The Sore Loser

Her clothing laid in a pile on the floor and her arms were crossed in front of her naked chest. She frowned at her opponent, standing on the opposite side of the pool table. He still held a cue stick in his hand, the butt resting on the toe of his polished black boot while he chalked the tip. She huffed indignation in his general direction. All things considered, she found his lack of interest rude.

“Don’t pout,” he said.

Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek for the briefest of seconds. “You cheated,” she said.

“We had a deal.” He laid the chalk cube on the edge of the table before focusing his gaze on her. “You lost.”

Her eyes flicked to the partially drawn shade and the afternoon sun glistening in through the window. Parked cars filled the street in front of the house, but there appeared to be no one in the immediate vicinity. “It wasn’t a fair bet.”

“You shouldn’t gamble,” he said, “if you’re not willing to accept the consequences of losing.”

She frowned at him. “I didn’t lose.”

He took carefully measured steps around the table, closing the distance between them until the table no longer hindered his view of her naked body. “Then why are you naked?”

She cocked her head at him. “You’re the one who told me to strip.”

His eyes laughed. “Do you always do everything you’re told?”

“Like you were going to just give me my car keys and let me leave if I refused,” she said.

“There are consequences to the choices we make,” he said.

She shook her head at him. “Just get it over with.”

“Alright,” he said and tapped the blue felt of the table with the tip of his cue stick, “lay flat.”

Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling and she sighed. She placed her palms flat on the table’s edge and pushed herself upward, kneeling on the edge of the table. A moment later she eased herself down on the blue felt, shepherding the majority of loose balls in front of her and out of the way.

He laid his cue stick on the felt next to her. His steady fingers unfastened his belt buckle and he pulled the wide leather free of his pant loops with a fast and firm tug. The leather folded easily in half and he took position beside the table in easy reach of her bare buttocks. He smiled to himself admiring the soft roundness rising up from his pool table like a pair of milky white hills.

“This will sting,” he said. “Try not to kick my table.”

She exaggerated a yawn. “Maybe I should take a nap while you prepare yourself.”

He flicked the belt through the air, zinging it down against her cheeks. The sound of the impact fell flat with more thud than snap. Her buttocks bounced in the aftermath and a single red stripe rose up to decorate their central peaks. He flicked the belt again and this time it impacted with a loud, satisfying snap. A second red stripe rose parallel to the first, only brighter.

She gasped and blinked back tears stinging at her eyes.

The belt flashed through the air and snapped against her buttocks ten more times before he stopped. Each lash of the folded leather bit sharper into her fleshy bottom and bounced it harder. The red stripes overlapped each other until the central whole of her buttocks appeared as one wide stripe of redness. She kept her legs still and stayed down on the blue felt. The tears remained dammed in her eyes.

He ran his fingers through her long hair and bent down to kiss her soft cheek. “You can take that nap now,” he said, “if you like.”

She kept her lips flat, but her eyes were full of happy mischief. “Maybe I will, though it seems no matter what I do on this pool table, you always beat me.”

He laughed. “I can’t help it,” he said, “you’re such a good sore loser.”

A Sore Loser

Was it
something she said
or
something she did
that got her in this position?

Cynthia Waiting

Dad’s belt zipped through the air striking Cynthia’s reddened buttocks one final time. The tears stung at her eyes and she could feel the eyes of the rest of her family staring at her with the same cold disapproval her father’s demeanor exuded. She pushed herself to a standing position, a mere step away from the family car’s rear bumper and successfully fought the impulse to assuage her stinging butt with a quick massage. The family was watching and she didn’t want to give them any more of a show than they already had seen.

“Wait in the car,” Dad said, pointing toward the backseat as if she didn’t know where to go, “and I don’t want to hear another word out of you before we get home.”

Cynthia nodded, keeping her lips tightly sealed and avoiding eye contact with her father. The car was parked on the shoulder of the road, but luckily there had not been any traffic speeding past while she’d been bent over. The asphalt felt like hot coals beneath her feet as she took the few steps to the rear door on the passenger side of the car. She plopped herself down hard on the seat and immediately regretted it. Frustrated, embarrassed, and annoyed, she slammed the door closed with an unsatisfying clunk.

