Bad Girls

Bad Girls
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ISBN:  9781907753572
Author:  Brooke Stern
Word Count:  64,586
Format:  eBook

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I sat down on a fallen tree and told her to lie across my lap. It was impossibly awkward, but she managed it anyway. I raised my hand above my head and spanked her. It wasn't hard, not nearly as hard as I could, but I still spanked her. It was loud and I was terrified someone might hear. She let out a giggle. It was probably because she was nervous, but I worried she was laughing at me, so I spanked her again, harder this time because she’d giggled. I alternated cheeks - oh, miraculous cheeks - with each spank, watching my red handprints appear, confirming that I was actually doing it...
 
The girls in these stories share a secret. They love spankings. They dream of spankings, crave spankings, and ask for spankings. The anticipation of an imminent spanking makes their pulse race, their breath quicken, and their panties moisten.
 
But these girls share a problem, too. They hate spankings. They regret wanting one every time they find themselves bare-bottomed across a man's lap. Spankings are embarrassing and they hurt. Yet they can't deny that their best dates all end the same way: in humiliation and tears.
 
These stories ask the question: are they bad girls because they need spankings, or do they need spankings because they're bad girls?
 
These are the stories of girls like the weary divorcee in search of a man strong enough to make her care, the college girl desperate for a substitute for daddy, and the girls' school alumna whose homecoming involves an unusual reunion with the headmaster.
 
Emotionally raw, extremely explicit and daringly original, these are the stories of the secret lives of bad girls. Brooke Stern is the pseudonym of an established writer who has master's degrees in literature and psychology and whose fiction, essays and reviews have been translated into eight languages. Stern's award-winning first novel, Suffering the Consequences, was hailed 'a fantastic novel' (Violet Blue).

 

