Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Still Here

Hey there. I'm sorry its been so long; real life has been banging at my door this last couple of weeks.

I'm just posting this to let you know that I've not forgotten this blog, and that I'll have something new to post within the week. Thank you for your patience.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Short: Product Testing

This is the first time I've written an M/F scenario, so I'm sure there's room for improvement. In particular, I'm afraid I was a little too descriptive.


Robert Kinsley looked at the three boxes that sat on the desk. It was about time; the new models had been due nearly a week ago. Robert was a punctual man, and liked to keep things orderly. His clean shaven face, short, well-groomed hair, neatly pressed black suit jacket and tie spoke for him in this regard.

“I‘m sorry again for the delay, Mr. Kinsley,” said the clerk, “but here they are. Serial numbers HB22, HB23, and BB05 fresh out of the workshop.”

Robert nodded curtly. “I trust preparations for mass production have been made?” He had a subtle British accent that matched his trim appearance like tea and biscuits.

The clerk nodded, holding up his clipboard. “As always. They‘re just waiting for our approval.”

Robert looked at the three boxes with their serial numbers again. He had been the head manager of Product Testing for several years now, and was well used to the procedure. Time to make or break these new prototypes.

“Understood. Bring in the subjects.”

Robert stood behind the desk, waiting patiently. Under the wrapping, he was a tall, athletic thirty-year-old with a deceptively slender frame. There was a cushy, armless office chair beside him, but he chose not to sit down just yet; he would be using that in a bit. In a few minutes, the clerk came back in, followed by three nervous-looking young women, wearing only loose-fitting T-shirts, panties, and socks. These were the guinea pigs.

One of the new arrivals was Rose, a black woman of twenty-eight. She was the tallest of the three, with a flowing, big-boned figure. Her hair was cut just above her shoulders, framing a smooth-featured face with green eyes, full lips, and milk-chocolatey brown skin. She was strong-looking, with a robust frame and wide, womanly hips, but she also looked the most anxious. Robert couldn’t blame her; this was her first day on the job. He made a point of smiling at her reassuringly; she tried to smile back, but quickly looked away again.

The second woman was Jolene, a cute white girl with nineteen years to her name. Jolene was the shortest of the three, but made up for it with a bit of…“plumpness” would be the word. She wasn’t anywhere near fat, but she did have a slightly convex belly and cute love-handles that gave some shape to her T-shirt. Elbow-length, light brown hair fell past her shoulders, running along the sides of a rather prominent chest. She smiled at Robert cheerily, eyes moving between him and the three boxes on the desk. “Do your worst” was what her expression said.

Last was Anna. She was a year or two older than Jolene, but she looked younger; her dainty, smooth-skinned features and wide, dewy brown eyes were those of a teenager. Her body, on the other hand…Anna was a textbook example of the hourglass figure. Large, spherical breasts pushed out against her shirt, giving way to a sweeping, slender torso that widened dramatically into some of the widest, curviest hips Robert had ever seen. Below her (very full) pink panties, her legs were thick, fleshy, and toned. She had darker skin, suggesting a Latin heritage (according to her bio, her family was from Argentina). She gave a shy, somewhat timid smile as Robert‘s eyes met hers.

“I trust you‘re all prepared,” said Robert, stepping around the desk. It wasn’t a question.

Rose nodded slowly. “I think so.”

Jolene smirked. “Oh Rob you big softy! Its not like it‘ll be any worse than last time.” She rubbed her backside in painful recollection. “Ready when you are.”

Anna smiled her timid smile again. “I‘m good to go, I guess.”

Robert gave a calculating glance at Jolene. My, but wasn’t someone cocky this morning?

The clerk came over to the desk and helped Robert open the boxes. The first one contained a small, flat-backed wooden hairbrush, just the right size to be kept in a pocket or purse. Robert picked it up and turned it over in his hand, letting his experienced fingers sample the wood. Maplewood, he thought. He placed it down on the desk, where three pairs of female eyes focused on it.

“That looks like its gonna‘ hurt,” said Rose, turning anxiously to her companions.

Anna nodded, her soft, hazel eyes widening a little. “I wish I could say something helpful,” she said quietly, “But yeah, you‘re right.”

“Personal care maple hairbrush, HB22,” said the clerk, ignoring the trepidation of the women, “four inch blade, one half of an inch thick.”

“Good varnish,” remarked Robert as he opened the second box, “but small. Hopefully it can stand up to wear and tear.”

The clerk chuckled. “Well, that‘s where you come in.”

The second box contained another hairbrush. This one was significantly bigger, with a thick and quite heavy oval-shaped blade. The back of this brush was slightly rounded, almost like the outside surface of a flat spoon. It looked good, mostly, but its handle tapered a little too thin before it met the blade; Robert wondered if this would prove a problem.

“HB23 is the classic hickory brush. Same handle as the other models, but five inch blade with a varying thickness of one and a half inches at the center to one inch at the edges.” As the clerk spoke, Robert felt the back of it and flicked his wrist a little, seeing how it felt in the air. HB23 was noticeably heavier than 22, and had a more forceful swing.

“That,” said Rose, her eyes wide, “that‘s not…who would buy something like that?” She was clearly having second thoughts about this.

“I think I would.”

The other two stared at Jolene.

“What? My hair gets tangly when I wake up.”

Jolene was keeping up her fa├žade of bold nonchalance, but it was obvious she was a little more intimidated by the second hairbrush than she was letting on. Otherwise, her eyes wouldn’t keep going back to it as they did.

“The last one is a bath brush?” Robert asked as he opened the final box.

“Ayup. Maplewood again, water treated. This one‘s a long-handled model, got an eight inch hilt with another six inches of blade. The bristles are soft nylon; no risk of scratches. Blade is just over an inch thick.”

The guinea pigs were silent for a moment as Robert handled this one.

“Well,” said Rose, looking from one of her fellows to the other, “it can‘t be as bad as the big hairbrush, right?”

Anna shook her head. “Don‘t count on it.”

“Its got a long handle,” said Jolene slowly, “a wider arc means more momentum. God, I hope I don‘t get that one.”

Anna glared at her.

“You‘d rather I got that one?” She subconsiously put a hand to her bottom.

“Yeah, actually. I would.”

The other two women glared at Jolene, but they really couldn’t blame her that much. After all, they were all thinking the same thing; please not the bath brush for me.

Meanwhile, Robert had put down BB05 and was dragging his office chair out from behind the desk. Seating himself comfortably in it, he addressed the test subjects.

“I have a decision to make. Ladies, turn around please.”

Rose looked back at the other two to ask if this was normal, but they were already turning around and presenting their panty-clad assets to the scrutiny of the two men.

“Miss Jackson, turn around.”

Robert’s voice was patient, but slightly stern. He was giving Rose a piercing look. Slowly, keeping her eyes trained distrustingly on him, she turned around.

“Which is for which?” Asked the clerk.

Robert thought carefully. Rose had a derriere of the kind black women are known for; lush, thick, and quite substantial, jutting out behind her rounded hips like half of a pear. On one hand, probably quite durable and cushioning. On the other…this was only her first day on the job. Jolene was shorter than Rose, but her hips were just as wide, and the baby fat that was visible elsewhere on her body was even more abundant here. She had a round, very soft looking bottom, each cheek like a heavy water balloon. Both Rose and Jolene, however, were put to shame by Anna. She had some of the widest, most feminine hips Robert had ever seen, and her ass stuck out. It was as if her body had gathered together all the fat it didn’t need and stuffed it tightly into those two jutting, bulging cheeks. Her panties were woefully insufficient to contain them, their shelf-like mass being left mostly exposed.

After looking from rump to rump for a moment, deciding what should go where, he turned back to the clerk. “I think we can proceed.”

The clerk nodded, writing something on his notepad. “Okay girls, you can turn back around.”

They did so, all with baited breath. Rose in particular looked almost ready to faint. The other two seemed slightly less mortified (they had had experience, after all), but they were still anxious to hear the first pronouncement.

“HB22 will be tested on Miss Rose Jackson,” said Robert. “Rose, please come here.”

