– Laura –

My name is Laura Connor and I was born in Milwaukee, United States, on March 4th 1981. I was four years old the first time my parents spanked me. I had been running off in the street without telling anyone, and my mother nearly had a fit. Nothing happened to me and nothing would have, but they made sure I learnt my lesson. I remember nothing of that spanking, but according to my father, it was a good dozen smacks on my bare bottom, which probably seemed a lot to a toddler. The first one I remember clearly took place almost two years later, but I don’t know the offence that caused my father to bare my bottom and spank it till it was bright red. That sure had been much harder, and I remember how I would beg him not to take my panties down, and how he wouldn’t listen and kept swinging at my poor bum for what seemed like forever. It was a most frightening and confusing experience. Frightening because, well, you know why. Confusing... well, let’s just say that a child as young as six often doesn’t know why she feels what she feels. Certain emotions are mixed up with all the rest and it’s hard to see clear, but nonetheless, they are there. During my early pre-teen years, all I knew was that during those rare evenings spent laying on my bed, nursing my hot bottom with the gentle kneading of my fingers, I felt good. Not sexually, not non-sexually, not mentally... I don’t know. It just felt "good". There was just no other way to put it, and to this day, I cannot find other words.

– Jean –

My name is Jean Roquefort and I was born in Lyon, France, on April 3rd 1980. I have thought about spanking as a "cool" thing for as long as I can remember, ever since my toddler years probably. I don’t even know where the thing that started it all came from, since I grew up in a strictly non-spanking family, and didn’t even hear about it from relatives or anything. I barely knew what it was but for some reason it just came natural to me to find it appealing.

It’s amazing how one event can condition your life. I was perhaps five years old when this happened. There was a film on TV, don’t know which, and suddenly this man gave his child a spanking... brief, but more than enough to make me stare at the screen wide-eyed. What I remember most vividly is my mother’s comment on certain people abusing kids, and my father’s reply about how those who spank shouldn’t even be allowed to keep their children. That saddened me to no end, because, in my five-year-old mind, it meant that I was a bad person for even thinking about spanking.

That impression remained with me for most of my pre-teen years, even though I eventually rationalised and internalised it, and it soon wasn’t a problem any longer. But the seed had been planted, and as if I didn’t know already, I knew for sure that being interested in spanking made me a boy different than any other, perhaps even weird.

– Laura –

Spankings remained a rare but important part of my upbringing. I can say that when I was about nine I was spanked perhaps once a month, for the most diverse reasons you can imagine. I was a good kid all in all, but apparently I could not keep myself from getting in trouble for long. My mother and father shared the task of "warming my bottom for me", as they put it sometimes, but being at home most of the day it basically resided with my mum. She had a very impersonal way of dealing with it, almost aseptic: she’d take me to my bedroom, or hers, sit on the bed, remove my pants and underpants and spank my bare tush for a long time, and I mean a long time. One smack every two or three seconds, slow and rhythmic, spaced out with tremendous accuracy. She didn’t say a word, just spanked like that for a number of minutes, sometimes even six or seven. Useless to say, I often ended up crying, despite my resolution not to.

Nonetheless, my father’s spankings were the most memorable, for there was more emotion to them. I’ve always been the apple of his eye, I guess, for I had the feeling it hurt him more than it hurt me, and that wasn’t just something you say. Sometimes he would even have tears in his own eyes after a particularly hard spanking. He only spanked me at bedtime, and on the bare and over his lap, and with his hand, but he smacked hard and fast. It lasted two minutes tops, but those two minutes were hell. Lots of hugging and cuddling followed, something that I didn’t take for granted with my mother. I hated my father for what he did to me, but I also loved him a lot, and during all that hugging and cuddling I never failed to cry on his chest and promise I’d be a better girl for him. Not for me, mind you. Just in order to please him and mum.

And then nine is a memorable age for me, for I was graduated to being spanked with an implement. One of my mother’s cherry wood hairbrushes was elected to "The Spanking Hairbrush", a name I learnt to dread, for when it was applied to my bare backside I would literally see stars. Fortunately for me, it only happened thrice in my life, two from her and one from him, and the first was right when I was nine. I had been caught doing something incredibly stupid – taking money from mum’s purse – and for the first time I saw her really angry. I admit having been scared at the sight of her coming into my room half an hour later, hairbrush in hand, and I cried throughout the scolding that followed. But was something else was happening, and I barely understood what it was. All I knew is that for some weird reason, there was something appealing to it all. Standing there in front of her, my panties hugging my knees and my stomach doing flip-flops, I felt so exposed and vulnerable, and yet so... so natural. I felt like that was the most natural status for me to be in, and that the spanking was fair, and that I wasn’t even dreading it that much anymore.

Of course, everything changed as soon as the hairbrush smacked my bottom for the first time. I think my eyes nearly popped out of their orbits I was so surprised: I couldn’t believe anything could be that painful. But it was, and there were nineteen more smacks to follow – yes, I counted – that my mother delivered over the following minute with lethal accuracy, restraining my squirming body and locking my hands in hers while my pleas fell on deaf ears. Then I was let up, allowed to re-dress and, surprise!, hugged and kissed for a long time while I bawled like a baby and promised not to steal ever again.

