A novel way of dealing with a careless driver, told from several perspectives.
By Joanna Jones
A story inspired by a number of communications with an internet friend, for which I am very grateful.
The Prologue: Monday Evening.
I was furious as I stomped into the house, having seen the deep scratches in the front passenger side corner paintwork and of course the absence of the passenger wing mirror. My darling daughter had clearly had another accident.
“Sally-May,” I hollered, stomping in through the door. “Downstairs, now!”
Sheepishly she appeared in the kitchen where I was now standing, arms folded, at the sink having had a quick glass of water to calm me down.
“The car! Explain?” I demanded.
My daughter, dressed in her loose joggers and a top, gave a nervous twist of her hair around her right middle finger.
“Well Daddy, I am sorry but I was driving along Thomas Street and a car suddenly came the other way and you know how narrow it is with the wall on the left. I had to swerve to get out of the way, and the car got a bit scraped at the front and, well, the wing mirror sort of fell off.”
‘Sort of?” I thought dejectedly, considering the all too real state of the damage caused.
Rather more hopefully she said: “I did pick up the bits this time!”
‘This time’, indeed it was not the first time.
In exasperation I replied: “But Thomas Street is straight, why did you not see him coming?”
Sally-May bit her lip and was twirling her finger into her hair more vigorously under my angry gaze.
“Well, Daddy, I suppose I might have been distracted, you know, my phone went off with a text from Fran and…”
And…? Her voice trailed off to nothing as my face flushed red with fury.
“Sally-May Tompkins! What have I said about that mobile phone and driving? Do you want a fine and points on your licence, maybe worse if you were to actually have an accident? If it was not for the fact that you need the car for that extra Saturday job of yours, I would ban you forthwith!”
She looked rather subdued and sorry now, I thought.
“I’ll decide what to do with you later. For the moment, I suggest you can make the tea tonight while I see if I can phone to get the car repaired, AGAIN.”
With my wife, Angela, not due back till late on a Monday, I normally made the tea, but on this occasion, she could. I watched as she rather pouted in displeasure at the chore I’d given her, but clearly decided that this was the time not to throw one of her trademark bratty tantrums, and made some effort to look at the recipe left out for us. As I left she was pulling out the potato peeler.
It was after six, but Brian George, proprietor of the local garage, was a good friend of mine, being one of my drinking buddies in the group that met in the local most Friday nights. I phoned his mobile.
After a few brief pleasantries I got to the point. “Brian, I need a favour, Sally-May has bumped the car again.”
“What!” he said. “How bad this time?”
“She’s scraped the front wing on the passenger side and knocked a wing mirror off. The wing needs a bit of filling and a touch up rather than a new panel, but the wing mirror will need a new unit.
“Okay, I’ll get some parts in, if you can get the car to me Friday?” He replied.
“I’ll get that daughter of mine to take a day off work to bring it in. I still have to decide what to do with her. She keeps thinking it’s acceptable to check her phone when driving.”
Brian responded: “You could make her pay for the repair.”
I laughed at that. “Sally-May never has that sort of money; she is too good at spending it on clothes, shoes, you know the sort of thing. I will have to think of something else.”
“Sounds like what she needs is a good spanking,” replied my friend. “I am sure your parents, like mine, would have not held back.
I laughed. “Yes, but parents smacking their daughters is not quite the done thing anymore. I am not even sure me giving her the thrashing she deserves would be legal, even if she is twenty and actually agreed to it.”
There was a pause and then it hit me. “But you could put her over your knee.” I said.
“She’d never agree to that!” Brian exclaimed.
I smiled to myself. “She might if she had no choice, it could be the spanking or paying for the repair herself. Even paying it back over a couple of months will effectively curtail her social life completely, I think.”
There was a pause on the line before Brian replied. “What sort of ‘spanking’ are we talking about here then, Jack.”
I considered. “Perhaps it would be a bit much to use a paddle of some sort, given it is her first time. Maybe a long session over the knee might be best, make up for the pain with plenty of humiliation, pull her knickers down if you want!”
Brian paused again. “Okay, I have to say seeing that daughter of yours over my knee is very tempting, and judging by your stories in the pub, she has been needing a good lesson for some time. Now, if you think humiliation will work, then I have an idea which will also appeal to the lads I have on the floor and who will have to do the repair. If they agree then I could waive the labour charge, just leaving the parts for you.”
“That sounds a good deal to me. If she doesn’t agree she can pay for the repair herself.”
After a little longer with Brian sorting out the practicalities I hung up feeling much more satisfied.
It was agreed that I would say nothing to my darling daughter other than to take the car in.
I returned in a rather less angry mood to the kitchen where the now peeled potatoes were in the pan, and the laid out pie in the oven, having just reached temperature.