Rose let out a long, deep breath. On one hand, she was going to get what looked like the smallest and least menacing brush of the three. That was a relief. On the other, she had been hoping to see at least one of the other girls go first, so that she could have some idea of what to expect. It was thus with great uncertainty (and no small amount of looking back over her shoulder at the other two) that she advanced to where Robert Kinsley was sitting.

“Don‘t be nervous, sister, you got off easy,” said Jolene, “just be glad it wasn‘t the bath brush.”

Anna nodded. She and Jolene looked at each other briefly, both wondering frantically who would get which of the remaining instruments of agony. Their attention was soon brought back to Rose’ ordeal by the sound of Robert’s voice.

“You‘ve read the routine, I hope?”

Rose nodded fearfully, staring pleadingly at Robert. She was hoping he would have mercy on her, go easy on her, something like that. He gave no sign of having noticed her trepidation.

“Then you know that our tests are conducted on the bare skin. Take off your underwear.”

Her face sunk. Even through the dark brown of her skin, there was an obvious blush in her cheeks as she reluctantly lowered her hands to her hips and worked the panties down. In a moment, they fell to her ankles, leaving a bushy landing strip of black pubic hair visible between the tops of her luscious thighs. She was afraid that Robert would leave her standing like that for a long time, to take in the sight of her naked vagina, but fortunately he waited for only a second before patting his thigh, signaling her to bend over his knees.

Robert placed a hand on her lower back and helped ease Rose down into position (she resisted for a moment, but soon gave in and allowed him to position her as he wished). Her hands were touching the carpet on one side of the armless chair, her feet planted on the other, which placed her ass right across Robert Kinsley’s lap. It was truly a marvelous ass; each cheek just perfectly high and large enough to be grabbed or squeezed by a male hand. Robert didn’t grab or squeeze it, though. Instead, he rested one hand on the small of her back and let the other rest, very lightly, on her left buttock.

“Warm ups consist of twenty slaps with my open palm,” said Robert, “this will precede the implement testing.”

“Uh…do you have to?” Asked Rose, looking desperately up at her captor, full, African lips almost trembling, “I mean, you could just give me my fifty with the brush and-”

The clerk winced. The other two women shook their heads knowingly.

“Believe me, Miss Jackson, the warm up is for your benefit, not mine. Without desensitizing the tissues and amplifying the blood flow beforehand, the hairbrush could do serious damage.”

“Okay…just don‘t be too hard, alright?”

He shook his head. “I‘m sorry, but this department is responsible for quality assurance. You‘ll receive the full treatment; that‘s why you‘re here.”

In truth, he was indeed letting her off light. Rose was a big, athletic woman, with quite a well-padded seat, all qualities that spoke to her endurance. Normally, he would have selected her for one of the heavier brushes. The only reason she was getting the smallest one was because it was her first time. He wasn’t making any more allowances for her than that.

“Are you ready, Miss Jackson?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded yes (what else could she do at this point?). Across the room, the other two girls watched carefully.

Robert raised his hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a wristy flick against her left buttock. Rose let out a little “mm!” when it hit, but actually it wasn’t nearly as hard as she had expected. Just a sharp little snap against her ass, making her left cheek jiggle and bounce for a second. The next slap was very much like it, and landed on the opposite cheek. Rose let herself relax. Okay, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Robert alternated cheeks, spanking Rose with a steady, not-too-fast not-too-slow drumbeat. That fleshy mountain of a bottom jiggled and swayed, each cheek wobbling playfully under his palm. Rose’s body was actually squirming a tiny bit on its own, making itself more comfortable; she wasn’t disliking this at all!

After twenty fleshy smacks, he let his hand rest once again on her warm flank. He waited for perhaps fifteen seconds, studying the subtle, pinkish flush that had built up under her rich, brown skin.

“Can I get up now?” She asked.

Robert chuckled. It was a nice, comforting chuckle, really, but it carried some rather fearful connotations in her mind.

“Stay in position, Miss Jackson. We haven‘t even started the test!”

“Okay,” she said, trying to keep her body relaxed. There was a low, burning sting in her buttocks, but it wasn’t anywhere near unmanageable. Honestly, she almost thought she enjoyed it! Her peace of mind ended when she felt the cold wood being rubbed softly against her flesh, and realized how much harder than Robert’s hand it was.

“Um…wait…no, I think I-”



The hairbrush has nothing like Robert’s hand. It felt like an honest-to-god weapon, and one covered in fire ants at that! Immediately, she tried to push herself up off Robert’s lap, but he pressed his left hand down into her back and held her fast.


She hadn’t finished recovering from the shock of the first hit when the second bit her other cheek. She tried to say something, but the third stroke interrupted her by forcing another “Yeow!!!” to take its place.

Robert applied the hairbrush to Rose’s backside with the same cadence and swishing, wrist-snapping motions that he had used with his hand…only now he was employing much more of his strength. With each crack, one of her large buttocks would flatten under the brush before wobbling and jiggling around to shake off the force. She started to really struggle, scissoring her legs and twitching her torso like a snake, but Robert’s grip was inescapable.

“The test lasts for fifty swats, Miss Jackson,” he said sternly, arm still rising and falling about once every two seconds, “that means you will…stay…in…place.”

The last three words were each accompanied by an extra hard, extra fast smack, crashing into her round booty cheeks like a jackhammer. She was yelping and twitching with each impact. Her bottom’s pinkish hue had grown in intensity; there were now two dark red spank spots on her otherwise brown rear.

After twenty licks, Robert stopped for a moment. Rose, thinking she had a chance to escape, tried to roll herself off of his lap, but he was expecting it. Grabbing her body with both arms, he suddenly pulled his right leg out from under her and brought it down on top of her thighs, clamping her in place between his legs.

“What the….what are you doing???”

“I‘m keeping you in place. There‘s no way I can aim properly with you squirming like that.”

Her backside was now framed between his hand on her lower back, and his thigh, holding the two, throbbing mounds implacably in place. He lined up the hairbrush and picked up right where he had left off.


The clerk was furiously writing down notes. Rose yelped and cried out and flailed her arms and lower legs furiously, but there was nothing she could do to even remotely improve the situation. Her buttocks were dancing under the hairbrush, jiggling like two bowls of jello-strawberry jello-on a shaking table. Jolene made a little humming sound as she watched her newest coworker take her medicine, noting that Robert was in no mood for shenanigans today. Anna let a hand creep down to her inner thigh…watching Robert turn Rose’s black ass scarlet was causing a familiar itch down bellow, even though Rose was clearly in great pain.

Finally, with two extra loud and slow SPLATS! On either side, Robert put down the hairbrush and raised his leg, letting Rose scramble off of him. She wobbled to her feet and grabbed her big, perky bottom in both hands, hissing in pain as she rubbed it in a futile attempt to mitigate the sting. She was grimacing.

“How do you feel, Miss Jackson?”

“OW! How the fuck do you THINK I feel, JERK?!?!?”

She hopped up and down a little, causing her rotund buttocks to bounce and wobble under her hands. They really were red, and looked quite aggravated. Not really swollen, though.

“I feel like…agghh…bugs biting me…like I got hornets all over my ass, and they keep stinging! Ouch!”

“Understood. Do you feel any deeper trauma or bruising?”

“Ahh…I…I don‘t think so, just the sting. Why, does that mean you have to finish the job now? Ow!”

Robert turned to the clerk. “High sting factor, no reported thud. No visible or tactile signs of bruising or sub-cutaneous tissue trauma.”

“Right,” said the clerk, “seems promising. Someone at RnD will be getting a raise.”

Robert addressed Rose, who was trying to work her panties back over her reddened, tender derriere. It wasn’t easy; due to the prominent shape of her ass, she had to stretch her panties tightly to get them around her hips, and that was now a painful prospect.

“Stand in the corner, Rose. When the testing is done you and the others will be provided aftercare.”

Rose hobbled over to the corner, panties halfway up her juicy thighs, both hands still rubbing her ass. Robert and the clerk both watched her naked, well-spanked rear as she walked; it had a way of bouncing heavily with each step.

