A timely warning against excessive indulgence

By Joanna Jones

‘Where am I?’ I wondered as I came to and looked around a room I’d never seen before.

I felt horribly rough. I then became aware of my attire. I was wearing a bright pink nightshirt with a Disney (Minnie Mouse) character on it. I certainly did not recall seeing it before, let alone buying it. Far less could I recall putting it on. Putting out my senses I could at least sense the string of my thong – at least it looked like I still had my own knickers on.

Coming to further the smell of Dettol assaulted my senses. Someone had been sick I guessed. I hoped it had not been me.

It was then I became aware that I was not alone in the bed. In not a little dread I turned and to my relief saw Kate, my closest colleague at work, still fast asleep.

Thank goodness! It was not some guy I’d picked up.

My head felt awful. What had happened last night, I wondered? Then I remembered – the office Christmas party had happened.

I remember arriving there, the meal of the usual Roast Turkey, but the dance with a band after was mostly lost. I knew I’d been giggly after the meal, but….

I could not recall anything after my first dance, with Robert from Marketing. He was rather handsome and funny too. I wondered what had happened after that.

My body informed me that I needed to find the bathroom. Trying not to disturb Kate, I slipped out of bed and looked around. Standing was less good – I indeed had a horrible headache.

I opened the door of the unfamiliar house and saw I was upstairs. There were three other doors on the landing. Only one was open and it, judging by what I could see of the decor, indicated it must be the bathroom. A fresh dose of Dettol assaulted my nose as I entered.

Once comfortable I washed my face repeatedly with cold water, which helped a little. I wondered again where exactly I was.

Mrs Margaret Walton’s house! I guessed as soon as I opened the door. She was standing on the landing with an odd, wry expression on her face. I presume she’d heard me and come to see whether I was okay.

She was one of the senior managers of the firm, and the only female member of the management board of our division. Other than being in her early sixties, being fairly recently widowed, and having two grown daughters in, I think, their mid-thirties, I knew little more about her on a personal level.

At work she was known as fair and kind, but with a firm streak if needed.

I looked at her wondering what to say. Eventually I said: “Good morning?”

She grimaced. “Afternoon actually, Caroline. It is about half past twelve!”

“Oh!” I replied stupidly, then continued. “Err, I am sorry but do you have any paracetamol, I have a bit of a sore head.”

With another wry look on her face, she nodded and beckoned me downstairs. I followed her to the kitchen.

Noticing my awareness of the nightshirt she commented: “It’s one of my daughter’s old ones, all I could find last night for you, and of course Kate.”

I nodded uncomprehendingly. I still had no idea what I was doing in her house.

“Judging by your confusion I expect last night is rather a blur?” She asked as she passed me a couple of tablets and a glass of water.

“I guess Kate and I both had a little too much?” I asked guiltily, then swallowed the medicine.

“I suppose that would be one way of putting it,” was the answer.

“I can’t remember anything after the first dance.” I admitted.

“Lucky you!” Was the worrying reply.

Then, seeing my desire to know more, Margaret continued: “Don’t ask me yet what happened – I only want to do it once and I expect Kate may well remember little if anything about the evening also.”

“That bad!?” I said to myself and got little more than a shrug in reply.

Margaret made some tea and toast and she kept the conversation on the weather and other mundane topics. She offered me the use of her shower and I accepted. Apparently my party dress was in her washing machine already, being unwearable (another worrying comment), but an old top and skirt of one of her daughter’s that she reckoned was my size had been looked out, along with a jumper and a pair of socks. My own bra was fortunately still okay.

By the time I had dried my hair I felt much more with it, although still rather fragile. Going downstairs I found Kate, who was sipping a cup of tea, looking pale in a similar nightshirt to the one I had been wearing. It was pale blue and it was a large image of Eeyore with a night cap on that adorned it.

She suggested I rest for a while, while Kate washed herself and came down in another old skirt, and another daughter’s old jumper.

