Spanking Stories

Emma looked at the message in her WhatsApp chat and almost choked on her mug of tea. She was using WhatsApp web from her laptop, and was comfortably snuggled on the sofa.

Then there came another message; “But that’s up to you.”

She could feel her face burning as she looked at the words on the screen, and grabbed a pillow to push her face into, as if she needed to hide while sitting alone in her flat.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have continued teasing after getting Princess Bunty’s earlier message; “Young ladies benefit greatly from maintenance spankings.”

It was ridiculous, she thought, that she could be so embarrassed by the word ‘spank’ on her screen, when she spent so much time writing spanking stories, and throwing the term around all over the place as she spoke to her friends; some kinksters, some not.

She’d been ‘out’ to almost her entire social circle for at least a few months, and some people for longer, and had thought she’d moved past this ridiculous embarrassment stage.

Apparently not.

And then, there came the issue of how to reply. She wanted to say yes… but that would be too embarrassing! How could she admit that yes, she did want Princess Bunty to spank her. And admit it to Bunty herself.

If she said no, she was fairly certain Bunty would back off and drop the topic. Then it would be on her to bring it up again if she ever wanted to. No, she didn’t want that. So she definitely didn’t want to say no.

In the end, she decided to just go for her usual approach: Honest. But too much.

A non-committal response was typed out with perhaps a little too much personal information thrown in for good measure, and ending with, “and I also am holding this conversation while occasionally hiding in a pillow.”

Now the computer said, “Princess Bunty is recording audio.”

What?! Help! Why is she recording audio?!

Emma clutched her pillow to her face, occasionally peeking around it to see what was going on as she panicked. A finger snuck out to hit the ‘play’ button on the audio clip, and then she dove back into hiding. Princess Bunty’s voice came through loud and clear.

“Good afternoon, Emma. So you’re hiding in the pillow are you?”

Princess Bunty paused to laugh there, and Emma struggled to try and somehow dive deeper into her hiding place as she squirmed on the sofa, and then twisted her body to hide in the corner of it. But the audio continued in Bunty’s calm and steady voice.

“So I think, when you’re ready, you should come over and go over my knee, and I will spank you.”

Emma scrunched her eyes shut here and wondered if the sofa might be able to swallow her up as she continued to listen.

“I want to assure you,” Bunty’s measured voice was saying, “that when I do a spanking I will tell you exactly what’s going to happen before it happens so you know. It’s very matter of fact. You will go over my lap and I will spank you. And you’re allowed to say ‘actually I’ve changed my mind’, and we can stop. It’s not a problem. I want people to have a good time, and feel safe, and I want them coming back for more and that means me being nice to them. But I would like to spank you. And I think you would like it. Anyway, when you’re ready lovely, the offer is there.”

Emma closed her eyes, and resisted the urge to shut the laptop and simply run away. Her mind was in a confused turmoil; she wanted to accept, but was somehow struggling to bring herself to do it. Why?

Why did Princess Bunty’s voice talking about a spanking make her breath catch her in throat, and her stomach feel as though she had swallowed a small army of grasshoppers? She thought of her first proper impression of the woman, two weeks earlier.

She’d been sitting on the grass at an outdoor munch when Princess Bunty had approached.

“Emma. Walk with me.” It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a request. Somehow it was just a stated expectation.

And Emma had scrambled to her feet and fallen in step, even as her mind tried to catch up with what was going on. She linked her hands behind her back and glanced at the whippy implement Bunty was carrying for some reason. It was distracting.

There were questions. Was it a conversation? Don’t say anything stupid, Emma reminded herself, repeatedly. Of course she ended up saying stupid things though. She always spoke without thinking first about what she intended to say.

It was a strange meeting that had somehow managed to include the pads of a tens machine placed on the backs of her knees, and a couple light swats with a jokari paddle while she stood with her face in her hands.

Now, she took a deep breath and managed to type her response;

“So… I mean, it’s difficult to type… but… I would like you to spank me.”

Funnily enough, it had in fact been a discussion about spiders that had gotten Emma to discard her pillow and emerge from her hiding place. Pet tarantulas, specifically, as Bunty was looking into getting one. Despite a previous spider phobia, Emma was quite fascinated by them, and Bunty’s discussion of them interested her.  

“Interesting that spiders got you out of your pillow,” Princess Bunty mused.

“Yes, well, I guess it’s just… things that spark an interest in me, like a fascination tend to make me forget to be shy.”

“Good to know.”

A day later, Emma smacked her forehead with her palm. Why am I like this? She thought. Why why why?

Princess Bunty had asked if she’d like to have dinner with her on Saturday night and Emma’s response over audio chat had honestly just been… ridiculous.

It had been something about having a bicycle and being able to cycle places, unless they were too far away, in which case she could drive. There had been some rambling there about her driving anxiety. She’d backtracked there to try and get back on topic. “What were we talking about? Oh yes… dinner…” and then rambled on a little longer, including a tangent on how she often cycled on a particular road, but further than a particular restaurant that had been mentioned, and might accidentally miss and overshoot, before finally rounding up with quite a pathetically mumbled, “I’ll just stop talking now.”

Why am I so bad at navigating these situations? She asked herself, not for the first time. The problem was, she just got flustered for some reason.

It was lucky for her that Bunty even managed to gather that her jumbled reply was intended as an acceptance of the invitation.

“You are so funny!” Princess Bunty wrote, accompanying it with the laughing emoji.

“It’s not intentional!” Emma protested at once. A heart emoji came back to her, and the pillow once more found its use as a hiding spot.

“You’re sure this person is safe?”

The question came from a spanko friend of hers, after Emma had professed to her how incredibly socially awkward she was, and described her failure to navigate the entire interaction.

“Yes… I think so.”

But Emma decided it might be best to do a little extra snooping. As flustered as she got while trying to discuss the topic of spanking, Emma did not feel as though Bunty was trying to make her uncomfortable in any way, and she generally got good vibes from the woman. She seemed perceptive and understanding, and it wasn’t her fault Emma was easily intimidated by anyone with a Toppy demeanor. But it was still a good idea to do a little extra checking where possible.

She reached out to a long-term friend of hers, Beacon, who she noted was Fetlife friends with Bunty. “What do you know about Princess Bunty?” she wrote over Facebook messenger. “Context: I might have dinner with her.”

The response was reassuring, but after the reassurances, her friend came back with one more line: “She’s very experienced in kink. She’s also VERY experienced in spanking so BEWARE ha ha.”

Emma buried her face in her hands for perhaps the 50th time in the last few days. But that’s good, right? She thought to herself. I mean… I hope so. Oh dear.