She watched the road rather than her family. The quiet in the car was immensely preferable to the teasing she knew they would soon be delivering. It was always the same. Her brother would tell her she was positively glowing. Her mother would comment; Now that you’re well red, I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Her father would chuckle at every word while watching her expression in the rear view mirror. Cynthia would be tempted to stick her tongue out, to yell, to scream, to blame the world, but the tenderness and the itching warmth consuming her backside would temper her responses. She would keep her mouth shut and keep her thoughts to herself. A blush would color her cheeks with the embarrassment swelling up inside her and she would avert her eyes from the family, anything to avoid them seeing the effect of their teasing glistening in her eyes.

A single car whooshed by on the road. The look on the driver’s face stuck in Cynthia’s thoughts. It was clear enough, he had seen her naked breasts peeking out from just above the lower rim of the window. There was no place to hide and the tint on the windows was insufficient to disguise her humiliation from the world. Everywhere she looked, even looking back at her own actions, was an embarrassment. She rested her head on her hand, elbow planted on the lip of the window, and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long trip home.

Blushing Moments

A shallow, trembling breath could no more fill her lungs than calm her rapid heartbeat. Her head swam in exhilaration, in humiliation. Hot blood flushed her cheeks in the color of shame and nervous perspiration gave it a glossy sheen. She stood with her back to the wall. Her head was lowered, eyes scouring the floor for an escape. There was a reason, not that her fragile thoughts could focus on it, but it was enough to know it existed.

She longed to take a single step backward, to feel the cool, solid support of the wall pressing against her back. The gap left her feeling exposed and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled for attention. Her bare legs tingled in response to the room’s air conditioned breeze while her naked buttocks quivered in tense anticipation. She hid her sex with hands clasped together in front. It was futile and fleeting and she knew it from the start.

The muffled movements and voices from outside the room echoed in her ears. She could hear them talking, knew they were talking about her. The words were too soft to make out, but her thoughts filled in the sentiment. Bad girl. Naughty girl. Needs to be taught a lesson. Needs a spanking. There could be no doubt it was coming. Her skirt, her panties, were still there, in the other room with them. It was only a matter of when, with what, and how much.

Her solitude ended. The door creaked open. She shuddered at the sound of footsteps. He was coming, but he was not alone. Her blood flushed hotter. They would see her soon, again. Her nipples hardened, acutely aware of her partially opened blouse, the exposure of her bra encased breasts. They had seen it before, would see it again, see everything. She hated their wandering eyes more than anything, more than what she had done or the spanking soon to come.

The footsteps stopped. His eyes drank from her shame as did the eyes of his guest. He spoke with authority. “Turn around. Touch your toes and count.”

She obeyed without question. The thought to resist, to object never entered her mind. Her eyes stayed low as she moved, avoiding him and his guests except for the slightest of glances to confirm the implement of her fate. The crook handled cane dangled in his hands. Her fingers dangled near her toes. She closed her eyes and held a breath. He tapped the cane along the center of her bottom.

The cane swished through the air and cracked against the protruding flesh of her bent buttocks. Her breath exploded from her lungs. Tears stung in the corners of her eyes. Her knees bent and straightened as she wiggled her bottom against the searing mark of the cane. “One,” she said in a soft voice barely heard above the rattle of the air conditioning vent.

He laid the cane against her buttocks. She trembled at its touch. He raised it high and swung it fast. “Two,” she said, fighting her reflexes to hold herself in place. He bounced the cane off her bottom and brought it down with striking force. She cried unable to resist the singing pain in her bottom. “Three,” she said through tears.

His guest laughed and said, “She’s feeling it now.”

“As she should,” he said and swung the cane. The impact rocked her onto her toes. More tears sprung from her red eyes, but the pain was secondary to the humiliation of being watched. “Four,” she said, her voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper.

She imagined herself nursing her flaming bottom. Her hands struggled against her imagination and the reality of her situation. In the end, she stayed in place, fingers stretching toward her toes. He patted her bottom with the cane and swung it hard, rewarding her effort with another throbbing line. “Five,” she said, sniffling.

