« Spanking Stories

« Rebecca, Melody, Sarah


2. Bolt

Spanking Story


A girl considers her various crimes in her pure white panties

«Beginning Part 3»


Sarah curled up on the wooden floor in the basement's corner to sleep, her backpack still on her back. She stared up through the window at the basement entrance and the edge of the tiny front lawn. The moonlight spreading along the wooden floorboards was her only constant in a day of shocking change.

Not thinking to turn on the lights or examine her new home, she'd settled into the corner, after bolting the door behind her. The bolt had been the best gift George could ever have given her. She didn't trust this basement, or feel safe, but it was somewhere to sleep, at least for tonight. And it had a bolt.

Every night had brought uncertainty since she'd run away from home two years ago. Her father had never stopped drinking, and her mother had never stopped apologizing for him, or to him. After years of trying to help her mother, and protect herself, she'd helped herself to all the cash she could find in the house, which wasn't much, two sets of warm clothes, her driving permit, passport and backpack. Two days after her miserable eighteenth birthday, she'd left.

She'd bought a bus ticket to the city and slept in brief spurts on a cold park bench for the first night. Finding it taken the next night, she'd explored the city in the dark, searching for locations to sleep. Under a bridge, she'd seen a man wrapped in a cardboard box. By the next night, she'd claimed her own from behind a shop. Her bridge had been lonely, and it had taken many nights to learn to sleep.

After her meagre funds had run out, she'd stolen food from trash bins until a man who'd bedded down under her bridge introduced her to the Fellowship Church lunch. Rice, beans and potatoes had filled her stomach and bread had packed her pockets. Her heavy coat had been the smartest decision of her hurried departure. Its pockets stuffed with bread, she'd felt hope for the first time.

She'd followed other homeless people from lunch to see what they did and spotted one of them queueing outside a place called GAC Shelter. Dirty, she'd joined the queue and received a bed for one night in a shared dormitory of forty people. She'd learned to queue early to get a bed for the night. When others had beaten her to it, she'd gone back under her bridge. Her stressful existence still came with the fear of violence, but no longer its certainty.

She stretched on the wooden floor as the morning sunlight cascaded into the front of the sunken room. Standing, she looked around her. Surrounded by wooden edges, a rectangle of cream carpet with two lilac armchairs dominated the room. She followed the wooden edge to the far corner. Opening the first of two doors, she found a tiny kitchen. Clean, it looked hopeful. She opened the cupboards, but they were bare.

Trying the next door, she discovered a bedroom with a double bed and a window up high. She reached up and peeked out. There was a garden with a trimmed lawn, planted borders and a wooden table and chairs nearby on a stone patio. Skirting the bed, she opened the door on the far wall revealing a bathroom. Tiled in white, the bath came with a shower, basin and a toilet. Unfit to enter such a clean room, she retreated from the space.

Heading back into the lounge, she felt too filthy to sit down. Warned off from places nowhere near as nice as this, she'd learned she wasn't welcome. A gentle knock on the bolted door disturbed her. She peered through the window. Sitting on the bottom of the stone steps was George in his dark slacks and white shirt. His unruly white hair the most obvious sign he was old. She unbolted the door, opened it and looked out.

"Would you like to share breakfast with me?"

She would. Hunger pangs began at dawn. By 7am on most days, she was hunting for anything or waiting to steal food from whichever convenience store would admit her. Closing the door behind her, she followed him up the steps to the house.

Set back from the road with a short stone path to the street, the white painted house was three stories tall. She followed him through the wooden floored hallway to his large kitchen. The one she'd seen downstairs could fit in here four times, but this one had food.

He heated eggs on the stove and stirred them while he watched her looking out over the garden.

She stared down at the patio and chairs. "Could I stay another night?"

"Sarah. You can stay. Full stop. The basement apartment has been empty since my mum died a long time ago. I'm offering you a chance at a fresh life, not just somewhere to sleep. Sorry I didn't think this through yesterday in my haste. I realized during the night, there wasn't any food down there."

