When a bottom becomes a switch

When a bottom becomes a switch

What is it that changes a person who was strictly a bottom to a switch? I started out as a bottom and when a person asked me if I would spank them, I agreed mainly out of curiosity. Now I am probably about half and half. I have been asked how I decide if I am going to spank or be spanked. There are a lot of things that will affect which side of the paddle I am on. There are people who I only am spanked by, there are those who I spank, and there are those who I can spank or be spanked by. Sometimes it is my mood. I may not feel like giving up control or I may have played with someone else already and am not physically able or ready to do so again. The same can be true for topping, if my hand or shoulder is sore from too much topping, chances are I will more likely to be interested in being spanked than spanking someone else. There are also certain words or things people can/do say that will instantly create the mood for me spanking someone or being spanked by them. I will also react to non verbal signals, a look, body posture clothing or even reputation. The psychological pull can be the strongest. The psychological significance of a situation can dictate interactions even more strongly than anything else. This is probably the biggest factor in why many male switches don’t let it be known that they were switches. For many people the thought that someone who is spanking them could behave been spanked by someone else can ruin the chances of them being able to spank some women. In many relationships one or the other member of the couple takes on the role of the dominant or spanker and the other takes on the role of the spankee or submissive. If the spankee knows that the top is being spanked or especially if the bottom sees their top being spanked, it can ruin the whole balance, due to the psychological effects and the loss of “power” that the top then holds. For me that hasn’t been a problem with my top. I actually switch with him sometimes and I have watched him being spanked as well. For me it doesn’t take away his power. It is more like a switch for me, I am either in top mode or bottom mode and whether someone has been spanked or not doesn’t affect my ability to enjoy a spanking from someone.
It is not just about smacking someones butt. For me it is sense of power that it gives me. The ability to just give someone a look and they know they are in trouble. It is being able to use different implements to send different messages and give different sensations. It is the trust placed in me by the person who is allowing me to spank them. Those are all things that have made topping interesting to me.

Now when I am the one being spanked it is the feeling of release, being able to trust another person and put myself in their hands. It is that stomach churning feeling of “being in trouble” and having to pay the stingy price. It is the sting of my bottom after the spanking and the warmth that stays from a well reddened bottom. It is the sense of relief that comes from having “endured” the spanking.
Spanking is an interesting thing. There are so many levels of spanking from light erotic play to a severe caning that is true punishment meted out by courts in Malaysia. There are people who spank for fun, as is the case for me. There are those who follow a lifestyle of domestic discipline where one member of the relationship dispenses discipline for acts that are deemed against the rules. All spanking that is part of a healthy interaction should be consensual and both parties should understand what it is that the other is looking for from the experience. Spanking can be a wonderful and enjoyable experience or it can be terrifying and a horrible experience. It is all in the hands of the participants.
As I have been told, switches are just greedy, they want it all. They have many more options and a wealth of different experiences that is both rewarding and enjoyable. I am glad that I was introduced to both sides of the paddle, for each has it’s own rewards and challenges.





My palm is patting Philip’s left buttcheek, making him shiver…Oh, that’s so adorable, I love the way he reacts when he knows he’s about to undergo a really long, hard, bare-bottom blistering, and that’s certainly what he’s facing right now. I should know, since I’m the one who has determined what his payoff for the sucker bet he lost will be.

Both of his bouncy buns are quite unprotected by the cherry red thong brief which he’s wearing as underpants; his sweatpants and sneakers have already been taken off by Bethany, so he’s wearing only his favorite University of North Carolina t-shirt and white athletic socks, other than that thong-style underwear.

She’s quite a pretty brunette, I can see why my naughty boy has developed a bit of a schoolboy crush on his second cousin, now that they live in the same town and go to the same school. (Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she and her lake house neighbor spent most of last summer whuppin’ up on his baby-naked buttcheeks either, does it?)

“Such nice, resilient buns.” I give his right nether globe a playful pinch. “They look so cute sticking up and out like this.” Philip squirms a little, but he’s been strapped down over the vaulting horse very securely. “They can take plenty of punishment, which I know from experience.”

Bethany’s smile is devilish as she moves to stand right behind his backthrust bottom rounds, while she pats her mother’s Spencer paddle against her palm. “So do I, Joanne—and they’re going to get as much whomping as they can handle; the girls I’ve chosen are really eager to blister this very naughty bare bottom. You’re a terrific judge, you should have your own television program.”

How sweet of her to say that. “Thank you, Beth…Philip wanted a whole lot if he won the wager, so clearly he should have to pay off a great deal since he lost it—that’s only fair.” He’d desired a release from his promise to allow Bethany and Moira McCartney, her summertime neighbor, to act as his fanny-tanning disciplinarians until his twenty-first birthday. He’d accepted the arrangement before his family had ended up moving back to Sunset Hills, thinking that he’d rarely have to suffer any consequences from it—but now he lives only two blocks away from Bethany, and goes to Heartland High School with both her and Moira.

She’s slowly rubbing the sturdy paddle’s smooth, flat surface all over those firm, meaty masculine buttocks, which are divided by his cranberry-colored thong brief but remain totally unprotected; those buns are trembling slightly. “What’s the matter, Philip honey, are you afraid that we little girls are going to hurt your tough, macho tushie too much, that you’re going to bawl like a baby for us?” She’s grinning with glee. “Well, that’s exactly what we’re going to do, dear cousin, and you’ll be crying us a river of tears…Oh, am I so ready to plaster your baby-naked bum-bum cheeks, toddler boy, but I’ll wait for my teammates before getting started—we’ll all want to watch each other work over this helpless hiney.”

Speak of the devil, or actually a trio of avenging angels, the other three teenaged females are bursting into the girls’ locker room right now. Damn, they’re all so cute-looking, almost as attractive as Bethany is—I hope that Philip will appreciate their prettiness while they’re stinging him thoroughly, right where Mother Nature intended him to be stung quite sharply. Black-haired, rather statuesque Moira looks nearly as athletic as Bethany, being slightly taller and slimmer but still showing the necessary feminine curves in the right places; the other two girls are the Manion sisters, fifteen-year-old Serena and fourteen-year-old Dakota, both with flowing, golden blonde hair, aquamarine eyes and peaches-and-cream complexions, who are several inches shorter than Bethany and pleasingly plump in body type.

All four of the young ladies are wearing the stylish playing outfits of the Heartland High girls’ tennis team, sparkling white with royal blue and canary yellow trim, but they’re not carrying tennis rackets—instead, Moira’s gripping the handle of a black rubber Canadian school strap, while Serena is casually flicking a bright red riding crop with a heart-shaped leather tip and Dakota, who’s a lefty, holds an oversized, flat-backed cooking spoon made of sturdy oakwood by its rubber grip.

Perhaps the Manion girls have never before seen a sixteen-year-old male’s exposed nether moons, because Serena is giggling while Dakota is virtually squealing in surprised delight at the sight of Philip’s nicely-rounded nates. Moira has seen them numerous times before, but nonetheless she’s obviously enjoying the ‘rear view’ being presented, especially the way that those naked buttock rounds are plumped out, seemingly begging to be all-out blistered; her calm smirk reminds me of the cat that ate the canary—or perhaps instead has caught the yellow bird and is about to consume it with eager relish.

Moira taps each pale hemisphere twice with the strap’s smooth striking surface. “My, these sassy cheekies seem very familiar,” she muses playfully, “But the proof of the pudding is in the punishing—I’ll have to thrash them severely to be certain that I’ve encountered them before.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do that,” I inform her cheerily, “But let me explain to everyone exactly how this extended spanking session is going to work.” I walk to the other side of Philip’s strapped-down, bare-bottom-up form, so that the young ladies will be looking at his double-cheek target area while facing me. They’ve quieted down in anticipation of my little speech, although they’re all grinning in a self-satisfied manner. Their near-future victim, on the other hand, has a striken expression on his handsome, lightly-pinkened face, giving him the adorable visage of a naughty little boy who’s due for a good, sound dose of corporally corrective comeuppance—which he most certainly is going to receive, even though he possesses a male mid-teenager’s strong, athletic body rather than a child’s.

“Uhhhh…Oh, Joanne,” he moans as my left hand squeezes his hind end quite insistently, making him squirm helplessly within his restraints.

He’s so boyishly cute, reacting so predictably. “Hush, sweetie pie, I’m busy right now.” I’m going to have to explain exactly how to spank this tied-down, bare-cheeked boy, so that Serena and Dakota will feel comfortable about doing so—that’s not going to be an issue for Bethany and Moira, quite obviously. “First of all, be aware that the naked buttcheeks of a healthy sixteen-year-old male are made to endure a great deal of very sound corporal punishment—in fact, they were designed by Mother Nature specifically with thorough thrashings in mind.” The two older girls are nodding in agreement, but the two blondes look uncertain. “Beth and Moira already know this from personal experience, and as a trained nurse I can verify it as a medical fact.”

“Nurses know what Mother Nature thinks?” Serena’s eyebrows are arching.

My right hand lightly smacks Philip’s right nether moon. “We know how she designed the masculine anatomy, and I also have had extensive personal experience in blistering boyish bare behinds—especially this one. Feel free to squeeze these buns yourself, ladies, to see how firm and resilient they are.”

Although Bethany and Moira need no convincing of the accuracy of my assertions, they’re obviously happy to comply with my suggestion. “Indeed, what totally spankable glutes these are,” Moira affirms, giving Philip’s left asscheek a hard pinch after fondling it for several seconds.

As his hips wriggle, Bethany’s palm slaps each vulnerable hemisphere in turn, right followed by left, with considerable force. “Oh, stop that babyish squirming, dear cousin, just you wait until we’re giving you something to really react to.”

The sisters are clearly a bit bashful about touching this boy’s unprotected posterior, so I don’t insist on it at the moment. “Okay, that’s enough for now.” The other girls step back slightly, smirking in anticipation of employing their implements atop their helpless victim’s defenseless derriere. “Now, just because Philip’s rear end can absorb plenty of physical punishment, that doesn’t mean that he’s going to enjoy it—not at the conscious level of his awareness, anyway.” Of course, down deep in his psyche he will feel highly gratified at being spanked and humbled, but I won’t bother explaining that. “In other words, expect him to be crying very childishly while you’re working over his bare bottom with your implements—if he’s not bawling like a baby for most of the time that you’re walloping him, then you’re not doing it effectively enough.”

Bethany snickers. “As my mother always says, a good fanny-tanning is supposed to hurt a whole lot, and the person getting it should be crying a river of tears for most of his butt-beating.”

“Exactly.” I nod in agreement. “He’ll also be howling and wailing, plus knowing him, also babyishly begging for mercy—just be certain that you don’t give him any, because this is a situation that he’s gotten himself into of his own accord.” Truly, he’d insisted on making what I considered a sucker bet with his second cousin, wagering that the Tar Heels would somehow advance further in the so-called ‘Big Dance’ than the Blue Devils–once he’d predictably lost, it was “Judge Joanne” who was the mutually-accepted arbiter of his payoff.

“We’re supposed to really hurt him?” There’s a shine in Dakota’s eyes as she gazes at Philip, even in his current highly-embarrassing position, and it involves something other than eagerness to whack his hind end with that wooden spoon she’s gripping. “Ummmm, I thought this was going to be, you know, kind of playful and friendly…I didn’t know that he’d be tied down like this, with his pants off and hardly any underwear covering his backside.”

