Co-authored with Joost of Bad Girls Need Good Spankings
Sarah’s story began here
Sarah lit the candles and snapped a quick picture to send to David before settling down to her laptop. She hoped her disciplinarian would appreciate her efforts to create an atmosphere conducive to the detention he had set. The spoon was prominently displayed on the table, ready to serve its purpose for the hourly spankings that evening. She had added to the table a laptop and a notepad; he hadn’t set any particular task for her, though she felt that writing would be a suitable occupation for the evening. A scattering of candles rounded out the arrangement- not that they were strictly necessary, but Sarah felt a little bit of fire could enhance any mood.
The curtains were drawn against the darkness of the early autumn evening, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit exposed and silly. It was the uniform, she decided as she rubbed her freezing knees. These things must have been designed to encourage feelings of vulnerability. Despite the heavy sweater, she shivered and checked yet again to see that the heater was turned all the way up. Damn modern green efficiency, she cursed silently. It would take the thing ages to heat up properly, probably reaching a suitable temperature just as it was time for her to go to bed.
At least her bottom was warm. She squirmed on the vinyl seat of the kitchen chair, uncomfortable as one always seemed to be on rental furniture, though in this case the chair was not solely to blame. He had only ordered twenty smacks of the spoon to kick off her detention for the evening, and even with her poor aim those swats had managed to cause their fair share of pinkness and discomfort, jolting her from the “this is silly” thoughts into a more properly submissive frame of mind. It always worked this way when he ordered a spanking, and she hoped that bit of magic would never fade.
It had started, as so many of these things do, with a quick message, a simple compliment on one of his blog posts. He had responded, much to her delight, with a similarly simple message of thanks. Losing her nerve, she hadn’t continued the conversation, letting several months pass as she quietly but regularly looked in on his site.
It was funny how connections formed online. She couldn’t point to any specific thing he had posted or said, but had a strong feeling that they were highly compatible in their mutual interest. Highly compatible, but also highly separated, in one of those evil acts of fate and geography. Sarah was well used to this sort of thing, and had fostered several close-but-far-away friendships with others she’d met online. He might have fallen into the same category of companionable pseudo-silence, had it not been for the Service.
Even now, she wasn’t sure what it was that had convinced her to take up his offer. Perhaps it was that the idea of contacting a formal disciplinarian intrigued her. Perhaps it was just an excuse to reach out again. Or perhaps it was the recklessness brought on by too much stress and too little sleep.
Whatever it had been, she’d filled out his form, a squirm-inducing exercise on its own, described her “misdeeds”- a simple, minor failing to meet an inconsequential personal writing goal, but a good way to test the waters. With a simple click her first formal punishment request whizzed its way through the ether.
David hadn’t made her wait for long, replying with a very official-looking form containing both a mild scolding and instructions for a light spanking.
She had blushed on reading the notice. Of course she had expected that self-spanking would be involved in this arrangement, and though she had of course experimented with such things before, she had never found her attempts quite satisfying. It was with little hope for success, therefore, that she picked up her hairbrush in anticipation of completing the assigned swats. She paused before beginning, just long enough to read his brief scolding again, and with his words still rattling around her mind, she commenced the spanking. She played the scolding over and over as she completed the punishment, and despite a fair few mis-swings, was pleasantly shocked to feel the heat emanating from her bottom when she was finished. A not-so-quick peek in the bathroom mirror confirmed her suspicions that she had administered at least a halfway proper spanking. Both sets of cheeks flushed with either pain or pride, she sat down with a satisfying wince to report back on her accomplishment.
She had expected that to be the end of it. But he wrote back.
It was simple and to the point, as his writing always was, but nowhere could she spot the dismissive tone she had feared finding- the “request submitted, punishment completed, end of discussion,” that such an arrangement might have entailed. She breathed a sigh of relief as she read his message again. It was almost like talking to a real person, a bit of virtual aftercare, that sure enough segued into a somewhat normal discussion over the course of several more replies.
