Standing in the library (M/F story)

As Abigail gazed in wonder at the gigantic library, she had to pinch herself once again to prove to herself that she wasn't dreaming. It was all real!

Abigail had been dating Wesley for a little over a year, and today was the day she'd been introduced to his parents. She had known for some time that they had quite a lot of money, but she hadn't realized just how rich they were until Wesley's old BMW pulled up in front of the mansion. The building was enormous! And not some decrepit old ruin – it was well-maintained, richly decorated, with a lovely garden. She'd shivered in her cheap charity shop dress, wondering how exactly they'd receive her. Would they think their son was wasting his time dating someone like her?

To her immense relief, his parents had been extremely nice. They'd received her with friendly smiles and made her feel welcome. His mother had complimented her on her hair and nails, and then listened intently as Abigail talked about life at the college, and when she mentioned that she was an avid reader, his father had told her that she was free to borrow some books from their library if she wanted. As many as she wished, in fact.

Wesley and his father were chatting in the lounge over a cup of tea while Abigail went to explore the library. Her eyes widened as she entered the room. It was massive! Shelves upon shelves of books, and several of them were centuries old. She found old classics, personal favourites, rarities, and books she'd never even heard of!

She'd already picked out quite a large stack of novels she intended to take home, when she spotted a copy of "Through the Looking-Glass" high up on a shelf. She stared. It looked so old – it couldn't be an original print, could it? She looked around for the ladder, but couldn't see it. In a room this big, it was easy to get lost. Searching for another solution, she spotted an armless wooden chair, which she immediately placed under the book. However, even standing on it, her petite form was far too short to reach the novel. Stepping down, she glanced over at the large stack of books she'd already picked out, looked back up at her prize, and placed the stack on the seat of the chair. By standing on tiptoes, she just barely managed to reach the volume, tipping it into her hand. "Success!" she exclaimed.

That's when she felt the stack wobble under her feet. To her horror, she could feel it toppling.

As she started to tumble towards the floor, Abigail shrieked. The stack had been high, and she knew that landing headfirst on the hard floor was unlikely to end well. Time seemed to slow down, and she watched the shelves inch past as she fell. At the back of her mind, she wondered whether her boyfriend or his parents would find her first. She gasped as she struck something, then frowned. She'd landed on her side instead of her head, and she hadn't fallen as far as she'd been prepared for; the floor was a lot closer than she'd expected. Softer, too.

"Are you OK?" Wesley's voice was full of worry. Glancing up, she realized that he'd caught her as she fell. Nestled in his arms, she reflected on just how worried she'd been when the stack started to topple, and she buried her face in his chest, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Abigail, are you OK?"

"Thank you," she murmured from the depths of his shirt.

"I came to see how you were doing. I arrived just as the books started to shift - fortunately, I managed to get to you in time. Are you OK?" he repeated again. "Are you hurt?"

She looked up at him. "I'm fine!" she assured him. "You can put me down now."

He lowered her gently until her feet touched the floor, eventually letting go of her. "You're sure you're OK? You're not hurt in any way?" When she nodded, the worry on his face was replaced with a stern frown. "Good. Now, explain yourself, young lady. What in the world made you decide to do something like that?"

She looked at the novel in her hand. "I wanted a closer look at this," she explained.

"We have ladders for that," he said, clearly trying hard to keep his voice calm.

"Yeah, but I couldn't find one."

His frown deepened. "So instead of searching a little bit harder, or asking for help, you decided to risk life and limb by making a large pile of books, placing it on a chair, and standing on it?"

Now that he said it out loud, it suddenly didn't sound like such a good idea after all. Her backside began to tingle, and she had a horrible feeling that she was going to find herself over his knee once they were back at the flat. She managed to resist the urge to rub her rear; if he wasn't already planning to spank her, she certainly didn't want to give him ideas.

The robot assistant 2 (M/F story)

Adeline had invited her coworker Lydia for some after-work drinks one Friday evening. Lydia was her best friend in the workplace, and the pair had often hung out at bars, but it was the first time she would visit Adeline’s home. When Adeline stopped to think about it, she realized she didn’t receive a lot of visitors. She usually preferred going out if she was going to spend time with friends.

"Welcome home, Miss Beckett," Sam said as they entered. He turned and bowed to Lydia. "Welcome, visitor."

Adeline nodded towards the robot. "This is Sam, my assistant. Sam, this is Lydia from work."

"I didn't know you had a robot," Lydia exclaimed. She grinned. "Didn't know they made them tall and handsome, either. Though I suppose that didn't enter your mind when you bought him?" she said teasingly, raising an eyebrow at Adeline.

"Perish the thought," Adeline responded, trying to look innocent.

"Would you like me to prepare some food for the two of you?" Sam asked.

"No thanks, we had some pizza before we left the office. I'd like you to open a bottle of wine, though. Red, please."

"Ah. I am afraid you did not go shopping as you intended this week, so there is no red wine in the house." Sam handled most of the shopping, but robots legally could not buy alcohol or cigarettes, since the risk of children using them to bypass age restrictions was considered too high.

"Oops!" Adeline said, with her hand in front of her mouth. "I completely forgot! We'll have some white wine, then, and I'll remember to buy some tomorrow."

