« Spanking Stories

Rebecca eased her foot off the power pedal, following smooth road bends west of Sky Reach. Accelerating, tremendous power beneath her foot carried her beyond the last corner towards the lake, crisp Saturday sunshine breaking through the early morning haze.

Exploring Sky Reach with Damien, she'd discovered a stunning fifty-foot pool landscaped into his four acre garden, a colonial pool house nearby. Trimmed trees in brown earth squares dotted his stone terrace and enhanced his landscaped pool area. Walking across undulating lawns to the far reaches, tall trees ensured privacy in his oasis.

They'd walked among his expensive car collection, beneath his house. Never driven, his temperature controlled basement garage maintained their rising value. Their sleek, bright-colored curves had sparkled against the white-tiled floor. Above ground, his regular garage contains six vehicles. More driveable, their sizes still daunted her. She hadn't imagined driving any of them.

He'd asked what she drove. She didn't. Walking everywhere from her studio, she hadn't needed a car. He'd quizzed her, disappointed in her desire for a cute car. He'd shown her pictures. She'd settled on a red car, compromising on the most sporty edition to please him. He'd made one phone call to his buyer. Neither specialist, nor unique, the red car had arrived at Sky Reach yesterday while they'd been in the office, their first working day since Tuesday.

Crossing the lake bridge, she applied her turn signal, slowing as she reached the far side. Waiting moments, she turned into the gravel lookout spot facing the lake. Sliding the lever into park, she stopped the engine, admiring the high tech Audi cabin. Black with red accent lines, it screamed sporty. Delighted by her car, she stepped from the bright red hatchback. Sat low, its rakish smoked glass roof topped off its captivating form.

Two miles from Sky Reach, she'd spotted the lakeside overview yesterday on their way home. He'd driven them yesterday and taken her to meet Clare and Melody on Thursday evening. She'd worn her Gucci jeans to celebrate her success. Stunning, beside her friends, she'd accepted their polite grilling, revealing Damien's wonderful dominance. Recounting her heavy spanking after he'd caned her, she'd drawn respectful gasps from her disciplined friends. Seeing friends required planning since she didn't live in the city. Her mobility had threatened their future, so he'd bought her a car. She smiled into the brightening sun, stroking her Audi's paintwork.

Wednesday morning they'd spent in bed, conversation punctuated by frequent sex. He'd made them breakfast. Immersed in her tasty omelet, a knock-out brunette had appeared. Blue skinny jeans outlined a flawless figure. A frilly navy blouse stretched tight over ripe breasts. Cascading curls fell to delicate shoulders. Maybe a few years older than her, the brunette portrayed relaxed confidence. Dynamite blue eyes focused on Damien requesting approval in a seductive European accent. Taking the proffered iPad, he'd scanned its screen, adding his digital signature before returning it. Introducing her to his housekeeper, Jana, he hadn't given her girlfriend status, introducing her as Rebecca. It rankled. She'd pictured his housekeeper as an older, wise woman. He'd said experienced.

On Greg's country estate, his dumb ex-wife's constant presence had destroyed their potential relationship. A fantastic result in retrospect. She smiled. Jana hadn't reappeared. Lights above the garage proved her presence. Someone had taken delivery of her beautiful red car yesterday. Sensational Thai Yellow Curry denied criticism. Precision cleaning, flawless gardens, and tasty meals in their fridge provided no basis for complaint. She'd kept her counsel, unable to explain her unease to Damien.

She opened her rear doors, inspecting the new-smelling back seat. Opening her tailgate, she examined the trunk. Space for several bags. Slamming her tailgate closed, she stared towards the lake. Damien was perfect, his home an oasis of pristine perfection. Still, unease infiltrated her enjoyment. Groundless, she couldn't justify her fears.

Returning to the driver's seat, she pressed the start button. Her thundering engine brought an instant smile. One week ago, she'd spent Saturday morning masturbating in her studio, her fantasies starring Damien. Her cane marks fading, they still tingled in her mind. She was Damien's girlfriend. He'd chosen her, spanked her, and made endless love to her. Vibrations through her seat sent quivers into her enthusiastic sex. He lay in bed two miles away, their bed. Turning for home, her car tested, she resolved to respect his blameless housekeeper.

Sweeping up the smooth curved driveway, she tucked her car behind the garage, parking beside Jana's little black Range Rover. Locking her shiny car, she admired its stunning, sporty shape. Nodding, she marched into the mudroom, kicking off her pink sneakers. In white socks, she padded up the practical stairs, beside the elevator. Heading along the corridor, she reached their bedroom.