“Next will be Miss Marensky, with the HB23 model.”

Jolene stepped forward.

“So,” she said, “tire yourself out on Rose? Or are you just getting warmed up?”

Robert smiled a little.

“Bend over, Jolene.”

She pouted at him.

“Okay, fine, don‘t answer me.” She laid herself across his lap and pulled her body forward, sticking her voluptuous backside right in his face. “Its not like it can be as bad as last time, you brute.”

Meanwhile, Rose (who had given up trying to pull up her panties) was watching intently over her shoulder, unable to take her eyes off of what was going to happen next. Anna, for her part, was eyeing the long-handled bath brush with a sinking feeling in her stomach; she knew she was really in for it now.

“We‘ll only know after the fact,” said Robert, helping her into the right position. Jolene had a fat ass; there was no better way to say it. It didn’t sag or droop (okay, maybe just a tiny bit), but there was a lot of it. She was also fair skinned; her big, pale bottom would show the results of Robert’s abuse much more clearly than Rose’s.

He began spanking her with his palm, much as he had done with Rose. Jolene’s butt was wider and jigglier than Rose’s, even if it didn’t stick out quite as far. With each crisp slap, the dimply flesh would ripple and rebound delightfully. She let out a cute little gasp or “ooh” each time he connected, occasionally seeming to lift her hips a few inches as if to welcome the next smack. More than once, he had to use his left hand to push her back down against his knees to make sure he had enough room to swing. Slowly, each subtle, rosy handprint built on the ones beneath it, giving rise to a soft, glowing pink hue in the fattiest part of each buttock.

“That‘s the end of your warm-up,” he said, letting his hand rest against her juicy rear for a moment before reaching for the brush.

“Ohhh,” she moaned, “I was just getting into it. Couldn’t you go a little longer this time?”

She wiggled her butt, letting the wide, bouncy cheeks sway back and forth before his face. He smiled and shook his head...the little minx was trying to postpone the inevitable.

“You know I would love to,” he said, “but company policy mandates twenty licks, no more no less. Perhaps after hours sometime.”

She stopped jiggling her assets and looked petulant. “Fine,” she said, sticking out her lower lip and looking back down at the carpet, “meanie.”

He picked up HB23 and hefted it in his hand again. The back of this hairbrush was intriguing; almost club-like, instead of the usual flat surface. Once again, he studied the narrow part of the handle where it connected to the paddle. It looked a little too thin to be trusted, but there was only one way to know for sure.

He placed the back of the brush against the fatty underside of Jolene’s ass and rubbed it in a wide circle. She inhaled softly, savoring the coolness of the wood before what was to come. In a moment, Robert tightened his left hand’s grip on her back, raised the big hairbrush to shoulder height, and-


It wasn’t as loud as the first hairbrush, but it fell with much greater force. Jolene’s left cheek exploded out around the impact, waves of tender flesh rippling out away from the hit.

“WOW! OH! OH!”

She jerked her body abruptly, clearly unprepared for the pain. Robert did not break pace. He lifted the brush again, revealing an angry red spot where it had hit the first time, and delivered an identical swat to the opposite cheek.


She wasn’t teasing or egging him on any more. Her body scissored and shook under his relentless assault, locks of light brown hair flying as she looked over one shoulder after the other, trying to see what he was doing to cause such unimaginable pain. WACK! SMACK! THWACK! Every second, like clockwork. Patches of deep, fiery red piled up on top of each other, getting darker and more inflamed with each swat. WACK! CRACK! CRACK! Her corpulent buttocks were getting visibly swollen, exaggerating their already very prominent jiggle whenever the brush landed. WHACK! WAP!


The wood kept raining down on her plentiful ass. For well over two minutes, there wasn’t a sound in the room but the understated WAP of the brush and Jolene’s resulting shrieks. Rose, Anna, and even the clerk watched in mute shock. How long could this continue?


The brush came down for the thirty-ninth stroke, and Robert’s hand continued past Jolene’s ass, handle still clutched in his fist. The blade of the hairbrush, however, went spinning through the air, landing heavily on the carpet at his feet.

Jolene, squinting through her teary eyes, looked up over her shoulder, raising her torso a bit to see what had happened. Robert held the broken handle in front of his face, scowling.

“I suspected it.”

The clerk stepped forward, picking up the bristled paddle-blade and holding it out next to the handle.

“Too thin right at the hilt,” the clerk shook his head, “well that‘s just a bugger.”

Jolene looked relieved. Wincing, she eased herself off of Robert’s lap, both hands clasping her thoroughly punished bum. The entire lower surfaces of her butt cheeks were a dark, angry red, and a pair of small bruises had appeared on her sit spots, where the thickest part of the rounded brush had connected the most times.

“Whose design was 23?” Asked Robert.

“That‘d be Debbie, the new girl in RnD.”

“I see. We‘ll be sure to give her a stern talking to once the report has been made.” He looked up at Jolene, who was bouncing from foot to foot as she rubbed furiously at her bruised ass (her large breasts bounced cutely under her shirt as she did this, but that‘s not really relevant to this account. Just figured you might want to know).

“We‘ll salvage what data we can from this trial, though. Miss Marensky?”

“Ow…it…” she wiped her eyes before quickly returning that hand to her backside, “it hurts. Deep. Almost like…like a big paddle, sort of. Ow, I think I‘m bruised!”

Robert patted her reassuringly on the rump. She managed to smile a tiny bit through her pained grimace, a little of her former, vixenly self coming back.

“Thank you. You can wait in the corner with Rose until the last trial is over.”

Jolene hotfooted it to the corner, her hands not able to cover her wide, swaying rear cheeks as she stepped. She had left her panties on the carpet, where she had accidentally kicked them off toward the end of her paddling. The clerk picked them up and placed them on the desk, where she could retrieve them later. As the two stood next to each other, rubbing their sore fannies, there was a noticeable gleam between both of their legs, as if the fluorescent light was shining off something wet. Robert couldn’t blame them; after all, his own underpants weren’t exactly crispy-dry at this point either. Eh, one of the perks of the job.

“Its your turn now, Miss Mandirez.”

Anna tiptoed up to Robert’s chair, her face a picture of youthful anxiety. She had seen what that second hairbrush did to her friend’s behind. BB05 wasn’t rounded like that hairbrush, or quite as thick, but with that long handle and shiny varnish she knew it would more than make up for that. How long would it be until she could sit after this? As she walked forward to her fate, she felt a warm dampness between her upper thighs. Watching Robert Kinsley’s masterful work had excited her, even if she dreaded what was to come. It was that damned British accent of his, wasn’t it? Or maybe just that infuriatingly self-assured tone of voice when he said “Miss Mandirez.” Whatever the case, she was a mess of fear and excitement by the time she had placed her slim, violin-shaped self over Mr. Kinsley’s lap.

“I‘m ready to begin as soon as you are, Anna.”

As he spoke, he slid his fingers under the hem of her panties and pulled them down to her thighs. This took him a moment or two; even for Robert’s agile fingers, there was a lot of very tight ground to cover here. There was a reason Anna favored skirts and dresses rather than jeans; for a woman with her figure, they were just a pain to get on and off.

“Well, I am in position,” she said. She planted her hands firmly on the carpet, letting her heavy, pendulous breasts hang down beneath her chest. The clerk could see down her collar. Oh well, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t get an eyeful one way or another.

“Nothing to wait for, then,” said Robert. He began his third preparatory spanking of the day.

Anna offered such a target that a less experienced spanker probably wouldn’t know where to start. Her rear cheeks stuck out behind her in blatant defiance of gravity, nearly as thick as they were wide (and she had some wide hips). Robert lined up his hand with the tall, underside surface of each one and let fly, letting his hand connect heavily with each swing. SMACK! SMACK! Her cheeks bounced and shook, but they didn’t really jiggle. He decided that she would need a slightly more intense warm-up session to prepare all that ass, and so he stepped up the pace.