"Yes, you will, young lady – or I will have to take you across my lap and spank you for your forgetfulness," the robot responded, before going to fetch the wine.

Adeline paled. Her legs had turned to jelly, almost making her fall over. At her side, she heard Lydia give a shocked gasp. It took several long seconds before she dared to look over at her friend, and when she did, Lydia stared back at her, her eyebrows raised so high they disappeared into her hair.

In all the weeks she'd taught Sam how to be her stern disciplinarian, she'd completely forgotten to tell him that her punishments should be private. He'd just threatened to give her a spanking in front of her coworker. She wanted to sink through the floor and disappear completely.

"It's a joke!" she hurriedly exclaimed. "I accidentally left the TV on during some I Love Lucy reruns – it’s this show from the fifties – and ever since, Sam makes strange comments like that. I've been trying to get him to stop, but once the AI gets an idea into its head …"

"Huh," Lydia said, eyebrows still raised. Adeline had a horrible feeling that her coworker didn't believe her. "Didn't know they still broadcasts a show that old. Which channel was that?"

"I don't remember," Adeline mumbled. "One of those oldies channels."

Sam returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and Adeline took a large sip, trying to calm her nerves. Hopefully, Lydia would forget about the embarrassing little exchange. The last thing she wanted was for word about this to spread at the workplace.

The two women sat down on the sofa, chatting away. They had soon emptied the first bottle, so Sam brought another, as well as some snacks. They were deep in conversation when Sam suddenly appeared next to his owner. "Miss Beckett? I just found this while tidying in your office. Would you care to explain it?"

Adeline glanced up. The robot was holding a letter she'd opened the previous day – she'd forgotten to sign some papers, and had incurred a 25-pound penalty for lateness. "It's my bank," she explained. "You remember those papers I had to sign and mail back in?" She shrugged. "I didn't."

Sam frowned. "Even though I reminded you that it was due? More than once?"

At this point, she probably should have tried to tell him that she had a guest and that they would discuss it later, but she was more than a little tipsy, and there was something about his stern tone that made it so easy to slip into her submissive state of mind. "I'm sorry, Sam," she said, lowering her eyes.

He nodded. "Not as sorry as you are going to be. You have earned a good spanking, young lady."

At her side, Lydia snorted with laughter. It was clear that she found the whole thing wonderfully amusing. Adeline spun to look at her, her face pale. "It's just a joke! Sam doesn't spank me! It's just a little –"

Sam placed his hand under her chin and turned her head, forcing her to look at him. His strong touch made her insides melt. "Do not lie, young lady. I have spanked you before, and I will spank you now."

Adeline shivered. This evening was not turning out the way she had hoped. Was there anything she could do to save her dignity? "No! It's all just a silly joke, and I'm not –"

"Adeline, if you tell another lie, I will wash your mouth out with soap. Is that clear?"

Lydia was now laughing so much there were tears in her eyes, and Adeline blushed scarlet. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. "Yes, sir," she said meekly, causing Lydia to laugh even harder.

"Good." The robot sat down on the sofa, patting his lap. "Bend over my knee, Adeline."

The robot assistant (M/F story)

"Miss Beckett?" Sam's calm, even voice said, pulling Adeline from her pleasant dreams.

"Go away," she mumbled, burying her face in the pillow.

"Miss Beckett, please wake up."

Adeline shook her head to clear the fogginess of sleep, before glaring up at the robot standing at her bedside. "What?" she snapped.

"Miss Beckett, you asked me to wake you up at 8 AM sharp today, as you wanted to start your workday early." Sam looked down at her, his face impassive as usual. He looked almost human, but there was something about the artificial eyes that meant none of the robots would ever be mistaken for living beings.

Adeline grumbled to herself, continuing to glare at the robot who had woken her so early, even though deep down she knew she should blame herself. Sam, however, seemed entirely unfazed by her efforts to intimidate him.

"You will find a cup of coffee on your bedside table, and I will have breakfast ready when you are out of the shower. Will there be anything else?"

"…No," she eventually replied. Sam bowed and left.

Humanoid robot assistants had become quite the rage these last few years, and most of Adeline's coworkers had bought one. She'd noticed that her male colleagues tended to select robots that looked and sounded like young, attractive women with large chests and bubble butts, which made her roll her eyes. Was that all men thought about? Of course, Adeline had settled on a tall, handsome man with a chiselled jaw, deep blue eyes, and a sixpack, but that was of course entirely different and much more excusable, according to her.

As she stepped out of the shower, towelling herself off, she found that Sam had laid out clothes for her – a few different options, all of which suited her. She settled on the pink shirt and the dark skirt. She was still brushing her hair when she entered the kitchen, where Sam had just finished her toast and eggs.

As she ate, Sam sat down next to her in case she needed anything else. Obviously, the robot did not need to eat, but she preferred him to be at the table with her rather than standing over her shoulder like a servant. It made the whole thing less weird.

"You know, I shouldn't have snapped at you this morning. You were only doing what I had asked you to do."

"That is fine," Sam said calmly. "I do not have feelings you can hurt."

"No, it's not fine," Adeline insisted. "It was rude of me to speak to you like that. I was very naughty." She pouted, trying to assume her most remorseful expression. "Can you think of any way to punish me for my bad behaviour?"