It was around three o’clock by the time both of us sat with her in the living room. It was brightly decorated in light airy colours and had a leather three piece suite as well as a largish television.

Kate and I sat on the sofa, sipping coffee nervously, still nursing rather fragile bodies and heads, as Margaret Walton looked at us from her armchair with her coffee on a small table next to her. Having spoken to Kate I knew her memory of the evening went little further than arriving at the hotel by taxi prior to the dinner.

“I suppose I’d better fill you in on last night’s events,” she said resignedly. “I am sorry but it is not going to make comfortable listening.”

The next half hour was indeed not comfortable listening. Somewhere halfway through we found ourselves holding each others’ hand as the extent of our folly became clear.

To summarise, both of us had got ourselves more than a bit merry on a punch that was served before dinner, on an empty stomach. We had not stinted on the wine during dinner and by the start of the dance we were already pretty sloshed and staggering around the floor. Much to Robert’s embarrassment, and his girlfriend’s anger, I had insisted on dancing with him and been very forward during it. When Robert had managed to prise me off him I apparently had made some very bitchy comments to the aforementioned girlfriend before, again apparently, I started roving the floor looking for some male company. Suffice to say I had managed to embarrass myself and a number of colleagues, as well as anger various others. The coup-de-grace had been actually trying to stagger to the loos, but only getting two thirds of the way across the room before my meal reappeared splattering a number of people, including an important client and his wife.

Kate had fared little better. She had been more or less incapable of dancing, but had also made a nuisance of herself including being rather forward (putting it mildly) with a couple of younger men, one who was with a partner.

Eventually Margaret had taken us home, as Kate was near paralytic and I was being ill. I apparently was sick again in the car, while Kate managed to throw up all over the bedroom, and bathroom, floor later on.

I was appalled and utterly embarrassed at my actions. So too was Kate. Both of us realised how much worse it could have been if Margaret had not extracted us when she did.

We both apologised and promised to never to let it happen again.

It was then she dropped the bombshell. Mr Baxter, the Division Head, was planning to come round in a couple of hours to discuss the events and what action the company was going to take. He was going to be busy all next week and wanted the matter sorted before Christmas. Margaret made it clear that he was not very happy and we could expect serious sanctions.

We might keep our jobs, but a disciplinary pay cut, one off fine, final written warning or combination thereof were all very much on the table. Both of us looked sick. I knew Kate was as much in debt as I was. Neither of us could afford a financial sanction, and there were few other jobs in the area, so resigning was equally unappealing.

It was Kate who asked if there were any alternatives that might satisfy Mr Baxter, and could she help us with something that acknowledged our stupidity but did not have such implications.

Margaret was confused, but Kate carried on, suggesting we write letters of apology, an email to colleagues at work and pay for cleaning et cetera for those we most directly affected, including her.

Margaret asked me for a view, more to buy time to think I suspect.

“I would be happy to do something as Kate suggests.” I replied. “We have been very foolish and need to make amends.”

Margaret thought for a while. Eventually she said: “I am glad you can see how foolish you’ve been and what you suggest certainly will help, but I am afraid in Mr Baxter’s view there needs to be some sanction, in addition.

I said: “Is there anything that would not be so severe as being fined or getting the final ultimatum, please?”

Margaret shrugged and said: “I am sorry girls, I realise you are both just over twenty and have been a bit foolish, but actions have consequences and sometimes the rules make them a little harsh when you do one silly thing.”

Kate and I looked miserably at each other. Then suddenly she said: “Could you not spank us or something?”

Margaret Walton’s jaw dropped and she started to splutter a reply, but Kate interrupted and plunged on. “You said we are still young and foolish, so why not punish us as foolish young ladies were dealt with in the past.”

Margaret looked at me for some reassurance that Kate’s idea was out-of-the-question. She was not, I think, happy to see me giving it serious thought.

