Monita was the picture of the perfect, diligent student at San Francisco State University, known for her studious nature and love for books. Her world revolved around academics, and she preferred spending her days buried in textbooks rather than socializing. Whenever she had downtime, her preference would be catching up on her reading or listening to classical music.
Her parents back in mainland China had sacrificed a lot to enable their only child to pursue the highest academic dreams, and for Monita, chasing that elusive 4.0 GPA was more than personal satisfaction.
Her two best friends and roommates, Sallie and Maddie, were the polar opposites of Monita—outgoing, not as concerned about their GPA (both their parents had thriving businesses under their names), lively, and always looking for the next fun adventure. They loved pulling Monita out of her comfort zone and into various and sometimes uncomfortable situations, thinking they were helping her break out of her shell. Monita, being the trusting soul that she was, never suspected anything devious and believed only the best of her friends.
One evening, as they lounged in their shared apartment, Sallie and Maddie proposed a bet based on their occasional Friday night trivia knowledge game—a bet that Monita, in her naivety, couldn’t refuse. They often played trivia, and Monita usually won. This time, the wager would be set by the two girls who came first and second, and not knowing the price of the wager was intriguing. Unbeknownst to Monita, however, Sallie and Maddie had concocted a way for them to know the answers to most of the questions in advance—and for the first time ever, Monita came third.
The two winning girls pretended to bounce ideas about what Monita’s wager should be: pick up more chores, help with homework, or even write papers for them… Then Sallie came with a wager that Maddie immediately enthusiastically embraced: the loser would have to meet a stranger of their choosing and ask him for a disciplinary spanking. In addition, she would need to wear tight jeans and a revealing tank top (“So the guy who gets picked knows what he’s getting into,” explained Sallie), a far cry from Monita’s usual modest attire.
Monita’s heart sank as she went to bed, and she seriously thought about not complying with this wager, but she was also deeply concerned about losing face in front of her friends, who were very popular on campus. So she reluctantly accepted and the next morning went shopping with her two roommates to buy the articles of clothing that were absent from her wardrobe. Monita settled for a classy but, under the pressure of the two other girls, very revealing simple white tank top and a pair of jeans that seemed to have been designed as a custom job to enhance the curves of her bottom.
Sallie added to the list a pair of black lace French-cut panties and an assorted bra (“It won’t hurt to look sexy; he might go softer on you…”), which reminded Monita that to satisfy her roommates, the jeans would probably need to come down… Indeed, Sallie and Maddie insisted that Monita needed to specifically request a disciplinary spanking, not a fun spanking, and that she would need to report to them back at the apartment afterwards and show them the evidence—in the form of her bruised bottom. Only then, provided that her butt was appropriately marked, would she be considered as having complied with the wager.
And this is how, the very same evening, a very reluctant Monita found herself at a busy bar in San Francisco, with Sallie and Maddie scanning the Saturday night crowd for the perfect candidate. Their eyes settled on a tall, muscular man who was sitting at the bar and seemed to be looking at the three girls. He appeared to be older than the three students, probably in his mid-thirties, and they felt an air of confidence mixed with a no-nonsense quality about him, giving them the feeling that he would know how to deal with the situation.
With mischievous smiles, they whispered amongst themselves before telling Monita that he would be the one she had to approach for her task. Monita took a deep breath, mustering all the courage she could find, and approached the man with a discomfort that was unmistakable.
“Hi, I’m Monita,” she began softly, her voice barely audible over the lively chatter of the bar. “Would you mind if we talked for a moment?”
Mike was taken by surprise and pleased to be approached this way, as he had noticed Monita with her gorgeous long hair and perfectly shaped round rear as soon as she had entered the bar with her two friends. He didn’t show any emotions to Monita other than an inviting smile.
“Of course! I’m Mike. There is no one here; why don’t you sit next to me, Monita?”
Monita’s absolute awkwardness as well as her striking beauty made Mike very curious from the onset, and they started a conversation about the SF weather, followed by her studies and goals after graduation, and then discussed a couple of recent movies they had both seen and seemed to have a similar interest in. Monita slowly felt a sense of trust for Mike building in her, and she couldn’t ignore Maddie and Sallie looking at her from a distance with expressions that seemed to say, “We don’t have all day.”
So after about half an hour of friendly chat and a couple of glasses of Pinot Noir that made her feel oddly relaxed (Monita very rarely drank alcohol), she gathered the courage to say, her voice barely above a whisper:
“Mike, would you… would you consider giving me a disciplinary spanking?”
Mike raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in his expression, and with the loud music surrounding them, uncertain that he had indeed heard those words, asked her to repeat herself. Monita did, blushing in absolute embarrassment, whispering directly to Mike’s ear, “I lost a bet to my roommates… would you… would you consider giving me a disciplinary spanking? Nothing sexual, of course, just a spanking that is meant as real punishment.”
