Stating the facts as plainly as possible, Kellie Newton was your quintessential spoilt little brat. Sweet and trim and excruciatingly pretty, there was nothing she enjoyed more than a week of utter disrespect and willful mischief. Little past her eighteenth birthday, Kellie absolutely loved the thrill of unrestricted naughtiness with a passion that was as infuriating as it was endearing. What she didn't like were the long, hard spankings which invariably followed her outbursts of errant misconduct.
Which was precisely what she was facing at this moment.
"No, Bobby, PLEASE no!! I don't want a SPANKING!!"
Standing in the living room of their lavishly furnished Westside apartment, Kellie wavered at the brink of tears, a deep, radiant blush spreading across her lovely features. Bobby had ordered her out of her jeans the moment she'd arrived home, and a familiar wave of embarrassment had washed over her as she pleaded for clemency in her underwear.
"You should have thought of that before you went sneaking around behind my back," Bobby replied, removing his black lambs-wool sweater to reveal his huge, suntanned forearms. Seated firmly on his high backed post-and-rail chair, he was a large, broad-shouldered man with long, dark hair and a thickly stubbled jawline.
"You've had this coming for a while now, and you've got no one to blame but yourself," he told her, eyeing her slim, slender thighs with a throwaway glance, "you're going over my knee for the spanking of your life."
"Noooooo," Kellie moaned, shifting from foot to foot in a perfect stasis of fear and anxiety. She was going to have her bottom smacked: begging and sobbing and struggling weakly against his intractable grip, she would be stretched across Bobby's lap with her naked bottie-cheeks on full exhibit.
"No, Bobby, PLEASE," she cried, wiping the tears from her enormous, blue eyes with an anxious sweep of her tiny left hand, "I'll be good from now on, I PROMISE I will." She was pitifully eager for the slightest sign of leniency, desperate for even a single word of reassurance that he would forgive her inexcusable behavior. What she got was Bobby's iron-bound promise that she would be spending the night with a hot, pulsing tushie. He'd put up with her lies and tricks and childish deceits for long enough, and he was determined to teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget in a hurry. He was going to tan her bottom for a good ten minutes this time, and she could rest assured that she'd be eating her meals standing up for at least the next two weeks.
"All right," Bobby commanded, clapping his hands down on his knee caps to emphasize the point, "panties off, little girl." Kellie immediately broke down into a welter of tearful entreaties; there were very few things she found as humiliating as slipping her underpants down her thighs in preparation for a good, hard spanking: "No, Bobby, don't make me take them down, PLEASE, it's too embarrassing, I can't stand it, let me keep them up, PLEASE ..."
Bobby nodded as if expecting nothing better from her. It didn't matter how wilful, petulant and downright wicked she'd been, Kellie always begged him to spank her over her panties. Well, he'd had more than enough of her snide backchat and caustic sarcasm, and she was going to bare her bottom for him whether she liked it or not.
"Take those pants off before I come over there and pull them down myself," he warned her, getting ready to rise from his seat.
That was enough for Kellie: there could be nothing worse than having her panties taken down against her will. Turning away from Bobby's stern, measuring gaze, Kellie bent over to slide her flimsy cotton panties down to her heels, hesitantly showing off her flawlessly white and temptingly full bottomtops in the process. They were a magnificent set of full-moon orbs suspended above a pair of long, beautiful thighs; Bobby had to suppress a grunt of satisfaction as the girl's luminous, quivering cheeks came into view. He was going to enjoy this. Spanking Kellie's impudent little bottom was less a chore than a pleasure; no question on that particular note whatsoever.
"Okay," Bobby told her in his severest voice, "come over here and get over my knee. And you can stop that crying, little girl - or I may have to add a few minutes more to your treatment".
Placing a small, shy hand over her delicate, blond pubic thatch, Kellie stepped out of her underpants and walked tearfully over to Bobby's side. Her shoulders heaved and folded as she stammered out her apologies, hopelessly hoping for last second reprieve. Wearing nothing but a loose cotton halter-top and a pair of frilly white girl-socks, she had a wistful, innocent beauty found only in young girls poised at the brink of womanhood. Bobby wasted no time drawing her over his lap and settling her into place. Her lush, tender bottom-cheeks stared up at him in naked shock, twitching and tensing with anticipation.
Draped over her roomie's knee with her face hovering two inches above the floor, Kellie knew the shame and the fear and the enormous, childlike embarrassment which comes with submission to an irrefutable, masculine authority. She felt a massive sense of helpless vulnerability, an inescapable knowledge that her bottom was on complete display to the very person who was about to spank it the colour of a ripe strawberry. At eighteen years old, Kellie believed herself far too mature for a spanking, and yet here she was, doubled over Bobby's thighs with her soft, creamy buttocks sticking virtually in his face.
