Living on her own (M/F story)

As Mike entered his house, going through the mail, he found a small hand-written note from his neighbour, Hannah. He smiled as he opened the letter from the young woman next door. It said: "I need your help again. Tonight?" and nothing more. He knew what she was referring to.

He picked up a pen, writing his reply underneath. He wrote he'd be there at nine, and he told her how he wanted her to be waiting. As he placed the note in her mailbox, he looked at the watch. If she found the note soon, she'd be waiting nervously for five hours, biting her lip as she thought about what was to happen. He found the idea pleasing.

Mike was in his early forties, a widower and father whose two girls had left the nest a few years back. When a young woman in her mid-twenties had rented the house next door, he'd taken an immediate liking to her. Perhaps he cared for her like a daughter; perhaps there was something else. All he knew was that he liked her.

Hannah was a short, red-headed woman that seemed a little too trusting. One night, when they were sitting outside, watching the sunset, she'd told him that this was the first time she tried living on her own. "I lived with my parents until I was twenty," he told him. "I then went to college, where I lived in a dorm for three years."

"And how are you handling life on your own?" he asked.

She sighed. "Badly." He gave her a curious look, and she explained. "I don't know, I just feel unmotivated. I rarely clean, almost never cook – I think I've spent more time on the phone with the pizza place than with my friends. Combined." She looked around at his garden. "I decided to do a bit more studying after I finished college, but I find it difficult to pick up the books."

"It's not unusual," he responded. "I'm guessing there were rules about cleaning up at the college?" She nodded. "There you go, then." He lifted his glass, even though it felt kind of strange; philosophical monologues should be delivered accompanied by a glass of wine or a good brandy, not a glass of soda. "For the first time in your life, you have to be responsible for your own behaviour."

"I'm a very responsible person," she said, a slight whine in her voice.

"Doesn't sound like it, from the way you're describing things," he pointed out. "When you lived with your parents, being lazy and not doing your homework would mean a punishment. Same thing in your dorm – not cleaning would have consequences." He shrugged. "When you live on your own, the consequences of your actions are slower and harder to notice – you feel less healthy, and so on. You've grown accustomed to other people making sure you do what's right, you've never had to make YOURSELF do what's right." He smiled. "Many young people experience this when they're on their own for the first time. It gets easier." He smiled. "If my daughters were lazy and ignoring their schoolwork, I can guarantee you they'd wouldn't sit for a week."

"Sometimes, I think that's just what I need," she said. "Someone to pull me over his lap and give me a good spanking."

He looked at her, surprised at the directness. She was looking at him, and she was blushing bright red. "I think we should go inside," he said after a few seconds.

He took her inside, where he gently, but firmly, guided her into his living room. He sat down on the couch and turned her to face him. He started to lecture her, telling her that she needed to care better care of her home – and herself. Blushing crimson, she stared at the floor, unable to meet his gaze, but he placed his finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. He then informed her that lazy, messy girls deserved to the spanked, and that she was finally going to get what she deserved. Her eyes showed a mixture of fear and relief, but she said nothing.

He guided her over his lap, raising her skirt to reveal a pair of thin, white cotton panties. He started with some gentle spanks, not wanting to overwhelm the poor woman. His hand moved from cheek to cheek, gradually increasing the force of the spanking. She laid her head down on the couch, meekly and soundlessly accepting her spanking – at least at first.

As the sting grew, she became more vocal and animated, squirming and yelping as her bottom began to burn. But she never protested or tried to get up. She squealed a bit as he pulled her panties down, embarrassed as she realized that he was looking at her bare bottom, but her modesty was soon forgotten as she kicked her legs and promised to be good.

By the time she was allowed off his lap, her rear end was red, and she was sobbing into the couch, but as he hugged her, there was something calm and happy about her. "I feel whole," she explained, "Like there has been a missing piece of me that's now been found."

And now, once or twice a month, she'd give him a small note telling him she needed his services.


Mike looked at the watch. 8.55 PM. He turned off the film he'd been watching, picking up a large wooden hairbrush he kept in a drawer, and went off to pay his neighbour a visit.

He entered her house, making his way to her bedroom. He didn't knock or ring the bell; she knew he was coming – she was counting on it, in fact. And it would feel wrong to wait for her to open the door; in their little game of make-believe, he was playing her father, who ruled supreme, and he was in charge.

Or perhaps he wasn't playing her father, he thought to himself. There was something in the way she looked at him that sometimes made him think he was in fact playing her firm-handed husband instead. He wasn't sure, and he wasn't about to make any assumptions at this point. That could ruin their game.

He opened the bedroom door. She was sitting on the bed, wearing a pair of navy-blue pyjamas, biting her lip. When he entered, she turned pale and blushed at the same time – an impressive feat, he concluded. When she spotted the large hairbrush in his hand, the paleness definitely won the little struggle. He didn't blame her; the brush was very large and looked very painful. His daughters, who'd felt the brush quite a few times growing up, had decided it was some infernal creature's invention released on mankind.

"Hannah?" he said. "Do you know why I'm here to talk to you?" She nodded. "And why is that?" he asked her.

She swallowed. "I haven't been doing my chores properly, sir," she said silently.

"Yes, you've been a very lazy girl. And what do lazy girls get, Hannah?"

She bit her lip. "They get a spanking," she said at last.

He sat down next to her. "Yes, they do." He guided her gently over his lap, and she sniffled a little as he rubbed the seat of her pyjamas. "Do you have anything to say before I give your bottom a good spanking?" he said.

"I'm sorry," she said pitifully.

"I know, sweetie, I know."

Hannah cried out as the first few smacks landed on her bottom. This wasn't some light game of patty-cake: she needed him to punish her, so he did. And he was determined to do it well. His hand moved from cheek to cheek, raining smacks down on her quivering cheeks. "Are you learning your lesson, young lady?"

"Ow! Yes, sir, I am, I'll be good, I swear!" She grimaced in pain.

The loud slaps rang out in the air, but was drowned out by the young woman's cries. She squirmed on his lap as the sting in her rear end grew by every merciless spank. He rested his hand on her backside for a second, feeling the warmth radiating against his palm. It was time to take her pyjamas bottoms down, he concluded.

She squealed as he pulled the pyjamas bottoms down to her knees, baring her bottom, and cried out again as she felt cold wood rub against her burning bottom. It felt good, but she knew that soon, the pain would be even greater.

The brush crashed down on her bottom with a loud smack, and she cried out. The pain was unbearable.

Mike held her down as Hannah started kicking her legs, watching her backside grow redder and redder under the firm brush. She'd kicked the pyjamas bottoms clean off, leaving her bare from the waist down, but she didn't seem to care all that much.

Finally, when her bottom was turning crimson, he put the brush down, holding her close as she cried into his shoulder. The spanking was over.

After a few minutes, she'd calmed down, and was almost sleeping against his shoulder. He tucked her into bed, making sure he placed her on her stomach. He left her pyjamas bottoms on the floor; he had a feeling she didn't want any more fabric against her bottom than absolutely necessary.

He smiled as he saw the sleeping girl, cuter than ever. He let himself out, wondering how long it would be before she needed his services again.