Mike couldn’t believe what he had just heard; not only was he very attracted to Monita, but spanking, and in particular disciplinary spankings, was something he was quite familiar with from his past relationships. The idea of having Monita over his lap was suddenly all he could think about.
“A spanking, you say? No funny business?” he replied, his face showing just a curious expression.
Monita shook her head adamantly. “No, nothing like that. Just a simple disciplinary spanking.”
Mike asked more questions about the unusual request, and Monita, still whispering, explained everything, pointing at her two friends who were closely observing them nearby. Mike smiled at them from a distance and just said, a knowing glint flickering in his eyes:
“If that’s what you want, Monita… yes, we can proceed. But it will be on my terms.”
He then explained to her that he would spank her at his place, right after he had finished his drink; it would be a no-nonsense spanking, on her bare bottom, and it would include the use of his belt if he deemed it necessary.
“I want to hear you say that you agree to my terms, Monita.”
The idea of being naked from the waist down over a man’s knees, a man she didn’t even know half a year ago, put Monita in a state she had never experienced before. She had not thought of the possibility; in her mind, even showing herself in her sexy panties was unlikely. Fearing the embarrassment of backing out after opening up to a stranger but then having to do it again with someone else, as she knew Sallie and Maddie would never let it go… but also strangely drawn to Mike’s commanding presence, Monita agreed, almost inaudibly, her heart pounding in her chest like it had never before.
“I am good with what you said, just no touching that is sexual,” she said in a very low voice.
Mike waited a few seconds, watching Monita closely, and said,
“I want you to address me as ‘Sir’ from now on, Monita. I agree to give you the punishment spanking you have earned yourself. There will not be anything sexual about it, I give you my word; it will be very real, and you will be fully compliant with the terms of your wager. And after I am done spanking you, I will expect you to apologize to me for interrupting my evening the way you did with your bold request. Do you understand me, and do you accept my terms, Monita?”
Mike was speaking in a seemingly normal voice, or at least Monita thought he was, and a new thought now came into her mind, even worse perhaps than the spanking itself: “What if someone around us overhears this conversation…?”
So she immediately and quietly acquiesced, her obedience being tested, and to reinforce her whispered words and make sure she would not need to repeat them, accompanied them with a deep bow towards him:
“Yes… Sir, I do understand… and I agree to your terms, Sir.”
Mike gave Monita a warm but also serious smile, finished his Anchor Steam beer, then gave her a nod, and helped her stand up from the bar stool, paying close attention to the sight of her beautifully curved bottom in the tight jeans. Mike had spanked other women before, not just as part of sex but occasionally for pure discipline as well, but he had no doubt the spanking that was about to take place was going to be very special.
Mike then escorted Monita out to the street, passing by Maddie and Sallie, who gave him a big smile, as well as a “Go girl!” to Monita, and the very nervous young woman and her soon-to-be disciplinarian exited the bar, walking to Mike’s place nearby, followed in the distance by the two roommates.
For the first few minutes of their walk toward Mike’s apartment, the tension between Monita and the man she had just met eased into something lighter, almost familiar. The innocent banter they had started at the bar before Monita had made her unusual request resurfaced—easy and unforced. Mike spoke about his work as a freelance writer, the quiet rhythm of deadlines and late-night edits, and the way certain stories refused to let him go until they were finished. Monita listened, nodding occasionally, but her mind was elsewhere, drifting ahead to the house, to the room, to what waited there.
She kept wondering if there was still a way out. Could she simply ask him to pretend? Agree that the spanking had happened, and tell her roommates whatever they wanted to hear? The thought flickered, tempting, then died. Sallie and Maddie had been explicit: proof. They would want to see. And even if she could lie to them, she knew she couldn’t lie to herself—not convincingly. More than that, the idea of taking the easy path now was not satisfying to her. She didn’t want Mike to see her as someone who would back out when it mattered. The realization surprised her, stung a little, but settled in with quiet certainty.
After about five minutes of walking, Mike slowed and nodded toward a narrow street lined with heritage terraces.
“This is the house,” he said simply.
The Victorian stood quietly under a streetlamp, its iron-lacework balcony and leaded-light windows catching the glow. He paused at the low gate.
“Monita,” he added, turning to face her fully, “if you feel more comfortable, I’m happy to invite your two friends in. I understand this is strange—being alone in my home with someone you barely know. Just say the word and we’ll wait for them.”
The suggestion sent a sharp, cold thrill of panic through her. The thought of Sal and Maddie witnessing any part of this—her bottom over his knee, the sound of his hand, her tears perhaps—was infinitely worse than facing it alone. The spanking itself was already mortifying enough with Mike as both perpetrator and witness. Adding an audience felt like annihilation.
“No,” she said quickly, “I don’t think they need to be here. I’m… okay.”
Mike’s eyebrow lifted just a fraction. “How did I ask you to address me?”
