Akubens

Rachel looked down at her Autistic daughter's bare butt cheeks as she whipped them hard with the strap. She had never spanked her daughter before, but had felt the exact same strap on her own bottom many times growing up, so she knew just how much it stung, having been a very well spanked girl who got her butt whipped with it a lot more than any of her siblings had. The inherited strap had remained unused in a box somewhere. Until today, when in desperation Rachel dug it up.

Rachel felt a deep pang of guilt as she spanked her daughter's Autistic bottom. She had never spanked precisely because of the girl's Autism, having listened to all the experts and therapists. She wasn't supposed to be doing this. She was supposed to be taking the meltdowns and chaos and fights in stride, right? And now she had seen the fear in her daughter's eyes, and could hear the whines and yelps as she made her buttocks sore with a strapping as bad as the worst strappings Rachel had gotten growing up.

Her daughter was smart and smiled at life, and got so fascinated with rocks. It was adorable to Rachel. But Rachel had snapped today, no longer to take the not so cute things that came along with her daughter's nervous system. And so here she was, gazing down at the cute Autistic bottom she had sworn to never so much as swat. And she kept spanking and spanking and spanking and spanking!

Finally, Rachel stopped spanking and without even thinking repeated the words her own Mom had said to her year earlier: "Now, young lady, unless you want to feel that again, I suggest you behave!" And she walked out with trembling hands and put the strap on top of the kitchen cabinet. She sat at the kitchen table and cried, kicking herself inside but not sure what else she could have done in response to her daughter's hysterical, screaming meltdown and hitting when told "no" earlier.

But something changed that day. Rachel's daughter came out and hugged her saying sorry. Then her behavior changed- she seemed calmer and more able to control her reactions. She seemed to smile at her Mom more, was more quick to do her chores, and the next time she had a meltdown asked her Mom to help her before she collapsed instead of yelling and hitting.

Chelsea was an autistic girl whose parents had stopped spanking her when she was diagnosed with autism. They had apologized, saying they hadn't understood, and started wondering if they too might have autism.

A year later, Chelsea was finding she struggled with intense guilt over things she did that she felt really were wrong, not just part of who she was. That morning she had acted out and gotten a firm look from her mom but nothing else. Later that day, she found the guilt just wouldn't go away.

Chelsea fetched a wooden spoon, one of the many objects she used to be spanked with, and sat on her bed for two hours, hands around her knees and holding the spoon. The guilt wouldn't go away and she couldn't focus on anything else. She wanted to go ask her mom for a spanking, but she felt terrified to do so. It would take a lot of courage to actually ask, especially after a year of her parents feeling they had been wrong to ever spank her.

Finally, Chelsea got up, still nervous and with shaking hands, but determined to cleanse herself of the guilt and tension inside. She went out to the living room and handed her mom the wooden spoon. She rather bluntly said, "Mom, I know you stopped spanking me after my autism diagnosis. But I feel so guilty about acting out this morning. Please give me a discipline spanking. "

Mom, after a moment of shock, composed herself and said, "Ok, Chelsea, if that will help you. But I'll spank just like i did before: hard and on the bare bottom."

Chelsea nodded and said, "Yes, mom, I understand. I need this spanking, please."

“It’s all getting too much!” She admitted, tearfully, to Rachael from HR, who’d been sent to look into her complaint.

“Leave it to me.” Said Rachael, handing her a tissue and a glass of water.

The following day, a smartly turned-out woman in middle years arrived at the office. She presented her credentials at Reception.

“I’m Gloria Sampson, PA to the Managing Director.” She announced. “And I’ve come to interview David Makepiece, your Branch Manager.”

Ms Sampson was shown through to David’s office, where he was busy delegating tasks to his already overworked secretary. When Ms Sampson entered, Miranda got up to leave.

“No, dear.” Ms Sampson said to her. “I’d like you to stay. I need you to be present for what’s coming next.”

To David’s dismay, this stranger from Headquarters withdrew from her briefcase a laptop, which she opened and from which she recited a list of occasions when he had been missing from the office, leaving Miranda to field calls and complaints.

“Now, you have a choice, Mr Makepiece.” Ms Sampson told him. “You can leave now, and someone from HR will flesh out the details of severance pay and so on, for you, in the next few days. On the other hand, if you want to stay in your current post, you’ll have to cooperate with the plan I’m about to propose.

“This plan starts with a detailed letter from you to my boss, the Managing Director, acknowledging everything you’ve been doing wrong, listing all the issues I’ve just read out to you. I shall also expect a grovelling, and I mean GROVELLING apology from you, to Miranda here, who’s been doing her level best to keep this ship afloat, apparently without any support from you. Oh, and you’ll have to be spanked….”

“I’ll have to be WHAT?” Gasped the hapless Branch Manager, unable to believe his ears.

“Yes; if you want to stay in your job, you’re going to have to be spanked, by me, now, in front of your long suffering secretary, who’s the most obvious victim of your considerable wrongdoing.”

“Can I have time to consider….please?” He begged.

Miranda could see the machinery of his brain cranking itself into gear. He looked like he was trying to get his bearings.

“You can have one minute, Mr Makepiece; sixty seconds. That’s all.”

David gulped. Images ran through his mind, of possible consequences if he decided to turn his back on the company with immediate effect. That way, he’d at least be able to leave with his dignity more or less intact.