On Saturday evening, it was raining as Emma locked her bike. The woman walking by seemed familiar, and Emma squinted in the rain to try and get a better look, but trying to give herself plausible deniability for staring if this turned out to in fact be a stranger.

“Emma?”

Of course, it was Princess Bunty. Emma fumbled with the slightly rusted bike lock. All the little personal talks she’d given herself about keeping her mouth shut when she got the urge to say stupid rambling things were forgotten as she launched into a painfully detailed explanation of how bad she was at recognizing people, as they walked to the restaurant. Princess Bunty was nothing if not patient.

There was a boy at a nearby table, of perhaps 6 years old. Once Emma and Bunty were seated, he was almost in Emma’s line of sight if she looked just slightly left of where Bunty sat across from her. He had 6 helium balloons tied to his chair; they were translucent gold, and filled with some sort of glittering confetti. He made brief eye contact with Emma, and then ducked to hide behind the back of his chair.

Shyly, he would peek round again and again, and tug on the balloons, looking at them and at Emma for her reaction. It was distracting. Emma’s eyes were tugged sideways by him, and she smiled to see him wave and them dive back into his hiding place.

Her friend’s words from a recent conversation came back to her. “You don’t really make eye contact.”

“Is it very noticeable?” Emma had asked.

“Well, I notice it because I find it hard too.”

“I don’t feel like I’m consciously avoiding eye contact,” Emma had tried to explain. “It just doesn’t occur to me to make it. I guess I find it awkward when I do though, sometimes.”

Emma tried to make eye contact with Princess Bunty now. Was it obvious she found that hard? The boy was tugging on the strings of the balloons again and her eyes wanted to be pulled back to them.

But she focused on making eye contact, and trying to remember to keep taking bites of her meal; that was something she kept forgetting about, and she belatedly realised she still had quite a lot left on her plate at one point when she was quite sure she should be finished by now.

So she forgot not to say stupid things.

Seriously, who brings up their gynaecology appointments on a dinner date? Emma did, that’s for certain.

Not that it was necessarily a ‘date’. It was just eating dinner. With an attractive woman who had said she wanted to spank her. Who was definitely going to delete her number after this.

“I’ll admit I have a massive crush on you,” Emma said, at one point.

Would it be inappropriate to pick up one of the cushions that were available in the restaurant, and hide her face in it? Or maybe just crawl under the table? Emma wondered…

But Bunty didn’t seem to mind the oversharing. In fact, she also spoke quite candidly herself, and didn’t seem at all embarrassed or put off.

She told the story of how “Bringing Princess Bunty presents” became a fetlife fetish; it was created for her cat, who had her own fetlife profile, and liked to bring Bunty frogs.

“I think she was trying to get me to kiss them, in case they turned out to be Prince Charming.”

“She has a cat,” Emma told her mother the next day, after admitting she had gone out for dinner with someone. It was the first piece of vanilla information she could think of to drag up when her mother tried to ask questions, that also didn’t feel too personal to share.

“Anything else?” Emma’s mother asked, frowning.

“Well, she has two cats actually, but one doesn’t live with her anymore.”

“Did you talk about… anything else at all?”

“Oh! She might get a pet spider. A tarantula. She wants a brachy… brachy… Uh, I forgot what it’s called. It’s one of those ones with the red rings on their legs.”

“How old is she?”

“43. Look, don’t read anything into it ok?” Emma added, “We were just eating dinner. And don’t tell dad. He’ll be weird about it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Emma’s dad liked to believe he was very liberal and open minded, but he still occasionally struggled to grasp certain things. Sometimes they debated, and neither of them were very good at staying calm. LGBT+ issues had definitely become a hot topic in the past, and sometimes it was best just to leave certain things undiscussed until they had to be.

Emma was still at her parents’ house when her phone pinged with a WhatsApp message: “Hey Emma are you doing anything Tuesday evening?”

“I’m free Tues after I finished work (5)” Emma typed back, trying to appear nonchalant as she leaned against the wall and typed on her phone. Why did she want to blush even that this completely benign conversation with Princess Bunty?

And now there was another problem: she had to work out what she was going to cook!

Soup was a mistake, she thought, on Tuesday as she tried to eat it. When alone, she was quite a slurpy soup-eater. Ironic, in a way, as loud slurpy eating noises from others bothered her to the point of upset, bit it was the only way she knew how to eat it herself, somehow.

As a child, Emma had had a phobia of putting cutlery items inside her mouth as she ate, alongside other issues associated with a fear of both saliva and choking. Though she no longer had this phobia, she had definitely fallen into the habit of slurping certain foods off the edge of the spoon. That didn’t seem like a good idea right now. Feeling as though she was somehow trying to learn how to eat for the first time in her life, Emma tried to copy the way Princess Bunty ate the soup.

But by the time Bunty was finished, Emma had barely managed half of her own, even though she’d sneakily dished herself out a smaller portion, knowing she often struggled to get food down anywhere close to regular human speed.

The conversation was interesting, at least, and she did feel some of anxiety slip away as she became absorbed in it. She forgot about her soup.

A point that interested her in particular was how Princess Bunty described feeling as though she was an introvert, even as she was aware others perceived her as an extrovert; a feeling Emma related to strongly.

“When I’m at a social event, or perhaps a munch,” Bunty said, “People will see me going about and talking to loads of different people. So they think I’m really social and outgoing. But it’s because when I start feeling awkward talking to someone, I just say ‘oh! There’s someone over there I need a word with!’ and go and talk to someone else. When that happens enough times, I end up talking to loads of people, and so everyone thinks I’m really extroverted.”

“I also hate public speaking,” Bunty said.

Emma couldn’t help expressing some surprise there; Princess Bunty did not seem like someone who would struggle with public speaking. She was a munch leader, for a start. But then, Emma was quite aware of how she herself was perceived in her persona as a folk music and dance performer; extroverted, outgoing, confident presenting to groups. When inside she so often felt as though she wanted to just bury her face in a pillow and simply hide until everything was over.

When things got embarrassing, Emma liked to cover by acting extra silly or ridiculous.  And I probably shouldn’t have admitted that out loud, she thought, moments after she said as much.

“Sit down and eat your dinner,” Princess Bunty told her.

Flushing, Emma slipped back into her seat. She’d barely realised she’d stood up as she’d been talking; as she often did when she got carried away.

“Actually, I think I’m done,” she said, hastily gathering the bowls, and putting the rest of her soup in the fridge to finish another time.

