Emerson Learns a Lesson

This story is a f/m spanking story. No sex. Cerebral and emotional. Please enjoy if this interests you.

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Emerson sucked in a gasp as the first spank pushed him forward, his limp arms swaying over his upside-down head, hands just out of reach of the carpet. It wasn't just the sting, but a dull ache, a thudding pain, that accompanied the spank. And it wasn't just the pain. Emerson was facedown over a lap, his pants and boxer-briefs down around his knees. It was humiliating. He was ashamed to be in this position and even more ashamed that he did something to earn it.

Another spank propelled him forward. The crack was so loud it echoed off the empty white dining room wall. Each slow and methodical swat was hard and sound and worse than he pictured. He didn't know one hand could inflict so much damage. By the sixth time he made a little whimpering panting sound, as though he'd sipped in too much hot coffee.

Emerson lacked all the confidence that being a boyishly cute and slender university student should have provided. He was sweet and bright enough, but far too shy and outwardly submissive, and it seemed that his personality was simply not in fashion of late. Maybe ever. His looks were just as soft as his personality, giving him away, and too much of his free time was spent sketching birds and trees into a notebook. This was in great part why he had paid for this discipline service.

His spanker had stopped to rub his bottom. He breathed through this brief respite. "Are we learning a lesson?"

It was so embarrassing to respond this way. "Yes, ma'am." There was nothing but sincerity and submission in his voice, but the shame was all over his blushing red face. It was possible to be embarrassed over something you wanted, deep inside. He knew this firsthand. He was always of two minds about it. On the one hand, submitting to someone more powerful than himself was the fantasy that brought him the most intense climaxes. On the other, he knew exactly how it would look to others, how mortifying to be face down over a woman's lap, limp and submissively accepting a sound spanking. Even worse was the chair she chose, a tall armless chair meant for a bar. He didn't reach the floor with either his feet or his hands. He dangled, her knees his only foundation.

Another crack of her hand lit up his backside, and now he kicked up his back legs, bending at the knees, trying to cover his own bare bottom with his feet. "Ahh!" he cried out, his first clear vocalization of his distress. She demanded that he instantly put his feet back down, and he winced at being scolded and did so immediately. "I'm sorry, ma'am." It really hurt so much more than in his mind.

When he pictured a spanking in his imagination it was damn near pleasant. He'd be comfortable and almost content over a lap, and his bottom warm and red. The act of it alone would draw his remorseful cries, rather than the pain. He only knew now, as it happened for real, that red bottoms didn't come from love taps. And when he filled out that form online, he specifically wrote, oh God how he regretted it, 'until real tears.'

Why, for the love of all things, did he sign up for that, for his very first time? He got carried away in his imagination, that's all there was to it. He'd never even been hit as a child and his naivety spoke volumes. Another spank, even harder than the ones before, made his dangling arms move forward so far he touched the carpet with his fingertips before sinking back into place. "I'm sorry!" he yelled.

Her lap was big enough to hold him. Emerson had read online, in one review, that a man was tilted kind of sideways the entire spanking, and he took off a whole star for this off kilter experience. But Emerson was very slim, and his one hip was against her stomach and his other didn't even reach her knees. He was secure over her lap, mortifying as it was. He wouldn't be going anywhere, even if he tried.

SMACK. This time his cry was louder than before. Then, by surprise, another, so fast after that one. SMACK. One on each cheek. The shock and the pain made him yelp like a little boy.

There was a word he could say. It was tomatoes. As in, his bottom would be red as. He thought the word twice, but he knew once he said it, it would all end, or be on pause, either one of those. It wasn't at that point yet, where he wanted it to end or pause. It hurt terribly, but he needed this. It was his only current plan for all the guilt that hurt him just slightly worse.

She rubbed him again, and he closed his eyes hard, preparing for the next onslaught.