As my mother left, I climbed on the pouf by my vanity and lowered my panties just enough to see the damage. My bottom was red but not overly so, and my mother had had the oh-so-nice thought of leaving the hairbrush right there where I could see it. I felt weird looking at my bottom in the mirror peeking over my shoulder, but somehow it was also an intriguing sight. I needed to lay down soon anyway, because I was getting sleepy, and so I tossed away my panties and plopped down on the bed with just my T-shirt on, again rubbing my very hot, throbbing bottom. It was the hardest spanking I had got so far, and perhaps that was why it felt even better than usual to rub. The renewed sting every time my fingers touched a sore spot made me moan and groan, because as much as I hated the pain, it was sending thrills throughout my body: jolts of pain, inexplicable shivers of pleasure. Like cold fire, ice cubes burning instead of coal.

I felt electric, alive, and I cherished every moment of it until sleepiness had the best of me.

– Jean –

My tenth summer was going to be the most important of my life, even though I didn’t realise that until it was over. My family was not very wealthy, but for the first time in years my father had sealed a fruitful deal with a customer, and in a moment of enthusiasm, he and my mother decided to invest that unexpected little fortune into a memorable holiday. We rented a small cottage on the Mediterranean coast, near Montpellier. It was an ancient-looking, wooden two-story house on the beach, just twenty metres from the sea. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen. We were to spend one month there, but between one thing and the other, it ended up being almost two.

The football (= soccer, for American readers) 1990 World Cup matches filled my afternoons between one trip to the seaside and a bike ride through the town’s sunny streets, and I was as happy as a kid could be. My mother and father were having the time of their lives as well, and I remember very fondly many and many warm evenings spent joking and laughing together, having lunch on the patio watching the waves crash sweetly on the shore. But, as fond as that memory is, it can never prevail over the thought of Annette.

Annette Rénard from Paris, a city girl, shy in her act, always silent, with shining long blonde hair and a tanned body. Did I mention she was the cutest girl I had ever seen? She was one year older than me. We met at the seaside one morning, and became playmates in the blink of an eye. She was alone with her parents and a bit lonely, I suspect, just like me, so it’s not a wonder we got along so well. And you know how certain things go... kids are curious, they’re daring, they want to experiment and they’re not afraid to do so, not during the summer anyway, when they run around unsupervised and the weather is hot and by noon you’re so hot and sweaty your brain doesn’t really work anymore. Annette and I shared a tiny kiss on the lips on the seaside one evening, and after wiping our mouths with our sleeves, we looked at each other blushing deep, and giggling just a bit. That was the last of it, we never kissed again. I like to believe that we just weren’t meant to "be together", but truth is that we found something else to share which was much more interesting.

Running around in my yard, chasing each other and spraying each other with those gardening rubber hoses, we ended up falling to the ground and starting an amateur wrestling match. I truly don’t remember who made the first move, or how it really went, but all I knew is that suddenly she was draped across my lap, her pert little bum peeking out of her soaking wet bikini bottoms. I couldn’t resist, and despite every fibre of my being told me not to, I slapped her cheeks. I loved the way they jiggled, sending drops of fresh water all around. She yelped, but didn’t move, and just stayed still, relaxing, laying her face on the grass and closing her eyes. The silence was ear-shattering and I wanted to stay like that forever. No, that’s not correct. I wanted to smack her again, and so I did. SPANK! It was like a loud bang, and a huge lump formed in my throat, not to mention another, totally different physical reaction I was experiencing in my swimming trunks. But that’s beyond the point, and it would take a pen less pure than mine to describe the visual fascination in her bottom cheeks bouncing as I spanked them. I kept on for a while, don’t know how much. After a few swats, a pink hue was starting to form on her skin, and she was yelping some more. She eventually pushed herself up from my lap, and as her hands went to rub her bottom, she flashed me the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

Contrarily to our kiss, that wasn’t the last time I "spanked" her. We would do it often, not every day but often, and not ever a word was said about it. At a random time, when we were alone, she would just drape herself across my lap and push up her slightly chubby round bottom for me to slap, and I obliged contentedly. My unspoken desire was to pull down her pants, or her dress up, maybe even the swimsuit off, or her panties... but I know that wouldn’t have been possible, or she would say so herself. No. It was never that blatant. Perhaps I was too young to fully understand what was going on, but she was a year older than me, and seemed pretty much aware of it all. She seemed to know where limits should be placed, and she placed them for me to follow.

We never got to see each other again after the end of that month. I don’t even know her last name. I just know that from that summer on, my life changed completely, and I started exploring my new-found passion with more and more interest.

– Laura –

Many people talk about sexual awakening, but they don’t really know what it is. Some even think it’s when you have sex with a guy for the first time, ha! How ridiculous. To me, sexual awakening is when you realise your body gives you nice feelings when properly stimulated, or when you’re in a special state of mind; the day you consciously understand that your body is more than a simple chassis for your organs, and that you can feel it, and interact with it, and make it a part of you, and also that you can enter a certain mindset and afford yourself some special thoughts without being too ashamed, then you’re sexually awake. It happens at the most different ages. I was around ten when that realisation came unto me, and knowing what I know now, I guess I was pretty much within the average. I hear of children being sexually aware at six, or late teenagers who never even had a thought about it, but I rarely believe those stories, though they can be true. I don’t know and I don’t care. I just know that not only I found my sexual awakening in the period of my tenth birthday, but also that it was focused on one thing and one thing only: spanking.