SMACK! SMACK! She was breathing in little gasps, keeping her legs a few inches apart to give him access to the deep, plummeting cleft between her cheeks. He had such big, hard, flexible hands; he had only given her ten slaps, and already there was a tingling burn throughout her situpon. She let out a soft “mmmm” as he slapped her again and again. She hoped this would do the job of preparing her; she most certainly did not want to be unready when the bath brush came out.


All too soon, the hand spanking was done. Robert had gone a bit harder toward the end of it than he usually did, but she still wasn’t in much discomfort. She grimaced and sucked in a deep breath as she felt the long, stiff paddle blade line up against her rump, just above the crease where buttock met thigh. Ohdamn, this brush was a hard one.

Before he began, Robert turned the brush over and gently ran the soft, nylon bristles over Anna’s cheeks. She purred in surprised pleasure; that tickled!

“Bristles are useful. Write that down. Now on to the wood.”

As two well-spanked ladies and one inwardly gleeful clerk looked on, Robert raised the bath brush and whipped it down into the underside of Anna’s massive tush. CLAAP!!! This one was easily the loudest and most dramatic of the three. Anna inhaled long and hard, gasping in pain as he flicked the bath brush up again. SPLAAAP!!! Her other tan, jutting mound bounced under the fiery onslaught. She let out an “Ahh!” and her body gave an involuntary jerk.

Robert Kinsley had no mercy. He wielded the wooden bath brush just as hard and fast as the other two, smacking those mammoth cheeks with all the gusto his arm could provide. SMAAACK!!! SPLAAT!!! SMAAACK!!! Anna wasn’t making much noise yet, but he knew this would change. He would make it change. The experience of spanking Anna was having a mental effect on him. Those proud, full-of-themselves cheeks! How could they possibly be that damned thick! He had to teach them a lesson. Beat them back down into submission. Anna’s was an ass that demanded punishment, and lots of it! Despite his professional calm, he found himself swinging the paddle faster, giving it to her harder than he had Rose or Jolene. At the seventh SPLAAT!!! Anna finally “AWWW’”d. At the tenth, she was writhing and squirming over his lap just like the other two.


He was halfway done. Her mountain-like buttocks were already a dark, injured crimson, and wobbling and swaying like fat, rubber balls. Not enough, damnit, not enough! He kept a calm face, but his eyes were burning. What an ass! If Anna were to stand straight and clench her glutes, she could literally balance a coffee cup on it. Was the brush even getting through all that armor? He would make sure it did.


Her hourglass-shaped body was thrashing and struggling now. He dug his left forearm into her back and leaned in, confining her frenetic, bare-butted lap dance to its current locale. SNAAAAP!!!!! CRAAACK!!!! SPLAAACK!!!! SNAAAPP!!!! “”OH! OW! AHH! HELP!!!!” However-and this is a testament to Anna's resolve-she didn't try to roll off of his lap the way Rose had.

Rose and Jolene watched in stunned amazement as Robert did his job. He was in the zone. His deep, dark eyes were full of masculine intensity. Under his trim office suit, his muscles had grown taught. The clerk was scribbling furiously in his notebook, clearly struggling to keep up with the action.

Screams, cries, wails, and the relentless crack of the bath brush filled the air for several minutes. Anna was aware of nothing besides the paddling. She was struggling mindlessly, kicking, screaming, flailing her limbs like an animal in a trap. When the fiftieth lick landed and Robert lifted his imprisoning arm, she rolled off his lap onto the floor, seizing her rump with both hands and kicking her feet like a rabbit.

Rose looked at Jolene, clearly horrified. Jolene just gave her a “well, you should have known what to expect” look in return, though in truth even she was pretty cowed by this last display. She felt herself getting weak in the knees, but kept position in the corner.

“Anna?” Robert got out of his chair and knelt over his victim’s twitching body. “Anna, are you alright?”

She looked up at him through a face blotchy with tears. She tried to say something, but all that came out was a sob.

“Please, Anna, can you-”

Before he could finish his sentence, she lunged to her feet, grabbed him around the shoulders, and forced her tongue into his mouth.

Robert was too stunned to react, at first, which allowed her to French kiss him for a good two seconds or so. When he managed to remember himself, he put his hands on her shoulders and gently, deliberately, pushed her back to arms length away.

“Anna, please, we‘re on the job.”

Reluctantly, she complied with his protest, letting her arms leave his shoulders and return to her blistered rear. Her backside was purple. Not red. Dark, thoroughly, and utterly punished purple, and swollen to even larger than its usual size. As she backed off, it also became clear that her female spot was completely slick.

“So,” said the clerk, “I…uh…I guess BB05 is a success?”

Anna turned to him and nodded energetically, using one hand to wipe away her tears while the other remained clamped over her burning ass.

“Well then,” said Robert, his voice slightly hoarse, “you three can go on to aftercare. I know you could use it.”

The clerk opened another door, revealing a room that looked like a spa. There were two, rather handsome young massage therapists waiting, both with bottles of cold cream and aloe vera . Rose and Jolene didn’t have to be told twice. They marched into the aftercare room (Rose had gotten her panties back on by now, Jolene was still naked from the waist down). Anna, however, did not follow them.



“Would…*sob*…is it okay if…*sniff*…you give me the cold cream this time?”

He put his hand on her arm, looking caringly into her bleary, hazel eyes.

“I have to finish my report before I can do anything else. Do you think you can wait for ten minutes?”

Anna nodded.

“Alright. Wait in my office.”

As she left the room, the two men sat down at the desk and worked out the details of their quality-assurance report.

“So that‘s maximum ratings for hair 22 and bath 5, but an ixnae for now on 23.” The clerk checked the boxes as Robert summarized the medical and emotional effects of each implement at the bottom of the sheet.

“That‘s certainly my assessment.”


They finished the report, and the clerk tucked the papers away into his briefcase.

“You know Bob,” he said, “I can‘t help but wonder. What if someone actually wants to brush their hair with these?”

For a moment, there was silence. Then…


They both laughed uproariously, wiping tears of merriment from their eyes. The clerk had really had him there for a second!

The Vermont Country Store would stay in business for a long time yet.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Love My Lurkers

Today marks an annual tradition in the spanking blogosphere; Love Our Lurkers day. Originally conceived by the lovely and talented Bonnie of My Bottom Smarts, this is an open invitation for lurkers (people who read silently without commenting) to speak up and comment, either with a name or anonymously. Since I seem to have nothing but lurkers so far, this little holiday seems especially relevant to this blog.

According to blogspot's hit counter, there are a good number of you. This is your cue to chime in and tell me what you think of my work so far, tell me something about yourselves, or even just say hi. If you've been waiting to think of something to say, or have just been shy, this is your time to come out of the shadows. Please, don't be nervous; despite the internet's reputation, I'm really not a scary person.

Look forward to hearing from you!

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Short: The Sidekick

Here's another of my older stories.

This short story was written in response to a writing prompt volunteered by RubyRear, of the forums. The parameters he set were F/M, non-consensual, first time spanking, spanking in public, and involving a leather strap. The result was...whatever the hell this is.


“Come in,” she said.

He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He was a fair-skinned, almost pale boy with sandy blonde hair and big, sensitive blue eyes. She wondered how old he was. Eighteen? Nineteen? Somewhere around there. As he came forward, his eyes darted around the room, looking for hidden dangers. He was trying to look impassive, but his apprehension was clear.

“You can sit down, if you wish.”

He remained standing.

“Don‘t be shy,” she said, leaning back against the couch, “we’re just going to talk.”

He stayed where he was.

“Sit down,” she said, a little more forcefully, “after three days in the cell I‘m sure you could use company.”

He looked shocked.

“Three days?” He asked. “It hasn‘t really been three days!”

She shook her head.

“I‘m afraid it has. You should be thankful, though; if Doctor Destructo had his way, you‘d have spent them in the torture chamber. It took me this long just to talk the others out of it.”

His eyes narrowed. A pity, they were so big and soft.


She smiled. “Sit down.”

Slowly, he complied.

“We might be on different sides,” she said, “but I believe in common decency.”

Common decency?” He raised his voice, “When you robbed Fort Knox, kidnapped the Queen of Engla-”

“That wasn‘t me,” she waggled a finger at him, “Redclaw did Buckingham Palace. Destructo and I were busy with the satellite heist when that was going on.”