Well, he is a seriously good-looking guy, plus he’s also a sweet person too, in spite of his shyness with the opposite sex—if I were her age, I might also be a bit smitten with this handsome boy. “If you want him to respect you, sweetheart, you’d better be willing to paddle him long and hard with that seat-smacker you’re holding. Philip’s expecting to get a good, sound spanking from you, two of them in fact before we’re finished, and those punishments are supposed to hurt a great deal.” She still looks somewhat conflicted. “Naturally, you don’t want to harm him, causing any long-term damage, but I’ll be monitoring the whole procedure, and I know how much whomping his behind can safely take—it’s probably a lot more than you’re figuring.”

Moira’s head nods. “Yes, trust us on this, Philip’s rump is built for very hard whacking, and he seriously deserves what we’ll each be giving him.”

“Uhhhh-Okay, if you all say so.” Dakota’s tongue licks her lips.

“It will be playful too, but he’s used to playing intensely when it’s time for him to be spanked,” I assure her; she does appear to relax a touch. “Now that we understand HOW to plaster his baby-naked buns, which is extremely emphatically, the next item is to learn WHERE on his bouncy bottom to place our stinging-hot swats.”

“On his ‘spank spot,’ of course,” Bethany offers.

Moira chuckles. “My mom calls it the ‘sweet spot,’ right at the bottom of a bare bottom, but it doesn’t feel all that sweet to me when her paddle lands there while I’m being walloped.”

My right hand begins lightly making circles on top of the lower half of my darling boy’s left buttock round. “It won’t be all that pleasant for this young man, either, once his ‘sit spots’ are being fired up for him. Those are all terms for the same location on the human posterior, the area just above a person’s thighcreases, that is the borderline between his glutes and thighs.” My right eye winks at the two older teenagers. “What are the two main benefits of the spanker focusing her swats on this particular place, do either of you happen to know?”

Bethany smiles knowingly. “Sure…Because the ‘spank spot’ is plump enough to take a whole lot of really hard whomping, plus it’s nice and tender, so those spanks will sting like a son-of-a-…Well, you know what.”

“Somebody certainly knows quite a bit about delivering butt-blisterings, doesn’t she?” I’m impressed by the sixteen-year-old’s expertise, which I’m aware was obtained on both sides of the paddle, strap and switch. “Yes, Beth, you’re correct on both counts.” My pointer finger gently traces the thighcreases of my masculine ‘interactive demonstration model’. “Here’s as low as you should go in applying your strokes, ladies—some people like to strike the spankee’s thighs as well, but in my humble opinion the posterior is the only part of the human anatomy intended to be the ‘seat of correction,’ as it’s called.” I poke my finger against the crown of Philip’s asscheek. “This is as high as the swats should land, dead-center in the middle of each chubby cheek, where there’s still plenty of padding to absorb the impact. You need to give the sides of his derriere some smacking attention too, but try to avoid actually hitting his hips—keep every stroke landing on his behind, and direct at least half of your spanks to the very bottom of Philip’s bare bottom.” My palm sharply slaps down twice, once on each of his plump ‘sit spots,’ making him gasp softly. “Right there!”

Serena sighs. “There’s more to whipping a guy’s butt than just swinging this cute little whip at it, isn’t there?” With her left hand, she casually fingers the leather crop’s red-trimmed, heart-shaped tip.

“Not really, Serena,” I respond, “It’s simply a matter of focusing a tad on the placement of your strokes, not to mention being woman enough to chastise your naughty boy as thoroughly and intensively as he needs and deserves to be disciplined. I believe that every female was created by Mother Nature to be a caring but very strict spankmistress to the menfolk she’s close to in her life—that basic ability is within you, so you’ll simply have to draw it into your conscious awareness.” I glance toward Moira. “Isn’t that right?”

She nods eagerly. “Absolutely, Joanne—I love spanking males who’ve misbehaved smack on their naked fannies, turning their rear ends dark red and making them cry for me, and it’s so easy to do once I simply get started.

The two younger girls aren’t entirely convinced yet, I can tell that they’re dealing with what’s called an ‘approach-avoidance’ conflict. “Stand back, ladies, I’m going to give you a demonstration of how to employ each of your implements on these chubby cheekies, just so you can see that Philip’s naked nates can endure plenty of punishment…Dakota, I’ll be using the wooden spoon to start with, so please hand it over now.”

“Sure, Joanne.” Her bluish-green eyes are wide with astonishment that this isn’t just a silly childhood game, instead that some serious butt-whacking is actually going to take place. I’m patting my hapless victim’s exposed moons with my left hand as the cooking spoon’s slim handle is placed atop my right palm. Gripping it tightly, I take a step backward to allow myself a full arm’s-length swing at my pale, quivering twin targets.

“The sweet thing about a spanking spoon like this one is that it’s flattened back has a round striking surface, so that it fits quite nicely upon one of our naughty boy’s ‘sit spots,’ rounded spoon to rounded bare bumcheek.” I press the implement’s back against Philip’s lower right buttock, while the Manion sisters nod in mute comprehension. “I’m only going to give him a couple dozen very smart swats, just enough for you ladies to see how effective this kitchen seat-smacker truly can be when applied to a defenseless derriere, even though it looks rather light as an instrument of corporal correction.”

Now I’m spanking my darling boy’s firm, fully-rounded naked fanny, alternating from his right asscheek to his left one, swinging with swift downward strokes of the relatively lightweight implement. His posterior is optimally exposed, allowing me easy access to the bottom of his bottom, and I’m taking full advantage of that by walloping that sensitive ‘spank spot’ with enthusiasm. Bethany and Moira are tittering at my hapless spankee’s yelping and wriggling, while their younger compatriots look awestruck at his painful predicament. With the sound spanks being delivered at five-second intervals, I’m finishing this demonstration within two minutes of starting it.

Dakota gulps. “His hiney looks so red, doesn’t it”

Bethany’s head shakes. “No, it’s just a mild pink right now, those buns have barely been touched yet—they’ll be glowing a dark maroon before we’re finally finished lambasting them this afternoon.”
(Since I had the keys to the school’s east entrance and the girls’ locker room, given to me by my close friend Carlissa, the tennis team coach whom I’d been covering practice for today, we did indeed have as much uninterrupted time as we’d require—nobody else was scheduled to be using the building on this Saturday.)

I hand the oversized oaken spoon back to Dakota. “Okay, next in order is going to be the Canadian school strap, so if you please, Moira, I’ll borrow it from you.” After she’s placed the rubber implement’s corrugated rubber grip in my waiting right hand, I take another half-step backward, gauging my swinging distance again, since its sinister black striking surface is about thirty inches long—getting a full arm’s-length swing remains quite desirable. “This is a semi-flexible spanking implement, not as swishy as leather but still not rigid like a wooden paddle. It was developed for application to the rear ends of Canadian schoolchildren, who might have several layers of rather thick clothing covering themselves down there during the winter months; their teachers were only allowed to spank misbehaving students over their clothes, so they needed to employ something with enough impact to sting quite a bit even through heavy protection.” I’m raising the strap up over my right shoulder, while Bethany giggles gleefully at her cousin’s anxiously twitching, pinkish southern hemispheres.

“Philip already knows what it feels like on his totally uncovered hind end, that’s why he’s so nervous,” she informs the two blondes.

With a lead-in like that, I proceed to deliver twenty-four blistering-hard cracks of the rubber across my squirming, squealing and eventually weeping spankee’s upthrust, naked nether globes, neatly overlapping the broad crimson bands thus produced with one another and methodically marching them upward from his thighcreases to the crowns of his buttock rounds, then back downward, covering already-strapped territory. I’m breathing a tad heavily by the time I’m finished, about three minutes after beginning, while Philip is sobbing raggedly, trying with difficulty to control his own breathing.

“Give him a bit of comforting, Dakota,” I suggest to the seemingly shocked fourteen-year-old. “Why don’t you rub his back a little, sweetheart?

She’s doing so, somewhat numbly, as I return the school strap to Moira, who coolly removes the riding crop from Serena’s slightly shaking hand and gives it to me. “It’s not nearly so terrible as it looks,” she explains quietly. “Philip’s taken much, much worse lickings from Bethany and myself, not to mention my mother; he’s used to undergoing an extreme amount of corporal punishment—this has been simply a mild warmup for him.”

“Which is going to continue immediately,” I note briskly, swishing the flexible leather implement through the air, “So you’ll have to step away just a touch, Dakota dear.” She does so, although not before giving our boy’s blond hair a quick, affectionate tousle—oh yes, she’s definitely attracted to him. “Since you’re all tennis players, you shouldn’t have any trouble with the wrist-snap required to whip the crop’s supple tip against this young man’s red rump, sharply enough to make it sting him good.” I’m taking aim at Philip’s bare buns, which now are evincing a shiny scarlet coloration. “You don’t yet know what spanking implement you’ll end up wielding during our second time around, so it’s important—especially for you two, Serena and Dakota—to carefully watch each of them in action.”

This is challenging, giving my boyish victim an effective ass-whipping with the riding crop, because I’ve only used one a couple of times previously, but I take my time—allowing ten seconds between flashing lashes—and apparently do a creditable job of it, judging from the teardrops trickling down Philip’s facial cheeks, well before I finally snap the crop’s cruel tip against his cutely quaking nether ones for the twenty-fourth time. I’ve spread the whip-cracks around on those twin-moon targets, but all of them nonetheless have landed on already smarting, brightly-reddened areas.

“My, you do carry on like a kindergarten baby, naughty child,” Serena tells him rather flippantly afterward, as he’s sniffling in his strapped-down but bottom-up position.

Her little sister bristles with annoyance. “How do you think you’d feel if you were whipped on your naked hiney like that, Sere?”

Once I’ve handed the riding crop back to the older blonde, I accept the Spencer paddle from Bethany, gripping its taped-up handle tightly and hefting it with my right hand, appreciating its sturdiness (half-inch-thick cedar), its full-sized rectangular head and the eighteen small, beveled holes dotting its smooth striking surface at regular intervals; a solid fanny-whacking spanker like this is a terrific ‘lesson-teacher,’ as long as a person is on the swinging side of it—but of course Philip’s going to be on its stinging side instead.

“Your sister does have a point, Dakota,” I state pedantically, while adjusting my stance facing my spankee’s left hip, “Because males do tend to react to a little friendly fanny-tanning as though they’re being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. They’ll howl like a banshee and bawl like a baby, trying to get the females blistering their bare behinds to stop spanking them, or at least take it easy on their rear ends. I’m going to give Philip only a couple dozen paddywhacks with this Spencer paddle, but you can expect him to weep and wail like a toddler getting his seat smacked by his mommy.”

