Her chief concern was not that people would notice her lack of panties — the dress’ opaque blackness left little opportunity for that. No, her primary concern, without the benefit of the extra material, was the inevitable and widening dark spot left from his fingers’ attention.

Sure, his hand had been up her dress for the last two songs, but he’d been a gentleman about it.

He made her scoot to the edge of her seat and crook her leg over his. He put his index finger to his lips, instructing her not to make a sound while his other fingers slipped beneath her hem, traveled up her stockings and landed solicitously on her clit. In response, she defiantly slurped the ice cubes that remained of her vodka tonic and vowed to keep her shudders to herself.

After one more song — perhaps a moody number by Phil Collins — he would lead her to the restroom where twenty dollars bought them five minutes of solitude from the restaurant manager.

Before tonight she hadn’t known the value of a men’s bath, but considered it a steal.

It was so, with a nod from the management and knowing looks from the staff, that he led her through the crowded, upscale establishment — wet spot and all — to the heavy wooden door marked “Closed for Cleaning”.

There is more possibility in five minutes, alone, than one might think.

In two seconds he had her facing the wall, her breasts pressed firmly into the cold and elegant tile. A gasp, and her dress was raised above her hips where his hand possessed her ass, squeezing past the point of comfort.

It must be said that she’d agreed to all of this: to the possibility of discovery, to the way he pushed her shoulders down until she was kneeling, to the unzip of his pants and the unveiling of his cock which was quickly concealed again by her mouth.

Time was a consideration so her hands pulled double duty. With one attentively wrapped tightly around his base, the other removed the belt from his waist and handed it to him while he watched from above.

She winked and he realized her mouth was just a tease. Feigning displeasure, he knew release would come hard and fast after dinner in another rented room in the hotel adjacent to the restaurant.

Grasping beneath her arms, he raised her to standing, spun her around and returned her to the wall.

The belt was next and, in another nod to their limited time, arrived with a frenzy.

Glancing briefly at the door, she hoped it would remain closed. Their partial nudity could be explained — what couple had not once fantasized about a bathroom rendezvous? — but a spanking was a spanking and thus would be more difficult to manage.

The next three minutes saw them blessedly uninterrupted.

He was her mentor but he hadn’t asked about her goals. For months he hadn’t asked her much of anything, instead relying on his past brilliance to carry them through — a “cache” he’d called it when she complained that she needed more of his attention.

“It’s always ‘what have you done for me lately?’ I only have a 24-hour cache with you,” he’d accuse.

“Yeah, and it expired three weeks ago, you lazy so-and-so,” she’d think but wouldn’t say. Instead she’d apologize and hope he wouldn’t dismiss her as a high-maintenance burden, so great was her need of him that she would accept any scrap he’d offer.

Gone were the weekly conversations. Gone was the belief that he would spank her good and hard and long and just the way she needed, just the way he promised. Gone were the questions about her days, replaced with a litany of reasons why he couldn’t talk, a breathless monologue with a ‘good night’ attached.

He couldn’t text: his phone was lost; the battery was dead; he was in meetings. He couldn’t email: he had presentations; he was on the road; his life was too important. He couldn’t see her: he had a business emergency, a stiff neck, another place to be.

She itched with dissatisfaction. She hungered for the connection they once shared.

Fueled by this dissatisfaction and hunger and having no other means to communicate with him, she composed one last email.

For the first time ever, she lied to him. She said she’d met someone and could no longer see him. She refrained from accusations, which made her proud. But she had met no one, which made her sad.

Not surprising, but sadder still, he gave her up with little fight.

---

Some time later…

“A ‘mentor’,” she said as if she were asked to swallow vomit. “I don’t want you to be my mentor. Let’s not ever use that word. Strike that, please and thank you.”

He’d made the suggestion between the strap and the cane, admiring how she suggestively readied herself for him, gently easing her hips up and down as she found the right height. Now he paused and arched a brow, which she couldn’t see.