Other than a spanking was supposed to hurt it seemed to be a good way to get a punishment over with as I considered. No long term letters on files, which could appear in references to future employers if we left as well as affecting internal careers, and no sudden pay cut, other than a bill for cleaning the mess I had made. More and more it seemed worth the risk.

Mrs Walton was clearly uncomfortable as I said that Kate’s idea had merit as it would be a sanction that acknowledged our stupidity, but also that we were young enough to consider it a one off.

Kate then asked if she would consider it and ‘help us’ to be punished.

Mrs Walton asked after a long pause: “By ‘help’ do you mean actually doing the spanking?'”

Kate said: “If you feel you could.”

Margaret looked very uncomfortable at both of us. “This may surprise you, but I have never punished anyone, other than the odd very token smack to my daughters when they were little. I doubt I know what to do.”

I replied: “But when you were young such punishments did happen, maybe?”

Margaret blushed. “Yes my parents spanked me with a hairbrush, and at school I did get the slipper a couple of times. However, that was a long, long time ago.” She paused. “I am not really sure about this at all.”

I said: “Can I make a suggestion? We write letters of apology now, and in the one to you we include the request to be spanked. You can then talk to Mr Baxter and decide if our volunteering will mean there will be no official sanction.”

After a bit of humming and hawing finally she agreed. We got some paper and made a list of those we needed to apologise to and started writing.

As we did so I asked Kate if she had ever had corporal punishment. Like me the answer was essentially no. Perhaps we had had the odd smack as a three year old for a tantrum, but nothing else. Still we thought anything like that was better than a warning on our record and/or a financial penalty.

After all how bad could a spanking be?

Eventually we had each written the requisite letters, except to Margaret.

Starting that letter was easy, but when it came to the punishment bit we both had the question of exactly what to say. Eventually we both agreed with a general phrase indicating that we were happy to take what she, in consultation with Mr Baxter, considered a suitable spanking, but asked that we be told in advance what we were getting. This gave us a way out if it looked to be too harsh.

It was after five, and already of course dark when we’d finished and Mrs Walton sat opposite us again and read the letters we’d written.

Finally she put them down.

“I phoned Mr Baxter already and he has said he will agree to this. So that just leaves how to do it. I wondered a lot on this, but my discussion with Mr Baxter about how he was dealt with as a teen, coupled with a few of my own experiences (she blushed slightly as she said that) have given some ideas and I have a proposal.”

She picked up the shopping bag she’d brought in with her, and then said. “It seems there are two ways: Lots of smacks with something small like a hairbrush, or a smaller number of hard whacks with something heavier. I am not injuring my arm whacking you repeatedly over my knee or wherever, so I will be trying to use the latter approach. I can find nothing really suitable though, other than this bath brush.”

As she said it she pulled out wooden brush that must have been about eighteen inches long. It was flat backed and looked very mean.

“You are both around twenty-two years old, so this is what I propose: You each get twelve now, and you can stay the night again. Tomorrow you will help me round the house to clear up and clean my car properly in part recompense for all the mess you made last night. At the end I will give you the other ten spanks that your ages deserve, which I hope will ensure you are still feeling apologetic on Monday morning. Finally if you don’t do exactly what you’re told from now and to the standard required I reserve the option to use the brush to give a reminder or encouragement. Both Mr Baxter and I have agreed if you accept this and pay for any dry cleaning et cetera then it will be the end of the matter. Do you accept?”

We looked nervously at each other before finally nodding. It was a bit inconvenient to lose our Sunday too. However, we did owe her for what she had done and the mess we’d made. At that point we both, I think, were still in that “How bad can it be?” mode as we blithely sentenced our bottoms to a very new experience.

Margaret had a final surprise for us. “Finally I should tell you that Mr Baxter still wishes to speak with you.” She said. “He has delayed his discussion with you till seven tomorrow evening when he has told me he expects to see two very sore, red bottoms and two very sorry faces.”

I was shocked. “You mean we need to pull our knickers down and show him our bare bottoms when he’s here?” I asked sickly.