According to the manual, robot assistants should only be used for household chores and similar tasks, but it was common knowledge that you could train their AI do to just about anything, as long as you had the patience for it. With a handsome man in the house, Adeline had wondered if it was possible to teach him to be dominant – to take charge, to tell her what to do, to correct her when she erred. It was proving to be harder than she'd hoped, but she was getting closer with every passing week.

Sam paused, his artificial mind trying to predict her needs. "Perhaps I should take you over my knee and spank you once you have finished your breakfast," he decided.

She nodded. "That sounds like a good idea, Sam." It would be far from the first time he spanked her, and he was getting better at it. And it was always more enjoyable to her when it seemed like it was his idea, rather than her having to specifically ask for it.

As she finished the last bite of the toast, she pressed her skirt-clad rear down into the wooden chair, imagining the smacks that would soon rain down upon her bottom. Hopefully, the next time she found herself in this chair, she would be sitting a lot more gingerly.

Sam picked up the empty plate and glass and rinsed them in the sink, before placing them in the dishwasher. He then walked over to her and grabbed her wrist. She made no attempt to resist as he dragged her to her feet, sat down in the vacant chair, and pulled her over his lap.

She bit her lip in anticipation as she found herself bent over his knee, her bottom raised and presented for his attention. He grabbed the hem of her dark skirt, raising it to reveal her bare, pale cheeks.

"Oops," she said, putting her hand in front of her mouth with an exaggerated shocked expression. "I guess I forgot to put on panties after my shower!" She wriggled her bottom in what she hoped was an enticing manner – though it was obviously entirely lost on the robot. Still, it made her feel sexy.

"That is not a problem," the robot's tranquil voice responded. "I will just spank your bare bottom." She would have preferred him to say something like 'You brat! I will spank you extra hard for that,' but hopefully, that would come with time. At least he'd stopped offering to fetch a clean pair for her.

His hand gently rubbed in circles on her white backside. "You have been a naughty girl, and you deserve a good spanking," he intoned.

She shivered in pleasant anticipation. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Not yet, but you will be soon, I assure you," he said ominously, to her great delight.

The Nerd and the Bully (f/f, M/f story)

As I was sitting at my desk grading papers one Friday afternoon, someone knocked on the open door of my office, and a timid voice said "Mister Rackham?"

I looked up from my work to see Nicole, one of my favourite students, standing in the doorway looking at me. Nicole was a lanky girl of 18 with long, brown, curly hair, and large, green eyes. She was biting a fingernail nervously, and looked very uncomfortable. There was something about her manner that suggested she might be in trouble, which surprised me; Nicole was a hard-working student who always had good grades and never broke the rules. "Hello, Nicole. What can I do for you?"

"Can I talk to you about something?"

"Of course!"

She closed the door behind her. I offered her a chair, but she declined it with a grimace. "I don't want to sit down right now." Before I could ask what she meant, she sighed. "Beatrice has been bullying me."

Beatrice was one of the goths – a surly, dark-clad, dark-haired girl who treated homework like suggestions, though she usually kept quiet and didn't disturb the rest of the class. She'd never been the friendliest girl, but she mostly wanted to be left alone, and I'd never heard of her being a bully. I couldn't imagine that Nicole was lying, though.

My confusion must have been apparent on my face, for Nicole glanced outside the door to make sure we were alone, and then suddenly turned her back to me, flipped up her skirt, and lowered her panties. "Look at this, sir!"

Once I got over the surprise of having one of my favourite students suddenly mooning me, I could see that her bottom was bright red, covered in handprints. Someone had clearly given her a good spanking. "And that is Beatrice's handiwork?" I asked.

Nicole nodded, before slipping her panties back on and lowering her skirt. "She came to my room and ordered me to write her assignment for her. When I refused, she dragged me over her knee, pulled my panties down, and –" she sniffled. "Spanked me!"

I quickly offered her a paper tissue, which she gratefully accepted and began to dab her eyes. I also wanted to offer her a comforting hug, but it was not considered acceptable for teachers to hug students.

She told me the rest of her story, and I promised to deal with her bully. As Nicole left my office, there was a relieved smile on her face, though she was also rubbing the seat of her skirt with one hand.

Deciding to handle the matter immediately, I stopped one of the students walking past, asking if she could tell Beatrice to report to my office immediately. Ten minutes later, the short, stocky goth girl knocked on my door. "You wanted to see me?" Unlike most of the students, Beatrice never called me 'sir' or used my last name. I offered her the chair, and she sat down.

"I've heard reports that you've been bullying others. Someone walked past and heard you give one of your fellow students a spanking." This wasn't true, of course, but I wanted to give her the impression that someone other than Nicole had reported her, to reduce the chance of her retaliating against her victim.

Beatrice only glared at me, as if she hoped to scowl me into submission. This was obviously futile.

"Is this true?" I asked. Though I couldn't imagine that Nicole was lying – and I'd already seen her marks – I wanted to give Beatrice a chance to defend herself. I couldn't imagine what she'd say, but I was willing to listen.

Beatrice only shrugged.

"You think it's funny to beat your classmates?"

"It was only a spanking," she muttered.