“Ooooh,” he murmurs, clearly feeling seriously embarrassed by my analogy, not to mention having been whupped on his naked buttcheeks in front of four female teenagers, especially two younger than him who are nearly strangers. Obviously, I’ve never been a teenaged boy who’s being walloped on his bare nether moons by a former female babysitter while four girls close to his own age are witnessing that chastisement, but I’m guessing that it has to be an extremely humbling experience. Once they’re spanking his upturned bare bottom themselves, Philip’s degree of embarrassment will undoubtedly be heightened even more—which will be much to my amusement

My right hand raises the cedar paddle high over my shoulder, ready to strike downward. “Okay, girls, here’s how to apply this sturdy fanny-whacker to a deserving male’s defenseless derriere.” I’m administering this sound chastisement rather deliberately, plastering Philip’s bouncing bumcheeks with bridging strokes across both of his ‘sit spots’ that are connecting fifteen seconds apart, giving him plenty of time to anxiously anticipate the next stinging swat. (In spite of my relatively small stature, I’ve become an expert at applying a wooden paddle, even a good-sized one, to unprotected masculine hindquarters.) He’s blubbering shamelessly as I deliver the final half-dozen wallops; all four of the ladies, even Bethany and Moira, seem to be suitably impressed with my paddling proficiency.

“Look at his hiney,” Dakota says in a near-whisper, “It’s as red as a fire engine.” She may be awed, but her assessment of the coloration of the fiercely smarting posterior she’s regarding is completely accurate.

Presenting the cedar instrument of chastisement to Bethany, who grins at me as she grasps its handle, I nod in affirmation. “It definitely is glowing like a stop light, which means that Philip is ‘hurtin’ for certain’ back there, even though that was merely his warmup procedure—you young women will be the ones truly collecting his sucker-bet payoff.”

Dakota sighs softly. “Oh, I don’t know about this.”

I’m focusing my gaze on her sympathetic aquamarine eyes. “You and I need to have a private chat, honeychile. Let’s step into the coaches’ office, so I can enlighten you concerning this bare-bottomed baby boy…”
{The End}

ELEVEN IN HEAVEN” by the Crimson Kid

“ELEVEN IN HEAVEN” by the Crimson Kid

So when I could’ve been any age I’d experienced in my life, which was quite a bit of experience since I died at the ripe old age of ninety-two, why did I decide to be an eleven-year-old boy for eternity?

Well, it wasn’t any easy decision, obviously, and I was given as much time as I wanted to make it by Saint Peter, who was a youthful twenty-eight himself.

On my life on Earth, I’d enjoyed being a college student a great deal, so I seriously considered spending eternity as a twenty-year-old collegiate junior, on the cusp of adulthood with all the strength and stamina of extreme youth. Another age I pondered assuming was thirty-two, wherein I’d still be quite strong and fairly youthful, yet possess a touch more maturity and self-awareness.

Forty-two years of age was the oldest that I mused about being, because I’d spent my last dozen years on Earth suffering from increasingly difficult physical infirmity, so I wished to be well shy of fifty. I even briefly thought about existing in Heaven as a seventeen-year-old high school student—that had been a rather enjoyable period during my earthly existence.

Of course, as Saint Peter had taken pains to explain, I wouldn’t be reenacting a year of my corporeal lifetime, I would simply become a somewhat idealized version of myself at whatever particular age I decided upon, then live a typical albeit moderately improved version of whatever my general human existence had been. I wouldn’t be repeating anything either—specific conditions would eventually change enough to give me adequate variety in my heavenly afterlife.

To repeat my opening question, then why did I choose to spend eternity at the age of eleven years and six months, to be precise about my decision?

Well, that’s a good age for a kid to enjoy quite a bit of freedom, away from overly tight parental (in my case maternal) supervision, yet still avoid having serious responsibilities. Not that there weren’t trade-offs involved, but I figured that they’d be worth the relatively carefree lifestyle I would be enjoying—for the most part, I’d say that I was correct about that, although at this immediate moment it doesn’t necessarily feel that way. Still, I put my trust in the heavenly authorities, whom Saint Peter assured me would place me in the best possible position available

The position that Miss Amundsen, my sweet, pretty sixth-grade teacher is going to place me in very soon, that’s quite another issue—but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

Let me be bluntly truthful here, including to myself—I didn’t want to deal with members of the ‘feminine persuasion’ in terms of serious romance and sexuality, something I’d had considerable difficulties with between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five during my earthly lifetime. That’s not to state that I don’t care for females, in fact the opposite is pretty much true—I dearly love my mother, Marlene, I have mostly an affectionate relationship with my sisters, twelve-year-old Tammy and nine-year-old Wan-Ling, not to mention having preteen crushes on my sixteen-year-old babysitter, Melissa, and of course on Miss Amundsen as well.

“Feeling a bit cool back there, Raymond?” she’s asking me teasingly, while seated at her teacher’s desk grading papers, but of course I’m not expected to answer. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m going to warm you up nice and toasty in just a minute. Meanwhile, you need to stay in that corner and think about being a gentleman to Carol—regardless of what she might tolerate

Yes, I refer to Carol, a cute brunette classmate of mine, as my girlfriend, but it’s just a ‘puppy love’ type of situation, the kind you’d expect from eleven-year-olds, not to mention the kind that I find comfortable. There aren’t all that many expectations, mostly holding hands, smiling at each other and sneaking a few quick kisses here and there. Once in a while we might visit each other’s house, but of course under maternal supervision. Since I’m still short of puberty, what else would I need from a ‘romantic’ relationship any

Actually, it’s the little bit of ‘pushing the envelope,’ after being Carol’s ‘puppy love’ boyfriend for over a year, that has me staying after school and looking into a corner of my classroom, pants puddled around my ankles and briefs pulled down to my upper thighs in the rear. Speaking of envelopes, I can faintly hear my twenty-six-year-old teacher as she puts a folded-up piece of paper in one, then seals and addresses it—undoubtedly a note to my mother, explaining why I’m being kept late, exactly what’s about to happen to me and what I did to deserve it.

Okay, so even as a relatively innocent and shy sixth-grader, I’m quite fascinated by feminine derrieres, and even preteen girls often have sweetly attractive, shapely bottoms. Carol certainly does, although she has no boobs to speak of—however, I was a ‘butt man’ on Earth and I remain one in Heaven, even as an eleven-year-old. After ten months or so of her being my girlfriend, I screwed up enough courage to pat her jean-clad (or sometimes skirt-clad) rear end, and she seemingly didn’t mind—in fact she occasionally patted my own behind, over clothing of course, shortly after I’d started doing it to her. Well, eventually patting led to light smacking (‘love-patting’) and gentle squeezing, obviously when we believed that no one was observing us playing with each other’s prepubescent posteriors. (Miss Amundsen did catch me giving Carol’s derriere a playful smack, over her skirt, then she gave me a sharp warning about “inappropriate touching.”)

About three weeks ago, I took advantage of my girlfriend wearing a rather short skirt and reached under it to squeeze her seat over only her panties while we were on the playground during recess. At first she looked upset, in fact raising her right hand as though to slap my face, butt then she broke out into girlish giggles. “So you like feeling my panties, do you, naughty boy?” Carol demanded light-heartedly. “Maybe I don’t mind all that much, but Miss Amundsen sure will, and I definitely don’t want to have my bare buns paddled by her…So if you keep doing it and we get caught, I’m going to slap you and act upset, like you did it even though I didn’t want you to.”

I nodded in agreement, accepting that I would take the entire blame for any “inappropriate touching” that I was spotted engaging in, even though she truly was allowing it—my girlfriend shouldn’t have to endure punishment for my youthful feminine fanny fascination, after all. (If she was noticed giving my behind that kind of attention, she wouldn’t have deniability; however, she was considerably more discreet about doing so than I was—although Carol did admit to being quite fond of my own nether moons.

So we went along in that manner, with the ‘escalation’ a one-way affair since I don’t wear skirts, and I did notice that she started wearing a skirt to school more often than she wore her jeans, which I took to mean that she actually was enjoying my clandestine attentions to the seat of her panties—and the twin bumcheeks beneath, of course. Also, the rump-smacks and -squeezes I received from her gradually became more forceful and quite a bit more frequent, although she was still pretty careful about being observed

Unfortunately, I ‘escalated’ to the next level at precisely the wrong time, at recess this afternoon. Carol had, in fact, just warned me that Miss Amundsen appeared to be growing suspicious of our tendency to play together in areas where none of our classmates were, and had reminded her about “ladylike behavior” being expected from the girls in her class at all times. Well, I was overconfident and disregarded her warning at the worst possible moment, reaching not only under her skirt but inside her silky-smooth panties, up through a leg hole to squeeze her left buttock round. It was truly a thrilling sensation, my palm directly touching her smooth girlish derriere for merely a single second. She turned around, looking shocked, just as I heard our teacher’s stern voice from behind me. “Raymond Galimore Scott, did you actually dare to reach inside Carol’s panties?” she demanded curtly, although the question was clearly rhetorical

My girlfriend reacted quickly, smacking my face with her open right hand, hard enough to leave her pink palm-print on its left cheek. “How dare you, Ray!?” she shouted at me, acting extremely offended. Whether or not Miss Amundsen was really convinced by Carol’s performance, she would appear to be blaming the victim of my cheeky misconduct if she didn’t formally accept the girl’s show of indignation.
Less than a minute later, our teacher was seated on one of the swings while I lay upended across her lap, bluejeans bunched up at knee level, briefs taken down in back to just below my naked hiney, which her right palm was vigorously smacking against at brisk, four-second intervals. It took the rest of our classmates another minute or two to be congregated in a rough semicircle facing the disciplinary tableau being performed by Miss Amundsen and myself, and their attention was significantly more focused than it had ever been in class.

“So you like touching girls’ bottoms, do you, Raymond?” she demanded angrily while continuing to spank me with a surprisingly unyielding open hand. “Well, let’s see how you like it when I give your own naughty rump some touching attention from me, shall we?” Of course, I didn’t care for it at all, not overtly anyway, and soon I was openly crying over her knee, partly from embarrassment but mostly from the sting she was imparting to my bare behind, crisply alternating buttcheeks with practiced precision. It was a five-minute chastisement, according to what Carol told me later, and I bawled like a baby through the last three-and-a-half minutes of it, again according to my dear girlfriend—I’d lost all track of the time myself.

Our teacher was kind enough to pull my briefs back up in the rear before standing me up, then she rapidly replaced my jeans at the waist, leaving me to zip up and buckle my belt while sobbing raggedly. “Let’s return to our classroom now, children,” she instructed my dumbstruck classmates. “We won’t be talking about what’s just happened—unless someone else wants to take a trip across my lap. Carol and Raymond will remain after school today, so I can discuss this situation in detail with them.”

Once we were alone with Miss Amundsen, after school had been dismissed for the day, she questioned us about our ‘puppy love’ relationship. Carol took the lead and admitted to us hugging and kissing on occasion, and sometimes visiting one another’s homes under maternal supervision, but she left it at that. When our teacher asked her a follow-up question about whether or not I’d ever “fondled” her behind or not, my girlfriend managed to interpret it as referring only to direct skin-to-skin contact, thus she was able to reply with “Not until today, ma’am, but he did spank me over my jeans on my birthday, and he gave me a quick swat one other time.” (Kids still enjoy having birthday celebrations, of course, even when they don’t really grow any older.

Summoning up all the gallantry I possessed in my eleven-year-old persona, I backed up Carol’s technically truthful but nonetheless misleading account, which made it seem as though I’d abruptly advanced our preteen romantic interaction from a few light kisses to squeezing her derriere beneath her pink panties. I could tell that Miss Amundsen was vaguely suspicious that she wasn’t being given the full background information—sure, people can bend the truth, even in Heaven, it’s something that even nice sixth graders have always been accomplished at—but since our accounts pretty much matched and she had no solid evidence to the contrary, she was forced to accept them as accurate; that made me appear to have come close to sexually harassing my girlfriend.