Now, this was the moment when she definitely did not know what to do with herself. There was no more dinner to eat, and no more table between them. Did Princess Bunty also feel awkward or nervous? She didn’t seem like it, and if she was, it was impossible to tell. Emma thought back over the conversation, and wondered to what degree Bunty was faking confidence as she sat on Emma’s sofa.

Emma sat on her coffee table. It was a weird choice of seat, but she’d panicked.

Her usual preference was to sit cross-legged but that didn’t seem appropriate on the coffee table given that she was wearing a mid-thigh-length dress with no tights or leggings.

A chronic overthinker, Emma had left no detail un-overthunk, and the dress had been carefully considered. She was not entirely sure if Bunty would intend to spank her that evening, but she felt she ought to be prepared just in case, and had spent way too much time agonizing over whether it would be worse and more embarrassing to wear trousers, which would need to be pulled down, or solve the issue and simply wear a dress that could be flipped up. The trousers felt more protective; the dress more vulnerable. But the dress might spare her the cringeworthy agony of a longer drawn out period of undressing, including zips and buttons, not to mention belts; for many of Emma’s trousers wouldn’t stay up without one.  She’d settled on the dress.

“Oh!” she said, finding an excuse to get up off the table. “I need to show you this book. Since you have an interest in insects. Well, creepy crawlies and stuff probably, if you like spiders.” She grabbed a book off her shelf and held it up. “Harry The Poisonous Centipede.”

She could see Bunty was confused by this turn in the conversation, but Emma pushed on, unable to hide her grin as she flipped open the book. “It’s a kids’ book,” she clarified. “Maybe reading age 10 or so. It’s about this poisonous centipede called Harry. I read it as a kid, and I remember liking it. I was going through my books recently and I came across this chapter…” She handed the open book over so that Bunty could read the chapter title: “George Gets a Spanking.”

Princess Bunty’s eyebrows rose, and Emma watched in delight as Bunty read the page with the same slightly shocked and horrified expression she was sure had been on her own face when she’d rediscovered it.

“It’s basically centipede spanking porn,” Emma said. “As much detail as I put in my stories! I’m surprised they published it; it was written in the 90s!”

“Twenty-one spanks on one side, and twenty-one more on the other,” Princess Bunty read aloud, as the book described how the mother-centipede spanked the naughty centipede once with each of her forty-two feet. “Forty-two spanks altogether!”

Bunty paused and looked up. “That’s how many spanks I give,” she said.

“Because you’re actually a centipede?” Emma joked, feeling a strange nervousness rise from the direction of conversation. The time had come to cover her awkwardness with silliness.

“No,” Bunty said.

“Because it’s life the universe and everything?” Emma made the Hitchhiker’s Guide reference.

“No, and actually I give 43 spanks now.”

“Oh… why?”

“Well, I used to give one spank for every year of age of the young lady across my knee. But then I decided it’s rude to ask a lady their age. So I spank my age.”

“Oh…” Emma said again, her mouth feeling a little dry.

“So young lady,” Bunty continued, putting the book aside and making solid eye contact. “Are you going to go over my knee?”

“Uh…”

At some point, Emma had somehow managed to back into the corner, and she stood there now, staring wide eyed across the room at Princess Bunty, and clutching the bookcase for support. 

Her mind became flooded with every spanking experience she’d ever had; it wasn’t much. Once, she’d bent over a table while someone gave her a dozen swats. Another time, she’d half bent over a bed for a handful of smacks with a wooden spoon. There were a small handful of other encounters like these, and there had been playful spanks and swatting with friends over the years. She’d messed about with a riding crop and a dressage whip, and done slapstick comedy scenes that involved spanks and butt kicks.

A decade ago, she’d had a friendship with a spanko at university. They’d both been bottoms and Emma had been pushed into Topping. Badly. She remembered giggling awkwardly as her friend complained she wasn’t hitting hard enough.

She’d tried self spanking too, and had succeeded in turning her bottom quite red. It had felt wholly unsatisfying though.

She’d never gone over someone’s lap before.

Princess Bunty patted her lap encouragingly. “I know you’re inexperienced, and we’ve not played together before. So if you want to use a safe word, like red, I will acknowledge it and stop. But if you say anything that is a stop word, like “no” or “wait” or “stop,” then I will also acknowledge that at face value, and we will stop.”

“Ok,” Emma agreed. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“When you go over my lap,” Bunty continued patiently, “I usually spank skirt up, panties down. But we don’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”

“I think that would be ok if you did,” Emma squeaked, hanging onto the book case and looking at it as though it might offer her some sort of assistance.

“Well come on then.”

“I need a nervous pee,” Emma said hastily, before dashing from the room. Had Princess Bunty smirked?

Bunty was waiting in the same position when Emma returned. “Come on then,” she said, patting her lap again.

Emma took a hesitant step forwards. Then she faltered, and did a sort of anxious stumbling dance as she tried to work out how exactly she was supposed to actually go over Bunty’s lap. It seemed strangely far away.

“I want your knees here, and your head here,” Bunty said, indicating as she spoke.

Awkwardly, Emma managed it.

The sofa was too short.

The arms were high and solid, and she couldn’t flop onto her front and bury her face into the seat cushion as she wanted to. Her legs had to remain bent at the knee, due to the other arm.

She covered her face with her hands as she felt Bunty moving her about and trying to adjust the position.

“You comfy?”

“Sort of,” Emma squeaked, sliding her head and upper body off the sofa to give her space to stretch out around and beyond the arm of it. Bunty put a hand on the back of her thigh and tugged it into a different position.

Then Bunty’s hand was rubbing over her back, smoothing her dress, and then rubbing over her bottom as well. It felt… nice. But she was still tense. She tensed even further as she felt her dress flipped up, and her underwear tugged down. She clenched in anticipation, acutely aware of being bare over Bunty’s lap.

“Relax.”

“I am!” Emma protested at once, indignantly. Her voice came out higher pitched than she’d have liked.

“You’re not.”

Emma wanted to groan in her embarrassment, but she managed to resist the urge. Instead, she let herself relax slightly.

The most unexpected thing when the spanking began was how loud it was. It seemed to echo around the room.

It hurt, but not too much. Somehow both more and less than Emma had expected. She’d mentally braced after being told too many times that no matter what she expected, it would always hurt more. But even while it didn’t really seem too painful at all – at least not yet – she couldn’t help being mildly taken by surprise by how hard Bunty’s palm seemed to feel.

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, so she decided to do nothing. She just stayed very still.

Unexpectedly, she felt herself getting the giggles.

