Rosalind yawned, her striking hazel eyes widening and ran her hands through her half-secured wayward strawberry blonde hair. To an outsider she was pretty and filled out her clothes well, but she carried herself with careless confidence and cared little for such things.
She was supposed to be a manager, but she hated it. Just because she knew the job backwards didn’t mean she had to be in charge. Then she spotted yet another mistake and sighed. Without the authority to put the distribution on hold there would have been a cock-up. Oh well she thought, I suppose they do need me.
“But all the same,” she said cheerfully, even though there was no one there to hear, “I’ll run it past Mark.”
She stood up and screwed up her face as she surveyed the haphazard state of the tele-cottage shed. It was bad enough that it stank of creosote but why couldn’t that silly Leanne clear-up or one of the other girls?
It bothered her that she thought only in terms of the female failings. Not that she expected Mark to tidy up. But Tom or Allen were no more senior than the other girls. But it was an academic point, not a serious one. Rosalind knew full well that Leanne was to blame today; for one thing she was only one of them in. But where was she? Perhaps with Mark, Rosalind supposed.
Mark’s and her office was in the other building, although she preferred to work with the others. Mark loved the trappings of authority and although he made not the slightest attempt to lord it over Rosalind or anyone, being in-charge came naturally to him.
Well at least the birds are singing, she thought as she stepped outside. There was a small patch of green between the tele-cottage sheds and the fresh air got her away from the stuffy office, but only for a moment. After all, Mark’s office was only 20 feet away.
“Ow,” squealed a girlish voice.
The retort had been accompanied by sharp thwack. Rosalind smiled. Leanne had obviously screwed up again, but Mark knew how to handle that.
She thought of snooty Claire and her attitude and a conversation she had overheard just the day before.
“He is such a bastard,” she had whined, “He can’t do that to us. It’s not right.”
Janine had been nursing a sore bottom at the time and rubbed it copiously. “He doesn’t spank you does he?” she said ruefully. In fact that morning she had been caned. Twelve of the best and she could still very much feel them.
“As if,” Claire spluttered.
“So don’t stick your nose in,” Janine said archly.
“I was only saying,” Claire said defensively.
“Well don’t, it is embarrassing enough innit, Leanne and I have an arrangement don’t we?” Janine muttered.
Leanne had rolled her eyes and blushed.
Rosalind loved the eccentricity of it. Where else could you find office girls getting a spanking when they needed it? And good on Mark for having the balls to do it; if Claire didn’t want in then that was her business. Rosalind knew what she would have preferred in their place. If Claire wanted a reduced bonus then so be it.
Another crack broke brought her back to the present and Rosalind put her hand on the door.
“Ooh, that hurt,” Leanne said in pained voice from inside.
Rosalind went in.
Leanne was bending over the dress with her short red woollen dress pushed up on to her back. Her knickers were calve-bound so that her completely bared bottom stuck up invitingly.
There were more than half a dozen dark pink lines crossing the small white bottom and as Rosalind entered a sour-faced Leanne looked back over her shoulder with red shot eyes that were rimed with tears.
Mark paused, his stance akimbo with his stocky frame poised like a boxer. The pale wood stick contrasted with his black turtle neck so that it looked as if he had a line across his chest.
“Give her six from me,” Rosalind chuckled, “That office is a tip.”
Leanne gaped, “That’s not my fault,” she whined.
“Of course it is,” Mark growled and lay another slash across her bum. “But you still have the rest of your 12 to come.”
“Ahhh, that blooming hurt,” Leanne bleated.
“Twelve, plus six, is that enough I wonder?” Rosalind said mischievously.
“Mind your own… Ooh,” Leanne began, yelping as another stroke swiped her.
“Now, now, Rosalind is your boss too,” Mark laughed.
Leanne pulled a face, but her face softened and she piped up, “Sorry Sir, sorry Ros, I guess I know I deserve it.”
“That’s the ticket,” Mark said brightly and caned her again.
“Oh,” Leanne retorted angrily and stamped her foot.
“When you’re done with her, I need to talk about putting a short hold on distribution,” Rosalind said in a more serious tone.
“What?” Mark said impatiently, “Someone didn’t screw up again?” He shot and angry suspicious glance at Leanne.
She bit down on her lip hard and was suddenly very nervous.
Rosalind was about to agree that she rather thought that it was Leanne when she paused. She pulled a face and adopted a nervous pose.
“I eh… I think it might have been… eh… well that is… I think it was me,” she lied.
The startled look on Leanne’s face was a picture and her mouth and eyebrows danced a tango of confusion.
Mark straightened up and narrowed his eyes.
“Is that so?” he asked archly, “You wouldn’t be telling me porkies would you?”
Rosalind feigned outrage and spluttered, “Why would I do that?” But her blush told another tale.
“Let me just finish up here,” Mark said thoughtfully as he returned to address Leanne’ bottom with the cane.
Leanne had left in a flood of tears and vigorously rubbing her bottom. It was doubtful that she would be sitting at her desk for a while. Now that she had gone Rosalind coyly rocked back and forth on the spot with an odd grin on her face.
Mark frowned. “What are you up to?” he said.
Rosalind shrugged and pursed her lips. Her eyes strayed to the cane still lying on Mark’s desk.
“I’m just curious,” she said with a coy smile.
“I don’t think you want to go there,” Mark said as he followed her gaze, “It is not a game with me and I play for real.”
Rosalind weighed this up with a pout, her eyes focussing somewhere on the middle distance and then she seemed to decide something.
“I’m a big girl,” she said, “and I told you I screwed up. So what are you going to do about it?”
