It's also number 49. I can't wait to see what Seegee has planned for the half century milestone.
This could be the sort of chart visitors to The Spank Shop may see when they enter one of the parlours.
Andrea goes to work, delivering the hand warm up.
One of what clients may see when Andrea opens her feared 'war chest'.
If it weren’t for the sign outside and the fact that occasionally when passing the big open window of the shop glowing red bottoms can be seen decorating the corners of reception from the street, The Spank Shop could be easily ignored. It is situated incongruously between a hair and beauty salon and a pleasant well patronized patisserie.
Fortunately the street was empty this sunny, but cool autumn day, with no one around to see clients enter the notorious shop, where the owners of disobedient bottoms go to have them smacked.
A bell above the door chimes merrily as clients enter, which is at odds with how most of them must be feeling. A teenager with clouds of meticulously brushed and combed honey blonde hair is seated behind a large desk, she offers clients a dazzling smile and the cheerful greeting, “Welcome to the Spank Shop! I’m Kimberley.”
The shops clients are either returning customers, in which case their details are on file as well as agreement to accept bare bottomed discipline from the shop’s proprietress; Andrea Mahony, or one of her capable lieutenants: Kimberley’s mother Gabrielle Kennedy, the maternal Italian Maria Sculiatta or in some cases Kimberley herself. New customers, first timers, or ‘virgins’, as ‘Aunty’ Andrea often refers to them are required to fill out a form with their details and sign a release or have it signed by a guardian if they’re not of age.
Kimberley hands over a clipboard with a pen and form attached and directs the first timers into a chair in reception to fill it out, while she informs one of the ladies she refers to as ‘discipline consultants’ that their appointment has arrived.
Overall the questionnaire is quite standard, sort of what one expects when they first attend a new doctor, except for questions like if they’ve ever been spanked, and others relating to that punitive experience. Filling it out when the shop is busy can be a surreal experience with glowing bottoms and sobbing clients dressed in the childish and humiliating spanking aprons filling the corners.
This particular afternoon reception is deserted and the only sounds are the gentle crackling of the fire, and Kimberley’s fingers tapping on the keys of her computer keyboard, as she updates the shop’s records and makes appointments.
A door opens out to reception and a woman with curly brown hair - possibly in her mid to late twenties - stumbles out of the room. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail with a scarlet ribbon, tears trickle from her eyes down her cheeks, and there’s a pained expression on her face. One hand is busy rubbing the seat of her snug, well filled out denim slacks.
“I do hope that I’ve cured that habit of yours, young lady!” says a stern voice, and framed in the doorway stands a tall, slender, icily attractive blonde woman. One hand is on her hip and the other holds a rectangular paddle made of a clear plastic material.
The brunette sobs a, “Yes, Miss Gabrielle,” at her.
“Can you look after our naughty little wife, please Kimberley?” Gabrielle asks the receptionist, who very much resembles a younger, shorter version of her mother.
“Yes, Mum,” the teenager says and rises from her chair.
She puts an arm around the crying woman and leads her to a chair on which a large, soft looking pillow has been placed. “You just sit here Susie,” she tells the lady, easing her obviously sore rear end onto the pillow. “I’ll give hubby a call and tell him that he can pick you up, and get you a nice hot cup of tea while you wait for him, okay?”
The girl makes a quick call, speaks to ‘Susie’s’ husband briefly, accepts the filled out form, then disappears into the kitchen. She reappears shortly with a steaming cup of tea, which she hands to ‘Susie’, now wiping her eyes and still sniffling, and announces, “Aunty Andrea is ready to see her next client.”
‘Aunty’ Andrea Mahony is seated by the fire in her parlour, or ‘spanking room’, as many of its occupants refer to it. She is dressed in a dark skirt and a fluffy red sweater, it’s a tight fit and shows off her generous breasts to their best advantage. Her mane of luxurious chestnut curls cascade past her shoulders. One long, shapely, nylon clad leg is draped over the other, and the foot in a shiny black pump swings from side to side. A tea service for one is set up on a small table next to her armchair by the fire, a steaming cup sits on it. The woman herself is reading a magazine, a pair of fashionable, thin rimmed, rectangular reading glasses are perched on her nose. She initially seems unaware that anyone else is in the room.