Salty tears dripped off her nose onto the carpet between her feet. The cane rippled into bulging buttocks once more and she cried out. Her bottom shook from side to side in an embarrassing, desperate display. It was a futile attempt to ease the burning throb of the cane’s aftermath. He coughed, reminding her to count. She said, “Six.”

He lowered the cane and stepped back from her bent form. “Stand up,” he ordered. Her limbs shook as she rose in compliance. He said, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, here.” She nodded.

His guest interjected himself. “Certainly that’s not all.”

Her gaze lifted momentarily to appraise the intentions in his face. She lowered her eyes before she was certain. He said, “Until the marks fade, you’re grounded.” She nodded and he continued, “Naturally, you’ll remain dressed as you are for the duration or you can wear less of course.”

She nodded. His guest nodded. He gestured toward the door. “There is a corner waiting for you in the living room. I’m sure my other guests are curious to know what happens when a young lady misbehaves in my house. Your bare backside should adequately explain, don’t you think?”

Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Hot blood, refreshed her blushing features with the glowing red of embarrassment and shame. She hesitated until he cleared his throat of impatience. The first step was the hardest, the rest came in a daze. The others gasped at first. Then there were the quiet murmurs as she took her place facing the corner. She stared at the joining of the walls and wondered how the shadowy little spot had become the bright center of the room.

Foxum Hall: The Empty Drawers

On the fourth floor of Foxum Hall, Michelle Embers stood naked in a shower stall. She stepped into the steamy spray cleansing herself of the soapy lather coating her skin. Her eyes drifted closed and she drowned herself in the moment, leaving behind the chaotic sounds of the morning rush. The tension washed away from her muscles and she inhaled the clean scent of a fresh day. She snapped her eyes open, turned off the shower and wrapped herself in the crisp starch of an over-sized towel. Michelle exited the showers thinking it was the beginning of another drab school day.

Inside their dorm room, Chelsea Wolfe sat on Michelle’s unmade bed. She glanced at her watch and then at her bag sitting beside her. There remained just enough time to make her escape or to return everything to its proper place. Her gaze turned to the picture sitting atop their shared chest of drawers. It reminded her of friendlier days and she hesitated a moment longer. Wistfully, she wondered if things could have turned out different, but every avenue of their past had led to their present and more importantly, to Ryan Bircham. Chelsea grabbed her bag and left the room.

Michelle arrived to find Chelsea closing the door. “I thought we were going to have breakfast,” Michelle said.

Chelsea faced her roommate and forced a smile. “Mr. Bircham wants to see me first, but I’m sure I can meet you there after,” she said, holding her large bag close to her side and hoping Michelle would not notice.

“Don’t tell me he caught you running in the halls again?” Michelle tried to hide her amusement with a stern face, but the quivering corners of her lips betrayed the image. Mr. Bircham had threatened a spanking of epic proportions for the next girl he caught running inside the confines of Foxum Hall.

“Nothing so glamorous,” Chelsea said. She forced a friendlier smile onto her lips and walked backward along the wall toward the stairwell door. She held the door open with her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s nothing really. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

“I’ll save you a seat,” Michelle said. She recognized the deception in her friend’s smile. Chelsea had a habit of landing in messes others could only imagine in their wildest daydreams. Sympathy tugged at Michelle’s heart, but deep down she knew Mr. Bircham’s strict consequences were never given without cause. She opened the door into their room and stepped inside, keeping an eye on her friend. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to sit in it.”

Chelsea laughed. “I’m sure one of us will be sitting,” she said, disappearing into the stairwell. Her smile transformed into genuine glee as the stairwell door slammed closed, cutting her off from Michelle. The echo of her footsteps on the metal stairs resonated with her laughter as she descended to the bottom floor.

Michelle closed the dorm room door and laid down on her bed. The temptation to drift back into sleep was strong, but the consequences for being late or worse, missing a class, were far from worth the luxury of a few minutes extra rest. With a sigh, she pushed herself back up into a sitting position and let the towel fall off into a puddle around her bottom on the crumpled bedsheets. In her typical fashion, Chelsea had left the closet door open. Michelle’s gaze focused on the pieces of her school uniform hanging inside, waiting for her.

