« Spanking Stories

Sarah Roberts lapped The Peak's Olympic swimming pool. Overlooking the Klein center, home of the award-winning city orchestra, the peaceful pool occupied level four. She watched well-dressed patrons enjoying late breakfasts or mid-morning coffee in the arched, glass fronted cafe above the concert hall entrance, her white one-piece swimsuit cutting sleek lines through the water, her mind burning.

Frequent questions proved her disciplinarians' desire to deliver excellence. Advising her team delighted her. Managing stuff didn't. Vacation scheduling, co-working supplies, payment issues, tax filing, constant interruptions. Clients often provided a pleasant relief from managing her detail oriented business.

Propelling her body through the cool water, she considered her disciplinarians. She'd chosen worthy team members. They loved seeing satisfied girls leave sore. Her cane had proved a wonderful hiring tool. Understanding why discipline worked, her smart employees ran an efficient business. They lacked a deeper understanding of its wider societal impact. It didn't matter. She'd learned society's structure from her philosophy books. Logical positivism emphasized rational, scientific problem-solving to resolve modern intellectual chaos. In short, human nature required discipline. It brought cohesion to groups. Groups formed cultures. Civilization had survived for centuries using corporal punishment to keep social order. Strict strokes resolved her girls' guilt, guiding them to happiness.

Cutting through the pool, strong arm strokes broke down her problems into parts. Dividing her duties, she created three categories; Vision, Operations, and Discipline. Vision belonged to her. She'd built Virtue. Discipline, she'd delegated. Quality had remained. Still handling her longest clients, several had also seen other disciplinarians reporting serious satisfaction. Pride powered her legs. Ducking, she rolled, flying out into her last lap. Drying herself, she flung on her comfortable white toweling robe, heading upstairs to her penthouse.

Beneath her rainfall shower, her thoughts crystalized. Operations was her flaw. She hated it. Hate was too harsh. It held little appeal. Every problem couldn't lead to her. She needed to delegate power. Operations demanded a broad understanding of her business. Ordering ink cartridges for a co-working printer didn't require discipline experience. However, managing disciplinarians' vacations demanded an innate understanding of their strengths, so quality cover remained for clients. Daily operations brought vital learning to feed into her future vision. It required someone fascinated by details, able to sustain their interest while seeing the wider picture.

Segregated, her thoughts gave her a break. She studied her weekend wardrobe options. Her penthouse walk-in closet had gained items. Her vintage check pleat miniskirt called to her. She tried it on. Its retro vibe suggested a rebellious nature, its sexiness screaming non-conformity. To her, its respectable pattern hinted at hidden obedience. She stroked the tight navy and green material, following its flare to her cute pleats. Like a short school skirt, the young style showcased her flat, bare stomach. She pulled on her tiny tee. She'd dared herself to buy the cropped white t-shirt. Nothing screamed innocence like white. Above her bare midriff, its daring tightness turned her on hard. She loved her gutsy purchase. It upgraded her retro skirt to contemporary. Flat white champion sneakers with perfect white ankle socks sealed her innocent outfit.

Standing, legs apart, she checked herself in her mirror. Her short skirt split the vote between her slender bare legs and flat stomach, both vying for attention. Her bare stomach blared confidence. Sliding her hand south, she flicked up her skirt, cramming her fingers into her crisp white cotton bikini panties. Reflected in her mirror, her blatant pleasure seeking in innocent panties flooded her sex.

Switching between her bare legs and flat stomach, her fingers celebrated her cuteness. She was meeting Fernando in forty minutes. Guaranteed privacy, she extended her pleasure, her naughtiness revealed in her mirror. Hidden beneath her cute skirt, her white panties matched her advertised innocence. Others would pass her, unaware she'd pleasured herself over her outfit.

Spinning on one toe, she raised her skirt, inspecting her bottom. In skimpy white panties, it deserved her boyfriend's stern discipline. She imagined him discovering her masturbating. She deserved his strict stick. Caned for flagrant self-pleasure, she'd sport distinct stripes beneath her scanty skirt. Excited by her hidden punishment, she rose onto her toes. Staring behind her, she pictured six red welts spreading from her crisp white panties. Her finger forced her vision through her clit. Plunged from her precipice onto her heels, orgasms smashed into her sex, descending passionate pleasure deep into her core. She leaned on her closet, hot liquid flooding into her pristine panties.

After changing her panties for a fresh pair, she waltzed into Mission, confidence carrying her curves. Fifty feet from their building, basic school tables and wooden chairs defined the rustic Mexican restaurant in their ritzy neighborhood. Spying Fernando, she sashayed towards him, carrying eyes with her. Appearing unaware, inside she screamed at her magnificent entrance. Fernando noticed. Standing, his smile ate up her legs, got stranded on her stomach, and reversed. Thrilled by his total failure to control his need, she burst into a vibrant smile, sliding onto a hard chair opposite him. "How was your squash match?"