“But you should have goals. You want accountability, right? Rewards? Punishment?”

“Only if they are for real. I don’t want pretend goals or pretend accountability.”

“Or pretend rewards or pretend punishment?” He asked as he rubbed an area on her lower cheek where he was sure a bruise would form. “I promise that there will be no pretending. Ever. From you or from me. You deserve the real thing.”

“Fine. But call it something else. I don’t like that word: mentor. It’s a bit like ‘moist’ or ‘fart’ to me. It conjures…images,” she explained as somewhere inside she still burned with disappointment and regret. “You could be my Adviser?”

“Disciplinary Adviser. I like it. Henceforth I will be known as your D.A., responsible for keeping you on the straight and narrow,” he said as he tickled her side, and then her feet, watching her legs wriggle and her hands protest, reveling in her laughter.

He picked up the cane and she grew serious.

“Are you sure?” She whispered.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Because I’ll expect a lot from you,” she said.

“You are worth a lot to me,” he said simply.

She knew with an absolute certainty how she liked to be spanked. She knew that there were as many right ways as there were wrong ways, and lots of shades in between.

But to tell someone how to spank her? To coach him? That tutorial always landed her squarely on the wrong side of things. Instructing a spanker how to spank her was like telling a dentist how to drill her teeth — with all the aggravation of talking around cheek retractors and no benefit of anesthesia.

No, all spankings are not created equal. But they could get better with time, communication and a fair dose of patience. Eventually he can learn her body, interpret the signs. She will rise up and he will meet her. She will pull away and he will gather her around the waist and hold her. The paddle will meet the fleshy underside of her cheeks instead of the less-protected upper parts; his hand will start slow and take off on a gallop. She will tremble as he finally teaches her.

Or she could skip the tiresome, “time and patience” routine and go for the quick and the dirty: a spanking tutor, a man well-acquainted with her bottom and how to use it. Having the benefit of two confident men in her life, neither easily intimidated by another man’s presence, one an expert and the other a novice, she decided to let the two men take a hands-on approach. Let them heatedly discuss her favorite subject — turning her bottom the perfect shade of auburn.

So it was, that Wednesday afternoon, when her lover arrived in time to fasten her garters that they shared a few intimate moments before the other arrived. Nerves fluttered between them as gently as his finger circled her clit, as fiercely as her tongue lapped his cock — building to a sigh and swallowed with a gulp.

At the tutor’s behest, she’d placed one chair in the center of her wide living room and another facing it. Implements waited in a basket by her lover’s chair to encourage crowd participation. As if someone called “places”, she smoothed her skirt, he sat in the designated chair, and the doorbell rang.

Class was in session.

She stood to the tutor’s side, her hands in front, her eyes sneaking peeks, fully aware that there were two men watching the flush creep up her neck, as he began the course.

Fidgeting is allowed — do you see her accepting the inevitability? Can you sense her anxiety? Does she appear sorry yet? Don’t you think she should be more sorry?

The pull-over must be resolute. She will go over your lap because you are precisely ready for her to be there. Yes, she’s in the right position, but make her move and move again. Enjoy her acceptance peppered with frustration; watch her fight the urge to sass and lose the fight.

Smack her ass to remind her where she is and what is coming.

Run your fingers along the garters. Straighten her skirt. Yes, it will be raised — but not yet. Repeat the “magic bullet” from the lecture while rubbing circles on her cheeks.

Begin. Firm. Steady. Her toes, once dug into the carpet, will involuntarily reach for her bottom and that will mean it’s time to lift her skirt. Over her panties, begin again. Firm and steady — you cannot rush a warm-up — until her bottom is warm and glowing.

Stand her up. Make her bend, grab, reach. Keep her present. Pull her panties down, shocking her.

Pass me the strap, the wide one. Aim for the widest part of her bottom. Snap your wrist.