The school’s uniform policy had been an irritant in her early days. Michelle had rebelled against it with stunts consisting of shortening her skirts and rolling up the sleeves on her blouses. Mr. Bircham had been tolerant at first, issuing only verbal warnings, but when Michelle continued with her rebellion he had turned to more forceful measures. After three trips over his knee, she decided to view the uniform in a new light. Instead of seeing it as a symbol of conformity, she chose to appreciate it as an attribute of honor and respect earned and awarded. It was Mr. Bircham’s perspective and shared by Michelle after seeing the glowing light of his conviction.

Pushing aside the embarrassing memories, Michelle stood and walked to the chest of drawers. She pulled open the top drawer and reach inside to find it empty. Rising up on her tiptoes, she looked inside and blinked at the emptiness. She pushed the drawer closed and pulled open the next one down. It too was empty. She turned to the closet and the clothes hamper inside. Empty.

Chelsea’s parting words and laughter rang in her ears: I’m sure one of us will be sitting.

Michelle pulled open the remaining two drawers, each in turn. Chelsea had left her with no panties, no bras, just a single pair of white uniform socks. She looked at the door to the outside as if it embodied her roommate. Bitch!

She searched the rest of the room, under the beds, between the mattresses, in the trash and the desk drawers. There was nothing to be found; Nothing of any use to her as either leverage against Chelsea’s plans or undergarments to avoid the almost certain repercussions of wearing none. Frustrated and without options, Michelle donned the available pieces of her school uniform. She exited the room, intent on finding Mr. Bircham and trying to head off the trouble as best she could. Descending the stairs, she was particularly self-conscious of the shortness of a skirt she customarily thought of as too long.

Chelsea watched from behind a corner as Michelle exited the stairwell on the bottom floor. Michelle headed up the corridor toward Mr. Bircham’s office at the far end. Chelsea grinned at her roommate’s receding back, pleased at Michelle’s easily predictable behavior. Chelsea waited until Michelle disappeared from sight into Mr. Bircham’s office and then stepped out from behind the corner. She rushed into the stairwell, fingers crossed with the hope she would not encounter anyone on her way.

Mr. Bircham was sitting at his desk filling out a summons for Michelle Embers when she walked into his office. He had been the administrator for Foxum Hall long enough to know that the odds of her presence being a coincidence were minimal to non-existent. The faint flush of color on her cheeks told him the report he had received concerning her lack of undergarments was accurate enough, but it also suggested the reason behind it was something other than a new streak of rebelliousness. They were being played.

“Miss Embers, what brings you here on this fine morning?” he asked, turning over the summons to hide its contents from her.

“It’s rather embarrassing,” she said. Her hands twisted together in front of her plaid skirt. She focused on his hands sitting atop his desk. They were deceptively benign, folded together. She knew first hand their strength and harshness when applied to a nubile backside.

“I would remind you that you can trust me, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that,” he said. Studying the nervous girl before him, Mr. Bircham caught the faint protrusion of bare nipples pressing against the crisp contours of her white blouse. The anonymous report was at least partially true, but her presence in his office defied the logic behind its reasoning. “However embarrassing your situation might seem, Allow me to assure you that being open and honest with me here and now is in your best interests.”

Michelle nodded, careful to keep her gaze away from his discerning eyes. Her mouth went dry and she gulped at the dryness, wistful for a glass of water. “My roommate,” she said, hesitating as her harried mind attempted to put the thoughts coursing through it into some sort of coherent order. “I think my roommate stole my undergarments.”

“Why?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He frowned. He despised the phrase, the shrug, the attitude it represented. He said, “I should hate to think you go around shoveling accusations without cause.” He was disappointed. He had better expectations of her. He had expected the truth.

“She was acting peculiar this morning,” Michelle said. Her voice trembled with the fear of further upsetting Mr. Bircham. She struggled to find the words to convey the things she knew without landing herself in more trouble than Chelsea’s scheme had intended. “I didn’t understand at the time, she was leaving the room early. If I had been any later coming back from the shower I would have missed her entirely. She was nervous and eager to leave, but as she left she intimated I would be getting a spanking before breakfast. I thought she meant it for herself at first, but now I see she meant me.”