Carol was sent home with another reminder about “ladylike behavior” and informed that “public displays of affection” were not allowed at any time during the school day, then my pretty blonde teacher turned to me. To my surprise, she looked somewhat bemused rather than angry, her cornflower blue eyes were twinkling as they regarded me, standing in front of her wide mahogany desk.

“You’re far too shy to go directly from a little hugging and kissing to reaching under Carol’s panties,” she stated bluntly albeit fondly. “However, since I can’t prove otherwise, I’ll have to accept your edited version of events and treat you accordingly, Raymond. You’ve been paddled after school before, so you know the drill—nose in the corner, pants down to your ankles, underwear just below your hind end in the back.” Her beautiful eyes held my gaze. “Since you’re insisting on playing ‘Tom Sawyer,’ you’ll be getting twice the usual discipline from me, both yours and Carol’s.” She shrugged. “Well, I hope that she appreciates your sacrifice, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I concurred as I turned and headed for the classroom’s far corner, “I hope she does too.”

So that’s where I am at the moment, and it’s where I deserve to be. The heavenly authorities had been quite correct to send me to a school with a staunch corporal punishment policy, and specifically into a sixth-grade class taught by an attractive woman who takes a ‘no-nonsense’ approach toward student misconduct, as well as placing me in a female-headed household with a loving mother who is a strong practitioner of the “spare the rod and spoil the child” approach to rearing her children.

I can hear Miss Amundsen’s sturdy teacher’s chair being pushed backward, then being pulled sideways into the open area near the door, along with her patent leather shoes click-clacking steadily. My body shudders involuntarily as I inhale sharply, waiting to hear her command.

“It’s time, Raymond,” she says calmly. “You may pull up your underpants for the moment, then get ‘Miss Policewoman’ and bring her to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, while pulling the rear waistband of my light blue briefs back up to my waist, although only temporarily, then I’m shuffling to the front of the room, where “Miss Policewoman” is hanging from a peg next to the blackboard in all of her polished royal-blue-and-gold glory—she’s a paddle, of course, one made of three-eighths-of-an-inch-thick walnut with twelve small holes in her six-inches-by-four-inches, rectangular-yet-round-cornered striking surface. I grasp the impressive-looking ‘enforcer’ by her handle, which is five inches long and two wide while wrapped in no-slip black electrical tape, sliding her leather thong off the wall peg, then walk over to my teacher, who’s seated herself on her chair’s cushioned seat.

She accepts the implement’s taped handle in her left hand. “Stand to my right, then over you go, young man,” come her brisk instructions. There’s nothing for me to do but obey, so I jackknife my body over her well-toned thighs, which are underneath a pleated black skirt; she shifts me forward by bouncing her right knee and pushing on the seat of my underpants with her palm, making my behind push up a touch higher, then her right hand’s four fingers slip underneath the waistband of my briefs. “Lift up, please,” she directs me, and as I elevate my hips she slides the underwear down to my upper thighs. “Keep that bare bottom pointing at the ceiling, Raymond,” I’m reminded, while feeling the paddle’s smooth striking surface lightly patting my upturned, exposed buttock rounds, “Miss Policewoman” obviously having been transferred to my disciplinarian’s right hand.

“Uhhhh, okay, ma’am,” I acknowledge, fully aware of how much this ass-thrashing is going to hurt—I’ve experienced such corporal correction, at both school and home, on a rather regular basis.
The flat wooden implement is lifted away, making me inhale sharply. Two seconds later, the hardwood cracks against the center of my right nether globe—SMACK!! The hot sting is unpleasantly familiar as I gasp curtly, then five seconds later I feel a near-identical impact atop the crown of my left buttcheek—WHACK!! My gasping is a touch louder, the stinging sensation quite intense, but of course I’m helpless to do anything but absorb as many blistering-hard swats as Miss Amundsen wishes to deliver to my quivering, exposed hindquarters with “Miss Policewoman.”

Typically, she administers many more paddywhacks than I believe I can endure, walloping my rear end for long minutes while causing me to yelp, then sob, then wail and finally howl with kicking legs and wriggling hips, my entire focus remaining on the paddle’s steady, almost metronomic plastering of my blazing boyish buns. Being an expert spankmistress, my teacher lands most of her sizzling smacks on those twin ‘sit spots,’ barely above my thighs, but she makes certain that my entire mid-to-lower posterior, from the plump crowns of my southern hemispheres to the sensitive thighcreases bordering the swells of my undercheeks, are thoroughly whomped with her devilishly-effective paddle.

By the time that she’s finally finished, eight minutes after having begun my chastisement, I’m merely whimpering softly while moaning after every swat. It takes me fifteen seconds to realize that Miss Amundsen has concluded my punishment, or at least this part of it, and is lightly rubbing my lower back with her left hand. The teardrops are still flowing down my facial cheeks and spattering on the floor beneath my face, as I’m gradually catching my breath. My fiercely smarting bottom feels as though there’s a firestorm of heat and sting swirling on top of it, a hardly unexpected sensation.

“This part of your fanny-tanning went very well, Raymond,” my teacher announces, obviously quite pleased with herself. “You carried on like a well-spanked toddler boy, just like you always do, and you’re sporting a highly attractive, bright crimson glow on this chubby caboose of yours.” The paddle’s flat surface is gently tracing circles on my burning behind. “I’m guessing that this ravaged rump must be stinging something fierce right now…Am I correct, sweetie pie?”

“Yeh-essss, Mih-Miss Amundsuh-sen,” I manage to blubber, feeling deeply humbled by her cheery self-satisfaction, yet somehow eagerly embracing the humility. I feel her fingers tugging my briefs back up to waist level, then she lifts my torso upward and plants me back on my feet, steadying me as I try to find my balance.

“Back into the corner, nose touching both walls,” she instructs. “Once you’re there, lower your underpants below your bumcheeks in the rear, so I can view my handiwork—well, paddlework, really.” She pushes the handle of “Miss Policewoman” toward me. “You can hang up your sweet seat-smacking enforcer first, since I’ll be using ‘Miss Firestarter’ for the rest of your corporal comeuppance.”

I sigh resignedly, knowing that Miss Amundsen’s Canadian school strap, made out of semipliable rubber, will hurt my hiney even more than her paddle already has. Gripping “Miss Policewoman” by her handle, I slowly shuffle over to the wall, my ankle-swaddling pants inhibiting my progress, hang up the walnut fanny-whacker and then manage to waddle back to the assigned corner, quite aware that my good-looking young teacher is watching me with open amusement; she titters liltingly as I slide my briefs just below my throbbing derriere in the back, then obediently press my nose into the corner.

I find it strangely gratifying that this young woman, whom I have a schoolboy crush on, has spanked my naked nates so emphatically and is planning on administering an even more intensive chastisement atop them a mere ten minutes from now.

Cornertime is a period of contemplation for me, and what I’m mulling in my mind right now is my decision to spend eternity as an eleven-year-old, or to be precise an eleven-and-a-half-year-old. The reasons I’ve noted earlier, about being old enough to have a cute ‘puppy love’ girlfriend, and experience childlike crushes on my attractive teacher and pert teenaged babysitter, all without having to worry about serious romantic entanglements, strike me as fully valid—but are they enough to entirely explain my choice?

The heavenly authorities, who know what my innermost psychological needs and desires are, have placed me in a household with a loving mother who’s an extremely strict believer in the frequent bottom-warming approach to child-rearing, not to mention in a sixth-grade class with a pretty teacher who takes an identical approach to classroom discipline. Even my ‘sweet sixteen’ babysitter has the authority to blister my bare behind, which she makes very liberal use of. My sisters, who treat me with sibling fondness, nonetheless are thrilled at witnessing my sound chastisements and teasing me before, during and after them, with Mom’s indulgent approval.

I still have my earthy memories and adult analytical ability, in spite of my preteen mindset–Heaven is a complex place in some ways—thus now I’m trying to understand why it is that I’m red-assed and sore-bottomed so very often, probably three times a week on average, not even counting any of the second and third tannings for the same offense. (My mother is of course a strong proponent of the “spanked at school means spanked again at home” concept, so she and Miss Amundsen communicate regularly concerning my conduct in class. In addition, my perky, athletic babysitter, Melissa, always asks Mom about my behavior upon arriving at our house, and insists on administering a proper ‘reinforcement spanking’ to any of us children who’ve had to be corporally corrected since her previous babysitting stint—that turns out to be me around ninety percent of the time, which results in my quickly going pants-down over Melissa’s knee for an extended hairbrush walloping, watched by my mother and both sisters.

Tomorrow I’ll undoubtedly be good-naturedly taunted by the girls who constitute three-quarters of my classmates, both for the mild handspanking I received during recess today and for the considerably more severe corporal correction which I’m in the middle of undergoing right now—plus possibly even for whatever maternal bedtime butt-blistering I’ll be receiving tonight, if they hear about it from one of my sisters. Yet mixed in with the dread of such feminine teasing is my excitement at the idea of those young ladies—with the obvious exception of Carol—making me blush in embarrassment

“Raymond, I’ll tell you now that I’ve recommended to my friend Marlene that she give you an extremely extensive whipping with willow branches this evening, just so you have an idea what to expect,” Miss Amundsen chirps cheerfully from behind her desk. “Tammy and Wan-Ling should enjoy helping you cut and prepare three whippy switches for your mother to apply to your naked hind end, and I have it on reliable account that they’ll sting your seat like the very devil.” Her chuckle sounds like a bell chime, delightful yet playfully diabolical. “Enough chit-chat for the moment, it’s time for an intensive encounter between the Canadian school strap and that bouncy bubblebutt of yours.” I hear the desk drawer sliding open, then shutting again six seconds later. “Come over here and bend way forward over my desk–you know the drill, honeybun.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I obey immediately, temporarily pulling up my underwear before hobbling over to assume the proper punitive position with my derriere starkly backthrust. Moving to stand facing my left hip, my teacher once again bares my behind by lowering my briefs to just below it.

She titters softly. “It’s fortuitous that your plump round rump is so highly resilient, Raymond, almost as though it was intended to endure a great many long, hard lickings.”

As I sense the attractive woman raising the twenty-inches-long rubber implement over her right shoulder, her hand tightly gripping its corrugated leather handle, I’m aware that she’s quite correct about my posterior—it does manage to absorb a great deal of serious disciplinary attention from the womenfolk in my heavenly afterlife

THWAACK!! The first crack of the strap snaps across both of my vulnerable asscheeks, right at the “bottom of that bare bottom,” as both my teacher and mother like to describe my fatty underbuns, and thereafter the stinging-hot strokes continue to impact those hapless gluteal globes at steady six-second intervals, in a center-left-right pattern.

Whatever profound thoughts I’d been about to grasp regarding my life as an eleven-year-old in Heaven, they’ve disappeared into limbo as my total attention has become focused on the enflaming of my naked fanny via the strap’s sharp, reverberating lick.

Thank you, Miss Amundsen, from the bottom of my heart, and the heart of my bottom…

{The End}

Saturday School

Saturday School
Contrite Girl

My alarm sounded off sharply at 7:00 AM. I groaned in complaint as I slapped it off. Saturday mornings were not meant for early rising. At least that was my opinion. Sighing, I swung my feet to floor and forced myself out of bed. It was certain to be a bad enough day already, no point making it worse by being late. After a much needed shower I was finally wide awake. Thumbing through my closet I nearly cursed out loud. How could I have screwed up and worn my last clean blouse yesterday? No point in crying about it now. I selected my most conservative dress and put it on.

