Note: The second in a series. Pure spanking fetish, no sex in this chapter. I really appreciated your comments and support on my first story.
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How long does it take the recipient of a severe spanking to look back on the painful and mortifying experience with rose coloured glasses? To view it once again as desirable, if not absolutely necessary for their wellbeing? It took Emerson less than twenty-four hours. However, the next opportunity he had to experience it again in person would take over a month.
Emerson was back at that front door, clutching his elbow with his hand, eyes fixed on the wooden planks of the porch. Someone walked by the sidewalk behind him, and he prayed that this house and the services offered within were not common knowledge. It took forever for his future spanker to answer her door, as he checked over his shoulder repeatedly.
The door finally opened. The woman's makeup was subtle and she wore a modest white dress that went mid-calf. She reminded Emerson of a teacher he once had a crush on in high school. "Yes?" she asked. As if she didn't know.
Her name was Ms. Hartford, and she was listed online as a professional disciplinarian. There was no first name listed on her website, because guys like Emerson would never be permitted to use it, anyway. She would be Mrs. Hartford or she would be ma'am and there would be nothing more familiar than that.
He took a shaky breath in and then breathed out the phrase, "I'm here for my spanking, ma'am," so quickly and quietly that she made him do it again. A finger under his chin lifted his gaze to meet hers. The shyness was worse than the first time, because this time he signed up for a different experience. This time, he only checked boxes for his absolute limits, and so whatever would happen during his punishment session would be completely up to her. There was still a safe word, but Emerson knew it would take quite a lot for that. Just like last time, he needed this.
He reiterated his request, more slowly, clearly, so perfectly crisp that there would be no mistaking it. "I'm here for my spanking, ma'am." His shoulders involuntarily cringed at his own words. A flush crept across his cheeks and nose. Saying the word itself was shameful. So childish. She took him by the hand, leading him inside.
He stood facing her in the living room, head lowered. She held his paperwork, a painted fingernail tapping the printed pages as she read.
"It says here that you broke the blender, cleaned it up, put it back, and then pretended you had nothing to do with its demise."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You're twenty. I'm going to guess this didn't happen recently."
"I was about nine, ma'am."
"Your guilty conscience knows no bounds."
He looked at her, grinned for a fraction of a second, and looked back to the carpeted floor.
"How did you break it?"
"Tried to blend rocks."
"Did you know better, at the time?"
He winced. This line of questioning mattered, as did his honesty. Today, Emerson had absolutely no idea what would happen to his bottom and the answers he gave now might determine it.
His hands twitched, as though desiring to protect his posterior in advance. The more he explained, the worse his future became. "I was pretty sure it would break. I just wanted to see what would happen."
"Emerson, tell me, what crucial piece of information am I missing here? Why did you never let go of it eleven years later?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. "They blamed my sister. They wouldn't let her go on a field trip. She was devastated."
"Oh my. And you never said a single word in her defence?"
"No, ma'am. I didn't want to get in trouble."
"Corner," she snapped. It was a direct order, with a finger pointed to the corner in question. Emerson didn't nod or reply, but immediately walked to it, a sigh of shaky trepidation his only response.
He pressed his forehead against the intersection of the two walls, chilly against his skin. Waiting here for his punishment made it worse. To his right, he heard Ms. Hartford climbing the stairs. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew she had just added something more to his punishment. When she returned, he heard a clunk of a sound, something being put on the table. Today would not just be her hand, which was bad enough last time.
"Come here, young man."
Emerson turned to face her. It had only been a few minutes in the corner, and already she was beckoning him over. He took it as a sign that she might actually be fairly disappointed in him. On behalf of sisters everywhere, his bottom was going to absolutely get it.
She sat on the dreaded barstool again, which meant he'd be propped so high up that his feet and hands would not touch the carpet. It was especially shameful to lose even that small modicum of control. Just behind her chair, on the top of the bar, he saw a flat wooden hairbrush. He determined it to be thicker than any hairbrush ought to be, and the dread made him startle hard when she spoke again.
"Hands up, you know the drill."
Emerson put his hands on his head, letting Ms. Hartford unbutton and unzip his jeans. This part especially shamed him; the way she so formally stripped him of his dignity. Her hands found his waistband and tugged his denims to his ankles. Then she pulled his shirt higher up on his chest, tucking it temporarily under his arms. "You're going to learn a hell of a lesson today, Emerson."
He winced, and her fingers found the waistband of his underwear. With one firm yank he was naked before her, and he fought to keep his hands resting on his head. The air inside was cool on his naked skin.
"Over my knees," she commanded, a tug on his arm pulling him forward.
He lay down as ordered, his backside now presented for his spanking, his genitals pressed snugly against her dress. She rubbed him, as though smoothing down his skin in preparation, and he grimaced, and suddenly cried out, "I'm so sorry, ma'am!"
"Emerson," she said. "I haven't even started."
He squirmed, his arms dangling in front of him, legs dangling behind him. "I'm just so sorry," he repeated.