“You…” he stammered, “…that‘s just as bad!”

She smiled. He was trying to sound heroic, condemnatory. He had only been at this for less than a year.

“You‘re so cocky,” she chuckled, “even without your uniform and gadgets, you make it sound like you‘ve won. Captain Crossfire‘s been giving you lessons, I can tell.”

He tried to stare her down. He was tall, and athletic, but she was much moreso. Like his mentor Captain Crossfire, he relied on suits and gadgets to do the job. The woman known as the Specter, however, was one of those rare supers who did it all with just natural skill and training. Even sitting down, she was an imposing figure. Ever since they first met in battle a few months ago, Fireboy had had a secret fascination with her tall, womanly silhouette. There was just something about a strong woman, especially one with some nice curves like the Specter. Unfortunately, she was one of the bad guys.

“Anyway,” she went on when he didn’t answer, “you‘re probably hoping you‘ll be rescued. Its possible, I‘ll admit, but it isn‘t likely. The last time a Defender came into our hands, they only got him back after paying our ransom. And he was a senior member.”

He knew all of this, of course. She just wanted to make sure he didn‘t forget it. Fireboy was just a sidekick, a Robin so to say. He wouldn’t be worth nearly as much manpower to try and rescue as their last prisoner.

“So,” she went on, “since you’ll probably be here for a long time, why don’t we make friends?”

His confidence, already weakened by three days of solitary confinement, was cracking. He hesitated.


She looked hurt. “Oh? Why not?”

“You‘re trying to do something,” he said quickly, gentle, blue eyes getting slightly wild, “you want information, or my identity, or to turn me against the Defenders.”

The top of her face was masked, but her smile was quite visible. She had high, Amazonian cheekbones and full, round lips, with lipstick the color of blood. Going further down, her body was sleek and fit, with large breasts that strained against her black spandex uniform, almost bellying her great strength. Fireboy had been told the Specter was vain, and she looked like someone who cared a lot about her appearance. It paid off.

“Maybe,” she said, “in the long run, I might try that. But for now I‘m just trying to be hospitable.”

He shook his head.

“I don‘t want your hospitality.”

Her smile didn’t change.

“So much for being civilized.”

In an instant, she had stood up to her full height, platinum blonde hair falling over the skintight black spandex that covered her shoulders and chest. She might have been fifteen years older than him, but she was over six feet tall and had the muscles of a tiger. Fireboy tried to leap out of his chair and run, but she was already upon him, big, strong hands grabbing the collar of his prison uniform.


He tried to push her away, but she used her other hand to grab the back of his neck, putting him in a commando hold. He was in terrific shape, but the only kind of fighting he was very good at involved jetpacks and laser guns. She could handle him like the boy he was.

“I was afraid you would be stubborn,” she said, forcing him close to the floor, “so I prepared just the thing. Let‘s go.”

She dragged him to the door and into the hall. The masked guards who had brought him here from his cell were still there when the Specter brought him out.

“Come with us,” she said to the guards, “I could use a hand.”

Flanked by soldiers, she forced him through the League of Darkness’ lair. Fireboy growled and struggled as they passed other guards and supervillains, some of whom pointed and laughed.

“Let me go!” He shouted, “You bitch, let me go!”

“Bitch?” She squeezed his spine harder, pushing him down and making him inhale sharply in pain. “You called me a bitch? You‘re making me less hospitable every time you talk! But we can fix that habit!” She pulled him faster now, making it a struggle for his legs to keep up.

They came out onto a balcony. The air was chilly…they were up in the mountains. Of course, he remembered, the League of Darkness had a mountaintop lair. Fireboy struggled harder as he saw the railing; was she going to throw him off the edge? A second later, he saw that there were manacles attached to the bars, one pair each for hands and feet.

She pushed him up against the railing, winding him and forcing his head and upper body over the side. Three stories below, the building disappeared into the forest, which covered the mountains off into the horizon. They were really in the middle of nowhere. He gasped and struggled, trying to push himself back, but she was just too strong.

“You won‘t get away with this!” His voice was getting high pitched and terrified, “When they find you, Crossfire will-”

“Sure he will.” She shoved his stomach down into the railing, winding him. “Chain him up!”

He felt two other pairs of hands grab his arms and legs, shoving them into the manacles and locking them tight. He threw his body in all directions, desperately trying to free himself, but it was no use. Soon, he was chained hand and foot to the railing. Good god, what was she going to do? Why hadn’t he listened to his parents and stayed away from this superhero nonsense? How could this be happening? He frantically wished for a rewind button that he could push, a way to go back and undo his mistake. But reality wasn‘t so accommodating.

“I won‘t talk!” He shouted, looking over his shoulder to face his captors, “You won‘t get anything!”

“I‘m not trying to get information,” said the Specter, “Like I said before, I can do that later. I‘m teaching you a lesson!”

He was bent over the handrail, hands and feet securely fastened to the bars. He tried to move his body, but he was pulled too tightly over the railing to do more than slide a few inches in either direction. His feet were raised off the floor by the manacles, forcing him to stand on one of the lower bars for support. He felt blood rush to his head.

The Specter stood back.

“You can go back to your duties now,” she said, “I‘ll call you again when we‘re finished.”

The guards were probably smirking under their helmets as they withdrew. They had a reasonably good idea of what was happening; the Specter had, shall we say, a reputation.

She looked back at her bound captive. In this position, his waist was bent right over the top of the fence, with his backside pointed into the air. Fireboy’s backside was very round and accented, and stuck out a little further behind him than most men’s. The Specter was sure the girls at whatever high school or college he went to when he wasn’t fighting crime often stared after him in the halls. The Specter had noticed this physical attribute of his during their various battles; after all, spandex uniforms are tight.

“So,” asked the Specter, “did your parents ever spank you?”

“Wuh-is this a joke?” He had to talk loudly for her to hear him in his position.

“Not in the slightest. I don‘t want to turn you over to Dr. Destructo. But if can’t get you to cooperate, I‘ll have to. Trust me young man, this way is better.”

“Now,” she stepped right next to his bound lower body and raised her voice, “did your parents spank you?”

Fireboy was on the brink of tears. Looking up over his shoulder, he saw her towering over him, six foot body framed in a tight, black uniform that showed her muscles to be almost as generous as her female parts.

“N-no.” He said very softly, voice trembling.

“I can‘t hear you.”

He shut his eyes. He felt his thighs and buttocks stretched out in front of her, bound in position. He had never even imagined being this helpless. He was a superhero for god sake! A superhero! He was starting to tremble.

“No!” He said over the edge of the balcony, “Never!”

“Well maybe if they had, you would know what was best for you. But…”

She knelt down so that her head was close to his, separated by the bars. His prison shirt and fallen down around his chest, leaving his belly exposed. From this angle, she could see rows of small-but very well toned-abs bunched tightly under his skin.

“…its never too late.”

With a single motion, she pulled his pants down over his thighs (she reasoned that he had already broken the comics code by swearing, so now anything went), wrenching them out from between his belly and the railing, and let them drop the rest of the way to his bound ankles. Immediately, a shiver went through his body as his flesh was exposed to the cool, mountain air. His thighs and buttocks were even lighter than the rest of him, and nicely firm. His bottom was large, but it was all muscle, no fat. Most embarrassingly for him, his penis hung down behind the railing, in clear view of anyone standing behind him.

Fireboy’s mouth opened and closed, his normally soft eyes bulging with shock and indignation. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! He had heard and read about epic defiance, heroic resolve under nightmarish torture. Torture he had expected, the Defenders had no fear of it. But this wasn’t a dark chamber that the light could fight to withstand. This wasn’t the torture of a dignified enemy that the other superheroes talked solemnly about when recounting their careers. This was…embarrassing! Ridiculous! Childish! Condescending!

“Give…” he stammered, hoping she could hear him from down there, “give me to D-Destructo! Torture me! Throw me-throw me back in prison!”

“If I can‘t make you cooperate,” said the Specter, who was busy retrieving something from her utility pack, “Dr. Destructo will take over. But not until I‘ve done the best I can!”