Monita’s stomach dropped. “S-Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I meant I don’t think they should be here, Sir.”
He studied her for a beat, then gave a small nod—acknowledgement, not forgiveness, but acceptance. They reached the front door. Mike fitted the key into the lock, then paused again, hand still on the brass knob.
“Monita,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “I’m going to be very transparent with you now, before we step inside.”
She waited, pulse loud in her ears.
“The belt I mentioned at the bar is real. For the wager itself—your lost bet—I will use only my hand. And believe me, that will be more than enough to deliver the thorough spanking you’ve earned tonight. But if, at any point after we cross this threshold, I find you lacking proper respect toward me personally—if your tone slips, if you behave in an unladylike fashion, if you forget how you are to speak to me—then the belt comes out. The belt is between you and me, and only us. Three strokes for every instance of disrespect. You don’t have to tell your friends about it, but they’ll see the difference when you report back. A belt marks very differently from a hand.”
He let the words settle, eyes steady on hers.
“I like you, Monita. I genuinely wish we’d met under different circumstances—coffee, no stakes, no wager. But I’m doing you a favor tonight by bringing you into my home when we’ve only just met. In return, you will treat me with the respect this house and this moment require. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The warning landed exactly as intended—clear, firm, and fair. And strangely, it steadied her. The belt was no longer an abstract threat; it was a boundary she could choose not to cross. Knowing the rules and knowing the cost made the night feel less chaotic, less uncharted, and less enraging. If the spanking had been purely for her roommates, she might have resented it more. But this—this extra layer that was just between them—somehow made it feel more honest. More hers.
“I understand, Sir,” she said quietly. “And… thank you for being upfront about it.”
Mike gave a single, small, satisfied nod. “Good. Let’s go inside.”
He turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped aside to let her enter first.
“Thank you, Sir,” she said, her voice steadier now, and crossed the threshold.
Mike followed, closing the door behind them with a soft, final click. He reached to the side and turned on the hall light. Monita found herself in a beautifully proportioned classic living room: high ceilings, original cornices, and pine floors polished to a quiet gleam. The walls were papered in subtle charcoal damask; a low fire still burned behind an iron grate, casting warm shadows across an armchair upholstered in deep green leather and a small console table holding only a vase of white tulips. No clutter. No dust. Everything deliberate, ordered, and calm.
Mike closed the door and turned to her. “Welcome,” he said simply.
He turned to her, already slipping off his own oxfords with practiced ease. He placed them precisely on the slim black shoe tray by the door—heels aligned, toes pointing the same direction, like soldiers at attention.
“Shoes off, please,” he said, voice calm but firm, the way someone might remind you of a house rule that had never been broken. “I’d appreciate it if you left them next to mine.”
Monita hesitated, glancing down at her ankle boots—slightly scuffed from the walk, a faint rim of city grit clinging to the soles. She felt suddenly oversized and untidy in this pristine space.
“Right. Of course. Sir.” She bent to unzip one boot, but the zipper caught halfway. She tugged harder; her balance wobbled on the single remaining heel.
Mike stepped forward without a word. He offered his forearm the way an usher might at a formal event—elbow bent, palm up, steady as oak.
“Here,” he said simply.
Monita blinked, then looped her fingers around his sleeve. The wool of his jumper was soft and warm from his body. She gripped lightly at first, then tighter as she lifted one foot free. The boot came away with an awkward little hop; she swayed, and his arm didn’t budge an inch.
She exhaled a small, embarrassed laugh. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look nervous,” he corrected gently, with no mockery in it, only observation. His eyes flicked to hers, dark and calm. “And that’s allowed,” he added with a smile.
Monita swallowed. The second boot was worse—her fingers fumbled the zipper, and her standing leg trembled from holding the awkward angle so long. She had to lean into his arm fully now, chest brushing his, breath catching at the proximity. Every small movement felt amplified: the slide of sock against wood, the faint creak of the floorboard, and the steady rise and fall of his breathing while hers came in shallow bursts.
When the second boot finally thudded free, she stayed there a second longer than necessary, fingers still curled around his sleeve, reluctant to let go. Her socks—plain black cotton, one with a tiny hole at the toe—felt absurdly vulnerable against the immaculate floor.
Mike knelt without flourish, setting her boots beside his. He adjusted them so the toes pointed the same way, the soles aligned, and the scuffed suede looked almost apologetic next to his gleaming leather. He rose again, brushing his hands once against each other out of habit, then met her eyes.
“Better,” he said, and there was a quiet satisfaction in the single word. “Now the house is ready to know you.”
Monita curled her socked toes against the cool wood, feeling more exposed, even though she was used to removing her shoes at her own shared apartment. The apprehension coiled tighter in her belly, but so did something else: the low, insistent pull toward his calm certainty, the way he handled even this small ritual as though it mattered.
