Saturday, June 30, 2007
The Tutor, Fourth Installment
Part Three
In this installment of our story, Peggy's spanking continues, albiet more painfully.
After about five minutes, she asked me, “How much longer is this going to last?”
“Hush,” I replied. “When you’re in the corner you’re not to talk unless I ask you a question. Same goes for when I am paddling you. As to your question, it is going to last as long as I want it to.”
I let her stew for another five minutes, then called her over. Before bending her over, I said to her, “I told you that this was going to get worse, and here’s why. I want you to take off your jeans off.”
Peggy swallowed hard, realizing the implications of this. However, she didn’t protest, although I could see she her reluctance. After digesting this new development, she fumbled with the buttons, but then undid them and lowered her pants to her ankles. I pointed out that they were to be removed completely, and her shoes as well since they’d just be in the way. Unhappily, she obeyed. I then bent her back over the chair.
Mindful of the reaction I received from the very first swat, I was careful to control the force of the swat forthcoming. She was wearing thin little pink panties, which would not offer much protection. I was fortunate that she was not wearing thong undies, although, not being an expert on women’s undergarments, I do not know if thongs had been invented or were in vogue at the time.
WHACK! Peggy hollered and stood up, grabbing her aching toches. But, remembering the rules, quickly bent back over. I ignored this slight transgression, as I suspect that the pain had surprised her, which was my intent. I paused to let the swat sink in, and to give her a moment to gather herself, then whacked her again. I got nearly the same reaction, although not to the same extent, and she kept her hands away from her bottom. Again I let her get composed, then delivered another swat. She swung her hips inward and cried out again, but kept her hands on the chair. I was getting the desired effect.
I gave her two more, in rhythm, then stepped back and relaxed a bit. Peggy stayed in position, but was breathing hard, trying to bear the discomfort that had developed on her derriere.
“Did those hurt a little more than the first ones?” I asked her.
“Yes, sir,” she gasped.
I paused to consider. “Am I hitting you too hard?”
Peggy thought a bit. “No, sir,” she responded, finally. The answer sounded sincere, so I figured it was time to resume.
I gave her five more good licks. She was rather vocal during this part of the spanking, but she was not particularly loud, nor was she screaming or anything undignified. She also stayed bent over, although she did wiggle her butt a couple of times, and did a lot of dancing back and forth on the balls of her feet.
When I stopped, I ordered her back to the stool in the corner. I noted with satisfaction that there was considerable redness leaking our from the lower edges of her panties. She sat down gingerly, and it looked like she was stiffening and relaxing her muscles in an attempt to ease the tension.
Another ten minutes passed, and I summoned Peggy again. She was grimacing as she approached the chair. I think she knew that I had more bad news for her.
“The remainder of this spanking will be delivered on your bare bottom,” I told her.
She gulped. “I was afraid if that,” she said, in almost a whisper.
“Then remove your underpants,” I said. I don’t know why, but I find it undignified to verbally refer to a woman’s lower undergarments as “panties.” Peggy took them off and laid them neatly with her jeans. She made no attempt to hide her genital region, although she did keep her back to me. This allowed me to inspect her rear end. It was quite crimson, but I didn’t see any signs of bruises or damaged skin. I’m sure it felt rather tender to her. I resisted the urge to use my hand to see how hot it felt.
Again I bent her over the chair. “Remember the rules,” I told her. “Yes, sir,” she responded. “No covering my butt with my hands, no standing up, no carrying on.”
“Very good,” I commented, and then swatted her bare butt.
The swat was not quite as hard as the previous ones on her panties, but it was clearly shockingly painful to her. She let out a cry through clenched teeth, and struggled to stay in position. I silently waited for the shock to pass. When it did, I took aim again. I rested my free hand on her back, and tapped her lightly three times to let her know to brace herself. Then I dealt her the next blow.
She reacted more intensely, which I expected. Often, it’s the second swat that’s more painful than the first. She did, though, maintain the proper position, which meant that she was taking this punishment seriously. If she would remain bending over, as she’d been told, while she was getting her bare bottom punished with a paddle, she would be able to follow my tutoring suggestions in regards to her homework.
I went slowly through the next three swats. Peggy took them well, although I could tell by the groans emitted following each contact that they were painful. When I paused, I asked her if she wanted me to keep going slowly or if I should go faster to get this round over with quickly. She opted for the swifter method, so I delivered five firm swats without pause. I think she held her breath through the last two or three, but stayed over the chair. After the fifth swat, she did collapse somewhat into the chair.
The next installment will see the conclusion of the spanking of my student.
Part Five
In this installment of our story, Peggy's spanking continues, albiet more painfully.
After about five minutes, she asked me, “How much longer is this going to last?”
“Hush,” I replied. “When you’re in the corner you’re not to talk unless I ask you a question. Same goes for when I am paddling you. As to your question, it is going to last as long as I want it to.”
I let her stew for another five minutes, then called her over. Before bending her over, I said to her, “I told you that this was going to get worse, and here’s why. I want you to take off your jeans off.”
Peggy swallowed hard, realizing the implications of this. However, she didn’t protest, although I could see she her reluctance. After digesting this new development, she fumbled with the buttons, but then undid them and lowered her pants to her ankles. I pointed out that they were to be removed completely, and her shoes as well since they’d just be in the way. Unhappily, she obeyed. I then bent her back over the chair.
Mindful of the reaction I received from the very first swat, I was careful to control the force of the swat forthcoming. She was wearing thin little pink panties, which would not offer much protection. I was fortunate that she was not wearing thong undies, although, not being an expert on women’s undergarments, I do not know if thongs had been invented or were in vogue at the time.
