« Spanking Stories

Rachel set off before the sunshine stole her day. 9am wasn't early or late. Her pale pink sneakers, enhanced by cute white ankle socks, pounded her sidewalk. Below her white vest top, her bright pink low-rise running shorts covered her welted butt. Two scant inches below her butt hid her hurt without hiding her figure. Zipped into her rear waistband, her Benchmade Mini Adamas occupied four discreet inches across her lower back, folded. Open, its black three-inch steel blade exuded daunting lethality.

Vulnerability continued her punishment. Should her shorts rise, her dark red welts would embarrass her. A fitting sanction, but undesirable attention. Beneath her sleek running shorts, her welts still stung, inflicted yesterday for her Sydney contract. Neighbors seeing her would admire her figure. They should. Her straight spine stood testament to her self-respect. Had they realized she carried hardened ridges etched across her butt cheeks, she imagined they'd consider her worthy. Despite her attractive appearance, she remained a spanked girl, receiving deserved discomfort for her disobedience.

Unwilling to break her early stride, she waved at Mrs. Astor, their community events organizer, cutting her lawn. She declined most community invitations, pleading workload. To avoid becoming an interesting mystery, she partook in the annual community cookie contest, ensuring she never won.

Shore front properties prevented running around the entire lake. The waterfront park provided a perfect four mile trail. It kept her legs moving. Passing through Native Mesquite and Desert Willows, she rose upwards, extending her view across distant hills. Returning towards the lake, the rough trail lowered through Acacia trees. Pacing herself for endurance, not speed, she reached the pedestrian bridge back to the waterfront park.

Set beside the path, a carved wooden bench offered lake vistas to pausing walkers. She didn't pause, clocking the guy sitting on it. Dressed for neither walking nor the weather, his studied appearance triggered her attention. His blue jeans and casual, pale blue button-down shirt showed casual style. He'd shagged his hair across his forehead. Smiling at his phone, his striking green eyes crinkled at the corners. She processed, analyzed and stored his image, demeanor, and movements, not risking a longer stare.

Passing her mystery man, she continued across the bridge; her gaze locked on the waterfront park, her mind processing his presence, logging him as a threat, regretting its necessity. His calm demeanor and confident pose showed excessive attention placed on his appearance without obvious benefit, placing him high on her alert spectrum. She tagged him 'Green Eyes'. Was she under surveillance? She hadn't noticed extra interest in her home zone or during her recent mission. Surveillance mattered. It would precede an arrest, provoking her rapid disappearance. Perhaps he'd only chosen his clothing with excessive attention, desperate to fit in.

Returning home, she stripped and showered. The powerful jets played across her welts, adding poignant pain. She bent forward, worsening her sting. Toweling herself, she dressed in her mint green pole dancing shorts and black sports bra-top. Her daring cut-out shorts hid nothing. Mirrors throughout her home would reveal her lower stripes, keeping her caning foremost in her mind. Angry red proved their recent application. When they faded, she'd stop wearing her ultra skimpy shorts. Seemless, her pole dancing shorts remained comfortable, no matter how she positioned herself. She'd discovered them online, searching for sports shorts. Unlike her Lululemon running shorts, her pole dancing shorts didn't hide her caning. Made by Dragonfly somewhere in Europe, their punishing exposure heightened her satisfaction.

She settled into her movie room, located central within her home. Five black leather loungers in two tiers viewed a sixty-five inch TV. A larger one hundred fifty inch screen lowered in front for viewing projected movies, but she used the high-definition TV for planning hits. Curling into a front-row lounger, the leather stung her sensitive stripes. She'd had the walls torn apart, sound proofing added to cover her actual intent. Lead lining ensured total sound protection. It also blocked external surveillance from reading signals given off by her screens. Inside her room-sized faraday cage, she planned her contracts, researching hit locations via Google Earth.

