The Story of K

Good afternoon girls and boys. (Good afterNOON Miss E-LIS-ern).

I am not in the habit of writing such tales as these, in fact I’m not even in the habit of reading them. But in the interests of artistic endeavour I thought I’d have a turn at writing some smut.

(As you do.)

I’ve not tried this before, so I present this to you as a first try at something beyond the envelope of Curtseygirl’s usual fantasies. So, please don’t ask me again: here’s something I’m making up as I go along. Boys I think you’ll like this. Girls, perhaps best to look away now. (I know I would.)

The Story of K

K had been interested in spanking as a woman since one particularly cute lad in the sixth form had mentioned to her how he’d been at a party where her best friend Amanda had gone over his knee on a dare. She, (K), had been aware since the age of fifteen that spanking could be thought of as “fun” by some adults, but the sensation had never really been hers, and the shy girl that she was she’d never had opportunity to find out much about it. She remembered having asked Amanda about it, and about the boy’s story, but Amanda had been non-committal.

(The thrashing had been going on for quite a while now. He’d used everything in the arsenal and still kept finding more. First there’d been the open palm, directed solely upon her upturned buttocks and thighs as she lay across his lap. Underwear had never been part of the equation, of course a “real spanking” could only be delivered upon the bare. The “Tantric Sex” book had suggested however that nakedness was not the option either and that a woman’s “shame centre” would trigger a deeper sense of pleasure were she to be stripped like a little girl.

“First ask the woman to lift her skirt or pull down her trousers, leaving them around her knees to add to the embarrassment. Then bend her over your lap (best), or a table or chair. Some women find it erotic to bend over a bed, both in link to the sexual act and to punishments received in her bedroom as a little girl. Many women like to be made to feel vulnerable, as a child.”)

What K did know about however, was writing. She’d always been excellent at English Composition and one of her essays had been printed in each of the school’s two previous end of year magazines. This year she was to be one of the student editors. “If I can’t get a smack from a boy, and I’d die to be punished by my parents at this point, maybe I’ll just write about it.

(The palm had given way to the spatula. She had almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but the Tantric Book said domestic objects added to the allure. He had quickly passed on to the equally ridiculous egg-flipper before settling consecutively upon a series of wooden spoons, and finally the cheese chopping board which worked quite well as a paddle. Until the handle had broken.)

K smoothed down her skirt. She’d never really understood the appeal for women in “schoolgirl fantasy”. For men it was obvious, vulnerability and all that, but for women what was it? It annoyed her that her cousin’s rugby team had had a “Sheila’s Arvo” where all the burly men had dressed as females, and so many had come in close fitting uniforms from hers and the ladies’ college down the road. Her cousin had gone as “Miss Tasmania” following K’s absolute refusal to loan him her school kilt and jersey. Where was the Boudicca? Where was the Margaret Thatcher? Why do men who dress as women have to dress as weak women?

(“Over the chair bitch,” he tipped her onto the floor as he stood up, trapping her in a mess of legs and knotted pantyhose. “Across the seat.” She lay herself in spanking position across the chair and he began to go to work upon the upturned buttocks, first with his palms, then with his belt.)

“So what’s sexy then?” K wasn’t even sure where to start. She glanced across at herself in the mirror and burst out laughing. Looking back at her was a seventeen year old red-head in piggy tails and a knitted pinafore. There was a ladder up the inside of her left calf and around her knee, disappearing into the crevice of her skirt. “Stairway to Heaven” she’d been told to call such ladders in pantyhose, not that she’d ever uttered such lurid thoughts. Still, the young authoress noted the coquettish charm of her pose, pen in mouth, head in hand, all tipped slightly sideways. Was this sexy?

(“Table. Up.” She knew this would follow, it always did. Since she’d written it in her first story, the one where the four girls in the share house invite the two boys from next door around for dinner on the last Sunday night of the month; to spank each of the girls in turn for her previous thirty days of naughtiness, she knew that she’s be taking the table position. This involved her kneeling on a chair turned backwards to the table, then bending over the table itself. She’d written it was ‘unseemly’ for a young lady to bend over from a standing position, so had written this ‘S shape’ posture for her character Melissa to adopt each month when Darren would apply wood to nylon, that is, hairbrush to buttocks within pantyhose.)

“ “She knew what was coming from the tone of her mother’s voice.”” K thought that if she was going to write a story she may as well begin on known ground. She’d only ever been spanked by her parents, her mother mainly (solely in the last three years). Mum would smack her on her knickers, across her knee, with K’s hairbrush. This began when K was about six and her last smacked bottom had come three weeks before her fifteenth birthday. K remembered only four occasions when she’s been asked to lower her underpants as well, the last episode as a fourteen year old had been one such occasion.