I went downstairs for breakfast, it was almost 7:30. Mom was waiting just like I expected. “Hurry up Kelly, we need to leave in 10 minutes to get you there on time.” She certainly wasn’t giving any sympathy. “Yes, I know. I’m just going to get a granola bar. Um, what option did you and Dad decide?” I did my best to sound non-chalant. I know, probably not fooling Mom but, I really don’t want her to know how worried I am.

You see I had been caught by one of the school admins coming from the direction of the parking lot at the end of lunch. The admin just assumed I was trying to sneak back on campus. I explained I had just gone to my car to get a book I needed for my next class. It had fallen out of my bag on the way to school and I didn’t notice until I went looking for it at lunch. I had the book right there in my hand so I don’t really know why she didn’t believe me. She made me show her my student ID card and then sent me off to my next class. About halfway through the class a student aide showed up with a note from the principal requesting my presence. He didn’t make me wait long once I got there. He had always seemed like a nice guy to me until right then. He accused me of ditching my French class and lying to the admin who caught me. I tried to deny it but, he didn’t give me much of a chance. He showed me the attendance record for my French class, which had been right before lunch, and it clearly had me marked as absent. He had already confirmed my absence with the teacher. I was trapped. It wasn’t true but I couldn’t prove it. He handed me a letter for my parents and told me I had to attend Saturday School as punishment.

Saturday School is essentially a day of detention. The school believed that a student’s parents should be involved in the process because Saturday School assignments were reserved for serious behavior issues. The letter the principal sent to my parents was the option I was referring to when I asked what had been decided. The principal selects a minimum amout of time to remain, anywhere from 2 to 8 hours, and marks off if a paddling is required or not. In my case he had selected 4 hours with no paddling. It was the first time I had ever been in trouble so he considered this lenient. The parents then had the option of increasing the time, up to double the principals recommendation although this sometimes resulted in having to attend two Saturday School sessions, and they could choose to add paddling, up to 15 swats given each hour.

My concern over my parents choice was because they didn’t believe me anymore than the principal did. I got a dose of Mom’s hairbrush and Dad’s belt the night I brought the letter home. That was 3 days ago and I still have a few bruises from the hairbrush. I figure its very likely they added paddling at the very least. Which is why I’m not happy to be wearing a dress. Saturday School paddlings are all bare bottom and given in the front of the classroom so everyone can watch. Not something I am looking forward to but, with my parents, inevitable.

“Your father will pick you up at 4:00 and I hope you were smart enough to wear proper undergarments today. That should answer your question. I hope you learn your lesson from this.” Mom finally responded as I finished eating my granola bar. The ride to school was uncomfortably silent. It was a full 10 minutes before 8 when I walked, escorted by Mom, to the Detention room door. Mr. Wimble arrived at nearly the same moment. Mom handed him the letter without ever letting me see what was in store for me. I was sent to sit down in the desk farthest from the door at the front of the classroom. Mom and Mr. Wimble talked quietly for a few minutes and then she left without another word to me. The other students began arriving shortly after my Mom left. Mr Wimble assigned seats to everyone and collected letters as they arrived. A total of 35 students were in there when he closed the door at 8:00 and I was the only one who had been escorted by a parent. I was very thankful we had arrived early enough that I was the only one who knew that. Other than Mr. Wimble of course.

Mr. Wimble quickly did a roll call from his sheet and confirmed that everyone who was supposed to be there was. He then proceeded to lay out the rules for the day. “No talking, unless answering a question from me to you, Do your homework. If you don’t have any or finish it before your time is up I have plenty of assignments to hand out, When your time is up I will excuse you, If there are paddlings, they take place on the half hour marks. I will call up any students this involves in a few minutes and give you additional instructions. Those of you not up for a paddling may find yourselves up for one if you choose not to follow the rules today. Now get to your homework.”

I of course was having trouble concentrating. I just knew I was going to be up for a paddling and waiting for him to announce it to everyone was very distracting. I looked at the clock, 8:20, and he still hadn’t called anyone up. I was just starting to think maybe it wasn’t going to happen when he made the announcement. “I am amazed with 35 students in here today that only one of you is up for paddling. The rest of you should consider yourselves lucky. Miss Kelly Dean, will you please come stand in front of my desk.” I swear I could actually feel every pair of eyes in the room focus on me as I stood up and walked to a spot dead center in front of his desk. I couldn’t see any of them with my back to the classroom but, I had noticed as everyone arrived there were only 7 girls here and I was one of them.

Mr. Wimble walked over to me and spoke in a much quieter voice so, that no one else could hear. “Miss Dean, your parents have asked for you to receive 15 swats of the paddle 8 times today. I’m sure you knew that already but, I have to explain it just in case. You should also be aware that the paddle is applied to the bare buttocks and only the bare buttocks in Saturday School. Your Mother made it clear to me this morning that she expects this to be a most severe and humiliating punishment for you. Undoubtedly why, she made you wear a dress. It is almost 8:30. At the back of the classroom you will notice there are several hooks on the wall. You are expected to undress yourself for the paddle and your clothes will not be returned until your time here is complete. In compliance with school procedures for females being paddled in Saturday School, you will remove your dress, your underwear, your shoes, and any jewlry. I will call your parents in here if you choose not to comply. You may now strip and hang your clothes on the rack I pointed out to you. Understood?”

How do you answer a question like that? With a very loud, “NO WAY IN HELL!” Unfortunately, that response was clearly not going change the inevitable. I did have one question though. I had heard from rumors, mostly spread by guys, that said when a girl wore a dress, the underwear removal included her bra. This was why I was so upset that I couldn’t find a clean blouse this morning. I hoped the rumor wasn’t true but, I really didn’t want any problems with Mr. Wimble. He was the school football coach and I heard just one swat from him could make any guy in the school start to cry. Still I wasn’t about to take my bra off unless I had to. I couldn’t see any other option I was just going to have to ask. “Yes, sir. I understand. If I may ask a question, Sir? ” I whispered as quietly as he had, hoping nobody else could hear. He nodded at me, “Yes?” Deep breath and here goes, “When you said I have to remove my underwear, um does that include my ah bra?” That was harder to say than you can possibly imagine. He shook his head from side to side and said, “What do yo think? Is a bra underwear?” With that he dismissed me with a wave of his hand. Clearly he expected me to go to the back of the classroom and undress. What still isn’t seeming very clear is whether I’m expected to remove my bra or not.

As I walked to the back keeping my head down, I could tell several of the guys were watching me very carefully. They all knew they’d be seeing a lot more of me very shortly. I had a slightly deserved reputation as a tease amongst the guys at school. They no doubt, were greatly enjoying thoughts of seeing me brought down a peg or two. Isn’t it amazing all the thoughts that can travel through your head in a very short period of time. Its no wonder that situations like this seem to drag on. Finally I reached the back of the room where only Mr. Wimble could see me. Everyone else knew that turning that far around to watch me would probably result in them joining me.

I took my shoes off first. Not that it was difficult my feet slipped right out of them. I pushed them against the wall. I closed my eyes for a moment to focus and gather strength. When I re-opened them a moment later I had a temporary boost of courage. My fingers found there way to the zipper on the back of my dress and pulled it down with too much ease. Quickly before I could loose my nerve I shrugged out of it and pushed it towards the floor. I gracefully stepped out of it and hung it carefully on one of the hooks. I hadn’t worn socks or nylons so I was standing in just my slip bra and panties at this point. Horridly embarassing as it was clear Mr. Wimble was watching me very closely. I wanted to bolt from the room only fear of repercussions from my own parents kept me in place. With a deep breath I pulled my slip up and over my head. I hung it carefully next to my dress. Next I slipped my thumbs into the waist band of my panties. Before I could change my mind I pulled them down and off. As I hung them next to my slip I realized that the horrible rumors were true. I was going to have to take my bra off because it was underwear. Still facing the back wall I reached up behind and unfastened it. I was crying as I placed it on a hook. I had but one thought in my head, ‘How could Mom do this to me?’

Naked, I walked to the front of the class as Mr. Wimble picked up the paddle from his desk. He then announced to the class, as if they hadn’t noticed,”Miss Kelly Dean will now receive 15 swats. You may pause your work and watch.” I was doing my best to protect my modesty despite the obvious futility. I was directed to bend over the teachers desk and grab the far edge. The cold surface only added to my feelings of humiliation. Stretched over the desk like that I could just imagine the view my classmates were enjoying. I needn’t have worried too much as I was about to give them all a much better view of all me. The first swat from Mr. Wimble was worse than anything I had imagined. I couldn’t help but leap into the air and grab my poor bottom. I turned around facing the class jumping up and down, crying and begging for mercy. Mr. Wimble wasn’t amused, although nearly everyone else in the room was grinning that is except for me. He forced me back into position. He also warned me that if couldn’t stay in position he would have one or two of the boys hold me down. I grabbed onto the desk for dear life and somehow made it through the next 14 swats. I screamed with everyone, so loud I imagine anyone on the school campus heard. Tears were falling steadily from my eyes but I wasn’t really crying. The sting in my bottom seemed to reach all the way through to my eyes.

Mr. Wimble sent me to my desk and told me to get back to my studies. As I walked stiffly to my desk, whimpering slightly, I could see beaming smiles on the faces of several boys. I nearly jumped back up the instant my butt touched the hard plastic seat. Mr. Wimble was obviously watching for that reaction as he commented, “If you can’t sit down you can stand in front of your desk and lean down to do your work. I’m sure before the end of the day you’ll take me up on that offer.” Oh how I wanted to slap him for that smugness. I made a promise to myself right then that I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being right no matter how much it hurt.

The next hour passed by too quickly. My butt had just begun to stop throbbing. It still hurt but, I was finally being able to concentrate a little on my math homework. Mr Wimble interrupted my work, “Miss Kelly, time for another 15. Class you may pause your work and watch.” Oh how I hated this man. I stood up and moved to his desk without a word though. When told, I bent over and grabbed the far edge of the desk. This time at least I knew what was coming or so I thought. The first swat caused me to lose my grip once again. This time though I forced myself back down before anything was said. That was much harder than any of the previous 15 had been I was sure of it. The rest followed in rapid succession. I was screaming and crying like before and like before somehow I managed to hold on through it all. “Miss Kelly you may return to your seat and get back to work.”

Sitting down the second time was excruciating. I found myself wishing I had a mirror so I could see how bad the damage was. Then I realized I could always just ask one of my classmates. No, that really didn’t seem like a good idea but the mental image of me asking one of the guys about the state of my behind nearly caused me to laugh through my tears. Even though the second round had hurt more than the first I was able to focus on my work after only a few minutes. I suppose I was getting used to the pain and that was probably a good thing because I was going to be bruised for several days from this.

Before I knew, it was time for the 2 hour’s (lucky bastards) to leave. Those that got to leave then were 1st timers like me for the most part. If truancy hadn’t been a pet peeve of the principal its all I would’ve been given. A total of 7 students were dismissed leaving just 26 guys and 1 girl other than me. Jennifer Hagins was not the girl I would have preferred to remain with me but, I was relieved that I wasn’t alone in this room with only boys. Jennifer and I had our differences, chiefly being, she held me responsible for getting paddled our freshman year. In all fairness she had good reason to blame me but, who would volunteer to get the paddle? Not me. Didn’t matter if I was the real culprit and it was being blamed on someone else. I had little doubt she was greatly enjoying my hourly paddlings and constant exposure as much if not more than the boys in the room.