WHACK! Peggy hollered and stood up, grabbing her aching toches. But, remembering the rules, quickly bent back over. I ignored this slight transgression, as I suspect that the pain had surprised her, which was my intent. I paused to let the swat sink in, and to give her a moment to gather herself, then whacked her again. I got nearly the same reaction, although not to the same extent, and she kept her hands away from her bottom. Again I let her get composed, then delivered another swat. She swung her hips inward and cried out again, but kept her hands on the chair. I was getting the desired effect.
I gave her two more, in rhythm, then stepped back and relaxed a bit. Peggy stayed in position, but was breathing hard, trying to bear the discomfort that had developed on her derriere.
“Did those hurt a little more than the first ones?” I asked her.
“Yes, sir,” she gasped.
I paused to consider. “Am I hitting you too hard?”
Peggy thought a bit. “No, sir,” she responded, finally. The answer sounded sincere, so I figured it was time to resume.
I gave her five more good licks. She was rather vocal during this part of the spanking, but she was not particularly loud, nor was she screaming or anything undignified. She also stayed bent over, although she did wiggle her butt a couple of times, and did a lot of dancing back and forth on the balls of her feet.
When I stopped, I ordered her back to the stool in the corner. I noted with satisfaction that there was considerable redness leaking our from the lower edges of her panties. She sat down gingerly, and it looked like she was stiffening and relaxing her muscles in an attempt to ease the tension.
Another ten minutes passed, and I summoned Peggy again. She was grimacing as she approached the chair. I think she knew that I had more bad news for her.
“The remainder of this spanking will be delivered on your bare bottom,” I told her.
She gulped. “I was afraid if that,” she said, in almost a whisper.
“Then remove your underpants,” I said. I don’t know why, but I find it undignified to verbally refer to a woman’s lower undergarments as “panties.” Peggy took them off and laid them neatly with her jeans. She made no attempt to hide her genital region, although she did keep her back to me. This allowed me to inspect her rear end. It was quite crimson, but I didn’t see any signs of bruises or damaged skin. I’m sure it felt rather tender to her. I resisted the urge to use my hand to see how hot it felt.
Again I bent her over the chair. “Remember the rules,” I told her. “Yes, sir,” she responded. “No covering my butt with my hands, no standing up, no carrying on.”
“Very good,” I commented, and then swatted her bare butt.
The swat was not quite as hard as the previous ones on her panties, but it was clearly shockingly painful to her. She let out a cry through clenched teeth, and struggled to stay in position. I silently waited for the shock to pass. When it did, I took aim again. I rested my free hand on her back, and tapped her lightly three times to let her know to brace herself. Then I dealt her the next blow.
She reacted more intensely, which I expected. Often, it’s the second swat that’s more painful than the first. She did, though, maintain the proper position, which meant that she was taking this punishment seriously. If she would remain bending over, as she’d been told, while she was getting her bare bottom punished with a paddle, she would be able to follow my tutoring suggestions in regards to her homework.
I went slowly through the next three swats. Peggy took them well, although I could tell by the groans emitted following each contact that they were painful. When I paused, I asked her if she wanted me to keep going slowly or if I should go faster to get this round over with quickly. She opted for the swifter method, so I delivered five firm swats without pause. I think she held her breath through the last two or three, but stayed over the chair. After the fifth swat, she did collapse somewhat into the chair.
The next installment will see the conclusion of the spanking of my student.
Part Five
Friday, June 29, 2007
The Tutor, Third Installment
Go To Part Two
Judging by the comments that I have received over the past few days, you, my loyal readers, are anxiously awaiting the next installment of my latest recollections. I apologize for the delay, as I’ve been juggling this with several work and household projects, as well visits from Angela’s brother and sister, along with their pack of wild offspring. I hope that the quality of my writing proves worth your wait.
With Peggy busy doing corner time, I went into the bathroom to do some contemplation of my own. I took a few deep breaths to clear my head. Was this the right thing to do? Despite my rationalizations, was I really just doing this for my own pleasure? I queried my other brain, the one that dangles from my crotch region. Yes, I would enjoy this, but, curiously, I had no thought of engaging in other sexual activities with her. In fact, I felt a resolve that, should she desire to become more amorous once the spanking was complete, perhaps by way of apology or manipulation, that I would rebuff her. So was I doing this because I was angry with her? I was mad, but it was more than that. She needed to pay some sort of penalty for her reticence, and this seemed both expedient and appropriate. I took a couple more breaths, washed my hands and face, and went in search of my paddle.
I had recently picked up a fraternity-style paddle. I had used it previously, and it had proven very effective as an implement of spanking, but that is a story for another day. I retrieved it from it’s hiding place and brought it out to my living room. I moved what little furniture I had off to the side of the room except for an old arm chair, which I placed in the center of the room. I then summoned Peggy over.
“Now, here is how things are going to work,” I told her. “You’re going to bend over that chair and I’m going to start by giving you ten swats. It’s going to hurt, but I don’t want to see any jumping around or otherwise carrying on. I’m going to guess that you’ve never been paddled before…” to which she nodded her agreement, “…so I’m going to give you some leeway, but I expect you to make a good effort to stay in position until I’ve given you all ten. Do you understand?” She indicated that she did.
I told her this it was time to begin, and pointed toward the arm chair. I could almost see the butterflies swirling in her stomach as she began to ponder the second thoughts. I waited patiently while she made up her mind. At last, she stepped up to the chair and bent over it, holding onto the arms. I could see her arms and legs trembling slightly. I briefly felt sorry for her, but then I turned to the task at hand.
