« Spanking Stories

Six months ago

Opening their clean dishwasher, Zara extracted the clean coffee mug she needed.

"You can unstack it while you're there, Zara," her mom said.

Placing her mug on the white kitchen worktop, she delayed pouring her morning coffee. Bartending from eleven until six today, her relaxed morning allowed time, if not inclination, for domestic duties. Sighing, she reopened the Bosch, letting its door fall hard. Sliding the lowest rack, it caught, rattling the plates.

"A racket isn't necessary," her mom said, slipping papers into her smart navy nylon briefcase.

Not disguising her irritation, Zara crashed dinner plates together, stacking them in the cupboard. She was a full-time bartender, eighteen months' solid experience under her belt. Different shifts disguised her total hours. She worked longer than her mom or dad. Perhaps not her dad. He was a satellite software engineer, designing software to operate commercial satellites. Growing up, they'd stared into space together, him pointing out satellites from stars, describing their purpose. Her mom sold advertising for glossy, ultra-wealthy, credit card magazines. At nineteen, she, it seemed, was a bartender and domestic servant.

"You could also start the washing machine this morning instead of dumping your laundry beside it."

Zara bristled. "I work full-time hours, mom." Ripping out the top rack, she clattered mugs, stacking them before loading their nearby crockery cupboard.

"So does your dad. He still helps around the house."

"I help," she snapped. Unable to recall her recent chores, she didn't doubt their existence.

"Less than you should, young lady."

Ignoring her mom's warning tone, she said, "I'm not your slave."

Her mom paused. "I expect your basic cooperation with household tasks. You're earning your own money. You live here rent free. The least you could do is assist."

"I could move out." She couldn't. She'd calculated her costs. Her bartender salary didn't stretch yet. Her income formed a sizable part of her substantial career concerns.

"You're welcome to. However, while living under our roof, you'll help. Lose the attitude."

Turning towards the shallow cutlery tray, she muttered, "Bitch."

"What did you say?"

Shaken by her sudden slip, Zara rose into visible wrath. Her mom's threatening tone carried conspicuous gravity.

"We'll discuss this when your father gets home."

Zara said nothing. Words hadn't helped her this morning. Hearing their front door slam, her heart fell.

Showering, she rehashed their argument. Being right didn't help her. Her brain returned to her senseless word. Uttered in anger, she hadn't meant it. Soaping her smooth curves, she knew the inevitable result. Her dad's leather slipper would blister her pajama-clad backside. Leaning against the tiled wall, her anger dissipated. He should lay it on hard. No matter their dispute, her escalation was inexcusable.

Drying herself, she chose bright blue Calvin Klein panties, needing a mood boost. Their proud signature printed on her white waistband felt special. Bright panties always raised her self-esteem. In the pits, she still admired their sleek curve over her beautiful bottom. Blemished with deserved redness, her rear's attractiveness would only increase. She concentrated on remembering her recent household actions, searching for chores she'd completed. Failing to find a single credible example, she studied her blue-clad bottom in her mirror. It deserved double redness.

Dressed in her smart black slacks and tight white blouse, she stepped into the morning sunshine, closing the blue front door. Years ago, her wealthy uncle had cleared their home loan. Her mother's brother's kindness had ensured their financial security. Her parent's healthy salaries provided choices. Turning down university had involved no financial rationale. Putting aside her missing domestic contribution, she headed towards City Sip.

Day shifts granted her longer customer interactions than packed weekend nights. Grabbing two green bottles of ice cold Heineken, she snapped them through the bar-mounted bottle opener, placing them before two suited guys, her mind drifting above them. Leaning towards his mate, the taller guy commented on her figure in German. A positive comment. Unaware she had them pegged, they chose a table in her eye line.

Positive comments boosted her ego. Her free flowing, straight blonde hair captivated male attention. She always flirted. It increased tips. She needed one percent of her attention to hold all of theirs. Below her bar, her order screen chimed, showing roasted carrots ready for table twelve. Quiet before Tuesday lunch, she headed towards the kitchen to collect the popular bar snack, glancing in the mirror as she left her post.

Covered in black pepper, fennel, coriander seeds and sea salt, the roasted carrot aroma drew wider attention as she delivered table twelve's bar snack. Receiving a generous smile, she returned it. Simple interactions were the highlight of her job. Providing emotional pleasure, they entertained her brain.

Last week a bearded guy who'd never held a svelte cocktail glass in his oversized fingers demanded her 'Old Fashioned'. He kept sending it back. When it was right, in his opinion, he drank it fast, claiming it sucked. Her co-worker wanted to scream at him. She didn't. He'd needed someone to blame. She'd been his whipping girl. His attitude didn't upset her. It meant nothing. Had he dissected the ingredients, criticizing their construction, suggested alternatives, she'd have enjoyed their debate, even altering her recipe. She'd apologized, offering the undisguised humility he'd needed. His substantial tip hadn't surprised her.

