« Spanking Stories

Then

Sarah bounded down her stairs, two at a time, swept her phone off the floor, and answered it. Early morning sunshine streamed across the worn wooden floorboards in the hall.

She named clients in her phone so she'd recognize them when they called, adding a three-digit number because there were already two Scarletts. With nothing except a phone number on the screen, the client was likely new.

Conscious of client confidentiality, she'd downloaded Standard Notes, an encrypted note taking app, and created a note for each client with their three-digit number. She made observations after every session. It only took a moment. The reason and the punishment recorded in her note, she could make returning clients feel valued and cared for. There had already been a few.

"Thank you for calling," she said. "How may I help you?"

"Ah, I need an appointment."

On the wrong phone, but with the right attitude, she recognized Kirsten's voice. Not missing a beat, she dropped into her normal routine. "Tell me about it," she said.

Genuine clients launched into their tale of wrongdoing or asked if their problem was appropriate for punishment. As Kirsten described a quarrel with her husband over money, Sarah listened, already mulling over the severity of punishment required.

"I have an available appointment this morning at 10am." She didn't. She'd planned a morning to herself. But denying help to a girl asking for it wasn't in her nature, and this was Kirsten.

"I'll take it."

"You understand I'll treat you like any other client, and be hard on you," she warned her friend.

"Of course," Kirsten said. "I expect nothing less than the full service."

"Good. See you at 10am. Don't be late."

In her tailored black pants and white blouse, she glanced in the hall mirror and opened the front door.

"Welcome Kirsten, come in." It was how she greeted all new clients.

Appreciating the formality, Kirsten stepped through the front door she'd used many times.

"Through there." Sarah pointed into the front room.

Kirsten sat on the couch and watched the younger girl in sharp clothes seat herself in the armchair opposite. Sarah was only a year or two younger but sat opposite she seemed in absolute command.

"So tell me about your argument," Sarah said.

"It was all my fault. We're not short of money, but Joe told me we needed to watch our spending for a few months. I didn't ask why, and he didn't offer to explain. His instruction didn't register with me, and I bought an expensive cocktail dress I didn't need. Flared from the waist, in gorgeous pink silk, it was in the window of that elegant boutique across the road from tennis. It had my name on it, but the price was in the high hundreds."

"So you defied him."

"Yes. But it's much worse than that. I wrecked his surprise. He ordered me to return the dress, so I demanded to know why he was insisting we be so careful with money. I laid into him, calling him overbearing and unreasonable. I was a complete brat."

"You should feel ashamed," Sarah said, finding no trouble in adopting her tough tone with her friend. Kirsten's story disappointed her.

"I do, but I also feel like an ungrateful bitch. I was so vicious in my verbal attack, he had to tell me why to diffuse the situation. He's taking me to Thailand next month for two full weeks on our own. His parents are going to look after our daughter."

Sarah didn't have to feign shock. "You deserve a severe beating," she said.

"I know. Throwing myself on your mercy was all I could think to do."

"I can't be lenient. The punishment you need will mark your bottom for several days. How will you handle this with Joe?"

"I'll have to tell him. It will embarrass me to admit I've received formal discipline, but I deserve all the shame heaped on me."

"You do. It's the cane for you. Six strokes for the deceitful purchase. And six more for ruining his surprise with petulance."

Grateful for her serious sentence, Kirsten felt only relief. Her mind had choked on guilt ever since their shouting match last night. She needed to approach Joe and apologize with all her heart. She would. But she'd accompany it with a thrashed bottom. Nothing less would do. He must see visual evidence of her sincere remorse.

"Follow me," Sarah said, standing.

Leading Kirsten into the study, she closed the door behind them, pointed toward the desk, and said, "Stand there."

It came out with more force than she'd intended, but Kirsten obeyed.

Removing the slender cane from the cupboard, she swished it through the air.

Kirsten watched. The sharp sound sliced through her mind. She was getting caned. She deserved it. Visions of this moment had preoccupied her since her argument last night.

"Drop your jeans," Sarah commanded.

She'd worn jeans and a blouse, not knowing what the correct protocol was for punishment. Memories of how Sarah had cut her down to size before had driven her to choose the same black jeans, but her underwear was different.

Seeing her bright panties in the mirror at home, she'd baulked at the happiness they conveyed. It was all wrong. Rummaging in her underwear drawer, she'd found plain white panties and had tried them instead. Now standing before her disciplinarian, exposed in her innocent cotton panties, she felt all the humility the panties had promised and more.

"Was your husband's request so unreasonable?" Sarah asked.

"No," Kirsten said. "I don't deserve him."

"You do," Sarah said, "but you've let him down. Bend over."

The abrupt command flummoxed Kirsten. She glanced at the desk and turned. The wood in front of her looked expansive, but bending was tough. She held her husband's face in the center of her mind, reached forward, leaned over the surface and sank down onto it, gripped the far side and held still for what she deserved.

Flushed with humble sorrow, she tensed as the cane tapped her simple panties.

The hard impact on her rear matched the fierce crack resonating around the room. Her scorched skin erupted in intense heat and launched a soaring wave of raging sting. It escalated as she wiggled her hips to relieve the hurt.

"Stings, doesn't it?" Sarah said.

Kirsten twisted her head and let out a strained, "Yes."

"Deceit isn't nice in a relationship. Your husband made a legitimate request. You ignored it because it suited you."

God, yes. She had. That's what she'd done. The cane seared her skin, firing volleys of pain as she berated herself for the pink cocktail dress. In the window of her mind, it looked just as desirable, but she walked by, her head held high as her cheeks stung with excruciating pain she deserved.

"It wasn't enough for you to ignore his request. You forced him to reveal a magnificent surprise just to calm you down."