His eyes widened as he got an upside-down look at the item she produced. It was a thick, leather strap, at least twelve inches long, with one end made into a handle. Before he had a chance to say anything else, she raised the lash to her shoulder and-


Whatever Fireboy was trying to say came out as a strangled gasp. The strap cut across both cheeks, feeling like it dragged the skin off after it. Fireboy’s body bucked against its restraints as he reflexively tried to escape, but already she was raising her arm again.


Another line of skin burned away! Gasping, Fireboy found his fingers grabbing at the rails for support. How many more strokes were coming? Just a few, surely! Just a few! He heard the leather sing through the air again.


That strap was on fire! The metal bars were cold and hard against his naked thighs and waist, seeming to force him back up into the line of fire when he struggled. Less than a second and a half after the last impact, the strap whistled downward again.


He clenched his teeth to stop himself from crying out. He didn’t feel like a hero anymore, or even like a man. He was a boy. A helpless little boy chained to a handrail getting his ass blistered by a piece of leather.

The next WAP! Cut into his flesh from a lower angle, tearing horizontally across the lower, thicker part of his rear. Was that a tear that clouded his vision? Was he crying in pain? WAP! A diagonal slash across his right flank, leaving even more fire where it criss-crossed the others. WAP! Another one just like it on the left cheek.

“How many do you think that was?”

The Specter had lowered the strap for now. She pushed a lock of platinum blonde hair out oh her masked eyes and leaned against the handrail beside him. He was breathing heavily, tears dripping into his eyebrows.


She shook her head. “Seven. But we‘ll get much higher than ten.”

She stood back up and swung the stap horizontally, straight in front of her. WAP! More flesh was flensed, this time from the very bottom of both cheeks, just above the thigh. He stifled another cry, and more tears flowed. But he also felt something else, something possibly even worse.

Fireboy was struck again by the allure of this tall, black-clad megacriminal, with her flowing white hair and taunting smile. She had him, and she would do whatever she wanted. He had had…daydreams…about his mentor’s nemesis. Getting captured and beaten by her wasn’t one of them by any means (mainly, he fantasized about gently bringing her to the side of good and receiving sex as a reward), but that forbidden attraction was still in his mind. As he struggled against the bonds, the top of his penis had been rubbing against the handrail, and it was getting hard. Oh god, she was going to see it! That thought made him renew his struggle to escape. He growled and roared, tearing against the manacles, but all that did was draw more attention from the strap.

Three more whaps. His mouth opened to cry out, but he held it in. Tears were dripping into his dangling hair, and from there off the edge into the forest below. He was bleeding, he knew it. She had whipped the skin off, and was strapping his open flesh!

The Specter stopped again. Fireboy was not, in fact, bleeding. He had eleven lines of bright, angry red raised across his buttcheeks, but the skin was far from broken. His prison shirt had fallen down to his chest, revealing hard, streamlined muscles. From her current position to his side, she could also see that his penis was standing up against the underside of the handrail, and that he was trying to hide it with his arms and thighs. She ignored it.

“Okay!” He said, swiveling his head to look up at her between the bars, “I‘ll talk to you. We can be…friends or whatever.”

She smiled. He really didn‘t understand, did he? She looked again at his bottom. Even with its stripes it was crass, cheeky, like it was defying her. And he still was, really. He was trying to humor her.

“I don‘t want to talk to you right now,” she said, backing away from the fence and standing directly behind him again, “we can do that later. Right now, I want to finish our lesson.”

She took another second or so to enjoy his mortified face, tear-stained and framed by his bound ankles. Then, she reached back and gave him some more leather.

“What the hell is this?”

Two other people had come onto the balcony. One was a tall, middle aged woman with cybernetic implants riddling her body, dressed in a green uniform with a hood. The other was also female, shorter and younger, with a bright red cape and leotard. Fireboy recognized them as Cybess and Redclaw.

“Ah, hello,” said the Specter. “I was wondering when you’d return to base.”

Cybess shook her wire-ridden head. “There were…complications…delaying our voyage”

“Wait,” said Redclaw, pointing at Fireboy, “is that Crossfire’s little stooge?”

“He was until a few days ago. Dr. Destructo just turned his debriefing over to me.”

“Heh,” chuckled Cybess, “Debriefing indeed.”

She raised a metal hand and rubbed a scar across her face. “Captain Crossfire has been most…aggressive in recent times. I must say, this does the old heart good.”

“Yes!” Snarled Redclaw, “The Defenders completely destroyed the moonbase project, and I swear it was Crossfire’s group! Make that little fucker scream!”

“Would you like to watch?”

Cybess grinned. “Certainly.”

Fireboy let out his first real sob. How could this have gotten any worse?


He yelped. This one was harder. She was trying to impress the others now. That meant spanking with full strength.

“Is he starting to cry?” Said Redclaw, “Fucking make Crossfire‘s groupie cry!”

The Specter accommodated Redclaw's request by giving him another one, just as hard. He had braced himself for this one and stopped himself from howling, but just barely. His endurance was quickly wearing out. He found himself longing for the early licks, when the other two weren’t there to watch his complete emasculation. When would she stop?

After eight more strokes, she stopped again, flexing her right arm. His legs were shaking; he was having trouble keeping his feet perched on the bars. As she watched, he sniffled, face contorted to hold in the sobs.

“Captain Crossfire and his loyal sidekick fly through the skies like a mighty eagle,” quoted Cybess. “That‘s how the Times put it. But I‘d say one of them is more of a red-tailed hawk.”

All three of them chuckled. It was true; Fireboy’s entire derriere was swollen, lined, and bright, shiny red. There were still a few patches of white here and there, but overall the Specter had been quite thorough.

“Your arm getting tired?” Asked Redclaw.

“Not really. Would you like a turn?”

Fireboy squealed, provoking sadistic chuckles.

“No, keep going.”

“Indeed, you‘re doing quite a splendid job.”

“We gotta’ give our report to Destructo anyway,” said Redclaw, “but we’ll tell the guys. You whip his ass to the bone!”

The Specter smiled as they walked away. A couple of masked henchmen were also watching from further off to the side. Let them. She had chosen this place for a reason. Getting back to business, she flicked the strap against her thigh. And my, what a job it was! Fireboy used a jetpack to fly, she knew; it was in the vault with his uniform and other gadgets right now. But she could swear his bottom had some gravity-defying powers of its own. And to think it had never been spanked!

“What do you want me to do?” He whimpered, his face almost as red and puffy as his hindquarters. “Just tell me, I‘ll do it!”

The Specter just smirked. She could see his cock was still hard. He wasn’t suffering nearly as much as he wanted her to think. Not yet, anyway.

“If something occurs to me, I‘ll let you know.”

She placed the strap carefully against his buttocks, lining them up with the sit spots. Then she reached back and WACK! WAP! WACK!

She went faster now, sacrificing force for rapidity but still putting in a lot of muscle. With each whistle of the strap through the air, his body tensed up. With each loud smack, he bleated and yelped, writhing in his bonds, another welted line carved over the others. WAP! WAP! Almost once per second. His erection was dying. She took that as a sign to go just a little faster. WAP! WAP! WAP! WAP!

Finally, he caved in. His whole body rocked and buckled over the fence as he started bawling out loud like a baby. His bottom was livid purple, the skin not far from cracking. All higher thought and awareness had been purged from his mind. He was just a sobbing, trembling wreck.

She decided to give him ten more, just to be thorough. These weren’t as hard as the ones before (her arm was starting to really hurt), but she made sure they weren’t anything to laugh about. He didn’t respond to these blows, except by twitching and crying a little harder. When she was done, she called to the guards who had been watching.

“Take him back to his cell.”

She knelt down and spoke into Fireboy’s ear. “We‘ll try to make friends tomorrow.”

That night, the Specter returned to her quarters. She had been to the prison to check on him. He was lying facedown on his cot, both hands clutching his ruined cheeks. That was pretty much what she had expected.

Lying in bed, she closed her eyes, thinking about her new pet project. Fireboy-whatever his real name was-was so defiant. So arrogant. So innocent. She put a hand inside her pajama bottoms and wiped away a bit of the moisture.