“Miss Kelly!” Mr. Wimble boomed at me. I couldn’t believe it was time again already. Seemed like I had just been paddled. I looked up at him waiting for the rest. “I would think you would be particularly attentive to your studies today all things considered. It seems you need some additional paddling though to keep you mind on your work. Up in front here! Let’s see if 10 swats can keep you focused on your studies. Actually judging by the time we shall just make it 25 all at once. Get up here now girl! YOu want another 10 from me?” Of course I ran to the front of the class. I certainly didn’t want 25 but 35 would just kill me I was sure. How had he known I wasn’t paying attention to my work? Had I been that obvious in my distraction? Apparently so. This was going to hurt a lot.

I was bent over the desk again before my imminent future really sunk in. The first crack of the paddle left me howling. I held on to the edge of the desk for dear life knowing that weakness here would only make matters worse. The second crack of the paddle sent me howling again and this time I was promising good behavior to boot. I don’t how I made it through those twenty-five swats. Each one seemed to sear my rear end and leave me gasping for breath. When finally I was told to return to my seat I was no longer a quietly defiant teenager but, a sorrowful little girl begging forgiveness with a river of tears.

Sitting at my desk was as impossible a task as taking those swats and again I managed. My sobbing racked my body and I couldn’t even begin to see my school books through my swollen eyes. I struggled internally to regain some sense of self control. It must have taken me several minutes to calm myself and as the sobbing subsided and the tears dried, the pulsing and burning of my tender bottom intensefied. I returned to my studies sniffling and praying the next hour would last as long as two just to give me time to brace for the next inevitable paddling to come.

After the turn of the hour Mr. Wimble quietly walked passed my desk and set a paper cut filled with water down for me. He smiled and nodded for me to drink it as I looked up at him with questioning eyes. I was totally unprepared for such kindness from the man who was beating me. I sucked the water down in a single gulp surprising myself at how thirsty I had been. Mr. Wimble took notice and refilled the cup and returned it to me. I silently mouthed my thanks to him and he smiled and stroked my hair as he walked by, continuing his tour of the classroom. My thirst was far from quenched but, I felt much better having drained that cup twice. I was able to focus with more clarity and actually started making some significant progress on my homework.

Unfortunately, the busier I got with my school work the faster the time passed. Before I knew it the time was upon us again and my dear bottom was pointing toward the class waiting for another 15 swats of the dreaded paddle. Strangely enough this fourth set to be the lightest of the day. I still heard the loud crack each time the paddle connected and my body jumped forward with each impact. Still the pain seemed lessened somehow. Perhaps I was simply going numb from the torture I had received to this point or maybe I was forming a mental detachment that was protecting me. I don’t really know but, the change was a welcome relief.

Soon after I was seated again, Mr. Wimble called out. It was time for the four hour students to leave and for the rest of to take 15 minutes to eat our lunches, use the restroom, and get a drink. Having no lunch I decided I’d better drink some more wate and use the facilities. After draining about 10 of those paper cups worth of water I made the embarassing march to the ladies room. The ladies room was located across and open quad from where the detention room was. So, I had to walk about 40 feet outside totally nude to reach the facilities. Somehow my nudity seemed even more humiliating in the outdoors as though I were exposed for the whole world to see and mock. Sitting on the toilet proved to be a lesson in pain with disastrous state of my deriere. On the plus side I did finally get my wish to see how bad the damage was. The bright red coloring was undoubtedly hiding several bruises. In the center of each buttock was white horseshoe like mark that was raised almost like a long skinny blister. Just the briefest touch to those marks was enough to bring tears to my eyes. No wonder sitting down hurt so badly.

I returned to the detention room with about five minutes to spare so I quickly downed a few more cups of water. I was seated and back to my school work when Mr. Wimble announced the lunch break was over. A quick glance around the room revealed that about half the students were gone now. I couldn’t help but think that also meant I had less than 15 minutes before I was to be paddled yet again. Concentrating on my work was near impossible but not as impossible as getting extra from Mr. Wimble for not concentrating. So, galantly I focused my attention and continued working. As seemed the norm for the day the time passed too quickly and I was once again called to display myself for another dose of school discipline.

The first swat was more than I could take. The crack sent me shrieking in agony and I could no longer hold myself to the desk. I lept upwards and grabbed my tenderized flesh with both hands screaming all the while. “Please no more!” I begged for mercy. “Please!” Mr. Wimble called upon one of the older and larger boys in the room to come hold me down to the desk. The boy did as we told although his face clearly showed he disapproved. Mr. Wimble guided me gently back down upon the desk while I continued to plead for mercy. The boy took my hands and stared into my eyes. He mouthed a silent apology clearly ashamed to be assisting in my torture. I stared right back into his eyes for the remainder of the paddling. He blinked at every crack as the paddle impacted my tender flesh. I was but a rag doll, bawling and screaming. My pleading no longer coherent, I struggled without end or strength.

The last swat fell upon me. I lay limp and sobbing on the desk. The boy who had held me so firmly no helped guide me up and pratically carried me to my desk. He was silent but I could feel the compassion pulsing through his hand into mine. As my eyes began to clear of the tears I could see that my fellow students felt the line between just desserts and cruelty had finally be crossed. Not a person in the room, perhaps not even Mr. Wimble himself felt I deserved a punishment so severe. Only I knew the depth at which I required this punishment. I may have been falsely accused and sentenced for crimes I had not commited but I was here and I had done much that should have brought me here far sooner. I hated every moment and loved each second. I knew at this moment that by completing my punishment for the day I would be able to forgive myself for the deeds I had done and that was far more crucial than any outside forgiveness. Only I knew the depth of my soul which craved this proper punishment. Perhaps my Mom had known as well what I needed. She sometimes seemed able to see that deeply into me even when I was unable to.

I squirmed quietly in my seat as I read through my history text. I found myself having to re-read each paragraph three and four times before I knew anything of what I had read. Still it was at least something to focus upon. The hour seemed to drag this time probably because the burning in my seat wouldn’t dissipate. No matter how I moved the pain only grew, the burning only became more inflamed. It was like sitting on a hot iron while being simultaneously poked with ice cold needles all in the same places and all at once. Time was still and I was not.

Mr. Wimble announced it was time for my next round. I was ready yet not. I was bold and afraid. I was once again on my way to his desk to present myself for what I deserved. I grabbed the far side of the desk and looked up praying for numbness and forgiveness. The boy from before returned and grabbed my hands firmly in his own. He gave a crooked smile and winked at me. The first crack shattered the silence and euphoria. I begged again. “Please sir. Please no more! I’ll be a good girl! I swear it! Please!” Mr. Wimble waited until the boy had regained a firm hold of me and then delivered another swat. The crack seemed deafening in my ears but, it was likely my screams that were truly deafening. I begged more. I would have done anything to prevent another swing of the cursed paddle. I heard the next crack and felt nothing. Finally my tenderized buttocks had reached the point of total numbness. Or more likely the level of pain I was feeling was beyond increase. I had reached the very limit of pain and survived. I continued to cry and sob and shake and shudder. My body racked with shame took its punishment inspite of me.

Again I was carried to my seat and left to compose myself and return to my school work. I could no longer seem to bring myself back within control. Mr. Wimble seemed to understand and simply let me be. I sobbed and whispered pleas for mercy at my desk. Time was on fast forward again as suddenly Mr. Wimble announced the six hour students could leave. A quick glance around revealed only seven student remaining in addition to myself. Jennifer was one of those still there and as I glanced her way I could see she was quietly crying at her desk. She glanced me at me and then away quickly trying to hide her tears. I was extremely touched that she would cry for me considering how horrible I had been to her. She better than most knew how much I deserved this day of punishment. I decided then that I would seek her out at the next opportunity and offer my sincere apologies for having gotten her in such trouble before. Strange how lucid my thoughts were despite the sobbing and pleading exterior. It was almost as though I were detached from my body and watching a scene in a movie. Only this movie came complete with all the senses and pain was a foregone conclusion.

Once again it was time to present my tender buttocks for another onslaught. Once again I found myself gripping the arms of a boy I barely knew. Once again I found strength in my weakness and pride in my shame. Each swat of the paddle sent reverberations pulsing through my body and screaching out through my vocal chords. I was an instument and Mr. Wimble was the musician. He played me with the finesse of a master as I sung the ageless tune, “Please! No more! I’ll be a good girl!” The words of course, broken and slurred, were interrupted by sobs, screeches, and gasps for breath. My body was racked with pain, my legs weak and numb. Would this torture ever end?

Suddenly, I heard a loud ringing noise. I gasped for breath. There it was again only louder. My eyelids fluttered and opened. The detention room faded away and my bedroom came into focus. I sat upright in my bed as I realized it was the phone ringing. My breathing was ragged and I was satuarated with sweat. I had been so close too and then the damn phone had to ring. Knock! Knock! Someone was at my door. “Kelly, telephone!” My brother shouted through the closed door.

I looked at my phone with more than a little frustration and picked it up. “Hello. Oh, hey Jen what’s going on? Oh yeah! I forgot you had Saturday school today. What’s wrong did Wimble paddle you?”

Yosemite Falls

Yosemite Falls
Cortrite Girl

Half Dome reached its snowy white cap toward the rich blue sky. All around me was snow and ice. The air was crisp and cold, my breath floated in an icy mist in the gentle breeze of morning. Jeff slipped his warm gloved hand into mine and gently squeezed as we stood off to the side of the road, gazing in wondrous awe at the site of nature’s wonder before us. I pulled up my camera and snapped a few pictures, capturing a moment never to be repeated.

I was on vacation with my boyfriend in the month of February. We had taken a week long vacation to visit Yosemite during the majestic beauty of winter. As we drove farther into the park the sides of road became encased in two parallel white walls of snow at least twelve feet high. The road was clear though and the sky was the purest of blues without a cloud in sight. I was practically bouncing in my seat as Jeff steered our small car into a parking area.

We had arrived at our destination for the day’s activity, Mist trail. The name comes from the mist of Vernal Fall and Nevada Fall on the trail. However, the cold winter we were enjoying had caused the whole thing freeze and the view from the trail was rumored to be nothing short of spectacular with both falls frozen solid.

Jeff and I grabbed our backpacks out of the trunk and made sure we had our water supply and snacks along with a few emergency supplies. You can never be too careful when hiking at anytime of the year, but we had been warned that storms occasionally hit the area we were about to hike through with little or no warning. I had black leather hiking boots on and jeans covered by black sweat pants along with a hefty sweater and a crème colored winter jacket that was so puffed out I looked twice my normal size. My backpack was red and black and light enough to almost forget it was there. Jeff was outfitted in his typical black leather jacket with a blue and white flannel shirt underneath, blue jeans and brown hiking boots. His backpack was solid black and carrying all the water so it was clearly heavier than mine. Gear in place and supplies double-checked we were ready to hit the trail.