But the prospects of taking such a drastic step were terrifying. Above all, there was his wife’s reaction to consider. How would he explain his sudden joblessness to her, and the loss of his income? Leaving like this would probably also put paid to the affair he’d been having with that other Branch Manager’s wife, which had been so much fun. Would his own wife now get to hear about what they’d been up to? Would the company’s financial settlement be enough to tide him over till he got another job? He couldn’t imagine they’d be generous. And with a lousy reference, or no reference at all, he’d have no chance of getting another job at the same level.

No. He knew he had to keep his job, if that was possible. This meant he was going to have to swallow his pride and accept the company’s terms, as offered to him by this intimidating woman from HQ. Including, for god’s sake, a spanking! Would he ever be able to live this down?

“You have another 20 seconds to decide.” Prompted Ms Sampson, looking at her watch.

“I …I…”

“Yes?”

“I’ll accept your terms, Ms Sampson.” He mumbled, his head down, avoiding her eyes. “I’d like to stay. Please.”

“Can you repeat that, Mr Makepiece?” She demanded. “I didn’t quite catch it. And look at me when you’re speaking to me.”

“Sorry Ms Sampson.” He said, his voice quavering, forcing himself to look at her. “I said I’ll accept your terms, if I’m allowed to keep my job, please, Ma’am?”

“Very well.” Said Gloria Sampson, getting to her feet. “Loosen your trousers.”

“What?” He gasped.

“You heard me.”

“Does she have to stay?” He pleaded, pointing to Miranda. “If you’re really going to do this to me?”

“Miss Fawcett stays.” Ms Sampson stated, flatly.

Resistance seemed futile. He stood up awkwardly, his legs like jelly, and loosened his trousers, as he’d been told to do. Ms Sampson, meanwhile, was opening her briefcase again. This time, she withdrew from it something, the like of which he’d never seen before: a highly polished wooden paddle, a little larger than a table tennis bat and heavier-looking. He gasped.

“Are you going to …. with that thing … on my … um…”

She ignored this.

“Get on your knees and face the wall.”

He obeyed, with a crimson face. He felt the eyes of both women boring into him from behind. Then there were fingers thrust into his waistband, dragging his trousers and underpants down, exposing his bottom. He had never felt so humiliated.

“Stick your backside out, Makepiece!”

Meekly, he obeyed.

“Now!!”

The paddle smashed into his naked, unprotected arse: one, two, three times, then again and again. He soon lost count; whimpering with the pain and writhing this way and that.

“Hold still, or I’ll start again!” His tormentor ordered him.

When at least, she had finished, the last shreds of his dignity having been stripped away, it hurt so much. He was moaning and rubbing his ravaged buttocks to ease the pain, his eyes shut tight and his face turned away in shame, from the two women.

“Now you can apologise to Miranda, your secretary; the woman you’ve treated so badly.”

He tried to rise.

“No; as you are, on your knees.”

Shuffling around to face his secretary, who was trying to suppress a fit of giggles, he moved his hands, with which he’d been trying to calm the inflamed cheeks of his arse, to his front, in a vain attempt to preserve his modesty.

“I’m so sorry, Miranda!” He wailed.

“Okay.” Said his secretary, still trying not to laugh. “Er… thank you. I suppose.”

“It’ll never happen again.” He assured her.

“I should hope not.” She said, her nose in the air.

“I promise.” He added, weakly.

“Look at you, Makepiece.” Sneered Ms Sampson. “You’re a disgrace, boy. Now, do those trousers up and pay attention.”

Gratefully, he dragged his underpants and trousers back up, over his badly-bruised buttocks and fumbled clumsily with his flies.

“I’ll be emailing you a full confession, along the lines I read out to you earlier, which your secretary will print off and get you to sign.” Ms Sampson told him. “She will make copies and organise where they’re to be sent to. In the meantime, she and I have one or two things to sort out. While we’re doing that, you can stand over there with your nose to the wall.”

He turned to the place she’d indicated and placed his nose a couple of inches from the wall, feeling like a disgraced ten year-old in an old fashioned school. Next thing, he’d be getting the slipper from one of them, he supposed.

“Now, Miranda, dear. While I think of it, do you know how to contact this woman he’s been having it off with?”

“Certainly I do, Ms Sampson. Actually, she’s my cousin.”

“As well as being the wife of a colleague! Well, I think you should start by letting her know that the gaffe’s blown and she’s to stop seeing our boy, here; okay?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard, Ms Sampson. I’ll enjoy doing it; she was always a snooty cow! I’ll see to it today.”

“Great. Well, the next thing is to let you know, I’ll be sending you a format that we’d like you to use for supervising your disgraced manager.”

Miranda glanced at her boss in his humiliating posture and noticed how he flinched every time Ms Sampson spoke, which made her smile.

“Supervising him?”

“Of course! If he’s to keep his job, he’s going to have to be closely supervised. And you’re the person in the best position to do that.”

“I see. So, what’s that going to involve?”

“It means that each morning, you sit him down in here and go through his tasks for the day with him, prioritising and so on. He’s to report to you at intervals during the day, so you can check on his progress. The format provides for you to keep track of his performance and to score it. I’d recommend that at the end of each week, you tot up his score and reward and punish him accordingly.”

“What sort of rewards? And what punishments can I impose?”