He spluttered a non response. "You look fabulous. Sex on legs."

She gave up pretending she didn't realize. "I'm pleased you like it."

"I love it. It needs ripping off."

She grinned. "Not until I've eaten."

He grabbed their menus, shoving hers into her hand.

Smiling inside, she scanned her menu. When their server arrived, she ordered Empanadas and Taco Carnitas together to speed their lunch.

He said, "Same."

Focusing on her, he said, "Your skirt beats my wildest schoolgirl fantasies."

Her smile slipped, her tone followed. "School wasn't pleasant for me." A failed sanctuary from her unsafe home, she'd hated school. Experiences her girls had told her beat hers.

"If I'd been your principal, you'd have found it lovely. Although painful, I'm afraid. I'd have tamed you incredible cuteness."

Turned on by his apologetic firmness, her smile returned. He'd refused to fall into her miserable past. She deserved his version of school. Taking his bait, she said, "Tamed? Am I wild?"

He glanced around. "Guys have undressed you, girls too. Your skirt is short. Bare midriffs distract boys. Required by school rules, I'd have brought your unprecedented sexiness under strict control."

Her willing sex seized his rich tone. "Would you have spanked me?"

"The cane, I'm afraid. Most weeks."

"For what reason?"

"Non-compliant uniform. Deliberate disobedience. Disrupting school."

Pursing her lips, she studied her remaining taco. "Will I get caned this afternoon?"

"Six stokes." Beneath her last taco, her impish smile told him her desire.

His firm, playful approach repainted her school years. She said, "I'm sorry, sir. Please don't cane me."

"I'm sorry, Sarah. You chose your outfit. Six hard strokes. I can't compromise."

Tasting his inflexible tone, she finished her taco. "Please, sir. I didn't mean to distract boys."

"You're lying. Eight strokes. Do you wish to try for more?"

She shook her head, thrilled by his intransigence. Her brilliant masturbation had lit a rebellious fuse. She deserved the cane. Their penthouse minutes away, she ignored the elevator's spectacular view. Her naughty butt gripped by his massive hands, his hardness pressed through his jeans, approving her outfit.

Their penthouse door opened to their faces. In the open-plan lounge, he swept a white cushioned-top stool from beside the kitchen island. His biceps swung the substantial stool. Treating it like a feather, he placed it central on their wooden floor. Pointing beside the positioned stool, he commanded, "Stand there."

Her hands clasped behind her, she obeyed, swooning under his splendid strictness. The gleaming chrome stool legs reflecting hers. His firm man-handling drove her gaze to the floor, her sex approving her compliance. He disappeared towards their bedroom.

Returning, cane in hand, he said, "I'm sorry you seem unable to follow school uniform rules, Sarah."

Slender golden rattan enforced his male authority. Wilting, she whispered, "I'm sorry, sir."

His cane tip touched her skirt hem. "What kind of length is this?"

"Shorter than regulation, sir."

"Shorter, and you know it."

His critical cane tip tapped her skirt waistband.

"And, this scandalous bareness. Your tee is ridiculous."

"I realize, sir. I'm sorry."

"Willful disobedience," he said. "At least you're not pretending it's a mistake."

His scolding filled her heart. He'd read her playful mind, her skirt an unsubtle clue. She loved him. Had his strictness permeated her school years, she'd have found her sanctuary. Wiping away her pointless thought, she shoved his harsh admonishment into her soul, treasuring it. Corrected by him, her school years would have contained the effective, stern affection she'd craved. Unaware she'd needed it, she couldn't seek her solution. Shown her needs by George, Fernando satisfied them.

He tapped the cane against her bare legs. "You need taming, Sarah."

Warm, soft rattan dispensed love into her skin. Her heart screamed for him. "I'm very sorry, sir."

"You've already earned eight strokes. Bear that in mind as you ponder my next question."

Pleading for mercy had met his ruthless refusal, worsening her punishment.

"Is your punishment fair?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm guilty."

"Good girl," he said.

Accepting her sentence had stirred her deepest need. His warm tone tunneled a furious heat into her sex. She must receive her fierce sanction. Real cane strokes. Token taps meant nothing to her. She trusted him to fulfill his promise.

"Your skirt is too tight. Remove it, please."

Hooding her gaze, she unzipped her skirt. Removing it, she stepped free in her white cotton bikini panties.

"Correct underwear. Pity you couldn't remain compliant. Bend over the stool, Sarah."

She bent over the white-cushioned square bar stool, reaching for the foot bar, his compliment enhancing her slim white cotton. She gripped the chrome bar, her vulnerability raising her pleasure. In place, she examined their engineered wood floor. Layered with strength, it absorbed humidity and never warped. Living in his design, she appreciated his experience. Bent over their stool, she clung to his dominance. Swapping her stressful thoughts for showy sexiness had created sweet intimacy. Over his stool, she welcomed his intimate view of her defenseless bottom. Eight painful strokes must strike her panty clad cheeks, each dealing with her supreme sexiness.