Still, it wasn’t until my twelfth year that I realised fully and completely what my body and mind were getting me into. In that period, spankings had become more frequent. Call it a premature adolescent rebellious phase or whatever, but I started misbehaving more, often snapping back and talking rude, and my parents would have none of that, and dealt with it the only way they knew. I had started keeping a journal at eleven, and I wrote on it daily till my fifteenth year. Those notes, stored in computer files (yes, I’ve always been a comp geek), remind me that in 1993 alone I found myself over one of my parents’ knees for a spanking the incredibly huge amount of 26 times. That’s exactly once a fortnight, about double if compared to my early childhood. But I needn’t a journal to remember each and every of those twenty-six spankings, because by that time I was very aware of my feelings, and cherished every one of them as much as I could.

At first it felt weird and I was very careful about what I could afford myself to feel or do and what I could not. When the time for a spanking came, that feeling in my tummy made me go literally nuts again and again, and my head would spin. Fear was still the main component, though, because I hated the actual pain and, silly as it looks now, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents. And yet, every spanking was a special moment. During the lecture, I would stand there with my panties down and stare at the ground, so I could close my eyes without them noticing. That made it so much better, and so beautiful, because I could concentrate my senses on the surroundings... register every noise, inhale every smell... and turning on every nerve in my body so I could feel myself for what I really was: a naughty child with her skirt pulled up and her panties at her knees, standing in front of her daddy and about to be turned over his knees for a good, long, hard and well-deserved old-fashioned spanking on her bare little naughty bottom, until it glowed red and she kicked her feet and cried her eyes out promising to be good. Believe it or not, I didn’t listen to the lecture they gave me, but just kept repeating those words again and again in my head. I wanted that moment of anticipation to last forever, and it truly lasted forever... minus a second, because eventually over their lap I’d go and the real spanking would begin. Then it would all seem like fast forward, a frenzy of spanks and real pain, and tears when they came. I really didn’t like that part, and despite what they said, I started feeling unloved instead of being taken care of. The moment before the actual spanking was so good that I just hated it how painful the real thing had to be, and I unloaded that hatred on my parents, perhaps unjustly, I don’t know. But as soon as it was over, and I was left alone laying on my bed on my tummy, all of those feelings would come rushing to me again, like the most devastating wave, a tsunami of immense power. I would often assume the fetal position, turning on to my side and bringing my knees up to my chest. That way, a hand could easily reach my red hot, burning bottom and rub some of the sting away, while the other... well, you know.

It was like that for over a year, until one Sunday when I really screwed up big time, leaving home early in the morning to go to a pool party ignoring my parents’ grounding because of my poor grades. I had lots of fun and left them clueless as to my whereabouts for a whole twelve hours. They were very afraid of course, and I truly regret doing it, even now. I sure did regret it that night, when my father nearly skinned my bottom with that hairbrush. It was the hardest spanking I ever got, and the only one in my life that I didn’t like, because there was fury in his eyes, and not love, not even one bit. Nonetheless, as I lay on my bed crying, a bit of those feelings did come anyway, and I felt the arousal build. I could not help it, and before I knew, my body was shaking with strange, painful pleasure. I cried so hard afterwards, because never had I felt so ashamed. I tried to push all of those feelings away, and fell asleep feeling weird and unwanted.

But it did change my attitude, somehow. I became a good girl all of a sudden, more to please my parents and avoid another spanking than out of the true intention to be good. That resulted in a whole five months without earning myself a spanking, and useless to say, I was missing it tremendously. Add that to the fact that I had no-one to talk about it with, and you have a very miserable girl who fought tears and tried to look happy the day of her thirteenth birthday. I didn’t know yet, but the idea was already forming in my mind: I wanted to be spanked and I wanted it bad, and since I didn’t care so much about my parents being happy with me any longer, I though I might as well start misbehaving again.

On purpose.

– Jean –

High school was a big surprise for me, used as I was to the rhythms and the habits of middle school. I eventually settled in and found several friends, but it took me a while to adapt. Basically, the feeling that I was different remained with me, because I liked spanking, and I liked it so much I would entertain myself thinking about pretty much every day. I was very conscious that none of it showed on the outside, and that my mates didn’t know, but still, I knew I was weird and nothing could change that. I realised about it especially with girls; when I’d hang out with the other boys and we saw a pretty girl, they’d drop all the grossest comments about how they would like to get laid with her for hours and hours. I laughed and joined in the fun, pretending to be a part of the group, but my only thought when I saw a pretty girl was not: "I would like to have a one-night stand with her", but rather: "I’d like to take her over my lap and give her a good, hard spanking". That scared myself more than it would have scared those girls had they known.