“Well these are largely up to you, dear; but I do have some suggestions. For example, if you start him off on the assumption that cups of coffee, breaks, lunches in the canteen and so on, don’t come to him automatically, they have to be earned. They can serve as rewards, until and unless you can think of anything better. As to punishments, well there’s always this.” Ms Sampson said, picking up the paddle and slapping it against her thigh. “Your choice, of course, but it’s what I’d do. I think it would be ideal. In my experience, there’s nothing like a sound spanking for bringing a man to his senses and making him obedient to you, like he should be.”

Miranda grinned broadly. Her boss seemed to squirm and half-turned his head around, as if he intended to take issue with what he’d just heard, but then thought better of it and went back to facing the wall in front of him

“I think I can manage that, Ms Sampson!”

“Oh, and let’s not stand on ceremony, my dear. Call me Gloria!”

Gloria Sampson glanced at the hapless executive, who, she was pleased to note , was still standing where she’d sent him, with his nose to the wall. Then he thrust one of his hands under his waistband and began rubbing his sore bottom.

“Makepiece, boy!” Ms Sampson spoke sharply to him, making him jump. “Did I say you could rub your miserable backside? Put your hands on your head at once!”

He snapped to attention and did as he was told. Miranda gazed admiringly at this woman who was able to put this man, who’d been making her life a misery, in his place, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You mentioned coffee just now, er, Gloria, would you like some?” Miranda offered, enjoying her new licence to address this powerful woman by her forename. “I can grind the beans myself, so it’ll be nice and fresh.”

“That sounds marvellous, my dear. I’d like that.”

Miranda stood up to make good on her offer, but was halted by the visitor, who laid a hand on her arm.

“I’ve got a better idea, Miranda. Why don’t you send him to do it? It can be your first instruction to him in the new order of things in this office.”

“Oh, Gloria! I like the sound of that; I really do!” Exclaimed Miranda.

“Mr …. I mean, David?” Miranda addressed her humbled boss, who was standing with his hands on his head, facing the wall.

“Yes, Miranda?” He responded, timidly.

There was a short pause. Something had just occurred to her.

“From now on” she said. “It’s going to be ‘Miss Fawcett’ to you, my lad. And you’d better remember that.”

“Oh yes, I see; of course” he ventured. “Er.. yes, Miss Fawcett?”

“Go into the kitchen and make a fresh jug of coffee, using the best beans that we keep for important guests. There’s a new packet and it’s in the top cupboard over the sink. Bring it back here with two cups, because I’d like some, too, and a little jug of milk.

“Yes, Mir.. I mean Miss Fawcett.”

He turned around and scurried out of the room, avoiding eye contact with either of the women.

“Well done, my dear!” Exclaimed Ms Sampson, beaming at her protégée. “‘Miss Fawcett’, indeed! You’ve really got the idea, haven’t you? In fact, I’d say you’ve exceeded expectations, already!”

“Thank you, Gloria.”

“Now don’t forget, Miranda, when it comes to scoring him for this task, that he still tried to call you by your first name; a familiarity you don’t want to indulge. I know he quickly corrected himself, but I think we both heard him stumble over it. That’s got to be worth one stroke of the paddle, at least, don’t you think? To add to all the others he’s bound to collect during the week?”

“You’re getting 30 swats if absolutely nothing moves. Better try real hard, pet”

“You know what’s gonna happen if you keep talking like that. Do you want a spanking? No? Well hand me your pants and panties anyway. I need access to your bare bottom in case you keep being a brat”

“You don’t even have to take your jeans off for this one, mutt. I’m sure you’ll feel it well and good right through em.”

“A crying boy is a learning boy. Let’s make sure you really learn”

“Here we go. Timer’s set. Okay, three minutes of the wooden spoon for lying. Hold on tight, little girl.”

“I hope you cry. I want you to cry. I want you to learn from this, you deserve to be broken.”

“Tell me why you’re here, and what happens to disobedient girls? So what am I going to do to you? That’s right. Spank you hard, because you deserve it.”

“Aw, you think you’re forgiven because you were spanked already? Well daddy didn’t spank you yet, little one. We have these rules for a reason. If you get in trouble somewhere else, you’re in trouble at home, and because you couldn’t behave with my friends daddy has to paddle your naughty sore little bottom too.”

“Do you need a reminder of your place, stupid pup? It’ll only take me three minutes to warm that bottom of yours until you’re tearing up.”

“You better fix that attitude, honey. Or do you need some help?”

“These are gonna be hard and fast. No begging, no moving. This is happening, maybe next time you’ll think twice about doing that.”

“I’ve seen your tumblr, slut. Is this what you like? Getting hit like a little kid who needs an attitude adjustment? Daddy lecturing you over his knee and giving you a swollen blistered bottom? You like this? Getting put in your miserable place? Oh don’t start whining now, I’ve seen the blog. I know not to let you up until you’re sobbing and you can’t even beg bc you’re so incoherent.”

“A spanking? No dummy, a spanking is what good girls get for maintenance, like a little kid. I said that you earned a whipping. Isn’t that right? A thorough, hard whipping that leaves you with marks on your thighs, tits, cunt, and sit spots for days. It’s gonna hurt a lot more than a little spanking, and you will be thoroughly corrected. Don’t worry honey, all little slave girls need whippings sometimes.”