“What do you think the neighbours will think I’m up to,” she asked, twisting round to see Bunty’s face. More giggles escaped even as the smacks continued to rain down. “Who’s hammering at this hour?!” Emma exclaimed, trying to imitate a potential neighbour who might be overhearing.

Bunty laughed a little at the impression but it didn’t stop her hand from continuing to fall. Almost deafeningly, it seemed.

There was a pause and Bunty was rubbing her hand over Emma’s bottom again. She squeezed it and Emma pushed her face back into wherever in the sofa it seemed possible to hide. It had already been occurring to her that she might have a horrid bottom, and now it was occurring to her even more. Bunty didn’t seem to find it gross though, at least.

“You’ve got some lovely marks coming up,” Princess Bunty commented.

“Do I?” Emma looked round in surprise. She hadn’t expected that, but she felt a little bit secretly pleased.

Bunty’s hand traced along her side, making her suddenly flinch and squirm as it tickled.

“Oh, are you ticklish?”

An exclamation mark seemed almost to appear in Emma’s head. The tickling sensation had both panicked and thrilled her. She also did not miss the tone in Bunty’s voice; the question had sounded almost innocent, but there was a hint of sadistic delight from having made Emma react.

Emma wriggled, feeling embarrassed to be doing so while in this strangely intimate position.

“What was it your friend wrote on your wall?” Bunty asked, her fingers creeping dangerously close to Emma’s tickle-spots along her sides.

Emma gasped indignantly. There was no meekness in her voice now as she twisted round to exclaim with feeling, “Oh! Carrie is such a… a brat!”

Princess Bunty laughed. It was a warm laugh. Emma liked her laugh. But now she was too embarrassed to do anything else but try and hide her face once more.

Carrie was a spanko friend of Emma’s. They had connected online originally, but had opened up over time with each other with their ‘real life’ selves. Carrie had watched Emma begin to connect with her local scene, and seen her activity on fetlife. Hoping to eventually land her in a tight spot, Carrie had made a post on Emma’s fetlife wall beginning with, “Some good Emma tips…” and advising that people should try to embarrass her, as she ‘likes it’ and also tickle her “till she pleads and promises to do absolutely anything!”

“Don’t kick, sweetheart, there are drinks on the table behind your feet.”

From the way Princess Bunty said it, you’d never have guessed she was the one intentionally making Emma wiggle, squirm, and kick as she continued to investigate where she was ticklish. Emma was mortified, and her brain was also in turmoil. There was a part of her that wanted to try and roll off Bunty’s lap to escape and protect all her vulnerable spots. But also a part of her that wished Bunty would be… more sadistic about it.

Princess Bunty was patting her bottom again.

“Are you ready for the hard ones now?” Bunty asked.

“Uh… yes?”

Oh… Emma thought. Had the smacks Bunty had just been landing not been ‘hard ones’ then? She was also too embarrassed to admit she had thought the spanking part might be over. Her bottom definitely felt very warm. Maybe even hot. But not exactly… in pain.

“I’m going to give you 43; one for each year of my age, remember?”

“Oh… yes.”

Emma closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly. The first smack took her slightly by surprise. Somehow Bunty’s hand seemed to be able to cover a larger area of her bottom than she might have anticipated. Unsure what she should be doing, she just tried to remain very still again.

Strangely, it was yet again simultaneously worse but also not as bad as expected. Somehow, the hand spanks felt harder than she had imagined they might be able to, and yet pain did not seem to be an issue.

“Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three!” Bunty counted the last three smacks out loud, almost triumphantly.  

Emma sighed, and then shuffled about slightly. Once again, she was unsure what she was supposed to do. Should she get up? She felt a little light headed.  

“You can stay there for a minute,” Bunty said. She stroked Emma’s back again; it wasn’t ticklish this time, but soothing.

Recently, Emma had been reading Jillian Keenan’s book, “Sex with Shakespeare.” Much of Jillian Keenan’s writing resonated strongly with her, and a particular section came to her mind then, where Jillian describes her first spanking, from a man called John:

“If I’m honest, that first spanking, as cathartic as it was, was also a mild disappointment. It just didn’t quite match my fantasies. (Fetishes are nothing if not detailed to the point of absurdity.) It didn’t hurt as much as I wanted it to, for one. John, to his credit, had proceeded with caution – it was our first time, and it’s far better to hurt someone too little than hurt her too much. I was also disappointed that I didn’t cry that night. Years later, I would learn that many spanking fetishists regard tears as comparable to orgasms – desirable, but elusive.”

Emma thought of Jillian Keenan now. It resonated with her, though her experience didn’t match exactly; the spanking had certainly not been a disappointment. And she had not expected to cry; she knew what made her cry, and pain alone was rarely something that could. But she just couldn’t work out exactly how she felt, or how she was supposed to feel.

In fact, one large emotion she felt was simply relief. Relief she hadn’t hated it.

One of her possibly more irrational fears was that, despite spending more hours of the day than she cared to admit fantasising about being spanked over someone’s knee, Emma worried she might find out she actually hated it after all if she ever actually did ever manage to receive a ‘proper’ spanking. She could have been entirely wrong about herself. She had been afraid she might discover she was not a spanko after all, but was simply confused, or misled. Or that her fantasies were so far away from reality that it was not what she wanted after all.

This was not the first time she had experienced such emotion related to her sexuality. In her teens and even early 20s, she had often wondered if she really was a lesbian, or if perhaps she’d just made herself believe she was one. Perhaps because she wanted to be one. Societal rhetoric had gotten to her, and made her wonder if perhaps it really was just ‘a phase’.

But it was not a phase, and neither was the spanking thing, she was sure. Even more sure now.

Like John, in Jillian Keenan’s description of him, Princess Bunty had proceeded with caution. She was patient, and reassuring, and had asked questions to check in about how Emma was feeling. For that, Emma was glad.

Had the scene been written as one of Emma’s fictional stories, no doubt she would have written a harder scene. Or at least written in some tears. But that would be just a fantasy.

A careful first scene was something Emma appreciated, and though there was that dark part of herself who secretly wished it could have gone on to the point of raw skin and tears, she also knew that in reality, she would have lost some respect for Bunty, had she been so harsh in what was effectively an introductory session.

“I want to… see what it looks like,” Emma admitted, blushing furiously as she sat on the coffee table once more. The hard wood pressed up against her warm bottom.

“Go on then,” Princess Bunty urged, looking entertained.

“It’s embarrassing!”

“Why is it embarrassing?”

“It just is!”

“Go on, look in the mirror silly.”