"Well, we'll see whether you think it's 'only' a spanking once I'm done. Stand up." With a sulk on her face, Beatrice obeyed. My hands went to the front of her dark denim cutoff shorts, and I unbuttoned and unzipped them, before lowering them to her knees, revealing a black thong. I pulled the girl over my lap, and her thong soon joined her shorts around her knees. My hand smacked firmly down on her pale cheeks, and the girl grunted as I began to spank her.

My hand moved swiftly from cheek to cheek, and I spanked hard and fast. The girl bit her lip, doing her best to convince me that it didn't hurt at all, but I wasn't fooled. I knew my hand would last a lot longer than her bottom, and as I continued to thrash her, I was soon proven correct.

My hard hand slammed down on her soft skin. She began to squirm over my lap, and she could no longer hold back the tears. Her bottom was as red as Nicole's had been, but I kept going – I wanted to make sure this never happened again.

"I'm sorry, sir! I'll be good!" she finally pleaded. I smiled; it was the first time I could remember Beatrice calling me 'sir'. I gave her a few more smacks, just to make sure she had learned her lesson, then ended her punishment.

I helped the girl to her feet, where she gingerly rubbed her bare bottom. I offered her a tissue, and once again wanted to roll my eyes at regulations that allowed me to bare a girl's bottom and spank her, but not to give her a hug and comfort her.

Beatrice soon pulled her panties and shorts back up, leaving my office with a promise to behave from now on. I smiled, confident that the matter was solved.


A week later, Nicole was back in my office, telling me that Beatrice had spanked her again.

The boss, the wife, and the secretary (M/FF story)

 It was now one week left until the Friday when Archibald Combs, CEO, would celebrate his fortieth birthday. His wife Camilla had decided to surprise him by having his office decorated with bright banners and confetti before he arrived, and had enlisted the aid of Marsha, his secretary. Camilla invited her over that Friday evening, as Archibald would be out of town all weekend, and they could plan their little surprise in perfect peace.

Marsha Sutton was a slim, short brunette in her late twenties. In secret, she had always felt a little intimidated by her boss' wife; Camilla was a tall, attractive redhead who always dressed her best, and there was something powerful, almost regal, in her bearing. Next to her, Marsha had always felt flat, drab, and boring, but Camilla had always been nice to her and done her best to make her feel comfortable. It seemed she could sense something of the younger woman's nervousness.

They sat in the Combs' living room, and Camilla had just poured her a cup of tea. Over the course of their conversation, Marsha had shared some humorous stories from the office, and they were discussing how they would brighten the office on the morning of the big day, and who would buy which decorations, when Camilla's phone rang. She smiled when she saw it was her husband. Placing the phone on the table, she hit the speaker button, intending to share some of the stories about him she’d just heard.

"Hello, Archie. You know, I've just heard the funniest tale from –"

"Hello, Camilla." He chuckled gently. "You know, I just had an idea. You know that red lingerie you bought recently? I think you should wear it when I spank you on my birthday – I will make your bottom match the wrapping."

Marsha let out a squeal, blushing beet red. She buried her face in her hands, peeking at Camilla through her fingers; this did not sound like a conversation she should be overhearing. He obviously didn’t know his wife was not alone.

Camilla quickly moved her hand towards her phone, about to turn off speaker, but then she glanced at the secretary. She grinned as she studied the red face peeking out at her, and she sat back again, leaving the phone untouched.

"What was that sound?" Archibald asked suspiciously.

"Must have been the kettle," Camilla answered calmly. "I had just sat down for a cup of tea when you called me."

"You just sit down all day, don't you?" he scolded, but in a teasing tone that removed the sting from the words. "That's why I need to spank you; I'm sure you'll get a lot more done when you're too sore to sit."

Camilla pouted. "You know, it's YOUR birthday. Shouldn't YOU be the one getting the spanking for once?"

He tutted. "Now, what do you think the chances of that are, little girl?"

"Not happening?" she guessed.

"Not happening," he confirmed. "Now, any particular implements you'd like to feel caress your curves? I could pick up a new bath brush tomorrow, if you want."

She winced. "Now, dear, you know those sting too much for my delicate derriere. Your belt or my hairbrush will be more than enough – in addition to that delightful hand of yours, of course."

He chuckled again. "As you wish – though I think it will be the belt AND the hairbrush for such a big day. See you on Sunday. I love you."

"Love you too," Camilla said as she hung up the phone. She glanced over at the secretary, who was blushing crimson and seemed about to faint. Camilla smiled at her. "Did you enjoy that little peek into our private life?"

"Of course not!" Marsha insisted, vehemently shaking her head.

"Tut, tut," Camilla said, imitating her husband's tone. "No lies, young lady. I could tell from the light in your eyes as he spoke that this was scratching some itch. You've thought about spankings before, haven't you?"

As usual, Camilla proved to be far more perceptive than Marsha was prepared for. Truth be told, there was something she had always found appealing about the concept of spankings. She’d never acknowledged those feelings, but they’d remained in her subconscious, like a distant ache that never quite left her.

When she didn't respond, Camilla leaned closer. "Haven't you?" Unwilling to trust her voice, Marsha nodded. Camilla chuckled. "I thought so. This is some dark fantasy you haven't dared to explore yet, am I right? There is something hungry in your eyes."

Marsha blushed and looked at the floor, but she nodded again.

