Finals Week

A F/m consensual spanking story. Part of a series. No sex this chapter. All characters over 18. All feedback appreciated greatly! Enjoy!

It was the same delightful pattern for six whole weeks. Emerson would ring Ms. Hartford's doorbell every Saturday morning. He'd announce that he was there for his spanking with a little pink flush around his cheeks. Saying it aloud never became easy for the boy who was shy about discussing even platonic topics. Then he'd be escorted inside, swiftly bared, and bent over her lap.

"Will you be a good boy at work today?" Ms. Hartford would ask, rubbing his bottom.

"I will be, ma'am," promised Emerson every time.

"Let me remind you what happens to naughty boys."

He would be spanked just soundly enough for the memory to linger through his workday. Then he'd clean Mrs. Anderson's house, obediently help with any other chores she suggested, and get a review from Ms. Hartford. He'd be punished no matter how he did, but the severity varied. Doing perfectly and getting a simple maintenance spanking with some extra features of his choosing was the most desirable outcome.

That's what was happening today. Emerson lay completely naked over his disciplinarian's lap, his bottom hot and pink. His wrists were snugly bound in a stretch of rope behind him. A wide piece of duct tape covered his mouth. Under him, his erection lay comfortably over her clothed thigh.

They were on the couch and she was really taking her time. Emerson would let out a grunting sigh with each stinging slap to his bottom, but these types of spankings didn't cause tears. They would usually let him drift deep into a submissive state, allowing him to give full control over to Ms. Hartford. The bound wrists and gag were helping tremendously with that.

Sometimes during these maintenance spankings he would close his eyes and fantasize forbidden or impossible things. Being spanked in front of all his classmates in the lecture hall. That was a big one lately. Or that Ms. Hartford bought him and owned him and would use him any way she wanted in front of anyone present. Or that hot female police officers found a new way to handle jaywalking.

Today he imagined he'd been kidnapped by a gang of very sexy ladies. He pictured he was stripped, tied up, and gagged by his adversaries as he struggled helplessly. Then when his frightened whimpering and struggling became too annoying, given a hand-spanking from each kidnapper in turn.

He tested the rope that bound him, attempting to pull his wrists apart. They stayed tightly pressed together, not even an ounce of slack. Perfect. Then he tried to cry out under his duct tape gag, and it just came out like mmmmph. These enhancements to his spanking today made him squirm a little in delightful pleasure.

If it got to be too much, he was meant to say mm-mm-mm like three staccato protests in a row. It came across better in person. Ms. Hartford made him practice before she bound up his wrists, and when he did well with it, she called him a good boy. He loved when she did that.

Ms. Hartford adjusted him over her lap, getting a better angle. Spankings like these seemed to go on for a long, long while. His disciplinarian would let his mind drift so he could sink away into his happy place. She knew what he was doing even before he confessed a few weeks ago. After all, she had a lot more experience with this type of thing.

Once his bottom was sufficiently punished, Ms. Hartford talked to her very captive audience. "Emerson?"

"Mmph?"

"The week after next is finals week."

"Mmph," he said behind the duct tape, a pout of a word.

"I want you to do well. I know you've had difficulty before with final projects and exams. So you're not going to do anything but eat, sleep and study - with occasional short breaks for your sanity."

"Mmph!" He squirmed in protest over her knees, but it was easy for her to keep him in line. She held him down and gave him a few sharp spanks.

"I mean it. You need to focus for the next two weeks. I'm going to check on you frequently over text and you'd better respond honestly. You need this - especially for physics."

He knew he needed to work on physics. It was just so overwhelming that he usually avoided it. A terrible solution to the problem that only a twenty-year-old would find reasonable.

"You've earned enough from your weekly cleaning jobs that I can do this for you. Don't clean at all next Saturday. Just study and then come see me at five."

"Mmph, mmph," he said, agreeing. Ms. Hartford pat his bottom gently before sending him to the corner.

He went to his knees instead of his feet. It just seemed more in line with the current fantasy, and Ms. Hartford didn't mind. He was now back in the clutches of his cruel kidnappers, cowering in fear in the corner, scared of another round of spankings for too much muffled whimpering.