Sally-May was now rather sullenly peeling the carrots. She looked up at me, a little worried.
I replied coolly: “Right, I have arranged for the car to go in Friday at twelve-twenty. Neither your mother nor I have the time, so you will take a half day off to get the car in. As far as I recall, if you start at eight then you will be able to get away by noon. If you want to get parked you’ll need to be in that early in any case.”
I saw the rebellious look and she started to argue: “But daddy, you know how little holiday I get,” she whined. “It’s not fair. And I hate getting up so early.”
“Look, my girl, you broke the car, you will go and get it fixed. While you can drive into town, there is no way I am letting you out on the M25 on Saturday without that wing mirror!”
“Okay!” She huffed grumpily.
“I suggest you are a bit more polite young lady, I still have to work out with your mother what sanction to give you for your dreadful inattention when driving; that we will decide at the weekend.”
That calmed her a little, no doubt considering that while she still lived rent free at home she had to accept I could still inconvenience her life in many ways, including with a grounding.
“Please, daddy, I am sorry about the car, honest.”
“Finish making the tea, Sally-May.” I replied frostily. “I am going to watch the news and see if I can calm down a bit. You know I need the car tomorrow for an important client visit. I am going to be very embarrassed to turn up with that sort of damage.”
With that I turned and left my daughter to her thoughts. Thoughts that would have been much more agitated if she knew what was going to happen on Friday.
I knew I was going to be in trouble the moment it happened. I had just heard the tell-tale vibration of my phone and glanced at the text from my best friend. Seemingly seconds later, a car appeared and clearly thought there was enough room for him to get past between me going in the other direction and a parked car. I was less sure, and swerved rather too abruptly and heard an awful screech as the side scraped the wall, and then the wing mirror clattered.
My ‘opponent’ sailed on his merry way leaving me to stop and sickly examine the damage, including a mirror that had somehow fallen off.
Daddy was not going to be pleased, I knew, as I placed the bits on the front passenger seat.
And so, of course, it proved. He was furious. It did not help that I foolishly let slip that I had been distracted. It was the other car’s fault really, but clearly daddy was in no mood to listen to that!
I tried to play the meek and mild card, but that did not stop him making me do the dinner since mummy was out. I hate cooking, especially when all that is involved is basically bit of peeling.
Perhaps I should have realised something was up when he was perceptibly calmer on returning from his call to his pal in the garage. However, I put that down to him making me take a half day to take the car to the garage. Given the miserly holiday allowance I had, that was a sacrifice.
Overall, though, given what could have happened, I was pretty happy to have got away with things, or so I thought at the time.
Friday Lunchtime: Surveying the Damage
I have to confess to a certain amount of suppressed excitement and of course anticipation as I waited for young Miss Tompkins to appear that lunchtime. The lads all knew what she looked like, especially given she was most definitely one of the more attractive customers we had, and I had indicated I was to serve her. Not knowing if she was going to accept our proposal I had chosen not to let them know what might happen. I did not want them as excited as I was feeling.
She arrived a couple of minutes early, clearly not best pleased to be taking her half day off. I noted she was dressed very well, her hair neatly styled as usual, and wearing a blue skirt suit that showed her figure to its best and complemented the predominantly red top. Her neatly tailored skirt was clearly only just close enough to the knee to be considered ‘professional’.
I put any thoughts of what she might look like shortly to one side and started as calmly as I could. “Miss Tompkins, your father said you’d be in with the car. Can I take a look, please?”
She grimaced and said: “I hope it’s not too bad,” as I was escorted out to the metallic blue BMW Five series. A quick look at the remnants of the wing mirror she had salvaged confirmed her father’s judgment and I shook my head. “I am sorry but we’ll need to replace it completely.” I said.
She gave a cute little shrug. “Daddy said that might be the case, though I was hoping you could repair it.”
I gave her a sympathetic smile as I looked sound the wing. “I think we can knock the dent out and fill the scrapes on the bumper, then spray paint them to match. However you’ve cracked the headlamp housing and all I can do is replace that. Okay?”
“Oh,” she said with surprise, then continued rather dejectedly: “Daddy is not going to be pleased.”
I hid my amusement at her naivety and invited her back into the office. I did a bit of a calculation, half done anyway, and then looked up at her. “I am afraid it’s going to be about four hundred pounds for parts, and I reckon two hundred for labour.”
Her eyes opened wide at that, I noted, before I even said: “Plus VAT.”
“So,” I asked. “How do you want to pay the bill?”
I have to say the slack-jawed look of surprise was actually very cute. I could not help wondering if her bottom would look cute too.
“Did daddy not say to put it on his account?” She asked.
“No, my impression from him was that he felt you needed to learn to be more careful, and take responsibility for your actions.”
“But I don’t have that sort of money!” She wailed.
