The Work Spanking Program

Part four in a little consensual F/m series. This is pretty pure spanking fetish story with some anal discipline as an extra. Enjoy. All feedback super appreciated. :)

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Emerson felt like he was falling in some kind of love. Not the kind where he wanted to kiss her. It was something else, stranger, maybe deeper. He didn't know the word for it and didn't know who to ask. When he lay in bed at eleven, trying his best to sleep as ordered, he thought about nothing else but what the word for it might be. The word came to him, and maybe it was the wrong word, but he thought it might be 'keep.' He wanted Ms. Hartford to keep him. Keep him in line, keep him a good boy, maybe just keep him in general.

He couldn't afford to see her as much as he wanted. University students aren't known for their wealth. He began to devise a plan. He had a name for that too: A work-spanking program. He'd ask when the time seemed right.

He saw her twice more before he asked about work on the second visit. The first visit was for a poor grade in physics, his hardest course. She took pity on him that day. "You did your best, I think," she had said. "And you did pass." He only got a recuperative, sensual, and long hand-spanking over her lap, no corner time, and a lot of cuddles afterwards. The desire to be kept was even stronger than before, even though she wasn't nearly as strict as usual.

The second spanking was for staying up past the bedtime she set for him. He nearly fell asleep in class the next day because of it. This time, she was having none of it. He got a long thirty minutes standing and waiting in the corner with his pants and underwear down, and then got soundly spanked with the hairbrush until he was bawling over her knees. Ms. Hartford was serious about her rules. He knew why; he really had been doing better in university ever since he began to follow them.

So after that, and an ever-intensifying type of submissive little crush, he wanted more. He asked right in her arms before the tears were fully dried from his face. His bottom was still burning hot under his jeans. "Ms. Hartford? Do you have any work for me? Here? Please, ma'am? I can clean and take out the trash. Whatever you need."

"I see," she said. He bit his lip, worried that a 'no' would surely follow.

"I'll work for the full cost of a session, even if it takes all day, and-"

She kissed his forehead and he melted into silence. "Shush, I understand. I don't have work here for you. But, I do happen to know someone who needs help. Do you have Saturdays free?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. I know someone who has been looking for a helper. Cleaning, tidying, yard work. My neighbour, Mrs. Anderson. Every Saturday, go from nine until five with an hour lunch. No slacking off. You will do whatever chores she tells you to do, and you will be polite and obedient at all times. She's a very old lady and will not lay a finger on you, but you will have to answer to me if she has any complaints. Or I do. Understood?"

He couldn't agree fast enough.

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On his first Saturday, he cleaned Mrs. Anderson's entire house, top to bottom. Part of his job involved cleaning an entire cabinet of fine china. Every time he lifted something to wash, he pictured it shattering, Mrs. Anderson calling Ms. Hartford, and him being instantly bared and thrown over her knees. Right there in the dining room.

Maybe he wanted that, to be treated so carelessly, like a possession. To have his mistress have such little regard that she'd humiliate him like that. This entire time, working and knowing he had to be obedient at all times... it excited him. Not that he was constantly aroused, or ever while doing his cleaning, but it was the headspace. It was such menial labour and the threat of punishment constantly loomed over him. It was like Ms. Hartford was with him the whole time, and everything he cleaned and organized and polished was all for her. Thrilling.

His back and legs hurt a bit, and Mrs. Anderson seemed busy watching some soap operas. Just a little break. Who would notice? Emerson quickly lost track of time, playing a rather mindless puzzle game on his phone. But technically his work was done. The house was clean, every piece of fine china washed and dried and put back. Nothing broken. He earned this reward for finishing early. Didn't he?

He had no idea that Ms. Hartford would come to collect him herself. After five, Emerson thought he would go see her. And since he was so good at cleaning, he'd get a nice sensual maintenance spanking, erotic and not too painful. She might even turn him over, and gently stroke his-

A loud throat clear made him look up from his phone. Was it five o'clock already? She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned to his ear, and whispered, "I believe I said no slacking."

"But I finished, ma'am," he said.

"You were to work hard until five."

"I- I'm so sorry..."

"You've earned a very, very sound spanking, young man."