She reaches for her teacup and looks up. A slow smile spreads across her face, she sips tea daintily and places the cup back on its saucer. She closes the magazine and puts it down next to the teapot, she removes her glasses and places them lenses up on top of the magazine.
“Ahhhh so our naughty little peeper has come to pay Aunty a visit,” she purrs in a voice like warm honey.
Cheeks heat with embarrassment and feet shuffle nervously.
“Do you know what happened to the curious cat, darling?”
“It unfortunately lost one of its lives, but I don’t approve of cruelty to animals. If it had been up to me it would have had its tail lifted and its fluffy little bottom spanked.”
A hard swallow and an almost unbearable tingle in the hindquarters starts.
“Young Sierra did not appreciate having an audience for her hiding, nor did her parents, especially after they were advised of how the Spank Shop values and protects the privacy of its clients. If even Miss Kimberley speaks about what goes on here out of turn, then she’s over my knee in short order, her bare bottom having a lengthy discussion with the back of a sturdy wooden hairbrush.”
Sierra Mason. If she weren’t such a prim, prissy, little goody two shoes tattler then no one would have wanted to see her being spanked. Even though the price was going to be high, it was almost worth it for those few minutes of seeing the high and mighty, ‘butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth’, ‘my Mummy and Daddy make more money than your Mummy and Daddy’ Miss Mason wailing bare bottomed over Andrea’s stern lap, tears streaming down her cheeks, nose dripping like a tap, backside turning the same colour as the mane of fiery red hair she was so proud of, while Andrea vigorously applied the unforgiving back of her much feared hairbrush Mrs Ebony to those pampered, once snowy white cheeks.
“Think it’s amusing?” Andrea barks.
“No, Miss Andrea.”
“No, it is not. Neither I or my good friend Mrs Ebony,” jade eyes flick to a broad backed, oval hairbrush, made of a jet black wood, sitting innocently on the coffee table in front of the three seater couch across from the fireplace, “found anything about the entire regrettable incident the least bit funny. Just as well Kimberley was vigilant and happened to see that someone had entered the backyard, and was looking where they shouldn’t have been.”
In a matter of moments those long, nimble tapering fingers with the perfectly manicured, scarlet lacquered nails, have unsnapped buttons and undone zips, and there’s a very vulnerable very bare bottom in front of Andrea.
“Go to the corner,” she directs, pointing at a corner of the room near the fireplace. “Hands on head, nose on the wall, do not move so much as a muscle until I say so.”
It is an odd experience to stand staring at the featureless wall, nose pressed against it, slowly going numb from the pressure, hearing preparations, but not actually being able to see anything.
The fire crackles gently, and there’s the soft whisper and rustle of material as Andrea moves about the room. A click that sounds like a teacup on a saucer breaks the silence, then another noise of wood on wood rings out, impossibly loud in the still air of the parlour. That has to be the hairbrush, the cutely named Mrs Ebony, whose reputation precedes her, and sends a shiver of fear down the spine of anyone who knows what she’s really used for. Despite being a hairbrush, that implement has never been used on so much as a strand of hair.
“Turn,” the smooth, cultured voice orders imperiously.
The icy finger of fear sends a visible shiver through the spine.
“Cold?” she asks.
“The fire does keep the room nice and toasty, but I wager it’s going to become a lot hotter very soon. Hands off head and stand by my knee.”
“The questionnaire indicates a state of virginity as regards the shop and corporal punishment?”
Andrea smiles again. It’s a rather predatory expression, not dissimilar to that seen on the face of a cartoon cat when it encounters a mouse. However this time the cat is going to win the battle and the mouse doesn’t have the same turn of speed that Speedy Gonzales enjoyed.
“I do confess to rather liking ‘virgins’, it’s so much fun to teach them things. Lessons like why one does not creep into a fenced in backyard and spy through windows on others being spanked over Aunty’s lap. That particular incident was between Sierra, myself and her parents, no one else was involved or had any right to know about it unless Sierra herself wanted to inform them. Over my knee.”
The soberly skirted lap is surprisingly comfortable, firm, without being too hard or soft, and it, in combination with the couch that Andrea had seated herself in the middle of provided a good deal of support for even the tallest occupant of that lap.
