« Spanking Stories

Rachel followed an overweight tourist wearing a bright blue shirt, his image magnified in her Leupold rifle scope. Able to identify stray hairs on his forehead, she tracked his path up the Oslo Opera House. Its modern design on the waterfront offered cantilevered paved walkways beside the dark glass concert hall. Their generous space permitted vast throngs of tourists to reach the flat roof, its panoramic city views a simple attraction.

Ekeberg sculpture park lay 0.621 miles south of Oslo Opera House. The old cultural park landscape covered in dense trees, clearings and thickets contained forty-five statues honoring cultural heritage. Spanish artist Jaume Plensa's contemplative woman steel statue, Chloe, sat upon a lookout, gazing towards the city, inviting calmness and reflection. Above the steel statue, she lay replicating its stillness. Before dawn, she'd settled in the dense wood. Sunlight had burned off morning dew on the clearings behind her. Squirrels still jumped between treetops above.

Aiming her Accuracy International AT308 beyond the statue, she observed patterns emerging. Tourists gravitated towards the farthest roof corner, its angles giving greater perspective over the waterfront and city roofs. Correcting her calculations, she shifted her aim towards the popular corner. A competitive man, reaching the prime corner, would become Carlos Villanova's instinctive goal. He wouldn't leave it alive.

A married Spanish telecoms magnate, his latest girlfriend, had demanded they visit Oslo. Given a tight operational window, she'd bet on the Opera House rooftop. Gambling risked he wouldn't satisfy her needs, but it also protected her. Close surveillance would give endless chances for a stray CCTV camera to catch her image. Predicting his behavior made the random event she precipitated almost impossible to investigate.

Her scope trained on the prime corner, she used spotting glasses to scan the rising slope, excluding every visitor who met his basic build. Timing visitors, she had at least five minutes before he'd reach her scope crosshairs. Painstaking work, it demanded constant attention.

Bullish and brutal, he'd failed to takeover his closest rival. His malicious media onslaught had damaged his rival's value, guaranteeing his death. His notable business leadership position had raised her price to two million.

His radiant girlfriend caught her eye first. Waist length, sleek, jet black hair defined her slender figure. Switching to her companion, she confirmed his features, the photos she'd received plastered across her brain. Carlos Villanova. Her heartbeat increased. She stilled it. Tracking him up the broad paved ramp, she saw the attractive couple turn backwards onto the flat rooftop. In their tourist mindset, their progress remained slow.

She rested her spotter glasses beside her. Careful, measured movements matched her calm mind. Patience born of years waiting for split second moments, her breathing reduced to almost non-existent behind her rifle scope. Memorizing his clothing, she'd ensured nobody on the rooftop was wearing a purple windbreaker. Its arrogance suited Carlos. Her finger rested on her trigger, motionless. Beautiful women and fit men entered and departed her stable crosshairs unhurt. Purple entered stage left. She absorbed her trigger's slight slack, waiting. He turned, taking in the broad panorama. His chiseled cheek facing her, she verified his identity. Returning his gaze across the extensive view, his short, dark hair filled her scope. Her finger flowed through her trigger. Her .308 round twisted from her barrel, its one second journey undetectable to the still statue below her, the tourists on the rooftop, and Carlos. His head exploded in her sight. She sank her scope, confirming her kill.

Changing in the trees, she stuffed her damp camouflage clothing into a prepared plastic carrier, sealing it. Her rifle disassembled into her black backpack joining her clothes. Emerging from the trees, she contemplated their canopies, adopting her easygoing tourist demeanor. Thirty minutes walk through the twenty-five acre park to her car, parked on busy backstreets beyond, allowed her casual interest to sweep her surroundings.

Seventeen hours of solid driving lay ahead. Her small silver Berlin-based BMW would blend into traffic, crossing Denmark into Germany. Setting off, she regretted not exploring Oslo. She'd flown through it years ago following an incredible Norwegian ferry trip, cruising the spectacular coastline. Four days of exquisite spankings she refused to remember. Her past. Closed. Safety demanded it.