Mark sighed and slowly shook his head.
“Alright kitten,” he said, “It’s your arse, six of the best then, but if you cry off I am going to put you across my knee and you won’t ever trouble me again.”
Rosalind nodded, but her face was rose pink and hot to the ears.
“Knickers down and bend over,” Mark said taking up the cane.
By the time he had turned back Rosalind was already bending over and was busy sliding her dark blue trousers past her knees. She paused for a moment and looked up at him and them with an embarrassed smile she shoved her knickers down too.
Mark sucked in a breath and whistled at the magnificent bottom that met his gaze. Then he licked away a smile that had formed on his lips and found his stern character.
Rosalind squealed at the first stroke then took the next few moments breathing in and out sharply. But she didn’t move and Mark decided it was safe to cane her again.
But for a sharp intake of breath, this time Rosalind made no sound and merely let her bare bottom stick out defiantly as if daring him to do his worst. He did.
At four Rosalind let out a pained “ooh,” and began to make small running motions on the spot.
“Stings doesn’t it?” Mark chuckled.
“Huh-hmm,” she agreed with a wince, her eyes fixed on a spot on the carpet.
The fifth stroke was lulu and she jerked.
“That’s enough,” she said suddenly straightening up.
Mark gaped at her. “You were doing just fine…” and then he smiled smugly and shrugged. “I told you didn’t I?”
“I know,” Rosalind sighed, she bit her lip and gave him a little girl look.
Mark expected her to leave and let a superior expression play out on his face.
“Does a spanking hurt?” she asked innocently.
He made to answer but his mouth froze in surprise as the implication sunk.
“You did say that you would… I mean if I… you’re not a wimp are you?” Rosalind smirked.
Mark’s eyes narrowed and with sudden menace he advanced on his colleague with a purpose.
In the next 10 minutes Rosalind found out what a spanking could be as Mark held firmly across his lap and paddled her with a will.
“I don’t think you’ll be back,” he snarled.
“Not if this is the best you can do,” Rosalind countered, but by then it was pure bravado, her bottom was quite red and sore and tears had begun to prick her eyes.
“Say sorry Sir,” Mark rumbled.
“Up yours wimp,” Rosalind snapped back, but her face was tight and her teeth were sharp on her lower lip.
“Have it your own way,” Mark growled spanking her harder.
I will, Rosalind thought, but she knew it was going to be a very long day.
Filed under: DJB stories, M/F, spanking stories, workplace | 4 Comments
Tags: mentor, mentoring, office, OTK, prank, spanking
Megan held herself up off the saddle with her aching thighs and blushed every time she thought of the exaggerated pose of her back-thrust bottom. The curves of her behind still prickled with a pervasive aching soreness, but it only really bothered her now when she forgot herself an allowed her backside contact with the camel’s back.
Up ahead her stern tormentor looked every bit the desert warrior as he sat framed against the azure sky his head set just so and his jaw proudly jutting. But she noticed now that he had stopped on the rise and was waiting.
Her camel too had lurched to a stop and Megan winced as the saddle’s seat spanked her behind, blushing at the idea that he might have seen the hapless manoeuvre.
“Come on, nearly there,” he called over as if addressing some troops.
Megan thought of Lawrence of Arabia, heedless of the cliché image that might have embarrassed her just days before. Out here the comparison was more than apt. Then urging her mount on she gingerly picked her way up the raised ground to join him and to where she could look down on their destination.
The village was much as she had expected; pretty but unsophisticated. The houses were arranged in traditional sand-coloured cubes with small windows and scattered pell-mell like a child’s play blocks. But here and there the larger houses had domes or outer decorated walls over which palm trees hung to offer the occupants some shade.
Then as the camels topped the rise before descending she saw the villa beyond the town on the opposite ridge. It was of pink stone and bracketed with ornamental trees giving a suggestion of an Arabian palace.
“That’s our hotel,” Ahmed said casually and winked. “It has seen better days and most westerners might scoff at its four star pretensions, but it has hot running water and mint tea or coffee on tap. I have some affection for the old place.”
“It’s beautiful,” Megan agreed and grinned openly and enthusiastically as her journalistic façade was tossed to the desert wind.
“Megan,” Ahmed said with a pained expression touching his face, “I have been called away for a few hours…” he sounded almost apologetic.
Megan drew her mouth into a line and adopted a neutral expression.
“But…” he continued, “I suspect I might get delayed and not return until tomorrow or… perhaps the day after.”
Strangely Megan also felt some regret, but she had already discovered the bath and a day to herself with a book and her lap-top might be just what she needed.
“I could come with you,” she offered.
He rolled his eyes to disguise his pleasure at the suggestion but remembering his upcoming tasks quickly returned, “I think you would be bored. Besides you can rest up here before we go on into the deep desert and… well, I have something to show you.”
Megan smiled, her nose crinkling in expectation; more surprises, she thought. Then she shrugged and nodded.
“See you when I see you then,” she said dismissively.
He grinned and threw up his arms in an expansive gesture of ‘mine host’ and then slapped them back to his thighs ostentatiously like she had seen vendors do in the market bazaars. Then he bowed slightly and touched his forehead before adding a western wink.
“Goodbye,” he said, and then he was gone.
By the next morning Megan was bored. Ahmed had sent word that he had indeed been delayed and might be another day. She had been informed of this by a small dark man in a long kaftan and fez. He had smiled a lot and bowed, but only with the forced politeness of many of his type when faced with a western woman. Or perhaps any woman, she amended, for she had seen none since her arrival.