“We do take credit cards, you know, or maybe you might want to discuss with your father?”
Her phone was out her handbag as quick as lightning.
Soon she had it to her ear. “Daddy, about the car bill, it’s a lot of money. I don’t have that much.” She started.
I listened, inwardly amused, to half the conversation as she reluctantly admitted her card was already maxed out. More amused still as what seemed like her usual tricks to play daddy around her little finger clearly failed. My friend Jack was not in the mood to let her off this time!
I watched her face change, her eyes open in astonishment, and recognised the moment he gave her an alternative as she had been begging for. It was clear the alternative was not one she expected, nor one she was happy about!
“But Daddy! You can’t be serious! That’s not…,” she started to beg again.
There was then a long pause as no doubt Jack interrupted his daughter and told her a few facts.
“But Daddy,” she started again. “Daddy! Daddy…”
However, Daddy had clearly hung up!
Much of the self-confidence was now gone as, rather lost in pensive thought, she turned to look at me. I noticed her left hand go up to give a lock of hair a nervous twist as she considered what to do.
I gave her a questioning look and waited for her to speak.
Eventually she said: “Daddy said if I accept some sort of punishment from you in lieu of labour then he would pay for the parts?”
“Yes, your father asked me to emphasise how stupid it is to use your mobile phone in any way while driving, and thought the best way might be with a thorough spanking to that behind of yours.”
She bit her lip and twisted that lock of hair more tightly, but did not look too shocked. Clearly her father had intimated that fact to her.
“Can I ask wh, what sort of spanking?” She asked.
“Well, since it is the first time for you I am proposing just a hand spanking from me, and the three lads who will be actually fixing your car. As it is our bare hands, the spanking will be on your bare bottom. I said labour is two hundred pounds and I think as a result two hundred seconds of spanking from each of us should remind you to be more careful in your dad’s car. You will also do exactly what you are told all afternoon and that may involve a few more spanks, and you may find it a bit embarrassing.”
Clearly my use of ‘just’ in referring to a long hand spanking was not shared by Sally-May as her mouth opened with a cute look of shock and surprise.
“That’s outrageous,” she declared. “I can’t accept that.”
“I understand, but two hundred pounds is quite a bit of money and in my view you are being let off quite lightly, I have known parents bring cars in here declaring their son or daughter would be paying in full and be banned from using the car for quite some time. However, it is entirely up to you whether you pay for the repair or accept the alternative your father has suggested I propose.”
There was a long pause, a very long pause. The rebellious look slowly evaporated.
Finally she said: “If, if I accept this punishment, what do I have to do?”
She was slowly but surely capitulating.
I replied: “Basically first sign the disclaimer I drafted and which your father, Mr Tompkins, has agreed to. Then while the garage is closed for lunch we will give you the main spanking, after which you can clean up before spending the afternoon in the customer waiting room with your nose to the wall, during which you might get a few more slaps to remind you to concentrate better when driving in the future.”
As I said this, I passed her the disclaimer document which she started to read. It was clear she didn’t like it but the fight had gone; she knew this was a lost battle.
She sickly took up a pen and signed her bottom over to the garage.
“Okay, Miss Tompkins, for the rest of the afternoon you will refer to me or my colleagues as ‘sir’ and do exactly what you are told. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” She replied, following belatedly with a “Sir” as my eyes flashed.
“Follow me young lady.” And she was escorted into the staff room.
My manager, a pompous fashion-less (I mean who wears thirty year old shiny brown suits?) twit called Terry Harris, was not very amused at me taking the afternoon off, but grudgingly allowed me to do so, meaning that on Friday lunchtime I arrived at the garage dressed in my two-piece dark skirt suit, a favourite of mine with its tight skirt falling to just below mid-thigh, with a jacket that fitted tightly to my waist before flaring out, accentuating my figure well. It had cost me a pretty penny, but it was certainly worth it. I am sure it had won me a few sales and some better prices in negotiations, even if it was just working on my confidence rather than distracting the men who so often were the company clients I had to deal with. It certainly was more effective than the mess my boss wore, to say nothing about the dreadful toupee that adorned his pate.
It was Daddy’s friend, Brian Dawkins, who served me, first looking at the damage. Daddy was not going to be happy when he realised the headlight was broken too, and the bill was quite steep.
However, imagine my shock when I realised it was not Daddy but me that was going to pick up the tab!
I immediately phoned Daddy. He was very blunt, told me that I broke the car so it was me who would have to pay! I begged, pleaded, but none of it worked. Then he dropped the bombshell: He would pay, but I would have to accept a spanking! A spanking from the garage!
He then gave me a tirade about my attitude and before I could reply told me bluntly to make my mind up on whether to pay with money or my backside, and that was the end of the matter. With that, he hung up!