Passing through their ensuite, she appreciated Damien's naked, rugged form beneath his shower. In her walk-in closet, the sun danced across her white wooden sliding doors. Five brown cardboard boxes piled against the wall remained unsorted. Before her night out with Clare and Melody, they'd paused at her studio, packing her clothes into Damien's practical SUV. Slipping into her dangerous Gucci jeans, she'd lost them to his rampant desire. Screwed by him on her studio bed, she'd given a fitting finale to her single space. Smelling of fresh sex, she'd declared to Clare her most heartfelt thanks. Tiny tears had revealed to both friends her deep gratitude. Clare had hugged her, releasing her waterfall. Two bottles of fine Taittinger champagne had cured her crying.

White and lavender hydrangeas stood in a plain white vase on her marble topped island. She'd expected her folded jeans from Thursday night. She checked her fourth drawer. No jeans. Sliding her smooth closet doors, she inspected each for her hanging jeans. Missing in action, she lifted the lids of her built-in storage units beneath the windows. Still lacking her jeans, she stared at her boxes. Her jeans couldn't have conjured themselves inside. She'd worn them on Thursday. In her prior job, her first ever Christmas bonus had provided a whole thousand bucks. She'd invested half in savings and half in her classic inky-black Gucci jeans. Embellished with gold horse-bits on the back pockets, stretchy luxurious denim sculpted her legs. They were her sole item of designer clothing.

Sensing his male heat, she turned, scanning his nakedness. "Have you seen my Gucci jeans?"

He grinned. "Not since your studio. Try the laundry room."

"I left them here." She pointed at her empty island top.

"I bet they're in the Laundry."

Snorting, she headed downstairs. Sandwiched between the kitchen and mudroom, she'd discovered the modest laundry on Wednesday. Four 'Miele' machines filled the compact space, providing washing and drying. A polish wood rack stretched across the opposite wall. Hanging inside out, she discovered her precious jeans. Dried by the warm circulating air, she drew them down. Inverting them, she checked their bright gold horse-bits. Undamaged. Sliding her fingers over the leather brand patch, she examined the gold lettering. Flawless. Relief flooded her. She breathed. Carrying her recovered jeans, she returned upstairs.

Entering their bedroom, she said, "She washed them."

"Were they smelly?"

"Perhaps."

"Okay."

"They're designer jeans. She should have checked with me."

"Were you available?"

She wriggled her foot. "I was in the office."

He stared at her. "Jana isn't likely to make rookie mistakes." Annoyed by her illogic, he added, "I'd buy you new jeans if she damaged them. Slip them on."

Keen to search for flaws, she shoved off her blue jeans, pulling on her fresh designer jeans. Padding into her closet, she smoothed her palms over her beautiful butt, checking her appearance in the full-length mirror.

He followed. Her Gucci jeans had lasted seconds in her studio. Anticipating a repeat performance, he didn't mind scrutinizing her jeans.

She ran her fingers over the exquisite fabric, finding no flaws. Checking her butt, styled in her finest Gucci, its proud jut curved towards her slender legs.

"Are they marked?"

"No," she said.

"Faded?"

She shook her head.

"Any reason to regret Jana washing them?"

"No," she mumbled, her complaint weakening.

"Come here," he ordered.

In her special space, his resonant baritone carried her close. Sharpening her stance, she faced him in her magnificent jeans.

"Ingratitude doesn't become you, Rebecca."

"Sorry," she muttered.

"I expect better of you. You need caning."

She bit her lip, failing to defend her combative reaction. Her jeans were flawless. Her ungrateful attitude warranted his tough response. Led into their bedroom, the sunlit pool beyond their balcony shimmered in the distance. Wide gray drawer units provided convenient bedside surfaces. He opened his middle drawer, extracting his cane. Its categorical presence in their bedroom defined their relationship. She loved its presence, feared its application, and revered its capability to transform her.

Meeting her before the French doors to their balcony, he flexed his cane. "Six strokes over your jeans. A fitting punishment, I feel."

"Please, no," she cried. "Not my jeans."

"Eight strokes if you choose your panties."

It wasn't a choice. She'd never submit her cherished jeans to the cane. Unbuttoning her denim, she slid her jeans down. Stepping from them, she smoothed their legs, folding them on the bed.

Standing in her white tee, white socks, and pale pink cotton bikini panties, his heavy gaze condemned her.

"Touch you toes."

She faced the balcony. Setting her feet a foot apart, she bent from her hips. His stern command, issued in their calm bedroom, dumped shame on her. Under its weight, her fingertips touched her white cotton socks, her bare legs rigid. He wasn't accepting her attitude. Not one bit. Unable to argue her case, her obedient surrender spread humble shivers.

"Your gorgeous jeans can withstand a sound caning. Several, I expect."

She said nothing. Presenting her pale pink panties, she'd given her opinion. It wouldn't change.

"Okay," he said. "Your attitude needs adjusting. This will hurt."