For my fourteenth birthday I received the present which meant the most to me, and which was to alter my life forever. It was 1994 and by then, about half of the French families had one or more computers in their homes. We did not, and my parents thought it was time we did, so they bought one. It was kept in the family room, and having learnt how to use one in school, I was already quite skilled at it. In the afternoon, I would use it for homework, with my mother checking on me every now and then and preparing all kinds of snacks from time to time. But it was deep at night, after midnight and well after my parents were in bed, that I sneaked out of my room and switched the machine on. It was then that I could dedicate myself to what I really wanted to do. I never had a gift for writing, that’s for sure, but I still enjoyed jotting down each and every thought about spanking going on in my head. Sometimes those thoughts took the form of a story, with characters and a plot, but often remained just random thoughts that I loved – and needed – to write.

That was my one outlet. There was no-one I could talk about it with, absolutely none of my friends, let alone my parents, who (in my mind, at least) would think me a freak if I even mentioned the word "spanking". Sometimes I thought I would go insane if I didn’t discuss it with someone, but I also knew that there wasn’t much I could do, so I kept on waiting, and waiting, and waiting, writing my notes and / or stories from time to time, and finding a release at bedtime. What I really loved to do though was fantasising about people, from my real friends to girls seen in movies and on TV, from passer-by’s on the streets to the magazine photos of models and actresses. Pretty much everything could fuel my fantasy, and I often found myself thinking how I would have it easier if I liked to be spanked, instead of spanking someone, because then all I had to was misbehave on purpose and get it... yeah, right. Who from? My parents didn’t believe in it, and it is so out-of-fashion in my country that I would find no-one anyway. However you look at it, I was bound to remain frustrated, and frustrated I was.

– Laura –

I was thirteen years and two months old the first time I misbehaved on purpose in order to get a spanking. I spent weeks considering what the best way would be, and figured that it had to be something more consistent than "cussing" or "being a brat / throwing tantrums", because both things would earn me a couple of warnings before action was taken, and if I swore repeatedly my parents would be suspicious, since I usually never did. Perhaps they wouldn’t have questioned it and just spanked me, but I was starting to be comprehensibly paranoid by that time: better safe than sorry. If this "thing" of mine was discovered, I would die of shame, and maybe they’d even think I was crazy and put me in a psychiatric ward for the rest of my life. I know it wouldn’t happen, but a kid’s mind always resorts to worst case scenarios.

In the end, I opted for failing a written test in school. Every mark C and above was okay in my house (though C’s were frowned upon and they’d breathe down my neck so I’d bring the grade up) but a D granted me an official warning, and if repeated on the same subject, a spanking. Again, I was a consistent student, and getting two D’s in a row just like that would have been unusual... but one single F on a test was the perfect solution: it would grant me an immediate spanking, I could say it was an accident because I was just having a bad day, and I could show it by easily bringing up the mark to my usual A- average on the next test. I chose Social Studies as the designated subject for my one-time failure, since it was to be the less influent in my final score that year and I did not want to ruin my school record.

And so, on April 29, I walked to school on wobbly knees and a huge lump in my throat. I nearly fainted when I was presented with the test, for I knew most of the answers: it took a great deal of resolution to intentionally miss most of them. The test result came six days later, and after getting a thorough chewing-out by my favourite teacher, something which nearly had me crying there and then, I was given a note with the score for my parents to sign. I walked home on even wobblier knees, knowing I was in for it and that there was no backing out now. As much as I was savouring it, the anticipation was killing me. My mother’s eyes went wide when she saw the note, and I had second thoughts: I did not want to get it, that was bad and I was in trouble. But it only took me a moment to understand that that was actually the best part of all. My not wanting to be spanked was what made me want to be spanked. It’s been many years and I still do not hold the answer to this wonderful, mind-boggling and nerve-wrecking riddle.

I didn’t focus too much on it there and then, though, for my mother decided not to wait, and started spanking me right away. Up went my skirt and down came my panties, as I stood in front of her and she told me she knew it had been just a mistake but that she had to make sure it was and that it would not happen again. My mind was in such a swirl that I hardly remember anything else. Next thing I knew, I was looking at the carpet and her hand was descending with full force on my upturned, bare bottom. That was the part I loathed the most, for as much as I cherished the experience as a whole, the pain itself was never good. But I lived through it. What kept me sane and conscious through it all was the knowledge that I had wanted to get that spanking and that I was having exactly what I’d bargained for, nothing more and nothing less: a good, hard bare bottom spanking with my mother’s hand. I think I even managed to smile a bit through the many yelps. I had been pretending to cry at a certain point, more out of a habit than anything, but mother must have known that somehow, because she kept on; she stopped when I was on the verge of real tears and wasn’t liking it all that much anymore. My bottom hurt and throbbed and I just wanted to rub it. After a quick hug, she sent me to my room, confining me there until the evening. Needless to say, the hours I spent on the bed nursing my backside with gentle kneading of my fingers were pure bliss. It had taken courage and resolution, and I had had a hard time during the actual spanking, but it had been worth the hassle, for that night, only a few minutes before bring called for dinner – talk about timing! – I reached the most intense, perfect, mind-blowing and overwhelming orgasm of my youth.

It didn’t take me long, after that, to misbehave on purpose again... but I was in for a very unpleasant surprise.