He wouldn’t surrender tomorrow, she thought as she pushed her fingers in. But he would be reduced to tears much faster. That round, immaculately toned bottom would take days to heal, and she was sure he would earn another session on the balcony before then. She would overpower him. Break him down. After a few days, he would tell her everything. She would make him tell his secret identity, the locations of Defender facilities, their individual weaknesses, everything he knew. And then she would make him do other things. She would pluck his adorable, teenaged naivety like a ripe cherry, and consume it. She worked her fingers faster, moaning as she brought herself to orgasm. She had seen his thick, hand-length erection today; that too would be among the spoils of war. He would be her slave, her toy, her pet. He would put up a valiant struggle-that was the whole appeal-but her victory was inevitable. If all else failed, she had a cane under her bed.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Vessels: Intro to Calculus (Jake 3)

I met Heather during my first week at Muller University. I first bumped into her on the stairwell of my dormitory, where her room was two floors above mine. I had been on my way downstairs, when I heard a terrified squeak from behind me, and something warm, soft, and heavy hit me in the back.

“Woah!” I shouted, grabbing the handrails to keep balanced, “watch it!”

Turning around, I saw a girl getting up off the ground. One of her shoes was untied; it looked like she had tripped on the laces. Did I mention she was klutzy?

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” She said, picking herself up off the stairs. She looked sheepish and embarrassed.

“Its alright,” I said, chuckling a little, “are you okay there?”

“Yeah,” she said, “thanks.”

She was a short girl, maybe five foot three, and full bodied, just a pound or two shy of chubby. Her hair was short and glossy black, and her face was round and open.

“So much for making impressions,” she said as she got to her feet, “I thought I’d at least make it downstairs without almost killing someone.”

“Who me?” I said. “Oh, don’t worry. It takes way more than that to kill a badass like me.”

I puffed out my chest. She laughed. Hers was a deep, throaty laugh, one that you can tell is genuine. I liked making her laugh.

“What’s your name?” I asked, helping her up.

“Heather,” she said, “Heather DuCourcey.”

“Cool,” I said, “I’m Jake Ramone.”

As we continued down the stairs, she absentmindedly rubbed her bruised ass with one hand. It would have been hard not to be interested in it under the best of circumstances, but the rubbing made it near impossible. Heather was wide shouldered and wide hipped, with large, globe-shaped buttocks that rippled under her hand. I later learned that she, like most girls, was insecure about her body, and thought that big butts were always a sign of fatness. God do I hate women’s magazines.

We chatted until we got to the ground floor, at which point she went down to the basement laundry room and I left for my first class. We said hi again when we met in the lobby that evening, and discovered that we had Intro to Calculus together the next day. I had made my first new friend at school.

Intro to Calculus was taught by Professor Grodvikia, a middle aged Bulgarian woman with a short temper and a poor grasp of English. She stood in front of the whiteboard for an hour, saying things I could barely understand and getting frustrated when anyone asked a question. Being a math person, I was more or less able to follow by reading the book. Heather, who sat a few seats away from me, however, was not a math person. Just two weeks into the semester, I was already helping her with our homework. Not that I minded.

One Tuesday in mid October, I came to Calculus a minute or so late to discover that everyone else was present…except Professor Grodvikia. This was odd. She was usually the embodiment of punctuality, and got annoyed when students were even a few minutes late. I smiled a bit. Maybe she’d stop being so uptight about lateness after this.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and in walked a person who could hardly be less like Professor Grodvikia. A tall, olive-skinned (possibly Persian or Indian) woman, maybe twenty five years old, strode purposefully across the room. The shocking part was what she was wearing; she had a skintight, black leather top cut into a low V-collar at the front, held together at the sides by straps. On her lower body she wore matching black leather short shorts, polished so they sparkled, that looked almost too tight to move in. Finally, a pair of high heeled black boots adorned her petite ankles and feet.

“My name is Miss Flinn,” she said sternly, without a trace of emotion on her face, when she reached the professor’s desk, “I am a Teaching Assistant for Professor Grodvikia. Since the Professor was not able to make it today, I will be teaching this class in her place. You are to regard me as your instructor for this course for as long as I stand in.”

What the…? I hadn’t heard anything about a TA, and even if I had, there was no way in hell the school would let them show up to work dressed like that. I looked around at my classmates. All of them seemed to be in mute shock.


Her hazel eyes flashed. “Understood,” everyone quickly echoed.

“Um…Miss Flinn?” Someone raised their hand.


“Um…what’s with the dominatrix stuff?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What ‘dominatrix stuff‘ are you referring to?”

Her eyes bored into the kid dangerously. I was sitting across the room, but I could still tell I’d have trouble thinking straight under that piercing glare. He didn’t answer.

“Any other questions?”

She let her hands rest on her leather-clad hips. She had a slim figure, but an athletic one. Her face had soft features, but her expression and demeanor more than made up for it. Due to the deep V-shape of her black leather color, the inside cleft of her breasts was visible. They were a nice upper medium size, and pear shaped. I couldn’t decide whether this was titillating, or terrifying. Everyone else seemed shocked into silence.

“Excellent,” she said softly when more questions were asked, “now we can begin the class.”

She wrote some formulas on the board, and we began taking notes. She went quickly, and was only slightly more approachable than Professor Grodvikia, but at least her English was fluent. When her back was turned, I glanced over at Heather with a look of utter confusion on my face. She returned the expression.

I turned to the guy sitting next to me. “What the hell?” I whispered.

He shrugged. “Dunno, man,” he said, sounding strangely groggy, “weird shit’s gotta happen sometimes, I guess.”

I stared at him openmouthed for a second, not understanding how he could be so nonchalant. A moment later, I noticed something familiar about that slow tone of voice. I had twice been in that state myself.

I looked back at the lecturing Miss Flinn, wondering if I was truly losing my mind. Should I get up and leave right now? No, what if this is all just me hallucinating? I mean, this is public. Nothing sadomasochistic was going to happen here in a classroom full of students, was it? I grimaced. I sure hoped not. However mixed my feelings about the candy store and hitchhiking incidents were, I did NOT want something of that sort occurring in front of my classmates.

The class dragged on. I made a point of sitting quietly and doing exactly what she outlined on the board. Hopefully, this would all turn out to be paranoia. Or a daydream. Or both.

Half an hour into the class, she put down the marker and ruler she had been using for her diagrams and turned toward the class.

“So,” she said, “can anyone tell how to finish this equation?”

Dead silence. I had a fairly good understanding of how to do the problem, but I was not about to draw attention to myself.

“Hmmm,” she said disapprovingly, “it seems I must pick someone at random.

My heart sank as she started looking. I gritted my teeth, knowing what was about to happen…and was surprised when she never so much as glanced in my direction.

“Girl,” she addressed Heather, “what is your name?”

“Um…my name’s Heather,” she said nervously.

“Excuse me?”

Heather looked up at her, confused and somewhat intimidated.

“Heather,” she repeated.

Miss Flinn’s face darkened.

“Excuse me,” she said slowly, “but how did I say you were to address me?”

“Oh…Miss Flinn. Sorry.”

She paused for a moment. The TA kept glowering.

“I mean…sorry Miss Flinn.”

Miss Flinn’s eyebrows lifted only slightly.

“So,” she asked, “what is the final step in this equation, Heather?”

I wanted to blurt out the answer, but I knew I couldn’t risk that. I found myself wishing for a telepathic link between myself and Heather, so I could feed her the answer, but there was another part of me that was ghoulishly curious. What was going to happen? As I watched Heather stammer and look at her desk, trying her hardest to think, a selfish little creature inside of me wanted to see how this played out. It might have just been curiosity about whether this was connected to my earlier experiences, but in retrospect I think there was more than that.

“Heather, have you been paying attention to a single word I’ve spoken today?”

“Well…yeah…I just…don’t really understand it that well.”

Miss Flinn bit her lip, eyebrows narrowing again.

“Eek! I mean, I don’t understand it Miss Flinn.”