We headed out and down the trail dropping a notice with our names and basic info in a box for the ranger. We noticed the parking lot had one other car than ours in it so we knew to expect at least one other group on the trail, but never really expected to see them. We were surprised less than fifteen minutes later as we caught up with the family that most likely owned the silver SUV we had seen. We said hello to them and ended up walking with them for a time as we talked about the park.

Bobby and Julie were probably in their mid thirties and they had two daughters, Christy and Wendy. The girls seemed to require their parents’ constant attention so, Jeff and I moved ahead after politely excusing ourselves and wishing them all well. It seemed the girls kept wandering off from their parents and even when we couldn’t see them, we heard their father yelling at them and eventually we heard the threat of a spanking if they didn’t straighten up.

Jeff and I were in a healthy spanking relationship so naturally we found the threat intriguing and I think we were both developing ideas for that night in the hotel room based off what we had heard. I guess there is nothing quite like reality for creating fantastic fantasy.

We lost track of the family for about an hour as we explored more of the trail. I stopped often and snapped enough pictures that Jeff was starting to threaten to give me a hard spank for every picture I took. I laughed it off even though I knew he was very serious and slightly annoyed. When we reached the end of the trail, we found ourselves a couple of rocks to sit on and eat the sandwiches we brought with us.

Shortly after we finish the sandwiches Bobby and Julie came into the clearing with their girls and apparently didn’t see us. We were under some trees a short distance away, but certainly not hiding. Bobby had the oldest girl, Wendy, by the arm as they came into the clearing. There was a fallen tree that was somewhat convenient to where they entered from and literally gave us a prime view. Bobby sat himself down on the log and started lecturing Wendy who was already crying and begging, “Daddy please don’t! I swear I’ll be good.”

Jeff and I were watching very quietly and intently as it became obvious that Wendy’s pleas had been useless. A few moments later after he had given her an award winning scolding, he reached over and started to undo her jeans.

She backed away saying, “No Daddy!”

He grabbed hold of her and pulled her back to him with a loud swat of his hand to her bottom. He then unfastened her pants pulled them well down below her knees. Wasting no time, he pulled her over his lap and started smacking away. The loud sounds of her squealing and his smacking were echoing all around in the clearing and probably a good distance away as well. He spanked her for a good two minutes with his hand and when he stood her back up she was very red faced and crying. Considering it was in the low 40’s that day I would bet she was freezing too with her pants pulled down and her pink panties on display.

Then it was the Christy’s turn and she got the exact same treatment. I felt sorry for the Wendy who was made to stand with her back to the scene and us with her pants still down. When he finished with Christy I assumed it was over and was hoping they would leave soon so we wouldn’t be discovered as eavesdroppers.

Unfortunately for the girls it wasn’t. He had both of them stand facing the log where he had been sitting and bend over and put their hands on it. He then took his belt off, folded it in half and walked up to the oldest one first and yanked her panties down and then he did the same to her sister. He gave them both 25 strokes. Each girl in turn was screaming and begging their Daddy for mercy. He didn’t seem to give any that I saw. Wendy was first and she was nothing short of hysterical when he finished and started on Christy. A few moments later Christy was in the same shape as her sister. The two girls were let up and the both started hopping around grabbing their very red bottoms apparently no longer concerned about the cold. I suppose you could say Bobby had warmed them right up.

A couple minutes later they pulled there pants back up at the insistence of Julie who was clearly not amused by their theatrics. Jeff and I were doing our best not to break into open laughter when we heard Julie threaten to spank the girls more if they didn’t pull their pants and panties up right away. I’m sure the humor of the situation was lost on all of them, but we were tickled by it. Moments later, Bobby and Julie headed back up the trail with two very contrite daughters.

Jeff and I waited there for another half hour before leaving. It could be rather embarrassing to run into them again we thought since there was only the one way out and if we passed them again they would have to know we had seen or at least heard the spanking. We thought we would give them a good head start. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough because about an hour and a half later we ended passing them again. The two girls still seemed quite subdued but there was no indication that they thought we had seen or heard anything. We exchanged a pleasant hello again with Bobby and Julie and then continued on ahead of them, relieved that the spanking didn‘t come up in our brief encounter. That was the last time we saw them as we reached the parking lot a short while later and headed off to drive through some other parts of the park before they climbed out.

Jeff and I enjoyed a very pleasant evening back at the hotel as I obediently played the part of both Christy and Wendy. I of course didn’t get my pants back up in time when I was threatened an additional dose of the belt. We got a few strange looks the next morning at the hotel breakfast. I can’t imagine why

Instant Message To A Spanking

Instant Message To A Spanking

Melanie sits back in her chair and giggles at the computer screen. Oh how she loved to tease the poor innocent guys that dared flirt with her on the net. A Cheshire cat grin on her face, she waited impatiently for the man on the other end to reply to her innuendo. Finally, the instant message box indicated that he was typing a reply.

“I think my lady has been lonely too long. How about dinner and a movie, Princess? – Robert E.”

“You are not getting off that easy. Think you can up and change the subject, do you ? I’ll fix that,” Melanie thought to herself and then began typing with a purely evil look in her eyes.

“A Princess needs her Prince and its quite mean of you to remind me of my loneliness. I think you are little more than a toad. Perhaps a flogging is in order? -Mel69”

Melanie sat back away from the keyboard again, satisfied it would be another long wait for his next reply. When his reply came an instant later, she was surprised at both the rapidity and substance of it.

“Flogging indeed! If my lady is not too displeased with me; follow this link and you shall find what I think you need. http://www.robertespvid.com – Robert E.”

“What is this? A sex video from proper Robert! Maybe he isn’t so dull after all.” Melanie thought as she debated clicking the link. Curiosity won out and she clicked the link without regard for possible consequences. The page that loaded was plain white except for a video box in the middle and a few lines of text which she ignored. She clicked the play button and waited while the video loaded.

Thirty seconds later, the video started playing. It was clearly focused on the nude posterior of a woman. There was no sound accompany the stream and so, she was confused at first as to what she was watching. Then a flash of something dark in color covered a stripe across the buttocks for an instant and was gone. A moment later(,) a red mark appeared where the buttocks had been covered. The dark flash appeared again, this time a little lower across the buttocks.(2 sentences here) Again, a red mark appeared where the flash had been. As it occurred for the third time, it was clear that the owner of the bottom was beginning to wriggle and Melanie slowly realized that she was watching a spanking video. The brown thing was clearly a strap of some sort and it was being laid on with some serious effort. She watched the remainder of the video in mystified horror. At its conclusion, she saw the counter showed it to be a little over two minutes in length and she felt very sorry for the poor woman and her clearly marked backside.

After a moment to collect herself, she felt angry realizing that Robert was undoubtedly sitting back in his chair, very proud of himself in making her take so long to reply this time. She couldn’t possibly allow his smugness to last.

“Why Robert? I had no idea you were so kinky! Do you think I’m the nasty kind of girl that would let you do that to me? -Mel69,” She typed at last and hopefully putting him on the spot.

“There is no ‘letting’ about it. You are a ‘nasty’ little girl that needs a sound strapping and that is exactly what you are going to get! -Robert E,” He responded almost immediately.

Melanie fumed at her computer screen. Never before had any man gotten the better of her on the net. She typed venom from her fingertips in response. “You couldn’t handle ass as fine as mine. You stuck up pig! – Mel69”

Immediately after hitting send she logged off, never giving him a chance to reply. Frustrated and annoyed that the nights activities had not gone as planned, she shoved away from the computer. “Maybe a nice hot shower will soothe me,” She thought as she walked upstairs to her bedroom and shower.

Melanie began stripping the instant she entered her large master suite. First, her fingers undid the top three buttons of her bright blue blouse and then she pulled the garment up and over her head. Without so much as a thought, she threw it across the room to land on the floor. Her light gray skirt was next, as she quickly unfastened it from the side and let it fall to her feet where she kicked it to join her already forgotten blouse. She had discarded her shoes earlier at the computer so that left her in nylons and underwear as she entered the bath area of her suite. She reached inside the shower and turned the hot water on full blast mixing it with just a touch of cold to keep it from scalding. Water running, she then returned to the chore of undressing. She slipped her arms out of the shoulder straps of her bra and let it fall forward so she could easily spin the back around to the front and unhook it with ease. With a laugh, she snapped it like a rubber band to fly across the room and join her other discarded clothes. Carefully, she slid her nylons down and off and set them aside on the countertop next to the bathroom sink. At last(,) her flimsy g-string slid down her long smooth legs and she lifted them to her hand with her foot. A repeat of the rubber band move sent them to join her pile of dirty laundry.

At last free of the days burdens and her clothes, she stepped into the shower and underneath a stream of hot, soothing water. She stood and sighed as the water caressed her silky skin. She tilted her head back into the stream, soaking her long, red hair. Steam from the hot water quickly settled on the glass door to her shower and as she opened her eyes and pulled her head from the stream, she felt as though the world had drifted away.

“Ouch!” She shouted with a start. “What on earth was that?” She thought as she felt pain shoot from her backside. She tensed her buttocks under the water and dismissed the painful sensation as a muscle spasm until it came again a moment later. Her hands pushed forward into the hard, wet tile of the shower wall as her wet bottom shot sensations of burning pain through out her body. She was nearly in tears by the time the spasms of pain stopped and she slowly felt the tension in buttocks release only to tighten again as the hot water from the shower sprayed upon them. “Oh my! That hurts!” She said aloud to the shower.

Fighting the stinging pain, she turned around facing the shower stream and quickly shut the water off. She tried to look at her bottom by twisting around, but she could see no reason for the burning sensation she was feeling. Opening the shower door, she grabbed her large, dark green towel and quickly wiped the water droplets from her skin. She pushed her long wet hair back behind her shoulders and walked to the end of the bath area to the large full length mirror at the end. The mirror was covered with steam from her high temperature shower and she used the towel to clear a section so she could examine her tenderized buttocks. Melanie gasped as she turned around and saw her bottom was red and swollen. In fact, it looked very much like the final image of the video she had seen on the computer.

For the moment the connection was lost on Melanie as she gently touched her swollen cheeks. She felt like she was trapped in a dream or more appropriately, a nightmare. The longer she stared at the marks and her hands caressed her tender flesh, the more she began to wonder what was happening to her. It was at that moment she recalled the video on the computer. The woman’s bottom had tensed like hers after every stroke. The redness and swelling at the end of the video had looked so much like her bottom now. She recalled wondering what the poor woman in the video had felt like and then she found herself thinking, “Is this a fantasy? Am I in bed asleep, dreaming all of this?”

Her reverie was broken by the overwhelming sensation of supple leather on tender flesh. “Ooh!” She screamed. Tears welled in her eyes as the pain was surpassing her limits of control. She stared in the mirror as she watched her flesh ripple as the flesh of the poor woman in the video had. As the next ripple took her with pain, she thought she saw the ghostly image of a dark brown strap across her buttocks as the flesh indented deep. She was crying out in pain as each wave took her. The heat in her bottom was a slow fire.

The experience ended again and as she regained her composure she realized it had lasted about two minutes. That realization brought with it the horrible thought that this might somehow be tied to that horrid video and in that same way, Robert E. “That’s impossible!” She thought to herself. “So is what is happening to me!” She said aloud to her reflection.