I am sure Mr Dawkins was inwardly laughing behind that lightly wrinkled face, as he waited for me to speak.
To cut a long story short, I found no wriggle room there either. It was clear; pay cold hard cash or pay with a red hot bum. The prospect of the latter was awful, but I knew my financial position. There was, really was, absolutely no choice.
It was not long before I found myself being escorted into their staff room, a rather soulless box, with dirty paint and some soft chairs and sofas that looked as if they’d been picked up off a dump. The fabric was clearly discoloured from the dirt on their overalls. There was a part-open door in the corner that looked as if it led to the ‘facilities’ so to speak, judging by the tiled floor that could be seen.
The only things that looked vaguely clean were the posters; posters of sports cars and the odd motorbike, almost all with tall, thin, scantily clad women draped across them. Woman with rather improbable vital statistics and in poses that were not exactly innocent.
A typical male-only enclave, I thought as I looked at the three other men who were inside; two younger lads and a guy who was a little older. As Brian introduced me to them I felt a shudder go through me. These ‘connoisseurs’ of the scantily clothed female form were about to get a real life experience. And I was the model!
Friday Lunchtime: Getting Ready
It was after twelve-thirty, and the garage was closed when we finished our negotiations and entered the staff room where my three colleagues were eating their packed lunches.
Sally-May looked rather nervous as she entered our private staff room and, looking at her reaction, she was no doubt less than impressed, if not especially surprised, at the posters that decorated our so far male-only environment. No doubt if we ever appointed a woman there would need to be some changes.
“Lads, you all know Sally-May Tompkins whose dad has the BMW that needs the new wing mirror. Well Miss Tompkins here can’t really afford to pay for her damage, caused by her inattentiveness when driving, so she has elected to take a spanking from each of us instead. Now if you feel you are not interested in helping give her a very well-deserved punishment, then you can wait outside and I’ll let you have an extended lunch after we have finished in here.”
There were three men who all stopped eating and looked at Sally-May Tompkins in a very different way. Graham who was thirty-odd was clearly already mentally undressing her. The two younger lads, Matt and Rob, were both sitting with their mouths half open in astonishment.
I took control. “Right, Tompkins, you will shortly be going over each of our knees for your spanking. So I suggest you take a few minutes facing the wall there while the lads finish their lunches.”
She looked at our dirty, greasy, oily overalls rather horrified, no doubt imaging sprawling across our knees in her very smart looking outfit.
“But, my clothes…” She started.
I am sure I gave an uncharacteristically evil smile at her as I interrupted.
“Yes, I can see that very becoming outfit of yours could be damaged permanently. Don’t worry, I had already thought of that and the solution. If you look in the corner that I pointed to, you’ll see I have already laid out a nice clean basket. I was going to order it later, but since you’ve made the point you might as well strip everything off now, and then you can stand in the corner as I asked. After your spanking you can use the shower through the back to clean off any grime before the afternoon aspect of your punishment.”
It was difficult not to laugh as her mouth seemed to be operating with no sound coming out.
“No way!” She declared angrily as he voice caught up with her mouth. “I am not going to strip naked for you, you, you pervert!”
My face hardened. “Look, Tompkins, you signed up for this. If you had read the agreement carefully, you’d know that. If you don’t like it you can still pay for the repair. If not, I suggest you get yourself undressed right now. And, I should remind you, you are to call me ‘sir’, not ‘pervert’. I am adding 15 seconds to your time over my knee for your forgetting to be polite, and 15 seconds more for being downright rude. Any more arguing or nonsense and I’ll add 20 seconds to one of the four spankings you are due each time.”
She looked shocked, furiously at me. However, eventually she haughtily spun on her heel and went to the corner.
It was when I objected to being put over those grime-filled grey overalls they all wore that I realised with the most horrid shock what kind of model I was to become. Not a poorly clad clothes model, no, not even a lingerie model, no, I was to be a stripped, soft-porn, spanking model. A sick anger welled up inside of me as I considered the ‘nice clean basket’ left for my clothes. An anger that was deflated as Mr Dawkins emphasised the futility of my predicament, upping my appointed time over his knee to boot. I never imagined the line in that contract I’d signed ‘in any state of attire requested’ might not just mean a bare bottom, but no attire whatsoever!
If looks could kill, Brian Dawkins would be slumped rather differently in that chair rather than his relaxed pose with a firm outward look he was fixing me with. The corners of his mouth betrayed his true feelings; the hint of a smirk at my discomfort.
There was no choice.
Briefly I considered giving them a provocative strip, the sort I had occasionally given my boyfriend, as an ironic gesture of defiance. Then I remembered who had all the cards.
Outwardly defiant, I marched to the corned and faced it. I took a deep breath, before slipping my watch off my wrist and putting it in my bag at the bottom of the basket.
