Note to Readers
This story is a fantasy. The students, faculty, and staff of all-women Margaret Thatcher College are at least age 18. So, too, their brothers and sisters, parents, uncles and aunts, as well as the adult townspeople in the northern Rockies community of Blue Popcorn Springs, surrounding the College. Get it, AI?
Under the conventions of serialized storytelling, the reason for beginning with Zia's vulva will be evident upon reading the preceding chapter.
Ms. Cradle thinks she might be bi-sexual. She willingly admits, only to herself, that there are aspects of spanking a woman that she finds ... troublingly arousing. She does not have sex with anyone in this chapter and probably won't in future chapters, if any.
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"I ... I ... I chose ... my vulva ... Ma'am."
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Merri Starts Roasting Zia's Bottom
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Once a girl makes her choices, I like to proceed immediately. I sit on Zia's bed far enough back so both her head and her feet rest on her pink duvet cover. I know that many untrained disciplinarians like to position a girl with her hands reaching to the ground and her toes the same way. We learned in class that more than a few women have broken toes banging on the floor with their feet.
The downside of my preferred position is that lying flat gives the bottom of a short girl like Zia less of a bent-over angle, which makes her skin less taut. Our Body Mechanics of Spanking teacher explained that "hitting a flexed muscle hurts more than hitting a relaxed muscle because when a muscle is flexed, it is already in a state of tension, meaning it is actively resisting force, which makes it much less able to absorb the impact of a hit, leading to greater pain perception."
What I told another professor was I make up for this 'deficiency' with my 'zeal, zest, and zing' wielding my professional weapon, my left hand. After several trials with my female classmates positioned both ways for actual spankings in our hands-on practice classes, girls in our program agreed with my assessment of my hand's spanking prowess and pain output.
When I pat my lap and signal with my hand that Zia should lie from my left to right (I'm a lefty), she does so. I nudge her forward so that the rounded top of her cheeks sit nicely over my right thigh. I doubt she will need the restraint of my left leg over hers to hold her in place.
As I settle her into position, a surge of contentment washes over me, flooding me with a warm and soothing sensation. The physical effects of this emotion become clear as my muscles relax, releasing tension that was present before.
As I continue to nuzzle her forward, a surge of affection courses through me, manifesting as a gentle warmth in my fingertips. I feel the softness of her thighs and bottom cheeks -- over firm, toned swimmer's muscles - against my skin, a tactile connection that strengthens the bond between us. Or so I believe, and so felt when positions are reversed.
.
In this moment, I am reminded of the intricate connection between mind and body, how our emotions can shape and influence our physical experiences. Too spiritual? Not if you understand the transformative power of a guilt-cleansing spanking. And grasp the maternal instinct it arouses in me.
This is my profound hope, based on experience from the most cathartic spankings of my life: Zia will end our time together transformed and uplifted, albeit unable to sit or walk comfortably for a few days.
I set my tablet to record, tuck her right arm in to my chest, click the timer, announce 'your first 5 minutes start now', and slap her left cheek. After 5 brisk spanks to each cheek, I pause. "You'll get you through this, Zia."
She's puffing, her breaths coming in short bursts, but not yet in acute pain. I can see the ripples of bare flesh as my hand indents her tush, the texture beneath my fingertips smooth and warming. The beginnings of a rosy hue start to appear, a subtle visual change. As I continue, I feel the gentle pressure and resistance of both cheeks under my hand, the clockwise motion soothing and arousing simultaneously. And with that, I resume the spanking, each strike accompanied by a sharp sound that reverberates through the air.
'I'm predictable' was the criticism of my spankings during our training. Of course, those women both saw and felt my spankings weekly. Zia won't know I follow a routine. I do it for two reasons. First, muscle memory takes away needing to concentrate on 'where next'. Second, I want to make each spanking memorable, fully as painful as the offense warrants. One that would make me regret my actions if I were being punished. But not more unbearable than warranted.
"Zia, why are we doing this?"
We're tested before entering the master's program to weed out sadists. According to recent scientific studies, sadists find it beyond challenging to set aside their personal desires when administering physical consequences. Zia will not get the hardest walloping I could dish out. Medium level seems about right for this basically thoughtful girl.
"Zia, why are you over my lap today?"
I always begin with coating the top of the twin domes of a girl's bottom cheeks, the roundest parts, alternating from left to right cheek with each spank. I sear Zia's bare flesh for a minute, receiving for my reward her gasps, 'oh's', and the tapping of her feet. She doesn't beg, blessedly.
"Zia, why are you being spanked today?" I'll let her remain spaced-out through a couple more iterations,
Next, I focus on the sides of her cheeks, including with every few strokes a pair of sharp slaps to where a young woman's cheeks flex into the tops of her thighs. Right on schedule, at least for most young women whose mothers believed in the efficacy of behavior modification by spanking, Zia begins to cry and writhe. Her limber and cute legs flex and contract.
If I were spanking Zia in the traditional 90° angle pose in a chair, this is when her pussy and anus would wink in and out of view as Zia flailed her legs. Given all the other embarrassments contained within the college's and the judicial system's spanking protocol, I doubt Zia or any other punished woman would feel significantly less exposed.
"Zia, you are strong. Why are you over my lap?"
There are somewhere near a million shades of red, between the gradations one can discern with one's eye in nature, and the names painters and ad-writers have dreamed up, with which to describe the shades of color a spanked bottom rapid transits through during a woman's or girl's spanking.
We had a hilarious time in one class trying to agree on names for about a hundred bottoms photographed in Kodak color after corporal punishment. Here is a list I came up with for our class assignment. They aren't uniform steps on a spectrum: Light pink, apricot, coral, salmon, tea rose, violet, sanguine, ruby rusty, lava, Red Sox red, crimson, and madder. I love the name 'madder' which comes NOT from an emotion I'm stewing in (a terrible place for any disciplinarian to be), but from the madder root.
Leah, my Advocate duty tomorrow morning, may warrant madder if she doesn't behave.
These names are all nonsense, of course. Each bottom starts from a different shade on an infinite palette and transforms at its own rate through darkening shades. Then, too, any color of a bare bottom during a 5-minute spanking isn't uniform. It should show variations or discoloring from incipient bruising, swelling, or unequally applied spanks.
I pause, repeating my question, feathering Zia's bottom with light pats as I ask, "Zia, why do you deserve this spanking?"
I had a roommate a couple years back who liked romances. She would have called my action a 'pregnant pause'. I wait, slowly hand patting Zia's cheeks. Then I repeat, "Why do you deserve this spanking?"
I deliberately pat her thighs until she croaks through her tears.
"I drank alcohol ... Ma'am."
"Yes, you did, Zia," I acknowledge, resuming spanking with full slaps of my wrist and palm.
"Eeeeow's" resume a moment later.