WHACK! Peggy immediately cried out, straightened up, and clutched her butt. I knew that I had hit her too hard. I struggled with the thought that maybe the spanking that I had planned for her was too much for her to take. I let her rub her backside for a few moments while I waited, expressionless.
At last she stopped rubbing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to stay still, but I didn’t think it would hurt that much.”
“That’s all right,” I said, solemnly. I nodded towards the chair and, after a brief hesitation, she bent herself back over.
I knew I’d have to pull my punches somewhat, but if I hit her too softly the entire spanking wouldn’t have the proper impact (no pun intended). I decided to try using mostly my wrist to generate the proper paddle power.
The second swat made her grunt, and she pulled her bottom inwards, but she kept her hands on the chair. Much better. I waited for her to settle down, which she did quite quickly. I tapped her with the paddle a couple of times, and gave her another swat, which got pretty much the same reaction.
After five swats I paused to ask her, “Does this hurt any more than you thought it would?”
“Yes!” she replied.
“You mean ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Okay…ummm… yes, sir!”
“Good! I just wanted to remind you that you’ve got a lot more swats to go, and they’re only going to get worse.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.
I resumed the paddling, giving her the next five. I didn’t pause as much between swats this time. She surprised me by staying mostly still, although she did dance back and forth with her feet. She was also vocal, but not loudly so. I wanted to stand her up with the tenth swat, so I hit her almost as hard as the first one, making sure she felt it considerably through her jeans. The swat worked as intended, and she straightened and again grabbed her arse.
Peggy quickly apologized and bent back over. I smiled. She was obviously intent on satisfying me. “That’s okay,” I told her. “You can stand up now.”
I told her to go back to the stool in the corner and think about what she was experiencing. I poured myself a refreshment and sat down to read the newspaper for a few minutes.
Installment Four will detail what happens when Peggy's spanking resumes.
Go to Part Four
Judging by the comments that I have received over the past few days, you, my loyal readers, are anxiously awaiting the next installment of my latest recollections. I apologize for the delay, as I’ve been juggling this with several work and household projects, as well visits from Angela’s brother and sister, along with their pack of wild offspring. I hope that the quality of my writing proves worth your wait.
With Peggy busy doing corner time, I went into the bathroom to do some contemplation of my own. I took a few deep breaths to clear my head. Was this the right thing to do? Despite my rationalizations, was I really just doing this for my own pleasure? I queried my other brain, the one that dangles from my crotch region. Yes, I would enjoy this, but, curiously, I had no thought of engaging in other sexual activities with her. In fact, I felt a resolve that, should she desire to become more amorous once the spanking was complete, perhaps by way of apology or manipulation, that I would rebuff her. So was I doing this because I was angry with her? I was mad, but it was more than that. She needed to pay some sort of penalty for her reticence, and this seemed both expedient and appropriate. I took a couple more breaths, washed my hands and face, and went in search of my paddle.
I had recently picked up a fraternity-style paddle. I had used it previously, and it had proven very effective as an implement of spanking, but that is a story for another day. I retrieved it from it’s hiding place and brought it out to my living room. I moved what little furniture I had off to the side of the room except for an old arm chair, which I placed in the center of the room. I then summoned Peggy over.
“Now, here is how things are going to work,” I told her. “You’re going to bend over that chair and I’m going to start by giving you ten swats. It’s going to hurt, but I don’t want to see any jumping around or otherwise carrying on. I’m going to guess that you’ve never been paddled before…” to which she nodded her agreement, “…so I’m going to give you some leeway, but I expect you to make a good effort to stay in position until I’ve given you all ten. Do you understand?” She indicated that she did.
I told her this it was time to begin, and pointed toward the arm chair. I could almost see the butterflies swirling in her stomach as she began to ponder the second thoughts. I waited patiently while she made up her mind. At last, she stepped up to the chair and bent over it, holding onto the arms. I could see her arms and legs trembling slightly. I briefly felt sorry for her, but then I turned to the task at hand.
WHACK! Peggy immediately cried out, straightened up, and clutched her butt. I knew that I had hit her too hard. I struggled with the thought that maybe the spanking that I had planned for her was too much for her to take. I let her rub her backside for a few moments while I waited, expressionless.
At last she stopped rubbing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to stay still, but I didn’t think it would hurt that much.”
“That’s all right,” I said, solemnly. I nodded towards the chair and, after a brief hesitation, she bent herself back over.
I knew I’d have to pull my punches somewhat, but if I hit her too softly the entire spanking wouldn’t have the proper impact (no pun intended). I decided to try using mostly my wrist to generate the proper paddle power.
The second swat made her grunt, and she pulled her bottom inwards, but she kept her hands on the chair. Much better. I waited for her to settle down, which she did quite quickly. I tapped her with the paddle a couple of times, and gave her another swat, which got pretty much the same reaction.
After five swats I paused to ask her, “Does this hurt any more than you thought it would?”
“Yes!” she replied.
“You mean ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Okay…ummm… yes, sir!”
“Good! I just wanted to remind you that you’ve got a lot more swats to go, and they’re only going to get worse.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.
I resumed the paddling, giving her the next five. I didn’t pause as much between swats this time. She surprised me by staying mostly still, although she did dance back and forth with her feet. She was also vocal, but not loudly so. I wanted to stand her up with the tenth swat, so I hit her almost as hard as the first one, making sure she felt it considerably through her jeans. The swat worked as intended, and she straightened and again grabbed her arse.
Peggy quickly apologized and bent back over. I smiled. She was obviously intent on satisfying me. “That’s okay,” I told her. “You can stand up now.”
