« Spanking Stories

Then

Sarah stretched back in the wooden armchair on the patio. The protected garden was her favorite outdoor space. Now a solid friend, Kirsten and she went places together, movies, dinners, art exhibitions and museums. Her friend seemed to know her social limits, but still expanded them. When introduced to new people, Kirsten always said they'd met at the tennis club, ignoring their crucial first encounter in her kitchen.

She'd purchased a cheap tennis outfit on Amazon and a well-priced racket. Her crisp white pleated skirt had flared on the court, providing occasional glimpses of her white cotton bikini panties, although not her spanking. Running for the ball, a glimpse had never exposed the six red cane lines peeking from her panties. Right in the middle of her bottom, their powerful pain had made her Mondays.

Having to play with a caned bottom met her sense of commitment. Her friend had invited her to play tennis. It was just tough luck her bottom had required caning a few hours before. She never allowed herself to use a spanking as an excuse.

Some weeks her bottom had hurt more than others. Once, George had paddled her midweek because her hostile attitude had gone on for two days longer than either of them could stand because it was the wrong time of the month. He hadn't known, and she'd never said. Grateful for anything to shatter her funk, his pale oak slab had blasted deep ache into her disobedient bottom. The aching bruises had got worse as the week had progressed. When her Monday caning came around, the severe strokes on her sensitive butt had been tough to take.

She'd faced her caning with the same courage she always did, but she'd struggled to take the intense sting on her sore skin. It had taken stunning courage to not fail him or herself. That Monday, she'd come close to beating Kirsten at tennis. More comfortable bouncing on her feet than standing still, she'd flown all over the court, smashing the ball back with force.

Kirsten had been a kind teacher of tennis and the art of conversation, leading by example. Over lunch that first day, Kirsten had extracted her entire life story. Telling her new friend had not felt as awful as she'd imagined. George had helped her move on in the world. Her bottom sore on the seat, she'd been a more vivid companion than she'd imagined she might be.

Adjusting her hat to shade her eyes, the sun baked her bare legs. She now had a wardrobe. It had cost little to buy shorts, pants, skirts and tops one at a time. Her short shorts pleased her because she had sexy, toned legs to be proud of.

The last Monday of her punishment year, George had caned her hard, without favor. She loved his care and commitment to her. He'd brought out her original hand written list of crimes and placed it on the desk in front of her as she bent. Faced with her fateful list, the strokes had hurt all the more. Bending beside her after he'd seared agonizing lines into her behind, he'd pulled a fat red marker pen from the desk drawer and scored a red diagonal line through each side of paper.

Her bottom powered by pain, her mind free from guilt, she'd beaten Kirsten at tennis. A raft of ruthless service had kept her friend running for the ball. Up against the net, her sore bottom had kept her on her toes. When Kirsten had scooped the ball from a low angle, she'd jumped sky high and popped it over the net for the match.

Regaling George with her dramatic win, he'd grinned, ordered her to the chess board and put her in her place.

Despite never beating him in the five years she'd lived here, she'd never given up. He was asleep upstairs. He fell asleep in the afternoons now. But his rest made him even more formidable at the chess board when he woke up.

Her relaxation in the sun had put her on a par with him as she played her opening gambit. In absolute command of her strategy, she plotted four steps ahead all the time with the aim fixed in her mind. She'd been practicing with her phone. There were online chess games available at all hours with computers and other people. She'd practiced her strategies over and over. Confident in her mental picture of the board, she was driving him into a box while controlling the center of the board.

Despite having eaten dinner at 5pm, she always had room for fries made by George. Picking a few from her bowl, she kept her face passive, giving nothing away as her confidence brimmed inside. Given three poor options by her, his game plan was unraveling under her unrelenting assault. He shifted his rook where he didn't want to. Every other choice worse. Stilling her excitement, she played her strategy, showing not the slightest sympathy as she targeted his King with hers.

"Check," she said.

He gazed hard at the board and made the only move he could. She shifted her Queen. She'd planned it over four moves ago.

"Check Mate," she said, meeting his gaze.

He burst into a grin. "Well played. It took you long enough. I've just played the most satisfying game of my life."

Feeling not an ounce of guilt at her win, she walked around the table and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Goodnight, Sarah."

"Goodnight, George," she replied as she left to return to her apartment.

Arriving for breakfast, just after 8am the next morning, the smell of bacon cooking in the oven was missing. She found him still at the chessboard, their game just as it had been.

Her warm fingers on his cool wrist confirmed no pulse. Her knees gave way, and she crumpled to the floor beside him, discharging a gut wrenching wail. Tears drenched her cheeks and soaked the rug. Falling on her side, she scrunched up into the fetal position and sobbed her heart out for a world she couldn't imagine without him. She didn't want to be alone. She'd assumed he'd go on for years. Blistering loneliness and fear closed in on her. Hours evaporated before she reached for her fallen phone and brought up her favorites. Her vision blurred as she stared at her two choices. One would never answer again.