Artwork by Endart
I’ve reflected since that if Jane had been able to get fully dressed, she’d probably have come up with some plausible excuse. As it was, with me as I’ve described, and Jane wearing only a pair of bikini panties, with her arousal visibly dampening the crotch and loudly trumpeted by her erect nipples, Jane sheepishly said nothing.
“It looks like you’ve been playing sex games with another slut, Jane Louise.” He let her panties spin off his finger and land on their bed.
We each heard something different in this statement, I imagine. I heard the word “another” and wondered how many girls had been in my predicament before me. Jane probably heard her middle name used, a dead give-away that she was in deep-serious do-do. We both heard the derogatory term, “slut,” but only Jane answered it.
“No, she’s a teacher,” Jane said, hanging her head. “We were at the PD together, the one on writing and… She seduced me!” Jane exclaimed, coming up with her excuse, lifting her head brightly. “She was bragging how she writes erotica… we were paired up together by the teacher, Bobbie, so I had to read her story… It was good, all about spanking lovers, it got me hot… she saw this and capitalized upon it… This wasn’t my fault!”
My mouth was hanging open, and my jaw dropped further with every word, but I was dumbfounded, completely unable to speak. Finally I was able to whisper, “That’s… not… true,” as I looked from her guilty face to his guileless one.
“Her work is right out there on a disc in my laptop, go see for yourself, honey.”
Bobbie didn’t go check it out, just lifted a straight-backed wooden chair from by the curio desk and placed it in the center of the room, with one chair leg piercing one leg hole of my entwined pairs of pants. I wasn’t going anywhere soon. He sat, but didn’t lose any authority in doing so, much like a king enthroned is still empowered. He looked up into Jane’s face sternly.
“You’re saying that all this was her idea, not yours?”
Jane nodded vigorously.
Bobbie looked over at me, “What do you have to say?”
“It was consensual; she wanted this just as much as I did… If I was the seducer, how come mine is the only spanked fanny?” I turned around and stuck out the evidence for him to see my still pink-tinged pair of butt cheeks.
Bobbie seized Jane’s right wrist and inspected her palm; she was caught red-handed. Her fate was sealed, she knew it; Jane hung her head again like a condemned prisoner about to take her last long walk to the electric chair where an ass would fry. Jane’s journey was not that far.
“Pull down your panties, acknowledging that you’re due a good spanking…” Bobbie ordered, still holding Jane’s wrist.
This was obviously an oft-repeated litany in this household, much like the old, “This is gonna hurt me more than it does you,” was a frequently heard phrase in mine growing up. I liked the formality of it, so silently repeated it to myself (so as to remember it for a fictional use in the future) as Jane struggled to work her panties off with only one hand. She stepped out of them, took one more small step, and was about to lie over Bobbie’s lap when he interrupted her progress.
“Uh-uhn. You need to assume the “bad girl position” for this spanking, darling.”
Jane grimaced, so I knew this wasn’t good. With difficulty, due to its intricacy, she assumed the requested face-down posture. It reminded me of the wheelbarrow position two people played back in my elementary school days. Her hands were still on the floor, but not to his side, directly in front of him, between his legs. Her crotch still lay on top of his seated lap, but her legs were parted, one on each side of his torso. Her knees were bent at right angles, so that her ankles were behind his shoulder blades. It was immediately apparent why Bobbie requested this punishment pose, Jane was as vulnerable as could be; her thighs were spread wide, her feminine privates on full display. Jane took a deep, cleansing breath and relaxed into this position. Her flexed gluteus muscles relaxed, the mounds of buttock flesh softened, exposing her anus, too.
“Hand me that paddle on the floor, young lady.” Bobbie requested, and Jane picked up the implement that she’d used on me and gave it to her lover. It made me ponder how drastically the mood of this room had changed in just a matter of minutes.
Bobbie grasped the implement’s handle firmly, rested the business end on Jane’s relaxed right buttock. The edges of the leather curled up slightly, reminding me of that tongue in the lascivious logo of the Rolling Stones rock and roll band. Jane was going to get a good licking.
