« Spanking Stories

Two years ago

Zara crouched behind the bar, her comfortable black skinny jeans stretching tight. Fiddling behind the dishwasher, she extracted the two stuck cleaning rags. Keeping them clear of her clean white blouse, she carried them into the Kitchen. Dumping them in a spare sink, she dunked them in bleach, adding water. City Sip served a full food menu. At 8pm on Friday, kitchen service was in full swing. Their kitchen and craft formula served innovative beers and precision perfect food to their university district business customer base. Decorated in university memorabilia, musical acts sometimes filled their modest stage. A baby grand piano attracted occasional talented players. Cleaning alone, she'd tinkled its ivories. Without lessons, she'd taught herself to play by ear, composing tunes, echoing those she'd heard. Melodic flows carried her thoughts, serving up meditative benefits.

She'd graduated into her 'Barback' role months ago. She supplied the bar, filling bottles, removing glasses, restocking lemons for the pretty bartenders. Teaching the girl who'd inherited her cleaning job, she'd provided a printed list of responsibilities, ensuring future diligence. Her early mornings were over, she worked busy Friday and Saturday nights, earning far more. Able to almost touch her goal of bartender, it sucked to not have received her promotion.

Eighteen, one month ago, she'd completed her online certification from the Liquor Control Board, covering her legal responsibilities of serving alcohol. She'd learned how to assess a person's intoxication. Helpful videos had provided customer-friendly intervention procedures. It made sense. She shouldn't need her defensive skills. She'd learned Krav Maga this year. If required, she wouldn't hesitate to channel her reactive force. Receiving her treasured photo id card, she'd expected immediate progress. John hadn't mentioned her promotion. She hadn't pushed. He didn't respond to nagging. She'd seen other girls try. Instead, she watched him watching her, trying to interpret his expressions.

John surveyed his bar. Friday nights provided tremendous profits. He watched Zara stack empty lemon dishes. He understood the dilemma, which was vexing his gorgeous, clever barback. She was far too smart for her supporting role, but he hadn't promoted her because she lacked the maturity he'd expected.

Three weeks ago, he'd fired his brilliant lead bartender. Her sticky fingers had progressed beyond minor pilfering to significant sums of cash. Aware of his losses, he'd repositioned his cameras to give unexpected angles over the bar area. Twice, he'd caught her slipping notes into her pants pockets instead of her cash register. His wide angle had also caught his clever barback witnessing the blatant crime. Easiest on busy nights, Zara's frequent presence wasn't surprising. However, she hadn't reported it. He'd delayed firing his thieving bartender, hoping Zara would speak up. She hadn't. Powerful bartenders held star appeal, casting their invincibility over subordinates. Cowering in obscurity, Zara hadn't shown her customary maturity.

Carrying empty lemon dishes towards the kitchen, Zara passed John. Darting forward, he went behind her. Pausing, she turned. Sweeping a folded note off their wooden floor, he returned the money to its rightful owner. The woman expressed her gratitude, stuffing it into her purse. Returning towards her, his ethical expression slammed savage clarity into her preoccupied brain. Realization dawned. Heading onward to the kitchen, she processed her insight. Everyone knew he'd caught their thieving bartender with video evidence. She wondered how far those pictures panned. She'd witnessed several thefts. Intimidated, she hadn't dared risk her promotion by crossing their star bartender. Grabbing ten lemons, she sliced them onto clean china platters, intense knife action betraying her inner fury. He knew.

Fresh lemon wafted beneath her nose as she carried her crisp slices to the bar, placing them at intervals beneath the bar top. Sleek bartender heels approached, heralding cascading brunette curls.

"Thanks, Zara."

She beamed at the Bethany, now the lead bartender. Rare thanks boosted her job satisfaction. In her sleek white sneakers, she carried a single beer case from their basement. Possibilities flitted across her brain, reducing to one. Stacking the beer behind the bar fridges, she surmised she'd lost John's trust. It explained his distant expressions. She'd disappointed him. It also explained his silence about her promotion. The state permitted bartending at eighteen. He knew her desire. She'd shown her commitment, keeping the bar stocked. Self interest hadn't served her. Her loyalty lay with the business, not their thieving bar star.

Devastation landed her in rich reflection. A year ago, he'd paddled her school panties. Although a humiliating experience, his ping-pong paddle had reset their relationship. Respect had flowed. Hers, for him, returned in spades. In dutiful agony, she'd marched into school, paying a painful price for her negligence.