She said it, but it was too late.

“Girl, I am tired of your disrespect!”

Heather cowered in her seat.

“Come here.”

I had no doubts about what was going to happen now. Heather got up and walked bashfully toward the whiteboard. She was wearing blue jeans today, which made the contours of her big ass easy to see. I tried to stand up and do something, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to. I felt myself growing hard in my pants. Goddamnit, was I just going to sit there and watch it happen?

Miss Flinn walked in front of the desk and pointed to it.

“Bend over.”

Heather’s eyes grew wide.

“What? Miss Flinn?”

“Bend over the desk, Heather,” she repeated, “you have repeatedly failed to address me properly, and there are consequences to be faced. Do it now.”

With a pleading look around the room for someone to help her (no one reacted), Heather moved very, very slowly toward the desk and lay across it. Her butt stretched under her jeans as she pointed her large backside into the air.

“I am going to spank you thirty times with this ruler,” said Miss Flinn, picking up the wooden ruler she had been using before, “after every stroke, you are to count up out loud. Failure to count a stroke will cause it to be repeated until you comply. When I am finished, you will stand up and thank me for disciplining you. And you will address me with respect.”

Heather cringed. She looked pleadingly back at the rest of the class, looking for someone to speak up and break this surreality. But everyone was paralyzed, in either mute shock or semi-consciousness.

“Yes, Miss Flinn,” she whispered weakly.

Miss Flinn stood to the right of Heather’s vulnerable backside. Lifting the ruler from the desk, she gently, surgically, pushed the wood against Heather’s jeans, positioning it right at the meatiest part of her ass. She stuck her other hand between Heather’s knees, forcing them apart.

She raised the ruler, and brought it whistling down exactly where she had been aiming.


With a crack that made me wince, the ruler cut into Heather’s buttcheeks, making them bounce. I saw her legs tremble.

“I did not hear you counting!”

She swung it again, a little bit higher.

“Ow…one, Miss Flinn.”


“Ow, two, Miss Flinn.”


My cock was harder than it had been in months, and starting to get wet at the tip. I felt terrible for enjoying it, but my libido wasn’t listening. Each stroke sent vibrations across Heather’s lovely ass, as did her legs when she kicked in pain.

After ten strokes, Miss Flinn told Heather to get up.

“Take off your blue jeans,” she instructed, “the rest of this spanking is to be conducted in your panties.”

“In my…in my…Miss Flinn…?”

“Indeed,” said the TA, her icy demeanor broken by a smirk, “I want to see your bottom turn red as it is being punished. Take off the pants.”

Heather looked at the class in terror. Everyone in the room was still silent. Most of them almost looked half asleep (some of them were completely asleep).

“Hey,” I addressed the boy next to me again, “hey, shouldn’t we try to do something?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Why don‘t you do it?”

Heather unbuckled her jeans and bashfully pulled them down. When I saw her tiny, white thong and what it was trying unsuccessfully to cover, I almost drooled.

“Young Lady,” said Miss Flinn, “is that a thong?”

Heather’s face was burning bright red. She looked at the floor.

“Yes, Miss Flinn.”

Miss Flinn shook her head, another cruel smile on her harsh, Indian face.

“Such clothing is hardly appropriate for one your age,” said Miss Flinn.

It was all I could do to not burst out laughing. Look who was talking! I covered my mouth with one hand to suppress the chuckles. The other had, without my noticing, slid inside my pants.

“Tell me, would you wear such panties if you were in a skirt?”

“Um…maybe, Miss Flinn.”

“Maybe? And what if your skirt was lifted by the wind, or if you fell down?”

Heather did tend to fall down a lot. It was a valid concern. She didn’t answer.

“Very well,” said Miss Flinn, “the last ten strokes will be administered on the bare.”

Heather moaned and looked ready to tear up.

“Bend back over.”

Heather got back into position. The thong slid deeper between her cheeks as she bent over, covering even less of her butt than it did before. Her round, quivering cheeks were pinkish in the middle, with lines from the ruler visible.

Miss Flinn got back beside Heather, and swung the ruler again. Without the jeans in the way, I could see the wood bite into her flesh. Her ass cheeks clapped together as they bounced and jiggled.


“Mmmmmhhh…ahhh…eleven, Miss Flinn.”


“Owww-twelve, Miss Flinn-oohh!”

Miss Flinn was like a machine, making each swing exactly like the one before it with perfect timing. As she disciplined Heather’s heaving flesh, new and brighter lines of red appeared across her helpless buns.


“Thirteen, Miss Flinn.”


“Fourteen, Miss Flinn…eeeeh.”


“Fifteen, Miss Flinn.”


“Owwwww!…Sixteen, Miss Flinn.”

Her voice got higher and more desperate with each stroke. She began bouncing on the balls of her feet in between spankings. When the ruler connected, she jumped an inch or so off the desk and kicked. Miss Flinn paid no heed. She was merciless.

When she got to twenty, Miss Flinn leaned forward and grabbed the waistband of Heather’s thong. Was it just me, or did the strap look kind of damp? Slowly, she worked the panties down over her butt and let it fall to her ankles with her jeans. Now totally naked from the waist down, Heather trembled in pain and humiliation. Her naked ass was just like I imagined it; full, wide, and chubby, but not at all sagging. The bright red lines across her rump crisscrossed each other, leaving darker intersections where they met. Below this, a tangle of black pubic hair was visible.

The switching resumed just as it had before. At twenty-three, Heather was sniffling. At twenty five, her entire butt was a mess of overlapping red marks, some almost as high as the waist, some just above the thighs, but most of them right on the sit spot, which was just a few shades away from purple. My hand was working frantically under my desk, more precum staining my underwear.


“Ow! Ow! Twenty-six Miss Flinn-ow!”

As I looked, I saw something glisten between Heather’s thighs. She was definitely wet. Her short, dark pubic hair was practically dripping.

The last four strokes came without breaking pace. Miss Flinn showed no sign of tiring as she finished dominating Heather’s poor buttocks. Heather was sobbing. Her buns were covered with lines of pink, red, and dark crimson. Her legs continued to twitch a little. On the other hand, the entire insides of her thighs were now glistening wet.

She pushed herself up from the desk, and turned her tearstained face to Miss Flinn.

“Th-thank you, Miss Flinn.”

She reached down, wincing, and gingerly pulled her pants and panties back up. I smiled to myself. I knew exactly what that felt like! I was sorry to see her (clearly open and damp) vagina disappear back under her clothes, but I had seen enough. My hand kept kneading my dripping hard penis, mere moments from climax.

“Class is dismissed,” said Miss Flinn.

Immediately, everyone came back to life and filed out of the room. I quickly pulled my hand out of my crotch.

No one said anything beyond the usual chatter. It was as if no one else remembered what they had just seen. Well…almost no one. Heather was the first to run out the door, both hands itching to rub her butt, but waiting until she was out of sight.

As I stood up, facing a corner to hide my enraged boner, I looked back at the front of the classroom. There was no one there. Miss Flinn was gone.

I didn’t see Heather around the campus the next day. I considered knocking on her door, but decided that would just be too awkward. I felt horribly guilty. I ran into another girl from Calculus, and tried desperately to confirm what the hell had happened that day.

“Tuesday’s calc? We did more of chapter three, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I was talking more about the…uh…TA?”

She shrugged. “Weird. I thought yesterday was when Grodvikia screamed at us about cosine equations?”

“No, that was last Thursday.”

She thought for a moment. “Not sure. Those classes all kind of run together.”

I tried the same line of questioning with three other of my classmates. No one had any specific memories about Tuesday’s class. Even Professor Grodvikia, next time I got to talk to her, seemed to have an uncharacteristically fuzzy memory.

The next time I ran into Heather was two days later, when I met her on the way to our Thursday Calculus.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, what’s up?” She returned brightly.

She seemed perfectly normal as we made our way to class, except I noticed her getting nervous as we got close. We entered the room to see Professor Grodvikia standing, as boring as ever, by the whiteboard, writing out today’s assignment. As far as I could tell, nothing strange had ever happened.

But when Heather sat down, she winced.