I told her to go back to the stool in the corner and think about what she was experiencing. I poured myself a refreshment and sat down to read the newspaper for a few minutes.
Installment Four will detail what happens when Peggy's spanking resumes.
Go to Part Four
Friday, June 22, 2007
The Tutor, Second Part
Go To Part One
Presented here, for your reading pleasure, is part two of the story of how I dealt with a young lady whom I was helping with her college studies when she began to behave poorly.
She was waiting for me when I returned from work the following day. I invited her in, and she proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes or so explaining all of the problems in her life that caused her to be so careless at times. I thought for a bit, and realized that I knew people who had similar, or even worse, problems, and yet they all managed to properly handle their classes. So I held firm. Finally, out of frustration, she asked, “What do I have to do get you to keep being my tutor?”
“You have to start taking this seriously,” I responded. “You have to get your priorities back in order. You have to show up when you say you will, and do what you say you will. You have to start taking responsibilities for your actions.”
She retorted by telling me how hard it was to do all of those things. Well, I thought, been there, done that, and yet I managed to graduate with pretty good grades. I even got a job, albeit with the school I’d just graduated from. Finally, she stated, “I can do all those things you said, but I need you to help me. I need…..”
“What you need,” I said, interrupting her, “is a good spanking.”
“Okay.”
I was ready to tell her that it was time for her to go when I realized what her response had been. I determined that I should eloquently request her to repeat herself, so that she would make her intentions clear. For those of you who are regular readers (and you know who you are), you know how eloquent I really am when under pressure.
“Huh?” I said.
“I said, okay, you’re right. I’ve been behaving like a little girl. I do need a spanking.”
Were I a real person, at this point I would awaken from my dream. Since I’m not, I bit the inside of my lip to make sure that I was awake. The pain that followed assured me that I was.
I considered for a second. Was this a ploy? Was she trying to make me feel sorry for her? Was she trying to trap me, blackmail me somehow so that I’d have to continue working with her? Or perhaps to discredit me so that I would be unable to tutor again? I decided to explore her intentions.
“Okay,” I said, “convince me.”
“I’m an only child. I’m cute. My parents have money. I never had to work at anything in my life. High school was easy. I could always get some guy to do my homework or write part of my papers. When I got here, I was lost. No one could help me because they were too busy with their own studies. When I almost flunked out my first year, I thought my parents would be mad, but they said that they understood, that college was hard, and said they’d pay for me to have a tutor. I figured that would work because the tutor could do my work.
“Then I got you. You showed me that this wasn’t really that overwhelming, that I could do it if I was a little organized. So, last semester, I did pretty good. But I didn’t have any fun. So this semester, I decided that I’d work less and have fun. After all, I figured that, if I was having trouble, that you’d help me.
“The problem was that your style was to just point me in the right direction rather than do the work for me. So I figured that if I pouted and looked pathetic, that maybe you’d be like the guys in high school. But you never were. That’s because you’ve already done your classwork and you don’t want to do it again.
“Rather than acting like an adult and putting aside the fun for a while to do my work, I went out and partied and then pouted and cried like a little girl when I didn’t get my way. I deserve to be spanked like a little girl.”
Again I considered. She had analyzed the situation correctly. The good Frank, the rational part of me, thought that perhaps she had learned her lesson, that she would re-dedicate herself to her studies, and that a spanking was not necessary.
The bad Frank, the spanko part, wanted to take this pretty blond twit over his knee, take her pants and panties down, and whale on her cute little butt until my arm was tired.
So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I rationalized. If I let her off, it would be just like how everything else had gone in her life. I would allow her to do exactly what she had just told me had worked for her all her life up until now. She still would not have to take responsibility for her actions. But if I paddled her, she’d have some reinforcement, something that would not allow her to actions to be excused.
“All right,” I said. “I’m going to spank you.” She startled me by letting out a huge sigh of relief. “But,” I continued, “it’s not going to be like a little girl. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. I’m going to use a wooden paddle. I’m going to paddle you hard and it’s going to hurt a lot. This is going to be a good, long spanking, and it’s going to get worse as we go along.”
“I understand,” she said. She nervously looked at her feet. She was obviously having second thoughts, which is what I wanted. If she still chose the spanking, then she was finally showing some resolve. “Go ahead,” she said. “I deserve it.”
I stood up and retrieved a small stool that I stored in the kitchen. It was perhaps a foot high. I came back into the living room and placed it into an empty corner. “I want you to come over here and sit in the corner for a few minutes and think about what is about to happen while I get everything ready.” Silently, she obeyed.
Thus ends part two. The next installment will have the details that you are all awaiting.
Go To Part Three
Presented here, for your reading pleasure, is part two of the story of how I dealt with a young lady whom I was helping with her college studies when she began to behave poorly.
She was waiting for me when I returned from work the following day. I invited her in, and she proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes or so explaining all of the problems in her life that caused her to be so careless at times. I thought for a bit, and realized that I knew people who had similar, or even worse, problems, and yet they all managed to properly handle their classes. So I held firm. Finally, out of frustration, she asked, “What do I have to do get you to keep being my tutor?”
“You have to start taking this seriously,” I responded. “You have to get your priorities back in order. You have to show up when you say you will, and do what you say you will. You have to start taking responsibilities for your actions.”
She retorted by telling me how hard it was to do all of those things. Well, I thought, been there, done that, and yet I managed to graduate with pretty good grades. I even got a job, albeit with the school I’d just graduated from. Finally, she stated, “I can do all those things you said, but I need you to help me. I need…..”