“Get closer, yeah that’s right, come here. Ask daddy what he thinks of your behavior”

“The neighbors said you were a brat today. Maybe I should make you stand in the corner with your blistered ass to give them a show.”

“I don’t care when you last got punished. Today is maintenance. If you weren’t so bad this week you wouldn’t have to be worried about how much your ass could take.”

“I’m sorry, pup. This is gonna hurt really bad. You know why I have to hurt you, right?”

“Aw princess, you’re still raw and bruised from yesterday! Still, I have to warm your stupid little bottom up again, it’s the only way you learn!”

“You were such a good mutt this week! But you still need a sore bottom, princess. You know that’s the only way to keep you respectful and nice.”

“Come here. I wanna see some stripes on your thighs. Oh, no reason”

“You’re getting spanked the second you get home. I want you to fold your pants and panties and leave them by the door, then immediately find me to ask for your correction”

“Aww. It hurts? You can’t take it? I thought you were a man, honey. I’m giving you a man’s punishment. I guess I might consider going lighter if you can convince me that you’re really a little girl.”

“Everyone upstairs can hear you pet, so why don’t you start counting? One sir please spank my whore cunt”

“You’re already forgiven doll, I know you won’t do it again, but I’m just not done hurting you yet”

“I’m bringing a friend over today and I need you to be on your best behavior. Go get your paddle and your shortest skirt. If you don’t want him to see your red bottom you’ll need to have the perfect posture. My graceful wife,”

“When I get home I want dinner on the stove and your bare bottom in the corner waiting.”

“You can either obey me right this second, or do it later with bruises on your bottom and legs”

“This is gonna be a proper beating, doll. I’m gonna spank you the way your dad should have while you were a kid. I’m having to do all his work for him, training you to be a good submissive wife.”

“If you take your foot off the floor again I’ll take my belt to your cunt until you bleed.”

“I want to make you cry today, sweetheart. I’m not gonna stop until you’re sobbing genuine tears. You think you’re sorry now, but wait until I’m done with you”

“Wear these shorts today. I want your friends to know you disobeyed me”

“Looks like your disrespectful little bottom is pretty marked up. Why don’t you spread your legs for me, doll? I’m sure there’s some more space to whip. Oh look! Your pretty inner thighs are untouched! Let’s turn them screaming red.”

“Reach back and spread your ass. I’m gonna hit your pretty hole until you break and beg me to rape you. Your choice, omega. How badly do you want to hold onto your pride?”

“I heard that a well oiled bottom makes a spanking sting more. Bring me that bottle, I think you’re due for some punishment anyways.”

“I’m gonna tie your little clitty up and hit it until you break.”

“You are in for it. Go wait in the corner while I cool off enough to punish you properly.”

“Bad girl, remind me to whip you tonight.”

“Go cut a switch. Actually, cut three. I’ll whip your tits too.”

“You thought we were done? Oh that was just part one dummy. No rubbing.”

“Keep asking me to stop, the power I have over you gets me off.”

“Be fucking quiet. As this rate I might as well spank you in the front yard.”

“If sitting on your stool In the corner doesn’t make you cry I haven’t done my job”

“Count these. One, please take care of my attitude, sir”

“You were never caned in school? Really? Well you certainly deserved it. Come here, let me educate you.”

“No safe word tonight, doll. This is a real punishment.”

“No I will not go harder, this is a play spanking. I want your cheeks to be a pretty cute pink for me to look at while I fuck your ass. If you keep that language up, however, I may have to make you bite down on some soap.”

“Put my cock in your mouth. You’re getting a swat for every second it takes to make me come.”

“I had a stressful day at work doll. Let me get some tension out by beating and raping you.”

“I’m gonna let my friend here spank you, severely. He knows all your tricks, how you pretend to cry early on before you get to the real tears, and how to stop you from squirming off his lap. Hopefully the embarrassment of being punished by a stranger will teach you humility.”

“We need to talk about your behavior. Go ahead and strip.”

“Stay still and take it. Show me you’re sorry. Prove to me that you’re willing to learn, that you appreciate me whipping your ass.”

Petra was a high-functioning autistic girl getting the most embarrassing spanking of her life. It was Christmas and extended family and some friends were over. The day was overstimulating for her and she kept doing things that annoyed her mom more and more: dropping a plate, not hearing her mom, freezing when she was supposed to be helping set up, snapping at people. After a few hours of this, Petra was on the verge of a meltdown and felt like a fish out of water while her mom was ready to explode. Her mom knew she had Autism but also believed in that spankings were sometimes necessary as a form of discipline. When Petra, having trouble processing things snapped at a cousin, her mom (not thinking clearly and just angry) grabbed her wrist, pulled her a few feet to the couch and proceeded to pull her pants and panties down in full view of everyone while saying, "You want to keep acting out in front of everybody? You can get your bare butt spanked in front of everybody!" Before she had processed what was happening, Petra was across her mom's knees getting a vigorous hand spanking on her bare bottom. Her mom spanked hard, raising her hand high and spanking with full force and fast. Petra felt tears in her eyes but the embarrassment of being spanked in front of everyone actually helped her keep her legs still and keep from audibly crying. She looked like she was taking the spanking perfectly stoically though inside she was humiliated and wanted to squirm and kick as her feminine butt cheeks stung more and more. People around them had mixed reactions. Some looked away and were clearly uncomfortable, some watched not sure what to think, a couple of the boys giggled, and mom's sister made it obvious she approved. The spanking only lasted 30 seconds or so but deeply humiliated poor Petra. She disappeared into her room and cried herself to sleep.