Camilla grinned. "You've heard about the spanking I'm going to receive for being such a bad, bad girl," she said. She leaned even closer to the fidgeting secretary, and her next words were delivered in a soft, gentle whisper. "Would you like to watch it?"

The HR meeting (M/F story)

"Hello, Brett. Glad you could come," Cassandra said as she welcomed me into her office and nodded at me to take a seat in the chair opposite her desk. Cassandra was the company's HR manager – a tall, slim redhead in her early thirties who always knew how to put you at ease with a smile. I knew enough about how HR operated not to trust that smile, though. She was neatly dressed in a dark blouse and designer trousers, and had her long hair tied back in a bun.

I sat down, returning her smile. "I always try to make time for important matters, and it sounded serious over the phone. What's this about, Cassandra?"

Sitting behind her desk, Cassandra steepled her fingers as she pondered how to begin the conversation. "I've heard some rumours about you and young Rhonda." She paused, and I sat silently as I waited for her to continue. "Rumours about the way you've been… disciplining her."

"I see," I said calmly. Rhonda was an intern who'd been working for us for about a year now. A bright, bubbly, scatter-brained girl of nineteen who usually did her best, though that was not always good enough.

"And I have to ask you… what are the truth of these rumours?"

I sighed. It was probably best to tell her the truth, I decided. "If you're asking whether I took the girl over my knee and spanked her, the answer is yes. I did."

I was delighted to see a blush appear on the cheeks of the HR manager, who was usually so calm and collected. "Ah. And what made you even think of doing such a thing?"

"She asked me to,” I told her. Cassandra raised an eyebrow, giving me a sceptical look, so I continued: "Rhonda is a decent enough worker, but she had a tendency to show up late a little too often. She also forgot quite a few important tasks I gave her, even when I suggested she should write them down. I was about to recommend to Tracy that we should let her go and find someone else, and Rhonda begged me for another chance. She then suggested an alternative punishment for her misdeeds."

Cassandra was taking notes, but she stared at me as if hanging on every word.

"Just a few months before she began here, Rhonda was at a school where she was subject to corporal punishment. If she arrived late or forgot her assignments, she could be bent over her teacher's lap for a good dose of the slipper. She was also subject to spankings at home." I paused, reflecting. "Actually, from what she's said about the subject, I'm fairly certain she still is."

I was rewarded with another blush, and it took a few seconds before Cassandra could respond. "These punishments… how did they happen? How did you… discipline her? Please be as detailed as you possibly can."

I was a little surprised at this request, but I complied as best as I could. "We would wait until the end of the workday, when I knew we wouldn't be disturbed. We went down into the workshop, where I scolded her for whatever she'd done – or had failed to do. I sat down in one of the old armless office chairs and patted my thigh, which was the signal for her to place herself over my knee."

"How was she attired?" Cassandra asked, leaning forward to make sure she caught every syllable. "Did you pull her panties down?"

" I would lower her jeans before beginning to spank her – as well as her panties," I admitted.

"Did you do that before or after she went over your knee?"

I paused. Why would she ask that? Why would it matter? "I bared her bottom once she was already over my knee."

"Oh," Cassandra muttered. Was it my imagination, or did she look disappointed?

"I spanked her for about fifteen or twenty minutes with my hand – starting off slowly, then gradually smacking harder and faster. She squirmed and squealed over my lap, promising to behave, but I did not let that deter me. When she sounded sufficiently sorry, I placed her in the corner with her hands on her head for another fifteen minutes. Then, she was allowed to get dressed, and I hugged her and told her she was forgiven." I shrugged. "She never resented me for her spankings – in fact, she seemed to view me more favourably. And they definitely had an effect for a few weeks – sometimes longer."

Cassandra stared at me, and there was a strange light in her eyes. "Did you ever spank her with anything else – like your belt, for instance?"

I frowned. "No, just my hand. I never felt I needed anything else."

"Oh." Again that strange hint of disappointment. "Did you ever pull her hair, or drag her to the corner by the ear?"

I was beginning to get the feeling that she was not thinking about her report any longer. These questions seemed to come from another part of her – possibly a more prurient one. "No. She was always very compliant when I decided she needed to be disciplined."

She made another note. "You mentioned scolding her. What did you say to her, and how?"

Another strange question. "Hm. I guess I said, 'You've been a very naughty girl, and it's –"

She cut me off. "Brett, I am absolutely sure you did not say it in that soft, gentle tone of voice. You were much stricter than that, surely? Please, pretend that she's here and needs to be disciplined, and scold her properly. I need to hear your exact words."

I raised an eyebrow, but I did as she said and found the stern tone I used during the punishment sessions. "You have been a very naughty girl, and it's time for a good, hard spanking. Bend over my knee right now."

From the way that Cassandra bit her lip, the far-away look in her eyes, and the quiet sigh she couldn't disguise, I was now absolutely sure that she was not asking these questions for innocent reasons. She was a little too interested in the subject to be thinking about her job right now.

Well, if that was what she wanted, I was willing to oblige her. I leaned forward. "You know, if you're so curious about the spankings I deliver, I'd be quite willing to give you a personal demonstration, Cassandra."

Cassandra turned pale. A squeak escaped her lips, and she dropped her pen to the floor. She hurriedly picked it back up, managing to bang her head on her own desk in the process. She stared down at the sheet of paper again, pretending to take notes. "I-I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean, Brett," she said, trying to hide the blush on her face. "N-not at all."