“What you need,” I said, interrupting her, “is a good spanking.”
“Okay.”
I was ready to tell her that it was time for her to go when I realized what her response had been. I determined that I should eloquently request her to repeat herself, so that she would make her intentions clear. For those of you who are regular readers (and you know who you are), you know how eloquent I really am when under pressure.
“Huh?” I said.
“I said, okay, you’re right. I’ve been behaving like a little girl. I do need a spanking.”
Were I a real person, at this point I would awaken from my dream. Since I’m not, I bit the inside of my lip to make sure that I was awake. The pain that followed assured me that I was.
I considered for a second. Was this a ploy? Was she trying to make me feel sorry for her? Was she trying to trap me, blackmail me somehow so that I’d have to continue working with her? Or perhaps to discredit me so that I would be unable to tutor again? I decided to explore her intentions.
“Okay,” I said, “convince me.”
“I’m an only child. I’m cute. My parents have money. I never had to work at anything in my life. High school was easy. I could always get some guy to do my homework or write part of my papers. When I got here, I was lost. No one could help me because they were too busy with their own studies. When I almost flunked out my first year, I thought my parents would be mad, but they said that they understood, that college was hard, and said they’d pay for me to have a tutor. I figured that would work because the tutor could do my work.
“Then I got you. You showed me that this wasn’t really that overwhelming, that I could do it if I was a little organized. So, last semester, I did pretty good. But I didn’t have any fun. So this semester, I decided that I’d work less and have fun. After all, I figured that, if I was having trouble, that you’d help me.
“The problem was that your style was to just point me in the right direction rather than do the work for me. So I figured that if I pouted and looked pathetic, that maybe you’d be like the guys in high school. But you never were. That’s because you’ve already done your classwork and you don’t want to do it again.
“Rather than acting like an adult and putting aside the fun for a while to do my work, I went out and partied and then pouted and cried like a little girl when I didn’t get my way. I deserve to be spanked like a little girl.”
Again I considered. She had analyzed the situation correctly. The good Frank, the rational part of me, thought that perhaps she had learned her lesson, that she would re-dedicate herself to her studies, and that a spanking was not necessary.
The bad Frank, the spanko part, wanted to take this pretty blond twit over his knee, take her pants and panties down, and whale on her cute little butt until my arm was tired.
So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I rationalized. If I let her off, it would be just like how everything else had gone in her life. I would allow her to do exactly what she had just told me had worked for her all her life up until now. She still would not have to take responsibility for her actions. But if I paddled her, she’d have some reinforcement, something that would not allow her to actions to be excused.
“All right,” I said. “I’m going to spank you.” She startled me by letting out a huge sigh of relief. “But,” I continued, “it’s not going to be like a little girl. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. I’m going to use a wooden paddle. I’m going to paddle you hard and it’s going to hurt a lot. This is going to be a good, long spanking, and it’s going to get worse as we go along.”
“I understand,” she said. She nervously looked at her feet. She was obviously having second thoughts, which is what I wanted. If she still chose the spanking, then she was finally showing some resolve. “Go ahead,” she said. “I deserve it.”
I stood up and retrieved a small stool that I stored in the kitchen. It was perhaps a foot high. I came back into the living room and placed it into an empty corner. “I want you to come over here and sit in the corner for a few minutes and think about what is about to happen while I get everything ready.” Silently, she obeyed.
Thus ends part two. The next installment will have the details that you are all awaiting.
Go To Part Three
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Tutor
Today’s tale takes place way back in the ancient times of the early 80’s. This was after Al Gore had invented the internet, but before it had invaded every home, office, and coffee shop. I had just graduated university, and, to gain experience in my field (which was computer programming), I had taken a job with my alma mater on a year-long project. I was renting a small house near the campus, and, to supplement my income with a little extra beer money, I did some tutoring of undergraduates.
I was tutoring three students, all of whom were female, which was certainly a fringe benefit. Two just needed a little reviewing or reinforcing in math or freshman-level computer programming classes. The third young lady, however, was somewhat more challenging.
She was an attractive blonde sophomore named Peggy (please no blonde jokes). She was popular, friendly, and very bright. However, she had the attention span of a moth who spots a candle flame. I wasn’t so much helping her with class work as trying to get her to stay organized and get her assignments completed on time. When we’d meet, she’d let me know what she was expected to accomplish in the next few days, including reading assignments and tests. We would write up a list of tasks and prioritize them, then she’d stay a while to read or work on homework while I watched TV or read the newspaper. If she needed any assistance, she would summon me.
This arrangement worked rather well for the fall semester. Peggy’s grades were decent, higher than they had been the previous two semesters. Her parents were happy, and she had lifted herself out of academic probation. So the tutoring continued into the spring semester. Unfortunately, the results did not.
Peggy began to, inexplicably, miss some of our tutoring sessions. When I would inquire of her why she would fail to appear, she attributed it to “other things [she] had to do.” If I asked about the “other things,” she would dismiss it with a shrug and a “you know.” Rather than going over her upcoming assignments, see seemed more interested in talking about some great party she went to or some cool guy she met. Her focus seemed to be off.
Things came to a head just before spring break. We had a session scheduled for Thursday, as she had two important midterm tests the following day, which was the last before the break. And yet she, again, went missing. I tried calling her dorm room, but I received no answer (remember, this was the 80’s, before everyone was assigned a cell phone at birth). Since, as a working stiff, I did not get spring break, I shrugged it off and settled for a night of pizza and television before retiring for the night.