The next day Petra approached her mom. The shame of the public spanking still burned in her but she wasn't mad that her mom had disciplined her, just that she had done it in front of others. She didn't feel the spanking had done anything to correct her behavior or calm her down, unlike other spankings her mom had given her. She finally got up the courage to talk to her mom, alternating overly intense eye contact with looking down as she spoke. She surprised her mom, who was spending the day condemning herself for the way she spanked Petra, when she spoke, but also gave her mom a way to apologize.

"Mom," Petra said, "Thank you for spanking me! I deserved to be disciplined and probably deserved to be spanked with more than the hand." Her mom crossed her arms, not sure of how to respond, but then Petra after a pause moderated her statement. "But mom, please just discipline me in private from now on. Being spanked like that just hurt me, I feel like I don't want to see anyone again. It wasn't like other spankings you've given me, those made me feel calm and like you were correcting me, this just made me hurt inside and feel like you were angry. Can you spank me just in private from now on?"

Petra's mom teared up and hugged her daughter. She said, "I'm so sorry I spanked you in front of others, honey. That wasn't right. I will still discipline you when you need it, ok? But I promise to never spank you in front of anyone again."

Petra said, "Thank you, I forgive you! And I understand the need for discipline, I understand my Autism doesn't mean there aren't consequences for my behavior, including spankings!"

It still hurt that the spanking had happened, but she felt better having been able (to her own surprise) to speak with her mom about it. Her mom, in turn, apologized to the people she had hand spanked Petra in front of and let her know she had done so.

At the next family gathering, Petra again started getting sensory overload and started acting out. But this time the discipline she got felt much less emotionally hurtful even though it ended up being a lot more physically painful. When she had several times been not hearing her mom, going to her room when mom asked for help, and snapped at her brother, her mom whispered to her to go down to the basement and wait for her. Petra obeyed and a minute later her mom came into the basement, where no noise would get through to the rest of the house, locking the door behind her. She told Petra her behavior required discipline, and Petra nodded, already crying a little. She complied as her mom pulled her pants and panties down and told her to bend over. Her stomach jumped as she heard her mom taking off her belt.

Miranda was an Autistic girl who was getting a very hard bare bottom discipline spanking after her Mom saw her math notes. Her Mom, immediately thinking she was preparing to cheat on her college exam confronted her. She wasn't cheating, but her Autistic nervousness meant she got flustered and looked away from her Mom while stammering "no." Her Neurotypical Mom took this as confirmation that she was about to cheat and ordered her to take her pants and panties down while she got the spanking strap.

Miranda panicked and frantically pleaded that she wasn't doing anything wrong. Her Mom's face hardened and she replied, "Pants and panties down or you get two spankings!" Miranda felt the butterflies rage in her stomach, and her hands trembled, but she only unbuttoned her pants by the time Mom came back carrying the spanking strap. Mom slammed the strap down, and forcefully unzipped Miranda's pants, then pulled them down followed by her panties. Then she snapped, "Elbows on the counter!" to which Miranda complied.

Mom spanked Miranda's bare bottom hard and fast, and promised her the threatened second spanking. As she spanked her sensitive Autistic butt cheeks, Miranda howled and kicked. Mom scolded, "How dare you cheat? How dare you try and deny it? You're a terrible liar! I'm paying for your college and this is how you repay me, young lady?" As her butt became sore and enflamed, Miranda could do nothing but trying to take this unfair discipline. When the first spanking was over, Mom rubbed her buttocks for a second, then whipped her with spanking strap as hard and fast and long as before. She tossed the spanking strap on the desk, took the notebook unceremoniously, and slammed the door shut.

The headmistress, Miss Thorne, had a reputation for strictness that preceded her by a decade. When Sarah, a fifth-form student known more for her mischievous spirit than her academic prowess, was caught behind the bike sheds with a tell-tale wisp of smoke curling from her lips, she knew her fate was sealed.

Miss Thorne's office was a place of polished mahogany and dread. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and furniture polish. Sarah stood before the large desk, head bowed, her heart a drum against her ribs.

"Sarah," Miss Thorne began, her voice low and measured, "you know the rules. Smoking is an egregious offense. It pollutes the body and the mind." The words were calm, but they carried the weight of an unbendable will.

Sarah mumbled an apology, but it was lost in the silence of the room. Miss Thorne rose from her chair, her back ramrod straight. She retrieved a thin, worn cane from a corner of the office, its smooth wood catching the light.

"Six of the best, Sarah. Hand on desk."

The first strike came swiftly. A sharp crack that echoed in the small room. Sarah flinched, a gasp catching in her throat. The sound was a stark, percussive slap of cane on fabric, followed by a low, humming sting that radiated through her skirt. The second strike followed, then the third, each a clean, biting crack that punctuated the silence. With each blow, Sarah’s backside grew warmer, the sting sharpening into a fiery ache. She bit her lip, a tear escaping the corner of her eye. By the fifth strike, the sound was different. It was less of a crack and more of a thud, a dull, heavy noise as the cane landed on skin already tender and bruised. The sixth and final blow was the most searing, a final, emphatic crack that made Sarah gasp aloud, her body trembling with the aftershock of the punishment.