I smiled. It seemed I had got a little too close for her comfort. "You're sure about that?"

"Y-yes. Now, please leave while I finish this report."

I remained seated, watching her bend over the report as she pretended to ignore my presence. After a minute or so, I spoke up. "You know, it'll probably be a lot easier to write your report if you turn the pen and write with the other end."

She stared at the pen in her hand, before quickly flipping it around. It was absolutely adorable watching the calm, collected woman be so flustered. I rose to my feet, grabbing an empty sheet of paper from her desk. "I'll be going back to work now, but I'll be back when the workday ends." I handed her the paper. "If you write me a request for a good, hard spanking, I promise to do my best to fulfil it." I smiled. "You remember which end of the pen to use?"

I chuckled as I left the room, leaving the stammering woman to continue her report. Or perhaps she’d be writing something else…

Sylvia, part II (M/F story)

Two weeks ago, I was visited by Sylvia, the mother of my ex-girlfriend. I was surprised to learn that she had known that I often spanked her daughter during our relationship, and downright shocked when she admitted that she wanted me to do the same to her – Sylvia asked to be taken over my knee and spanked. After overcoming my bewilderment, I saw no reason to refuse her request, so I gave her the long, hard spanking she craved. Afterwards, as she stood facing the corner with her bare, red bottom on display, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I disciplined her.

And tonight, my prediction would come true.

Sylvia had told me that she’d sat quite gingerly for a few days after visiting me, and had sported some lovely marks. However, the bruises had faded, and she was now eager for another dose of discipline. We agreed that she should visit my flat on Saturday evening.

When she arrived, she was dressed in a relatively modest shirt and a nice skirt, and there was something in her eyes that suggested she'd been looking forward to this for several days. I asked her if she wanted a cup of tea or a glass of something, but she declined, saying that she was eager to get started right away. I led her into the kitchen, where I’d placed a pen and some sheets of paper on the table. She cast me a questioning glance.

“You are going to sit down and write, Sylvia,” I explained. “You will write ‘I have been a bad girl and deserve a good, hard spanking’… let’s say two hundred times.”

She raised an eyebrow and gave me an impertinent look. “I’ve never written lines before!”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it before you’re done. Two hundred times, and you’ll get extra punishment for each error. Do I make myself clear?"

She glared at me as if she wanted to challenge me, but she must have seen from the expression on my face that this would not end well for her. With a sigh, she sat down on the kitchen chair and began writing.

I sat down behind her, where I could keep an eye on her without being observed. She worked on her task for a few minutes before she shook her hand, turning and looking over her shoulder at me. “Ouch. I’m out of practice. It’s been years since I did much writing by hand – decades, possibly.”

“Keep your eyes forward,” I instructed her. “Don’t look at me.”

She pouted, but obeyed. “You know, I came here hoping for a sore bottom, not a sore hand.”

I grinned at the petulant tone in her voice. “Don’t worry – you’ll get that as well.”

The knocker-upper (M/F story)

Knocker-upper: "A person whose job was to go from house to house in the early morning and wake up workers by tapping on the bedroom window with a long pole or similarly convenient implement. " - Wiktionary.

 

It was early Monday morning, just before dawn, that I was awakened by a loud, insistent tapping on my bedroom window. Wondering who it was, and how on Earth someone could be knocking on the window of a second-story flat, I eventually managed to force myself out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I staggered over to the window, which my sleep-deprived brain took some time to open. When I looked out, I saw a young woman grinning up at me. She was a lanky brunette somewhere in her early twenties, wearing a woolly jumper, a matching skirt, and a flat cap balanced on her head, and was joyfully waving a long pole in greeting. Clearly, the stick was how she'd managed to tap on my window.  "Finally, you're up! Good morning, sir!"

 

I stared back at her, stunned at this behaviour. Before I could think of a response, the woman had walked away, cheerily whistling a tune. What on Earth was going on?

 

I stumbled back to bed, once again reflecting on the strangeness of Londoners. I already had enough of that from my neighbour Sheena, with whom I had a couple of disagreements – I had not expected to find another madwoman so close to home.

 

 

The following day, around the same time, I once again heard tapping. I rose, making sure I was properly awake and ready to speak before moving over to the window. If it turned out to be the same woman, I wanted to be able to ask her to explain herself before she left. I hoped it was – the thought of there being more than one hooligan roaming the streets rapping on people's windows in the dark was too much to bear.

 

"At last!" she laughed when I opened the window. "You were a lot harder to wake today. Good morning," she said, tipping her cap and turning to leave.

 

"Wait a second," I called out. "What's going on? Why are you doing this?"

 

"Well, I'm the knocker-upper, sir!" she exclaimed. When she realized from the look on my face that this meant nothing to me, she explained, "It's a service you find in big cities. I go from flat to flat, waking people up so they can go to work on time!" There was more than a hint of condescension in her voice; presumably, she'd realized from my accent that I wasn't a Londoner.

 

"Well, I am a night watchman, and I don't need to be at work any time soon – in fact, it's only a few hours since my shift ended. So you can stop knocking on MY window," I informed her as civilly as I managed.

 

"Oh no, sir," she said, shaking her head. "When I'm hired to do a job, I do it."