Those competent fingers gently stroke, knead and caress the bottom in her lap. Nails are scraped teasingly down the white, trembling mounds, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. Then without warning a loud crack rings out in the room.
The sounds hits the air before the sting of the blow registers, as the next one falls it is joined by a lusty full throated yell of both surprise and alarm. It doesn’t take long before the fire builds and the surface of the globes nestled into that firm lap takes on a soft pink flush.
Andrea takes her time and picks her spots carefully. The spanking seems random, but there is a method to the disciplinarian’s madness. She prides herself on what she does and how well she does it.
Before the buttocks are released from their not entirely uncomfortable prison situated atop those muscular toned thighs they’ll be glowing crimson and almost hot enough to rival the logs in the fireplace.
To do that Andrea has to spank all them. From the top of the buttocks right down to the tender upper thighs. Each and every area needs to match in colour and heat. To do that she attacks them one after the other, constantly varying her rhythm and changing direction at will. Maybe a concentrated volley on the sit spot, that area where thighs and buttocks meet, right where someone sits. A few ringing blows on the crowns, followed by a scorching set on the upper thighs. She may linger on the one area smacking it over and over again until her victim is begging for mercy and pleading her to smack somewhere else. A request that she only obliges if she feels like it.
“Ahhhh there we are,” she coos. “Tears. Not quite so clever now, are we?”
“No, Miss Andrea.”
“No, we are not! However Mrs Ebony also seems to like some tears before she goes to work. Let’s get a good steady flow going. Break down those proud dam walls.”
The tears only seem to urge her on to greater heights and lend strength to that already powerful arm and very hard hand. The intensity of the spanking increases and encourages kicking legs, a squirming bottom, and a flood of tears combined with some desperate pleading for the ordeal to be over.
“Over? Oh my goodness no, darling! That’s just the warmup.”
“It’s always amazing how the pleases start once the miscreant is over my knee,” the beautiful chestnut haired woman muses to the room. “Why they don’t think of the consequences of their actions before it gets to this point I will never know. My ears are deaf to pleas until I think my hand and hairbrush have done their job, and I don’t think they’ve done what I want then I have an entire cupboard full of things that most definitely will.”
Ah yes the cupboard. Andrea’s arsenal, her so called war chest, what many of the visitors to her parlour have christened the ‘chamber of horrors’. Behind those innocuous looking wooden doors all sorts of things lurked.
Paddles of all size and types, made of wood, leather and a dense plastic called lexan, some with holes and others without. Straps, everything from an old fashioned razor strop to multi tailed Scottish tawses and the smaller, but highly effective ‘aunty’ strap, there were rumours that there was a small multi thonged whip from France known as a martinet in amongst the other belts. Canes, made of rattan, bamboo and willow, various sizes from the ‘nursery’ cane to the old style crook handled ones so often depicted in literature about schools, especially British ones, in days gone by. The cupboard also had assorted other things, companions to Mrs Ebony, bath brushes, slippers, wooden spoons, and other things that no one who hadn’t seen inside the cupboard could even guess at.
Andrea leaned over the steaming rump across her lap and paused there, possibly to let the heat from it emanate up to her full chest under the tight, fuzzy sweater. Her fingers curled around the handle of Mrs Ebony and she straightened up again.
Tender, hot, sore bottom cheeks tensed as the brushes broad hard back hovered in the air over them, just waiting for the inevitable onslaught.
At the same time as the brush bites into a vulnerable buttock a full throated roar hits the air. The miserable recipient howls and kicks and tears flow unabated down the cheeks, the bitter salty liquid makes a small damp patch on the arm of the couch where the tears fall, dripping off a trembling chin and combine with the drool that can’t be helped when one’s mouth is continually opening and closing with ever more desperate pleas for mercy mixed in amongst promises to never do it again and yells of sheer agony.
Andrea knows what she’s doing and she does it well. No one gets off her lap until their bottom has been well roasted and is little more than a burning ball of fire. The sit spots and thighs don’t get spared either. They are kissed by Mrs Ebony as often as their close cousins the buttocks are.
“Open your legs, please.”