Never forget you have hands. And never stop using them. In between implements, in between strokes, remind her of your hands. Do not underestimate the power of flesh-on-flesh.

Pass me the brush. Over the lap again.

Up again. Over. Thinner strap; hands; until she is limp and drunk on endorphins.

Cool her down. Rub her, spank her softly, feel her hum.

Class dismissed and time for homework.

His thumb traces the bruise on her lower right cheek. He lifts her bottom and kisses the red stripe that ends in a blossoming purple.

She folds the pillow under her head and weeps.

Her hair smells of him, the other him, not the one who kisses her marks. Tangled sheets remind her at the foot board; on the dresser are her panties. Beside her is another man, her man, waiting to hear the story.

“Well?” He asks expectantly as his hand moves up her naked back.

“It was wonderful,” she sobs.

“Then why are you crying?”

Because it wasn’t you, comes her silent accusation. It wasn’t her lover who cultivated the butterflies and pushed them to the precipice. He didn’t peer inside her, see her nerves and determine what she needed. It was another man who layered the evening so that she could take it longer and harder than ever before.

“He used a paddle,” she begins.

“Ah. Is that what this is?” He circles a tender area on her left cheek.

Shrugging, she cannot see it.

“I didn’t complain,” she says in wonder because she always fights the paddle. “Then he used his belt.”

“I bet you liked that, didn’t you, naughty girl?”

Closing her eyes, she nods and remembers. With doubled leather in hand, he steered her bottom higher, pushed her legs apart and began. For the first half, she watched him: the rise and fall of his untucked dress shirt; the way his shoulders engaged in the task; the growing bulge encased in denim at eye level, foreign but familiar.

How she focused on her white knuckles while gripping the head board, ignoring the surge of moisture between her own legs.

“It went on and on…”

Her lover presses a kiss just above her bottom before hugging her around the waist. “I can tell. Your marks. And then…?”

He’d helped her to stand. She was dizzy. She was euphoric. She didn’t know herself but she knew him. He guided her to the living room, embraced her on the couch. The hug turned into a tug over his lap and his hand finished what it began, a slow cadence against welts. She ended in a wet and raucous kaleidoscope as his hand hit lower and with purpose.

“We hugged, and he went home,” she says, feeling tears begin again. Her voice cracks, “It was…wonderful.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because it wasn’t you,” she whispers.

It wasn’t unusual, with the kind of relationship they had, to discuss their pursuits of other people. He was, after all, just her Disciplinarian, with no delusions of romance between them. They lived hours from each other, making visits infrequent — less frequent than she needed, truth be told — but worthwhile.

So when he asked her to contact other women on his behalf, just for occasional, local meets, she wasn’t bothered at first. He did have the best hand she’d ever felt. He was a damn fine Disciplinarian. But just because she had no romantic claim on him didn’t mean that she was game to share the limited time they had together. Sure, she could give him an excellent sales pitch, but did she really want to?

She agreed, with a plan in mind.

First, she asked what, specifically, he sought. Next, she asked if he wouldn’t mind contacting men on her behalf to return the favor. He likewise agreed and, with her plan fully formed, she sat down to write her reference letters.

---

Two days later

“You contacted them with this,” he said as he threw down the email that contained her letter of reference. “Did you really send this?”

“Umm…yes, Sir,” she said, licking her lips while trying to hide her delight. “But, a sense of humor is very important to you. You’ve said so. This was just a test of their humor!”

“Funny,” he said, waving the sheets of paper in front of her. “Really funny, Jade. And what about the letter I’m supposed to send your prospects? Is that a serious letter?”

A giggle escaped. “Are you kidding? No, I wouldn’t want anyone to read that. That would be…embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing. Exactly how I feel, thank you,” his voice was clipped and controlled. “Read this for me, Jade. I want to make sure I’m understanding your tone before I decide what I’m going to do with you. You might as well take your pants off first, because we know how this is going to end.”