 

"I haven't hired you," I told her, still trying to keep my voice calm.

 

"Oh, I know, sir," she grinned. "Your wife did."

 

"I'm not married!" I called out, but she'd already started to walk away, looking for her next victim.

 

 

When I was awoken on Wednesday by the familiar knocking, I buried my face in my pillow and resolved to ignore her until she went away. When you work all night, having some stranger wake you up after only a few hours of sleep, on the orders of an imaginary wife, is not particularly pleasant. However, as the minutes slowly dragged on, it was clear that she was not stopping until she'd wished me good morning. Sighing, I admitted defeat and rose from bed.

 

"Good morning! Wow, you slept soundly today! No wonder your wife needs help walking you up. Or maybe she doesn't need to get up as early as you do."

 

"I DON'T have to get up early – and I don't have a wife," I repeated, once again trying my best to keep my voice level. "So I suggest you stop bothering me, never knock on my window again, and go find someone who DOES need to be woken up."

 

"Oh, no, sir!" she said. "I've been paid to do my job, and do my job I shall! See you tomorrow!" Before I could respond, she'd tipped her cap and left.

 

I leaned out of the window, sighing my frustration. How could I get through her dense skull? Glancing up, I could see a hint of red curls from one of the other windows, and I realized that my neighbour Sheena was watching me through her window, a smirk on her face. Like I said, we'd had quite a few disagreements, so I wasn't surprised to see the young woman taking pleasure from my suffering. She'd shown a sadistic streak on occasion.

 

 

On Thursday, when I was once again wrenched from my pleasant dreams by an insistent knocking, I decided I was done being nice. Slamming my window open, I did not let her call out her customary greeting, but yelled "Stop knocking on my window! I have told you repeatedly that I do not need your services. I have not hired you, and I don't have a wife. If you knock on my window again, young lady, you will regret it. I warn you." I glared down at her, hoping she'd finally got the message.

 

The girl only laughed. "Yes, a lot of people are grumpy in the morning. See you tomorrow," she called before leaving, whistling merrily.

 

I shook my head as I returned to bed. She'd finally pushed me too far. She'd decided to test me, and I was going to show her that I meant what I said. She'd been warned, and now, she would suffer the consequences.

Hiatus

I'm sorry to have to do this again so shortly after the previous one, but for health reasons, I'm going to have to take a short break from writing stories. Hopefully, I'll be back before the end of the month; if not, expect a new story the first week of April.

If you have ideas for stories you'd like to read, or stories you'd like to see sequels too, feel free to leave a comment. My last story ("Sylvia, ex-girlfriend's mother") received some positive feedback and clamours for more, so I have some notes for sequels I'd like to write, once my health allows.

Sylvia, ex-girlfriend's mother (M/F story)

When my doorbell rang one Saturday evening as I was sitting in front of the TV, I was not expecting to find my ex-girlfriend's mother standing on my doorstep.

"Hello, Roland," she said, giving me a friendly smile. "May I come in? I hope I'm not disturbing you – I should probably have phoned ahead."

"Hello, Mrs. Cohen," I replied, taking a step to the side to let her pass. "Please, come in. I was just watching an old movie and trying to remember if I'd seen it before."

"I've told you a million times to call me Sylvia," she scolded playfully as she hung up her coat.

I first met Sylvia Cohen about two years ago, which was three months into my relationship with her daughter Violet. Violet and I had gone to the same high school, and had started dating shortly after we ended up in the same college class. I only learned later that she'd deliberately chosen the same college as me so that she could get closer to me, which was flattering. She herself had no interest in drama – or at least not in studying it; on the other hand, I soon found out that she was an absolute master at creating it.

I admit I was feeling a little nervous when I met my girlfriend's mother for the first time, but Sylvia had greeted me warmly and seemed pleasantly surprised with the young man dating her only daughter. In fact, she seemed to grow fonder of me with every month that passed.

I had always enjoyed those occasional chats with Sylvia, but it was a bit of a surprise to find her in my home two weeks after my relationship with her daughter had ended. What could we have to talk about now? "So, what brings you here?" I said as I brought her a cup of coffee. Milk, two sugars – just the way she liked it.

"I just had to talk to you and see how you were getting on." She shook her head. "That girl has no sense whatsoever! She just made the biggest mistake of her life by letting you slip through her fingers, and she doesn't even realize it. But don't worry – she will."

I raised an eyebrow at that, choosing not to comment. It was flattering, of course, but I wondered how I'd feel if MY mother had gone to my ex to tell them how much of a moron I was. In my experience, mothers tended to be more supportive, even when they disagreed.

"Not only were you good to her, but you were good FOR her," she said, huffing. "After she started dating you, she was far easier to have in the house, and she got better at picking up after herself. You should have seen her grades, too!"

I smiled. Having someone show up in my living room to praise me to the skies wasn't how I'd expected my Saturday evening to go, but I had no complaints. I was feeling quite good about myself. "Nice of you to say so, Mrs. Cohen. I think it's a matter of setting a good example, and being there for her when she needs it."

She snorted. "You're free to think that, of course, but I think it's all those spankings you gave her."

The cup in my hand stopped halfway to my lips as I stared at her. I was glad I hadn't been drinking when she said it, as I would probably have spat the coffee all across my table – and possibly my guest. I wasn't aware that Violet had shared that part of our relationship with her mother. I certainly hadn't mentioned it to mine.