That’s the command no one over Andrea’s lap wants to hear. It means she wants to spank the protected inner thighs and buttocks and those areas are tender and sting like fury when they’re smacked. Just a hand is bad enough, Mrs Ebony’s unyielding back must be positively excruciating.
There’s another reason no spankee wants to open their legs for the attentions of whatever is being used on them at time, whether it be hand, hairbrush, paddle, strap or anything else that can be used to spank with. It’s actually a three fold reason.
One is that once the legs are open it’s very hard to do anything at all to relieve the pain and the heat that any good spanking – and Andrea’s spankings are very good indeed – creates. The legs can’t kick or cross and that tends to give someone something else to think about, the effect on the burning the bottom is getting is debatable.
Then there’s the knowledge that once the legs and open and spread and allowing access to the inner buttocks and thighs, everything can be seen. Male or female it makes no difference. The apron provides no modesty in this situation. The genitals are completely on display. While Andrea will do her very best not to spank them, it doesn’t take away the knowledge that they have been seen at their most vulnerable.
Finally there’s the after effect of being spanked there. Legs and buttocks rub together when someone walks, it cannot be helped, and being spanked in between them ensures that the spanking will be felt for quite some time after the event. Not only does the spankee feel the spanking every time they sit down, they feel it when they walk, causing them to walk rather stiff legged, a little like a penguin. This means that others can tell someone’s been spanked and spanked thoroughly. It also affects the choice of dress. Jeans are an agony and it means that the only form of dress that can be born is loose pants or a skirt.
The desperate begging of, “Please Aunty, no, not there!” only draws a scornful response of, “Don’t be a baby! Begging is such an unattractive quality.”
It is an enormous relief when Andrea says calmly, “Close the legs again.”
It’s hard to hear much over the pounding of blood in the ears and while trying to catch breath, but is the disciplinarian’s voice a little breathless? Did the effort of holding a vigorously struggling recipient in place over her lap while delivering an absolutely barn burner of a spanking take it out of her? Is that a pyrrhic victory?
There’s not a lot of time to ponder this, nor is there any to celebrate a small triumph of spirit as Andrea lays on a blistering volley as the crescendo of her spanking.
“Up!” she orders shortly.
Her strong, sure hands close around the waist and ease the sobbing miscreant off her lap and onto their feet. She holds the wrists to the waist so that rubbing is out of the question. Spank Shop clients do not rub their bottoms until they are given permission from their punisher, although a short spanked cheeks dance is usually permitted.
Andrea holds a tissue up to a face stained with a mixture of tears, snot, saliva and sweat and tenderly cleans it. Then a further tissue is held to the dripping nose with a soft command of, “Blow.”
Once the nose has been noisily evacuated and the tissue disposed of and the punishee left feeling like a four year old who doesn’t know enough to blow their own nose without the help of a caring adult, they are sent to the corner to let their bottom cool off and Andrea to enjoy a hot beverage while relaxing in the afterglow.
“I certainly hope seeing Sierra get what she had coming to her was worth it,” Andrea says as she sips tea and admires her handiwork on the jiggling red bottom glowing brightly in the corner of the room.
It is a rhetorical question so no answer is needed, nor is one forthcoming.
Once allowed out of the corner one would hope that was it, but on this occasion one more command comes from the Mistress of the Spank Shop.
“I don’t think some public corner time in reception is out of the question here. Kimberley will be able to source a free corner I am sure. One that can easily be seen from the street I think. After all Sierra’s right to privacy was not respected.”
“Please Aunty put me in a corner in reception? Delighted. I’ll just call through to Miss Kimberley and see what she can do. Kimberley, do you have a free corner? You do? Wonderful. Make sure it’s visible from outside.”
The cheeks of the face are almost as hot and red as the ones lower down when a visitor has to stand in the corner of reception, only wearing one of the shop’s humiliating spanking aprons. The front is covered, but the bottom is bare and has clearly been quite soundly spanked recently. Knowing that passersby can see it only adds to the feeling of complete and total humiliation.
The slow and painful walk home is made more so by the feeling that everyone knows what just happened and is having a good old chuckle about it. Dinner will be eaten off the mantle tonight and the next few nights will be spent sleeping on the tummy.
Was it worth it to see Sierra humbled the way she was? You betcha it was!