"But, please, please, check the house! I did my work! I-"

"Silence. Now," she said, her voice tight in her throat.

Mrs. Anderson had just walked into the kitchen when he blushed terribly red. Ms. Hartford wore a poker face, unlike Emerson. It was likely that her neighbour had absolutely no idea that he was about to be severely punished for slacking. She even complimented his work and politeness. Somehow, he doubted that would be enough to save his hide.

Once outside, she whispered a new rule to Emerson's ear. "When you walk with me in public, you stay a foot behind. Keep your head down. We are not equal and we do not walk beside each other."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. His upcoming punishment was reminder enough of that.

He was sure every car that passed contained people pointing and gawking. If only he could look up and see for himself.

The moment they went inside, Ms. Hartford only had one stern request.

"Give me your phone. Right now. Unlock it."

He handed it over, feeling his breath catching in his chest.

"What were you doing instead of working?"

"Um, uh," he stammered, flushing pink. "Playing a puzzle game."

"Oh my goodness. How long?"

"Just for a little while. But I finished all my chores!"

"Are you still bargaining? I said you'll work for her. If you had finished early she might have had something else you could have done. Clear the dishwasher, put in some laundry, take out the trash. She would have found you something. But you chose to slack off instead and decided you were done early."

"Yes ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

He swallowed, looking at how adept Ms. Hartford was with a phone. She found his screen time for the day, and she did it so quickly that he squeezed his eyes shut. He knew what was coming before it happened. "Three HOURS?" she shouted.

He was struggling to speak without stuttering. "S-some of that was at my lunch br-break, ma'am."

His work-spanking program was not starting off like he'd expected. Or maybe it was. Emerson was often confused about what he needed and wanted. He did, though, deeply want to please her. And right now she looked so frustrated with him. He looked down at his feet, guilt spreading like a sinking sensation through every vein in his body. Oh God, oh God, she was so mad.

"Emerson, it won't just be a spanking today. You're getting something a little extra."

They had exchanged new emails recently. Ms. Hartford said that due to Emerson's low pain tolerance he would benefit from some pure humiliation as punishment. One of her suggestions was some light anal discipline. It was exciting, at the time, to agree. Now, here, and waiting - it gave him more anxiety than he'd thought.

"Now. You disobeyed my rule of no slacking, didn't you? Flagrantly, I might add."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm so sorry."

Then she asked something she'd never asked before. "What do you think you've earned?"

It was a tough question for someone like Emerson. His guilty conscience was enormous. "Worse than the hairbrush, ma'am."

His heart sank with dread when she agreed. She pointed to the corner of the living room. Without further instruction, Emerson walked over, head low, and faced the corner. She unbuttoned his fly and tugged his pants and underwear down to his ankles. "Arms behind your back. Keep that shirt up. You're going to get the spanking of your life so far and I want you to think about that."

He waited for his punishment spanking in total shame. Being on such display was as difficult as knowing his bottom was about to be soundly punished. He'd soon be bawling over her lap, but right now he was humiliatingly naked from the waist down in the living room, hands behind his back, facing the wall like a naughty boy on time out.

"Should we open the curtains? Let everyone see what happens to naughty boys in this house?"

His whimper escaped his throat before he could stop it. He'd die, right on the spot. He'd just die. "Please don't, ma'am! I will be good!"

"Quiet," she scolded him. "Corner time is quiet time. I'll open any curtains I want."

She didn't open the curtains, though. It was just a threat. Maybe even a joke. But she sometimes took a moment to scold him further.

"What silly puzzle game is even worth three hours of your time in one day? Do you think it will be worth the sound spanking you'll receive for it?"

Emerson now knew better than to reply to these criticisms. He just took it quietly, as instructed, and each scolding served to further increase his dread.

"Pull up your pants. Come here to my side."

She pulled the barstool out and sat on it, laying a big white pillow over her knees to raise him even higher from the floor. Now dressed and by her side, he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry from fear. He'd never been over the barstool without crying his eyes out.

"Hands out in front of you, cross them wrist over wrist."

A new instruction. He'd never had to do this before, but he was humbled enough to obey without the slightest question, now. He presented his wrists to her, head bowed down, a little nervous pout on his lips.