When he had entered the house for this, his heart was pounding so hard he could feel every single beat. She had answered the door and made him say it, the phrase she'd outlined in an email, right on the front porch. She had crossed her arms, foot tapping, and he'd lowered his head. "I'm here for my spanking, ma'am." Those shameful words were uttered outside to the wind, but not lost to it. Maybe someone on the sidewalk heard, he didn't know. She had pulled him inside by his wrist and he let her do it.

Not that it mattered, because he wasn't here for it, but she was pretty cute herself. She had a nice body, a made up face, and she was in her thirties. It didn't matter if she was a hot young supermodel or a sixty-five year old grandma to Emerson, because he was only here for an old-fashioned spanking. Her attitude and her ability to soundly chastise him were the only two things that he cared about, and she met both of those needs easily.

Back in the present she still rubbed his burning backside and he couldn't help to now arch a little against her hand. It was nice to feel her palm soothing his skin instead of scorching it. So comforting and caring of her to do it at all. No one mentioned that she'd rub him in the reviews and they really should have. He would in his own review.

"I want you to tell me in detail why you're getting a spanking, tonight."

"Yes ma'am," he said. Then he swallowed. In part it was the form online, where he signed up, checked certain boxes, and where he paid. That wasn't the real reason, though. Emerson deserved a real spanking for a real reason and he was going to get it out now. "I cheated on my physics test. It's for my required science credits and I've never been good at anything but art and English. I had a tiny paper hidden in my pen. It had all the formulas. And I didn't get caught, and I got a 98%."

"I've caught you," she told him. It felt a little nice to be caught. This was good. It was better than that 98% in his records that he didn't even deserve. His bottom now felt like a hot static settled over it. "What grade would you have gotten if you hadn't cheated, Emerson?"

She said his name, oh to be reprimanded with his own name, the shame of it. "I would have probably gotten a 50% or less, ma'am."

"And what is ninety-eight minus fifty?"

"Forty-eight, ma'am." He couldn't help a squirm, picturing that many spanks in his future.

"Good. I see math hasn't escaped you. But you said 'or less.'"

"It's hard to guess, ma'am."

"So you're about to get ninety-eight sound spanks. That way we can be certain every point is paid off."

He felt the whimper escape his throat before he knew what he was doing. She pulled up one leg, dropped both his legs under it, and pinned him down. Emerson squirmed, his anxiety getting the best of him. Ninety-eight. He counted it in his head as she rearranged him, propping his bottom up high and further exposed for his punishment. His hands still didn't reach the floor. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight, he got there, and realized already how high a number ninety-eight could be when it was referring to a series of hard spanks to his bare bottom. He reminded himself of the word. Tomatoes. But he didn't want to say it. Emerson wanted to cry like a baby and not sit comfortably for the rest of the night. That would be the only way to stop the guilt.

She began the series of spanks, and after eight she didn't stop, and after twelve she also didn't stop. No rubbing, no pausing. He had to take each and every spank one after another, right on his sit spot, right where his lower bottom cheeks met his thighs. He would have kicked each leg back and forth like scissors if he could. They were firmly pinned in place, though. The burning and pain became unbearable after only seconds. It was so sudden and shocking at first that he'd frozen up, distorted his face into a permanent wince, and merely squeezed his eyes up again and again with each spank. The only sound he made was a sharp high-pitched grunting each time her palm met his bottom. Finally, after the first dozen, he couldn't hold back any longer.

"Aahhh, nooo!" he cried out.

He swung his right arm up, over his back, and used it to try to cover his bottom. It was not even a conscious thought; he was no longer twenty years old but felt like a helpless child trying to stop the pain. She grabbed his arm and held it against the small of his back, and then she did the most curious thing. She held his wayward pinioned hand, comforting him through this punishment. Like someone who loved him.