Her laptop, stored in her Diamond TDR safe, connected via cable to the gigantic TV screen. Multiple wired internet connections flowed through shielded cables to the street, her internet activity hidden inside VPNs provided by a specialist supplier. It bounced her traffic via different routes, mixing it into a well known VPN provider before reaching its destination. Underneath this complex pattern of obfuscation, she connected via TOR to the dark web. Logging into her message box, she found it empty. It never sent notifications. She checked her messages daily. Pleased, she relaxed. No jobs. She needed one per year to pay her bills. She averaged fourteen. Their length varied. Sometimes she left long tourist trails to cover her presence. Other jobs suited a swift exit. Those reachable by vehicle posed the least risk, leaving fewer traces.

She'd met her handler on the dark web. Searching for weeks, she'd known someone existed. It was only logical. Discovering oblique references to him, she'd made contact. He'd specified a job. She'd completed it without charge, proving her credentials. Money poured into offshore companies which banked in Panama, Costa Rica, Singapore, the Cayman Islands, and Romania. Her apparent employer was Explicit Decisions, a Turks and Caicos Islands company. Explicit Decisions sent money on which she paid scrupulous tax. Nobody saw the substantial capital accruing beyond US shores.

Disconnecting her laptop, she locked it in her silver safe, resettling into her comfortable leather lounger. Her movie room felt safe. She stared towards the light pine dining table she kept near the corner. Nobody stood behind it, giving interesting lectures. Sometimes she spread papers on it before shredding them. Studying complex maps or building designs while circumnavigating her table reminded her of military mission planning.

Her sex moistening, she closed her eyes, her pine table's authority consuming her. She'd faced similar tables in her marine sniper training. Barracks' briefing rooms held imposing tables, behind which sergeants and officers issued orders, debriefs and judgments. Her training sergeant had used his to cane her.

Sliding her hand into her tight pole dancing shorts, she stretched the mint green material. Double thickness avoided needing panties. Teasing her clit, she pictured herself standing before his briefing room table beside her spotter, another female trainee. His stern rebuke cut through her. They faced his wrath for their failed range estimations. Estimating range was a vital sniper skill. Laser rangefinders, spotting scopes, and gps fail. Bullets don't wait for fresh batteries. In battle, hitting threats saved soldier's lives. Missing got you killed, gravity the difference.

Milling targets required measuring their distance on the scale inside your reticle, based on their size. Their targets were average male humans, but their rough terrain didn't follow their flat surface classroom lessons. Simulating battle stress, their sergeant had set severe time constraints, forcing their inadequacies to surface.

Her spotter hadn't accounted for terrain, neither had she. The sun behind them, their targets, had also appeared closer. She'd overshot. Six times. Their training sergeant had read everyone's scribbled range estimates, comparing them to his flawless digital measurements. Over estimates abounded. Theirs worst. Stood together, his cane didn't discriminate between them.

Stood at ease beside her spotter in combat fatigues, boots and green vest tops. They faced his tongue lashing. It promised public punishment. The whippy rattan cane lay upon his table. Behind them, twenty snipers in training would benefit from their strict lesson.

Ordered aside, her spotter went first, dropping her service uniform pants. Camouflage material draping her ankles, her white cotton panties uncovered enough bottom to embarrass her. On command, her friend bent over the table, stretching her arms to its sides, twisting her head, she faced her audience.

Being seen in agony humbled you, teaching others. Her friend's stricken expression showed her hurt. Branded with tramlines worthy of their lamentable estimations, her spotter stood. Required to face the blackboard, her bottom displayed to everyone, their sergeant ripped down her panties, revealing her entire shame. Twelve livid red tracks decorated her partner's bare, cane striped cheeks.

Her mint green pole dancing shorts showing their stretchiness, her finger ravaging her clit. Their shared humiliation engrossed her. Public shame engulfed them, their peers watching, both male and female. Anticipating her inevitable thrashing, she paused her finger, treasuring her coming shame.

She approached her sergeant's beckoning finger. Ordered to drop her combat fatigues, she obeyed, standing in her brief white panties before him. Forced to reveal her underwear, tense pride mixed with heady shame. Her teammates could see her part-bare bottom. She stood tall. Their range estimations beat hers.

"Bend over."

His booming voice carried her humiliation beyond their briefing room. Anyone nearby would know someone was bending across his table. Resting her toned forearms on the light colored surface, she lowered herself onto the table, squashing her breasts. Turning, she faced her fellow students, regret written across her expression. She'd failed herself, them, and their lesson. Their sergeant was right to spank her.