After a long and exciting ten minutes, Ms. Hartford came to collect him. After untying his wrists, she tried to gently pull the duct tape off, but it still smarted rather terribly. He winced and rubbed at his lips and jaw. Still worth it, all told.

"What was it that time?" she checked.

"I was kidnapped, ma'am."

"Very exciting," she said. "Taken for a steep ransom from your wealthy parents I assume?"

He looked up at her in surprise before climbing to his feet. Yes, that was more or less the story behind his fantasy. But how did she know his parents were wealthy?

She laughed a little at his wide eyes. "You attend a very expensive university, you majored in art, and you're named after a nineteenth century poet, Emerson. Not a leap to guess you come from money. Alright. Starting tomorrow morning, you know what to do."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll study."

He did mean to study. For the first few days he did study too, everything but physics anyway. So when Ms. Hartford checked on him, he could answer honestly. I'm working on my final English paper he would tell her. Or he'd type I'm in my room studying for Art History. When she finally asked directly about physics, he fibbed a little. That was how he put it anyway. It's coming along he said to that.

But by Friday Emerson felt he deserved a break. His English paper was done a week early. He'd also just finished a major art project. And he'd even sometimes opened his physics notebook to squint at the pages with confusion before immediately shutting it again.

He was about to play some video games for several hours straight before his roommate, who was well aware of his intense introversion, invited him to have dinner and see a movie with a few other friends of his. Though Emerson barely said much during dinner, it was still a good time - until he got a text early on in the movie. Ms. Hartford said, Just checking in...

He bent over in the darkened theatre to reply hastily. I'm at the library working on physics.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed again. What he saw made him gulp. The library closed an hour ago.

Emerson looked up to see a side character in the movie trip and fall down an entire flight of stairs. He found this more relatable than he might have a few seconds ago. He cursed under his breath. He knew he signed up for this kind of treatment, but sometimes past-him made choices for future-him that present-him found to be a bit much. Ms. Hartford's punishment spankings were no joke. The last time he'd been punished under her hand, he bawled like a baby.

His phone buzzed again. A little friendly reminder. See you tomorrow at five, Emerson. Bring your books.

He wore a backpack that time, waiting behind the door. His hands trembled, though he knew he really deserved this spanking - even needed it. He still felt the dread as the door opened.

"Well?"

He licked his dry lips, stammering, "I- I'm here for- for- I-"

"Out with it. Do you want it to be worse?"

"I'm here for my spanking, ma'am," he managed.

Ms. Hartford took him by his wrist and marched straight upstairs.

He'd never been upstairs before. The house wasn't huge, but the hallway upstairs had five doors. Only one room's door was open, and he saw it was fashioned like a miniature version of an old classroom. Six wooden desks for "students" and one larger desk for the "teacher." To the side of the teacher's desk was a large blackboard affixed to the wall. And on the far wall near some windows were spanking implements hanging up.

Before Emerson could get too detailed a look at the faux-classroom, he was escorted right into the corner beside the blackboard. If class was in session today, his embarrassing corner time would be displayed to all.

Ms. Hartford took off his backpack and then yanked down his jeans and undershorts. It was so fast that he was startled into a whimper. He reflexively put his hands on his head, as it was his usual position when stood in the corner. His T-shirt lifted to display his bare bottom to the classroom.

"Naughty boy! Not studying! Being dishonest about it! You stand right there and think about what you've done."

Emerson knew enough to keep his mouth shut while she verbally chastised him. He only meekly agreed with a "yes, ma'am" after she'd sentenced him to a time out.

She went through his bag and pulled out his completed art project first, eyed the sketches in his portfolio, and put it gently aside. "You're very talented. And, most importantly, you did do some of your work this week. Your bottom will thank you for that wise decision."

"Thank you. I also did my English paper, ma'am! But it was just sent through email." He was, admittedly, hoping for a lighter sentence.

"I believe you. You've gotten very responsible these past couple of months with English and art. But I can already tell what you didn't do. We're right back where we started, aren't we? This is how we met. Failure to study for physics. If you are even considering cheating again, I'll-"

"No, ma'am! No, I swear!"

"What was your plan?"