The smooth rattan rested against her tight panties. She'd crossed an obvious line, criticizing Jana without cause. Given an official home punishment, she respected his decision to cane her. He shouldn't tolerate her stupidity. Her jeans were unharmed.

The rug beneath her feet didn't deaden the cane's savage hiss. It burst a ruthless crack into their soft space. Vicious heat cut through her panties. Fire tore across her cheeks. She pressed her fingers into her toes, offering total obedience. Their unwritten relationship rules required her compliance. Cruel sting shot into her part-bare cheeks. Submission oozed from her pores.

He studied the red stripes emerging from her pastel pink panties. He'd inflicted two merciless strokes. She'd disrespected Jana. Done in private, it still couldn't pass unpunished. Tension in his home was unacceptable. Her irrational complaint rankled. He leveled his cane across her tight panties, determined she'd feel his forceful strokes.

She accepted his powerful strokes, wallowing in her suffering. He'd called her to order. Lines of bitter fire burst across her bottom, delivering her due. Her beautiful jeans were ready to wear. She couldn't understand her ungrateful response. His tough strokes indicted her. She measured herself against her pain, finding herself wanting. It wasn't her jeans. It was Jana. The pretty housekeeper's presence threatened her. Rattan seared her admission into her skin. Pain she deserved permeated deep.  

"Two strokes left, Rebecca. Your punishment could have ended."

She'd chosen to protect her jeans. Self-respect coursed through her. She straightened her slim legs, pushing her bottom towards his cane. On behalf of her jeans, her panties must stand fearless duty.

He watched, desire bursting inside. Her surrender showed she knew her punishment must hurt. He cracked the cane into her lower bottom, delivering.

She panted, agony rushing into her bottom. Picking a non-argument with his not present housekeeper was disrespectful, rude, and unnecessary. She coveted his strict sanction. She needed the hurt. Its ruthless sting removed her regret. The cane branded its last blazing lesson, discharging her unappreciative attitude. Keeping her compliant fingers in place, she watched him return the cane to his drawer.

Standing on his command, she said, "Thank you, Damien. Sorry. She's so beautiful."

"You mean Jana?"

She nodded. She explained about Greg and his persistent ex-wife. Spoken aloud, her reasoning made sense. Except it didn't. Jana had a definite purpose. Sky Reach functioned without flaws.

"I hear unjustified jealousy," he said.

"I am jealous," she said. Admitting it felt cleansing. "It's ridiculous."

"Agreed. I'm your boyfriend. You have nothing to fear from Jana." He pulled her into him, holding her tight.

Against her stomach, his hard proof demanded her apology. Stroking his constrained manhood, she said, "Sorry."

"Ask me to belt you," he growled.

Beautiful cruelty flashed through her. Her throbbing sex rivaled her fresh cane stripes. "Please Damien, belt me for my jealousy. Belt me hard." Forced to declare her request, her humble sex saturated with deferential delight.

Unbuckling his belt, he whipped it from his jeans. Flawless leather thrashed the air. Folding his belt, he gripped it, mesmerizing her.

Following his gaze, she bent over their bed, unbidden.

Adoring her inherent obedience, he established himself behind her.

She exhaled. Made to request her punishment, she'd thrown herself on his mercy, knowing it must prove painful. Burdened by jealousy, he'd belt it out of her. Male leather lashed her panties, punishing her ludicrous jealousy. He laid it on hard. His ruthless belt burned layers of jealousy from her body, leaving her sore. Merciless heat blasted regret deep inside her. Jealousy was ugly, destructive, and futile. His belt agreed. Sad at her silliness, she gripped their comforter. Twelve severe strokes cruised across her bare skin, their vicious sting, her price of forgiveness.

"Don't create problems which don't exist. Talk to Jana."

Stinging over their bed, she appreciated his simple instruction. She hadn't found an opportunity, but she would. His belt landed on the floor, his jeans and tee joining it. In the corner of her eye, she saw his white boxers land. Stern fingers slid her panties aside. Entering her, his firm grip landed on her hips. His solid stomach spanked her behind. Her sex demanded more. She pushed back, begging for him deeper. He granted her wish, his manhood plunging pleasure with commanding strokes.

"You belted me," she cried.

"I had no choice."

"No choice," she panted. Repeating her phrase to his rhythm, her sex rose to critical respect. Poised to honor him, she held herself, begging him to not stop. His pleasure discharged against her perfect poise. She cried out, firing her vocal respect across their lavish bedroom. Waves of approval flooded her body, flowing blissful forgiveness. Groaning, his strapping body landed, enveloping her. Safe beneath his protection, she murmured, "No choice."

Warm male breath circled her ear.

He whispered, "You need no choice, babe."

Wrapped in contentment, she sighed. "You're perfect."