The spanks didn't stop with that display of kindness. Emerson squirmed and struggled fruitlessly over her knee, his bottom on fire, stinging and aching and taking a volley of firm strokes. Each spank now made him cry out a yell or a plea to stop. He swore he'd be good. He screamed that he'd never do it again. He still held her hand, in the strangest way he'd ever held a person's hand. Never like this before. She stopped halfway and scolded him. "This is for cheating on your test. You won't learn the skills you need to succeed! Don't you want to succeed?"

He couldn't even say a little yes ma'am to her this time because she went right back to spanking rapid-fire and he was in a daze of crying out screams and yelps, yelling out no no no please please no I'll be a good boy. About halfway through his final forty-nine, his legs suddenly dropped, limp, and his free arm stopped clutching the cold metal leg of the chair in desperation. He gave up, took comfort in her hand holding his hand and the warmth of her lap and the fact that she seemed to want him to succeed. Four more spanks warmed him and he tried to hold in his screams again. Then he suddenly began to weep. It wasn't a single romantic tear down his cheek, but instant helpless bawling sobs that continued past the last of the fiery spanks.

He was lost to the world after the final smack sounded, and he hardly noticed it had all stopped. She held him over her lap, and still clutched his hand. Her thumb ran circles over his skin. He sniffed back his tears, trying to be brave now, but the sobs kept shaking his back. "I'm s-sorry, ma'am" he said.

"There, there," she said. "I think you've learned something today about cheating. Have you learned something, Emerson?"

She rubbed his back, and he hung limp and soundly punished. He was repentant and ashamed. "I w-won't ever ch-cheat again, ma'am." And continued to cry, tears falling to the carpet. He was crying so strongly that he was hiccuping and swallowing too much and trying to sniff more but his nose was now properly blocked.

Once the tears finally ebbed, she patted his back and moved her leg, and then helped him stand. He rubbed his soaked face with both hands. She gave him a tissue, and then a hug, and rubbed his back.

"Into the corner, Emerson. Think about the consequences for what you've done."

That was on his form too, and he even blushed when he clicked a tick-mark into the box last week. It wasn't just the pain but the proper shame of it all. He needed it and craved it and certainly deserved it. A proper dressing down.

"Yes, ma'am."

With his jeans around his ankles, he had to waddle to the nearest corner. Then he pushed his nose between the two walls, his bare red bottom on full display. He had to hold his arms behind his back, making sure his shirt was lifted high. She made him stand there to think about his crime for another twenty entire minutes. Maybe she was watching him. Maybe not. He pictured that she was. Either way, he thought about his cheating, he thought about his unfair grade, and he felt the unbearable stinging heat radiating from his bottom. He remembered how awful that spanking felt, at the time. After ten minutes, he slouched a bit and failed to stick his bottom out enough, She promptly reminded him to stay in position. So, she was watching after all.

After this humiliating time in the corner, she called him by his name and he turned. Emerson was properly obedient, and didn't even move his hands from behind his back since she had not given him permission to do so. She helped pull up his underwear and his jeans and even zipped and buttoned them for him. "Come here," she said, and she led him to the couch. She sat and put him beside her, to which he squeaked out a cry, his bottom smarting anew. She held him in two arms, leaning his head against the front of her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I didn't think you'd really cry. Most men pretend."

He thought this was strange. He'd said real tears on his form and everything. Emerson deeply hoped he wasn't the only guy who cried real tears over her knees. But he blushed just in case he was. Putting forth his best explanation, he told her it was his first ever time, and he added, "I also really cheated."

"Oh dear. I don't want to hear about you cheating ever again, do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have contacts in your university."

"You do, ma'am?"

She chuckled softly, and in his head he thought 'oh.'

"If you need a reminder, Emerson, I'm here for you. Some young men like to have me remind them of the potential consequences every once in a while. You just check the box that says 'maintenance' if you think that would help you."

He was certain it would, but he only gave a shy little nod against her shoulder.

Before she closed her front door on him, she told him that he took his spanking obediently and that he was a good boy. For the first time since he cheated, he felt like one, too.