Passing the baby grand, she cast her mind over her career choices. She'd considered her artistic potential. Becoming a concert pianist or teaching Krav Maga had seemed possibilities. Neither consumed her. People-watching entertained her, their decision making often flawed. Her struggling careers advisor had suggested she focus on her interests. Difficult to define, she'd stuck with the path she'd discovered. It didn't bore her.

Judging by her income, she was failing. If university represented success, she wanted failure. City Sip's multiple locations offered quantifiable management opportunities. John had given her fascinating insights. He'd served up a steady diet of management reports covering staff hours, drinks served, revenue and profit. It intrigued her. Delighting customers delivered substantial returns for the business. John had revealed influences on their profit, her one of them. Surprised, she'd studied her performance, maximizing for profit.

Her tight black tailored pants met a fitted white blouse, sleeves rolled to her elbows. A strained button held her blouse tight across her breasts, open-necked above. Plainer blouses earned higher profits. Appearing innocent to guys, they also didn't threaten girls. Plain white bras fitted the same formula. Less obvious attributes hit profit highs. Her lacy, racy white panties sped up her bar performance but didn't increase profits. Bright single color bikini panties beneath her black pants powered sunny moods. Displaying slight panty lines, they appealed to guys, reassuring girls she was imperfect. Weeks wearing nothing else proved their profit potential. She didn't explain her knowledge to John, effecting a surprised expression when profits increased.

Her multilingual admirer returned to the bar. Heineken supplied, he withdrew to his table to summon courage. History suggested he'd ask her out within the next ten minutes. She'd decline. He wasn't brawny. Her ideal guy would display muscles able to fling her over his knee. He'd spank her bare backside, his enormous palm keeping her crying until dawn.

Smoothing her palms over her tight black pants, she caressed her subtle panty lines. Tonight, her dad would hold her to account. It needed to happen. No amount of apologies fitted the insult she'd flung at her mom. She needed corporal punishment, more than a simple spanking. Keen to clear her sullied slate, she almost willed her shift to finish.

Arriving home at six, she entered the kitchen. Her mom was preparing dinner.

"Your shift okay?" her mom asked.

She nodded. "Fine, thanks."

Her mom frowned at her, hardening the mood. "Go to your bedroom, please."

She obeyed. Pacing her solitary space, she awaited her coming surrender. Her dad would spank her. Ordered here, it was inevitable.

Her dad entered, her mom following. He carried a thick black leather belt folded in his grip. He closed her bedroom door. Despite the empty house, she appreciated their privacy. Her mom stood beside her clothes drawers, her gaze heavy. Her dad sat on her bed, placing his belt beside him. Tapping her comforter, he said, "Sit, Zara."

His mildness projected sympathy. His belt suggested otherwise. She sat beside him, lowering her gaze from her mom.

"Did you call your mother a vile word this morning?"

She nodded.

"Words, please, Zara."

His harsh rebuke forced her to speak. "I'm sorry."

"I'd hope you are. But it doesn't excuse your behavior. You're a mature young woman. You should be above resorting to insults."

His scolding sliced into her, delivering distress. She raised her gaze to her mom. "I'm sorry, mom."

Her mom nodded.

Her dad said, "My hand and my slipper no long suit your significant maturity. Nor does bending over my knee in your pajamas." He'd considered his wife's request. Reporting the argument, she'd told him Zara needed a significant escalation from hand or slipper spankings. He'd raised no counter argument. "I'm going to belt you, Zara. You'll bend over your bed. It's over your panties, I'm afraid. One layer of thin cotton."

Warned by his belt's presence, Zara still shuddered. His rigid restructuring of her punishment felt appropriate. Ashamed of herself, this morning she'd willed his slipper to hurt beyond words. His thick leather belt would. Meeting his gaze, she said, "Yes, dad. I'm still sorry, perhaps sorrier."

"Good girl. Stand up, please."

Snagging his belt, he rose. She followed. Standing beside her bed, she felt sophisticated. Her father appreciated her growing maturity, if not her immature behavior. He'd chosen to honor her age by belting her.

"Lower your pants, please, Zara," he commanded, folding his belt in two, the buckle hidden in his palm.

She unbuttoned her tight, black tailored pants. Pushing them down her slender legs, she bent, forcing them to her ankles. Rising, she revealed her bright blue bikini panties, their audacious Calvin Klein branding mocking her circumstances. Facing her father, she met his gaze, her hands by her sides. Stripped to her panties, she felt acres of shame.

