« Spanking Stories

Their massive rucksacks, pure wholesome tans, and pilot logbooks, fifteen hundred hours richer, accompanied Diane and Tamsin on board the regular King Air turbo prop. Sat in their passenger seats, supreme satisfaction settled over Diane as the scheduled Wednesday flight rotated from their rough, red-dirt runway. If occupation equaled ownership, it was their runway.

Tamsin had refused to allow Jake to tinge their outstanding female partnership. Their last fortnight had proved tense. She'd refused to talk to him, leaving their crew room if he spoke. Ruby Downs was complete. Ten guest lodges and one magnificent homestead towered on their concrete foundations. Mr. Hammond had hosted them overnight for a thank you feast. She'd shared a luxury lodge with Diane, leaving Jake friendly with the construction crew.

Limit Creek falling away below them, Tamsin sighed. She'd left her heart on his carport floor. She'd cried nights of tears for their trust, wavering over giving him a chance, dismissing it with fervor as she pictured Angelica. Diane had kept her focused on learning. Appreciating her friend's generosity and constant presence beside her, she stared across their familiar wilderness stretching beyond the tiny aircraft window, and said, "Thank you."

Diane smiled. Supporting their partnership in her worst hours, her committed friend's courage had impressed her. Stretching her arm, she squeezed Tamsin's hand. "Thank you."  

Ten thousand miles from Limit Creek, three days later, Jenna perched on a high stool under intense TV studio lights, her professional makeup flawless, her hair beyond perfect. Kate had declined to represent Hair Air on the national morning show, saying it should be their Marketing Manager. Nerves tingling, Jenna appreciated the opportunity to raise her professional profile.

Following a red-carpet movie segment, the female morning show host said, "A passionate hair dance is sweeping train terminals, airports, and shopping malls."

A studio screen showed her purple team in the central terminal. Soaring stone architecture suited their spectacular dance. Besieged by thousands of passengers, her dazzling girls danced pouches into girls' hands, the reporter's voiceover describing the magnitude of their dance phenomena. Bursting her free Hair Air pouch, the breathless reporter transformed her blonde tresses in ten electric seconds. Signing off, her genuine smile screamed her happiness. The studio host said, "I'm with Jenna, Hair Air's marketing manager. Jenna, why dancers?"

Jenna wanted to say because Ben caned me. Instead, her eloquent response relating hair passion to dance carried the interview.

"Your hair looks amazing, Jenna. You've used Hair Air, I presume."

"Every day," Jenna said, imprinting her planned words on girl's brains.

Heading home after her early morning interview, she welcomed peace to prepare for her personal afternoon. Her marketing department had grown into part marketing, part travel agency. Her bookers scheduled their dancers nationwide, choreographing schedules to reduce each team's travel burden. Their craze was stimulating business. Two hundred thousand subscriptions in seven days had turned into one million overnight as dancers wowed, performing six shows per hour before changing location. Awake since 4am for her morning TV interview, she needed sleep before her intense private afternoon.

She hadn't discovered a strict boyfriend. Amazon didn't deliver them yet. Watching Ben bend her two dancers over his desk, her failed quest for a disciplinarian had received a sharp correction. Mired among high boots and corsets, she'd reworded her search, specifying male disciplinarian. Last night, adding 'real discipline', she'd unearthed Adrian.

Laying on her bed beside her laptop, she'd propped herself on her elbow, soaking in his straightforward website words, devouring his language with her hand in her panties. 'Real Discipline for Real Reasons' had seduced her sex. Scanning his words, 'authentic bare bottom spankings for local females' had thrust her hand into her panties. She'd rubbed hard, reading 'A professional male disciplinarian'. Desperate to develop her picture of possibility, 'administered at a private city office' had sunk her onto her back, circling her soaking clit with frenzied joy, imagining her simple therapeutic visit. Doctor, dentist, disciplinarian, just another appointment to keep.

Calmed from her fast come, she'd rolled back, soaring into accord with Adrian. 'Negative reinforcement has proven effective'. Damn right. Reading, 'An attentive spanking to set you straight,' the term 'attentive' touched her. He needed to care. Examples filled his website. Financial Goals, College Grades, Fitness Program, Career Performance. Whatever goal you had, his negative reinforcement provided firm support.

She'd sobered up from a second bout of exceptional masturbation. Brewing herself a strong coffee, she stood in her kitchen, considering her situation, facing her actual choice. Following Ben's strict management lesson, her skyrocketing positivity had inspired, pervaded, and propelled her marketing team. Her three wasted years chasing moderate male dominance in bed represented unforgivable laziness. Booking online, she'd paid in advance.