The doorbell rang. A clanging bong far too large for the small apartment, that nearly knocked Sarah off her chair in shock.
Her heart raced in panic as her mind struggled to keep pace. Could she pretend to be out? Had her jolt of surprise made some sort of noise that had given her away? Pretend to be sleeping? No, Sarah almost laughed herself at the thought- no one could sleep through that particular doorbell. Besides, lying in detention seemed like a terrible idea, even if the administrator of such had no way of knowing.
“Coming!” Sarah shouted as she launched herself toward her bedroom in search of normal clothes, causing more of a ruckus in the process. “Just a moment- need to find my keys!” she shouted in a moment of inspiration.
With a silent prayer of thanks to her parents who had encouraged her to join the local swim team, she wriggled out of her uniform and into jeans and a t-shirt at well-practiced lightning speed. Taking a deep breath, Sarah answered the door with only the slightest flush of embarrassment, which one could hopefully assume was exertion from the frantic imaginary key-search.
Her neighbour Jacqueline stood on the threshold with a knowing smile. “It’s ok,” she offered without being asked. “My place is a wreck too.”
“Erm. .thanks,” Sarah replied. “Can I help you?”
“Oh! Yes; no, I don’t need anything. Just wanted to tell you that I called Pete about the light. He said he’d be over to fix it as soon as he can.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Sarah, vaguely remembering a brief fumble in the dark when the stairwell light had not come on that morning as she’d left for work. “I’d meant to call about that, but had apparently you’ve beaten me to it.”
“No worries, have a good night!” Jacqueline said with a quick wave before turning to leave. Sarah closed the door and sank down against it, thanking her lucky stars that the conversation had been brief enough to not allow her to get herself into any inadvertent trouble, considering what else she had on her mind that evening. She had barely been at this detention thing for an hour, though apart from the one interruption it seemed to be going well.
Barely an hour. . .the hourly spankings! Sarah bolted up and proceeded to step through a reverse of her lightning-speed costume-change, slowed only by her lack of practice with the tie. At least the consequences for being late this time were not as dire as being discovered by an unsuspecting neighbour.
Even with the time required to make a somewhat acceptable knot, she took her seat with a full minute to spare. Sarah giggled at the twinge of fear the near-missed deadline had sent though her. The penalty for missing a spanking was not harsh- a mere ten extra spanks on top of the twenty she was due- but over the course of the evening such things could add up to become quite uncomfortable.
She hefted the spoon in her hand and prepared for her second spanking of the evening. It was a solid, long-handled thing, which had seemed like a great idea in the store, but much less so now that it was poised to strike.
As her phone clock flickered to 8:00, she lifted the spoon, steeled herself, thought of her disciplinarian, and delivered a series of quick, solid swats. She got a good ten in before she felt herself flinch, and the game of self-spanking chicken commenced as she struggled against herself to complete the assigned punishment.
Sarah smirked as she finished and took her seat on a freshly reheated bum. This wasn’t even truly punishment, or even the sort of pseudo-punishments she had requested for simple transgressions before.
After her first request, she had taken him up on his somewhat cheeky reminder that she could request further punishments if she felt the need. She had forced herself to wait a week between requests, but began slowly submitting confessions that were a bit more real. They were all true, though as she began to trust him the nature of her requests slowly changed. The first few were still just trivial failures rather than actual offences- though failures in areas of diet and exercise definitely felt more punishable than the failure to keep up with her self-imposed journaling schedule that had been detailed in her very first request.
His responses had changed as well. The punishments became a bit more intense, but also a bit more meaningful as he incorporated elements that forced her to reflect on her goals, what they meant to her, and why they were important. Their discussions had likewise changed, as he prompted her for her progress, following up on commitments she had made as part of her punishments. It wasn’t long before she began to think of him as a true mentor, someone to confide in, someone from whom to seek advice, and someone who would tell her in no uncertain terms when she had let herself down and provide the motivation necessary to jolt her from unproductive habits.