“Peculiar behavior is hardly proof of wrong doing, Miss Embers.” He stood and walked around his desk until he stood only an arm’s length away from Michelle. Reaching out, he lifted her chin with his index finger and forced their eyes to meet. She blinked and tried to look anywhere, but into his gaze. He nodded. “What did you come here for? Did you think you could just walk in here, give me a name, no proof, and I would just punish another girl on your whim?”

Michelle clenched and unclenched her fists. Her jaw set and she ground her teeth together searching for the words to extricate herself from his wrath. “I’m telling you the truth,” she said.

“No, you’re not.” He turned his back on her and lifted the folded note from his desk. It was computer printed in easy to read block letters. Michelle Embers is a liar, a thief, and a cheat. She thinks of herself as above the school rules and repercussions and to prove it to everyone, she is going without undergarments beneath her uniform. Some of us do not think this is appropriate or fair. Do you? “You’re telling me a version of it, but it’s decidedly short on rationality.”

She stared at his back. Her thoughts wound through the fogginess of her situation and the things he was not saying. Realization sank in her stomach. “You knew before I arrived,” she said.

He faced her, holding the note up for her to read. “I don’t like being manipulated,” he said.

Michelle’s eyes raised from the note to meet his gaze with confidence. “Then don’t be,” she said. Her back straightened tall and her hands abandoned their nervous wrestling to rest peacefully at her sides. “That note may not prove Chelsea is behind this, but it definitely proves I’m being setup.”

“Does it?” He turned the note back to himself. He studied the page and the young woman before him. The truth was somewhere between them. “How do I know you didn’t write this note yourself?”

She regarded him disdainfully. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would I?”

Sitting on the front edge of his desk, Mr. Bircham laid the note beside him. He said, “Allow me to walk you through the logic; You have a fight with your roommate. Maybe she caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. She threatens to turn you in, but you bully her into believing no one will believe her because she has a much worse disciplinary record than you do. Just to make sure she knows you’re in control, you hatch this plan to land her in trouble and prove just how well you can manipulate things.”

She shook her head and continued to meet his gaze. “You’re way off base,” she said.

“Maybe,” he said, watching the angry flinching of her cheeks, “but you and I both know there is more going on between you and your roommate than missing underwear. If you expect my help, you’re going to have to come clean with the whole story.”

Michelle huffed. “I’ve already told you everything I know.” She threw her arms up and sighed. “I don’t know what you expect from me, but I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. My undergarments were stolen and I don’t fancy running around campus all day without them.”

He shook a finger at her. “Watch the attitude young lady,” he said. Michelle swallowed the protestations rising up inside her. Mr. Bircham pushed off the desk to stand in front of her, finger still raised. “You came here because you thought it would keep you out of trouble for running around without underwear.”

“Yeah, maybe I did,” she said, nodding her head. “It’s not like I had a real choice. Someone took them. You can’t punish me for that.”

Mr. Bircham stepped closer, forcing Michelle to crane her neck back to continue meeting his gaze. “Let me make your situation clear, Miss Embers. My job is to administrate this dormitory and insure you and every other student residing here, complies with the rules and polices of the university. Right now, you are in violation of those rules for not wearing appropriate undergarments. The only reason you aren’t already laying over my lap getting your bare bottom spanked is the mitigating circumstances of the theft you are alleging.”

She gasped. “Alleging? Really? Why else would I even be here?”

“I don’t pretend to understand the devious nature of a college girl’s mind, but so far, all I have is your word that your undergarments were even stolen. What I do have is a note that suggest you are trying to make a fool of me, your fellow students and the university. Your attitude thus far is making the allegation difficult to simply dismiss.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you search my room? The drawers are empty and I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Mr. Bircham nodded. “That’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Embers. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, Michelle stood outside her dorm room with Mr. Bircham standing beside her. She opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Mr. Bircham to enter without her in his way. He walked inside, stopping at the chest of drawers and pulling open the top drawer. He looked inside and shook his head.

Michelle watched him from the doorway, hands planted on her hips. “I told you,” she said.

Mr. Bircham reached inside the drawer and lifted out a white bra for Michelle to see. She gulped. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes searched his face, desperate to find some sense that he understood what was going on. “I swear those drawers were empty when I left,” she said.

He sighed and dropped the bra back in the drawer. “It seems you have a problem, Miss Embers.”