Her attempts at inquiring about local sights or activities had been met with yet another smile and after only a few minutes yet another tray with sweetmeats and coffee.
“Terrific,” she sighed and prodded at the coconut-based fare on the platter.
Turning her attention to the white marble pillars that stood like sentries around the room she imagined a harem or palatial prison and groaned. There were intricate patterns around the arches and on every wall were mosaics in purple green and blue, all mostly abstract or at most depicting palm trees and water.
Most of the hotel was like this, with swept patterned floors and exotic rugs both draped on walls and gentle on her feet in the intimate rooms.
“Done this now, have bought the t-shirt and now I am bored,” she said aloud, adding a little louder, “Bored.”
That just leaves the village, she thought and grinned. The place didn’t look bigger than a New York Street block, at least she couldn’t get lost and maybe they had a café or even a bar. Although at the back of her mind she imagined hidden souks or welcoming rooms of women ready to gossip and moan about their men. She daydreamed about getting the inside gen on the women of the East for a Pulitzer-winning story.
The day was hot and Megan was less than 30 paces from the entrance when she almost regretted leaving the air-conditioned hotel. On the plus side the town was bigger than she had thought and once she got to the main track she decided that there were at least eight streets winding between the sprawl of buildings.
A faded Coca-Cola sign painted into a wall suggested a shop, but a cursory inspection revealed nothing more than a lean-to with a shelf of canned goods and a few anonymous sacks. There was certainly no sign of a Coke. This was to be the only business of any kind she found and after 15 minutes she had covered half the town. In that time she had seen no one but a couple of elderly men slouching in the shade.
“I have heard of one horse towns, but no horse towns…” she muttered.
A glance up a street she had not actually walked looked unpromising and the heat was getting oppressive. Mad dogs and Englishmen… she thought, and not being English she decided that mad was as apt as any description. God she could use a bath now.
Then she heard a laugh and what sounded like a clink of glass. Thinking of the Coca-Cola sign she whirled around and listened again. There was a definite hint of a bar or café just beyond the last building on the lane and she hastened along to see.
There through a curtain of blue and grubby white nylon strips were a row of men sitting at small tables playing some sort of game. They had jugs and obvious coffee cups in front of them and somewhere just out of sight someone moved back and forth with a tray. A 10 minute respite from the sun felt about good just then and Megan stepped forward and pushed her way through the screen of hanging tapes.
“Hello?” she asked tentatively, “Coffee… eh… café or… coke?”
Every eye in the room swivelled to fix her with matching gazes of bemused horror and all talking ceased. Then before she could beat a retreat the small male enclave exploded into pandemonium. A large man in a smart white robe and headdress screamed at her as he slashed at the air in front of her with his arms. Megan suspected that it was only this verbal violence that protected her from some very real kind from the man’s patrons who had now jumped to their feet behind him. Every voice in the room babbled in a cacophony she did not understand as she faced it down with a placating smile.
“Sorry,” she said through a wince and backed away, “I’ll just… eh… go now.” She hoiked her thumb in a ‘that away’ gesture over her shoulder.
But as she turned to run she ran into the chest of the largest man she had ever seen who calmly and sternly spoke a string of dark words at her. One of which she understood: “Police.”
The previous day had been a whirl. She remembered the shouting men and being bundled out into the hot bright daylight and into a vehicle. Then there had been more shouting, most of it by a moustachioed man down a radio mic. Then she had been driven at high speed out into the desert and long into the afternoon until nightfall.
Now the long hot night was over and Megan awoke in a dark grey cell and her head hurt. She worked her sandpaper mouth and eyed the empty water beaker longingly. But it had been hours since a woman had come to fill it and bleary eyed she yawned.
The main light to the room was through a small high window no bigger than a paperback that shone a hot bright beam into a square on the floor at her feet. But judging from the mucky walls and myriad graffiti she was glad she couldn’t see more.
Megan’s greater concern was the noise outside. She heard traffic and every now and then someone shouting in ever desperate tones until an alien authoritative voice yelled back and silence fell. This temporary hush was the worse but it was soon filled with plaintive cries and other outside sounds.
Every now and then footsteps drew near and Megan hoped and dreaded they had come for her, whoever they were and for the first time she really missed Ahmed. At least if they came she could have water.
“Hey, I’m an American, let me out of here. I am a guest of your big honcho,” she yelled in frustration.
Her outburst was met by nothing.
There were three of them. They sat in a row facing her in this small dark red and grey painted room. All of them wore sunglasses, even though the room was gloomy and poorly lit. The two older men, grizzled and grey, wore traditional garb and next to them on her left sat a westernised man of around 40 wearing a bad suit. Only 10 minutes before she had still been in her cell hoping for water and no one had yet explained to her what she had done.
In broken English the younger man the suit had told her that the elder in the middle was a magistrate and the other man her prosecutor.
“What have I done?” she asked bewildered, “Are you my lawyer?”
The man frowned and looked as if he might laugh. Then he muttered dismissively, “No, no, the lawyers come later if they are needed… magistrate… he… um…” the man waved her away in irritation, “he hasn’t said if you are guilty yet.”
He broke off because the older man had started to talk with the other and the three of them leaned in a huddle.
“You,” the younger man said suddenly pointing at Megan, “You went into men’s…?” he said something she didn’t know and the man waited for an answer.
“I thought it was a bar?” she said indignantly and made to say more, like… what did they mean the lawyers come later?
The man dismissed her again and nodded as he rattled off fast words to the others.
Finally the old man held up his hand and glared at Megan as if she were something he might have stepped in. He said a few brief words and then stood up and left.
