Heather's Spanking

[spanking] [F/f] [domestic discipline] [corner time] 

Continued from: Terror and Arousal

The quiet hum of the living room enveloped me as I lay draped over Andrea’s lap, the tweed of her dress pants rough against my bare thighs, her knees pressed together to form a stable platform that elevated my ass into the air like an offering on display. She let me linger there for what felt like an eternity, the humiliating reality sinking in with the weight of gravity itself—an adult woman, a 36-year-old mother of two, a devoted wife who juggled soccer schedules and legal briefs, now fully naked and positioned like a naughty child over the knee of this stranger, this younger woman whose commanding presence filled the room with an unyielding authority. My full breasts hung heavy toward the floor, nipples almost brushing the carpet with each shallow breath, my pussy exposed between my parted thighs, the cool air kissing my most intimate folds in a way that deepened the vulnerability, tears already trickling from my hazel eyes as soft apologies spilled from my lips unbidden. 

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry for everything,” I whispered, my voice breaking, “I’ll be a good girl, I promise… I’ll do better…” 

The words tumbled out without reason, drawn from the gravity of the situation, the profound embarrassment of my bare body splayed across her lap, my ass thrust upward, waiting for the punishment I’d craved yet now terrified me, sobs hitching in my chest as the trance of surrender began to take hold.

Andrea’s hand moved with deliberate calm, sharpening my positioning to her exacting standards—her voice a sultry command that wrapped around me like warm restraints. 

“Straighten your legs out to the right of my lap, Heather—ankles tight together, only your toes touching the carpet.” 

I obeyed, extending my toned legs in a rigid line, my bare soles arching as my toes pressed into the plush rug, the flexion pulling my ass higher, tightening the skin across my cheeks in anticipation. 

“To the left, bend to the floor but keep your arms locked out—palms flat on the carpet, head up.” 

My upper body dipped forward, arms extending straight, hands splaying on the carpet for support, my straight brown hair falling around my face as I lifted my head, the posture sharp and unyielding—over the knee yet elongated, my bare bum perched high in the air like the pinnacle of a vulnerable arch, every curve of my body on display, my pussy and anus peeking from between my thighs, the exposure a wave of heat that flushed my skin from chest to cheeks.

She cupped and caressed my bare bum, her palm warm and possessive as it roamed the blank canvas—smooth and unmarred, soon to be transformed into her work of art—fingers tracing the curve of my cheeks, dipping lightly into the cleft, the touch sending shivers racing up my spine, a mix of comfort and foreboding that made my tears flow faster. The open palm smacks began without warning—rapid and not hard at first, her hand descending in a steady pace, alternating between my left and right cheeks with rhythmic precision, each impact a crisp slap that echoed softly in the cozy room, the sound intimate and domestic, like a secret shared between us. She caught the lower sit spots with upward swings, the sting blooming warm and insistent there, then targeted the upper backs of my thighs with downward flicks, the skin there more sensitive, each smack leaving a pink print that overlapped the last, the cumulative warmth spreading like a gradual sunrise across my flesh.

The initial warm-up was lengthy but not severe, her pace unhurried, the smacks building a trance-like numbness in my bum and mind, the repetition lulling me into a haze where the humiliation felt distant yet profound, sickening in its exposure but wrapped in the strange comfort of her control—like being plunged into an ice bath only to be enveloped in a warm towel, the contrast shocking yet soothing. I found myself emotionally connected to her in that moment, her hand a bridge between my guilts and release, cries spilling from my lips—“I’m sorry, Ma’am… I’ll do better, be better…”—promises pouring out as tears streamed, the spanking a cathartic rhythm that drew vocalizations from deep within, my body surrendering to the beautifully horrific dance.