“You can’t possibly believe I made this up!” Michelle stared wide-eyed at Mr. Bircham. He walked to her work desk and pulled the chair out, turning it to face the center of the dorm room. She said, “You know this isn’t fair.”

He pointed at a spot on the floor beside the chair. “Over here, Miss Embers,” he said.

She stomped her foot in the doorway. “You can’t,” she said. Her head shook back and forth, throwing strands of hair in her face as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mr. Bircham inhaled sharply and he adopted his sternest face. “You don’t want to make me drag you over here, young lady.” He snapped his fingers and pointed once more at the spot on the floor.

“I’m being setup and you’re being manipulated,” she said. Mr. Bircham flinched as if to take a step toward her, but before he could move, she began scuffling across the floor toward the spot he had indicated. She stood beside the chair and him, head lowered, downtrodden by the firmness of his stance. He sat in the chair.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her closer. “Over,” he said, patting his lap with his free hand. She looked for compassion in his eyes and finding none, laid herself over his lap, closing her eyes and sniffling back tears of injustice. He lifted her skirt high onto her back, exposing her naked bottom. She flinched at the touch of his hand resting against the bubbly flesh. He said, “You can think of this as unfair all you like, but I think we both know you’ve been less than completely honest with me.”

The first spank came before she could formulate a response. She gasped. Her bottom quivered in the absence of his hand. Michelle gripped her hands together, bracing for the next spank. Mr. Bircham delivered it and more in a flurry of slaps, bouncing her white bottom on his lap until the white globes glowed pink. She breathed through the sting and humiliation, choking back her tears. Her body trembled against the building discomfort. Her hair fell around her face, masking the outrage in her eyes.

Mr. Bircham rested his spanking arm. He pinched her globes and cheek at a time ensuring the sting he had already built would not interfere with the sting he had yet to impart. Michelle sniffled as the first tears slipped from her eyes at the humiliation of insensitive touch. She breathed through the objections swirling in her head and remained mute over his lap. Comfort came from future intentions; there would be revenge, cold and sweet. Chelsea would rue the day. Mr. Bircham would see to it, just as he was seeing to her.

The spanking resumed. Mr. Bircham struck her bottom with his open palm, alternating his assault from cheek to cheek. Michelle kicked and squirmed, but he held her tightly in place with his left arm, wrapped over her back. His arm blurred through the air, using every inch of available space to add momentum to every spank. She squealed. Her bottom burned and reddened. Michelle cried.

He laid his hand on her bottom. “Now that we’ve got a nice, hot blush back here, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

She shook her disheveled hair away from her lips, brushing the right side behind her ear with trembling fingers. He patted her bottom firmly, but short of the power of real spanks. She sniffled and said, “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

Mr. Bircham sighed and lifted his hands from her body. “Stand up,” he said. She pushed herself off his lap without hesitation. The ruffle of her skirt kept it up behind her despite gravity’s downward pull. She wiped tears and stray hairs from her face. He stood and pushed the chair back to its place under the desk. “Fix your attire and get yourself to class,” he said and left her alone with the door still open to the hall.

Michelle nursed her hot bottom with both hands, oblivious to the open door and anything not directly related to the aftereffects of her spanking. Chelsea stepped into the doorway, a tickled smile on her lips. She said, “I saved you a seat at breakfast, but it looks like you wouldn’t have needed it even if you had made it.”

Michelle glowered at her roommate. “Bitch.”

Chelsea pointed at herself. “Me? You might want to look into the mirror when you say that.” Chelsea turned and started walking away, but turned back as she reached the stairwell door. “Oh, and you might want to remember this moment the next time you think about blackmailing me to do your homework. Because if you try it again, I’ll make sure Mr. Bircham sees fit to use something more than his hand.”

I Said Yes

Gary asked the question in the traditional manner; First, of my father in the privacy of his office and second, of me on a bent knee after a candlelight dinner for two. I toyed with the trepidation in his eyes, backing away from the ring box with both hands over my mouth. He was blind to my hidden smile and the joyful tears in my eyes. I waited until the hope dimmed in his eyes and his gaze fluttered toward the floor. My feet carried me forward until I stood towering above him.

I said, “Yes.”

His nervous gaze flickered up to my face. “Yes?”