I secretly hope Mr Dawes will be pleased to see the woman I've grown into. I'm tall, with flowing dark hair. What I've lost in girlishness since the last time he saw me, I've made up for in elegance. I want so badly to feel an undercurrent of lust from him, the same lust I feel when I remember him. I don't think he'll be surprised that I'm in trouble, though. He could see it coming when I was a student, and he warned me that I gave in too easily to my worst impulses. He hasn't seen me in ten years, but he knows me better than most who have. We don't really change, I guess. Who we were when we were teenagers is who we'll always be.
   As I climb the stairs to his office, I remember who I was then. My memories take me back even before the first time he disciplined me. I remember when he was my literature teacher. That was four years before the first time I lowered my panties and bent over for him. I was just sixteen. I had such a schoolgirl crush on him. He was tall and thin. He dressed well and had just a bit of endearing gray mixed in his soft, brown hair. He was new at Bakersfield and couldn't have been over thirty-five. More than twice my age at the time, but who cared? I read all the books for his class and loved them. I worked hard to write papers that would please him. He smiled at me a lot - more than at the other girls, I thought. But he was also on guard against our flirtations. He knew well enough to keep his distance, but that didn't stop him from being my all time favorite teacher.
   By the time I was in my final year he had been promoted to assistant headmaster. I didn't see him around much anymore. He had his own office on the third floor, far from where students went if they had any choice in the matter. Unfortunately, I frequently found myself having little choice. The first time I was to be punished by him I was secretly glad to have an excuse to be alone with him. But that was before I felt the cane. After that I never ceased to like him, even to want him in my girlish way, but I always feared my visits to his office.
   Now I feel the fear again. My breathing is rapid, and not just from the three flights of stairs. A nervous sweat makes my skin tingle under my blouse. I really thought I had felt this sense of dread for the last time. When I think about it though, the trouble I got into then is the same as the trouble I get into now. Maybe I've been feeling that dread nonstop for a decade. The difference is that now I'm facing up to it.
   I'm a little proud to have called him and I think I assume he'll be impressed with me for it. He always told me that it was never too late to own up to your behavior. I wonder if I'll still find him as irresistible as I did then. I'm almost excited, the way any single, twenty-eight-year-old would be when anticipating time with a man who once made her go flush in the face and moist between the legs.
   I remember the secretary, a Mrs Taylor, who would always look at us mournfully as we passed her desk on our way into Mr Dawes' office. I'm sure we wore expressions of doom on our faces. I can only imagine everything she heard coming from behind that closed door over the years. Afterwards she would glance sympathetically at us, averting her eyes so as not to embarrass us any further but always offering us a tissue if we were still sniffling. She must have retired years ago, I think to myself before I hesitantly knock on the door. The new secretary could very well be my age. What will she think of me? At that moment the door opens and Mrs Taylor appears. I blush and can't look her in the eye. Just like the old days.
   'It's good to see you again, Gwen,' she says. 'So sorry it couldn't be under more pleasant circumstances. Mr Dawes is awaiting you.' She ushers me into his office and closes the door.
   And there he is.
   He's the same man, still slim and good-looking, though a little grayer. Age has made him look more stern and more dignified, so that I feel like the relative gap between our ages has increased rather than diminished. He looks at me from behind his desk. I'm speechless, and he does nothing to try to make me feel more comfortable. I can feel my cheeks burning red as he just looks at me with an expression of disappointment on his face. How many times have I seen that expression on the faces of bosses, teachers and boyfriends? It makes me feel a little like crying.
   'Please understand, Gwen, that I tried to do everything I could for you when you were here. I'm terribly sorry to have failed you.'
   He's apologizing to me!
   'I give you my word that we will do everything we can to help you. All females of Bakersfield Hall are special to me, even the ones who left us years ago. I remember you especially well. You were in the first class I taught here. Even then I knew you'd be someone I'd always cherish - and someone I'd always have to keep an eye on. I thought you might need to come back. I confess that part of me has been hoping you would.'
   At this moment I love him so completely.
   'You understand that I wish I didn't have to do this, yet the pain an undisciplined girl like you can cause yourself is far greater in the long run than the pain I will use to teach you that your actions have consequences.'
   When I thought about being spanked at this age, I was even more worried about being embarrassed in front of him than I was ten years ago, but I hadn't even anticipated the feeling of being lectured. Listening to him my shame is deeper and more complete than anything I ever felt when I was a teenager. My fear of what's about to happen becomes overwhelming. I'm afraid I'll die of humiliation if he spanks me like he did then. Surely he can't do it to me like that. He'll have to treat a grown woman differently.
   But even as I comfort myself with these thoughts, I know they're not true. When I was eighteen I made the same argument to him. 'I'm a grown woman,' I remember protesting, 'You can't spank me bare-bottomed and bent over like some eight-year-old.' A grown woman? Ha! Even then I knew how little separated me from that naughty eight-year-old. Now I feel just like I did then, and I know that I'm going to get the same treatment as well.
   'I'm disappointed with you, Gwen. You're quite old enough to know better, but since you don't you'll please bend over.'
   'What?'
   That's all the credit I get for coming here? I suddenly realize how much I want him to praise me for my courage. Can't he be the least bit understanding about how difficult this is for me? I give my best pout but he's unmoved. Certainly many girls go their whole lives behaving quite badly and are never brave enough to call the only man who's ever been honest about punishing her? I want him to like me, but at the same time I realize he does. If he didn't, he wouldn't have said yes. What do I expect? If I want him to respect me, I'll have to behave differently.
   'You heard me. Bend over. If you're going to pretend everything is okay, if you're going to pretend this is some friendly social call, then it's all the more indication how badly you need to be shown it's not.'
   'Please, I'm sorry.' I give up on composure. There's no way I can face the consequences of my actions with dignity. I'm desperate and ready to resort to lies and manipulations. 'I'm afraid you misunderstood. I just needed to see you. I wanted your advice. This isn't really what I wanted.'
   'Bend over, Gwen,' he says firmly.
   'Please?'
   'Gwendolyn, this is the last time I'm asking. You can leave if you like, but you'll hate yourself for it. You're only showing me how much you need this spanking.'
   My full name pierces me deep inside. He's right, of course. I bend over, though I can't make myself do it completely. I hear him sneer at my lackluster obedience, and I know I've pushed it too far.
   'Grab your ankles,' he snaps. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. I'm eighteen again, hot for him and scared of him and ashamed all at once.
   He folds my skirt up above my waist. I begin to protest but stop myself. Deep down I knew this is how it would be when I decided to wear this skirt. Only my white panties cover my ass now. They're pulled taught across the valley that descends between my legs. They're the kind I wore back then. I thought them more appropriate for the occasion than the thongs I usually wear nowadays. Besides, they offer more modesty and protection - things I expect to be in short supply. I feel him looking at my ass, which is sticking up in the air like I'm waiting to get fucked by a man standing behind me. Instead I'm waiting to get spanked. I wonder whether he can see deep enough between my legs to make out the contours of my labia. He asks me if I know what's going to happen now.
   'I remember,' I say quietly.
   'Tell me,' he demands.
   'You're going to spank me.' I can barely get the words out and my voice falls to a whisper. It would be hard enough to say it without having to address him bent so low that I'm looking up at him from between my legs.
   'That's right,' he says. 'But first I need to make sure you are adequately ashamed of yourself, not only for the way you've been behaving but for the shame you've brought on your alma mater. Now pull down your panties.'

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