by Pet Jeffery
I should have realised in advance that I'd be in trouble when Tanya read her credit card bill. My only hope for a quiet life, really, was if Tanya merely glanced at the bill, but there wasn't much chance of that since she'd loaned me the card. In this wicked world, there are limits to the trust a sensible person would accord to a girlfriend. What I couldn't have foreseen was that she would spank me. Spanking had, so far, remained beyond my experience, nor did I expect that I would ever receive so much as a single punishing slap on my bottom. I was aware that, before my time, people smacked naughty children, but that was long ago. The idea had never entered my head that an adult like me might receive such treatment. This was the twenty-first century, and I was twenty-two years old.
As she perused the bill, Tanya's face expressed displeasure, but I remained uncertain as to whether she was merely a little miffed, or about to explode with fury. Perhaps, I dared to hope, her ill humour would soon evaporate. Tanya was certainly a hot-blooded creature, perhaps a legacy from her Hispanic heritage. Her surname suited her temperament, del Toro, or bull, a fierce creature, better left unprovoked.
"I take it," Tanya said with heavy sarcasm, "that your shopping in Bally was in their home furnishing department."
"I was on Regent Street," I defended myself, "to visit Liberty, as you suggested. I happened to pass the Regent Street branch of Bally and glanced, just glanced, into their window. They had a pair of shoes that will be perfect for work, smart, but the heels aren't too high. I'll give you the money for them if you like."
This was a hollow offer, and Tanya must have been aware of the fact. My bank account currently contained less than the price of the shoes.
"And Pinko Boutique," Tanya continued. "Do I need to go on? There are half a dozen transactions that can't be home furnishings. Come here."
I stepped over to where Tanya sat. She reached out, took hold of my skirt hem, and attempted to tug it upwards. Whatever Tanya aimed to do, and her action puzzled me, she failed to shift my skirt by more than a dozen centimetres. It was one of the pencil skirts I wore for work and was too tight to slide easily in that direction. If I unfastened the waistband, and tugged down the zip, the skirt would slip downwards easily enough. Subjected to the opposite treatment, it would stick where it was; the diameter at the hem was less than my measurement at the fullest part of my thighs.
"I haven't the patience for this!" Tanya exclaimed. "Change into the sorority skirt I gave you last week."
The previous week, Tanya had given me a blue tartan pleated skirt. 'I'd like you to have this,' she'd said, 'it's from my university sorority.' After that, I hadn't listened to her properly. I found something off-putting in her anecdotes of student life. Perhaps it was simply that I was jealous because I had no higher education. I did catch the words, 'that Pledge bending over,' which confused me because I thought of Pledge as a cleaning product. How could it bend over? Did she think of a cleaning lady bent to spray Pledge polish into an inaccessible place? What had that to do with anything? Later, I realised that, if I'd paid attention to Tanya's words, my first spanking would have come as a lesser shock. The half-heard anecdote recounted how Rochelle, a junior member of her sorority, bent over so that Tanya could smack her.
I didn't yet realise that the blue tartan skirt was of the sort worn by girls Tanya had slapped in her university days nor, indeed, that corporal punishment still continued in some corners of higher education. Since bottoms were the chief target for spanking, perhaps that should have been lower education. Despite my continuing innocence on the subject of chastisement, I didn't care for the skirt; it wasn't my style. Consequently, until Tanya told me to change into the garment, I hadn't tried it on. Nor would I have done so then, but for Tanya's voice and facial expression. Her words were not a request, but a command. I felt weak at the knees. Although I wouldn't have admitted it, her role as she who must be obeyed appealed to me deeply on a visceral level.
"And wear the socks and knickers that go with the skirt," Tanya added. "I can't be faffed to deal with your tights."
When Tanya had presented me with the blue tartan skirt, she also included a pair of white knee socks and a pair of sturdily built white knickers. The combination had strongly suggested a school uniform. Tanya's linkage of these things to her university sorority had failed to convince me that their manufacturer had not designed them for a much younger girl. That was one of reasons I hadn't tried on the skirt. I was twenty-two years old, for crying out loud!
What did Tanya mean when she said that she couldn't be faffed to deal with my tights? It was by no means the first mysterious thing she'd said to me. When I couldn't follow her train of thought, I usually smiled and carried on regardless. But this occasion was different. For one thing, I felt conscience-stricken. Tanya had loaned me her credit card to buy home furnishings. Without permission, I really shouldn't have treated myself, at her expense, to clothing and footwear.
More importantly, her note of command thrilled me to the depths of my soul. It was as though I had waited my entire life for someone to speak to me thus. Of course, my parents, my teachers at school, and managers at work had all told me to do things, but there had always been at least a trace of hesitation, of uncertainty, in their voices. There had been no hesitancy in Tanya's orders. It was not 'do this or I'll be cross with you'; it was simply 'do this'.