It's not fair, she thought, weeping silently into the carpet. She feared Bobby's strong right hand more than anything else in her otherwise pampered existence. He'd been paddling her hynie almost since the day she'd first moved in with him, and her overwhelming sense of dread was a testament to his world-class disciplinary skills.
"OK," Bobby said, lifting his right hand, "let's get started."
His palm descended on Kellie's bottom with a stroke of iron. He'd always been an exceptionally hard spanker; long experience had taught him the virtues of a steady, persistent rhythm. He decided to pace himself to increase the tempo gradually. A spanking should always work up to a crescendo, ending with a shriek rather than a whimper. Not that his touch was particularly gentle; Kellie was already bucking and twisting on his lap, even at this early stage.
Bobby's hand danced from cheek to cheek, reddening the flesh with each scathing contact. Kellie wailed in protest, kicking her long legs and flailing her head from side to side. She lay over his knee begging him to stop, knowing full well that her punishment was only just beginning; her bare bottom would be huge and red and throbbing by the time he'd finished. Bobby possessed an excruciatingly thorough technique, as she'd learned to her perpetual regret over the last six months. Bobby increased the velocity by torrid degrees, shifting his focus to the sensitive junction of leg and bottom at the top of Kellie's thighs. He smiled in grim amusement at the shrill quality of the girl's ear splitting shrieks; the way she wriggled her bottom about in a desperate attempt to evade justice. God, he'd been looking forward to this. There were very few things he found as gratifying as spanking a naughty little bottom after a week of chronic disobedience. In Kellie's instance, it was a duty he found much to his liking.
"AOOOWWW!!! AAOOWWW!!! BOBBY!! DON'T!! AAOOWW!! IT HURTS, IT HUUURRRTS!!"
And it did! Kellie's firm young bottie-cheeks were suffused with a radiant carmine flush, quivering and throbbing with agony. She sobbed and screamed as Bobby's granite palm swept down on her unshielded little tail, she was flooded with pain and shame and simpering, infantile guilt. Dangling from his lap with her bottom hot and slick and trembling, she felt roughly six years old.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and Bobby began to wind down at the nine minute mark (although from the intensity of Kellie's cries, one might have thought he was winding up). He determined to finish up with a series of stunning thunderclaps to Kellie's lissome upper-thighs, lashing down like a threshing machine until she was screaming at the top of her lungs. He laid in for a full minute at maximum force, targeting the twin curves of soft tissue immediately beneath the lithe bulge of her bottom, a place he knew would glow for hours after the spanking was over.
Bobby finished off with ten swift, hard, and exquisitely painful strokes to Kellie's scarlet bottom, watching it quake and wobble as each resounding smack exploded across her quivering cheeks. He had to clamp his left hand down on her waist to keep her in place; she was almost hurling herself from his lap in her frenzy to escape.
Finally, it was over: Kellie collapsed in a sobbing, deflated tangle of limbs and elbows like a puppet suddenly deprived of its strings. Bobby allowed the panting, exhausted girl a few minutes to catch her breath while he gingerly fondled her bottom with his large, blunt finger-tips. Gently patting her shining bottomtops, Bobby congratulated himself on the incomparable artistry of his handiwork. Kellie's delicious little posterior was blazing from the curl of her cheeks to the middle of her thighs.
"OK", Bobby said, lifting Kellie up to a standing position, his hand still planted firmly on her steamy, indigo bottom, "I'd say a little corner time is in order, wouldn't you?" Kellie whimpered a barely audible reply. Her fanny was burning with liquid heat, she barely had the strength to answer.
"Alright then," Bobby said, indicating which corner with a vague inclination of his head, "off you go; one hour with your nose to the wall; and if I catch you rubbing your tush, it'll be straight back over my lap - you got that, sweet thing?"
"Yes," Kellie murmured. Face downcast and shoulders hitching, she turned and traipsed her way across the room, her naked, swollen bottie-cheeks shining like a distress beacon. Taking her position between the bookshelf and the Home Theatre, she looked like a naughty little girl with the world's sorest bottom; all she lacked were the ribbons in her pigtails.
Dismissing Kellie from his thoughts, Bobby walked over to the wall unit and picked up the remote. Sitting comfortably in his favorite armchair, he flicked on the television, selected the sports network and put his feet up on the coffee table. Bobby relaxed into the cushy depths of his chair. The Yankees were up and the bases were loaded; all he needed now was a cold beer and a plate of nachos. Well, that would be taken care of in an hour or so. Couldn't ask for a better day, all things considered.
Three feet from the wide screen, a pair of luscious, round bottom-cheeks shuddered in repressed agony.
Copyright (c) Perry Symon Fowler, 1999. All rights reserved.
Contributed by Perry Fowler, received with thanks.
-- The End --