I nodded, allowing my hands to fall away from my face and reveal my beaming smile. Gary rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around me. His lips caressed mine. I giggled into his ear and he slapped his hand against my bottom. He shook his head at me while his eyes teased me with a look of parental scolding.

“What?” I asked, fluttering eyelashes as an innocent angel might.

He said, “Don’t what me, you naughty little nymph. We both know you were only playing with my heart strings.”

I shrugged. “So, what if I was?”

His finger tucked itself under my chin. “I ought to put you right over my knee.”

“You aren’t my husband yet,” I said, “besides, my father wouldn’t approve.”

Gary laughed. “I already spoke with your father and I think we both know he would not only approve, but encourage it.”

I kissed him and wiggled my bottom hoping to distract him from his thoughts of my father. It worked. Gary grabbed my bottom and pulled me into him, lifting me up off the ground. The night drifted into a haze of dancing, kissing, and cuddling. It was well after my curfew when we arrived back at my house. The front light remained burning bright and silhouetted behind the drawn curtain was my father’s waiting form. He opened the door when Gary and I approached.

My father pointed inside the house at the stairs behind him and said, “Upstairs.”

I started to protest only to be interrupted by my father’s penetrating gaze. He said, “We’ll discuss this in the morning unless you think we should wake everyone to discuss it tonight.”

I blinked at my father and glanced sheepishly at Gary. “Goodnight,” I said and sidestepped past my father into the house.

There were whispers spoken between the two men in my life as I climbed the stairs. It was too hushed for me to make out more than a few words and those few were less than encouraging when considering the promised discussion to come in the morning. The door closed and my father turned the deadbolt before his gaze searched the top of the stairs to find me. I stared back, biting my lip until I sensed he was about to say something. Wrong or right, I scurried off to my bedroom, not allowing him the opportunity to utter the words on his lips.

It was the following day in the middle of the afternoon when my father called me into the living room. My mother and sister had gone shopping leaving the two of us alone together. I was pleased he had chosen to wait before dealing with me, but when I arrived in the living room, things were not as I expected. My father had his camera hung around his neck and the lens cap already dangling free. He was smiling, which for the most part was not his attitude when disciplining me or anyone else. For just a second, I imagined I was going to get away with breaking curfew for the first time in my life. I should have known better.

“What’s the camera for?” I asked.

My father smiled. “Tradition,” he said, “Your mother and I have always endeavored to capture all your firsts on film.”

Hope surged in my breast. “Does that mean today is the first time you aren’t going to spank me for breaking a rule?”

My father raised a contemplative finger to his lips. “I suppose it does.”

“Really?” I asked.

My father nodded.

“Seriously?” I asked.

My father snapped a picture of my gleeful face. “Gary is going to be here in a minute.”

“He asked me to marry him,” I said.

“I know,” my father said.

“I said, yes.”

My father snapped another picture. “I expected as much.”

“Do you want me to give the two of you some privacy when he gets here?” I asked.

He patted my arm and said, “That won’t be necessary. However, we are going to be discussing your tardiness last night and I think it would be appropriate if you undressed to your bra and panties.”

I swallowed as heat rose up into my cheeks. “I thought you weren’t going to spank me.”

“I’m not,” he said.

Confused, I bit at my lip and complied with my father’s instructions. It would be a bit odd, standing around in my underwear for a lecture, but all things considered, it was better than a spanking in front of Gary. Though it had not happened before, it was inevitable, Gary would one day see me less than fully dressed. I tossed my clothes aside and considered how Gary would react upon seeing me in such a state.

“You won’t photograph me in my underwear, will you?” I asked my father.

He cocked his head toward me. “I don’t see why your state of dress or undress should matter. Today is a very important first for you and I intend to document it fully.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Gary rang the bell right at that moment, keeping my father from engaging any further into our conversation. I twisted my arms together in front of me, embarrassed and anxious. My father opened the door and Gary stepped inside. His eyes drank me in from the front door, but if he was surprised, he hid it well. They talked quietly outside of my range of hearing.

Ten minutes later, they joined me in the living room. My father stood behind me at the far wall and Gary stood facing me, next to the couch. I glanced at my father and he nodded toward Gary, telling me to give him my attention. Gary stared at me in confidence. I looked at the floor, feeling my face burning with embarrassment. He grabbed hold of my arm and guided me toward the couch.