– Jean –

The Internet was something great. I had heard about it, and of course had seen some of my friends "surfing the Net" on the school computers, but I never had the chance to do some surfing myself, first-person. Until, soon after my fifteenth birthday, my parents decided that in order to bring up a few of my school grades I needed incentive in studying. In short, they hired a private tutor for me to see twice a week and also decided to activate an Internet connection on the home computer, for me to run searches for school assignments on the world wide web. I must confess it did help a lot, for looking up topics on the Net was far easier and quicker than browsing books, and my grades did improve in a matter of weeks also thanks to that. What my parents didn’t know, of course, was my other use of the Internet.

Knowing that I could search for pretty much everything, it didn’t take me long before looking up the word "spanking". Many sites turned up, and in one epic night I was faced with pictures and drawings of spanked women and men, but most of all I was faced with an impressive amount of text material on the subject. Even in early 1996, when Internet was relatively young, people from all over the world must have been getting busy in taking their interests to the web, since I found essays, stories, accounts and discussion groups. Now it’s all easier, for we have communities of all kinds, high-tech utilities and chat rooms for every flavour, but back then, it was more along the lines of graphically poor message boards, text-based BBS and rudimental newsgroups. Whatever. I surfed my way just fine, working with what I had, and of course I was impressed by the amount of people sharing my same interest.

I discarded by default all of those people talking about how children should be spanked when they grow up because if not they turn into juvenile criminals etc. etc.. I laughed so hard at that crap, because neither of my school mates had ever been spanked, and we were all but criminals. And then I didn’t want to discuss the social implications of spanking and all that stuff. What I cared for was spanking for spanking’s sake, the wonderful experience of spanking someone – or, as many people’s posts and opinions led me to understand – the fascination in being spanked. It was then I truly realised that for spankers to enjoy themselves there needs to be spankees who enjoy themselves too. I learnt about mutual trust and respect, and about the complicated relationship that exists between a "dominant" and a "submissive". Oh, I learnt about most things in less than a year, but what’s more important, I got to know people who shared my passion and did not think it was weird, and therefore did not make me feel weird and out of place. That was the most important thing to me, because for once I was not feeling frustrated, but rather encouraged.

Of course, it wasn’t long before I took my own ideas and views to the community. Carefully hiding the fact that I was underage, and loving the anonymity that the Internet granted, I soon began to post comments and interact with other people, and also some of my written material that you could call "stories". My English improved considerably during that time, but I still didn’t feel confident enough in writing in a language so different from mine, and I preferred to stick to the French community, which was far smaller and less interesting, but at least it was there. Eventually my surfing extended to the international community as well, and even though my English didn’t allow me to understand everything that was said nor to express myself the way I wanted to, I got along just fine.

And when I was sixteen and yet another high school year was about to end, I thanked God that I had ventured into the international community in the first place, for I met the person which would mean the most in my whole life.

– Laura –

My spankings were over.

One month after the failed test "incident", I had tried to provoke another spanking by deliberately coming home late in the evening, breaking my curfew by almost an hour. I walked in the house breathing hard, knowing my parents were up and waiting for me, wondering if I would be dealt with that very evening or the following morning. I got quite a scolding, let me tell you that, but I cared not: I just wanted to be spanked, and I was resolute, and convinced, and not even having second thoughts... but my father told me to go to bed and that we would talk about this again in the morning. I sighed and complied, knowing I had one full night ahead of me to think about the incoming punishment. I knew the anticipation would be killing me, but also that I would be able to repeat those magic words and scold myself to no end, and that was a fond thought in itself.

I barely slept at all that night, of course. I kept imagining the spanking that was to come, and to have wild and strangest dreams about it, until finally 7:00am came and the alarm clock rang. Not even two minutes later I was told to come downstairs in the living room. It’ll happen there, I thought as I walked down the stairs. I’ve been a very naughty little girl and now my pj’s bottoms are going to be taken down, I’m going to be put across my parents’ knees and I’m going to be spanked good, long and hard just like I deserve, so that my bummy hurts and I’ll have to sit on it all day at school. By the time I reached the living room and seen my parents sitting on the couch, my heart was racing. So imagine my surprise when they told me I wasn’t going to be spanked... now, and never again.

My father’s words were: "If not even the thought you were going to get a long spanking deterred you from coming home so late and not even be sorry about it, then perhaps we need to change the approach. I’m getting the feeling that you’re getting off easy as of lately. Let’s see how a two-months grounding is going to work, young lady, shall we?"

My blood ran cold and I could barely breathe. I apologised, looking repentant, and found an excuse to go back to my room, where I cried and cried and cried in my pillow. Ironically, that must have given my parents the final incentive they needed to switch from spankings to grounding, since they must have thought I hated to be grounded so much that the thought of it alone was enough to make me burst into tears. In a way it was true: I did hate grounding, only, not for the reason they thought I did. If possible, I felt even more alone and misunderstood and unwanted.

I dragged myself through the rest of spring, summer and the start of my following school year, hating myself and that stupid kink that kept pestering me all day and all night. I found relief in self-pleasing nearly every day, but I became sad and introvert, and I wanted the real thing again. Self-spanking worked up to a point, and it really was boring most of the time, not to mention ineffective. I could cause all the sting that I wanted, even bruise myself to the point of tears at times, but the atmosphere, the scolding, the delicious moment of the undressing... basically the whole point was missing, and so it wasn’t nowhere nearly as thrilling as a real spanking.