“Caroline, you are wearing a thong, as is Kate, so lifting the skirt you’re wearing, and can wear again tomorrow, will be enough. And, although neither of you remember, you gave quite a number of the men a very good look at what was under your short party dresses last night.”

We both blushed bright red as we cringed at that.

She continued. “Which reminds me that we have a load of washing to do, including the linen that was originally on my spare bed. Give me both your knickers now and they should be clean and dry by tomorrow evening. You can go bare bottomed till then!”

I reluctantly stripped off the dark red item (which roughly matched the colour of my party dress) and passed it over. Kate passed her black thong to her equally reluctantly. I was acutely aware that I was now naked under the denim skirt, which came to just above my knee.

I was surprised, from professing no idea she was now acting in a very assertive manner. It seems that the tutorial with Mr Baxter had been very enlightening. She later also claimed that she’d also had a quick look at some internet sites as well while we’d been writing our letters.

Margaret decided we could help her with the tea and get the washing on, before giving us the first instalment of our spankings in the evening.

We did exactly as we were told. Neither of us fancied more than the dozen already promised that night. To be fair it was quite enjoyable working together and eating dinner. It was only as Kate and I washed up that the fact that our appointment with the brush was looming started to weigh on our thoughts.

Sure enough once we were finished we were taken into the sitting room, where the bath brush lay waiting on the coffee table, and told to face the wall with our hands on our heads. Margaret warned us not to move or turn round until told to.

I was acutely aware of the lack of clothing under the skirt I had on. I am sure we both looked more like a pair of naughty teenagers than the two young women we purported to be.

It was about 7.30 and Margaret settled down to watch some show on the TV. It was one Kate and I enjoyed and regularly discussed at work. Being able to hear, but not see it, was very difficult.

It was Kate who succumbed to temptation, risking a quick glance. She quickly resumed facing the wall as Margaret stood. However it was too late. Mrs Walton came up lifted her skirt and slapped her thighs twice each with her hand. I heard Kate wince and could see out of the corner of my eye the shock in her face at the sting. We were both warned that the next time she would be adding strokes to the appropriate paddling.

We both ensured there was no next time! Part way through the programme there was the first of the two ad breaks. We were briefly turned round and she stripped off our skirts while our hands remained clasped in our hair, Being undressed for my forthcoming spanking was a humiliation that truly made me feel like a little girl as we waited with our bare bottoms now displayed while the programme continued.

At the second break she picked up the brush and gently rubbed it on my bottom, then Kate’s, informing us that our spanking would be very soon and she hoped we were considering carefully why this was happening. The wood was cool on the flesh and my nerves rose. I still could feel the memory of its coolness as the show continued to its climax.

Then the music started, and went silent as the remote turned the TV off. I wanted to turn round but did not dare.

“Caroline come here!” She ordered. It was time for her to start an altogether different kind of music.

I turned and faced her. There was funny awareness of every nerve ending as I found myself directed to kneel on her sofa and then bend over so that my bare bottom was facing the ceiling and my hands and arms were on the carpet, supporting my upper body.

Moments later the cool wood of the bath brush touched my bottom once again.

Then..,

Smack.

I gasped. That was much sorer than I expected!

Smack!

Oh! That was worse!

Smack!

Aaah. Every stroke was definitely worse that the previous one.

Smack!

“Aaah,” that was only the fourth and I had screamed out loud. How bad could it be? A question that I thought I knew the answer to, despite no experience whatsoever. I now realised I had had absolutely, completely and utterly no concept whatsoever of how bad it could be.

As the next four stokes regularly impacted on bare flesh – my bare flesh – the screeches and screams increased in volume.

Smack!

I burst into tears and started to struggle up. Margaret stopped me and told me to get back down. That ninth stroke was going to be repeated.

Smack!

I gave an ear splitting yell – it had been repeated right on top of the previous one.

The last three smacks were a blur of pain as I sobbed my eyes out.