"I don't know!"

"To not study at all and by some miracle-"

"I was going to study!"

"When? The night before?"

Emerson went quiet again. Wouldn't it be most fresh in his mind, then? But the way she put it made it sound very stupid.

"When are your finals?"

"Physics on Tuesday and Art History on Friday."

"Only two full days of study left now for your hardest exam. Emerson..."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"And you lied to me."

He hung his head in shame.

"You are a second year university student but still behaving like a naughty schoolboy. So you'll be punished like one. In the great tradition of Canada, you can choose between the American or British version."

"Uh-" he panicked.

A paddling or a caning, then. He'd never had the cane before, though he knew there were several types hanging on the classroom wall. Some of them were much harsher than others. There were a few different paddles too, to be fair. The paddle was the monster he knew, but the cane was the monster he didn't.

"Um... uh..."

On the consent forms he remembered checking off the second box out of the four next to the words cane and paddle. That would be on the lighter side of medium strength. When he'd once checked the fourth box marked severe, Ms. Hartford gave him four hard whacks with one of the paddles, filling him with instant regret. He bet those spanks weren't even severe, though they felt very severe at the time.

"Um..."

"Can't decide? Your inability to answer things under pressure doesn't bode well for you on Tuesday. Perhaps you'd like both?"

"British!" he decided suddenly.

"The cane, then. I'll find a suitable one for your naughty bottom. Stay right there and think about what got you into this mess."

He waited nervously as the seconds ticked on. It was hard to stay perfectly still, knowing he was going to get very soundly punished. He could say yellow or even red if it was unbearable, if he thought he'd be sick or die or something. But that would be the only way he'd say it. Emerson knew he'd been a very bad boy procrastinating studying for his hardest exam all week and then lying about it to Ms. Hartford. He felt there was no other way to erase his guilty feelings until his bottom suffered the full consequences of his actions.

She gave him a long while to worry before he heard the sound of chair legs scraping against the wood floor. Ms. Hartford had pulled out her chair to face all six desks.

"Alright, Emerson, over the lap you go."

He obeyed her, hobbling just a few steps over to her side and laying down over her knees. His palms pressed into the wooden floor below him and the toes of sneakers fought to grip the floor behind him.

"I want to teach you a good lesson about procrastination," she informed him. He felt his shirt being pulled higher up his back.

When he turned his head he could see more than just the legs of the desks and chairs. His mind imagined ten human legs too. An audience of five other imaginary university students all waiting to enjoy his humiliating spanking over the professor's lap. It was such a strong image, so easy to picture in this little model of a classroom. He turned his head away in shame, going so far as to blush pink.

Then she began his spanking with no warmup. Good, hard spanks burned his bare bottom. Straight away he'd begun wiggling, drawing both feet up to face the ceiling as he squirmed and struggled. "Aaahh!" he complained. "Oww! Ow! Aahh!"

"This is exactly what you deserve, naughty boy."

"Aaahh!!" he cried out again. "Nooo! No please! Ooww!"

"Stay still!" she reprimanded him, clutching him around his waist to hold him tight.

His hand flew up to protect his smarting bottom before he'd even consciously registered the decision. It was swiftly pinned to his lower back as the spanking continued.

His legs tried to assist by kicking behind him, as if he was trying to kick free or throw his feet up high enough to block her hand's path to his cheeks.

Ms. Hartford had an answer for this strategy, too. She pulled up one leg and pinned him between her thighs. So now he lay doubled over, restrained in every possible way. His legs were clamped down, his left wrist pressed tight against the small of his back. His right arm didn't have a chance from its angle. All he could do was begin to cry out his pain in whining screams. "Aaaahhh! AAAHHH! Oooh! Please no more! I'll be good! I'll study!"

His bottom felt like it was already on fire. How could one lady's hand inflict this much damage?

"You're absolutely right you'll study. But first you'll finish taking your full punishment for the failure to do it sooner."

Ms. Hartford directed a series of strong spanks to his upper thighs before giving him a final ten - all hard, slow smacks to his lower cheeks. Left, right, left, right, and so on, as he shrieked a pitiful cry with each one.