She tried to smile, but it came out wobbly. “I’m not sure the house is ready for how much I’m about to… disrupt it.”
They had settled in the sitting room now, the fire low and steady behind the iron grate. Mike occupied the high-backed armchair; Monita perched on the edge of the ottoman opposite him, knees together, hands clasped too tightly in her lap. The lamplight caught the faint tremor in her fingers. He had just brewed a full teapot of jasmine tea for both of them, and Monita was slowly sipping hers.
He regarded her without hurry.
“Have you ever been spanked before, Monita—either as an adult or younger?”
She met his gaze for only a second before lowering her eyes. “Yes, Sir. My parents, my grandparents a little… but not often.”
“What do you remember of those times?”
“That they hurt, Sir,” she said at once, then gave a small, rueful smile that did not reach her eyes. “And the embarrassment. Maybe more than the pain, in the end. Especially with my grandparents. They didn’t live with us, so every visit felt… inspected. When it happened there, it carried further.”
He tilted his head slightly. “What made it different with them?”
“They were very old-fashioned. My grandmother especially. She pressed my parents to stay strict even when the world around us was loosening. She believed indulgence spoiled character.” Monita’s voice softened, almost apologetic. “When I was older, she used a short bamboo stick. Thin, flexible. It terrified me. I was over her knee, but it felt very formal too, like institutional while still in a regular home. I was always on my absolute best behavior whenever they came to stay or when we visited them. I suppose it worked.”
“How old were you the last time?”
“Sixteen, probably. My grandmother, with the stick.” She paused, swallowing. “She passed away two years ago. I feel… disloyal saying any of this. I loved her. She meant well. Fiercely.”
“Was it always the bamboo stick? And did anyone else ever discipline you that way?”
“My mother used her hand, sometimes my father—a few sharp slaps, always clothed, never serious. The stick came later, and only with Grandma. Before that it would have been an open palm or the sole of a soft slipper. Grandmother was the only one who used the rod. She was the elder, the one who’d brought the family’s good fortunes across generations. No one would have dreamed of intervening.” Monita’s shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug. “It happened perhaps ten times at the very most.”
Mike let the silence settle between them, unhurried. “So tonight,” he said quietly, “this would be your first real spanking from a man.”
Monita’s cheeks flared crimson. She nodded once, barely perceptible. “Yes, Sir. I suppose it is.”
He studied her a moment longer. “Having known real discipline before today should stand you in good stead, then. Do you feel you are less accountable now than you were then—when correction still had a place in your life?”
She considered the question seriously, brow creasing. “In a way… yes. I’ve become very self-driven since then. I don’t miss being punished, of course not. But I can’t deny it kept me focused in a different way. With Grandmother, I never repeated the same mistake twice. Each time felt… final. A small death and rebirth of attention.” She gave a faint, unsteady laugh. “Life-changing, almost, every time.”
Mike leaned forward just enough to close the distance without crowding her.
“You told me at the bar that your grades slipped last semester. Two B’s.”
The statement hung there, plain and unadorned. Monita’s breath caught; she looked away toward the fire, watching the flames fold and unfold.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s true, I never had anything less than a B+ until then.”
Mike let the silence stretch a moment longer, the fire’s low crackle the only sound between them. When he spoke again, his voice remained even, almost meditative, as though he were laying out the terms of a quiet contract rather than the prelude to consequence.
“Even though this began as a wager you lost,” he said, “I want you to understand something before we go any further. Tonight is not merely payment of a debt. It is discipline—discipline for allowing your focus to slip, for letting those B’s accumulate when you are capable of far more. In that sense, it is no different from what your grandmother would have done.”
Monita’s breath hitched audibly. The mention of her grandmother landed like a small, precise stone dropped into still water; ripples spread across her expression—surprise, a flicker of old shame, then something softer, almost wistful.
“She would have seen those marks on your transcript,” Mike continued, “and she would not have debated their meaning. She would have taken you aside, quietly, without spectacle, and reminded you—with her hand or her rod—that attention is not optional. That a moment’s lapse becomes habit if left uncorrected. She believed in consequence as a form of care. I believe the same.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped so that his gaze held hers without force.
“You are not a teen anymore, Monita. You are accountable to yourself now, not to an elder or a family tradition. But the principle remains unchanged: when focus falters, correction restores it. Tonight, I am acting in that spirit—not out of anger, not for sport, but because you asked me, in the bar, what it would feel like to be held to a standard again. This is the answer.”
Monita’s fingers tightened in her lap until the knuckles showed white. Her eyes glistened briefly, though no tears fell. She looked at the fire, then back at him, mouth parting as though to protest, then closing again. When she finally spoke, her voice was small but steady.
“She always said… ‘A sharp lesson now saves a dull life later.’ I hated hearing it then. It sounded cruel.”
Mike inclined his head, acknowledging the memory without diminishing it.