Andrea’s hand was steady and warm as she helped me to my feet, her grip on my upper arm firm yet almost gentle, guiding me upright from her lap where I’d been draped like a limp ragdoll, my bare bottom still throbbing with the initial warm-up’s insistent heat. The blood that had pooled in my head from the positioning—bent forward, arms locked out, palms on the carpet—rushed back to my core in a dizzying torrent, the world tilting as vertigo swept through me, leaving me lightheaded and unsteady on my bare feet. I swayed there for a moment, the cozy living room spinning in soft focus—the gas fireplace’s flicker blurring into golden haze, the plush armchairs and coffee table swimming like distant memories—before instinct took over, my hands flying to my stinging bum in a desperate bid to rub away the fire. Without thinking, I did a humiliating little dance on my bare tiptoes, hopping from one foot to the other in a childish jig, my fingers kneading the reddened cheeks as if to coax the warmth out, the motion making my full breasts bounce around shamefully, nipples tracing erratic arcs in the air, the exposure a fresh wave of mortification that burned hotter than the spanks themselves.

I barely had time to register the absurdity— a grown woman, naked and prancing like a scolded girl—before Andrea’s hand shot out, grabbing my bicep in a vice-like hold that halted my dance mid-step. Without warning, she led me over to the sofa, her fingers digging into my arm just enough to assert control, my bare feet padding frantically on tiptoes to keep up, still dancing in that ridiculous, involuntary way as the sting demanded relief, my tits continuing their shameful jiggle with each hurried step. The sofa’s leather was cool against my back as she laid me down in a fluid motion, her strength surprising and unyielding, positioning me flat before hiking my legs together and right back into the air—knees pressed toward my chest, ankles crossed high above, like I was a baby getting her diaper changed, my shaved pussy and especially my asshole now mortifyingly within Andrea’s full view, the intimate folds parted slightly, slick with unwanted arousal that glistened under the room’s warm light.

She raised a disapproving eyebrow at the sight, her piercing blue eyes locking onto the damp evidence between my thighs, drawing further attention to my betrayal—the way my pussy wept with need despite the humiliation, the lips swollen and flushed, a silent confession of my body’s twisted response. “My, my,” she murmured, her red lips curving in that knowing smile, the feminine hard-sole slipper already in her hand, its pink material and elegant bow, deceptively dainty against the rigid sole that promised thudding pain. Without another word, she brought it to bear, peppering my bum and thighs with the thuddy rubber in maternal fashion—each slap landing with a fleshy resonance, the sole molding to my curves before snapping back with a sting that radiated deep, alternating between my upthrust cheeks and the sensitive backs of my thighs, the impacts echoing softly in the room like rhythmic reprimands.

“Hold the backs of your own legs up,” she instructed, her voice calm and commanding, and I obeyed, my hands gripping behind my knees, pulling them tighter to my chest, the position locking me in place, my bare soles pointing skyward, hot and slightly tacky from my recently removed, sweaty stockings, as Andrea’s hands wrapped around them—her palms warm against my arches, fingers curling over my toes in a possessive hold that grounded me further in the humiliation. The slippering continued unabated, the rubber sole thudding in steady maternal rhythm, each peppering smack building a layered ache that spread through my flesh, the diaper-like pose exposing everything—pussy and asshole winking with each impact—as I lay there, too humiliated to cry or protest, the beautifully horrific trance deepening with every stroke of the slipper.

Andrea’s hand rested lightly on my lower back as she helped me to my feet, the sudden rush of blood from the diaper pose sending a dizzying wave through me, my vision spotting briefly as I steadied myself against her grip. She gave me a moment to find my balance, then her fingers closed around my upper arm in that firm, no-nonsense hold, pulling me upright and leading me through a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. The transition was abrupt—the cozy living room giving way to an ultra-modern kitchen, all sleek stainless steel appliances, marble countertops veined with grey, and pendant lights hanging like cold stars over a wide island. My stomach sank as the scene registered—this was exactly the setting I’d fantasized about countless nights, masturbating furiously to the image of being hauled into a kitchen, scolded for imaginary messes, bent over an island for a wooden spoon’s relentless correction. The fantasy had always ended with me sobbing in release; now, in reality, the horror of it being true made my legs feel weak, my bare feet padding across the cool tile, the slap of skin on stone amplifying the intimacy of my nakedness.