She turned as he served the eggs onto two plates and pulled a tray full of bacon and tomatoes from the oven. The cacophony of hot smelling food this early in the morning overwhelmed her, and she sat on one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table, squashing her backpack against the chair back to keep it secure.

He placed a loaded plate in front of her and cutlery beside it.

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled. It had been her polite gratitude which had first made him notice her while he'd been serving lunch at the Fellowship Church. He volunteered three days a week. It had helped to keep him busy since his wife died. In his seventies, he had little company, and no female company at all. When he'd spotted the black book cover with yellow writing peeking from her backpack, he'd recognized 'A History of Western Philosophy' by Bertrand Russell. Not what he'd expected a homeless person to read, or a girl only just twenty.

The book had formed the basis of their friendship. After serving, he'd often spent a pleasant hour discussing life's true meaning with her. She'd come across the book while searching for food and taken it to keep her mind occupied. The purpose of life intrigued her since she was certain there were many lives more worthwhile than hers.

He'd thought about her for several weeks. Her quick intelligence had delighted him. He hoped to see more of it now she lived downstairs.

He smiled across the table at her and her empty plate. "There's more," he said.

She slid all the remaining eggs from the pan onto her plate.

"There's some bacon left too."

She took it as well and returned to the table to finish her food.

He got up, placed his plate near the sink and pulled a shopping bag from under the counter. Scanning his cupboards, he filled it with jars of condiments, butter from the fridge, a gallon of milk and two loaves of sliced bread. Adding a brand new bar of Irish Spring soap from under the sink. His mind began an extensive list of things Sarah would need, none of which he'd considered in his haste yesterday.

Handing her the bag, he said, "Here is some basic food to get you started. You don't have to ration it. I'll get you setup for regular food deliveries. There's fresh soap in the bag in case you feel like exploring the bathroom. You don't have to do anything. The apartment downstairs is yours to use as you wish. I'm going shopping for everything I should have thought of for you."

"Okay," she said. She didn't trust a thing. It could all disappear again in an instant, and she didn't know what else he could imagine she needed. The bag in her hand contained at least a week's food.

Back in the apartment, she laid the food on the kitchen surface and counted the slices of bread. With the jam as well, she reckoned it would last even longer than the week she'd predicted.

She studied the gold packet of butter and the small fridge under the counter. Butter used to live in the fridge. She knew that. Placing the precious gold packet in the tiny fridge, it seemed warm. Touching the sides to confirm her diagnosis, she crouched and felt behind the fridge. Her fingers found the electrical outlet, and she flicked the switch. With a rattle, the fridge groaned into action. Pleased with her minor success, she removed her backpack, placing it against the wall outside the kitchen, far enough from the bolted door to prevent theft and near enough to grab if she had to run for it.

Taking the bright green bar of soap from its box, she carried it to the bathroom doorway and studied the room. Not clean enough to enter, she never would be unless she crossed the threshold. Placing the soap on the floor just inside the bathroom, she returned to the kitchen.

The washing machine under the counter in the corner looked brand new. She turned its knob, and it lit up. Selecting a quick cold wash, she stripped off all her clothes. Her tired jeans, jumper, socks and graying underwear all went into the machine. Without powder or liquid, her clothes would still be cleaner than they'd been in months. Hitting the dry option as well, she waited until the machine filled with water, and headed back naked to the bathroom.

Picking the soap up off the floor, she twisted the shower knob and stepped into it. Cold at first, it got warmer until she had to adjust the knob to keep it comfortable. She'd showered every few months at the shelter, but limited to one minute, with a long queue, losing warmth wasn't worth it. Powering the clean, green bar all over her skin, she worked at herself. When she got around to her hair, she rubbed the soap all over it and rinsed it from her shoulder-length brunette strands.

She began again, ensuring every inch of her body was the cleanest it had ever been. Her hair was a challenge second time around, but the result better. Stopping the shower, she stood on the tiles and dried herself with the lilac towel. The concept of cleanliness had been unimaginable. Now permitted in the bathroom, her filth washed down the drain, she paused and looked at herself in the mirror. She'd last seen herself in a mirror a year ago when a volunteer had cut her hair at the shelter.