Taking my jacket off was the easy part. I folded it neatly and placed it over the dark leather of the bag.
I slipped off my heels and put the shoes next to the pink plastic container, then, resignedly, my hands went behind me and found the clasp of the lined skirt. The fit was tight, and I could feel the slight release on my tummy as the tension gave. It took an embarrassing wiggle to get it down over my hips. Once again I took my time to fold and place it in the basket, crouching as if my blouse formed a shirt mini-dress.
This was like a surreal dream. I could not believe this was happening.
Briefly, I glanced at my audience. Brian still had that smirk on his lips. The others were clearly intently watching my performance. It was already clear that one of the younger lads was rather obviously enjoying the show. This was awful.
My fingers shook slightly as I fumbled behind my neck for the button on the back of my faux-silk top, finally got it undone and pulled it over my head.
I was now in the lingerie state. Rather nice lingerie too, in a rather provocative shade of red. I had been planning to see my boyfriend that evening, but wondered if I would be able to after this.
I made an effort to detach my state of mind from what I was actually doing as the stocking clips gave and the sheer material slid down my legs. Flipping the straps out of my knickers the lacy red belt was soon on top of the pile, leaving me in a red lightly laced bra and my matching panties, with their ruffle round the edge of the elastic.
All too soon, the bra, then finally those panties, were in the basket too, leaving me humiliated without a stitch on my body. That morning I had imagined a man being present when I took those garments off. However, this was both many hours too early and most certainly not the right male company.
Until ordered otherwise, I decided to remain facing away from them, as I bitterly regretted my impetuosity in looking at that text message in the car.
Friday Lunchtime: The Spanking
It was hardly a striptease, but the atmosphere in our staff room was electric enough as Sally-May Tompkins reluctantly removed her clothes.
I was amazed at her underwear, the suspenders, the skimpy briefs and low cut bra, showing plenty of cleavage, all in a shocking red. I wondered if that was her usual choice, or whether it was intended for her significant other.
Whatever the case, the sight of her undressing certainly had me twitching and as for the others, well, eyes wide on stalks seem the best adjective. The most amusing was Rob, whose overalls were clearly straining, and his mouth seemed to have forgotten it was half-way though a sandwich. I suppose it was hardly surprising given he was at nineteen, a couple of years younger than the young woman in front of him.
It was impossible not to appreciate her figure as she as modestly as possible removed her undergarments. However, finally Miss Tompkins was ready. She stood facing the wall, the figure lightly tanned, with a couple of fuzzy lines on her bottom enclosing a small area which clearly her summer complement of swimsuits all covered.
“Put your hands on your head,” I said quietly.
I looked at my three colleagues again. They were all drinking in the sight of the stark naked young lady in front of them. I got out my packed lunch and enjoyed my appraisal of the female form as I ate my cheese sandwiches. It did not take long, but I expect the wait was far from enjoyable for the lady in our midst.
As we finished our food I decided she could go over my knee last, allowing the others to go first. However, first I got up and went to the washroom to scrub the muck off my hands. The others followed suit. Knowing she could no doubt hear us through the door, little was said other than Matt commenting on what a treat I’d managed to arrange for them.
We finally returned to our seats, with my three colleagues now very much sitting up in anticipation.
“Sally-May, turn and face us.”
As she did so, her hands dropped, one across her chest and the other to cover that area between her legs.
I was not having that. “No-one said you could drop your hands, Tompkins. Get them back on your head this instant!” I demanded.
She looked daggers at me as she clearly considered challenging my demand, before finally acquiescing and, blushing furiously, doing as she was told.
I did my best not to admire too overtly her rather full breasts, to say nothing of anything below the waist. It was a pretence my three colleagues made no attempt to make.
Time to start, I thought. “Right, first you will go to Graham and apologise for the trouble you have caused and ask him to spank you. You will then get over his knee. I will call the time. After you thank him kindly, then go to Rob for the same, then Matt. Finally you will come to me. Any questions?”
She glowered at me and said: “You’re all really enjoying this aren’t you?”
An angry glare did the trick. Eventually a more contrite response was forthcoming. “No, sir.”
With that she reluctantly walked across the room to Graham. The apology at least sounded submissive as, eventually, Graham patted his lap and she sprawled herself over his lap on the sofa. Rob decided to move out the way to the sofa I was on to make space for her.
Graham could not resist a rub and light massage of the two halves of the peach that now faced up at him.
Meanwhile I got my watch out, put the stopwatch on, ready to time 3 minutes 20 seconds.
“When you’re ready.” I intimated.
I started the watch as his hand rose away from those creamy, lightly tanned globes.
And then it crashed down with a resounding smack, leaving a clear red handprint on the left buttock.
A few seconds later a second hand spank landed on the other side.
Once again Sally took it silently.