“Cruelty and care can wear the same face to a teenager. You’re no longer a teenager. You can see the difference now—or at least feel it.”
“Good,” he said softly. Then, after a measured pause: “Before we begin, one final rule. I want no interruptions tonight. If you need to make a call, send a message, or check anything—do it now. Tell your friends you’re safe, you’ll check back with them in a bit, turn your phone to silent or mute, and place it face-down on the side table. Once we start, your full focus stays here. No distractions. No checking. Just you, me, and what we’re about to do. Understood?”
Monita’s throat tightened. The request felt both reasonable and absolute—like every other boundary he had set tonight. She nodded once.
“Yes, Sir.”
She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out her phone, and quickly typed a short message, hit ‘Send,’ switched the phone to Do Not Disturb, and placed it face-down on the small console table by the door. The screen went dark.
Mike rose from the armchair with deliberate calm, the faint creak of the leather the only sound in the hushed room. He crossed to the dining table, selected one of the solid oak side chairs, and carried it to the center of the open space between the fireplace and the sofa—positioning it so there was ample room on all sides. The legs scraped softly against the polished floor as he set it down precisely where he wanted it.
He sat, thighs parted slightly for balance, hands resting loosely on his knees. His posture was relaxed yet expectant—shoulders square, gaze steady.
He looked at Monita and, with a small, unhurried motion of his right hand, beckoned her closer.
“Come here, Monita,” he said quietly. “And face me.”
Monita felt the instruction settle into her bones like cold water. Her feet did not move at once; they seemed rooted to the floor, as though some last vestige of resistance were trying to hold her in place. The room narrowed to the space between them: the low crackle of the fire, the faint scent of woodsmoke, and the way the lamplight caught the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he waited, patient but immovable.
She took one step. Then another. Her socks on the smooth floor muffled her footsteps, making the approach feel dreamlike, disconnected from the solid floor beneath her. Three paces, four—until she stood directly in front of him, close enough that she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, the calm that radiated from him like heat from the grate behind.
She stopped there, perhaps a meter away, eyes lowered to the knot of his knees rather than meeting his gaze. Her breathing had grown shallow; she could feel the tremor starting in her knees and climbing.
Monita faced Mike—standing while he remained seated in the dining room chair, the difference in height suddenly enormous. From this angle he seemed taller, broader, and more immovable; she felt diminutive and exposed, as though the lamplight itself were conspiring to make her smaller. Her thoughts spun in tight, frantic loops, each one colliding with the next:
He’s just sitting there. Looking at me. Not angry, not impatient—just waiting. Why does that feel worse than if he were pacing or raising his voice?
I could still leave. The door is twenty steps behind me. But I won’t. I know I won’t. Not now. That’s the part that scares me most—that I’m choosing this.
What does he see when he looks at me like that? The girl who talks too fast at tutorials? The one who pretends everything is fine? Or just… this. A woman standing in his house, about to be taken over his knee.
Grandmother would have hated this. Or maybe she would have approved. She always said consequences should match the crime. But she never made me stand like this first, waiting for permission to move. This waiting is its own punishment.
The thoughts fractured when Mike’s voice cut through them—low, measured, almost gentle, yet carrying an edge of steel beneath the calm.
“When you face me during discipline, Monita, I expect you to adopt a position that is proper. Hands behind your neck, fingers interlaced. Shoulders back. Chin level. Fully focused. At attention. Like you truly mean to listen.”
Her arms moved almost before her mind caught up—awkwardly at first, elbows flaring out, then settling as she clasped her hands at the nape of her neck. The posture lifted her chest, straightened her spine, and forced her gaze to meet his directly. It felt military, archaic, and humiliating in its formality. Her elbows trembled; the muscles in her shoulders burned faintly from the unfamiliar strain. Every breath now felt displayed—shallow, visible, audible.
Mike studied her for a long beat, expression unreadable.
“That’s better,” he said quietly. Then, without shifting his tone, “I will also give you a safe word, Monita. It is the word ‘mercy.’ If at any time you feel the spanking is too much—if you need to stop—you say it. Clearly. We may then need to discuss whether that means a brief pause or a complete end to the discipline tonight. Either way, the word will be respected. But using it does not erase the commitment you made. You understand that?”
She swallowed, throat dry. “Yes, Sir.”
“Do you have any more questions?”
Her voice came out small, frayed at the edges. “Will you… will you spank me very hard?”
Mike’s gaze did not waver.
“I really advise you not to drop the ‘Sir’ when you address me, Monita—unless you truly want me to begin with the belt instead of my hand.”
Her stomach dropped. Heat flooded her face again.
“I—I’m so sorry, Sir… I… I will be careful. I promise, Sir.” The words tumbled out in a rush, barely audible, echoing the same hushed, hesitant tone she had used at the bar when she first confessed the lost wager. “Can I ask… can I ask if you will be hard on me, Sir?”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, closing the space between them without rising.