Years ago, when I was emerging onto the D&S scene like a wet winged butterfly, I mistakenly thought that all leather implements of correction were sensual toys made by God to give stinging pleasure, and the very mention that one was to be used on me started my sex salivating salaciously. I also thought that wooden implements were all hard, harsh tools created by the devil to punish with a particularly biting pain. This was due to the fact that Mommy used to paddle our deserving derrieres thoroughly with a big wooden spoon until my sisters’ and my bottoms were black and blue for any perceived mischief. But, behind my locked bedroom door late at night, I used to leather my own fanny in orgies of masturbatory excess, and I simply couldn’t reach around my hip and smack my own tushy with a paddle or whip myself with a strap with very much force at all. It stung, but the pain quickly turned to a burnished radiance that inspired lust in my loins like nothing else. I was disabused of this foolish notion the first time that a lover took leather to my bared backside for a strict tanning of my hide. I was amazed at how fast that previously adored implement could zing through the air, how painfully it could bite into my innocent tenderness, how horrendously horrible was the accumulated focused, searing burn in my bottom.
The leather paddle landed with awesome force on Jane’s right orb, she shrieked pitifully, her buttocks contorted, then flexed convulsively. An angry red swath glowed on the peaches-and-cream complexion of her previously unblemished backside.
I think both Jane and I expected the next one to be administered to her other cheek; Bobbie surprised us both by giving her another incredibly hard lick right on top of the first. Jane dissolved into tears.
It had a different effect on me. It was a fearsome thrashing, no question, but even when I’ve been the recipient of harsh disciplinings, my sex always overlooks the pain and gets hot, gets wet, gets randy. If it had been a video that I’d been watching, I would have followed my desires, squatted down so that my vagina was splayed and displayed as lewdly as Jane’s was, and I would have frigged myself to that mind-blower of an orgasm that I’d been denied earlier.
Because I was standing naked before a stranger who was righteously wailing the tar out of his lover’s bottom, and I was yet to be sentenced for complicity in the offending act, I restrained my lustful urges to simply watching the ordeal.
If it were up to me, Bobbie would have stopped here. Five hard wallops answered for her deceit, both the sexual one behind his back and the spoken one to me. Bobbie was of a different frame of mind, however. I don’t know how many paddle swats Jane had previously pronounced on my bottom. The time between each wallop in both spankings was about the same, about three seconds. The force that Bobbie was using was probably twice what Jane had inflicted on me (though I hated to admit this).
But her paddling went on, and on. It easily lasted twice as long as what I endured. Jane no longer held her prone torso up with her hands. Her forearms rested on the carpet, her head was cradled on her arms. Tears glistened from (what I could see of) her face and arms. Tension was visible in her shoulder blades, in her fists, on her clenched jaw. Her butt muscles no longer flexed after each swat. She had surrendered all defiance there. But what was most attention-grabbing was the deep red hue of her backside. I’ve never seen so magenta a shade of flesh. Her cheeks and the divide between them, including her rosebud, were a uniform, well-paddled crimson.
“Were you as innocent as you claimed?” Bobbie interrogated.
“Was this teacher here innocent?”
“No, Jeanie played a part, like she said.”
“How many times now have you brought women back to our apartment for sex?”
“This is number three…”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
“What did I say, the last time, would be the consequence if it ever happened again?”
“I’d get it hard with every implement in the house.”
“That’s right, little girl. Do you think you’ve had enough of the paddle?”
“Then crawl over to your corner and show off your paddled fanny until I’m ready to give you your next lesson.”
We both watched her cute but crimson bottom wiggle its way over to the corner of the bedroom. Jane stuck her nose in the corner, stuck her red caboose out provocatively, and gingerly rubbed her heated flesh, boo-hooing all the while.
Bobbie then turned his full attention to me. I’d been thinking during Jane’s arduous punishment, for I knew this moment was coming.