Emerson lay bent over, his head just about touching the ground, trapped and unable to rub his stinging backside. His disciplinarian let him feel the full hot burn of his poor choices earlier that week. He felt tears brimming in his eyes, all from the hand-spanking alone.

"If you were just honest and studied more earlier in the week, I wouldn't have minded you going out last night. You know I'm always trying to encourage you to get out of your shell and meet more people."

"I know," he sniffed. A tear fell to the floor below him, but only one.

"And this isn't the end, Emerson," she warned him.

His bottom was blazing hot already. If she took a cane to him he'd literally die. He knew it! "Please don't cane me, ma'am!" he cried out.

In the recesses of his mind, an imaginary small class of five others laughed at him for breaking down and begging like that.

"You've earned your punishment, young man. Get back in the corner for a few minutes. Collect yourself. Then you're bending over the desk for the cane on your bare bottom. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

She dropped his wrist and helped untangle his legs from under her thigh. Before he could even rub his tender backside for a second she snapped at him to put his hands on his head. "And I want your nose in the corner," she added.

He did as instructed, trying to mentally prepare for the horror of the cane. It was no good. Just as bad as how he'd prepared for his physics test, in fact. He only made it much worse in his head. "Pleeassee," he begged.

"Hush," she said.

"I swear I'll study after this! I really swear!"

"I'm sure you will. You'll study right here, in fact, so I can keep an eye on you."

"But- but don't you have other-"

"Not until much later tonight. Put that nose back in the corner."

For ten minutes he just displayed a red bottom to the empty classroom (still full in his mind) and he tried to remind himself that he'd earned all this. You've been bad. You deserve this. You didn't study for the hardest exam and you lied to her. This wouldn't have been so bad if you just told the truth.

"Come here, Emerson," said Ms. Hartford.

For a beat too long he kept his nose in the corner, but he managed to turn with some mental effort. Ms. Hartford stood by the desk with a rattan cane in her hand. She told him it was just a "junior cane" perhaps due to the look of sheer terror in his eyes. She used the implement to point to the back end of the big desk, so he dutifully bent over, palms on the surface.

"Over more," she said, gently tapping the cane against his bottom. He went to his forearms, displaying his bottom much more prominently to the imaginary audience of classmates snickering behind him.

Emerson closed his eyes. The thin implement pushed into his skin. She was taking aim. A dread overtook him enough to bring out a whimper.

"You're getting ten," she decided. "And you'll count every stroke."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, so nervous that his hands attempted to grip the surface of the wooden desk before he moved to grab the back edge. Ten? Wasn't six traditional?

"Do not try to cover your bottom or I may have to bind your wrists."

He agreed, if only due to the mental image of the cane smacking his bony fingers with as much force as was meant for his bottom. He'd never sketch again!

"Emerson, I really want you to do well on that exam. This is going to really hurt, but you need these consequences. Think about this if you want to procrastinate for something so important again."

"I know. I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. He wasn't able to tune out this lecture in such a position, a cane tapping his bottom to take aim here and there.

"Don't forget to count," she said. Now the absence of the rod of wood against his skin made him cringe and squeeze his eyes shut in preparation.

The first stroke whipped against the middle of his bare cheeks hard enough to make him cry out, "AAAAHH!" in shock. This horrible spanking implement had it all. It managed to sting as much as it thudded. "One!" he said, the word itself another yelping sound.

Ms. Hartford cleared her throat. "Young man..."

Emerson cried out his correction, "One, ma'am."

The second hit made him buckle his knees forward, bending into the desk as he yelped from the flash of pain. It hit him just under the first stroke. "Two, ma'am."

After a good ten second break, another streak of pain lit up his backside. This too struck him under the last smarting line across his bottom. She was painting a straight row of red lines down him, it seemed. It took a lot to not reach back to rub and try to soothe the pain. "Th-three, ma'am."

The initial stinging stripe always gave way to a less focused blur of smarting and throbbing. It made him gasp in shaky breaths between spanks, dreading the next bite of the cane. He didn't think he'd survive seven more spanks. "I'm sorry!" he said just before the fourth spank was delivered. This time he was struck right above his sit-spot. He squealed and bounced up, standing and reaching back to rub.