A week and more passed, and I did not hear from Peggy. I assumed that she had departed campus for the break. Finally, as students began to return, I received a call from her. Apparently, she had flown to Las Vegas for the break, and felt that packing for her trip was more important than studying for her midterms. She assured me, however, that she had taken time to review her notes and had done fine on her tests. She promised that, now that the break was over, she would re-dedicate herself to her class work, and would be meeting me to resume our tutoring the following evening.
When she arrived the next day, however, she did not look quite so confident. She came in, tossed her books onto a table, sat down, and started to cry. When I inquired as to what was upsetting her, she told me that her test results were not quite as fine as she had expected. In fact, she had failed both tests miserably. She had not, in fact, reviewed her notes before her tests, but had actually accompanied some friends to a local drinking establishment, returning quite late. She rushed thru her tests because she was anxious to leave for her vacation. Her grades were so poor that she was in serious danger of not passing either class, and possibly being asked by the school to not return due to poor performance.
I was not happy. Although it was her grades, it felt like I had been wasting my time for the last six months. We had gotten to a point where she was developing good study habits, and then she completely ignored everything that she had learned. I told her that, if she didn’t want my help, that was okay, but that I was going to drop her and see if any other students were seeking a tutor. I told her that if she missed any more tutoring sessions without calling me first, that I would no longer tutor her. She promised most strenuously that she was going to work harder and that she wanted my help. We went over her upcoming assignments, I helped her plan her time accordingly, and then she left.
Two days later, at our next appointment, she once again was a no-show. I made a note to myself to contact the school and request a new student to work with.
At 11:30 pm that night, my phone rang. It was Peggy. She apologized most profusely. She explained that she was on the planning committee for the spring dance at her dorm and that they had a meeting. The meeting lasted longer than expected and she had forgotten about our tutoring session. She swore that she was working hard and that she would be back for our next appointment.
I said no.
She begged. She pleaded. She cried. She promised, and then promised some more. But I held firm. I told her that she could go through the school to find another tutor, but that it would no longer be me. After more pleading, I agreed to let her come by the next night to convince me to keep working with her, although I told her that I had no intention of yielding.
The next installment of this story will describe what occurred that fateful next day.
Go to Part Two
I was tutoring three students, all of whom were female, which was certainly a fringe benefit. Two just needed a little reviewing or reinforcing in math or freshman-level computer programming classes. The third young lady, however, was somewhat more challenging.She was an attractive blonde sophomore named Peggy (please no blonde jokes). She was popular, friendly, and very bright. However, she had the attention span of a moth who spots a candle flame. I wasn’t so much helping her with class work as trying to get her to stay organized and get her assignments completed on time. When we’d meet, she’d let me know what she was expected to accomplish in the next few days, including reading assignments and tests. We would write up a list of tasks and prioritize them, then she’d stay a while to read or work on homework while I watched TV or read the newspaper. If she needed any assistance, she would summon me.
This arrangement worked rather well for the fall semester. Peggy’s grades were decent, higher than they had been the previous two semesters. Her parents were happy, and she had lifted herself out of academic probation. So the tutoring continued into the spring semester. Unfortunately, the results did not.
Peggy began to, inexplicably, miss some of our tutoring sessions. When I would inquire of her why she would fail to appear, she attributed it to “other things [she] had to do.” If I asked about the “other things,” she would dismiss it with a shrug and a “you know.” Rather than going over her upcoming assignments, see seemed more interested in talking about some great party she went to or some cool guy she met. Her focus seemed to be off.
Things came to a head just before spring break. We had a session scheduled for Thursday, as she had two important midterm tests the following day, which was the last before the break. And yet she, again, went missing. I tried calling her dorm room, but I received no answer (remember, this was the 80’s, before everyone was assigned a cell phone at birth). Since, as a working stiff, I did not get spring break, I shrugged it off and settled for a night of pizza and television before retiring for the night.
A week and more passed, and I did not hear from Peggy. I assumed that she had departed campus for the break. Finally, as students began to return, I received a call from her. Apparently, she had flown to Las Vegas for the break, and felt that packing for her trip was more important than studying for her midterms. She assured me, however, that she had taken time to review her notes and had done fine on her tests. She promised that, now that the break was over, she would re-dedicate herself to her class work, and would be meeting me to resume our tutoring the following evening.
When she arrived the next day, however, she did not look quite so confident. She came in, tossed her books onto a table, sat down, and started to cry. When I inquired as to what was upsetting her, she told me that her test results were not quite as fine as she had expected. In fact, she had failed both tests miserably. She had not, in fact, reviewed her notes before her tests, but had actually accompanied some friends to a local drinking establishment, returning quite late. She rushed thru her tests because she was anxious to leave for her vacation. Her grades were so poor that she was in serious danger of not passing either class, and possibly being asked by the school to not return due to poor performance.
I was not happy. Although it was her grades, it felt like I had been wasting my time for the last six months. We had gotten to a point where she was developing good study habits, and then she completely ignored everything that she had learned. I told her that, if she didn’t want my help, that was okay, but that I was going to drop her and see if any other students were seeking a tutor. I told her that if she missed any more tutoring sessions without calling me first, that I would no longer tutor her. She promised most strenuously that she was going to work harder and that she wanted my help. We went over her upcoming assignments, I helped her plan her time accordingly, and then she left.
Two days later, at our next appointment, she once again was a no-show. I made a note to myself to contact the school and request a new student to work with.
At 11:30 pm that night, my phone rang. It was Peggy. She apologized most profusely. She explained that she was on the planning committee for the spring dance at her dorm and that they had a meeting. The meeting lasted longer than expected and she had forgotten about our tutoring session. She swore that she was working hard and that she would be back for our next appointment.