Jenna identified the address, walking to fill fifteen minutes. Afraid to arrive late for her discipline, she judged five minutes early as suitable. Returning along the upscale street, the cream pre-war building, wedged between others, measured maybe fifteen feet. A red canopied restaurant occupied two floors. The nearby presence of normal people comforted her. She didn't require breakfast, lunch, dinner, or weekend brunch. Her menu contained a sound spanking.

Entering the tiny doorway, she ignored the restaurant access, taking the stairs ahead. A functional gray carpet followed narrow stairs between thick stone walls. Climbing past a financial advisor, her stairs to correction reached a therapist. Continuing, she arrived at the top floor, praising her fitness. Beside a white door, a small red perspex square chiseled with sharp white letters, read 'Accountability'.

Following his emailed instructions, she opened the door into a short tan colored corridor. Three pale blue plastic chairs filled one wall, a bathroom opposite. Lined up for punishment, guilt held her in her plain plastic chair. The closed inner door bore a hanging sign; 'Please Wait. Session in progress'. Listening for punishment sounds, silence met her enquiry.

Three minutes passed in complete silence, her sex excited by her fear. Comfortable in her safety, her fear focused on her impending submission. Although a formal arrangement, she would surrender to his authority, allowing him to punish her with severe pain. At 3pm, the solid white inner door opened. Clean-cut, confident, and mid-forties, Adrian's sharp, suited figure defined authority.

"Jenna, I presume. I'm Adrian."

She rose, shaking his hand, following him into his inner sanctum.

The tan color continued to his windows, shaded with twisted white blinds. A pale blue couch, armless cushioned dining chair, and worn wooden desk occupied the serious space. An uncomfortable straight-backed wooden chair sat against the wall, making the desk appear unusable, unless you knew its true purpose.

He waved towards the couch. "Take a seat, Jenna." He chose the cushioned dining chair.

She admired his navy suit. His straight posture conveyed intelligent authority. If she hadn't known his occupation, she'd have plumped for banker considering his burgundy tie.

She'd upgraded her usual uniform of black skinny jeans with a black blouse and low black heels, pleased she'd made the effort. Beneath, her black bikini panties defined punishment since Ben had caned this exact pair for her professional performance.

"Would you prefer me to administer sound punishment or discuss your failure?" Adrian asked.

"Umm, both, I guess."

He smiled. "You're guaranteed punishment unless you leave before we begin. Tell me what led you here today."

"Okay, it's just." She paused. Would he understand her girlish failure? His attentive gaze expressed solid support. "Well, I've screwed up my love life. Is discussing this okay?"

He nodded reassurance. Jenna fit his expectation. A courageous professional girl seeking a serious solution.

"Firm men attract me. I've churned through boyfriends, becoming bored. They acted tough, satisfying me until they didn't. I just accepted it."

"What changed?"

"My boss caned me for poor management performance."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I mean, it was punishment. Or management training. I needed a kick. I got it."

"Did you mind?"

She shook her head. "He gave me twelve strokes."

"On your jeans?"

"No, my panties. I felt wonderful, free, supported, and humble."

He smiled. "Raising the bar for your boyfriends."

She nodded. "Big time. I haven't sought true toughness. I've wasted three whole years."

Upgrading her punishment to match her experience, he said, "You need caning."

"I know," she sighed.

"Will you accept my judgement?"

"I need it."

"One sore afternoon doesn't excuse three squandered years."

Her heart leaped at his harsh judgement. Wasted time had weighed on her since she'd realized. Facing actual punishment for her laziness, his serious decision surged into her heart, throbbing her honest sex, his toughness pulsing significant satisfaction.

Waving towards a corner, he said, "In my closet, you'll find canes. Bring me the one you deserve."

Standing, she approached his inbuilt closet. Pushing the white door revealed different sized straps hanging on the wall, three canes beside. On shelves, giant wooden paddles, slippers, a hairbrush, and different leather paddles competed to provide her punishment.

As ordered, she studied the canes, matching the middle one to her mental picture. Its two-inch shorter neighbor intrigued her, seeming pointless. The thicker cane presented a puzzle. Should she consider her wasted years worse than her pedestrian marketing plan? She touched the familiar slender cane, remembering the hurt Ben had applied. Shame shifted her fingers. Sliding left, the thicker rattan's dense opinion carried weight.

Approaching his chair, she carried the thickest cane across her palms, presenting him with her choice.

"Well done," he said.

She smiled under his praise.

Standing, he removed his suit coat, hanging it on his chair-back.

Her sex clenched as he unbuttoned his white shirt cuff. His firm male fingers folded his sleeve onto itself in neat, ordered fashion. Each step up his arm showed his intent to discipline her hard, tightening her obedient sex. Accepting the cane, he bent the dense rattan, showing its fierce flexible force. Her stomach swallowed her whole.