“What happened?” Megan wailed.
Ignoring her the younger man shook hands with the prosecutor and they laughed.
“Hey?” Megan yelled at them.
“You quiet now,” the English-speaker snapped, “You are guilty.”
“What?” she hissed.
“Three years in jail and 1,000 lashes or also…” he continued in his bad English with some numbers she didn’t catch but it sounded a lot, but she caught the word ‘fine,’ “Prostitution and public disrespect is illegal here.”
“What?” her mind still stuttered at the first meaningless phrase as it now baulked at the casual accusation. “Do you mean…?” she asked frantically, not sure what she was saying.
But the men weren’t listening and before she could ask more the door opened and a policeman in smart grey-white uniform and a cap came to take her away.
“Hang on,” she gasped pulling away from him, “Did you say jail, a thousand lashes, you mean…? What is going on please?”
Before she could say more the policeman put a firm guiding arm on her and said almost gently something like, “Kah shala,” and “please.”
“Listen there has been a huge mistake,” she told him, “I want the American Ambassador… I want Prince Ahmed… I want…”
“And you always get what you want,” the younger man said with scorn as he broke off from talking to the prosecutor.
Megan felt sick.
The room was clean and bright, almost clinically so and Megan felt numb. The strange furniture in the middle of the chamber was almost certainly a whipping bench of some kind, she thought idly but at least… she sucked back a sob. She wasn’t going to give these people the satisfaction.
On the way to this room she had been led across an open courtyard. She had been dressed only in a long white cotton hospital gown with the proverbial gap at the back. Not that there had been many to see her. But there in plain sight of a public viewing area had been a whipping frame and a long bench with canes and six foot leather whips on it. Terror had crushed her and it was almost a relief to be led into this lesser place.
Now she was afraid again. She had no sense of time and it seemed like an age since she had seen Ahmed. What had it been now, three days, four? It did not go unnoticed that when she thought of the outside she thought of him and not home, although God knew she wished she had never come to this country. Three years in jail for what? No one had told her really and next to that a spanking seemed nothing.
Only it wouldn’t be just a spanking and she remembered the whips. She thought too that if she hadn’t come here then she wouldn’t have met Ahmed. Why did that even matter? What was he to her? Look at what he had done and how he had treated her.
Megan managed a smile and thought about her spankings, she had deserved them both by his lights and she knew now that he had saved her life. If only… her smile vanished and she sighed. She was still pondering this and the fine they mentioned… (oh why she couldn’t just pay it and go?) …when the door opened.
This time the men who entered looked more official and one hell of a lot more on the ball. The first man in his expensive London suit even spoke excellent English. Although the second man in the flowing robes of traditional garb looked far more intimidating.
“Miss Kent,” the suited man said in a neutral voice. He smiled firmly and brandished some papers. “I am here to facilitate and expedite this unpleasantness.”
“I demand…” Megan began snarling retort.
But the man put up a silencing hand and shook his head.
“No demands please Miss Kent,” he said.
“I am not a prostitute,” Megan said sullenly.
“I believe you,” he agreed, “But that is not the principle charge. In any event the matter is closed. For a payment of $20,000 the prison term can be suspended, but there is still the matter of 1,000 lashes.”
Megan’s eyes were wide and she looked at the punishment bench with growing horror.
“Today you will receive up to 100 strokes and once the payment has been made you will be free to go on condition that you surrender your passport within three days. Unofficially I suggest you go home before that happens and chalk this whole episode up to experience.”
“But I couldn’t possible organise that kind of money in three weeks let alone three days,” Megan wailed.
The man shrugged. “Then you will be held here until you pay and every three to five days you will receive up to another 100 lashes. If the sum has not been paid by the time your lashes have been completed then you will be moved to a permanent facility.”
He looked the picture of regret and shrugged again. Then to Megan’s surprise he gathered his papers into one neat bundle and with a curt bow turned on his heel and departed. This left his headdress-draped colleague regarding her with cold mirror sunglasses.
“Come back,” she yelled, “I want to see the consul… I want…”
Want doesn’t get, she thought grimly, my grandmother would have said it serves me right. But Megan wasn’t given time to ponder as the other man now stepped forward and took up a rather nasty looking long thin cane. He nodded to the bench and added in a thick accent: “You will bend over and give me your bare bottom.”
Megan gulped. Then thinking of the public area outside and seeing no other choice she sucked in a breath and slowly made to obey.
The bench had soft warm leather that pressed into her tummy and as she bent fully over her gown parted as her the naked curves of her bottom jutted back. Heat suffused her face and she felt small tears pricking at her eyes. Don’t jump the gun now, she thought, he hasn’t started yet.
“Such a pretty bottom,” Ahmed said as he removed the sunglasses and tossed away his headdress.
“Ahmed,” she squealed and made to get to her feet.
“Remain as your are,” he commanded.
Megan gaped at him over her shoulder more than a little apprehensive at his harsh manner.
“Please Ahmed, this is embarrassing,” she wailed.
“Oh this is embarrassing,” he growled in a sharp voice dripping with incredulity. “Have you any idea how embarrassing it is to have one’s guest arrested for indecency and disturbing the peace? You almost caused a riot and got yourself killed.”
“I was only…” she said sheepishly, mortified at her revealing posture and blushing as much as she ever had.
“I told you to stay at the hotel. I told you not to wander off,” Ahmed snarled, his face now like a tiger who might eat her.
“Sorry I… I was bored,” she said in a lame voice.
“Are you bored now?” he sighed.
She managed a laugh and ducked her head. “No,” she said in a small rueful voice as her lips made a lemon-suck.