A partial solution came unto me unexpected and totally out of the blue in early November. A little scandal hit my school, because a Senior (a last-year student, in the American system) was found downloading porn from the Net, and was facing expulsion threats. Our computer lab had recently been equipped with several PCs with Internet access... they said you could find anything on the Internet... to me, it was like doing 2 + 2. A few days later I faked an ankle accident and said I couldn’t attend PE class, and so I was allowed to spend the free two hours in the lab, supervised by our Maths teacher. But the man was too busy to look after me, and I could surf the Net undisturbed. Being a regular computer user, it didn’t take me long at all to figure out what to do and how and where to find things. I was surprised at the amount of material that was available on my favourite subject, and at the amount of people who shared my "passion".

One of them was a French boy named Jean.

– Jean –

She was an American girl named Laura. We met in a chat room and we got to know each other for half an hour or so before she told me she was fourteen and I told her I was fifteen. She said she was writing from the school lab and didn’t have much time on her hands, but was interested in spanking and everything that had to do with it. I wondered how one could say that in such blunt words to a perfect stranger, but she seemed very resolute and without my (childish?) fears about facing the topic, and then sitting in front of a screen grants you lots of protection and intimacy. Then she explained how spankings had been an everyday reality for her up to a few months earlier, in her house. I told her I was sorry about that but she laughed at me saying it was "kinda normal" and that she "missed them so much". I didn’t inquire any further back then, but I had plenty of other occasions to. I gave her my e-mail address and asked for hers, but she didn’t have any. So I told her how to get a free one online that she only could access, and from every computer. She said it would be hard for her to stay in touch, for she could only use her school lab computers and only on certain times. I said I was a patient guy and that didn’t matter, which amused her. But it was true... I had never even seen her but she had an appeal to her "presence" that I can’t quite explain. In short, I enjoyed being with her.

– Laura –

This French boy was something unexpected and weird. He wrote in a curious English, not at all flawless, but we did understand each other. And, most of all, we shared the same thoughts over the important things. I liked to be spanked, he liked to spank, and few else was needed before a friendship was born. The thought of having finally found someone to share my innermost feelings and experiences with filled me with joy and I could barely contain my enthusiasm after those two hours in the computer lab. It must have been quite a shock to my parents how I changed my mood from "gloomy" to "ecstatic" overnight.

I was right, though. It was hard for Jean and me to be in contact frequently. My class would use the computer lab more or less once a week, and those were precious chances for us to exchange e-mails. I live in central United States, so it is early afternoon in France during my school hours, so he was often online when I was. I had to be extremely careful not to get caught of course, because even though we each had a computer on our own during lab hours it was still hard to keep the chats or e-mails concealed. I managed somehow: staying in touch with this boy was simply too important.

– Jean –

Nine months into knowing Laura we decided to swap self-pictures. I wasn’t – and am not – particularly attractive, but she said there’s much more beyond looks to a person, and I couldn’t but agree. It was quite a surprise for me when I saw her photograph: usually when you see someone you either like them or you don’t... with her, I just didn’t know what to think. She had shoulder-length brown hair, a round face with some freckles around her nose and cheeks, hazel eyes and a slightly chubby body (it was an outdoor picture taken on her fourteenth birthday). She said she looked much different when younger, and had gained lots of weight and muscles lately, practising swimming at her school pool. Not that I cared anyway. She was enough good-looking that you didn’t want to turn away your eyes after looking at her picture, and she wasn’t "beautiful" in the most common sense of word either. Just average. But if such words have any sense, her spank-appeal was stellar. It was the girl you want to take over your knee again and again. No, correction: the girl that *I* wanted to take over my knee again and again.

– Laura –

There was something irresistible about Jean. Ever since I was a little girl, I developed crushes on handsome actors (and one actress, but that was a silly pre-adolescent phase... oh, never mind) like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and Christian Slater... well, he was out of that league, for sure. And also out of the league of many boys in my school, truth be told. But despite that, I was drawn to his long face with pointy chin, his large green eyes, the small caves on his cheeks when he smiled, and, in perfect asymmetry, the broad forehead; drawn to his long black hair, that he kept tied in one ponytail; to his long arms and legs – he said he was already nearing six feet, at his age; to his large hands... yes, that detail came to my attention before any other. I wondered from minute one how it would have been like to be spanked by those sturdy, apparently strong hands, how they would feel on my bare backside. I bit my lower lip as I had such thoughts, because even though he wasn’t exactly attractive, I wanted him to spank me, and I wanted it quite bad.

– Jean –

Laura and I had our first phone conversation a couple of weeks after her sixteenth birthday, which meant just a couple of weeks away from my seventeenth. She teased me mercilessly about the fact that we were the same age now, even if just for one month, and I teased back saying not to mouth off like that if she didn’t want to find herself bent over my lap with her bottom up high in the air. That must’ve had an effect, for she quietened down immediately and said:

"Sorry, I was just kidding..."

I was taken aback. "I was just kidding too... well, no, I mean... I do want to do that... but not for something you did bad. Just for fun."

"Err... yeah," she replied after taking a deep breath. "Me too, but... dunno, couldn’t we pretend that I’ve been bad?... You remember how I said that being scolded is one of the things I like the most."