"Decent girls don't speak to their mothers like you did."

She glanced towards her mom. "Sorry, mom." Lowering her gaze under their combined authority, she caught a glance between them.

"Bend over, Zara," her dad ordered.

She turned towards her bed. Lowering herself onto its soft surface, she rested on her forearms, presenting her skimpy panties. Covering far less than her pajamas, bright blue cotton curved across her cheeks, leaving moderate bareness to receive his belt. Shivers spread through her. She calmed them into conscientious compliance. Air buffered her bottom, her mom arriving behind her. Delicate fingers slid into her waistband, pulling her panties just below her bottom. Humiliated, she hoped her bunched panties hid her charms.

"That kind of speaking won't happen again, Zara," her mother said.

Her dad snapped his belt, regaining command. "Keep your arms on your bed and your feet on the floor. If you leave your position, I'll repeat that lick. Understand?"

Zara nodded. Her father positioned himself. In her silent bedroom, the belt sliced the air. It cracked into her bare behind. She gasped, struggling to hold her position. Across the center of her backside, a broad, burning band stung her skin. Fighting for self-control, she begged its ruthless heat to subside.  

Another lick landed below. She gasped. A third leather lash ignited fresh skin. She cried, "Ow!" Embarrassed by her vocal response, she summoned greater bravery. The leather struck hard, launching brutal fire into her bareness. Low, where she sat, six ruthless lashes ensured utter agony. She couldn't imagine it would stop hurting, ever.

Ignoring her daunting pain, she concentrated on her atrocious insult. She'd called her mom a bitch. She needed her arrogance belting out of her. Twisting, she said, "I'm sorry, mom. Very sorry."

Her mom stepped forward, stroking her shoulder. Through her thin blouse, the kindness boosted her courage.

"Take your belting, sweetheart. You've earned it," her mom said.

"I know, mom. Thanks." Capitulation was easy. Her heart hurt.

"Ten to go, Zara," her dad said.

Her mom stepped back. She braced herself. His expert aim struck her tenderness, lighting excruciating fires. She clenched her teeth. Heavy leather tore strips from her conscience. "Stop please, dad."

Honoring her polite request, he rested his arm. He wouldn't reduce her sentence. However, his dutiful daughter deserved a brief break.

She caught her breath, her outburst unexpected. Her conscience seized control. "Please, dad. Whip me harder. Make me cry. I deserve it."

He glanced at his wife. She nodded at him.

He said, "Prepare yourself, Zara."

His belt blasted her tender skin. Merciless pain blanketed her burning bottom. Violent sorrow struck her soul. Tears filled her eyes. The belt outstripped her endurance. Tears streamed down her face. Devastation wracked her body. Bursting her sorrow, she cried. "Mom, I'm so sorry."

The belt ceased, honoring her brutal honesty.

"Stand, Zara," her dad commanded.

Rising off her bed, she faced him, tears streaking her cheeks.

Her mom stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her. "I'm proud of you, Zara."

It was a kindness she couldn't bear. Tears poured. She buried her face in her mom's chest. Between tears, she saw her dad leave.

Her mom whispered, "You're forgiven."

Reaching down, her mom eased her panties up. Their gentle cotton comfort enclosed her heat, drying her tears.

"Thanks mom."

Her mom squeezed her. "I'll leave you alone. Rest."

Alone, she stepped from her formal pants, still around her ankles. In her white blouse and bright blue panties, her experience washed over her. Pride flowed from her excruciating bottom. She felt clean. Lying on her soft comforter, she kept her bottom high. Her fingers brought extraordinary pleasure, providing natural pain relief. Having her bottom bared had added spectacular humiliation. Crucial new learning. Getting belted beyond her control had eviscerated her appalling guilt. Requesting it added an unexpected additional dimension to her learning. Corporal punishment had ceased being a research project. It was a journey. Her fingers continued celebrating her utter surrender. She'd given herself to her dad's belt, offering her bare bottom in unconditional submission. She felt free. Cascading orgasms applauded her rich courage.

An hour later, a firm knock interrupted her quiet contemplation. She called, "Come in."

Her dad entered. "How are you feeling, beautiful?"

Unembarrassed in her panties and blouse, she said, "I'm okay, dad." Her ferocious burn hadn't abated. She felt conscientious.

He nodded. "Are we okay?"

"Too soon, dad. You belted me. I'm still in agony."

He smiled. "Your bottom will remain sore. Seven days I reckon."

His unapologetic firmness discarded her shyness. "Dad. I love you. Thank you for belting me."

"I love you too," he said. "You're unlikely to remain perfect forever. We may have to upgrade your discipline further."

She grimaced. "I'll expect it."

"You're a professional young woman. If I must punish you again, I'll cane you."