A spanking story

Naughty Girl

said the text message, almost accusingly.

She stared at his response. She’d thought her misdemeanour was trivial, worthy of a playful light-hearted scolding at the very worst. But the abruptness of his reply made her realise how seriously he took her disobedience.

In the mall, crowds of busy shoppers milled around her, quite oblivious to her predicament, as she stared meekly at her phone, awaiting his judgement. She felt the phone vibrate in her sweaty palm.

You must be punished.

She stared at the little glowing words.

A good hard spanking, on your bare bottom.

She could feel a warm, clammy wetness seeping from her slit, and sticking to her panties. A good hard spanking meant being spanked until her bottom burned, until its sore persistent sting overwhelmed every other sensation. Then obediently standing in the corner until the glowing ache consumed her, dominating her mind.

Go to the 5th floor of the shopping centre. To the atrium with the waterfall.

She acknowledged his instructions, stepping onto the escalator, and was carried away.

The atrium was filled with the hubbub of passing voices, and the gurgle of water tumbling down the mound of mossy rocks into the surrounding faux marble pool. The cool stone felt nice against her skin through her thin dress. She waited and wondered why he’d sent her here, why he hadn’t just ordered her home, to be put over his knee.

She felt her phone vibrate again.

Booth 1. The keypad code is 1212

She scanned her surroundings, spotting three nondescript white cubes against a nearby wall. Each was about 2 metres high, and unremarkable enough to be completely ignored by the crowds hurrying past. Each booth had a big foam letter above it, each sinking into the cloud-like fluff that covered the top of each booth. An N, an A and a P.

The booths were nap pods, available to rent to subscribers for half-hour periods. A quiet space about a metre square, little oases of calm amid the din of the big city. There was a chair to lie back in, and a charging point for your phone, which displayed the countdown until your 30 minutes expired, and the booth was unlocked. All one needed was the app and an account. Her disciplinarian had become a regular customer.

After punching in the code with somewhat shaky fingers, the keypad beeped agreeably in response as the magnetic latch disengaged. She tugged the door open and stepped into the tiny space beyond, closing it circumspectly behind her.

Inside the booth was a reclining chair, if she’d sat on it, she’d be facing back the way she’d entered.

She placed her phone in the charging cradle at the back of the booth, leaning over the chair to do so, and activated video calling. It connected moments later, though his face didn’t appear, leaving her disappointed that he didn’t greet her with a smile, but he seemed not to have activated his own camera. His voice, when he finally spoke, was stern and authoritative.

“Take it all off,” he instructed. “Everything.”

There was something in what he said, an edge, that could only have meant he was referring to her clothes. She complied rapidly, not wanting to displease her disciplinarian further, loosening her shoes before lifting her white summer dress over her head. Having a relatively small bust, she hadn’t worn a bra, so only needed to pull down her damp panties to be standing naked before him. She widened her stance, parting her legs, folding her arms behind her back, presenting herself for his approval…

She waited in silence as he examined her.

“Turn around. Straddle the chair. Open your cheeks.”

She did as she was told, lifting one leg over the chair, and turning so her bare bottom was now facing her phone. Splaying herself open revealed just how excited she’d become.

“… you’re soaking wet.”

She felt her face burn, as simultaneously, her clit throbbed.

“Take out your paddle.”

She had a paddle in her handbag, she carried his paddle everywhere, a lingering reminder of her submission to his discipline. His rule was if she ever misbehaved in his company, she would take out the paddle, present it to him, and ask to be spanked. Then he’d lead her by the hand somewhere quiet, have her take off her panties and deposit them in his pocket, before he lifted her skirt and spanked her hard.

If she misbehaved alone, she was expected to confess her misdemeanours, and he would instruct her to spank herself. But sometimes she’d also use it on her own initiative, giving herself six quick spanks in the ladies toilets if she ever found herself the only one there. Lavatories with squeaky doors were the best, because they would serve to warn her of intruders, cruelly robbing her of the chance to be alone.

The Voice Memo facility on her phone was particularly useful for recording the sound of her smacking, allowing her to send him the evidence so he could hear for himself: that she was an obedient girl who understood the importance of self-discipline.

Sometimes she would lie back in bed with her earphones on and listened to the sounds of her own spankings. Stroking herself as she remembered the episode she was listening to.

He pronounced her sentence with a strictness that made her legs quake and her heart thump.

“You deserve a good hard spanking, young lady. On your bare bottom.”

As usual, he was right. She did deserve it. She craved it.

“Bend over.”

She leant forward, placing one hand on the seat of the chair she was straddling, so she could reach back and smack her own bottom with her paddle.

“6 smacks on each cheek.”

She followed his command, spanking hard so he couldn’t fail to hear her repentance in the severity of her whacks.

“6 more.”

Her bottom tingled.

“And again.”

Oh Sir. Yes.

“8 more for being such a naughty, naughty girl.”

She smacked her bottom hard, eager to demonstrate her contrition. Each stinging impact a reminder of how lucky she was to have a disciplinarian who was so strict with her.

“10 more. Nice and hard.”

The booth was supposed to be soundproof, its occupants came here for a peace and quiet after all. But she couldn’t help wondering if the sounds of her smacking were audible outside. Whether a small crowd might be gathering just beyond the thin door, curious and puzzled. Would they recognise it? How many would realise the faint clapping as the sound of a young woman having her bare bottom smacked? And if they did, would they snigger, or secretly wish to be behind the door themselves?