I said no.
She begged. She pleaded. She cried. She promised, and then promised some more. But I held firm. I told her that she could go through the school to find another tutor, but that it would no longer be me. After more pleading, I agreed to let her come by the next night to convince me to keep working with her, although I told her that I had no intention of yielding.
The next installment of this story will describe what occurred that fateful next day.
Go to Part Two
Friday, June 08, 2007
You Might Call This A "Sly" Post
Today’s tale actually took place during the last Christmas holiday season. Curious as it may sound, my darling wife’s best friend, Bernie, plays Santa Claus at a party that is put on by the local police for “at-risk” families. These are typically families that either have one parent who is incarcerated, or where one or both parents have been identified as possibly having a substance abuse problem. It is a fun and festive occasion, and is well received by those in attendance.
In past years, Bernie has recruited Angela and our offspring to assist in the festivities. Since Bernie plays the big guy in red, Angela, Maribel, and Colette would play his elves. Three years ago, Angela had a conflict on the night of the party and was unable to attend. My children adored playing elf rolls, and were very disappointed that their mom would miss the party. So, as a loyal father, I volunteered to chaperone them. However, I was told that, in order to be there, I would be forced to take Angela’s place in the Santa situation. This meant that yours truly was forced to don the little green outfit and pointy hat and become a 6 foot, two inch elf.
I am just not the elf type. While my girls looked simply adorable in their costumes, I looked like a dork. To make matters worse, most everyone in attendance proceeded to point out my dorkiness.
A year latter, my family insisted that I, once again, attend the Christmas party and, once again, appear as an elf. For the sake of family peace, I acquiesced. However, I again did not especially enjoy myself. I tried to maintain a friendly smile, but I knew that I looked completely ridiculous, especially since many people told me so. After the party, I resolved that my career as an elf was at an end.
Last December the party was somewhat earlier than in previous years. As a result, Maribel would be engaged in taking finals at school and would be unavailable. Bernie felt that she needed three elves to help her, but could only count on Angela and Colette. Naturally, she determined that I was to come out of retirement. She recruited Angela to inform me of the news.
And, naturally, I refused. I would be a tin soldier, a nutcracker, or anything else that could be reasonably expected to be a tall person. But no green suits or pointy hats. Angela then began her process of convincing me. In other words, she asked Colette to talk to me. Colette, my baby daughter, knows just how to melt my resolve. She widened her big, brown eyes, cuddled up to me, called me “Daddy,” and pleaded with me to be one of Santa’s traditional helpers. How can someone refuse that? So I told her that I would be an elf provided
that she tell me what Angela had offered her to make such an effort to convince me. Apparently, my lovely wife had bribed Colette by offering to get her her own cell phone. Since Angela and I had already determined to get Colette a cell phone for Christmas, the bribe was hollow, but effective nonetheless.
Later that evening, after Colette had turned in, I beckoned Angela to come with me to the guest house for a few minutes. She inquired why, and then saw that I was holding one of our sturdy, wooden hairbrushes that is rarely used on hair but is frequently applied to the bare.
“Why, darling, just what do you plan to do with me in the guest house?” Angela asked, coyly.
“Well, my dear,” I responded, “I’m going to………….”
“Spank you for getting me to be an elf again.”
In past years, Bernie has recruited Angela and our offspring to assist in the festivities. Since Bernie plays the big guy in red, Angela, Maribel, and Colette would play his elves. Three years ago, Angela had a conflict on the night of the party and was unable to attend. My children adored playing elf rolls, and were very disappointed that their mom would miss the party. So, as a loyal father, I volunteered to chaperone them. However, I was told that, in order to be there, I would be forced to take Angela’s place in the Santa situation. This meant that yours truly was forced to don the little green outfit and pointy hat and become a 6 foot, two inch elf.
I am just not the elf type. While my girls looked simply adorable in their costumes, I looked like a dork. To make matters worse, most everyone in attendance proceeded to point out my dorkiness.
A year latter, my family insisted that I, once again, attend the Christmas party and, once again, appear as an elf. For the sake of family peace, I acquiesced. However, I again did not especially enjoy myself. I tried to maintain a friendly smile, but I knew that I looked completely ridiculous, especially since many people told me so. After the party, I resolved that my career as an elf was at an end.
Last December the party was somewhat earlier than in previous years. As a result, Maribel would be engaged in taking finals at school and would be unavailable. Bernie felt that she needed three elves to help her, but could only count on Angela and Colette. Naturally, she determined that I was to come out of retirement. She recruited Angela to inform me of the news.
And, naturally, I refused. I would be a tin soldier, a nutcracker, or anything else that could be reasonably expected to be a tall person. But no green suits or pointy hats. Angela then began her process of convincing me. In other words, she asked Colette to talk to me. Colette, my baby daughter, knows just how to melt my resolve. She widened her big, brown eyes, cuddled up to me, called me “Daddy,” and pleaded with me to be one of Santa’s traditional helpers. How can someone refuse that? So I told her that I would be an elf provided
that she tell me what Angela had offered her to make such an effort to convince me. Apparently, my lovely wife had bribed Colette by offering to get her her own cell phone. Since Angela and I had already determined to get Colette a cell phone for Christmas, the bribe was hollow, but effective nonetheless.Later that evening, after Colette had turned in, I beckoned Angela to come with me to the guest house for a few minutes. She inquired why, and then saw that I was holding one of our sturdy, wooden hairbrushes that is rarely used on hair but is frequently applied to the bare.
“Why, darling, just what do you plan to do with me in the guest house?” Angela asked, coyly.