Sighing, and with a little dramatics to cover her awkwardness, Emma hiked her dress back up and pulled her pants back down, twisting to look in the mirror that hung on her wall. She didn’t really have any particular image in her mind of what to expect, so she simply admired what she saw. It was definitely very red, and Bunty had been right about marks coming up.

For the rest of the evening, they sat on the sofa together, with Emma’s legs across Bunty’s lap. The conversation topic varied, and Princess Bunty tried to tickle Emma’s feet. They were ticklish; but not as much as the rest of her.

“You’ll get a bigger reaction if you try somewhere else…” Emma said.

It seemed counter-intuitive, but she somehow was feeling less nervous of Bunty, now that she had been spanked by her. Strange, she thought, to in fact find a person less scary once they’ve put you over their knee. But it was as though a barrier had been broken; Bunty’s palm had smashed right through it.

Then, she was struggling frantically for several seconds as Bunty’s fingers attacked her sides and ribs.

“I need to go soon,” Bunty said. “I need to drive home.”

Inconveniently, she lived around 20 miles away.

“Yeah, and it’s almost past my bedtime,” Emma joked. It wasn’t even 10pm.

“What time do you go to bed?” Bunty asked.

Emma laughed awkwardly, and hedged. “What time do I actually go to bed?” She asked. “Or what time do I try to go to bed?”

“I think you’d better tell me both,” Bunty said.

Emma frowned, and answered honestly. “Well, I try to go to bed by 12:30,” she said. Then she paused before admitting, “But it’s usually closer to 12:50. Sometimes later. Sometimes really late. Like 2am. But usually like 12:50… yeah.”

“And what makes you end up missing your bedtime?”

Emma sighed. The tone had definitely changed. “The internet, mostly,” she admitted. She talked about how she just got chatting to people, and it was difficult to disengage.

In retrospect she should have seen this coming. But she didn’t expect what happened next.

“So, would you say it’s a good idea that you should have all your devices off by midnight?”

“Um… pardon?”

Was Princess Bunty introducing a rule? Jillian Keenan’s words from her book “Sex with Shakespeare,” came to Emma again: “There’s a kind of kinesis that happens between submissives and dominants when a rule is introduced. It’s good.”

She tried to focus on the conversation.

“But I said my bedtime is 12:30,” she heard herself protesting, rather indignantly. “Not midnight!”

“You don’t have to go to bed right away at midnight. You said your bedtime is 12:30 so off your devices at 12 is reasonable.”

Emma didn’t answer. She just looked back at Bunty with a defiant expression. Suddenly, her feet were lifted up into the air, and she tumbled backwards on the sofa.

Bunty’s hand smacked several times against her still very sore bottom. “I am still able to spank you in this position, young lady,” she warned.

“Ah ow! Ok!” Emma squealed. “Ok! I’ll turn my devices off by 12!”

“Good girl.”

Emma pouted. She rarely showed displays of temper or dramatic upset, but could occasionally get into a sort of sulky bad mood. She wasn’t exactly in a bad mood now, but she was feeling a little bit sulky.

And confused. She wanted a rule. Sort of. It was just much easier to think about how much she wanted it when it didn’t actually exist for her to have to actually follow.

“Are you ok?” Bunty asked, prodding her lightly.

“Mmhm,” Emma nodded, though her tone was non-committal. She felt more than a little embarrassed for her sulky pouty side to have surfaced right then.

Then she flailed as Bunty tickled her ribs again. She tried to twist away, but she wasn’t in a good position to be able to escape. Her modesty was forgotten as she struggled frantically; the bottom of her short dress rising above her hips.

“Be a good girl,” Bunty said, when she left.

Alone, Emma didn’t know what to do with herself. She changed quickly out of the dress and into the sweatpants and t-shirt she intended to sleep in. Then she paced a little, trying to make sense of her thoughts and emotions. She looked at her bottom in the mirror a few more times than she’d probably like to admit.

Her WhatsApp pinged at 11:40 from Princess Bunty: “11.40pm… midnight in 20 minutes young lady!”

Emma groaned and rubbed her face with her hands. There was a small part of her that wanted to test this rule, at least a little bit. But a bigger part of her was actually very tired. And she also thought it didn’t seem like a good idea to try testing things so soon. Especially while her bottom as still so freshly spanked. Yes, she had got what she wanted… and reality definitely hurt more than fantasy!

“I will log off by midnight,” she agreed.

“Good girl,” Princess Bunty wrote. “Night night. sweet dreams xx”

Emma shook her head at herself. It was pathetic that being called a ‘good girl’ could make her feel so happy in such a silly way.

She did keep the rule that night.

But whether she would be so successful going forwards…

Remains to be seen.........

One thing that Emma quickly learned about Princess Bunty was that trying to argue or debate with her was like trying butt up against a brick wall. It never succeeded in getting her anywhere, and often ended painfully.

It was not that Bunty was inconsiderate. In fact, she was very kind, caring, and understanding. It was simply that she refused to engage with Emma’s nonsense when it came to silly loop-hole questions, or excuses. Especially about bedtimes.

Also, she owned a nasty wooden clothes brush.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! No more naughty questions about bedtime!” Emma’s feet drummed against her mattress as she kicked her feet in response to the clothes brush being applied across her bare bottom. She gasped her promises of good behaviour breathlessly into the sheets as she lay over Princess Bunty’s lap.

“What’s this?” Bunty asked, tapping Emma’s leg with the brush when it kicked back too far. “Put that leg down. Was that a grump?” she added, as Emma groaned.

“No. Sorry. Ow!” Emma buried her face in her hands, and kept her kicking lower.

“I’m a masochist,” Jillian Keenan had written in her book, ‘Sex with Shakespeare’. “But pain is pain.”

Emma was into spanking and discipline. She wanted spankings. In theory. But sometimes the reality of them was not quite like the fantasy… this hurt!

Clutching the sheets, she pressed her face back into the mattress and tried to remember to breathe.

Emma couldn’t even complain that this spanking was unfair. She wasn’t sure Bunty could exactly be described as ‘lenient’ but she was at least fair, and the truth was that this was well-earned.

She had known, when she’d asked if she could ‘bank time’ by going to bed early one night and staying up late the next, that the answer would be no. She had admitted as much when questioned, and confessed that she’d simply asked the question to get a reaction. That had been a bad idea.

It hadn’t been the only naughty question she’d asked either, and she’d also made a fuss about her bedtime generally, on a number of occasions over the last few nights.

Emma had a lot of bad ideas.

Not very long after the bedtime device rule was first established, and several weeks before the clothes brush incident, she had the bad idea to create a chart to help track her bedtimes. That was most definitely a mistake.