Kirsten twisted her head to the side and said, "I'm sorry. Thrash me."

"I will," Sarah said.

The cane lined up and settled against her sore bottom, but she welcomed its warning. Each blazing stroke scored heat and hurt through her thin panties. She pictured his face, packed with disappointment as the rattan reigned hell down on her petulance. As the pain peaked, more arrived, keeping her bottom packed with punishing heat and sorrow-filled pain.

Still handling her hurt, she didn't hear Sarah put away the cane. A gentle hand on her shoulder accompanied the instruction to get up.

She stood, her bottom raging behind her, and faced the girl who'd made her this way. "Thank you for caning me. I deserved it. Thank you so much for showing me no mercy. You're a genuine friend."

"You took your caning with impressive dignity and poise. Pull up your jeans."

"Thank you," Kirsten said.

Tightening her jeans around her inferno, self-respect poured through her. She'd held herself to account.

Kirsten drove home, her bottom agony on the car seat. Far from feeling wretched, she was on a high. Getting caned was a tough punishment, but essential. Inspecting her bottom in the bedroom mirror, she gave the angry red ridges a rub. Heat pulsed into her sex, but she pulled her jeans up and ignored her sexy state. Every ounce of the satisfaction she'd put into herself was for Joe.

She didn't change, wanting to be dressed the same when he got home. In the bedroom, she dropped her jeans and stood before her husband in her white cotton panties and matching tee. With all her heart, she delivered a thorough apology for ignoring his request and for arguing with him. She explained how Sarah earned a living and how well it was going.

"I visited Sarah this morning," she said, watching his face. "Not as a friend, as a client. I need you to know how truly sorry I am." She turned and lowered her white cotton panties, revealing the twelve angry red weals the cane had planted on her bare backside.

His breathing slowed behind her, and her heart feared his response.

He leaned into her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "You deserved it. What makes this wonderful is that you did it for yourself. This is a thorough apology and worthy of the wife I love."

Taking her shoulder, he spun her into him and hugged her. "Was it terrible?"

"Yes, and No. The pain was appalling, but I needed it. As it hurt more, I apologized to you a hundred times in my head."

He stripped as she kicked off her jeans and panties. Still getting her bra off, he picked her up and put her on the bed. His commanding manhood rammed her up the bed, and she flung her hands over her head to push back as he brought her to the edge of pleasure and held her poised on her peak.

"I should get a cane," he whispered in her ear.

"You should," she groaned, balancing her fragile state against her potent words. "You should punish me when I deserve it. I would accept being caned by my husband."

"And it turns me on," he growled, his manhood testing the limits of her control.

"Good," she cried. "Me too."

He thrust his full force deep inside her, detonating a chain reaction. Orgasms swept out of her sex and cascaded down her body, pouring liquid gold pleasure deep into her punished curves.

Settling beside her, his powerful arms held her tight as her panting calmed.

"Would you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "The humility required to bend on your command would do me good sometimes."

"You'd better be good to your word when the time comes."

"I will be," she whispered. "I love you. But I might still prefer to see Sarah sometimes for personal things."

After Kirsten left, Sarah added her friend's money to her tin. She hadn't insulted Kirsten by offering a free session. Placing her two overflowing tins on the kitchen table, she jammed the lids closed. Something had to be done about them. She slipped into her black blazer, put each tin in a separate plastic bag, and took them to her gray Honda.

It was only a short drive to the bank where George's lawyer had helped her establish an account. Parking the Honda in the bank lot, she entered the branch. She hadn't been here since opening her account. She accomplished everything online. Facing her was a row of cashiers. A man in a black pin-stripe suit, clean shaven and about her age, sat at a desk to her left with two welcoming leather armchairs. She approached him.

"I have a personal account here," she said, placing her blue bank card on his desk, "but I'd like to open a separate account for my business."

"Take a seat," he said, reaching into his drawer and laying a blank form on the desk in front of him. "What kind of business is it?"

Her mind on overdrive, she rejected counseling, and said, "Life Coaching."

Referring to his computer, he filled out all the required details, ticked several boxes, and handed her the form. "Sign at the bottom, please."

She checked her name and address were correct, looked over the various entries, and picked up his blue pen. Holding the form in place with her left hand, a rush of pleasure at her achievement flooded her, and with immense pride, she signed her full name across the wide signature line. The pen flew through the cursive characters with a flourish as she signed Sarah Elizabeth Roberts.

The man took the form, tapped some keys, and his printer spat out her temporary account information. Handing it over, he said, "You're in business, Miss Roberts."

Adding 'See Miss Roberts.' to the end of her adverts, she never looked back. She was Miss Roberts, someone girls could count on.

Nobody came to her for help, expecting it not to hurt. Helping her clients overcome guilt brought extraordinary satisfaction.

George would be proud of her. She couldn't bring herself to volunteer at the Fellowship Church like he had. It was too much to go back. He must have known because he'd never suggested it. She only looked forward now.

As the years passed, she donated half her earnings to the Fellowship Church and the shelter which had offered her warmth at night. She needed only a little money to live on.

Her house was her greatest asset. Imagining George's wry smile, if he could see its use today, she glanced out the front window at the well-trodden path. She hadn't been the first. That had been Betty, George's wife. Her honest acceptance of his strict discipline had created footsteps to follow. At his urging, her own feet had followed them. His loving kindness and firm hand had been her salvation. Without him, she wouldn't be here today.

She was forced back to the present as a girl in black skinny jeans walked up the path, her gorgeous leather jacket flaring in the wind to reveal a scarlet silk lining. There was a soft knock and she opened the front door.

"Good afternoon, Carly, come in," she said.

The beautiful law school student smiled back. "Good afternoon, Miss Roberts."