“I can just take you out of here on my own authority and send you home,” he said wearily, “Or…”
“Or?” she asked hopefully.
“Or on my word of honour I can take you in hand and claim responsibility for your punishment and we can continue with your tour. The fine… it is no matter and can easily be paid,” he said in a voice with a tone somewhere between disappointment and resignation.
“You mean…?” Megan said breathily on the verge of some laughter.
“I mean if you agree to surrender to my care I will spank you as many times as it takes to discharge the punishment,” he said in an amused indulgent voice.
“It figures,” Megan pouted, “But you’re saying I get off the whipping and… oh I will pay you back for the fine by the way. Once I am home it won’t be that big a deal. The magazine might even spring for it, if I ever get up the nerve to tell them that is.” She was gushing nervously. “But if… if you still want to be my guide then I’ll stay. Even if…” she swallowed hard and in a thick soft voice muttered, “another spanking.”
“Then you won’t be putting this episode in your story then?” he chuckled.
“No freaking way,” she gasped. Then with a continued blush she added, “Can I get up now?”
The exaggerated posture with her bottom sticking up was becoming uncomfortable as well as humiliating.
“Oh I don’t think so, do you?” Ahmed said sharply. “I think I know a young lady who would have benefited from a traditional English education.”
“Oh no, you don’t mean…?” Megan’s eyes were wide now.
“I mean that two dozen strokes of this nice light cane would be a good way to start your punishment,” he chuckled.
“Bastard,” she grunted at him under her breath.
“Then you agree?” he said as he weighed up the cane and moved behind her still proffered bottom.
She was about to snarl at him something like ‘what choice do I have?’ when she remembered that he had given her a choice and furthermore he had risked his precious honour to get her out of a jam.
“I suppose,” she muttered grudgingly.
“A little more grace please,” Ahmed said sharply.
Looking back of her shoulder she glared at him but she couldn’t long meet his gaze and finally with a sigh she said, “Yes Sir, I… I agree.”
Megan’s heart was racing. If it had been anyone else wielding the cane she would have resented it with a rage, but although she was furious with herself now, in Ahmed’s safe hands she viewed the situation as little more than an extension of her desert adventure.
Or at least that was what she had decided until the first swish cut the air and landed squarely across her bare bottom. The jolt of pain lingered there for only a moment before surging through her to burst behind her eyes.
“Ummm,” she groaned as she rode it. Thank God she was an American; her old school paddle had nothing on this little biter, she thought and went on thinking it as the nippy little sting continued to build.
The liquid fire of the stripe felt tight almost like a wire was straining across her curves, a white hot wire at that. She was still riding it with an almost indecent squirm when Ahmed caned her again.
“Emmmmmmmm,” she gasped through clenched teeth as she tensed in wonder of it.
Heedless of the obscenity of her display she shook her tail like a demented dog in a futile effort to shake out the sting. This keeps me out of jail, she thought, running the mantra over and over through her mind as if it would ease any pain.
“You have no idea how much it took to give you this chance,” Ahmed said angrily as he lined up for another shot, “My influence has its limits. I can only pray my grandfather doesn’t find out.”
Megan took none of this in and it was all she could do to latch onto the word ‘give’ like he was offering her a gift. Yeah, she thought ruefully, a gift that so definitely keeps on giving.
“Oooooh, nnnnnh,” she gasped as the cane scored her again.
This time tears boiled in her eyes and she had to claw at the leather on the bench. I could never… a thousand they said… the thought humbled her. This was no time for ingratitude; Ahmed had quite literally saved her ass.
“Sir,” she said breathily as she tried to draw air, “H-how… how many please Sir?”
“I have spoken of two dozen, you have 21 to go,” Ahmed said, he sounded concerned. “Can you manage?”
She nodded emphatically. I am an American goddammit and I pay my debts, she swore to herself. But the next stroke tested that resolve and so did the one that followed.
“Yaaaahhyieeeee,” she shrieked with a self-indulgent howl. It felt good now to finally surrender to it.
Megan did not register the rest of the strokes in real time. Her world was all bottom: hot, tight and swollen as it loomed behind her served on a plate for Ahmed. When he spoke it was like a song in her ear and she clung to it gratefully. Not just because when he talked he did not cane, but because his kindness was a balm; honey to pour over the bitter spice of her chastisement. Never had she felt so alive.
“Just a few more to go now,” he murmured as he lined up the cane for the final six.
Megan tensed and thrust her bottom back some more then held herself. The skin was mottled red and mauve and across the whole surface of her behind where pencil-thin ridges, which like corrugations crossed in tight neat lines from the valley of her cleft down to where her rounds curved under to meet her thighs. Each worm of engorged flesh throbbed and fizzed as they gently tormented her long after chastising impact had bitten her.
Ahmed waited, admiring the tapestry he had shaped, his honour now mixed with sympathy, a sense of justice and a familiar tight excitement in his stomach.
Megan was not sobbing out loud, not yet, but tears flowed copiously as she gently shook. Only when the cane struck did she cry out. But for a moment she was too tense and he waited. Then her posture softened and he struck.
A whine bubbled from her throat and she came close to breaking. This fresh stroke sawed into and burrowed deep. but the cut felt clean. But it still hurt so much as the next bit down.
“Four more, just four,” he said, now regretting he had announced so much. Why didn’t I tell her a dozen?
Megan nodded and pushed out her bottom. Ahmed caned.
“Aieeee,” Megan yelled, a song repeated for each of the rest.
“We’re done,” he said at last.