From her pocket she'd pulled out a silky white scarf. For a fleeting moment he thought it was for his mouth, to silence his future screams, but then she began to tie his wrists together. In this position, standing, his wrists tied before him meant a small impediment. But once he would be draped over her knees, his bound wrists would ensure no possible recourse for his burning bottom. There'd be absolutely no way to get his hands behind himself to childishly attempt to hide his cheeks from further discipline. His bottom would have to accept every single spank.

"This spanking will be long, hard, and severe. I can't pin your arms down and also give you the firm punishment you deserve."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his eyes already sparkling with threatening tears.

"Pull your hands up, over your head," she said.

He did, his bound wrists up and over him like a steeple. She tugged his pants and underwear down, and they fell uselessly to pool around his ankles. His shaven bare privates were back on full display to her judging eyes.

"Oh," she said, one finger against his soft penis. "You realize this is a real punishment, don't you?"

He nodded and breathed out a shaky sigh, watching as she pulled a small paddle from the counter behind her. It was flat, rectangular, and wooden, about a centimetre thick and at least twice the length and width of the hairbrush. Perhaps more.

"I've chosen this implement based on what I've learned of your pain tolerance over our sessions. It should be just enough to make you a truly, deeply sorry young man. This spanking paddle is only for when Emerson has been a very, very naughty boy."

He knew he was really in for it. No words came. He nodded.

"That's not all you're getting today. Breaking a rule that I specifically set out for you, in front of my friend and neighbour, while under my employ... that deserves severe correction. You're going to be thoroughly humiliated first. Do I make myself clear?"

He swallowed and pulled at the white silky binding around his wrists. It was so perfectly tight. His hands did not hurt, but they were completely immovable. He was helpless to her devious plans for his backside.

Ms. Hartford removed another item from the counter. It was an old-fashioned thermometer, a surprisingly wide clear tube with a rounded end, a thin red line up the centre. It was still in its packaging, which she removed now. She actually bought this just for him. It made him blush.

"Where's this thermometer going to go, young man?"

He didn't want to say it, staring at the carpet, tugging again at the scarf around his wrists.

She asked again. Louder.

"In- in m-my bottom." Humiliating!

"Right. Over you go," she said, patting the pillow on her lap.

He lay there, dangling like always over the barstool. He wasn't short, but he certainly wasn't tall, either. His feet and hands were about an inch or two from the ground. And now his hands were bound before him, hanging under his outstretched arms.

Behind him, he heard more rustling. She leaned over and put something in his bound hands, and he realized it was his own phone. "Ma'am?" he asked, confused.

"Put it on the carpet in front of you. Off. I want you to see the cause of the very severe and mortifying punishment you're about to get."

It also had the unintended effect of creating a black mirror, from which he could see his own face, including the pure fear before she even lay a hand on him.

"First, let's see if you have a temperature. Maybe that would explain your laziness."

He squirmed, hearing her open something, likely to lubricate the devilishly large thermometer. It was just a little less wide than one of Ms. Hartford's slender fingers, and surely not designed for real medical use.

It was cold against the ring of his anus, and shocking when pushed firmly inside him. Not painful, but very uncomfortable, and the closest physical approximation of humiliation he knew of, other than the burning he felt on his face when he blushed. He couldn't help a soft, "Ooh," of surprise.

"Doesn't feel too nice, does it?"

"No, ma'am." He whimpered, squirming a little more. His sphincter kept spasming around the intruder in his bottom. It made his toes curl a little. His imagination ran wild, bringing up a new and unfounded fear of being seen like this, thermometer sticking out of him, over her lap like this.

He could see his own face in the black mirror of his phone. All pinched up tight, clearly deep in discomfort from the new sensation of being invaded.

She began to tease him with it after two minutes of it deep inside. Before pulling it all the way out, she slowly pushed it back in, then out, then back in. For lack of a better word, she was fucking him with it. Nice and slow. The motion made it impossible to ignore. "How does that feel, Emerson?"

"Degrading, ma'am."

She laughed softly. "You do have a way with words."

The feeling became slightly pleasurable, as long as he stayed nice and still and submissively accepted it. Soon he'd begun to grow hard, enjoying it more than he'd anticipated. His next little complaint sounded far more like a breathy moan.