But perhaps the bigger mistake had been purposefully waiting until less than 10 minutes before her bedtime on the first Friday that came up before asking if there could be a different rule for the weekend.

The rule said she had to be off her devices by midnight, and that she could not turn them on again for at least 8 hours from when she logged off; the latter part had been added after she’d confessed to looking at her phone in the early hours of the morning; another mistake.

“Sorry I was a bit of a ‘brat’ last night,” Emma apologised on Saturday morning over WhatsApp. “I did legit wonder about bedtime on weekends but I also did purposefully wait until an inappropriate time to bring it up (10 mins to midnight so that no conversation could happen due to the time).”

She’d hoped she might be in the clear, having still actually gone to bed on time. However, she soon found herself blushing and squirming uncomfortably as Bunty informed her over audio chat that “there are other situations that might cause you to earn a spanking, which is exactly what happened last night. Because yes, you did go to bed on time, but the fact that you brought up that question — which was actually a good point — but that fact that you brought it up knowingly, purposefully, naughtily, 10 minutes before the deadline; that’s what earned you a spanking.”

That had also resulted in the establishment of the ‘general misdemeanors’ column on the chart.

“Because I think it’s the in-between-the-rules parts where we might have issues,” Bunty had said. “And I have a feeling that there might be quite a lot of these, Emma.”

Emma did try to be good though, and Princess Bunty did acknowledge how, when there were set rules, she did a good job of adhering to them. In the first month of the bedtime device rule being in effect, she only actually broke it once, when she checked her phone calendar after going to bed.  

But yes, there were still those parts in between the rules.

In that first month, she’d received various consequences for her ‘general misdemeanors’ including a strike of the cane for her attitude. In retrospect, “fine!” had probably not been the most polite or sensible way to respond to an instruction.

“I think my bum is going to be bruised for the rest of my life,” Emma lamented to one of her friends, who also knew Princess Bunty. “I’m just no good at being good.”

“Are you two in a relationship now then?”

“Um…” Emma frowned. “I… I mean, I don’t know? I know that sounds like a weird thing to say. I mean, we’ve not discussed it. So… I don’t think so?”

“Well you’re clearly in some sort of dynamic.”

“Are we?”

“You have a bedtime chart.”

“Good point.”

“Do you still play with other people?”

“Well, I mean I don’t have anyone else to do stuff with at the moment anyway. I presume she does, and I don’t think she’d care if I did. That’s not a good way of telling though, since I don’t think either of us are monogamous minded anyway, so I’m not sure it’d make a difference.”

“You should ask her.”

“Ask her what?”

“If you’re in a relationship. Or what your dynamic is.”

“I don’t want to ask,” Emma said. “Cause then… she might say we’re not anything. There’s nothing there and she just likes spanking people. I dunno. She’s very sweet. She put me to bed. Nicely. I mean, after she spanked me… With a horrible clothes brush. It doesn’t matter anyway, if we are or not, I guess.”

“She put you to bed?”

Emma blushed profusely. For a moment her memory flashed back to Bunty sitting beside her on the bed as she tried to get comfortable under the covers. It was barely 11pm. Despite the heat and raw soreness radiating from her freshly spanked bottom, she’d been prepared to try one last small piece of resistance to the early bedtime, when Bunty had leaned down and kissed the top of her head. It was as if her resistance instantly melted.

“Yes,” Emma answered her friend’s question, still blushing at the memory.

“Well there must be something going on between you!”

“Ok, well. Like I said, I don’t know. It’s embarrassing. Being put to bed, I mean.”

“I think it’s cute.”

“You would.”

“Princess Bunty Princess Bunty Princess Bunty,” Emma typed into WhatsApp the next evening. “Just seeing if saying your name 3 times makes you appear,” she wrote.

“Hey Emma, I’m going to call.”

Emma flushed; it was a mixture of being pleased and embarrassed. She knew she was being a little attention seeking. She hadn’t really expected it to work so well.

“Hello!” she said a little too cheerfully as she scrambled to answer the phone. She paced as she took the call, feeling too restless to remain sitting down. “I’m writing a sequel to the story about you by the way. It’s called Princess Bunty Is A Meanie. Actually, I was going to call it Emma Is Always Good and Never Misbehaves, Ever, and Princess Bunty Is A Meanie. But that seemed too long. I thought you’d disapprove about the length of that title.”

“Yes, that’s the part I disapprove of,” Bunty said, sarcastically. 

It was nice to talk, and catch up about various things, and it ended with Emma promising to be good; or at least try to.

“The problem when I don’t see you for a week, is they end up accumulating,” she sighed, as they talked about the spankings and penalties she’d earned; she was another one up as of that phone call, for purposefully trying to wind Bunty up over the phone.

“Yes, so I suggest you try and behave yourself, or you’ll end up with another harsh hairbrushing, which you enjoyed so much the last time, didn’t you?”

“Mmhm… Ok yes… I’ll try to be good.”

“Good girl.”

One of Emma’s favourite authors was Tamora Pierce. In her book ‘First Test’, about a 10-year-old girl called Keladry entering knight-training in a medieval-like fantasy world, she introduces the character Nealan of Queenscove; a 15-year-old bookworm with a sarcastic sense of humour who, in great contrast to Kel’s unwavering calmness, is prone to dramatics. Nevertheless, the pair form a close friendship which continues into adulthood as the series goes on.

Emma related strongly to Neal, and if there was any fictional character in whom she saw her worldview and personality reflected, it was him.

Sometimes, Emma wished she could be more like Kel.

Kel is patient, brave, selfless, strong, and extremely self-motivated. When she feels angry, she imagines a lake, ‘its surface as smooth as glass’. When her room is trashed by the boys who don’t want a girl to train with them, she doesn’t take revenge. She cleans up.

But Emma wasn’t Kel. She was Neal; rash, argumentative, and always in some sort of trouble. Five years older than the other knights-to-be at the beginning of his training, he doesn’t quite fit in.

“And I am a terrible obeyer,” Neal says, during an exchange with the training master, in the scene where Kel first meets him. “All these inconvenient arguments spring to mind, and I just have to make them.”

“You need a damn good spanking when I see you on Wednesday,” Princess Bunty said.

“Does that mean I might as well just be super naughty then?” Emma quipped, feeling a funny fluttering in her stomach. “If I’m getting spanked anyway.”

That was a bad idea to ask, she thought.

“What that a bad idea to ask?” she asked. It was like she couldn’t stop herself. More questions popped out as she panicked, and tried to work out exactly where she stood. “What if I’m good until Wednesday? What if I’m extra naughty? What if I just stay up all night? And everyone who says I’m naughty is lying. They need their mouths soaped.”