“Done?” she moaned, she felt bereft as if this micro life was now over.
“I gave my word on it and you took it well,” he said.
She sniffed back a tear and then broke to silent trembling. This went on for a short age before at last a howl broke from her mouth and she shuddered into open sobbing.
“Are you alright?” he said as he moved to hold her.
She nodded and forced a grin.
“Unless you count the fact that I might never sit down again,” she managed as a tear dripped over lip.
He snorted in amused support then ruffled her hair.
“Bastard,” she said affectionately.
“Do you want another two dozen?” he asked still smiling.
“Not today please Sir,” she winced ruefully.
To be continued.
Filed under: DJB stories, judicial, M/F, Romance, spanking stories | 9 Comments
Tags: caning, desert, spanking
The bed vibrated under her heart as it pushed out an unheeded mayday message. Her fingers swirled patterns, her hair was wisps of distress, her shoulders high in revolt.
Her legs, though, were snapped together. It was the only show of impotent control that she could muster up. Her back was arched, a curve from the shoulders to her bottom, which was perched high on his lap. Her bottom was on remand, a repentant prisoner, shy under his gentle hand.
The skirt she was wearing seemed long enough that morning. It was modest enough to cover her as she curled up to read or as she walked around the house. Not long enough for company or for being outside but perfectly correct for an intimate day at home. Now, as she lay over his knees, it seemed pitifully lacking in length.
Her foot gently bounced on the bed, her calf collecting tension from her mind as it whirled the vision of herself down her prone body.
To be undressed by another is unneeded and to wait for it to happen is intolerable. She tried telling him this but he did not heed her. Very slowly the skirt was lifted away from her and laid to rest on her back. Her breath grew short from the shame of it, her fingers tapped her distress as her words went unheeded.
Underwear is a private thing. Ladies are allowed to disrobe in privacy before they drape themselves artistically over a chaise longue. They do not lie like a statue and wait to be revealed.
And yet, she lay like a statue waiting to be revealed. “I am shy” she wanted to cry out to him but she knew that this would be old news to her lover. He had known her feelings on the matter since before he had heard her name or seen her face.
Her eyes pushed tightly shut as he rubbed her bottom, two round hills of white, smooth change, waiting for his retribution. She knew , just as he did, how much she would prefer a perfunctory series of slaps. She would play along and say “No, no, stop.” And then it would be over, she could smooth down her clothes and return – unhindered to her day.
She listened to her own breath shake as she felt his smooth, unhurried hands trace the shape of her before he, with the care of a loving sculptor, edged down her knickers to frame her bottom to his liking.
“It is so humiliating.” They both thought.
It was the Fall that did it.
That moment when Adam and Eve first looked down in horror and blushed at what they saw. It was a moment when underwear designers little sparkly pre-existence stars twinkled that bit brighter.
Since that point we grew up and covered up. No more innocence for us.
There is a time as little people when it seems perfectly sensible to disrobe at any given moment on the scantest of evidence. Do you remember that? On the beach? Throw your clothes off. Almost time for bed? Throw your clothes off. Too hot? Throw them off.
And then we grew up and looked down and gulped.
We dress with dignity, we are being adult, we will be taken seriously.
Some people are ok with it still though, the scantily clad, the displays of underwear, the displays of curves and secrets. Good for them, be happy, feel joy but that is not for me.
I can be naked and happy. In the bath, I float among bubbles and slick water and feel utter joy and splendour. In my lovers arms’, I know not whether I am anything at all, words won’t form , thoughts won’t come to me- I just feel a depth and breadth of mindless wanting, a delirium of joy.
Until moments later when I shriek and cover myself, insisting that he not see what moments before I was insistent that he found.
It is the other person doing the disrobing that is so hard.
I choose my underwear with care yet I blush so when he chooses to see it. I pull my skirt back down, demanding my adulthood back. I cannot bear that I have no control over myself, that he sweeps it from me.
I cannot imagine the horror I feel when he sees my naked bottom, I cannot begin to remember how awful it feels. I don’t want him to see me like this. At such times, I don’t want him to see me at all.
What is odd, is that at such times, he sees me more completely and with more truth than anyone has ever seen me in my whole life.
Filed under: Indigo Sigh, real life | 6 Comments
Tags: OTK, spanking
Getting back and catching up, hmmm seems we have been here before.
There has been much going on while I was away, but I don’t intend to rehash too much. Backlash seems to be gaining support, but I couldn’t find a central website outlining the issues or the campaign – maybe someone could get on that? My professional services are available.
But I was pleased to see that Amelia (in her Ariel guise) and her husband (Hywel) at Restrained Elegance have released a free ‘protest’ video featuring a judicial caning. Thanks to MarQue for the heads up.
Revues of 50 Shades have also hit Spankville. The BBC even approached me for my views and a contribution to Women’s Hour. Everyone is getting quite excited. Here is a revue by a professional dominatrix on the Daily Beast found via All Things Spanking and Chross has a review of sorts and if I ever see it I will comment then. The consensus seems to be that it is slightly better than the book, but many controversial scenes were cut. I am not hopeful.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 1 Comment
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
There are some relationship truths. These may be true for some people, they may be true for everyone, I have no idea about this.
Relationship truths, once understood make life a little clearer, like a filtering system in a pool they allow for clarity and make swimming around together just that bit safer and more fun.
Amongst these are relationship truths such as the word “fine.” When a man says “fine” he tends to mean “good, ok, adequate” something along those lines. When I say “fine” it means “I am really upset and I can’t believe you have not noticed that yet.”
Knowing this is just a tiny detail that understood makes everything easier to navigate.