“12 more. Harder.”

Her bottom was now smouldering painfully. She could feel her dew dribbling from her lips, and smell the musky scent of her arousal filling the confined space. Had he not been be watching, she knew she’d have her fingers in her slit by now, savouring the pain, yet also rubbing the ache away.

“That’s enough. Corner time, girl. Step forward, and stand up straight in front of the door.”

She shuffled forward, clearing the chair, so she was standing naked in front of the booth’s thin opaque fibreglass door. She still had her back to her camera, so her spanked bottom remained prominently on display. She obediently put her hands on her head, just like he’d taught her to, and waited.

There was a small numeric display on the door latch, counting down the minutes and seconds until the booth was unlocked. She realised that if she remained in this position, whoever had booked the subsequent slot would open the door to the shock of their lives, a beautiful young woman standing naked with her hands on her head, her wetness dribbling from her bare puffy slit, her clothes folded neatly on the chair behind her.

The thought of being discovered thrilled her, in an almost visceral way. An excitement that only intensified as the time ticked away.

Soon, just five minutes remained.

The jeopardy of being caught had made her clit swell, so it know felt like a hard little button between her legs. A hard little button that needed to be repeatedly pressed. Filthy thoughts began to gatecrash her fevered mind.

Now, there were just two minutes to go. Still the phone behind her was silent. She longed to hear his voice. Anything.

She could feel her own juices dribbling down the inside of her thighs.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted her reverie.

She almost jumped out of her skin in shock. The true precariousness of her position made suddenly obvious, in less than 100 seconds the thin partition that separated her from the outside world would disappear, and she would be exposed. Utterly.

She could get dressed, of course. Disobey him. Again. Prove she couldn’t be trusted. Again.

She could turn around and show her weakness, earnestly covering herself like a shy little ingenue at the beach as she heard the disappointment in his voice.

Her tummy churned as the final minute disappeared from the counter, as it started counting down the remaining seconds. She knew the next customer would be watching on the other side, tired and tetchy, waiting impatiently for their turn.

Silence roared in her ears as she strained to hear his voice, the rustle of his clothes, the whisper of his breathing. Any clue that would signify he hadn’t forgotten about her plight, that he was an intake of breath away from releasing her from her torment.

She wanted to open her mouth, to plead. But she knew that wasn’t what spanked girls did in the corner. Spanked girls stood up straight with their sore pink bottoms on display, in silence, for as long as their disciplinarians deemed necessary. Spanked girls never turned around, or whined or begged, or dropped their hands to rub their bottoms. It didn’t matter if they were being watched, or left in the room all alone. Spanked girls stayed in place, on display, immobile. Wordlessly. Until they were told.

Her heart was now hammering in her chest. She could almost feel the outside world, pressing against the door of the booth, straining to get in. Did she trust him? Really trust him? Even if he’d decided her punishment was to be public humiliation?

30 seconds left.

She begged him silently under her breath, for his mercy, for his indulgence. She knew opening her mouth to speak without permission would be massively disrespectful, one that would surely condemn her to the most excruciating embarrassment.

20 seconds.

Oh Sir, please.

10… 9… 8…

There’d still be time, if only he’d give the order, just time enough to throw her dress over her head and preserve at least a shred of her modesty.

7… 6… 5… 4…

She felt her legs trembling, having to clench her pelvic muscles with all her might just to prevent peeing herself. She forced herself to keep her hands on her head. What a way to be discovered, standing in a little puddle, as your hot pee streams uncontrollably between your desperate fingers.

3… 2… 1…

The door opens, as she clenches her eyes tight.

As a solitary tear trickles down her cheek.


The hubbub of the world outside assaults her ears.

Yet something makes her open her weeping eyes.

His face looms in front of her, and she feels a euphoric surge. A rush better than any orgasm.

He envelops her in a hug, concealing her nakedness.

His mouth whispers into her ear. What a good girl. What a wonderful girl.

He tugs the door closed behind him.

She notices the timer on the latch has been reset. It seems they have another 30 minutes.

He embraces her, kissing her deeply, one arm around her shoulders, his free hand cupping her soaking slit.

He spins her around, lifting her forward until she’s straddling the chair.

She feels his hands grasp her hot stinging cheeks, splaying her buttocks apart, exposing her holes.

Inspections followed spankings. Always.

She can feel his hot breath between her legs. Then his rough tongue intruding between her slit, scraping upwards until it circles her bottom hole, tasting her obedience.

She hears his belt unbuckle, and his trousers sliding down his legs.

He reaches past her, tapping her phone screen a few times to activate the voice memo app.

I want you to keep this recording safe, he growls. Next time I put you in the corner, you can listen to me fucking you as you hold your sore bum apart.

She feels his stiffness against her wet entrance. He enters so easily.

The first sounds she’ll hear when she listens to this back will be the rustle of his trousers lowering, his deep voice talking about fucking, her own needy moans, and the sudden squelch of penetration.

She can see the little booth timer reflected on her phone screen. Twenty-six minutes and four seconds until the door unlocked. He’d last that long easily. She felt hands grip her breasts and the roar of hot breathing on her neck.

Her last rational thought before his deep thrusts switch off her mind is:

I do hope we can extend our stay.

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@spankingtheatre 2018