When it was over, Miss Thorne stood before her, the cane held in a steady grip. "A moment of pain," she said, her voice softer now, "for a lifetime of health. Now, go."

Sarah left the office, her backside throbbing, the memory of the sharp, echoing cracks and the burning pain etched into her mind. She walked down the long, silent corridor, the lesson of the cane still fresh and raw.

The door to Miss Thorne's office clicked shut behind Sarah, leaving her in the quiet emptiness of the hallway. The sting on her backside was a constant, throbbing heat, a deep ache that pulsed with every step she took. She held herself stiffly, trying to walk without moving her hips too much, a useless effort that only made the pain more present. The humiliation was a colder, sharper feeling, a knot in her stomach that was almost as bad as the physical pain.

She made her way to her locker, retrieving her books with a grim determination. The thought of facing anyone, of having them see the flushed shame on her face, was unbearable. The school day was a blur of whispered concerns from friends she ignored and a constant, low-level pain that made it impossible to concentrate.

When the final bell rang, it was a release. Sarah hurried to the bike shed, her mind a single-minded race for the familiarity of a cigarette. She fumbled in the pocket of her blazer for the crushed packet, her fingers trembling slightly. The first drag was a sharp, bitter relief, the smoke filling her lungs like a warm, comforting blanket. She leaned against the cold bike rack in the shed, the cigarette, a small defiance against the day's events. The pain in her backside was still there, a hot, angry presence, but for these few moments, it was a distant echo, drowned out by the acrid, familiar taste of rebellion. She finished the cigarette, the butt a small, glowing ember in her hand before she dropped it and crushed it with her foot. The day was ending, and the long walk home stretched ahead.

Then, the other day, I was in the waiting room at my dentist’s, half-heartedly scanning an article about education in the nineteen fifties, in a magazine I wouldn’t normally read when, turning the page, my eyes collided with this enchanting picture of a schoolboy in short trousers, bending over the back of a wooden chair, while behind him stood a thrillingly strict-looking female teacher with a large plimsoll, very like the one my Mistress keeps for me in her kitchen.

I was instantly aroused. Unfortunately, I was not alone on the waiting room. Otherwise, I would have stuffed the magazine into my briefcase and taken it home with me, to bathe in the intoxicating pleasure of that image and its accompanying text. I imagined myself as the boy in the picture, with the hard wooden frame pressing into my stomach, rather than my Mistress’s lovely thighs. Was that some kind of betrayal?

When I saw her next, I described this picture to her, in detail, pleading with her to re-enact the scene with me.

“My knees not good enough for you now?” She remarked, looking sternly at me.

“No, Mistress!” I wailed, stricken with fear that I might be permanently banished from her lap. “You know it’s not like that!”

“Well, “ she said, doubtfully. “You’ll have to supply your own shorts.”

I flung my arms around her neck and kissed her passionately on the cheek, in gratitude. It was an effort for her to disentangle herself from my arms, chiding me for my over-familiarity. I apologised profusely to her, got down on my knees and kissed her adorable toes instead; a mark of esteem that I know she regards as much more appropriate to one of my station.

“Oh, thank you, Mistress.” I sighed. “Thank you!”

I was then soundly spanked for my impropriety and had to stand up all the way home afterwards on the tube.

Being something of a hoarder, I still have an old school uniform in the back of my wardrobe. When I got home, I fished it out and tried it on. To my great joy (I’ve kept my youthful figure!) it still fitted. Unfortunately, the grey flannel trousers were long, with turn ups at the bottom of the legs, rather than the short ones I really wanted. This wasn’t quite the image I was striving for.

But I’m quite handy with needle and scissors, and I managed to cut down the trousers and hem them. Though I say it myself, when I’d finished, they looked quite convincing as the sort of short trousers that would have been suitable for a Junior School boy in about 1960.

I didn’t dare wear my uniform on public transport, however. I decided to change into it when I got to my Mistress’s residence. I got there rather late, so she was already quite cross with me, clutching the slipper as she opened the front door.

“You’d better get a move on, if you’re hoping to put that uniform on.” She said, impatiently, patting her thigh with the slipper in a rather threatening manner.

She made me get changed in front of her, which was a bit embarrassing. She does not like to be kept waiting at the best of times, but I was all fingers and thumbs and it seemed to take me ages before I was properly dressed.

“If you’re not ready in one more minute, young man,” she warned me, while I was knotting my red school tie with the thin white stripes, “never mind the slipper, it’ll be my heavy prison strap you’ll be getting across those delicate white thighs of yours!”

Anette could hear her sister getting a bare bottom discipline spanking in their bedroom. But that didn't matter to her; she wanted her phone! And she had left it on the far side of the room.

Anette confidently walked into the room in the middle of her sister's spanking, and could clearly see her marked, stinging butt cheeks as she lay across Mom's lap. But Anette cringed and tensed up as her Mom paused and scolded her for coming into the room like that, amid a fumbled apology mentioning her phone.

Kourtney tenderly and slowly began pulling her panties up after sitting and moping for a while after being whipped with the tawse. Her sore female butt cheeks were still raw and burning, so she didn't want to feel the constriction of her jeans over them quite yet. But sitting around long enough to be seen by her younger siblings was probably a bad idea.

Kourtney had walked into a spanked butt. She had left her small Kansas hometown for college in New York City. Upon returning home after college, she didn't bother to think about how much she'd changed. It only took 4 days before her exasperated Mom told her, "You seem to have forgotten your manners in the City. Let me give you a reminder."