“I will not go easy on you, Monita. I don’t think you would respect me if I did—even if this began as a bet. I want you to feel that you have been disciplined: justly, fairly—but disciplined. And do not forget that I am holding you personally accountable for the respect you owe me. I will give you time to settle in, as much as is realistic. But you will be spanked like a grown woman, not a teen.”
Mike remained calmly seated on the chair, both hands resting on his lap. He watched her without haste, allowing the silence to thicken until it pressed against her skin.
“Lie over my lap, Monita.”
The words landed softly, yet they carried the finality of a door closing. No more preamble, no softening phrase—just the clear, unadorned instruction.
Monita’s breath caught in her throat. For a long second she stood frozen, eyes fixed on his hands. The room felt smaller now, the fire’s warmth suddenly too close against her flushed face.
She lowered her hands from her neck, bent at the waist first, and rested one hand on his right thigh for balance for a second or two. Her knees trembled as she eased forward, lowering her torso across his lap. The wool of his trousers brushed the bare skin just above her waistband where her tank top had ridden up just a bit; the contact sent a sharp, involuntary shiver through her. She froze mid-motion, acutely aware of every point where her body met his: the firm line of his thigh beneath her stomach, the slight rise of his breathing against her side, and the warmth of his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of her back—not gripping, only steadying.
It was the first time she had ever lain across a man’s lap like this. She had dated a young man for a brief period a few months ago and flirted distantly at university, but nothing like this—nothing so deliberate, so adult. Mike was not a student; he was composed, certain, and older in ways that made her feel small and awkward by comparison. The realization burned in her chest: her inexperience was no longer abstract; it was pressed against him, literal and undeniable.
“Further forward,” he said quietly, voice calm and specific. “I want your hips directly over my left thigh—your weight balanced, not perched on the edge.”
She shifted awkwardly, inching herself higher until her center rested more fully across his lap. The adjustment made her bottom rise higher, her legs extending behind her, toes resting on the floor. Every small movement amplified her awareness of him: the steady pressure of his thigh supporting her, the faint scent of his soap and wool, and the way his hand never left the small of her back, anchoring without force.
“Hands flat on the floor in front of you,” he instructed next. “Where I can see them. Palms down. No clutching at the chair legs.”
Monita obeyed, though her arms shook as she stretched them out. Her palms met the cool floorboards; fingers splayed wide in an effort to appear steady. From this angle she could see nothing but the pattern of the pine floor beneath her hands and the shadow of his feet a meter away. She felt grotesquely displayed—bottom presented, torso draped, face hidden from him yet utterly visible in its burning humiliation.
She was conscious of every breath she took, every tiny shift of her weight that pressed her more firmly against him. Her shirt had ridden further up her back; cool air kissed the exposed skin at her waist. She wanted to tug it down, to curl inward, to disappear—but she remained still, palms flat, breathing shallow and uneven.
“There, that’s good,” he said softly. “That’s the position I expect you to hold, Monita.”
Monita closed her eyes. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could feel it through her ribs. The awkwardness was total: physical, emotional, and intimate in a way she had never prepared for. And yet beneath the tremor of nerves lay something quieter, more confusing—an unexpected steadiness in his calm, a strange safety in the very vulnerability he had required of her.
Her voice came out small, almost lost against the pine floor.
“Yes… Sir.”
Thoughts raced through her mind in jagged, overlapping fragments, refusing to settle.
This is me. Right now. Over a man’s knees. About to be spanked like a child who can’t be trusted to behave.
The idea clashed violently with the image she had always carried of herself: the capable one, the one who handled everything alone, who never asked for help because needing it meant weakness. At university she was the one who organized group projects, who stayed up until dawn rewriting essays for friends, and who smiled through exhaustion and said, “I’ve got it” when anyone offered support. Strength had been her armor—polished, unyielding, necessary. Admitting failure, even to herself, felt like betrayal.
And yet here she was: not just any spanking, not part of some game, but disciplinary. Deliberate. Consequential. For grades she had let slide, for focus she had squandered, for promises she had made to herself and then broken. The same way her grandmother would have corrected her—without anger, without negotiation, only with the firm belief that a sharp reminder could realign a drifting life.
Her stomach twisted. Shame flooded her in waves: shame at the position itself, at the way her body draped so obediently across him, and at how her tank top had ridden up to expose a strip of skin at her waist. It was a shame that she had agreed to this, that part of her had wanted it—not the pain, but the structure, the accountability she had lost somewhere along the way. And deeper shame still: that despite everything, there was a strange, reluctant relief in surrendering the pretense of control. No more pretending she had it all together. No more carrying the weight alone.
Mike’s right hand moved with quiet purpose and settled on the small of her back, directly on her bared skin.