Shopping is a leisure activity as is ice cream.
Being brought a cup of tea in the morning is a basic human right but expecting morning conversation is not.
It could be that when one started a relationship that one would run through all of these idiosyncrasies as a kind of “Getting To Know” event. There could be greetings cards and a series of tick off boxes for the really common traits. Even though it would save an awful lot of time and trouble this is not how we choose to do it at all.
Maybe we want the joy of discovery, maybe we do not want to give away all our secrets at once but maybe it is that we do not want to admit some truths because we fear that some truths are not so palatable as others.
We all want to be the person that we believe that we should be so we hide some truths. We make it harder by doing this but it is worth the price we think, for a while at least.
Insecurity and shyness we hide, fear and self loathing we hide. It may be quite right to hide these very common feelings, they are part of each of us and do not need the air time of extra attention. The relationship truths come in the way that they manifest themselves though, the way that insecurity manifests itself in avoidance and a chipper good humour so acute that it could be used to on the front of whaling ships to break up icebergs.
Then there are the needs that we each have, some shared and obvious and some a touch more individual.
I have to take this into the realm of the personal now or it will be bland nonsense, worse, bland nonsense coming from fear.
I need to be held, I need to be seen, I need to care for the man that I love. I can admit these pretty early on.
I struggle to admit this one that I am about to write about, I struggle with it because it is true, it is not attractive and it is not what I wish to be known. This is one of those things that when it is known a whole lot of control pours through my fingers and spills where I have no control of it.
There are times when for me and when I am in a dark and difficult and lonely place, a time when I have pushed away the man that I love – this is the time when only too much is enough.
This is an ancient truth, a core truth and I would not admit this to anyone but the man that I write this for. I would not allow anyone else to have this truth. They can read it if they like, they can see if it applies to then or to the person that they love but they may not apply it to me. It is too deep, personal, a whispered silence in the dark, a look between lovers, an understanding without words.
Except this writing has words, because apparently I need to admit this. I know that he knows this truth as he is starting to know everything about me. Maybe not now but along our time line he knows it all.
So in these dark and lonely times I have spoken about – there is no naughtiness or bratting, no hidden smiles or cheeky comments, no teasing pushing of buttons. What makes it so bad is that if you did not know me you might look at my behaviour and see all of the above, because I will cover up everything with a thin, tight veneer of happy, playful behaviour, a harpy song to tempt us both onto the rocks.
I am a harpy like at these times, talons to tear and eyes that turn and see it all. Girls are not supposed to be like this, when we are unhappy or fearful we are supposed to look up with our eyes brimming with tears and ask for help, demure and confident in the man that we love.
But in our, in my harpy times I do not trust anyone or anything and wish to release myself from any relationship bond. At this time I believe that any bond is fictitious and any love is just a pretence while he works out a less embarrassing way to tell me to go away.
So at these times I deceive and I lash out. I manipulate and I seek to destroy out a sense of honesty of nothing else. If I were not loved then that would be an end of a relationship or worse it would be a time when I was misunderstood and flowers would be bought, he would apologise because he would hear what I said and not have a clue what I meant.
I have a fear, a fear of being too happy, a fear of being too known, too seen, because I have no doubt this will lead to loneliness. I have a fear that I will not be able to control my lover’s view of me and that then I will not be able to control him. This is when I will be lost in him and this is when he will go and I will remain lost and alone.
I am almost completely unaware of this fear most of the time but it has been the driving force that has kept me safe and independent for most of my life. I learned it early and so far it has worked well for me. But it does not work so well now.
When this fear steps up I know just what to do. I lie just enough to make myself a victim and him the unloving one. I am funnier and brighter and speak not one word of how I really feel. I beat the rush to make sure that I am absolutely isolated and alone.
This man knows me and I love him too much to keep it up. So I tell him all the secrets that I have never told another and he is able to hear and to understand and does not go away. I don’t understand any of this bit.
Then he takes it all away from me, he won’t let me drive “us” any more.
This is when only too much is enough.
This is when if he spanks me until it hurts it will just intensify the cycle of deceit and unhappiness. It is when if he uses the same positions and the same implements as the ones I am used to or expect I will be left with the same confusion and insecurity as before.
So this is the time when he has to take me further than I would ever want to go, it is when he has to use all his knowledge and insight to work out what is too much because it needs to be too much for me or rather it needs to feel like too much but he knows it is enough to bring me home again.
Filed under: domestic, Indigo Sigh, M/F, real life | 6 Comments
Now it’s not like I don’t think a girl needs a good spanking now and again. I don’t exactly like it, but there is no denying that it does a girl good. This was a lesson I learned in school.
At 18 Miss Parmenter told me after a particularly memorable shellacking that I had a bottom on me that was never going to be safe.
I was a little tearful at the time and I was sporting a dozen biting lines of fire across my bare bottom when she shared this little gem, but I asked her what she meant.
“My dear,” she said imperiously, “Some girls will get through life with a bottom untouched by mortal man and others will suffer the sting of a thousand spanking hands. But you my little Rachel Roux have a bottom on you that I defy the gods not to chastise.”
I had wanted to protest or at least find out more but she had leaned in close and whispered, “I suggest you leave now before I give you another dozen.”
I hadn’t needed telling twice.
But it played on my mind and I have to confess I was intrigued. You see spanking and other girls’ getting the cane was something of an interest of mine; in a purely academic way of course. But hearing about such things always gave me a funny feeling.
