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.”

“I do not like that word…whip,” she said while scrunching up her nose and propping herself up on elbows. “You’re not whipping me. You’re spanking me.”

“It’s a word. And besides, haven’t you said that I can do whatever I like, whenever I like, to you?” He teased as he playfully grabbed her nose between thumb and forefinger. His other hand slid up from its place behind her knee, trailed her inner thigh and rested just below her freshly whipped — spanked — cheek.

“Stop,” she blanched. “I really don’t like that word. It’s not us. Please don’t use it. It ruins everything for me.”

“Everything? It ruins everything?” His hand continued its ascent while the other claimed a breast. “Does it ruin this?”

Sighing, she pushed hard against both hands, arching her back into the one that teased a nipple while lifting her hips to feel his finger.

“No, not everything. But it seems so…barbarous.” She frowned and said thoughtfully, “Hmmm, I don’t think I’ve ever said that word aloud. Did I say it right?”

“You said it right, but I don’t like that word. It’s not us.” He laughed then, and she could feel the movement against her tummy. “Only you would think of words at a time like this.”

“Well, it fits with ‘whip’,” she said, noticing her shortness of breath.

“You know what else fits with ‘whip’?” He whispered into her hair, placing a kiss against her head as he added another finger inside her. “Conquer. Overtake. Possess. You like those words.”

Gasping into the mattress, she left the English language and pleaded in moans for him to show her those things.

Abandoning the strap — clearly not a whip — he favored his hand, as did she. On her pink and swollen cheeks, he wrote the words she preferred. He spanked her. Squeezed and caressed and spanked her, not gently.

To anyone else, this could be seen as barbarous, a word they were not: her hair wrapped tightly in his fingers, his hand storming down while she kicked and mewed, groaned and ground.

“You are mine. No matter what you call it,” he breathed as his spanking moved lower, slower, more methodical against her.

“Yours. No matter what you call it,” she agreed as she trembled a release.

His hand, with strong, downward volleys, brooked neither breath nor thought. Her eyes closed; her teeth gritted. She shook her head against the sharp sting. She would not beg. She would not. She would stand and she would take it.

“Beg me,” he demanded, while he palmed her pussy and nibbled her neck. “Beg me for my cock.”

She ground against his hand but still she shook her head. She risked no words. She clamped her mouth.

The belt slithered from its home and snapped behind her. Snapped again, and then found its quivering target. She fought to maintain both her physical and mental positions. It would be so easy to say the words, after the leather bit her cheeks. Say the words!, her body agreed.

“Say it!” He commanded gruffly. “Say the words to make this stop!”

She would not.

He kicked her legs apart and pushed her forward. With her chest on the mattress, she knew she was wide open. A zipper sounded; his pants came down. Behind her she felt his hips, felt his hardness.

So easy! So close!, and yet she chose to fight, even while her toes lifted her higher. His fingers hurt as they squeezed, pulling her against him, their hips miming the pleasure she denied. She was swollen, her cheeks angry with refusal.

“You want it. Say that you want it.”

She did but she would not say it. She could not.

“No. I don’t. I want you to spank me more,” she lied, “all night if you have to. But I. Will. Not. Say. It.”

He would not give up easily. A blur followed, with her on all fours for the paddle, a hand in her hair for the tawse. Their wills matched, either her bottom or his need would decide the fate of the battle.

I want it! I want your cock!, her mind screamed.

The next moment she was carrying his weight as he pushed inside her.

“I didn’t say it,” she gasped as he moved behind her.

“You did. You said it!” He insisted as his arm circled her waist and a finger found her clit. Her ravaged cheeks debated pushing against him or away, and so they did both, rocking back and forth, claiming pleasure along with pain.

“I did not!”

Did she?

Blank. She was drawing a blank. Her purse was in her hand. She was staring at his back, thinking the introduction didn’t go so well. Resenting her awkwardness, at times, she vowed to let it slip away at dinner.

They had talked, emailed, texted. Words were her medium of comfort before his broad shoulders entered her door. The previous heat was now consumed by a pressure to be charming, to be like she was before they met. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Instead of turning the door knob in his hand, he turned around, looked down at her, and said, “One thing before dinner.”

“Oh?” She asked, thinking maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he’d mistaken her awkward silence as a sign and no longer thought her interesting. I get better. I really do, she thought, with time.

“Yes. One thing,” and with that his hands — the fingernails trimmed nearly to cuticles — firmly grasped her shoulders, spun her around, and pushed her forward to the back of the couch.

Leaving her shoulders, those hands traveled down her hips, tracing the snug cotton of her skirt to its hem.

“Bend,” he commanded. She did, effortlessly and comfortably, feeling a familiarity at last. The hem was lifted over her stockings, past the naked tops of her thighs, past the lace panties.

“Oh,” she breathed again, wondering at his next move, not caring that her retort lacked brilliance.

They stood there: her skirt at her waist, her hands on the couch cushions, his formidable shoulders behind her. Fingers straightened the edges of her panties before a palm gently soothed her cheeks.

Anticipation engulfed the silence. She wondered at herself, at him, how he could know that this wouldn’t scare her, but instead calm her.

“Better?” He asked.

On a breath, the first she’d taken since he arrived, she simply said, “Yes. Much.”

“Good,” he said as he pulled her skirt back down. “Ready for dinner?”

While most of her peers were into the latest technology, her entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase housed vinyl records. A woman in her late twenties should be all about iPods and surround sound, not scratchy relics from a bygone era. And yet there they were, alphabetized and preserved in plastic sleeves: ABBA, BeeGees, Carole King, the entire Grateful Dead collection, Louis Armstrong, Rolling Stones and ZZ Top. It was a diverse collection.

Even better, the record player — as compact a machine as they offered in the 80s — had a fresh needle and was ready to go.

Because she surprised him, he decided to return the favor.

“Pick a record. Put it on. And then I’m going to spank you to it,” he said as he marveled at the neat rows of record jackets. “Make it a good one, because we’ll be…listening…to the whole thing.”

“I assume you don’t want a single,” she said with a coy smile.

“Only if you want to play the same song twenty times. And fetch the paddle.” They both knew she didn’t want the paddle.

Picking one record out of the hundreds on any given night was always a challenge, but picking one to be spanked to was even more so. The songs should be varied and up-tempo, and care must be taken to avoid any musicians that might annoy him. Annoyed spankers aren’t good spankers, usually, and tonight she wanted a good spanking.

Keeping his age in mind, and ruling out anything resembling disco, she plucked Three Dog Night from its place on the shelf and didn’t wait for his approval. She dropped the record on the turntable, positioned the needle, and joined him near the couch.

The irony of the first song, “Try a Little Tenderness”, wasn’t lost on either, and, smilingly, that’s what he did. He began slowly but firmly, holding and squeezing her just as the song instructed. Her skirt was lifted, her panties straightened, her cheeks warmed by a hand straining to keep the beat.

By the third song, “Easy to be Hard”, the spanking was picking up. No longer comfortable, she began to kick her legs and meekly protest, fully aware that the record she chose was a long one. Nine minutes was nothing compared to what she would receive.

There were pauses, but brief ones, only to pull her panties down, to grab her cheeks, to trace his fingers down her thighs and rub her back. As the record played on, he spanked with a determination to see it to the end.

When the record finished, neither cared. The spanking went on as the record soundlessly turned. The spanking went on while they found their own melody: a hand against a cheek, a gasp, a reminder to stay in position.

They were lost in the lyrics of their own making.