"Oh yeah, of course," I said. "But hey, it’s going to be long before we actually meet..."

"If we meet, Jean."

"Yeah, if. Sorry."

She was always much more careful than me with such things. I was more of the crazy do-it-all-and-do-it-now kind, who would arrange a meeting and jump on a plane if only I had the money (and I did have some of my own), but she was so wise and said that we needed to get to know each other so much better before actually meeting, and that she had heard weird stories about real-life meeting between people who first met on the Net, and also that we were too young. She did have a major point there: we both still had to finish high school anyway.

That phone call was the first but definitely not the last. Others followed, and our bravado jokes about how I would take her over my knee if she was a naughty girl took on a whole new dimension. Caught in the euphoria of our final days of school for that year, we let ourselves go a little bit farther than we had thus far...

"You’re always making promises but I’m not sure you’d be able to keep ‘em, ya know?" she said.

"Oh, yes? You really think so?" I threatened.

"Yes, I really think so," she teased in a bratty tone. "You keep saying how you’d spank me, but... heck, I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to."

"Here’s where you’re wrong, little girl," I replied. "When I say you get a spanking, you get it, period. If you co-operate, good, and if not, I’m going to drag you to the sofa and then..."

"And then what?" she edged me on.

I was breathing heavily by then. "And then I’m going to pull down your jeans."

"Ooh, scary!"

"And your panties too."

"Err..."

"All the way down to your ankles... until you’re bare from the waist down like a little girl about to get a spanking." Silence on the other end of the phone, but I could hear her breathing getting heavier too. "Not so bratty now, are you? And I’ve only just begun, because your pants and panties will come all the way off and you’re getting across my lap."

"Aww no!... I don’t like the sound of that..." she whined.

"It doesn’t matter, ‘cause it’s what you deserve. I’m going to place your little, chubby bottom right in the middle..."

"Nooo!"

"... and then I’m going to spank you with my hand, very hard and all over until you squirm and try to escape."

"No please... don’t spank me..."

"The blows will only get harder, and down to your sit-spots too!"

"Jean I beg you, not there! It hurts a lot there!"

"Jean? How dare you call me ‘Jean’?"

"I mean... ‘sir’... please sir, don’t spank me so hard!"

"Yes little girl, it’s what you deserve and will get, and now stop making such a fuss, or else!"

She took a deep breath and said: "... or else what?"

"Or else I’m going to take the hairbrush and really blister your little bottom until it’s deep red."

"Ooh..." a barely audible whisper escaped her lips. I waited for a while for her to say something, but she was silent, just breathing hard – like me.

"And after that," I resumed, now panting a little from the... effort, shall we say, "you’re going straight to the corner, where you’ll stay for half an hour..."

"Yes sir..." she moaned.

"... bare bottom on display..."

"Ooh..."

"... bawling like a baby..."

She faked a sniffle.

"... and no rubbing..."

"And... ooh... and if I do?..."

I made a calculated pause, then spoke in the most authoritative voice I could muster. "The strap, Laura Marie Connor."

The rest is history.

– Laura –

I had been doing "that" at night under the covers, or while taking a shower, ever since I was ten or so. Not every day at first, and pretty much every day as time went by. Spanking had always been the most recurring thought in my fantasies, so I wasn’t new to such thoughts, nor to such rituals, especially since I had lived them out in real life... and now I wasn’t exactly happy with my parents about it, but that’s another story. Anyway, Jean’s stern voice as he talked to me with that sexy French accent, and the resolution in his words, had really pushed me over the edge in less than a minute, and that was a record even for me.

Thinking back of it, nothing had ever turned me on like that first hot phone call. Yes, I said "first". First of many, because once you find a toy, you want to play with it to exhaustion. A few months earlier we had tried role-playing on the Net, but it hadn’t been too fun, because it was slow and not very exciting to just type... too impersonal, too cold, too distant. Live voice was so much better, and he could cause jitters of pleasure in me with certain, aimed statements like: "This is what happens to naughty little girls," or my favourite: "Your panties are coming down now, Laura Marie!"

On the other hand, I seemed to be able to have a similar effect on him, because every time I said: "Oh sir please not the hairbrush!" or: "I’m so sorry, I’ll be a good girl!" he went silent for a few seconds, and I know all too well what those few seconds were for. The curious fact is: we never straight-out talked about what we did. We just did it. There was never anything blunt, or rude, like: "Shall we get dirty on the phone?" It just wasn’t necessary. All we needed was a silent hint to begin, or to stop, and we would follow, going with the flow.

More than one year of our lives passed between chatting on the Net – I had finally got a home computer, myself! – and occasionally calling each other on the phone for a "session". At long last, I started my last semester in high school and it was time to choose which college to attend after graduation, because sure enough I wanted to try for a college education and my parents would have it no other way anyway. While browsing a few brochures that my high school provided us students with, my eyes fell on the "International Exchange Program". You could study abroad in an university of your choice (more or less) and learn or master a foreign language. I didn’t even do it consciously... I just did it. To think of "France" and to look for available universities in France was one thing.

"Here I go," I murmured to myself while surfing the Internet. "Université Jacques Prévert de Marseilles." He lived in Lyon... I grabbed a map. Less than two hundred miles away.