Even when it was my own bottom in the firing line my fear was always tinged with an excitement that stayed with me at intimate times until well after all marks had faded. After Miss Parmenter’s little chat these feelings only intensified and many a time I stood naked in front of a mirror to turn this way and that as I assessed my dubious assets.
I had been caned a few times, although strangely only in my last year, but my first proper spanking happened during my last weeks of school. I was a bit demob happy and became embroiled in an illegal game of tennis with some of the boys. It was a game that started with a few cans of beer and ended in two broken racquets and one torn net.
Bull-faced Thomas the head games master found me flat on my back in a fit of giggles in the middle of the tennis court. The boys had all scarpered by then, not without urging me to flee also, but I was a stubborn brat in those days.
“Miss Roux, how nice,” Mr Thomas, as I feel I should call him, said pleasantly, “Did you enjoy your game?”
“Eh…?” was my best response.
He was a big bull-faced man who always wore heavy cricket jumpers over a chest like a barrel. He was always polite to the girls, but you knew he was angry because even when he spoke softly his ruddy face turned purple. That was the way he had looked at me then. By the time he spoke again I was on my feet.
“Tell me Miss Roux, shall we make a visit to Miss Parmenter or do you prefer to step into my office?” he asked me, still pleasantly of voice, but now ruddy of face.
I knew old Bull-Face was a terror with a slipper and there were even rumours that the big girls had their knickers taken down. But you have to realise that Miss Parmenter would have given me a baker’s dozen before asking question one and Mr Thomas may not have been required to leave the room anyway.
The thought of the headmistress crushed most of the usual excitement out of existence, but strangely the prospect of the slipper from old Bull-Face seemed almost comedic.
“Eh Sir, please Sir,” I said cheekily, my hand held aloft like some sprog, “Your office please Sir.” I almost giggled.
His eyes became like slits and all the little curls of wiry grey hair on his head seem to stand on end. I particularly liked his huge eyebrows, they were deliciously stern. Then he slowly crooked a wagging finger at me and I gulped. No more giggles.
The slipper was huge. It was one of the old-style tennis shoes with a very thick sole. Mr Thomas worked it back and forth between both hands as if limbering it up. Then he pulled an armless plastic bucket chair away from the wall and sat down.
I heard about the over-the-knee sessions, but most girls got it bending to touch her toes.
“Are you honest girl?” he asked pleasantly.
I nodded, but my tummy was tingling furiously.
“We’ll see,” he muttered. “Swats or an imposition?” he asked.
I just pointed mutely at the slipper and pulled a face.
“Fair enough,” he continued. “Tell me, have you ever had a bare bender from Miss Parmenter?”
I gaped and blushing furiously I almost told him to sod off. It was none of his business.
“The reason I ask is if you haven’t, then your knickers stay up. If you have then you need to take them down. That’s fair isn’t it?” he said with expansive magnanimity.
I gulped and blushed even more. I couldn’t argue with that.
“What if I lie?” I said.
He shrugged. I guess that was why he asked me if I was honest.
I rolled my eyes and with as much courage as I could I reached under my tennis skirt without another word to tug them down and slip them off.
“Down would have been sufficient,” he said disapprovingly. But I found myself suddenly across his knee all the same.
“I’m 18,” I wailed as if it had anything at all to do with it.
“So you can consent,” he countered.
“Oh yes,” I said stupidly and rolled my eyes again, duh.
Then with a sigh he grabbed the back of my skirt to bunch at my waist and landed the first spank.
Ohmygodlovingshittingchristonabicycle. Did you know that when 90 kilo man spanks a girl’s bare bottom with a relatively flat surface and with a decent force then it really hurts? Nor did I back then.
The second spank was rather worse and by the third my bum was on fire and I was yelling my head off for England. By the second minute in and countless spanks to my bare bottom I would have traded the spanking for a dozen from Miss Parmenter any day.
It doesn’t do to cry, girls just don’t, although I have in front of Miss Parmenter. I usually save the tears for the bogs after. Or when I am back in my room and face down on the bed. But less than halfway through my spanking at the hands of Mr Thomas I was bawling like a sprog.
“I’m sorry,” I howled and maybe some other things.
“There that should do you,” he said at last and some considerable time later.
I was a lake of tears with a well blow-torched bottom by then and it was a minute or two before I even knew he had finished.
It was so embarrassing to be sent to the corner like a sprog, especially when he had me put my hands on my head so that my short skirt lifted off my bare bottom. But I would rather that than be returned to school in a flood of tears. So instead of having lunch, I stood meekly in the corner and hoped no one else would come in.
After I was dismissed Mr Thomas confiscated my knickers and I had to walk to my room in an impossibly short skirt. But old Bull-Face had said I was showing off when I removed them and part of me thinks he was right.
“Thank you Sir,” I said as I left, and I meant it. But I was dreading the stairs that led to my room.
Anyway that was how I got started with what was to be the pattern of my life.
Oh silly me, did I say that my name is Rachel Roux, pronounced ‘roo’? I’m 26 now, a little on the short side with dark brown hair, which I sometimes wear short and sometimes tint with highlights. I carry a little too much weight for my height and my bottom is definitely too big.
I work for a magazine and get into all kinds of scrapes. But strangely it is my bottom that always seems to come off worse. But it has got me out of as many situations as it as it got me into, so I suppose that’s only fair. That sounds kind of odd doesn’t it? What I mean is… oh God my deadline… Charlie is going to kill me, well not kill me, he will probably just… yeah, I have really got to go.
Filed under: DJB stories, F/F, M/F, spanking, spanking stories | 8 Comments
Tags: can't sit down, college, corner time, corporal punishment, OTK, spanking