Rather than laying into that ‘oh-so-nicely’ presented bum Graham paused to admire the red marks develop on the naked flesh before giving each buttock a gentle rub. Finally he let fly with two more spanks, and after a brief pause started to methodically spank the target.
It was almost as interesting to watch Matt and Rob as they watched, eyes fixated, as Graham slowly turned the bottom a progressively darker shade of pink, accompanied by the odd gasp and grunt from young Miss Tompkins. She was holding herself together pretty well, I thought, as she grimly kept her hands in front of her on the sofa and her legs on the floor.
With about a minute to go, Graham clearly decided to up the ante, paused, and unleashed a full blooded spank on her left cheek.
Sally-May gasped: “Sheesh!”
Graham smiled and released a second one to the right cheek, eliciting another squeak.
Those squeaks became a little less controlled as Graham finished his time off with a around a dozen more slow hard spanks.
Finally I called time, and she was up immediately, and rubbing rather vigorously at her behind; modesty was clearly now of lesser importance!
Graham gave a satisfied smile at the red flushed face in front of him.
As requested, Sally made a peculiar curtsy and thanked Graham for attending to her.
One spanking complete, three to go!
Standing naked facing the wall was a nerve wracking experience, knowing they were watching me as they chomped on their lunches. I suppose I should be grateful they cleaned their hands before having their fun. I could not believe my father had actually agreed to this, far less seemingly put them up to it!
Of course despite the wait being seemingly interminable it was suddenly over all too soon.
Forbidden any modesty, all too soon I found myself draped over the first set of dirty overalls and staring at the tatty sofa fabric and, to the side, the rather dirty floor. I felt a sick shiver go through me as he lightly caressed my vulnerable buttocks.
A few seconds later the first slap came, followed of course by the unsurprising awareness that it stung. Perhaps kindly, Graham took his time in applying that hand to my bottom, but I certainly had not expected the sting of those spanks to increase in the way they did. By the end it was becoming a real struggle to stay still.
Finally I heard the welcome shout of “time” and jumped off the lap and started desperately rubbing to try to assuage some of the pain. Somehow I managed to curtsy to my first chastiser who smiled and then swapped onto one of the chairs, allowing Rob to move away from Brian and take Graham’s place.
Rob then gave me a wicked grin as he stared at my naked body, giving my shaven crotch a particularly good look as I made my apology and requested to be punished. Finally he patted his lap.
Reluctantly I draped myself over his knees, and could feel his manhood stiff under my lower tummy; clearly he was wearing loose-fitting boxers of some sort.
I then felt a pat as he got ready to start.
Rob was clearly far too pumped up to take his time. The moment the call came to start, the slaps rained down hard and fast. Within far too short a time I was really squealing, and as the blows continued to rain down those squeals certainly became more screech like. Desperately I tried to keep my ankles together on the floor. It was a close run thing but as I jumped up and rather wailed out a ‘thanks’ as I curtsied, I knew I was beginning to struggle.
No matter how much I rubbed it seemed to make no difference to the throbbing pain in my bum as Matt swapped with his slightly more junior colleague. Humiliated, I could see that he was having no more success in controlling what was inside his overalls than Rob had.
At the end of my required apology and request to be punished, I gave Matt a sniff and a look that I hoped said: ‘Please, not too hard’ as he guided me the other way over his knee, being clearly left-handed.
My pleading look clearly had no effect. While not the frenzied spanking of Rob, they still came fast, but most of all hard. It only took a few and I found myself unable not to wail and start to wriggle.
Matt’s response? To briefly adjust himself forward on the sofa, pushing my upper body off so my hands joined my feet on the floor and my face no longer had the comfort of resting on the grubby yellow fabric. As a result my bottom also ended up further over his lap and my nose closer to the floor. He then continued harder than ever, seemingly concentrating on the lowest part of my buttocks and uppermost thighs.
Upper body now requiring my hands to support it, movement became the prerogative of my legs. Soon they were scissoring about in a desperate effort to reduce the stinging slaps to my now very tender rear end. By the end of his three minutes or so, wails had long since become sobs and tears streaked down my face. His thorough spanking had well and truly got through to me.
And there was still one more spanking to go!
After the fairly restrained efforts of Graham, that of Rob’s was much more energetic. The blows rained down thick and fast, bouncing rapidly off her bottom and causing Sally-May’s face to become clearly more pained as she began to give voice to her discomfort. After it was clear the shade of pink resulting from Graham’s efforts had deepened to distinct red, the clutch on those buttocks after was altogether more desperate and I am sure she was unaware of the rather alluring way her breasts bounced and she hopped from foot to foot.
I wondered how she would cope with her third spanking. After all, Matt was a strong six foot lad who enjoyed his rugby with the local team.