Older, she couldn't imagine a lesser solution. Her quiet deceit eclipsed her younger mistake. She regretted choosing feeble silence. She'd provoke a conversation about her future. If it must include corporal punishment, she'd accept his judgment. She glanced around. He was still surveying his business in peak operation. Leaving the bar area, she sidled up beside him.

"Hey, Zara. Going okay?"

She nodded. "May I see you in private after everyone leaves tonight?"

"Okay," he said. Watching her head towards the kitchen, he wondered if she would press him on her promotion. Despite his disappointment, he couldn't ignore her powerful potential forever.

After clearing up, she entered his office just before midnight. Its huge black metal desk held powerful memories. She didn't regret her choice to bend across it. She'd deserved her ping-pong paddle spanking. Taking it had wiped away his concerns.

Behind his desk, he motioned towards a chair. She sat, gathering her courage. "John, I knew about the thefts."

He avoided smiling. His star pupil had figured her real problem. She hadn't pressurized him for her precious promotion. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to cross her. She would've thwarted my promotion."

He twisted, grabbing a blue folder. Placing it on his desk, he slid two photos from within. "Self interest didn't serve you."

She gasped. Crouched, her gaze on their thief's slippery actions, his video stills condemned her.

"I waited seven days, hoping you'd summon the courage to speak up."

She bit her lip. Worse than she'd imagined, four weeks too late, she'd hit the bullseye. "I'm sorry, John."

"I'm disappointed in you, Zara."

"So am I," she whispered, lowering her gaze into her lap.

"Bartending carries enormous responsibility. You put self-interest above loyalty. I'm pleased you've come forward, albeit too late. I'll give you one chance to correct your career course."

She raised her head. "Anything."

His gaze hit her dead on. "Fetch our sorority paddle."

Fear slammed into hope, delivering instant impetus. She stood. Among their university memorabilia, a traditional Greek sorority paddle held pride of place. Hung by its leather strap on the bar wall, its stained pine, flame burned with 'City Sip Sorority', stood out among football jerseys, stadium signs, classic books, and graduation plaques.

Reaching, she lifted it down. Researching corporal punishment, she'd discovered the paddle burned bottoms of university girls, aiding allegiance to their sorority. Submission to an older sister had invaded her thoughts for months. She'd masturbated about an imaginary girl, older than her, smarter. Her older sister had demanded her obedience, enforcing it with an enormous paddle like she held.

Months ago, expectant, she'd ventured onto Ivy league campuses, her nearest mere miles away. Hoping to find passionate intelligence and revolutionary company, she'd become bored in moments. She'd visited three schools before calling a halt. Despite her parent's fervent objections, she'd refused to apply. She'd seen it all. A grown-up version of her high school. Rigid thinking taught beneath the guise of brilliance. Graduates would organize efficient companies, structure ideas, build plans, and solve problems. They'd have no original thoughts in their entire careers.

Carrying the eighteen-inch polished pine paddle, she returned to John, placing it on his desk.

"Will you comply?" he asked.

She knew her answer. He wasn't forcing her to bend over his desk. Yet, she owed him complete capitulation. Corporal punishment delivering its perfect purpose, cleaning her slate. Intense humiliation and phenomenal pain, reasonable rights of passage to total forgiveness. The sorority paddle was colossal. Its pain, unknown. Girls her age at university took it. Duty demanded she did too. Her immaturity deserved serious consequences. "Yes, sir."

"You knew for over four weeks. Selfishness doesn't befit you, Zara. Ten swats tonight, and ten tomorrow when you're sore."

Respect swamped her. His harsh sentence showed her need. Spread across two evenings, anticipating tomorrow's agony was worse than receiving it. Heavy swats on her already bruised bottom would demand utter dedication. Despite the inescapable agony, she'd show her finest commitment.

Standing, he carried the paddle around his desk. "Check your pockets."

Flattening her palms over her rear pockets, she knew they were empty. She wouldn't disrupt her smooth denim curves.

Sliding the chair she'd used earlier aside, he ordered, "Bend over."

She approached his desk. A year ago, she'd laid her upper body on its cold, metal surface, grateful for its immense support. Bending down, she rested on her forearms, befitting her mature acceptance of her punishment. Her black sculpted skinny jeans tightened across her butt, presenting a welcome view, she hoped. Their soft cotton texture wasn't as protective as heavy denim. Boosted by bikini briefs beneath, she imagined her black-and-white striped cotton panties may add some extra thickness. Since bending here before in her school uniform, she'd enhanced her panty drawer. Her favorites were all Calvin Klein. Like today's choice, their white elastic waistband carried obvious black branding if seen. Below the branded waistband, stripes and bold colors followed her contours. Her zebra patterned panties were her first to feel the sorority paddle.