I was the happiest eighteen-year-old in the world.

– Jean –

Four years are a ridiculously brief interval in the greater order of things... but to me and Laura was a long, long time. More than one fifth of our lives we had spent together, never really sharing the same physical space but being together in more than a way. And anyway, there are things more important than physical space to share. We were close friends by now, there were little or no secrets between us, and when I learned that she wanted to enrol in the Jacques Prèvert in Marseilles, my heart skipped a beat. And then another. It didn’t take me long to apply for a scholarship in the very same university, knowing that even if I was rejected (which was possible, since my high school final grades weren’t very high) I would still live within two hours from her, by car or train.

– Laura –

At first it seemed like a dream that wasn’t to come true under any circumstances, but then it started to take shape, and I could barely believe it when it did. The Jacques Prévert university had a programme specifically designed for foreign students, and I had taken a few French courses during high school (and of course Jean had taught me something), so it would have been a great opportunity to improve my language skills as well. That was going to be quite an obstacle, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that the JP offered the courses I was looking for – Mathematics... don’t look at me weird, I like maths, so what? – and that I would be close to Jean. All else mattered not. True, it was expensive, and I would have had to use all of my college fund, plus a conspicuous extra from my parents... but I was willing to do it, and for once in my life they were being of help and not obstructing my decision. My worst fear wasn’t that I wouldn’t be feeling at home there, but I knew that somehow that could be solved. I wanted to dare, and dare I did.

* * *

The 747 Air France aeroplane soared through the sky, approached the ground and landed neatly on track 36 with a screeching of tires. Sitting by the window with a view on the landing pads, Jean finished to sip his coffee and smiled. It was her flight. Finally, after several years, they would meet. He gathered his backpack, paid the bill at the bar counter and walked to the gates. Long rows of passengers filed out of the large doors and into the airport terminal, and he looked for her. They had agreed not to trade recent photos of themselves, making it a quest to look for each other in the crowd. Jean thought Laura couldn’t have changed so much in just four years, and so he looked for a girl of average height with brown hair and a rather strong built. Many people passed by, and a couple of girls could even resemble Laura’s description, but when he looked in their eyes, the just looked away.

No-one was left, and Jean lifted an eyebrow and started to wonder... when he felt a hand tapping his shoulder.

"Recherchez-vous quelqu’un?"

Jean turned around. The voice was more than familiar. "Mais oui, je suis..." It was her. "I mean, yes, I’m definitely looking for someone... hey!"

She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Then I’m your someone."

She hadn’t changed much after all, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed her in the crowd earlier. She stood in her five-feet-six in front of him, who was taller but also much lighter in built. Her hair was short and cropped, while his nose and chin were still slightly pointed. Jean emanated security and self-confidence, the expression on his face totally calm and controlled. Laura, on the other hand, had an aura of brattiness around her which was just irresistible; she was the kind of girl you want to spank no matter what.

And, true enough, when Jean asked how the flight was, she replied with a small giggle and said: "Oh it was great, thank you! It was so cool to pester the flight attendants and complaining all the time."

They exchanged a look. She was fighting hard to repress a smirk, and he was fighting hard not to burst out laughing. So she half-pouted and he tried to look half-serious. "Really?" he asked.

"Y-yeah... I just don’t know what’s gotten into me!"

Jean nodded, then smiled. He dared to lean over and kiss her little, round nose. She didn’t seem to mind, and gave another giggle as he helped with her suitcases and bags.

"Then I guess there will be some adjustment to do, right?"

Laura’s jaw dropped, but there was a gleam in her eyes. "Yes, sir," she said in a bratty, defiant tone, smiling and returning the kiss on his nose.

Her worries were swept away: she was home.

– The End –

The Université Jacques Prévert de Marseilles does not exist. Other geographical references are actual. Will there be a sequel? I’m not sure. I know this was the kind of story I’ve always wanted to write, in one way or the other. I hope the way I chose was the right one. The character of Jean is (loosely) autobiographic. The character of Laura is a subconscious and involuntary mixture of spanking-story canon figures and real people I know.

Like all stories in this section, this one was completely inspired by the picture above. The photograph is an original painting from Sassy Bottoms’ collection. Though they are often posted to the web, on several groups, mailing lists and newsgroups, I believe they might be officially archived somewhere, because the woman behind the pseudonym "Sassy Bottoms" was (is?) a real artist, and hers are not just drawings, but real works of art. Despite the rather taboo theme, I would not be surprised if her paintings were exposed in some off-beat gallery. Well, all rights are reserved anyway, and if the owner herself, or anyone representing her, has a trouble with this drawing showing here and would want it removed, please e-mail me , and it shall be taken down.

This story does not necessarily represent the author’s point of view about anything. It is simply a work of fiction . The characters herein portrayed are invented and do not resemble reality to the best of the author’s knowledge. This account is entirely fictitious . Any similarities to other persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

This story is written for the sane amusement of adult readers. It does not intend harm and does not promote violence of any kind, including spanking. No offence is meant to any group, ethnicity or individuals.

The author does in no way endorse the non-consensual disciplinary spanking of actual children and / or teenagers.

Copyright © 2004 Haley Brimley . Contact for information and / or feedback.