“Kneel up on the couch,” Gary said.

I looked into his eyes, searching for answers and found only sternness. My legs carried me forward without hesitation and I obeyed the command for lack of any reason not to do it. Gary left my side and walked around to the back of the couch. He leaned over and smacked my protruding bottom with his hand. The camera clicked in the background and I blinked in surprise.

“What are you doing?” I asked, looking up into Gary’s eyes.

He said, “Spanking you.”

I glanced back at my father with his camera. My father said, “Now that you are getting married, it is no longer solely my responsibility to give you discipline. Gary must also do his part and today he is going to prove himself up to the challenge.”

Gary’s hands turned me on the couch, bring my bottom closer to him. His hand slapped against my bottom again and then again with more force. I yelped and tightened the muscles in my buttocks. Gary responded with a rough squeeze of each buttock and then a flurry of solid spanks. My bottom bounced, growing pinker by the spank and stinging more with every fleeting touch. I reached back to protect my poor bottom. Gary yanked me up from the couch, landing me back on my feet.

“When I give you a spanking,” Gary said from behind me, “you will take it with grace and dignity and absolutely no resistance. Is that clear?”

I twisted my head around to see his stern face. “It hurts,” I said.

“It’s meant to,” Gary replied.

His fingers slipped beneath the strap of my bra and unfastened it. I inhaled sharply and lifted my arms to hold it in place, but Gary tugged it off without difficulty, tossing it to join my other clothes. The camera snapped. My face burned hotter.

Gary said, “If you expect to keep your bra on next time, don’t resist me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Gary sat on the couch and patted his knee. I knew what he expected, but still I stood waiting for the verbal command. It would not be acceptable to let him think I could always anticipate his desires. My father circled behind me. The camera clicked.

“Keep playing games,” Gary said, “and you’ll be displaying your spanked bottom the rest of the day.”

“What?” I asked.

“You know what,” he said. “Get over my lap.”

I laid myself over his lap. His hand patted against the silkiness of my panties. I snuggled against him. He slapped his hand down, bouncing my bottom back to life. I kicked and squirmed, blinking back the sting. He held me firm and spanked with force and speed. My bottom burned under his attentive hand. The camera clicked away.

Gary’s hand stopped slapping my bottom and his fingers inserted themselves into the waistband of my panties. “I think it’s time to have these down.”

He pulled them halfway down my bottom and I reached back to hold them in place. “No!” I yelled at him, kicking my legs in protest.

Gary rained his iron hand down on my backside. My bottom exploded into a ball of fire. He showed no mercy, holding me tightly in place. I kicked and screamed, writhing on his lap to no avail. He kept a rapid pace, making my bottom jump from side to side on his lap. Tears tickled at my eyes and I pounded fists into the couch out of frustration. Nothing could ease the burning. I kicked my panties off, sending them flying across the room and I heard the camera click when they did.

“Things only get worse when you resist me,” Gary said.

“I’ll be good,” I promised.

“In time perhaps,” Gary said, “but I doubt any time soon.”

“Please,” I said, tears rolling down my cheeks, “I can’t take anymore.”

“You’ll take what I give you and you’ll be thankful for it,” Gary said.

“Please, stop.” I said.

Gary responded with his hand. He raised it higher in the air and slapped it down harder and faster than before. I bawled. It was only his hand and yet my bottom was burning as if he had used my hairbrush and my father’s thick belt. There was no denying his power over me and accepting it, I closed my eyes and relaxed in his firm hold. His hand slapped against my bottom a few more times and then rested on my burning globes.

“That’s better,” he said.

The camera clicked. Gary raised me to my feet and guided my hands to rest on top of my head. He walked me toward the door and left me facing it just far enough away that the door could open without touching me. He patted my hot bottom and kissed my wet cheek. The camera clicked.

“If you had only accepted it from the start, everything would be over now,” Gary said.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, sniffling.

“I know,” he said, “but now you’ll just have to stand here, bare, red bottom on display until dinner.”

“I won’t resist you again,” I said, hoping he would have mercy.

Denying my hope, Gary said, “I know you won’t.”