Finally I could get up. I had never imagined such pain possible before and I had more tomorrow!

Finally I struggled back to the wall still sobbing. As I stood (hands on head again) I vaguely listened to Kate going through the same increasing agony as I did.

Then it was over. Kate was sobbing next to me. Margaret was either sitting on the sofa, or somewhere else. I dared not turn to find out, and, truth be told, I was still more interested in the burning pain she had inflicted. Had I really requested this I thought?

Finally she told us to grab our skirts, go upstairs and go to bed.

We both looked at our own and each others’ bright red, and clearly bruising, bottoms as we put the nightshirts on again, and went to our shared bed, neither of us chose to lie on our backs as we lay there, though it was oddly comforting to have someone to share my pain with.

As I woke the next morning I think we were both shocked and embarrassed to find ourselves lying facing toward each other, rather than away. Our hands were also somehow clasped together.

We heard Mrs Walton calling for us to get up. As I came to I remembered her warning about not doing exactly what we were told, and rapidly got up.

For the rest of that day I found myself, with Kate, cleaning the car and house, especially the spare room. In both cases carpet shampoo was the order of the day, as we endeavoured to rid the house of the smell of Dettol that had been used as a result of our prior self inflicted ‘illnesses’.

Both of us felt the need to work hard. Further the desire not to see the bath brush move from its location on the sitting room coffee table meant we both worked non-stop and without any complaint.

Finally, around five in the evening Margaret pronounced herself satisfied. She gave us some tea, a very enjoyable steak pie, and it was then nearly six.

I was getting nervous again. I knew we both had ten more whacks to come, and my bottom was still sore!

We washed up for her, and then were given our thongs back. She told us to wait again in the sitting room and have a further think about the weekend and all that had happened. Both of us followed her instructions, stripped off the skirts and stood facing the wall with our bruised bottoms waiting.

It was around quarter to seven when she came in and picked up the brush. This time she took Kate first. I listened with rising trepidation as the brush whacked her rear ten times, with screams from the beginning. All too soon she was sobbing next to me again.

Margaret called me over.

I confess I took my time as I got back into position across the sofa arm.

Even the mild taps as she prepared me were slightly painful, then:

Smack!

I screamed as the all the pain from yesterday seemed instantly reactivated.

Smack!

As the other bottom cheek got the same treatment I burst into tears.

She took her time smacking five blistering stokes on each buttock. It was far, far worse than the day before and I was sobbing and begging throughout. Only the knowledge that standing would just make it worse kept me in position.

Finally it was over and I joined Kate, who was still crying quietly, facing the wall.

After about five minutes Margaret allowed us to put the skirts on, but told us to keep them up above our waists. At least holding them there was better than keeping our hands on our heads!

It was about five past seven when Mr Baxter arrived. He spent a few minutes sitting on the sofa admiring Margaret’s handiwork before letting us drop our skirts and facing him. I am sure our red, tear stained faces were satisfactory as he lectured us on the embarrassment to the company and expressed the hope we’d learned our lessons.

Two naughty girls nodded miserably at him and apologised again before he pronounced himself satisfied.

He stayed for an hour as we served coffee and received further admonishments. At one point I was caught rubbing my bottom and Margaret gave me two sharp whacks with the still present brush in front of him for disobeying her order not to do so. Even through the skirt it was painful enough for me to yelp and screech with the sting.

Finally he left, and Margaret pronounced our punishment over. I was very grateful that she drove us both home to our respective flats.

Once in the privacy of my home I stripped and looked at the redness and mess of bruises adorning my rear. I vowed never to get as drunk as that again. However, as the pain in my rear receded to a burn I confess to having very confused emotions on my spanking, and when Kate phoned and asked if I fancied coming across for the rest of the evening, it did not take me much to agree.

As I sat carefully in the taxi for the short ride to her fIat I suspect I knew even then that Margaret’s double spanking might have been my first experience of a punished bottom, but it was not going to be my last.

The End