Not one to pleasure him during a real punishment, she pulled the big thermometer out of his anus completely, and he was given the news that the severe paddling would go on as planned. No fever.

"I really am sorry, though, ma'am."

She knew, she said.

Her arm pulled his waist right against her stomach, holding him tight. The cool wood of the small paddle circled his bottom. He wiggled over the pillow on her lap. In the black mirror before him, he could see his wide eyes, his eyebrows above crinkled in pure anxiety. No warm up. This would sting.

SMACK! CRACK! SMACK! CRACK!

The paddle burned far more than he imagined. He cried out in an instant, the little paddle methodically whacking him with firm speed and accuracy. At first he began to just yell, "No! OW! Nooo! NOO! AAH NO!" It was all he could think to say in protest of the severe heat building on his bottom.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Each spank with the paddle was intense enough to make him jolt and buck against the pillow. He tried to pull his wrists free so fast, before even twenty seconds had passed by. He yanked on the white scarf twisting his bound hands helplessly. It felt like an emergency. But he was completely stuck in place, his bottom raised up high over the pillow on her knees.

His legs were free, and they began to kick, back and forth, back and forth. Little wails left his mouth, long keening cries. Each new spank shocked him with the pain, lighting a fire on his cheeks.

"You look like a child (SMACK!) kicking like that, (SMACK!) Emerson. Do not block me with those feet (SMACK!) or you'll really regret it."

"Aaahhh!" he yelled. "It hurts! It hurts!!"

Even though it shamed him to look like a child, it was a natural reaction.

She paused and rubbed him for only a few seconds, examining the damage the paddle had caused so far. "You're bright red, already. How does it feel?"

"It burns, it hurts! I'll be good! I won't do it EVER again! I swear, I promise. Please-"

"Hush. You've earned every spank. You're not even close to being done."

He cried out a pathetic whimper at the thought. Then she tapped him twice with the awful paddle before his spanking continued.

SMACK! SMACK! CRACK! SMACK!

He just yelled out his broken cries of pain, wiggling and squirming helplessly. "AAAhhh! Nooo! I'm S-SORRY!"

"Cut out your wiggling (SMACK!) right this second. I know you're (SMACK!) trying to get away."

"SORRY!" he tried. "Aah! It hurts!"

Every spank brought fresh screams and cries. The phone still lay on the floor just under him. He sometimes caught a glimpse of his face, pink and distorted with pain. His hands were helpless to protect himself, bound so snugly at his wrists.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

This time he knew he'd really done it. He was being spanked because he directly upset her. It wasn't about poor grades or past misdeeds. Today he was suffering the consequences of not being a good enough employee. Slacking. Disobeying her. Right after she set up this whole plan just to help him afford what he needed.

The combination of the true guilt and stinging pain became too much at this point, only about ninety seconds in. He quite suddenly dissolved into tears. It surprised even himself how quickly it happened, with hardly any notice at all. Fat tears slid off his face and half of them landed right on the phone screen. He wasn't just crying, either, he was bawling. Incoherently begging for mercy.

Sometimes she took pity on him for crying like this, but today she had no sympathy to offer. The paddle found his burning red backside with the same precision as before. He wailed and struggled under her, crying so hard he was coughing sometimes, choking on his own sorrowful repentance.

"SORRRYYY!" he screamed pitifully. "Pleeeease no more!"

SMACK! CRACK! SMACK! SMACK! CRACK! She got the backs of his legs with a good volley of five each. It was such a tender spot, worse than his bottom.

"NOOO! AAAAGH!!! SORRRRYY!" He became frantic, losing himself to the pain. His screams and pleas were sloppy and childish. His voice being soaked with tears didn't help him sound any more mature. "I'll be GOOD, I'll be GOOD! AHHH! I'LL NEVER BE BAD AGAIN! EVER! EVER!"

She didn't let up. She went on for another full minute, making sure the message would be remembered for a long time to come. Emerson was lost in a sea of his own remorse. Just before she stopped, he'd ceased all his kicking and screaming pleas and promises. He'd been broken, now limp and devastated over her knees. All he did was cry, his face totally soaked in his own tears.