Kourtney begged and pleaded and apologized as her Mom grabbed her wrist, leading her to the tawse and then to the couch. Mom ordered her to take her pants and panties down and bend over. Kourtney obeyed, but was still pleading, and burst into tears as she stuck her butt out. Mom hadn't spanked her in years and she hadn't realized how much she'd changed. But Mom didn't care; she whipped her bare bottom hard and long with the tawse.

In this house, there is a “spank on the spot” philosophy. Spankings take place right away, as they are needed, regardless of who might be present. In most cases, this was seen as extra incentive to behave. No one wanted to have to bare their bottom and go over Dad’s knee with extra eyes witnessing their punishment. Besides, Dad tended to spank longer and harder with company present, like he wanted to prove a point.

Melissa, the oldest of the three girls, has found herself in a bit of a jam. 

She and a couple of her friends were caught vandalizing a neighbor’s garden. Their motivations remained a secret, but it was a rather embarrassing and immature incident to say the least. Phone lines lit up across the neighborhood, parents were dutifully informed and thankfully, the police were going to be kept out of it. Unfortunately for Melissa though, her father, uncle and cousin were sharing a meal together when the call came in with the bad news.

Melissa’s mother, berating her the entire way, dragged her out of her bedroom and into the living room. Her father was already holding the wooden spoon, an implement reserved for particularly bad offenses. It seemed there would be no trial and they were already ushering her into the sentencing phase. Her uncle seemed amused at her predicament and her cousin did not seem to be trying to hide his excitement at all. 

Yes, a spanking was in order. 

Melissa blushed, trying to remain fixated on the floor. As was customary, she had to lower her own panties before laying over Dad’s knee. She could feel the eyes in the room on her and could hear her cousin stifle a laugh. The foolish incident in the garden now seemed a million miles away. Melissa hoped her friends were going to get spanked just as hard. 

With her underwear at her knees, she took her place over the knee, bottom up and ready. She closed her eyes tight and balled her hands into fists, bracing herself for an onslaught. 

But it never came. 

Dad did not seem to be in any hurry. In fact, he continued to eat and turned the conversation in the room toward other items. Melissa was just going to have to wait in that position!

The minutes dragged on and Melissa could feel the blood rushing to her head. She tried to block out the mental image of what she must look like in that humbling position, exposed like that for all to see. She heard her mother and sisters come into the room and then leave again, all acting as if this was all completely normal. 

I now believe every college town in those days had its own version of Ms. S, but you will not find this information in the history books.

You see, many of us girls still came from provincial towns where the morals and expectations of the late 19th century and first half of the 20th had pretty much carried over into the 1970s. Women like Ms. S played an invaluable stabilizing role for many of us during our college years as we were exposed to so many new ideas and possibilities.

The woman who played this role would usually be a private woman of taste and education, but also one with experience of the changing world, of its snares and the challenges we young women would face. Her appearance and manner and methodology no doubt varied widely by location. I can only speak of Ms. S---in outlook she was not reactionary; in fact, if we take her as an example of the type, then her ideas were rather progressive.

I think we can say with some certainty that all of these women would have understood the importance of moral clarity, self-discipline, courage, and consequences.

Like Ms. S, I imagine many of them lived in a small, well-tended house on a quiet lane within walking distance of the campus.

Her name and phone number would be quietly given out by the dean's secretary when a mother concerned about rumors of a daughter's behavior or her latest grades called to inquire. Once contacted, she would send the girl in question a note on her customary stationary (peach-colored, in Ms. S's case), the envelope small and of the same color or design, her script precise and flowing.

At our college, there wasn't one of us girls who didn't know what the peach-colored envelope meant when they saw another girl slide it out of her mailbox in the mailroom and quickly tuck it away in a book. It wasn't unusual for a certain overdramatic type to start crying when she received one, but most of us were better at hiding their butterflies, the cool blend of shame and fear running up the backs of their legs, the regret at their recent behavior suddenly strong.

Most girls who received such notes at their parent's instigation were no strangers to corporal punishment, mostly in the form of a mother's hairbrush. This instrument can be very thorough indeed when wielded with determination. But now they were young women, and knew that at their coming appointment they could expect a punishment of severity befitting their age. In fact, it was rare that more than one visit would be required to keep the young woman in question on the right path.

But you will want more detail about these matters. Here is my experience. The first time I walked up the path to the front door of Ms. S, I did so as if pulled against my will by many fine strings. I did not dream of disobeying the invitation. I had not been raised that way. But it is a curious sensation for a young woman on a warm autumn day to walk toward her punishment of her own free will. I still remember what I was wearing. A gray skirt of fine soft wool; penny loafers; a green cardigan sweater open over a black blouse. I knocked and was greeted at the door by Ms. S.

Hello, Lisa,” she said. “You are Lisa, aren’t you? Why don’t you come right in?”

I shook her offered hand. I’d pictured a more austere, lean, genteel, and older woman than the tall, even imposing thirty-something woman in a black dress who stood aside as I entered, studying me with a frankly assessing glance.

The house immediately gave me an impression of taste and care as I stood waiting while she shut the door and turned to me, again studied me for a moment, and said, “So Lisa, I understand you’ve gotten involved with a fast crowd that likes to smoke and drink, and that you stopped attending church here in town or even pretending to hide your superiority when you go home to visit. This is not how you were raised to behave, is it?”