She felt him beside her. The paddle rested across her jeans. Gentle taps proved its size, warning of its imminent cruelty. Fear stalked her. The enormous pine paddle would hurt her. Unknown hurt, beyond her experience.

An unbelievable pop exploded around his office. The barest second passed before waves of excruciating pain burrowed through her buttocks, consuming them. Ten seconds of deepening agony didn't prepare her for her second swat. Renewed heat doubled her surface pain, driving worse torture deep into her butt muscles. Rising to her new perception of punishment, she acknowledged her need. Extraordinary pain matched her greater maturity. Guilty of gross misconduct, brutal shock delivered its lesson where it hurt most.

Her third swat drove a cry from her lips. She couldn't contain her desperation. Saddened by her outburst, she swallowed her next. She deserved her suffering. Ruthless swats brought brutal pain. Bent over her boss's desk, her humble position boosted her pride. He'd ordered her here. She'd obeyed, aware she must suffer. Heavy pine blazed her tortured cheeks, savage burn interlacing her thoughts. She was an honest girl, bent by her boss for a paddling she deserved.

Concentrated on her tender, low cheeks, her tempest raged. Rich anguish crucified her self-serving silence. Holding herself still, she honored her merciless correction. The paddle landed harder. She launched a fresh assault on her troubled conscience, scolding her stupid weakness, bearing her unbearable pain.

Her three minutes of utter agony over, she remained in position, pain deepening in her deserving backside, settling into heavy respect.

"You may stand, Zara."

Obeying, she rose, fire spreading throughout her body. She didn't rub her bottom, despite her instinct. In physical agony, she felt only gratitude. She'd read about letting her punishment worsen. Bearing it without rancor showed her character. Standing before him, she said, "Thank you, John."

"Tomorrow will be tougher on you."

Swats on her already devastated behind defied belief. Sentenced, she wouldn't fail him. "I promise to show respect. I deserve it."

He smiled. "This may not help you. Tomorrow evening, arrive in formal black pants, white blouse, and heels. You're serving."

Her pain disintegrated into a ridiculous smile. "Bartending?"

He nodded.

"Thank you, John. Oh, thank you."

Dismissed, she wiped her face in the restroom, checking no visible signs revealed her spanked status. Corporal punishment had made her a bartender. She was a City Sip Bartender. The mirror agreed, confirming she was beautiful enough. Her bottom throbbed deep.

Outside, her mom waited. Sliding into the passenger seat, she didn't wince as her dutiful bottom punished her. Her dramatic news overshadowed any maternal enquiries during their short journey.  

In her bedroom, she kicked off her sneakers and leaned against her wall, giving her bottom a deserved break from sitting. Once she heard her parent's bedroom door close, she stood. Unbuttoning her tight jeans, she enjoyed revealing her punished self to her mirror. Shoving her jeans down, she turned. Her black-and-white striped panties almost hid her paddle marks. Edges of her bruises were visible below her panty line. Pushing them to join her jeans, she stared at her two vivid bruises. Deepening in richer colors, they emblazoned both her lower cheeks. She touched the source of her ache, its sensitive surface still warm. Most of her pain lay deeper inside her muscles, a buried ache she must endure. Stiff duty spread honor through her. Her clit reacted.

Shuffling to her bed, she sat on her soreness, removing her jeans and panties. Her tee and bra joined them on the floor. Naked, she rolled under her comforter. Choosing her front, she spared her bottom pressurized contact with her mattress. Sliding her fingers between her legs, she attended to herself. Her tough sentence replayed, his commanding tone implacable. Ten swats tonight, taken. Ten more tomorrow. A significant paddling for her selfish immaturity. She deserved it.

Paddled, she knew how it felt. Outstanding suffering pressed her stubborn ache towards her throbbing sex. Her finger stole its theme, circling her clit. Her ping-pong paddling in school uniform had remained passionate masturbation material. Replaced by her serious adult punishment, the sorority paddle reiterated its massive swats. Each forced heavy pants. Hearing herself, she buried her face in her pillow, pleasure rising from her finger's power. Devastating ache brought stunning self-respect. She'd received severe corporal punishment. Tremendous pain suited her offense. Old enough to serve the public, she must endure full adult treatment. Deep ache sent fresh pulses under her proud fingertip, demanding she honor her maturity. Her boss had paddled her. The sorority paddle, a formal punishment. Beautiful respect erupted, eclipsing her pain. Shuddering under her incredible contentment, she remembered she was a City Sip Bartender. She'd start her career sore, but her punishment wasn't over. Tomorrow, she had worse to come.