"Oh, Violet never said anything," Sylvia said, seeming to guess my thoughts. "She didn't have to. I could tell by the way she squirmed around on her chair after one or your little private discussions, and how she'd wear a nice skirt instead of those faded, holey, TIGHT jeans. They're a lot less painful for a sore bottom!" She chuckled. "A couple of times, when she was on the phone with you, I could see her absently rub her rear end when she knew you were upset with her. Thinking about past punishments – or possibly dreading upcoming ones."

"You approve, then?" I said as I sipped my coffee. I saw no reason to try to deny her observations.

"Wholeheartedly. In fact, I think that Violet losing your discipline might be the worst part of this breakup. Some women benefit from struggling to sit on a sore seat from time to time."

"Have you ever spanked her?"

She shook her head. " I've never been comfortable with the idea of taking my daughter across my knee. It just doesn't feel right. That was always her father's job. When he was alive, he handled all the spankings in the house." She sighed wistfully. "Violet's – and mine."

I stared at her. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

"Yes," she said, once again responding to my unspoken thoughts. "My dear departed husband would bend me over his lap and spank my backside whenever he thought I deserved it – which was often." She smiled at the memory. "I must admit, when I realized that you were spanking Violet, I felt more than a little envious. A proper young gentleman, able and willing to deliver the discipline the young lady so sorely needed." She sighed. "You remind me of him, in some ways."

"I'm sure Violet would have gifted you every single one of her spankings if she could. I never got the feeling that she enjoyed them much – in fact, she pleaded quite insistently for them to stop, every single time."

She laughed. "Good to hear. That must be why they were so effective." Her smile vanished, and she gazed at me. "Now, believe me, despite my …. needs, I would NEVER ask my daughter's boyfriend to put me across his knee. That would be completely inappropriate, obviously." She grinned. "But you two are not dating any more, are you?"

The smoking landlady (M/F story)

Conrad had now rented the basement flat in the house of the middle-aged accountant Rebecca Trask for a little over a month. He considered himself very fortunate for finding the place; the house was old, but well-maintained, and only a short walk from the university where the nineteen-year-old studied.

Earlier that afternoon, a new chest of drawers had been delivered to the house, and Rebecca had asked the young athlete to help her carry it inside. They were now sitting in her living room chatting about life over a cup of coffee. In the weeks he'd been here, Conrad had found it easy to talk to his new landlady.

During the conversation, Rebecca pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse. She lit a cigarette and took a drag, then raised an eyebrow as she looked at Conrad. "I take it you disapprove of my little habit?"

"What makes you think that?" he replied evenly. "I've said nothing."

"You don't have to. It's written all over your face," she said, smiling.

The teenager shrugged. "Obviously, you can do whatever you want to your own body in your own home. But surely you know it's not good for you – or those around you," he said, managing to resist the urge to cough meaningfully.

She nodded. "I know. I've been trying to quit, but it's very hard. Have you ever smoked?"

"No, but an ex-girlfriend of mine used to."

"Used to? How did she stop?" Rebecca inquired.

"Every time she smoked, I spanked her," he said calmly, showing not the slightest trace of hesitation or embarrassment.

"Really?" she said, looking wide-eyed at him as she tried to process this.

He nodded. "Every time she lit a cigarette, I lit up her butt," he said. "It didn't happen overnight, but with enough encouragement…"

She laughed. "I see! Well, I can imagine that being quite an effective treatment for a young lady! She can protect her lungs and her backside at the same time."

They soon changed the subject. If Conrad noticed that his landlady seemed distracted for the rest of the conversation, as if she was pondering something, he didn't say anything about it.


It was a week later that Rebecca knocked on the door to Conrad's flat. It was a warm spring day, and the teenager was wearing a new t-shirt and an old pair of shorts. His landlady was dressed in a long summer dress. "Mrs Trask! What can I do for you?" he said with a welcoming smile.

"I've told you to call me Rebecca," she chided gently. "Can I come in?"

He stepped aside to let her in, and she quickly scanned the flat as she entered. As she had expected, it was a lot cleaner than most teenagers' living quarters; Conrad had shown himself to be a responsible young man.

They sat down on the couch. Conrad could tell that there was something on her mind, but as she seemed to have trouble putting it into words, he stayed silent to allow her to collect her thoughts. Finally, she seemed to collect herself. "When you started… disciplining your girlfriend, how old were the two of you?"

He cast his mind back. "Well, it was a little over a year ago, so we were both eighteen."

She nodded. "Do you… do you think it would have been effective if she was older?"

He shrugged. "Well, I don't see why not. A spanked bottom will teach a naughty young lady of any age. In fact, she considered herself far too old for a spanking already – which she told me, at length, every time I pulled her over my lap and bared her bottom. I never let that stop me." He looked into her eyes. "Why did you ask? Did you have someone in mind?" There was something in his eyes that suggested to her that he'd guessed what she was thinking of.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Well, I- I've been trying to quit smoking, as you know. And I was wondering if maybe what I truly need is…" She blushed, avoiding his gaze. " It would probably help me if… if maybe –"

"If I took you over my knee and spanked your bottom every time you smoked?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what you are proposing, Rebecca?"