“You’ll get extra, extra hard hairbrush spankings if you stay up. And stop telling me everyone needs a mouthsoaping or I’ll give you a mouthsoaping.”

“I wasn’t the first person to bring up soap.” Emma felt a little sulky how that suggestion had come back to bite her.

“Do try to behave, little one.”

“Yes miss, sorry,” Emma backtracked quickly, regretting all her questions, as usual, only after she’d asked them and it was too late to go back. “I’m going to go to bed now anyway. I get rash when tired”

“Good idea, darling girl.”

“I do try to be good. Sometimes.”

“I know.”

“I feel like I want to be naughty,” Emma confessed to her friend Xen the next evening over an instant messaging app. Her bedtime was coming up fast.

“Why?”

“I don’t knooooww”

She wasn’t being whiny, she told herself. Ok, maybe just a little.

“Do you want me to help or ‘help’?”

“Curious about both suggestions,” Emma wrote, though she could already guess what Xen’s ‘helpful’ suggestion might be.

“You have a bedtime, don’t you? So if you DO want to get in trouble, I suggest you hop back on zoom.” Emma had just exited a group video call, knowing she needed to wind down a bit before getting ready to sleep. “But in my experience, it probably isn’t worth it.”

“Yeah…” Emma sighed as she typed. “I would rather get ‘in trouble’ by being ‘naughty’ like by being silly. Rather than breaking this rule. I guess I was just… Attention seeking Emma. I want attention so my naughty brain is like: Do something naughty and get attention. But it won’t even work because I won’t get the attention now, when I want it. I’ll get it when I’d next get it anyway. And then it won’t be good attention. I’m trying to talk myself into being good, as you can see.”

“Yes, there’s the fear-like thrill feeling when you get yourself in trouble… but when you get yourself in real trouble, you just end up feeling kind of sick.”

“Yes… Ok fiiiine, I’ll try and be good…”

“I’m glad but also disappointed.”

“Yeah sigh… I am going to bed now.”

“Good night Emma!”

When you get yourself in real trouble, you just end up feeling kind of sick.

Emma thought about that, as she lay in bed that night.

Being in trouble was something she obsessed over, of course. She wrote an entire blog of stories about people getting in trouble, and generally getting spanked for it. But being in trouble was also something that sort of terrified her.

It wasn’t necessarily the consequence that worried her. Not exactly. It was as much the feeling of being in trouble itself.

Emma had been a ‘good kid’ in school. Quiet, shy, and always performing just that little bit above average to place her in the sweet spot of optimal invisibility.

But once, she got a detention.

It was for talking during the register. A boy in her class had been kicking Emma under the table and she’d been trying to tell him to leave her alone.

At 9 years old, it was the first and last time Emma ever got in enough trouble at school to receive a consequence for it, other than occasions where the entire class was collectively punished for something.

Like how Xen described; she had felt sick. As soon as the teacher informed her of the detention, a sort of cold feeling of dread washed over her, and she could feel her body faintly shaking. Her hands felt trembly as she tried to continue with her morning lessons, and her throat felt tight. She didn’t cry, but she wanted to.

It wasn’t that a detention was so terrible a thing, in terms of the punishment itself. Emma had not been set specific work, which meant she’d be required to take a book and read.  That’s what Emma used to do at lunchtime anyway; she frequently used to take her book to the edge of the playground, sit down, and read.

So, it wasn’t about losing her lunchtime, or being made to sit and read in a classroom that upset her. It was the very fact that she was In Trouble that mortified her so much, and she was mildly surprised to see the world was not physically crashing down around her.

She felt like she was now a ‘bad kid’ and feared she might never live it down. She hated to imagine how she must look in the teacher’s eyes; naughty enough to be given a detention. She felt as though a spotlight was on her, and a giant arrow, pointing out how bad she was.

It was not until Emma had finished high school that she could bring herself to admit to her mother that she had ever received that detention, all those years ago. Guilt nudged at her whenever her mother commented how she well behaved she was at school, and how she’d never gotten in trouble. “She doesn’t know…” she thought. By the time she admitted it, she felt silly for ever thinking it was such a big deal.

Emma wasn’t 9 years old anymore. She was no longer as shy as she had been, and she certainly wasn’t as quiet. At age 30, she still had a tendency to catastrophize, and she never quite lost of fear of getting in trouble, but it wasn’t quite the same fear she’d held as a kid. Sometimes getting in a little trouble could be fun.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” Princess Bunty asked her.

“No.”

Emma sucked her breath in at the hard stinging smack Bunty landed in response to that.

“No?!” Bunty asked, in disbelief, smacking Emma again, just as hard. “Are you going to be a good girl?” she asked again, her tone taking on a warning edge.

Emma wiggled a little from the growing heat in her bottom as she lay over Princess Bunty’s lap. Bunty’s hand was surprisingly hard, but luckily lacked the bruising force of the clothes brush. Though Emma had received a short series of penalty swats for some recent brattiness, she had generally been keeping to her rules, and Bunty had acknowledged this by leaving the awful brush at home.

“Maybe,” Emma managed, not quite wanting to commit to saying yes, but deciding not to risk another outright ‘no’.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” This time, Princess Bunty punctuated the question with a hard smack at each word, making Emma gasp a little. She scrunched up her toes, but resisted kicking.

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll try,” Bunty stated. From the way she said it, she didn’t sound entirely impressed by the answer.

“Yes,” Emma insisted. “I’ll try to be good.”

There were a few more spanks, then Emma felt her bottom being rubbed for a few moments, and then her tights and underwear being pulled back up. “You are a good girl.”

“Mhmm…”

Emma closed her eyes and relaxed, even as Bunty began to spank her again over her tights and underwear. These weren’t hard smacks though, and didn’t really hurt too much. Sometimes Bunty’s hand rubbed instead of spanking, and sometimes she traced her nails along the backs of Emma’s legs.

It had been a nice evening, with a nice dinner, and a lot of different conversation topics. She was sleepy now, and it felt sort of warm and cosy to lie over Bunty’s lap like this. Being spanked seemed to lower her inhibitions, and though she had felt her embarrassment keenly as she had got into position, she now felt quite comfortable, and a little dozy.   

Princess Bunty continued to spank her bottom.

“If you stay there, I’m going to just keep doing this.”

“Mmm, that’s why I’m staying here,” Emma mumbled into the sofa, blushing slightly as she said it.

A few more spanks, and then a slightly harder smack landed on the back of her thigh.