Her face and skin looked better than she'd imagined. Sunlight must have driven its way through her layers of grime and kept her skin alive. In the mirror she wouldn't say she looked radiant, but she looked clean and hopeful. The entire week's worth of food waiting in the kitchen helped.

The spare clothes in her backpack were too filthy to wear, so she wrapped herself in the towel and waited for the screaming washing machine to output her clean clothes. Taking the butter from the now working fridge, she made a three level sandwich with strawberry jam in both levels and ate it right there in the kitchen, watching over her clothes.

Summoned by a knock, the look of delight on George's face at her fresh appearance pleased her. She wanted to thank him, and it seemed a clean version of her did it. Her tired clothes, cleaned and dried by the machine, had made her feel better in an instant, and she'd even sat in one of the lilac armchairs with her now well-worn book.

"Come upstairs," he said, excited. "I've got lots of things you need."

She couldn't imagine anything she could need, but she followed, anyway.

On his kitchen table were boxes and packets. She sat at one end and he passed her a bag with three pairs of jeans. The blue denim was so clean, she glanced down at her washed jeans and had to admit, she might need them. He laid on top a packet with three blouses, all white. Not a practical color, but so clean she smiled at him. He looked abashed as he passed over a white plastic bag. "A girl helped me with these. If I've got them wrong, I'll take them back and change them."

She peered into the bag. It contained two white bras and a packet of three large white panties. They were so white, her graying underwear answered for her. "They're lovely, George, thank you."

Keen to see what else he'd bought, she tipped over a brown bag and pulled out a huge thick green jumper.

"I've got you a phone," he said, pointing to the windowsill beyond the table.

She glanced at the device plugged into the wall socket. "I don't have anyone to call."

"You do now," he said. "You can call me, if I'm not here. Anyway, you need it. You can use it for shopping and researching or reading stuff. The internet will keep your mind busy for a lifetime."

The promise of a wealth of information sold it, and she took the brand new iPhone. She'd lived on the internet before she'd given up her life for her freedom. Her scratched Android phone had stayed at home, having no purpose and no power.

"I've set up an email address for you, configured it, and made you an Amazon account. It has one of my credit cards registered in it. If you need different clothes or anything, you can use the phone to buy stuff. The account has the correct address, so any item you order will arrive at the apartment downstairs in a couple of days."

Unsure what to say, she met his gaze. "What do you want from me?"

"Good manners. Discussions about life and its meaning. Oh, and if you don't mind, maybe you could play me at Chess sometimes."

After learning the basics of Chess, not enough to make her a worthy opponent, but enough to keep her mind occupied all afternoon, he'd cooked her pasta. For dinner it had left her far more full than she was used to.

Bolting the door, she'd connected the iPhone to the power outlet, left it on the floor and tried on the clothes. He had an expert eye, or a girl had helped him, because the bras and panties fitted. The jeans and blouses were so clean, she put them straight in the drawers after trying them. In her fresh underwear, she went back to the bathroom mirror and studied herself. The white panties were beautiful and safe. They clutched her curves from her bottom to her waist, delighting her.

She lay on the bed, ran her hands down over the sides of her panties and cupped her sex. Warmth had been absent for two years. As she stroked her mound through the delicious cotton, lost feelings emerged. Turned on by her clean bare legs, she raised one high to admire, as she slid her hand down inside her panties. Finding her clit hard and wet, she stroked it as visions of her clean underwear filled her mind.

She hadn't laid down in her underwear since she'd left home. Her mind spun through her time on the streets. Given all her crimes, she didn't deserve this pleasure. But her crisp, clean panties still turned her on. Pushing her guilt aside, she dipped a hand into her bra and grazed her hardened nipples. Jolts of pleasure galvanized her body. Held tight and safe in her pure white cotton panties, she worked herself into a fury until her body tensed and plunged pleasure through her curves, swamping her in joy. Paused by her pleasure, her guilt swarmed back. She didn't deserve this place or her panties. She'd done nothing but wrong since she'd left home.