(The belt again. Usually when sent “to table” the weapon of masculine employ was some sort of cane.)

Dad would smack K on her knickers as well, but since he was stronger than mum he would use his hand. Again K would be over his knee, well she was until she was ten. Dad had stopped spanking K as soon as she began to have periods, but for those last two and a half years he’d been bending her over her bed for her smacks. He had only spanked K once upon her bare bottom, again the last occasion upon which she had been punished by him, when he had asked her to lift up her nightie. He’d used the hairbrush that night as well, perhaps he knew it was the last time he’d spank his little girl so he’d need to make it count.

(“Lap.” So that was it for the table then. She knew the session was coming to a close when she was called to go back otk. She’d only just settled into position and received three stripes from the stiff leather dog collar across her left thigh when his mobile phone rang.)

“ “ Her mother’s voice, but her father’s footsteps on the staircase. Elissa knew this one would hurt.”” K was pleased. “ “ She hadn’t meant to snap at her mother, but the stress of getting ready for the Senior Leavers’ Dinner had put her on edge, and when she put a fingernail through the gusset of her lacy tights as she was hurrying to get dressed she couldn’t help it. Now Michael was to be here soon to pick her up, would her dad really …””

(“Yeah? No, sorry she can’t come to the phone right now.” It had been her telephone, not his. That was going to cost her, perhaps she’d feel the cane after all, she knew it was on the floor beside the chair. “No, she’ll not be available until later. Mmhm. No, she’s been a very naughty girl. No, she’s not in her room. No, she can’t come to the phone right now because I have put her over my knee. Yes, she’s over my knee at the moment. Yes.” Crack! The cane descended across her bottom in an angry arc. She’d felt his hand lift off her back to answer the phone but hadn’t suspected he’d be holding something punishing with the other. She squealed out loudly. “Yes, that was her. No, a cane. Oh I don’t know, maybe the width of her thumb. Of course she’s bare bottom!”)

“ “ Elissa I know you’re stressed now, but there was no need to speak to your mother like that. Now I know you’ve been looking forward to this dance so I’ll not stop you from going.” Elissa hadn’t thought of that, actually being grounded from the dance.” K was pleased. The story had begun well and the upcoming Leavers’ Dinner had given her the idea she needed to set her scene.

(“You think I should what? I want to give her a spanking, not a concussion!”)

Now, how to get a spanking underway. “Just as dad would,” thought K, “just get in there.” “ “ Elissa, if you want to get this sorted out before Michael comes we’d better…” “Yes daddy,” replied Elissa, handing her father the hairbrush she’d been nursing in her lap before beginning to pull down her tights.” Marvellous!

(“That was your boss. She told me it was about time someone gave you a good hiding and that I should use the electricity cord off the kettle to flog you with should the cane fail to make the desired impact.” “Bitch” she replied, greeted with as many as fifteen (she lost count) lashes of the dog-collar. “We don’t do disrespect for authority here, young lady. I’ll not be using the cord, but we will finish you off with a damn solid caning. Belting with the collar first." Thrash!)

K was underway now, describing the tears in Elissa’s eyes as she pulled down her panties beneath the voluminous skirt of her party dress and lay herself across her father’s lap. She cut away from the action to describe the conversation below as her mother explained to Michael what was taking Elissa’s time in coming down …

(Thrash, thrash, thrash.)

… and back to Elissa’s own sense of shame and embarrassment at being bare bottomed across her father’s knee on the night of the Senior Leavers’ while the boy she liked was downstairs hearing it all in the company of her mother. The smacks from the hairbrush really, really hurt; but the embarrassment was mortal.

(Crack, crack. The first two in a long series of concluding strokes of the cane. It was indeed the width of her left thumb, which had been the criteria he had set her when she was sent to Mitre-10 to fetch “a rod for your own butt, at the rule of thumb”.)

K finished her story with a shared father-daughter hug, and dad presenting Elissa to Michael. Elissa dropped Michael a deep curtsey as he took her had to kiss, and father whispered to mother that the hairbrush need never be employed again. K was not surprised to feel her eyes moistened by the story, but the feeling in her knickers was new.

(He had finished the session by reading her the story she’d written as a girl, about a girl her age at the time who had been spanked on the evening of her senior dance. “I always thought it was your best work, this one.” She stood beside the chair gently caressing her bottom. She could feel numerous weals rising across her buttocks and her thighs, and at least three of them were oozing clear stuff. She winced as she touched one particularly open cut. “My bum feels like the ripple strips at the end of the M1, you know where they paint them yellow to stop you crashing into Brent shops.” He just smiled.)

K read over the story again and corrected her spelling mistakes. “Now where to hide this” she thought, not wanting to consider what might happen should anyone else ever get to read it.