flexing her cane, her sex clenched hard. His rich voice in her mind, he hauled her from her train seat, scolded her in front of their fellow passengers and bent her over their table. Raising her pitiful dress, he caned her exposed cheeks. Six hard strokes seared her soft skin, burning agonizing welts she deserved. Ordered to stand facing the wall at the end of the car, keeping her panties hidden, her fictional embarrassment rose.

His imaginary firmness kept her company. Disembarking her train, she stood for forty minutes uptown on the metro. The metro wasn't sexy.

Glancing down the river from her twelfth-floor hallway, she unlocked her home. Lighting up her white-walled studio, she drew down her three blinds. Reaching above her kitchen cupboards into the slight gap before the ceiling, her fingers hooked the crooked handle of her rattan cane. Light reflecting from its gleaming golden surface, its flexible authority sent quivers through her disobedient sex.

Desperate to come after five hours, she slid her dress to her waist. Social rules didn't permit girls to travel on trains with their panties on conspicuous display. She couldn't escape. She'd earned a severe caning.

Forced to deliver her own discipline, she wouldn't cheat. She leaned against her white wall and stepped back, resting her weight on one hand, her bare bottom just visible in the mirror. She twisted her wrist, gripping her cane tight, resting its menacing length across her unprotected cheeks.

Deep breaths accompanied a silent scolding. Disgraceful behavior for a girl her age. Heavy disappointment settled on her shoulders. In a firm whisper, she announced her punishment. Forty hard flicks. Remembering Ben's genuine and charming nature, she strengthened her sentence, ordering twenty flicks on her sensitive thighs. She'd struggle to take her severity, but she'd embarrassed herself in front of a decent, kind man. Her marked thighs would withhold her skimpy dresses or sexy shorts for a few days. Humbled by her significant sanction, she bent her wrist.

Twisting her wrist hard, her cane followed its inevitable course, slicing into her bare flesh. Sharp sting rewarded her efforts. She panted, allowing her pain to escalate. Her wrist couldn't deliver many of those. Another hard one cut into her disobedient bottom. Its harsh heat delighted her as searing sting deepened her humble attitude. She deserved this. She'd behaved like a sixteen-year-old who'd just discovered her sexual power over men.

Cracking her cane against her skin, her wrist weakened. Submitting to herself lacked a man's dominance. She worked her cane, fresh sting building in her behind. Slow strokes targeted her lower bottom, biting into her softest skin. Each stroke stung good. They didn't test her courage, but showed she hadn't excused her naughty behavior.

Honoring her tough sentence, she angled her cane, tapping her thighs. Biting her lip, she sent a vengeful flick against her exposed skin. A brief cry hit the wall as her sensitive skin suffered its cutting stoke. In the mirror, the visible thin red welt on her left thigh evidenced her serious disobedience. Her bare legs needed harsh discipline. She landed more flicks, burning fiery agony into her left thigh. Swapping hands, she delivered her final ten strokes, ensuring her right thigh received its dutiful share.

Dropping her cane on her silver couch, she mounted her bed. Lying on her punished bottom and thighs, she rammed her hand into her white cotton string. Her soaking sex pressed her hard clit under her finger, demanding relief. Circling herself with fury, her painful legs heated the soft white comforter. With heavy submission pouring through her brain, she accepted her punishment, grateful for her own inner strength. Lust accrued over her Sexy Saturday arched her back as waves of orgasms chased her finger down through her desperate body, suffusing her whipped skin with soothing pleasure. Stroking her sticky lips, her brain took each of her fresh fantasies, trying them on for size. Her headmistress and her roommate drove her finger to greater heights. Having structured her long Ben fantasy on the way home, she stored it for another night.

Recovering from her phenomenal stream of pleasure, she stretched to reach her phone. Ordering a Garden Fresh pizza, her mind planted onions, green peppers and fresh tomatoes on the tip of her tongue. Ripping off her sexy black dress, she wrapped herself in her robe. Her naughtiness was over. She'd taken her punishment. The pizza boy was too close to home.