The clang of the doorbell jolted her from her train of thought for the second time that evening. “Coming!” she shouted again, and rose from her chair in panic. Surely she couldn’t claim to have lost her keys again; it would almost be better to be caught in uniform than to let Jacqueline think she was that absent-minded. In a flash, she shoved her jeans over her knee-socks and wrapped a winter coat and scarf around her to hide the rest of her ensemble. At least the lingering chill of her apartment lent her a plausible excuse for that particular outfit.
She opened the door to find Pete, the complex’s handyman, on her doorstep. “I just stopped by to fix the light. Should be good to go now.”
“Thanks,” Sarah replied. “I didn’t expect such a quick response, I really appreciate it.” Though really, Sarah thought, of all the times to respond quickly, why did it have to be tonight?
As usual, they chatted on a bit more about nothing, Yes, she was settling in just fine. No, nothing else seemed to be awry. Yes, the neighbourhood was pleasantly quiet. No, the construction in number four wasn’t bothering her.
“I really must be going,” Sarah said at last, realising that the conversation would only end if she took the initiative to do so herself. “I’m in the middle of fixing dinner,” she offered by way of apology, hoping the lack of any associated aromas wouldn’t register. She was in luck again, and Pete departed without further comment, leaving Sarah to remove her clumsy disguise and return to her seat.
Her heart sunk when she saw the time. 9:04, just barely past her deadline. “I suppose I had to miss it at least once,” she said aloud, resigned to the penalty. The thirty strokes were difficult, as the first few reignited the lingering ache from her previous spankings. She vaguely wondered how endorphins worked, and whether there might be a way to trigger them earlier and make these a bit easier on herself. That’s hardly the point she thought, after a yelp and grunt of frustration as a stroke missed her bottom and connected solidly with her upper thigh. She took a deep breath before unleashing a flurry of spanks, hoping to get through the last ten before the pain caught up with her again to complicate her task. The tactic might have worked, but none of the strokes felt quite right. A glance at the spoon revealed that she had been using the wrong side in her hurry to administer the final strokes. Sarah groaned as she bent further over her chair. Figures, she thought, it’s as though fate is punishing me for trying to skimp on the spanking. Slowly, resolutely, she turned the spoon around properly, and gave herself a solid whack. She panted a moment, letting the pain flow over her and begin to ebb before moving on to the next. Her patience was rewarded in that she only missed once more, though her bottom felt anything but rewarded when she finished.
She cupped her bottom gingerly, impressed with the heat she’d been able to generate and dreading the next instalment. Deciding that her 10pm spanking would be the last, she began to prepare herself for bed. As she got ready to shower, she paused to admire her bottom in the mirror. It had taken on a deep pink, a shade that she had only surpassed once before by her own hand.
As opposed to the many other spankings she had administered under orders from her disciplinarian, that one had not just been for motivation. That time had been true punishment. Sarah unconsciously rubbed her bottom as she thought back on the experience. She had doubted that one could self-administer a spanking suitably severe to be considered a punishment, but had found that in the right frame of mind it was indeed possible. The marks on her bottom afterwards had been a surprise. It was nothing like the bruising she’d experienced after a good session with Mark, but still. . .it was more than she’d ever managed to do on her own. Had her disciplinarian been wielding the brush she had no doubt it would be more severe, but for a personal effort she ruled it as not half-bad. She did indeed feel punished.
Punished. It was something she had yearned for and yet not quite achieved. Mark had focused on discipline, of course, but in a rather abstract way. Probably for the best; Sarah doubted she could have handled more at the time, but it still left her feeling as though she had missed something, had almost attained a goal only to settle for a near-miss.
Perhaps it was better this way, she mused, having her first punishment on her own, where the awkwardness of dealing with a person she barely knew could not intrude. The actions may have been prescribed, but it allowed her a measure of discretion, the ability to meter the strokes within her own limits.