I skipped into the bedroom light-heartedly, basking in Tanya's assertiveness, kicked off my shoes, rolled my tights down my legs, wriggled from my pencil skirt, and slipped out of my Primark knickers. It was the work of another moment to take the things Tanya had specified from a drawer, ease the sturdy white knickers into place, slip into the blue tartan skirt, slide my feet into the knee socks, and tug them into position. For a moment, I hesitated. Should I put my shoes back on? Tanya hadn't specified shoes and, besides, they weren't very comfortable. Tanya's tone had been urgent, as well as domineering; I hurried back into her presence.
Tanya had shifted herself to another chair, one without arms. It must have been less comfortable for her than the chair she'd occupied whilst opening her credit card bill, and it was soon to prove a lot less comfortable for me. It wouldn't be long before I thought of the seat to which she'd moved as her spanking chair.
As I entered the room, Tanya smiled, but anger still glittered in her eyes. She pointed to a patch of carpet near her right foot.
"Stand there," she told me.
Again, this was the voice of command. I didn't hesitate to obey, although the mixture of sunshine and storm in her facial expression worried me. Tanya reached out and swept me forward. A moment later, I rested bottom upwards over her lap. Although spanking was alien to my experience, I immediately recognised the significance of bending over Tanya's knee. Presumably, during my twenty-two years, I'd seen at least one image of an over the knee spanking.
"What?" I asked.
If Tanya hadn't silenced me, I would have said a lot more, perhaps beginning, "What do you think you're doing?"
"Not another word from you," Tanya said.
She spoke with her voice of command that gave me butterflies in my tummy.
"I'm going to spank you," Tanya continued, as though making a perfectly ordinary announcement. "You've behaved very badly, making free with my credit card without asking. You deserve a spanking."
Something tickled my upper thighs. Was this how a spanking felt? If so, I could withstand a great deal of it. Subsequently, I understood the sensation to be Tanya lifting my skirt. On this, the prelude to my first spanking, I had no idea.
Then, the first smack landed on my right buttock. The impact made a louder noise, and the slap stung far more, than I would have expected. I shrieked, perhaps as much in surprise as pain. Almost at once, the second blow struck my left cheek, fully as painful as the first. After that, Tanya rained fiery spanks upon my bottom. By the time she paused, my derriere smarted dreadfully; my cries had left my throat hoarse.
Tanya's voice was soft, filled, I sensed, with fond reminiscence.
"Back in my university days," she said, "when I had to spank a pledge, I always liked to leave her underwear in place for the first few slaps. There's something rather lovely about a pristine, white, and well-cut pair of knickers filled with a girl's delightful curves. But the moment always comes to take them down, and that moment is now."
Subsequent experience led me to think that Tanya gently eased down my knickers, but it didn't feel like that at the time. The waist elastic, in passing over my already sore buttocks, constricted my bottom painfully. Nevertheless, without giving the matter any thought, I welcomed a little cool air on my burning rump.
For once, I wasn't thinking at all; the immediate experience of a spanking drove all thought from my head. That was one of the two chief reasons why I didn't protest. The other was the overwhelming authority with which Tanya had said, 'Not another word from you.' Nobody, in all of my previous life, had commanded such absolute obedience as Tanya demanded that day. Her dominance filled a deep need of which I'd been unaware. If it were not so, this might have been my only spanking, ever. As my spankings continued, they required at least my tacit consent, I could have refused Tanya's chastisements, but I never did. It was not that I desired pain, but that I needed to surrender control.
Later, I would recognise this. At the time, the spanking wholly absorbed me.
Once she had lowered my underwear, Tanya continued to smack me. My bottom throbbed and burnt, and still she continued. When I reached up to brush my hair from my eyes, I felt moisture; I was crying. Perhaps I splashed Tanya; she had grown aware of my tears.
"You're weeping," she said. "Good! It shows that I'm getting through to you, but I haven't finished your spanking yet. By the time I'm done, your bottom will be as red as a matador's muleta."
Muleta, the red cloth with which matadors enrage bulls, was a word I would need to look up.
My burning bottom felt as though it must glow as red as a traffic light's signal to stop, as a sign to cease my chastisement but, if it did, that didn't halt my spanking. Tanya continued. By the time she ceased, I had long since lost count of the slaps, and I was sorer than I'd have believed possible. When I felt her raise my underwear, I didn't dare to hope that she had finished smacking my derriere. It seemed more probable that she would continue my chastisement through the inadequate protection of my knickers. A moment later, she smoothed the hem of the tartan skirt back into place. Could she have completed my punishment?
"Up!" Tanya commanded.
I rose from her lap, dazed and bewildered.
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