Submissives, like me, fantasize about such scenarios all the time, but if one were to actually present itself, as it did to me, what would you do? See, although we’re on the bottom, we hate to really give up control. We want to structure it, to make it safe, but you can’t do that in real life. We love to flirt with reality, but limit it in our playful scenes: The schoolgirl back-talks her teacher, but she doesn’t want to be worn out with the ruler, and pulling her panties down might expose her sweet seat to splinters, so just “please, give me twenty-five stingers across my knickers, sir.” The cowgirl sasses the rodeo bull-rider, but his thick leather belt would bruise her beautiful britches-less butt, so “leather the dust out of my Wrangler jeans until you know I’m sorry,” we say as beguilingly as possible, batting our eyelashes and chewing a bottom lip and bending over. I’ve participated in hundreds of such role-plays, but this was different. This was real! I’d overlooked the fact that the pretty girl had a boy friend, as if lesbian sex wasn’t infidelity. Now the handsome boyfriend wanted comeuppance, in the form of pounded flesh. I was scared, so scared that I couldn’t see straight… but I was also turned-on, so turned-on that I wanted to just close my eyes and let the scene play out. No safe word, no deals, no compromises.
“I won’t assume “the bad girl position” for this…” I said haughtily as I stepped up to the right side of Bobbie’s chair.
“I wouldn’t ask you to, that’s something Jane and I share as lovers,” he responded, as he took my arm to assist my descent over his lap.
My heart was in my throat, I could feel its heavy pounding in the artery in my neck. I braced my hands and feet wide, although this meant parting my legs more than my modesty felt comfortable with; I knew that I’d need the support of a strong foundation. I wriggled my crotch into his denim-covered, muscular thigh, feeling something else, even harder, under my left hip. Bobbie was as aroused as I was. I could feel the blood rush to my head as I simultaneously lowered it and arched my butt up. It wouldn’t take long to rush to my bottom under the anticipated paddling. How many whacks would he consider just?
“You’re into spanking?” he asked, laying the paddle against my skin.
“Maybe,” I replied, thinking that haughtiness was as good a ploy as any to insure what we both wanted.
“We’ll see… won’t we?” he chortled.
Yep, about twice as hard as Jane’s wallops, I told myself as tears turned my shimmering vision of the tan carpet to a prism of rainbow colors.
Damn, that burns worst than anything I’ve ever been subjected to before, I was able to cognate, before my whole world became a blubbering, agonizing ordeal.
I gave into it, grabbed Bobbie’s left work boot top and pants leg cuff with both hands to ride it out. I used to do the same, years ago, to my mom’s slender ankle, when she was really laying into me with the wooden spoon.
The experiences were a lot alike; punishment of unknown severity and duration, administered by some righteously indignant authority figure.
It was different, too. Now I was a woman, and this punishment, no matter the severity, was sexually thrilling at the same time. And with Mom, I could count on a hug after it was over, a lipsticky kiss on one set of cheeks, and a reassuring pat on the other set, as I was sent off to my room. I didn’t expect either from Bobbie.
It was alike, after all, because in my bedroom (at least as a teen) I used to masturbate like the dickens afterward, and damned if I’m not going to do likewise all the way home behind the wheel AND in my bedroom all evening-long tonight.
I don’t know how many wallops I received. I do know that I was hoarse from hollering before it was over, that my tears continued to flow, though I couldn’t imagine how my tear ducts could store such a quantity, that my butt throbbed numbly, but that each wallop still hurt just as bad as the first.
“Did you intend to seduce Jane?” Bobbie demanded.
“No!” I half-lied, making up for it in the vehement way that I spat out my answer.
“Did you try to resist her advances?”
“No,” I whimpered.
“Do you do this all the time with women you meet in teacher conferences?”
“No, Jane was the first woman I’ve ever been with,” I confessed. “I even told Jane so.” Above me, I could sense Bobbie looking over to Jane for confirmation of this. We both looked up and saw that Jane couldn’t keep her nose in the corner, that libidinous curiosity made her a spectator to my disciplining, just as I had been of hers. She nodded to her lover, then looked at me as if I was now her best friend for weathering the same storm that she had. I wasn’t able to forget her excuse, blaming me initially for all this, so I didn’t return the soulful stare, I just looked back down at the carpet.
“What exactly did you two do together?” Bobbie continued, the hurt evident in his voice.
“Jane read my story, spanked me with the paddle to get us both turned-on, fingered and licked my pussy, and then you came in,” I said matter-of-factly. I didn’t say anything about how I’d planned to reciprocate, it hadn’t happened.
Finally realizing that my complicity in this one-sided “seduction” hardly merited the blazing buttocks that his paddling had bestowed upon me, Bobbie took me by the arm to help me back onto my feet. But before I was hoisted from my horizontal state, Bobbie tossed the paddle to the floor and caressed my flaming fanny, as if assessing whether the warmth that radiated there was sufficient.