She remembered her apprehension at typing out her confession. This was no simple matter, after all. Her other rules were straight-forward. Food and exercise were easy by comparison. Measurable. Definite.
Anything where other people were involved was more complicated. But also more in need of guidance. She was aware that she had. . . not a temper, exactly, but a strong streak of impatience that turned to sharp-tongued intolerance under pressure. She usually kept herself in check, but every once in a while it was as if an inner demon took over and asserted its surly self around those who most understood and were just trying to help. She felt incredibly guilty afterwards, as she had explained to him on an earlier occasion. He had offered to help. He admitted that it would be difficult. He would need to rely just on her own explanations, and such a system would have inherent limitations, but he was willing to try if she was. She’d clung to his promise as a lifeline, and had tried to provide an honest accounting of any testiness in her weekly reports to him. It wasn’t long before a clear problem surfaced. She knew before he even replied that she would be in trouble. And she was. He made her wait, kept her in suspense as he carefully and patiently extracted details from her.
He was kind with his questions, mindful that she had already mentally beaten herself far more than was deserved, but that she needed guidance. Guidance coupled with reinforcement. He explained carefully that the punishment was not for her emotions- they were wild and did what they pleased- but for her lack of effort in controlling her reactions.
The punishment he pronounced did not seem overly harsh on paper. Just a hundred strokes, split between the brush and the spoon, though they were meant to be hard.
She struggled through it, and despite a few clumsy strokes, those that did connect (as well as the penalty strokes for her misses) had been among the harshest she’d managed to deliver. She had reread their exchange before beginning, and could all but hear the disappointment in his words. She could do better than this, and she would. This punishment would be a reminder of that, and she agreed with him that this was to be something she would not soon forget.
Still, she had not expected it to be such a powerful experience. Yes, the spanks were powerful, the bruises were evidence enough of that, but she did not expect to feel so truly punished. She did not expect to feel that she deserved this pain, the humiliating feeling of silliness that came from conducting this exercise, and she most certainly did not expect to feel the warmth of forgiveness afterwards. She had reported back as she always did, relating her thoughts and feelings- physical and otherwise- during the punishment. He had replied just as she was going to sleep, and his words soothed her more than any bottom-rubbing possibly could. He was pleased, pleased that she had delivered a painful punishment, pleased with her courage in doing so, pleased with her openness with her feelings, and pleased that she would be reminded of the importance of good behaviour in the future.
Tonight’s detention was supposed to have the same effect, she reminded herself as she prepared for her final spanking of the evening. He had ordered forty strokes to round out the night, and judging by her trouble with the previous thirty, this was going to be a difficult exercise.
She kept the thought firmly in mind as she laid out on her bed, pyjama bottoms near her knees, and began to spank. It wasn’t long at all before she flinched away from a stroke, the spoon landing awkwardly half-off her bottom. She took a deep breath and replayed his words in her mind, pictured him holding her in place as she continued. She pictured him scolding gently when she flinched away again, quietly voicing his disappointment and his expectation that she take this reminder that was clearly needed. Hadn’t her behaviour improved since this arrangement had began? Couldn’t she see the benefits herself? Didn’t she appreciate this arrangement, having entered into and continued it freely?
As much as she appreciated the spanking, she was not sorry when it was over; she never was. She gratefully set the spoon aside as she restored her pyjamas and snuggled into the blankets.
She felt truly warm. Physically, of course, as her throbbing bottom warmed the bed quite quickly. But she also felt the warmth of being truly cared for, even in a non-traditional sense. She had administered the spanking, but she was not the only force behind it. He was helping her here, just as he was in the areas of her life into which she had welcomed his moderating influence. In the space of only a few months, he had become a close and trusted friend, a presence she could almost feel as she went about her daily life. She had never met him, had no idea what he looked like, but in the darkness of her bedroom she could see him beside her clear as day.