Until she went over his legs the other way, I had forgotten Matt was a left hander. Thus, instead of a view of her pained facial expressions I found myself looking at her legs, leading up to that rather red bottom, a bottom that convulsed involuntarily as the first hard spank landed.
It did not take long for her screeches to become rather desperate as the red rapidly deepened. She started to wriggle, legs parting slightly as a result. Suddenly Matt, in an effort to restrain our miscreant more effectively, shifted forward in his seat forcing her forward from the sofa onto the floor, causing her breasts to now dangle freely. Breasts that wobbled around as the hard spanks continued, further deepening the red on the lowest part of that bottom. The movement in her upper body was however as nothing compared to her legs now flailing around with no care as to what might be shown in between.
Finally I called time and, instead of jumping up, she first rolled onto the floor before finally staggering to her feet to thank her chastiser. Her rather teary face was a mess of make up as she did so.
It was hard not to feel sympathy for the miserable young woman as she approached the sofa that I was sitting alone on.
All defiance was gone as she sniffed and stuttered out her apology, then as I patted my lap she reluctantly allowed herself to be draped over it, giving me a view of the now bright red bottom that had suffered 10 minutes of thorough hand spanks, and which now had a further four minutes to go.
As Graham started the stopwatch on his digital wrist watch I gave her bottom a few hard slaps, causing a sob almost immediately.
I decided rather to go a bit easy on her, given she looked as if she had already had more-or-less enough. Pausing, I asked: “So what have you learnt, Sally-May Tompkins?”
Perhaps she was too gone to realise the question, for no answer was forthcoming. A volley of hard slaps punctuated the question’s repeat.
“That I need to be more careful driving,” was the sobbed reply as I paused again.
I gave another volley of slightly lighter slaps, then asked the next question.
“Yes, and how specifically do you need to be more careful?”
“I don’t know, by looking at the road more?” She wailed.
This time the set of spanks I gave her was blisteringly hard as I said loudly: “Looking at the road, yes, NOT looking at that mobile phone of yours!”
The screeches and squeals were quite desperate, and the sobs had started again as I paused to ask the next question. Soon she got the idea. Answer correctly and the smacks were gentle. Answer less than perfect, or take too long, and the spanks were as viciously hard as I could make them, with my hand crashing down on the bright red cheeks, causing them to wobble delectably under the onslaught, something made more alluring as she wriggled about to try to assuage some of the pain.
Finally Graham called time. Sally-May briefly just lay over my lap trying to get a little composure back. Eventually I helped her up and pointed her in the direction of the showers. She needed time alone so I escorted the others out and told her to be dressed, minus her skirt, and standing nose into the corner after half an hour.
I fully expected Brian’s efforts to be the worst, being my father’s good friend. However he was more gentle than I expected, instead he concentrated on making me feel like a disobedient little girl. One who needed to be lectured about her behaviour. It was soon clear he expected me to answer his questions. Too slow or not the right answer led to some really vicious blows to my very, very tender rear.
Finally it was over and I could escape to the shower. It was not as dirty as I feared and the water felt cool as I caressed my very hot bottom and tried to wash the tears from my eyes. Finally I could get out and Brian had clearly the foresight to leave a clean towel, though not a hair dryer.
After a good examination of my scarlet bottom in what passed for a mirror I got dressed and waited in the room for Brian to return.
Unfortunately I had forgotten my tribulations were not yet over. Shortly after Brian came in, face turning immediately to a frown.
“Did I not tell you to leave your skirt off?” He demanded angrily.
A flurry of slaps later, he unclasped the waist himself and soon had that skirt around my ankles, its bottom hugging nature meaning my knickers also started to slip down too. Slapping my hands away he rather roughly tugged them up and then gave the fabric a volley of slaps to reactivate the painful sting on my bum.
With my skirt back in the ‘nice clean basket’ he then dragged me to the door. I balked as I realised that he was intending to take me out into the public part of the garage!
Friday Afternoon: Painful Embarrassment
I gave her a little more than half an hour to clean herself up, as the guys took a bit of encouragement to all get back to work, including now on the BMW.
I was, however, furious she had ignored the simple instructions I had left her, to be in the corner minus that skirt of hers.
A few slaps and squeals later and the offending garment was back in the basket. In the process, her flimsy knickers rather fell off, revealing a bottom that was of a remarkably similar shade of red.
Finally she was ready for the second part of her punishment.
However, when she realised that I intended her to stand in the waiting room corner with her knicker-clad bum on display she became quite desperate, begging for an alternative.
My intention had been to put a note on her back explaining her crime and inviting any customer to give her a few slaps if they wished. Slaps that I thought would lose their impact, both physical and psychological if administered through that fairly thick lined skirt.