“You took that like a trooper,” he pronounced.
I almost let the brat in me have her say. I almost blurted, “Your lover buggered my butt hole at this stage of the game, when she’d finished paddling me, don’t you want to plumb those depths, too, little Jack horney?” I knew that he wanted to, by his throbbing manhood still straining against his jeans’ zipper. I wanted him to be human. I wanted him to slip and be sexual with me, to see how easy a mistake like that can be. But his caress was chaste, and my mouth stayed shut. I’d had enough punishment for one day.
Silently he righted me, and I rubbed my behind like the immodest little girl I once was after Mom had employed the wooden spoon to right my wrong. Bobbie put the chair back, and I scrambled to get into my clothing, even though it hurt like hell to pull my tight slacks up over my roasted rump.
Nobody said, “Well, it was nice to meet you!” or “I’ll call you tomorrow, maybe we can have lunch.”
I walked briskly, if painfully, out to the kitchen counter to retrieve my floppy discs and laptop, while overhearing Bobbie order Jane out of the corner to bend over their bed. I looked back over my shoulder to see her assume the position and see Bobbie pick up the hairbrush.
“I think I’ll alternate leather and wood…” he said. I remembered her consequence, Jane was going to feel the hairbrush, then perhaps a belt or the tawse, and then probably that cane, that is if that were all the implements at his disposal. Jane’s upturned fanny had returned to a healthy pink (as I hoped mine would soon) but not for long.
“Say it…” I heard his voice rumble
“I’ve been a bad girl and deserve the hairbrush,” she complied.
“I’ve been a bad girl and (sob) deserve (sob) the hairbrush.”
It was going to be a long night for my teaching colleague…
I left, purposefully leaving the apartment door wide open. I walked to my car, listening intently to her voice and his answer all the way. I opened the driver’s side door, gently placed my disc case and computer in the shade of the car floor, slid my car seat all the way back, got in, closed the door, and started the car only long enough to roll down the electric window, then shut it off. From there, I could only hear an undecipherable female voice say a sentence, followed by a muffled splat. If someone else heard it, they wouldn’t necessarily know a spanking was transpiring in apartment 3G. There was no one, anyway; it was a deserted late-August late afternoon by a nondescript apartment complex. I, therefore, had the nerve to pull my pants and panties down again, just as far as Jane took them down, to mid-thigh. My warmed bare butt cheeks felt sublime against the warm Naugahyde upholstery. I closed my eyes and smiled as I parted my thighs to expose another pair of smiling lips.
I’d only been diddling for a few seconds more than a minute when the sounds coming from their open door ceased. As turned-on as I was, I was close to a climax, but not there yet. It proved to be just a momentary respite, probably for Bobbie to switch implements. When the sounds resumed, it was more of a sharp “snick” instead of the dull “thwack” signifying that he changed to the tawse. Jane apparently wasn’t required to ask for these, but she couldn’t keep from crying out in answer to each one, either. It proved such a sweet cadence to masturbate by, to cum to.
My mind was clear after that orgasm; I sat there in the warm sunshine with two fingers in my honeypot, and took stock. I still hadn’t tasted another woman’s sex, but having mine canoodled by feminine lips proved a wholly pleasurable experience. I felt lonely without a boyfriend; I’d broken-up with mine months ago, and had no prospects. But, I was glad that I didn’t have some control-freak, like Bobbie, tanning my tush terribly for every offense, real or imagined. My dalliance with Jane had wet my appetite, as well as my vagina. I thought that I remembered a clean, well-lit sex toy shop not far from where I was sitting. I decided that I really needed to invest in a long string of anal beads. With that toy, the ones I already owned, my tingling bottom, and memorized moments from this afternoon, I planned to spend a very relaxing night. I started my car, enjoying the motor’s vibration in my still-exposed sex. I wondered if passing SUV’s would be able to look down and see my fingers busily at work, see my pants down. I knew that truckers would be able to do so. I decided to be daring; after all, I had just pushed my limits, taken a huge risk, and wasn’t the worst for wear. I blasted my car horn loud and long as I pulled out of Jane’s parking lot, as if to say, “Fare thee well (or welted), thanks for the spanks, and take it like a trooper…”