“Ok, you need to go brush your teeth and get ready for bed. Go on.”

Emma sighed and slid off Bunty’s lap until she was kneeling on the floor for a moment, before getting up to do as she was told. She snuck a look at her bottom in the bathroom mirror. It was quite red, and hot to the touch, but not especially marked or bruised looking; not even close to how it had looked after her meeting with the clothes brush. That time, she had stared at raw skin and bruises in the mirror days after the fact. This had been a nice spanking.

She thought about that, and of a post Princess Bunty had recently made online, in response to some wild accusations about Emma’s recent behaviour, which had been gleefully reported to Bunty by some other brats in the local scene.

“I have clearly been neglecting my charge,” Princess Bunty had written, “and the young girl has become willful and disobedient. I shall of course do my best to take her in hand and give her bottom the spanking she so desperately needs to keep her on the straight and narrow.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Princess Bunty had said, when Emma professed her innocence later, a little indignantly, to some of the things she had been accused of. She was worried Bunty might genuinely believe she’d been telling lies, as per the accusations. “I know you don’t tell me fibs. Other brats are your worst enemy; they love getting people in trouble! You’re probably safer to mess about around Tops or Dommes than in front of other brats.”

Emma had a sneaking suspicion about Princess Bunty, which she thought about as she curled up against her for a cuddle before going to bed.

Her sneaking suspicion was this:

Princess Bunty liked to pretend to be a scary mean Top. She knew she intimidated people, and she loved it. She was a self-professed sadist with a lot of experience in making people squirm.

But, despite the title of this story, Princess Bunty was not really a meanie at all.

She was actually very sweet.

​

End Note: Princess Bunty would like it to be known she is not, in fact, sweet at all, and is actually a scary mean Domme just as you suspect.

I actually love all my spanko friends, but there are 3 in particular I’m thinking of as I write this as this weekend, I was lucky enough to be able to have a meet up with my friends Steph, Dani, and Arran.

​

We had a lovely couple of days where we got to hang out, go to the pub, go out for Mexican food, sit in the park on a sunny day, and generally have a lovely time.

But if you’re reading this blog, that’s not the part you want to hear about, is it? I bet you just want to hear about how Steph spanked my poor bottom until I couldn’t sit down (or move) without wincing.

​

By the way, this is the same Steph and Dani I wrote about once before, in my story Hot Buns at the Baker’s. Of course that was a fictional story, while this weekend was very real – and much more painful for my poor behind! We did have tea and baked goods though. So at least I correctly predicted that! I even baked some special spanko hairbrush and paddle cookies.

​

I also appear to have correctly predicted getting in a spot of trouble with my friend (I can’t help being naughty, it seems) and ending up over her knee!

​

I started off being good though. Well, good-ish. She called me back as I skipped ahead of her while walking around the town. Cheekily, I shot a grin back at her, and skipped a few extra steps further ahead.

“One.” She began counting in a business-like manner. Glancing back, I saw a meaningful look.  

​

I didn’t wait for her to get to “two.” I scuttled back to her side with an embarrassed and sheepish expression before she had the chance. When I’m in a bottom headspace, I can be easily intimidated, or strongly affected by scolding from the right person.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” she said, grinning in a slightly evil manner. She took my hand as we crossed the road.

Probably for the best I hadn’t skipped off, to be honest, as sense of direction is not one of my strongest points. Ok, yes, I’m a little prone to getting lost! I mean, I’m very prone to getting lost!

“Which station is it I’m supposed to get off at again?” I had messaged from the train that morning, in reply to her telling me she was waiting at the station.

Before you think I’m really extra bad at directions and did not even know where I was travelling to, you should know there were two stations in a row called the same thing but one with ‘north’ after the town name. I suddenly wasn’t sure which one was my stop.

​

“If you get lost first thing, and I have to come and find you, it’s not gonna mean comfortable things for your bottom…” She replied, after clarifying for me. Oh dear!

But luckily I did manage to get off at the right stop! Phew!

In the hotel where we stayed, we gathered our implements together in the afternoon. There was a lot!

And yes, Steph spanked me with just about everything – well, except the canes. We never did get to them in the end.

You see, I wasn’t quite so well behaved after all. And in retrospect, I probably should not have stuck my tongue out at her when she told me to face the wall – and put my nose against the post-it on which she had written my name.

There were no suitable corners due to the room layout, so nose-on-wall was the way to go. It also meant my ‘corner out of order’ signs didn’t get much use – though I think they did bring a little entertainment! 

Stoic at first when she spanked me, I wanted to be defiant and act like her hand, hairbrush, bath brush, spoon, strap, paddle, or scolding lines were not getting to me.

But after enough trips over her lap, interspersed with nose-on-wall time, I couldn’t control my reactions anymore. Pain overcame embarrassment and I squirmed, hissed, wriggled, kicked, and clutched at her leg for support.

“Give me your hand, sweetheart,” she said, as I squeezed her leg hard. I think perhaps with an embarrassed whimper, I slid my hand round onto the small of my back, where she put her hand in mine and squeezed back as I tightly held on.

I’d like to note that I got a pillow at the pub later, lots of cuddles, stickers, and also a bedtime spanking on my very sore bottom, which had me kicking from the very start, despite the fact it was a comparatively light hand spanking. My poor bottom was already very sore!

But after a bedtime story, and being tucked in, I slept reasonably well. Only reasonably, I say, as some other guests at the hotel were loudly stampeding up and down the corridor, banging doors (or so it sounded) and shouting in the early hours of the morning. But otherwise… I did sleep well.

And unlike Arran, who also got his fair share of spankings (also with just about all the implements) and turned out to be a massive brat (I say this in the best possible way, of course), I actually did learn my lesson!

A morning spanking kept it fresh in my mind how sore my bottom was, and how much it was not up to any further trouble or mischief.

“Your ass can’t cash that check,” I was reminded, when I wanted to be naughty, and struggled to be good. Especially when I didn’t want to have to leave to catch my train, and expressed my wish to have a tantrum.

But yes, I did manage to avoid further trouble! Probably for the best, considering the state of my butt. If you have a fetlife account, you can view evidence of that here, here, and here.

Anyway, I am home again now, and missing you all, my lovely spanko friends…

Dani, who is very sweet and I think (for this particular visit at least) may have been ‘the sensible one’.

Arran, who really brought out his inner brat (and paid for it).

And Steph, who can be very scary when she wants to be (and if you want her to be) but is actually very lovely (and let me use her lap as a pillow when I needed a nap).

Of course, we’ve all agreed to claim it was Dani who was the naughtiest if anyone asks.