The posture Mike had required earlier—hands locked behind her neck, shoulders drawn back—had already tugged her tank top upward by a few centimeters. Now, with her torso angled forward over his lap, the fabric refused to settle back down. A narrow crescent of bare skin lay exposed at her lower back. And it was there—on that unguarded curve of skin—that his palm came to rest for the first time.
Monita’s breath snagged in her throat.
Everything inside her seemed to rush toward that single place of contact. Her mind fractured into sharp, overlapping shard.
His hand is on me. Right there. On the exposed small of my back. Like I’m something he’s steadying… or claiming. I’ve never let anyone touch me here.
This isn’t a boy fumbling at a party. This is a man. An adult man. And I’m lying across his lap like I belong here.
He can feel how fast I’m breathing. He can feel me trembling.
Monita’s breathing grew shallower and more audible. She felt terrifyingly small, achingly vulnerable, and—for the first time in years—completely, unmistakably not in control.
Her fingers flexed once against the floor, then flattened again as ordered. Mike did not speak. He simply let his hand rest there—warm, unmoving, patient—giving her time to feel the full gravity of that first point of sustained contact. The fire crackled softly behind them; otherwise, the room was perfectly still.
Only after several long heartbeats did his thumb move—just once, the smallest possible arc along the curve of her spine, a gesture so subtle it might have been accidental.
It wasn’t.
Monita felt the shift before she understood it: his palm lifted from the bare skin at the small of her back, leaving a sudden cool circle where warmth had been. For a fraction of a second she almost breathed easier—then his hand returned, this time lower, settling fully across the rounded crown of her bottom through the denim of her jeans.
The denim fabric was thick, yet the weight of his hand still registered instantly: broad, deliberate, and possessive without hurry. Her entire body tensed in anticipation; every muscle from her shoulders to her calves locked as though bracing for something far more violent than what came.
The first stroke fell.
It was not hard—not yet. A firm, measured smack with the flat of his palm, landing squarely across both cheeks. The sound cracked softly in the quiet room, muffled by the jeans, more startling than painful. A dull bloom of warmth spread immediately beneath the denim, not sharp, not stinging, just… present. Like the afterimage of a handprint she could not yet see.
Monita’s breath hitched. The sensation was utterly new—not the quick, bony snap of her grandmother’s palm or the sting of a bamboo switch on bare skin years ago. This was heavier, slower, and more adult. It carried weight, intention, and consequence. Her mind reeled with the strangeness of it.
That was it. The first one. And it didn’t hurt—not really. But it felt… enormous.
The second stroke followed almost at once, identical in force and placement. Again the dull thud of palm against denim, again the slow bloom of heat spreading outward, sinking deeper into muscle. No sharp edge, no gasp-worthy sting, only a growing awareness of her own bottom as a separate, vulnerable part of her—lifted, presented, receiving.
He paused after the third, letting the warmth settle, letting her feel the absence of his hand for two full breaths before it returned.
Then the rhythm began in earnest—slow, unhurried, almost methodical. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Pause. Each one landed with the same controlled strength, covering slightly different angles so that the heat built evenly across both cheeks and down to the upper thighs. The jeans absorbed some of the impact, turning what might have been sharp into something deeper, more diffuse: a steady, insistent warmth that grew with every contact, radiating upward into her lower back, downward into her legs, pooling in places she had never associated with discipline before.
Monita’s thoughts scattered, fragmented by each measured smack.
It’s not hurting. Not yet? But it’s… changing me. Every time his hand lands, I feel smaller. Yet more seen. More here.
Her breathing had grown ragged; small, involuntary sounds escaped her—half-sighs, half-whimpers—each time his palm met denim. Her hands remained flat on the floor as ordered, but her fingers curled inward, nails pressing against the floor. The posture kept her arched, bottom raised, unable to clench or twist away; every stroke landed true, undeniable.
After perhaps ten or twelve slow strokes, Mike shifted the rhythm.
The pauses vanished.
Now the smacks came in a steady, sustained cadence—still not cruel, still not full force, but faster, more insistent. Smack-smack-smack—three, four, five in quick succession, then a brief pause to let the heat crest before beginning again. The warmth beneath her jeans turned into a steady burn, no longer blooming softly but accumulating, layer upon layer, until the denim felt almost superfluous. Each impact sent a small shockwave through her hips, jolting her forward against his thigh, reminding her how solidly he held her in place.
The feelings were no longer brand new; they were multiplying, layering, and overwhelming in their novelty and depth.
This is what being disciplined feels like. Not a game. Not a memory. This is real, very real. Adult. Chosen. And it’s only just beginning.
The initial dull warmth beneath Monita’s jeans had long since deepened. What started as a diffuse glow now felt concentrated, insistent—a growing heat that radiated outward from the center of each impact, seeping into muscle, lingering longer with every fresh contact. The denim, once a protective layer, now seemed to trap the sensation, turning each smack into a slow-building pressure rather than a sharp sting. It wasn’t agony; it was discomfort—real, undeniable, creeping discomfort that made her hips shift minutely despite her best efforts to stay still.