Andrea stopped at the island, her grip tightening just enough to halt me, her voice dropping into that stern, maternal scold. “And how many times have I told you not to leave dishes in the sink?” she said, pointing to a small stack of plates and glasses that had been deliberately placed there, the evidence of my “naughtiness” laid out like a scripted accusation. My breath caught, the words landing with a weight that made my eyes sting anew, tears renewing as they spilled down my cheeks in silent streams.

She released my arm and gestured to a drawer in the island. “Pick one.”

To my horror, the drawer slid open to reveal about a dozen wooden spoons and spatulas of various sizes and weights—some slim and long-handled for precision, others broad and heavy for thudding impact, their handles polished smooth from use, bowls and blades curved in ways that promised different kinds of sting. Without even thinking, my trembling hand reached in and selected one—a medium-length spoon with a broad bowl, its wood warm from the room’s ambient heat. I handed it to her, tears flowing freely now, the act of choosing my own implement a profound layer of surrender that left me shaking.

Andrea took it with a nod, her red lips curving in quiet approval. “Bend over the kitchen island, Heather.”

I did so slowly, my bare breasts smooshing against the cool granite, the chill a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from my punished skin, the height of the island forcing me onto tiptoes, my legs straight and spread slightly for balance, toes curling against the tile. The position thrust my ass upward, cheeks parted naturally, my shaved pussy and anus fully exposed to her view, the vulnerability a fresh wave of mortification that made my apologies renew.

She stepped to my side, spoon in hand. “Count each stroke out loud, and say ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am’ after each one.”

The first smack landed—crisp and sharp, the spoon’s bowl flattening my left cheek with a resounding crack, the sting blooming immediate and fierce, the wood’s curve hugging the flesh before rebounding with a bite that sank deep. “One… I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I gasped, voice trembling, tears splashing onto the granite.

The second followed on the right cheek, the impact mirroring the first, heat layering over the existing warmth from the hand and slipper. “Two… I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

The rhythm built—alternating sides, the spoon snapping down in steady cadence, each crack echoing off the kitchen’s hard surfaces, the bowl’s broad surface leaving circular red imprints that overlapped into a uniform glow, the lower sit spots and upper thighs catching upward flicks that made my toes curl tighter, my legs quivering on tiptoes. By the tenth, my voice was hoarse, the counts and apologies a litany of remorse—“Ten… I’m sorry, Ma’am”—the pain a deep, throbbing ache that spread through my buttocks, the wood’s unyielding surface ensuring every strike penetrated beyond the surface, the cumulative heat turning my skin from pink to deeper red.

Andrea varied the pace—quick flurries that made me yelp, then slower, deliberate smacks that allowed the sting to fully register, the spoon’s handle sometimes used for lighter taps on the undercurve, the bowl for heavier thuds on the full cheeks. By the twentieth, my sobs had deepened, the words slurring through tears—“Twenty… I’m sorry, Ma’am”—my body rocking with each impact, tits smushing harder against the granite, the cool surface a stark counterpoint to the fire raging behind me.

This exact scenario had been one of my biggest fantasies—countless nights spent alone in bed or the shower, fingers circling my clit as I imagined being hauled into a kitchen, scolded for some domestic failing, bent over the counter with my pants yanked down, a wooden spoon wielded by a stern figure like Andrea, smacking my ass until tears purged my guilts in cathartic fire. But in the moment now, thrashed bare naked over this stranger’s island, the reality was far more intense than any dream— my tiptoes straining to hold the position, each smack not just stinging but building a throbbing blaze that left me yelping with every count, the humiliation of my exposed pussy and anus winking with each clench a layer of vulnerability I’d never anticipated, the fantasy’s beautiful haze shattered by the raw, unrelenting pain that made my sobs deepen, tears splashing onto the counter as I gasped out the mantra, “Twenty-four… I’m sorry, Ma’am,” my voice a broken whisper, body limp and surrendered, the wooden spoon’s bite etching the dream into beautifully horrific truth.

Yours Truly, 

Heather