The cane tapped her bare thighs.

"Stay still, Sarah. Let your pain punish you or I'll repeat your stroke, adding another on your thighs."

She sucked in a deep breath. Her principal stood over her, his authority unquestionable. She wouldn't dishonor herself. The cane stilled across her tight panties, flowing contrition across her curves. Raised away, she tensed. Realizing her natural reaction, she relaxed. She needed to be caned.

Cane raised, he saw her bottom relax, admiring the perfect curve of her sexy panties over her pure cheeks. His manhood hardened. Her flawless submission screamed respect. He wouldn't let her down.

She waited, humbled, before him. Her stressful school memories had owned her past. Despite her sexy games, she needed hard punishment. She needed returning to normality. Wanton masturbation had driven her choice of uniform, meriting his fair response.

A whistling swoosh ended in a splitting crack. Echoing off their acres of glass, its savage note sent surrender deep into her heart. Swift rattan struck her bottom. Her school panties, though modest, gave no defense. Seconds of blazing agony devoured her. She tightened her grip on the bar, stifling her cry. Her breathing quickened. Smarting pain spread. She prayed she'd keep her composure.

The cane rested again. Her brief white panties strained across her bottom. They'd ridden up, giving less protection. She rationalized this illogic. Her thin cotton stood no chance against his cane. A severe crack condemned her bottom to another line of brutal burn. Fire stung deep. Worse than her first, its severity honored his commitment to thrash her.

Her third stroke developed her second. Surging intensity throbbed her stripes. Another fierce stroke penetrated poignant pain. She honored it, softening into her protracted suffering.

"Are the uniform rules becoming clear?"

Love provoked an unfamiliar lump in her throat. Her voice tremored. “Yes, sir.”

Rattan exploded into her irrelevant cotton. Lightning strikes landed pure fire. Prickling pain permeated her bottom. His male strokes stung. She paced her breathing. Determined dominance delivered no reprieve. Wild agony ruled her fiery cheeks. Her heart steadied her countenance. Her last stroke struck hard. She'd taken her caning. She dropped her head, humbled by her correction.

"You may stand up."

She rose, relieved to straighten her back. Reaching for him, she flung her arms around his neck. The cane clattered to their wooden floor. Pulling his ear to her, she whispered, "Your school is kind."

He grinned into her neck, wrapping her in his arms. "You're welcome."

Held by him, her burning backside made perfect sense. It proved his love. In eight strokes, he'd confirmed her unexpected sexiness, obliterating her school years. Her sore stripes guaranteed her skirt's exciting future. His huge palms encased her bottom in caring heat. She kissed him, softening her lips to his desire. Her tongue showing her approval, she pressed her panties against his hardness. "Take me."

Swept into his arms, he laid her on their L-shaped blue couch, her head in the corner. Watching his jeans disappear, she flung blue and white cushions on the floor. His tight black shorts followed. His hardness pointed at her, forcing her panties off. She shucked her tiny tee and bra. His naked form outlined hers, his demanding knee spreading her legs.

Thrusting into her, he took her. Every ounce. His manhood stole pleasure from her sex, delivering more. His intensity rivaled her burning backside, rubbing her stripes against the couch. She cried. "Fuck me."

He grunted. "I tamed your sexiness."

"For now," she panted.

"Your legs."

"Tell me," she cried.

"Total devastation. They eclipse everything."

She powered her hips into him, driving him deeper. "Tell me again."

"Your legs are devastation walking. You eclipse everything."

Driven into the couch corner, he propelled her beyond her dreams. Her body quivering, he hurled her over her edge. Pleasure erupted, pouring. She chased it down its twisty ravine, navigating her sheer survival. Skimming through narrow passages, fierce excitement flung her around corners she couldn't see, ravaging her tender soul. Dropping free, she crashed onto her calm beach, slumping beneath his solidness, his head resting on her shoulder.

Sliding towards her ear, his lips touched. "I love you, Sarah."

Her heart exploded, crashing into her soul. Flinging her arms over his rock-solid back, she squeezed him to her. "I love you, too, Fernando."

Held by the man she loved, pure passion signed her perfect day. He improved her present and her past. He understood her. Tears trickled, dampening her cheeks. Whispering, a treasured hour passed, protected by his solid body.

Getting cold, he released her. She grabbed her toweling robe, wrapping his smell into her skin. Afternoon sun drew them to their discreet terrace. High above the city, a glass side wall protected their outdoor space from the wind. Waist-high glass underlined their view. She deposited herself on her lounger, its cream cushions swallowing her.

Quiet consumed them. Her morning thoughts returned in impeccable order. She described her future business structure, explaining her eagerness for a female lieutenant to handle operations.

"Tricky," he said. "A difficult role to advertise."

She nodded. He'd confirmed her fears. She'd imagined wording an advert. It hadn't sounded desirable. "I'll figure something."

"You will."

She shared his confidence. She could achieve anything, even love.