Then came the deeper ache. The muscles beneath her skin started to protest: a dull, spreading throb that echoed the rhythm of his hand. It wasn’t the quick, localized sting she remembered from her youth; this was heavier, more pervasive, as though the discipline were sinking into her very structure. Adult. Her thighs trembled now—not from fear alone, but from the accumulating strain of holding position while her body absorbed blow after blow.
Monita’s breathing had turned ragged, punctuated by small, involuntary sounds: a soft exhale on each impact, a faint whimper when a stroke landed lower, catching the tender sit-spot where thigh met bottom. Her hands in evidence flat on the floor, nails scraping faintly against the surface as she occasionally curled her fingers; her palms were damp, sliding a fraction before she forced them flat again. The posture Mike had demanded—torso angled down, bottom raised, hands visible—left her no way to clench or curl away. Every smack arrived clean, full, and inescapable.
Inside her mind, the thoughts kept pace with the rhythm.
This isn’t a game anymore. This is real discomfort. The kind that makes you want to promise anything just to make it stop… And yet I haven’t said the word. I haven’t even thought about it seriously.
He’s not even using his full strength yet. I can tell. And that terrifies me more than the pain itself.
After another set of ten or twelve strokes—faster now, the intervals shorter—Mike varied the pattern. He targeted the lower curves for a few deliberate smacks, then returned to the fuller rounds, then dipped again to the sit-spots. The change in placement sent fresh waves of sensation: sharper twinges where the flesh was thinner, deeper throbs where it was fuller. The cumulative effect was unmistakable—her bottom felt swollen, hot, and alive with discomfort that bordered on soreness without crossing fully into true pain.
She shifted once—barely a centimeter, an unconscious attempt to redistribute the pressure—and his free hand immediately pressed firmer at the small of her back, still on that narrow strip of bared skin.
“Stay still, Monita,” he said quietly, voice calm, unhurried.
The words landed almost as heavily as his hand. She froze, cheeks burning anew—not from the spanking, but from the reminder that even her smallest resistance was noticed and corrected.
He resumed without pause, the pace now firmly sustained: steady, relentless, and progressively more uncomfortable with every passing minute. The heat had become a constant presence, throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Her legs trembled harder; tears slipped sparsely, dripping onto the hard floor beneath her face. Not sobbing, not dramatic—just silent, inevitable tears born of the slow realization that she was being thoroughly, methodically disciplined, exactly as promised.
And still his hand fell—firm, consistent, building the lesson one measured stroke at a time.
Mike delivered a final set of strokes—five more, each one landing with the same firm, unyielding rhythm that had built the fire beneath her jeans. The last two fell lower, catching the tender sit-spot with deliberate precision, sending fresh jolts of heat radiating upward and downward, making her thighs quiver uncontrollably. Then his hand stilled, resting flat across the swollen warmth for a long moment, letting the accumulated discomfort settle into her like ink into paper.
“Stand up, Monita.”
The command came quietly, without flourish.
Monita’s arms shook as she pushed herself upright. Her legs felt unsteady, rubbery; she had to brace one hand on his thigh for balance before she remembered herself and snatched it away. Rising from his lap was a small ordeal—every movement tugged at the heated skin beneath her jeans, reminding her how thoroughly the denim had trapped the burn. She straightened slowly, back aching from the prolonged arch, bottom throbbing with a deep, insistent soreness that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Her thoughts flooded in, chaotic and overlapping, as the room tilted back into focus.
Is it over? My bottom feels… swollen. Hot. Like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
She stood up too fast. The blood rushed.
Everything hurts more now that I’m vertical. How is that possible?
He’s looking at me. Right now. And I’m supposed to be composed. But all I can think is how much I want to rub it, to make it stop throbbing, and I know I can’t. Not yet. Not allowed.
She swayed once and caught her balance. Her hands hovered uncertainly at her sides—wanting to cover, to soothe, to hide—until Mike’s voice cut through the haze.
“Hands behind your neck, Monita. As before.”
She startled, cheeks flaring anew. Her arms lifted quickly, fingers interlacing at the nape, shoulders pulling back. The posture lifted her chest, forced her chin up, and made her feel even more displayed. The motion tugged her top higher at the back again, baring that same narrow crescent of skin, now damp with a faint sheen of sweat. She felt ridiculous, exposed, yet strangely steadied by the reminder—by the structure he enforced even in this moment of reprieve.
Mike rose from the chair, movements slow and deliberate. He stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again and smell the faint wool-and-cedar of his jumper. His eyes held hers—calm, assessing, not unkind.
“I want you to take off your jeans, Monita,” he said quietly. “Then fold them neatly and place them on the dining room table.”