A comfortable overnight stay in Istanbul, Turkey broke her circuitous flight route home. Direct paths made analysis easy. Constant obfuscation created extra layers, requiring greater effort to unravel. She'd waited two-weeks to match Carlos Villanova's vacation schedule. Planning her mission had taken two days. Simple ideas required meticulous research. Her innocuous trip had required minimal tourist activity. She'd spent seven days on Carlos, nine, including research. Two hundred twenty-two thousand per day. Decent profit. Arriving home, she understood Victor's viewpoint wouldn't match hers.

Showered, she stood naked, unsure what to wear. She could put off her punishment, delay telling Victor she was home. Her final report included her travel details. He'd see dates. He'd know. Denied escape or delay, she shuffled toward her phone, sending him her standard message, 'Home.'

Waiting for his reply, she leafed through her closet, considering dresses, skirts, and gowns. Whatever he ordered she'd wear. Losing her capacity to choose created the harshness she needed. Acknowledging her humble situation, awaiting his commands, she accepted she must face his judgment. Her business wasn't flawless.

Her phone beeped. 'Thirty minutes. Black pant suit. Heart-shaped table.'

Removing her skinny black tailored pants from their hanger, she held them, considering her underwear. Sometimes he didn't specify everything. Adding a cream blouse, she laid them on her bed. Crossing to her drawers, she studied her panties. Cream bra wasn't difficult. Lacy panties didn't fit her humble situation, nor would their fragile structure benefit from severe whacks. Picking through her piles of panties, she wanted to please Victor. He wasn't her boyfriend, but bent before him, she felt an inherent need to gratify him. Perhaps a discrete black string beneath her tight suit pants. Bare bottom felt unwise. Simple, elegant, and natural, black bikini panties beneath black suit pants made sense. However, her suit fitted her curves. Her underwear should show class. Skipping past a pink string in the wrong pile, she ignored it. It shrieked blatant disrespect for her forced subservience.

Dropping her requirement for classiness, she chose subtle naivete. After all, she needed a spanking. Total sophistication didn't suit her situation. Stepping into cream cotton briefs, their navy waistband snapped tight. Tiny navy and pink dots decorated her cream cotton. Their generous cut would improve their subtlety beneath her suit pants. Before her mirrored closet, she bent over. Below her panties, punishing marks would spread onto bare skin. Standing, she reached for her suit pants. Sliding her legs into her sleek pants, they hid her pretty cream panties. She couldn't hide her crime. She'd killed Carlos. A suitable explanation alongside her substantial fee proved someone believed he deserved his fate. Someone willing to spend. Bra and blouse added, she reached for her suit coat. Stepping into black patent heels, she checked her hair. Her brunette locks, washed through with honey highlights, flowed over her shoulders. Checking her rear view, her tight black suit pants highlighted her svelte curves. Snug on her slender legs, their confidence boosted hers. Heading to her punishment, it didn't matter what she'd done, she couldn't change it.

Downstairs, she entered her open-plan kitchen. Dominating from the corner, abstract, rippled black-and-white marble worktops overlooked comfortable leather couches. Her small heart-shaped breakfast table occupied the remaining space. High, the opaque frosted glass table's elevated stools gave views into the kitchen beyond. Withdrawing a cream leather stool, she placed her encrypted iPad on it, her Carlos Villanova file displayed.

Humility saturated the space facing her glass heart's top edge. She stepped into it, hips meeting its beveled edge. Standing in her obedient position, her arms fell by her sides. Stillness didn't challenge her. Long before becoming a sniper, she'd perfected hiding her feelings. Growing up under state supervision, she'd withdrawn into crowds, avoiding excess attention.