It was then I remembered Graham had a fairly sturdy wooden spoon in the drawer beneath the microwave, used for stirring the rather large bowls of soup that he occasionally brought in instead of sandwiches, most often when the weather was cold.
Fetching the spoon, I gave her the choice. Modesty won, and I watched as she rather gratefully wriggled her bottom into the skirt once more, before reluctantly following me out and then into the waiting room.
It was one thing to be spanked in private, quite another to be expected to stand in my knickers in the reception area of the garage. I was even more appalled as Brian told me he was going to allow any customer to give those knickers a slap as part of my punishment.
Eventually he relented, on the skirt, but only if the spanks were with some wooden spoon he had. The choice was either stand in the corner skirt off, hands on head and stay there as my knickers got hand spanked four times, or bend slightly to put my hands on the seat of a chair and allow people to take the spoon off my back and give four hard spanks.
Neither option was palatable, but I was desperate to regain my skirt. The spoon it had to be!
All too soon I was carrying that spoon into the waiting room. Brian had me stand nose to the wall as he wrote a note with a thick black pen on an A3 piece of paper.
I bashed my parents’ car because I didn’t concentrate on the road. Please help me remember by spanking me up to four times with this spoon.
P.S. The harder you spank the better I can remember.
He pinned the note to my back and then pointed to the chair for me to bend over. The skirt tightened as I adopted the position.
Lost in my thoughts staring at the black vinyl seat covering it was a shock when I heard a sudden smack and felt the intense sting of that spoon.
“Stay in position,” he ordered as I made to rise. An order reinforced with a restraining hand on my back.
I yelped my way through three more blows before he balanced the spoon above the note on my back, warning me that if it fell off I would regret it.
Sally-May rather meekly acquiesced to my orders, leading to her ultimately standing slightly bent over with her hands on the chair. The skirt may have saved her modesty but, despite its lining, I could see the line of those scarlet knickers clearly, along with the hints of her stocking suspenders.
I decide to give her something to think about, smacking the spoon sharply four times on her bottom, and being rewarded with appropriate yelps.
Fortunately for Sally-May the garage was not busy that afternoon, though there were enough customers to ensure the message was reinforced.
My customers’ reactions were of course interesting. A couple pretended to ignore her, while another few made comment but left her bottom alone.
One of the most surprising was a lady in her early sixties who I had always thought as a bit of a kindly old lady, a real softie. However, rather than just making a comment, she picked up the spoon and smacked it very hard right at the base of her bottom. Four smacks later there were sniffs coming up from the chair. She then demanded her husband give her four hard ones too, much to his clear reluctance.
Mr Johnson, who was getting his car serviced, was more perceptive than most. “This inattention would not be related to a phone, would it?” He asked gruffly.
When that was confirmed, he walked over and crouched down to say: “I had a driver crash into me while on their phone, it’s a horrible habit.” The four spanks he gave her were absolute beezers.
Perhaps the worst for Sally was the arrival of four teenage boys in a bit of an old banger needing new tyres.
It was clear they all found the situation very amusing, and they all made great play of giving her the requisite four spanks, insisting she ask for each blow. Sally’s voice was quite strained by the end as she acquiesced to their demands to ask for each spank to be harder.
Finally, around 4 pm, her Dad’s BMW was ready. Once released with a final four pats of the spoon she rather carefully climbed in to the driver’s seat and departed, leaving me to deal with some rather ribald comments from my three colleagues as they cleared up.
The afternoon was not pleasant. What seemed like interminable periods of waiting bored staring at that black vinyl, and then the nerves as someone entered.
Every time there would be the worry it would be someone I knew, then there was the question of what they would do. Would they spank or wouldn’t they, then if they did would they do it hard?
On my oh-so-tender bottom, any spank was uncomfortable, even the couple who were rather token in their efforts.
Others were very firm indeed, causing me to yelp. The worst were four eighteen to twenty year old boys, one of whom recognised me. Brian did nothing to stop their taunts and comments, though he did make it clear there was to be no ‘touching’ as they wondered what my bottom was feeling like. He didn’t prevent me having to parrot out: “I have been really very naughty, please give me another spank, harder.” Sixteen times that spoon crashed into my bottom, all more or less on the same spot low on my left buttock where I was to find later I had a bruise that lasted long after rest of the marks had gone. I was really yelping when they had finally finished!
Friday Afternoon: Epilogue
Finally I was told I could go. A quick wash of my face, and gentle rub of my afflicted posterior and I was able to gently lower myself into the car and drive home.
About ten minutes into the journey, I heard the tell-tale vibration and tinkle of my phone, announcing receipt of a text message. It was almost certainly my boyfriend, Steve, wondering why I had not contacted him about tonight. Instinctively I began to reach towards my bag.
Then I stopped as a twinge from my very tender bottom reminded me that maybe I should wait!
© Joanna Jones 2014