“Well, my dear,” I responded, “I’m going to………….”
“Spank you for getting me to be an elf again.”
I probably deserve to be spanked for that one.
Monday, June 04, 2007
A Spanking-Related Injury
I shall be traveling to the fine city of Toledo this week, where I will be meeting a long-time friend and attending a concert by my favorite musical groups. As a result, I may not be seen in the internet world for a few days. However, if you are in the vicinity of the Toledo Zoo in the next day or two and happen to spy me, feel free to come up and say “hi.”
I’d like to relate a brief story from this past weekend. Angela’s best friend, Bernie, and Maribel’s doting boyfriend were in attendance for an afternoon of hamburgers and hoops, although Maribel and Bernie, as well as my younger daughter Colette, totally refuse to eat “dead cow,” so there were turkey burgers and chicken breasts available, too. Maribel and Bernie believe that beef will ruin their athletic builds, and Colette thinks cows are too “cute” to eat.
Regardless of the diet preferences of the gathered, we were able to get a couple of spirited games in, although frequent rain made the driveway a bit sloppy. For once, I was teamed with Maribel, and we had great fun. I was shooting the ball poorly, but I was happy to handle the ball and let Maribel deal with the scoring duties.
During one of the rain delays, Maribel thought she had spotted the source of my shooting woes. “Dad, it looks like your right wrist is sore,” she said. “Did you hurt it?”
I responded, “I don’t remember anything specific, but I spent a lot of time working in the garden yesterday. I think it’s a little stiff.”
That response satisfied Maribel, and she gave me some suggestions on how to deal with the discomfort that she had gleaned from her basketball team trainer.
That being said, my reason for the injury that I gave to Maribel was a bald-faced lie.
The truth was that, while cooling off from gardening on Saturday, I was sitting in the guest house watching baseball. I was feeling some anxiety, and my favorite quick stress reliever is getting a good spanking. Since Angela was in the main house with Colette and a couple of friends, I decided that it was best to, shall we say, take matters into my own hands.
I have one of those miniature, souvenir baseball bat that I acquired at a minor league baseball game. It makes a nice little spanking implement, and can easily be handled by one who wishes to spank oneself. Not wanting to disturb Angela, I took up said miniature bat, removed my sweaty shorts, and proceeded to warm my bottom nicely.
Unfortunately, as my self-punishment was drawing to a close, I increased the intensity of my swings, and was snapping my wrist with gusto. It was at this point that I felt a twinge in my wrist and it began to hurt more than my butt. I like having a sore butt. I don’t like having a sore wrist.
Obviously, I can’t tell my eldest daughter, whom I’ll always consider my baby girl, that I injured my wrist whilst spanking myself. Thus, the story about gardening. Perhaps my hand had been weakened by the yard work and the spanking only “pushed it over the edge.” If so, then my stated reason was more of an exaggeration rather than a complete fabrication.
So now I am off on my adventure, with a wrap on my wrist and some light bruises on my butt. This band always puts on an excellent show, and the venue is alleged to be spectacular. I do believe that my trip will be fantastic.
I’d like to relate a brief story from this past weekend. Angela’s best friend, Bernie, and Maribel’s doting boyfriend were in attendance for an afternoon of hamburgers and hoops, although Maribel and Bernie, as well as my younger daughter Colette, totally refuse to eat “dead cow,” so there were turkey burgers and chicken breasts available, too. Maribel and Bernie believe that beef will ruin their athletic builds, and Colette thinks cows are too “cute” to eat.
Regardless of the diet preferences of the gathered, we were able to get a couple of spirited games in, although frequent rain made the driveway a bit sloppy. For once, I was teamed with Maribel, and we had great fun. I was shooting the ball poorly, but I was happy to handle the ball and let Maribel deal with the scoring duties.
During one of the rain delays, Maribel thought she had spotted the source of my shooting woes. “Dad, it looks like your right wrist is sore,” she said. “Did you hurt it?”
I responded, “I don’t remember anything specific, but I spent a lot of time working in the garden yesterday. I think it’s a little stiff.”
That response satisfied Maribel, and she gave me some suggestions on how to deal with the discomfort that she had gleaned from her basketball team trainer.
That being said, my reason for the injury that I gave to Maribel was a bald-faced lie.
The truth was that, while cooling off from gardening on Saturday, I was sitting in the guest house watching baseball. I was feeling some anxiety, and my favorite quick stress reliever is getting a good spanking. Since Angela was in the main house with Colette and a couple of friends, I decided that it was best to, shall we say, take matters into my own hands.
I have one of those miniature, souvenir baseball bat that I acquired at a minor league baseball game. It makes a nice little spanking implement, and can easily be handled by one who wishes to spank oneself. Not wanting to disturb Angela, I took up said miniature bat, removed my sweaty shorts, and proceeded to warm my bottom nicely.
Unfortunately, as my self-punishment was drawing to a close, I increased the intensity of my swings, and was snapping my wrist with gusto. It was at this point that I felt a twinge in my wrist and it began to hurt more than my butt. I like having a sore butt. I don’t like having a sore wrist.
Obviously, I can’t tell my eldest daughter, whom I’ll always consider my baby girl, that I injured my wrist whilst spanking myself. Thus, the story about gardening. Perhaps my hand had been weakened by the yard work and the spanking only “pushed it over the edge.” If so, then my stated reason was more of an exaggeration rather than a complete fabrication.
So now I am off on my adventure, with a wrap on my wrist and some light bruises on my butt. This band always puts on an excellent show, and the venue is alleged to be spectacular. I do believe that my trip will be fantastic.