Light taps disturbed her sensitive bottom. Anticipation tore into her nerves. Powerless to prevent her pain, strange fear coursed through her veins. Her tight cotton panties provided pointless protection. Preserving her modesty, she'd still lose her composure soon enough.

Seconds elapsed without motion, heightening her anticipation. The breathless crowd stilled. Meeting her gaze, they approved her punishment. A brutal crack sailed across the briefing room, electrifying faces. Her butt received its sudden shock, keeping her pain for a whole second before the uncontainable surge of agonizing torment soared into action. Worsening against her will, seething heat consumed her quarter inch weal. Internalizing her suffering, she didn't cry out, but her expression revealed the cane's prowess.

She'd learned to contain her suffering. Crying out under the cane, her sergeant had rounded upon her, calling her weak, deficient and unprofessional. His roaring scoldings had magnified her suffering, forcing her to dig deep.

Rampant heat sliced across her butt, inches below her first stroke. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes, containing her pain. She cursed her range estimations. Opening her eyes, she revealed her anguish deep within. Wicked agony wrought itself across her humble expression. Pressing her body into the table, she absorbed four harsh lessons in meticulous marksmanship. Planted across her panties, their evil sting spread along precise lines.

Panting over the table, fiery misery struck her girlish flesh. Feminity didn't earn sympathy. He often yelled, 'Bullets don't differentiate, darling. They kill men and women.'

The flexible cane swept into her cheeks, lashing her. She bore her merciless suffering in silence. Her tongue contained dents where she'd bit it to keep herself quiet. The twelfth stroke struck her imprecise backside. She clenched her teeth, struggling against its determination. Stripped, bent, and beaten before her fellow snipers, she'd learned her lesson.

"Up, young lady."

Shuffling in disgrace, she stood beside her spotter, her gaze straight. Firm fingers ripped her skimpy panties down her thighs. Stretched above her knees, they fell to her ankles, proclaiming her diminished status. In her busy pole dancing shorts, her fast finger praised him for putting her thrashed backside on public display.

Sharing her ignominy enhanced it. Opening her eyes, her movie room table commanded her forward. Slipping her hand from her mint green shorts, she approached the table end, her desperate sex throbbing. Ripping down her shorts, she let them fall to her ankles. Bending bare-bottomed over her table, she reached between her legs.

Separating her feet, she held herself in honest submission. Stroking yesterday's brutal welts, she frigged herself hard. Her clit loved her furious commitment, rising again to its responsibility. Riding her intensity, she celebrated her spotter's guts, then her own. Bending for their formal spankings, they'd proven worthy marines.

Unable to hide her shame, she turned her head towards her black leather seats, imagining them full. Deep pressure demanded release. She offered her fellow snipers abject respect, their excellence proving her need to be thrashed. Bent before her peers, knockout orgasms crashed into each other, exploding, throwing her body forward. Hard fury pulsed pleasure deep into her core, tumbling respect into bliss, joy still rippling its release.

She pulled up her mint green shorts, their tight fabric encasing her satisfied sex. Reaching back, she felt her exposed welts. They imposed dutiful discipline on her, an essential component of her complex life. A life missing love. A ridiculous desire, given her incredible income stream. Occasional flings delivered fleeting moments of amazing satisfaction. She'd enjoyed discreet liaisons during her military career. Some with hulking soldiers outside her command chain. Some during rare vacations, fitted between deployments. But she didn't allow herself to remember before. She no longer inhabited that life.

Restless, she withdrew her laptop from her safe again. Connecting it, she signed into her layered services, logging into her mailbox. Highlighted in blue, a single message sat waiting. Scanning the contract proposal, she understood it. The healthy financial terms boosted her ego. The contract benefited businesses rather than society. Victor wouldn't approve. She'd pay for her profit. The job's simplicity appealed. Long hours of crystal clear daylight offered her multiple opportunities to reach her target. Striking landscapes promised convenient tourist entertainment. Temperate climate afforded her pleasant relief from her Las Vegas heat. Norway was beautiful in the summer.