Gentle, air-conditioned whispers filled her home. Attuned, her ears remained on duty. When she'd revealed her actual career to Victor, his imperceptible withdrawal hadn't escaped her attention. His swift mental return hadn't brought an explanation, instead he'd acted. Hauling her into her home office, he'd given her a damning dressing down, deconstructing her most recent contract, swamping her in stern scoldings. Ordering her over her desk, shorts down, he'd belted her. Phenomenal in its shock factor, its pain was less severe than its savage effect on her. Standing before him, punished in her panties, she'd agreed his authority over her criminal conduct. Delivering extreme justice was her contribution to society. It led to lingering regrets. His punishments abolished them.

Her high security door lock slid. Authorized entry bore no resemblance to someone picking it. Soft key insertion preceded smooth movement. She stared across her heart-shaped glass, anticipating Victor's approach.

He swept past her, admiring her tight suit pants, taking her iPad to an adjacent couch, still visualizing her butt. In tight pants, the slight outline of panties hinted at sensible underwear. Smartness always suited her. He read about Carlos Villanova's malicious media onslaught. The incredible damaged caused to his rival, her client. Her clever construction of randomness in Oslo. Her distant shot. Dates, times, and flight details showed her confusing globetrotting.

She waited, grateful. He appeared across the heart-shaped glass table, staring at her.

"Mr. Villanova crossed his competitor with ugly aggression," he said. "But I doubt he deserved to die."

She winced. Anticipating his negative judgment didn't make it easier to receive.

"Your client gets revenge. Your ingenious plan doesn't make your objective worthy. You earned impure profits. I'm disappointed you took this contract. Not surprised, but disappointed. You need paddling, Rachel. Ten swats."

His harsh tone scurried down her spine, promising severity. He disappeared through the archway into her home office. She heard the drawer behind her desk glide on its polished runners. Returning, he faced her across the heart-shaped glass table. Three feet of solid wood extended from a carved handle. Its dominance consumed her gaze, its polished orange oak reflecting the sun's glinting rays.

"I care about you, Rachel. Impure profit motivated this contract. You deserve no sympathy. Suit pants down, young lady."

She unbuttoned her tight black pants, pushing them down her bare legs, leaving them around her knees. Standing in her cream bikini panties, their navy and pink dots added to her youthful appearance. Eyes downcast, she felt stripped. She hoped he liked her girlish panties.

"Remove your shoes."

Stepping from her heels, she slid them aside. Her bare feet provided a solid grip on her marble floor.

"Bend over," he commanded.

His hard tone hurt her. Mustering her courage, she bent forward. Touching her table, she slid her arms across it, her small suit coat tightening across her shoulders, exposing her butt. Her uneasy fingers gripped and re-gripped the thin glass edge. Her panties felt snug, providing a pretty target for the horrible paddle. Staring sideways, her upper body pressed into the glass, she watched him move behind her.

He enjoyed her tight cream panties. Cotton smoothed itself across her curves, enhancing them. Some bareness emerged. The paddle wouldn't care for her cotton. It would blast through it. Expecting skimpy lace, her cotton dots exposed her immaturity. A fitting choice. It showed she'd expected his criticism, humbling herself to match. "Hold still. Your paddling needs to hurt you."

The paddle tapped her buttocks. Its heaviness tensed her cheeks. She'd received paddlings growing up. They hurt deep. After the swats stung wicked heat, bruises grew, worsening over days. Losing her suit pants would worsen her sting, an adult privilege.

"Relax, Rachel," he ordered.

Scolded, she obeyed. She'd considered her contract twice. Her two million price tag hadn't dissuaded her client. It had motivated her. Heavy taps warned her. An explosive bang shuddered her living space. Vicious sting burst across her butt. Scant cotton offered no escape from its raging burn. Pain poured through her butt, carrying his displeasure deep into her muscles.  

Before she could begin coping, another swat stepped up her breathtaking sting. Heat thrust deep into her butt. She struggled. Forcing her fingers tight on the thin glass, she gritted her teeth, panting.

Blazing burn engulfed her butt. The paddle's fury didn't dissipate. Swats slammed into her bent butt. She whimpered, suffering its pain, craving its release. Relentless licks multiplied her sting, forcing harsh pants.