She threw her towel to the bath floor and walked naked to her bed, still sniffling slightly. The pain in her backside was almost unbearable as she walked. Reaching her king size canopy bed she reached under a pillow and pulled out her night shirt. Quickly she pulled it on over her head and quickly dismissed any thought of putting on panties. Her curiosity was once again getting the best of her and so, she headed back downstairs to her computer. Nothing was making sense tonight and she couldn’t help thinking that the web page with that disturbing video might hold the key.

Standing in front of her computer she called up the video web page. This time she studied it more carefully. The top of the page had bold black text centered above the video image. It read, “Melanie’s been a naughty girl. Just push play and you’ll help make sure Melanie learns her lesson well.” At the bottom of the page was a counter with small text above it reading, “Melanie’s been punished:” The counter read, “002.”

The coincidence was unmistakable. Twice she had felt the stinging in her rear and two the counter read. “How is this possible? Why is this happening?” Melanie’s brain pondered. She then decided to log back into her instant messenger and see if Robert E was still on. She bit her lip as she waited the seconds for the program to load and log her in. She quickly pulled up a window and sent a quick message to Robert E.

“Are you still there? -Mel69.”

She waited nervously both hoping he was still logged in and wondering what she would say if he was. A minute became two and then five and still no reply. Suddenly, the pain came again. She nearly lost her balance as it seemed she could feel the full force of the ghostly strap against her body. She leaned forward on her desk grabbing the near edge and holding on as the onslaught continued. New tears dripped from her eyes and she cried out unable to absorb the pain in silence. “Please, no more!” She pleaded with the computer screen. There was no reply except the continued beating of her tender flesh. When the third installment ended she was openly crying and fell to the floor rolling onto her side and grasping her bottom as though her hands could assuage the pain. Without anytime for recovery the painful lashes started again and even though her hands were grasping her swollen mounds it made no difference. The ghostly strap never missed its target.

Melanie screamed and cried and begged and pleaded. All was useless, but she could not help but try. It seemed as soon as one session was ending another was beginning. Her tortured flesh was an inferno of pain and for some reason she couldn’t help but think of all the poor men she had taunted on the internet. Never in her life had she felt such pain and at the same time she felt the emotional release and tears caused by the pain to be cleansing her soul. “Baptized by fire.” She thought and would have laughed if not for the pain.

Long minutes later she was finally able to rise from the floor. She wiped away tears only to drop more from her large green eyes. She focused on the computer screen and saw that the page was refreshing itself and the counter at the bottom jumper from its previous reading to a new one of, “007.” “Why is this happening to me?” She shouted to the air.

Frustrated and unable to reason out the impossible circumstance, she logged off and shut the computer down in hopes that the small act of powering it off would somehow sever the connection between her and the video. Still free from further chastisement she decided to return to her bed and try to rub some lotion into her rear inferno.

The climbing of the stairs was difficult. Each step stretched her tender flesh and she freely cried out in pain as the need arose. She stumbled into her master suite and headed straight for her medicine cabinet. Inside she grabbed her bottle of lotion and then threw herself face down upon her bed. She pulled her nightshirt off and threw it off to the side. She carefully filled her right palm with lotion and then reached back and started to gently rub it in.

Almost immediately, a new strapping session began. “No! Please! Its not fair!” She cried out. Laying flat on her stomach, she kicked her legs and screamed into the pillow at her head. When the latest session concluded she reach again for the lotion and even as she wrapped her hands around it a new wave of attack began. She threw the bottle across the room and into the wall in anger. Again she buried her face in her pillow and screamed and kicked and cried.
And so the night went. Never more than a moment’s respite and her punishment began again. She squirmed and screamed. She begged and pleaded. She promised to be good and cried for mercy. None of it changed her punishment, but she felt somehow better for it. Melanie eventually surrendered to the pain and punishment. She accepted that this was her penance for all the naughty things she had done. Punishment for the teasing and meanness she had so often been guilty of.

After a long, sleepless night of agony, Melanie slowly made her way downstairs to her computer. She finally stopped crying, but every step is painful. The swelling in her buttocks has caused her to feel stiff and sore with even the slightest of movements. She turns the computer on and waits for it to load up. Finally ready, she stands, unable to think of sitting, and loads the video page. The message is different now and reads, “Thanks for helping punish naughty Melanie. This session has ended for now. Please, check back later to see if she still needs help learning her lesson.” At the bottom of the page she noticed the counter read “Melanie’s been punished 238 times.”

Bear In the Park

Bear In The Park
Contrite Girl

Christel stood quietly beside her Mother in the convenience store check out line. They had just arrived late last night and as usual had found they had forgotten a few of life’s necessities. It was a typical summer vacation away from the United Sates and what she thought of as home. Her Mother had a somewhat different perspective as she was born here and always thought of these summer weeks as her visit home. This year was a little different as her older sister had brought her boyfriend along. Christel had no problem with the situation as she enjoyed the company of the young man. Her Mother, however, was not so pleased with the situation. She found his presence to be an unwelcome intrusion. Her Father had silenced objections early on by welcoming the young man along and treating him like one of the family. Truth be told, he was hopeful that his oldest daughter would soon be married to him.

Christel remained unusually quiet because of an incident just a few moments prior. She hadn’t been sure what to expect on this trip since things were different this year. Now she knew that Kyle’s presence would in no way change anything. She was certain this was mostly her Mother’s way of spiting everyone for liking Kyle. She was going to do her best to make him feel uncomfortable and as intrusive as she felt he was. The problem with that was that Kyle wasn’t going to be the one suffering. Christel was all too painfully aware of his sympathetic eyes on her. Any one in the store that spoke English was well aware of what was going to happen the moment they returned home. Well not home for Christel, but home for her Mother.

Christel’s shame was not a result of Kyle knowing. She knew he had been aware of how she and her sister were punished for years. No, the shame was that this would be the first time he was going to see it actually happen. Standing to her Mother’s side she silently cursed herself for being so obnoxious toward her Mother. She was secretly blaming her older sister even though she knew it was unfair. Her sister just had a way of making her feel like she needed to prove she was a mature young woman. Instead, she often ended up proving just the opposite.

Her Mother conversed with the attendant as the miscellaneous items were totaled. The language was foreign to Christel as most everything else in this place her Mother called home. The look on the attendants face was not foreign though, and Christel understood immediately that her impending punishment was now general knowledge. She had little doubt that the old woman was encouraging her Mother and perhaps even offering advice. It was almost more than she could stand. Christel wished to cry, but instead she simply stood in place and did her best to appear sorrowful.

“Bear in the park. You see soon.” The old woman said to Christel in her best English as they prepared to leave to the store. The evil smile on the old woman’s face made her shiver as she wondered why the woman was telling her about the bear in the park. The park was on their way home and Christel has seen the bear and other animal figures in the park many times. She had even climbed and played on them when she was smaller.

The walk toward home was a quiet one. The uncomfortable silence between all seemed to augment Christel’s imminent chastisement. The walk to the tri-corner where the park sat in the middle of three roads connecting, was the longest half kilometer ever walked. Christel bit her lower lip and appeared downtrodden as they crossed the street and began walking north, parallel to the park’s west border. The streets were a busy mess of cars traveling slowly and the sidewalk had a constant flow of pedestrians. The park was relatively empty, although there were a few young children playing watched by their mother’s. The bear that the old woman had spoke of was in clear site and a young girl was sitting high on it’s back and waving at the passing traffic with a grin of pure delight across her face.

Christel’s Mother slowed as they approach a trail opening into the park on their right. She grabbed hold of Christel’s arm firmly and pointed to a bench. “You two can wait there. We will just be a couple of minutes.” She said to Christel’s sister and Kyle.

Christel didn’t say anything or struggle as her Mother pulled her along the trail toward a set of three stretching bars. She had no idea what her Mother was doing, but suspected it was not going to be good for her. She tried to look at her Mother’s face, but she couldn’t get a clear look as she was being pushed and pulled along. Finally they stopped in front of the stretching bars and her Mother let go of her arm with a final push toward the middle of the three bars. Christel looked at it puzzled and then turned to her Mother waiting for an explanation she was certain she wouldn’t enjoy.

“Get them down and bend over the middle bar.” Her mother ordered, pointing at Christel’s shorts.

“Not here Mother! Please!” Christel begged in response as she realized her Mother intended to spank her in the park.

“Get them down this instant young lady!” Her mother replied with austerity.

“No! Its not fair!” Christel replied, violently shaking her head from side to side.

“I’m going to count to three and if they are not down I will take them off you myself and you’ll be walking home without them. Understood?” She paused for a moment gauging Christel’s reaction and still seeing defiance in her daughter’s eyes, continued with, “One!”

“No.” Christel whimpered, but her hands went immediately to the button of her shorts and unfastened it. She looked up at her Mother as her fingers grabbed hold of the zipper. She waited hoping for a last minute reprieve.

“Two!” Was her Mother’s only reply.

Christel quickly tugged the zipper down and dropper her shorts all the way to her feet. She quickly turned toward the metal bar and moved a little closer to it. She had to shuffle her feet as she moved because her shorts were confining her leg movements.

“Panties too, young lady! Don’t even think about arguing or this will be the most embarrassing day of your life.” Her Mother interrupted just as she was about to bend herself over the bar.

Christel reached back, closed her eyes tight and yanked her panties down to join her shorts. She wasted no more time and was instantly bent over the cold metal bar that was so conveniently positioned at the height of her waist. The bar dug into her waist as she leaned over reaching for the ground. Christel had never felt so exposed in all her life. She could hear the sounds of children playing and talking, the birds chirping in the trees, and the cars rolling along on the nearby street. Bent over and waiting to be spanked on her bare bottom she was certain the whole world was watching and waiting.

Christel’s Mother pulled a wooden hairbrush out of her purse and stepped up behind her daughter and to the left. She began with a single hard swing to the lower center of Christel’s right buttock. The resulting smack and Christel’s squeal echoed in the trees. The next smack was identical except it was to the left and Christel squealed a little louder. She continued in a similar fashion at a fairly slow tempo. Each smack was aimed and measured to elicit the maximum response from Christel.

After a dozen smacks to each buttock the lower regions of Christel’s bottom was bright red. Her yelps and squeals had attracted plenty of attention and while Christel was oblivious, there was quite a crowd of young children watching through the trees as Mother spanked daughter. Another dozen smacks across each buttock and the hairbrush began leaving its outline indented on her buttocks. Christel began pleading for mercy.

“Please Mother!” Christel cried out between smacks. “No more! Please” And finally Christel fell back on, “I’m sorry!” and, “I’ll be good!” At this last several of the children watching began snickering and even laughing.

Christel’s Mother was determined to make this a good lesson and so she ended the lesson with a final 12 smacks to each of Christel’s upper thighs. Christel howled in pain for each one.

“Stand up and face me, Christel.” Her Mother ordered still stern as the spanking concluded.

Christel was crying too hard to respond in words. She pushed herself up off the bar which was difficult since during the spanking she had slipped to a point where she was wholly suspended by the bar in her middle. As her feet touched the ground again she turned toward her Mother with tears in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She shuffled quickly to her and threw her arms around her in a bear hug.

“I’m so sorry Mommy.” She cried into her Mother’s shoulder.

“Shhh. Its alright. I forgive you honey.” Her mother responded while stroking her daughter’s hair and holding her tight.

The two stood there embracing for a long moment even after the words had been exchanged. Christel was so comforted in her Mother’s forgiving arms she had all but forgotten she was ‘bear in the park.’