"Six strokes, Jenna."

Departing breath received his sentence.

"Your three wasted years deserve three sore afternoons."

Seriousness consumed her soul. He was right. She'd earned a long punishment period.

"Return every two weeks until you've paid for your laziness."

She nodded. "Yes, sir," proud of her obedient response.

Strengthening his tone, he said, "No excuses, Jenna. You're getting six strokes. Expect severe hurt. You need it. Disobedience will earn extra strokes."

"Yes, sir."

He pointed to his desk. "Drop your jeans. Bend over the desk."

Beneath the slanted white blinds, the huge, worn old desk called her. She faced it, unbuttoning her smart, black skinny jeans, proud of accepting his tough decision with grace. Pushing her jeans to her knees, she displayed her black cotton bikini panties. She trusted him. Understanding her failure, he'd issued her a fair sentence. Her thin panties before his smart suit epitomized their relative relationship.

Fear filling her exposed legs, she bent over his desk, resting on her arms. Recalling the cane's thickness, she slid her arms forward, bending lower, her fingers gripping the far edge. She welcomed her isolation high over the road below, street noise delivering her background soundtrack. The heavy rattan rested against her black cotton, emphasizing its meaningful diameter. Her feet planted, she focused ahead.

"Laziness, Jenna. Pure laziness."

Slicing into her soft cotton, blistering heat drove his scolding deep. She cried out, regret weaving into her soaring pain. Panting through her torment, fire roared along her fiery stripe. She pictured an old boyfriend, re-targeting her pain. His contentious exit was her fault. She'd chosen wrong. The concurring cane tapped her bottom. She relaxed, remembering Ben's advice to Emma. The cane struck high, scorching her relaxed skin. Dual bonfires blazed. Biting her lip, she processed her pain with fierce pants until it became bearable.

She gripped the desk through three sound strokes. Flaming stripes met her fierce determination. The sixth signed her thrashed cheeks, angled across every agonizing stripe. She yelled, seizing her unintended outburst between clenched teeth. Rocking away her pain, she stayed bent over his desk.

"Stand," he ordered.

Her striped bottom throbbed through every tiny movement. Tears threatening, she raised her gaze. His expression delivered admiration she needed. "Thank you for caning me, sir."

"You took your punishment well. You should be proud."

"Thank you, sir. Am I allowed to rub my bottom?"

"No. Pull up your jeans."

She obeyed, his rich rejection of her comfort melting her exuberant sex. Buttoning her jeans, pleasure swarmed over her marvelous pain.

"You may leave. I'll see you in two weeks."

Leaving his office caned, her right foot sank onto the stair, inflaming her serious stripes. Purposeful steps delivered decisive discomfort, humility stimulating her sex. Joining the sidewalk, she turned towards her apartment. Adrian's affluent location offered her two metro stops or a brisk walk home. Pride stretched her stride. Her bottom hurt like a wasted year should. Adrian's instruction to return twice would drag out her disgrace for six wonderful weeks, providing a painful week followed by a peaceful week before suffering again. Driven by her dutiful purpose, self-respect surged, speeding her home.

She ripped off her jeans on arrival. Her black blouse, bra and bikini panties landed on her floor as she shifted her freestanding mirror to her bed. Inspiration struck. Naked, she entered her spare room, her old roommate now living upstate with her banker boyfriend. She carried her old roommate's freestanding mirror to join her own.

Angling both mirrors, she kneeled naked on her bed. Staring sideways, her nearest mirror displayed her delicious shame. Five thick red welts lined her cheeks. His last mark, applied across all five stripes, signed her serious punishment.

Grazing her ridges, her tender touch brought sharp intakes of breath. Her sex throbbed respect. Sliding her fingers into her moist folds, she rubbed her bold clit, celebrating the severe sentence he'd executed on her backside. Unmistakable evidence propelled her firm finger. Pre-built pressure exploded over her solid digit. Triumphant delight flooded her sex, stupendous orgasms thundering through her core.

Kneeling, she marveled at his handiwork. She'd try a g-string under her jeans tomorrow. Rough denim rubbing recent welts felt fair penance. Her strictness with herself clenched her warm sex, forcing her finger back onto her hardening clit. Cherishing her punishment, she held her delicate control. He'd inscribed dutiful girl on her bare backside. Humble obedience flooded her. She mumbled, 'Yes, sir.' Her stripes demanded deeper submission. She cried into her bedroom. "Yes, sir." Orgasms cannoned into her sex. Panting on her bed, she decided regular punishment would prepare her for her future boyfriend. Before she slept with any man, she'd admit her need. He could leap on her or take a hike. She was a disciplined girl, reserved for the toughest of men.