She doubled her determination. She'd left Carlos's girlfriend loveless. The paddle agreed. Her client could have sued Carlos. Papering him in lawsuits may have damaged him. It wasn't her conclusive solution. The paddle voted against her approach. Two million watts of heat plundered her cotton, posting its price.

Turbulent thoughts swirling, she gripped harder, accepting the paddle's harsh rebuke. Brutal burn crashed into her cotton, accepting her regrets. Carlos had seeded cruel, destructive, untrue stories about her client's family, fanning their flames. He deserved to die. Her burning bottom promised her salvation. She trusted in it. Wallowing in its cruel heat, she pushed her bottom towards the paddle, inviting its censure.

Her last swat didn't let her down. It stormed into her bent butt, its murderous sting plunging deep, promising her lasting agony. She accepted its painful price. Her contribution to society cost. Today, she must hurt.

"Okay, Rachel, you're done."

She remained laying across her table, unable to rise. His stable tone showed he considered her punishment complete and justified.

"Up you get."

His repeated order defied ignorance. Walking her hands across the glass, she eased herself upward. Her legs filled with jello. Her palms went unbidden to her burning butt.

"Let it hurt you," he ordered.

Stung by his criticism, she forced her arms beside her.

"Face the wall," he commanded, pointing.  

She shuffled, her suit pants falling to her ankles. Beside the archway to her office, light gray plaster met her humble gaze. She laced her fingers behind her head. He replaced the paddle, disappearing behind her, towards the kitchen. A single digital bleep didn't surprise her.

He returned beside her. "Face the wall until the timer releases you. You're forgiven, Rachel."  

Her shoulders slumped. "Thank you."  

"I'm going to leave you. Some time alone to reflect won't hurt."  

She nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate you."  

"Call me later. Let me know you're still sore."

She nodded. Minutes of eternity stretched her shame. Pain strengthened her pride. Unaware of how long she must maintain her position, its considerable discomfort didn't abate. Facing the wall in her panties, paddled, watched over by her kitchen timer, submission reigned supreme.

Released after twenty minutes, the kitchen timer confirmed her sentence. Had he sentenced her to several hours, she'd have remained still. Her aching arms approved of her honesty. Disobedience didn't deliver forgiveness.

She kicked off her suit pants. Collecting them and her heels, she carried her clothes upstairs. Dumping them on her bedroom floor, she slid off her suit coat, unbuttoned her blouse, and unhooked her bra. Dropping everything, she lay across her bed in her cream panties, snagging a pillow to cry into.

Releasing her guilt into her pillow, comfortable tears celebrated Victor's authority. His powerful biceps had buried deep bruises. For her benefit. They proved he cared.

Five minutes of self-centered sorrow relieved her guilt. Lying on her front, her butt burned. Arnica cream would ease her bruising. Her backside begged for it. She denied it. Mitigating her punishment undermined her forgiveness. Natural relief wasn't dishonest. She slid her fingers under her, into her panties. They met moist respect. He'd paddled her. Punished her flagrant misbehavior. Burning sting spread her appreciation. Her finger circled herself, building glaring respect. He'd hadn't gifted her the slightest leniency. He'd thrashed her. A merciless paddling.

Keeping herself on edge, she fixated on his grim demeanor. Tough orders issued without sympathy. Her strict obedience. Bending before him. God, she hoped he'd liked her panties. Their pretty naivete beneath her gorgeous suit had screamed her need for sincere adult punishment. He'd delivered. Heavenly adoration replaced her pain. Surfing towards salvation, she pictured herself facing her wall, panties on show, her butt paddled. Delectable tension praised her lengthy obedience and broke her. Proud pleasure poured through her pain, celebrating her submission, soaking her pretty panties.

Glorious throbs subsided, her butt reasserting its jurisdiction. Fresh pain pulsed, proving her a punished girl. Her profits may be impure, sometimes, but her skills were worth two hundred twenty-two thousand a day.