She clucked her tongue and pushed her yoga pants to the floor. She wasn’t sure her tone would be at all correct with air tickling her thighs, but she cleared her throat and began, hardly pausing between sentences and not daring to look at his reaction:

Hi, you might think this is a bit odd — and it most likely is — but I know a man on the north side of the state who gives the best hand spankings. I’m quite experienced. Trust me when I say that his spankings are without compare. He is currently my mentor/disciplinarian, so he’s not looking for anything too time-consuming that would distract him from that goal. He would prefer someone local to meet for respectful and occasional sessions.

Along with the best hand spanking ever, you should also prepare yourself for a level of shallowness that is rarely seen in these modern times:

Taking a deep breath, she rushed through the rest.

Please be smaller than a size 12, shorter than 5’10″, have a tiny waist and a big, round booty a la Kim Kardashian. Please be witty, charitable, able to run a mile while holding an intellectual conversation, charming, and out-of-the-norm pretty. It would be helpful if you spoke a few languages and had a smart mouth in each of them, for which you will be spanked. Also, he likes imperfections — outside of the above requirements — so he can spank you for those imperfections. Be close but not too close. Be challenging but not too challenging. And be able to jump through hoops.

If you’re interested — and you definitely should be — he is MrDisciplinarian here. Toss him a wink or a message. Tell him I sent you.

Not_your_average_brat

“C’mon! This is funny stuff! You have to admit…,” she gasped, as he pulled her toward the couch and over his lap.

“Shallow?” He asked. “You find me shallow?”

“Well, yes. But, really, it’s not your fault. I blame the media and their insistence that perfectly average men are entitled to super-model geniuses!”

She wasn’t sure if it was the “perfectly average” characterization that had him spanking her so hard and fast, but she decided that there was nothing average about what was being delivered to her sit-spots. Without benefit of warm-up, she found herself wriggling almost completely off his lap.

“Best hand spanking…we’ll see. Read the letter you wish me to send. Now,” he commanded, short of breath.

“Ummm…ok,” she answered, propping herself up on her elbows and removing the stray hair that had found its way into her mouth.

This letter she could tackle with more aplomb, as it only really insulted herself:

If you opened this, even after seeing that it’s from a guy, then you’ve probably eliminated yourself as a potential for my female friend. However, on the off-chance that morbid curiosity made you open it, and you don’t really dig dudes, then please continue. I’ve agreed to assist Not_your_average_brat, whom I mentor, in her search for a romantic, spanking relationship.

Because she is less witty than she thinks, she requires someone quick enough to catch her sarcastic jabs. She is challenging at best and passive aggressive at worst, so she will exasperate you fully. Aside from the more superficial requirements — taller than 6’0″, strong arms, and a modicum of professional success — she also requires proof of MENSA membership, a psychological evaluation, four letters of reference, and at least a decade of experience. You should also be a fan of soap and washing all of your bits. You must give hard spankings, because that’s what she likes best — and what she most often deserves!

If you’re interested — and you definitely should be — toss her a wink or a message. Tell her I sent you.

-MrDisciplinarian

She bit her lip and ducked her head beneath her arm.

“You would really have me discuss soaping their bits? Their bits?” He asked, as if that was the most preposterous of all of this. “But I can agree with a few points you’ve made in this letter.”

“Dare I ask?” She said, wriggling her bottom over his lap.

“Challenging, yes,” he said with a spank to her right cheek. “Passive aggressive, sometimes,” he decreed with another swat atop her cotton panties. “Exasperating?” With a flurry of spanks that had her oofing and aahing, he gave his opinion.

“And most of all, you definitely need a hard spanking. You deserve a hard spanking. Stand up, and put your hips over the sofa,” he ordered as he unbuckled his belt.

She eased herself off of his lap, her lip twisting between her teeth. “Okay, but…ummm…before you do this, you should know that I didn’t really send that first letter.”

He smiled, not at all surprised.

“Lying? That’s earned you extra.”