Then, before I could say a word in my own defense, she had taken my arm, turned me a few degrees, and smacked me twice hard on the seat of my skirt.

Tears came to my eyes at this indignity. I had in some vague way expected to be treated as an "adult," whatever purpose I was there for. This was a blow to my ego. If I was actually to be punished by a woman I'd never met, there would surely be a quiet, difficult conversation first, a cup of tea, some connection formed, some kind of preliminaries at any rate. Not brisk bottom smacks in the front hallway like those given to a young child. Was there nothing unique about me, about my "case"?

Letting go of my arm, she watched me as I reached back in shock to rub the sting. The force of her smacks seemed to have set something in my entire pelvic region vibrating, and my breath felt a little shallow. She was a strong, handsome woman in a simple black dress, sheer stockings, and low heels, her black hair cut on a slant, with a remarkably clear gaze and beautiful eyes. She was stronger than the average woman, but she had the rare kind of athletic but feminine harmony of form and movement that is striking in person but doesn't come through in most photographs. Beside her, my slender frame felt small, vulnerable.

“I imagine you’re thinking we hardly know each other," she said. "But I’ve actually spoken at some length with your mother, who is very concerned that you may be losing your way. I assured her that I have met many another highly intelligent, pretty small town girl like yourself. She knows you well. I agreed with her surmise that this is a crucial moment in your maturation, and assured her that she could trust me to help you through it. In fact, I let her know that she could expect a call of apology from you later today."

She stopped and led me down the hall and into a small, simply appointed sitting room with windows onto the back garden. She closed the door, then crossed the room to a closet, opened it, and when she turned back to face me was holding a smooth, sturdy men's leather belt. Doubling it up and tapping it lightly against the side of her leg as it hung beside her, she said to me,

"Lisa, I think you know that you are here to be disciplined. I've found that it's generally best to get a girl's punishment out of the way first during an appointment. Then our talk afterwards about expectations will be more productive.”

“But I’m a grown woman,” I said, suddenly realizing how real the situation I'd gotten myself into really was. “I don't have to submit to a... a punishment.”

“Yes, but I believe you will, Lisa, because I can tell that in your heart you already know you’ve earned it. I never punish a girl who doesn’t appear capable of real remorse. There would be no point. I am certain that you are sorry for how you’ve behaved already, but too proud to admit it to yourself. This can become a lifelong habit if not stopped as soon as possible.”

I knew deep down that what she was saying was true. I didn’t even want to be doing the things I’d been doing any longer. But she was right. I was too proud to admit it.

“The best remedy I’ve yet found for such an attitude is this belt. You can start by taking off your skirt. And I think the sweater as well.”

I couldn’t quite believe I was obeying, unzipping my side zipper and stepping out of the skirt as she watched me. It was all happening so fast. My chest felt funny, the air thin, and I had a funny clenchy sensation in my bottom and, since we're being honest here, also between my legs in front.

But time was passing and I couldn’t stop it. When I had taken off my skirt and wore only my blouse, and below the waist just underwear and socks and shoes, I stood before her.

"What a graceful, lovely girl you are," said Ms. S. "It's a shame that you haven't behaved with such grace as you've been blessed with. Are you at all sorry, Lisa?"

I had to keep myself from crying all of a sudden. Yes, I was sorry. But my pride was strong, and I bit my lower lip and gave only a slight, begrudging nod.

"It must be a shock to find yourself standing here before me, Lisa. But I want you to know what I told your mother, who loves you very much: I am going to punish you no more than is necessary to make this a lasting lesson. The point where we will know this has been achieved is different for every girl, but together I think we will find it."

The longer Ms. S spoke to me, the more I felt like she knew me as I really am. As my fear and dread mounted at what was coming, so did my sense of trust that she had my best interests in mind. It was a very curious feeling. And I also had the clear impression that Ms. S was aware of my heightened state. She told me quietly to take off my shoes and then lie down on the couch, and I did so. She told me to take the pillow near my head and place it under my hips, and I did this too. I remember it was a small but plump red velvet pillow. I remember that she stepped forward and tugged my panties down to my knees in one swift motion and that I didn't resist, that my heart beat faster and something in me even thrilled at this intimacy, at the baring of the pert, pale, tender, neatly rounded bottom I sometimes admired in the mirror when alone.

Anne seems to get a kick out of the way that I need a spanking pretty frequently - and regularly...

"It helps keep me happy and helpful," I told her once.

"You know I'm glad to do that, sweetie. Just a short little hand-spanking, right?" she says with a little laugh.

Knowing what that's like, I agree. But I'm not laughing - she spanks hard! Down come my pj bottoms and after maybe twenty smacks (at most!) I'm sort of regretting needing this.

Not that she stops there! Her idea of 'short' is two or three minutes (which is fair, honestly) and she has no problem keeping it up the whole time (in fact, if I'm 'bad', she can manage three two-minute spankings or two three-minute while barely breaking a sweat.)

No, it's me who has a problem with it! Even though I need it and ask for it or, at least, don't disagree if she proposes it, it's hard to take pretty much right away - and we have along way to go!

And, being so 'short', she can have me get ready and then she can 'fit it in' without even disrupting her schedule, most days - so I'm not getting out of it!