Adele’s Comeuppance

By Phil K

I’ve known Adele since we were at school together. She was only a month or two older than me, but with her long-legged elegant looks and sophisticated attitude she seemed far more mature. The boys all flocked round her, but she treated them with a cool disdain which, of course, just made them all the more eager. And me? Well, I was Addy’s best friend. Why she chose me, I’ve never been quite sure. Except that, as you’ve maybe noticed, exceptionally attractive girls quite often like to have a less attractive one tagging along, just to make them look all the lovelier by contrast. Not that I’m hideous, not by a long way. Being as objective about it as I can, I’m actually not bad-looking. But I’m not in Addy’s class. As the saying goes, she’d fallen out of the drop-dead gorgeous tree and hit every branch on the way down.

So my job, most of the time, was to provide a sympathetic ear, and sometimes a shoulder to cry on, for all the guys who’d fallen hopelessly for Addy and finally realized they were never going to get even within howling distance of first base. Now and then, it’s true, there were fringe benefits; one or two of them, once they’d got over the weepy bit, made a pass at me, in a kind of ‘oh well, why not?’ sort of way, and if they were hunky enough and I was feeling particularly frustrated, I’d sometimes swallow my pride and go along with it. But most of the time they told me what a good sort I was, not like that cold bitch Adele, and some were even corny enough to say that they loved me like a brother. Good old Susie, that was me.

After we both left school I lost track of Addy for a few years, barring the usual Christmas cards; her parents moved, and also we went to different unis, a couple of hundred miles apart. But then out of the blue I got an email from her: there was a school reunion coming up and would I be going? Normally I didn’t bother much with those; to me, reliving one’s schooldays seemed about as appealing as drinking yesterday’s bathwater. But I felt curious to see Addy again. Would she have changed?

As it turned out, she had. Addy aged 23 was even more drop-dead gorgeous than Addy aged 18. Even though I wasn’t facing the door, I knew the moment she arrived; every male head in the room turned as if pulled by invisible threads. And she, of course, swanned straight through them all as though she were utterly unconscious of their rapt attention, and made a bee-line straight for me. “Susie darling! How lovely!” she carolled, giving me a kiss and a big hug.

Once the more importunate of the males had been fended off with a dazzling smile that implied everything and promised precisely nothing, Addy and I settled down for a good long catch-up chat. In the course of which I mentioned that I was about to move to the big city and had been busily flat-hunting.

Addy radiated delight. “But Susie, that’s perfect! My flatmate’s moving out next month – to get married, the silly cow! You can move in with me. It’s a fabulous flat!”

It was, too. The rent was a fair bit higher than I’d been planning to pay, but I reckoned it was probably worth it for somewhere so comfortable, spacious and central. So three weeks later, I moved in – and there we were: Addy and me, best friends all over again.

But I soon discovered that, as a flat-mate, Addy had one huge flaw. No, she wasn’t a slob in private, anything but. She always left the kitchen and bathroom immaculate, and willingly took on her share of the housework. In fact she made me feel a touch slobbish by comparison, though I’d always thought of myself as a tidy person. She wasn’t in the least noisy or disruptive, and she was scrupulous about never using my food without asking me. The only problem was the rent.

Addy had a very good job with a PR company, and several well-off would-be boyfriends who were happy to take her out to posh restaurants in the vain hope of getting a little more than a chaste good-night kiss. So money shouldn’t really have been a problem. But when it came to designer clothes and expensive perfumes Addy’s resistance, so impregnable in matters of sex, dwindled to zero. Of course the clothes looked fantastic on her and she smelt heavenly, but it did mean that, come the end of the month, she generally either had to borrow off me or beg her boss for an advance.

You might wonder why she didn’t try exercising her seductive wiles on the landlord. Unluckily for her Lester, though a sweet guy, was as gay as a convocation of drag-queens. So for once Addy’s wide-eyed charm got her nowhere. She usually had better luck with her boss, but even he had limits to his forbearance. Which meant that, as often as not, good old Susie was required to step into the breach. And since I was earning a good deal less than she was – and owned a far less impressive wardrobe – I felt just a little bit miffed about this. No, not true. Quite a lot miffed.

I might have made more of a fuss about it, but at this period of my life I did have other things on my mind. In particular, Tom.

I met Tom at a party Addy had taken me to. We’d arrived together, causing the usual hormonal feeding-frenzy among most of the males present – and even some of the females – to which Addy reacted with her regular cool disdain. So when this interesting-looking guy strolled over – a guy with a friendly grin, but something intriguingly unpredictable about his dark eyes – I automatically assumed he was after the main attraction. To my near-total disbelief, after favoring Addy with a casual but appreciative nod, he started chatting up – me. Yes, me. Good old Susie.

My first thought, after I’d mentally picked myself up off the floor, was that he’d worked out a cunning way to get to Addy via me. And even a couple of weeks later, when we’d definitely and blissfully become an item, that unworthy thought still lurked in the recesses of my mind. So one evening at his flat, after my tongue and inhibitions had been loosed by some exceptionally good wine – yes, this guy had taste, along with all his other qualities – I let slip a hint of it.

Tom picked it up immediately. “Am I hearing you right?” he asked, in a dangerously quiet voice. “You think I’m only going out with you for a chance to get into Adele’s knickers?”

I blushed like an idiot and stammered something brilliant along the lines of, “Oh no – not really – I just – I mean….”

Tom took me by the shoulders. “Look at me, Susie. You really have such a low opinion of yourself?”

I stammered some more. The dark, dangerous look in Tom’s eyes had become very intense. “Listen to me, Susie,” he said, still speaking quietly. “You’re a lovely, sweet, funny, intelligent girl. You’re exceptional. But you’ve just been unforgivably rude to someone I care about.”

“Rude?” I asked in bewilderment. “To who?”

“Yourself. It’s not the first time – I’ve noticed you put yourself down a lot – but this is the worst example. So I’m going to do something about it – something I should have done before now.”

“Wh – what?”

“I’m going to give you a good spanking.”

I couldn’t say a thing. I’d been hit by a complete double whammy. First, that Tom had said he cared about me – and then, that he’d uttered the magic word.

Spanking. I could feel myself blushing helplessly. I’d never been spanked – not by my parents, not by any of my boyfriends – but the idea had fascinated me for as long as I could remember. When I was about six I was playing with a friend at her house. We were getting a bit over-excited and noisy. Twice her father had come and asked us to keep the noise down. The third time he didn’t ask. He just swept Denise up, turned her over his knee, pulled down her knickers and spanked her hard on her round little bare bottom. She yelped and, very soon, wept. By the time he’d finished her bottom was scarlet. He hugged her, then turned to me. “Susie, I think you’d better go home,” he said.

I scuttled off home, alarmed, shocked and – I couldn’t help admitting to myself – bitterly disappointed. While Denise’s dad was spanking her I was convinced he’d spank me next. The idea was terrifying – and almost unbearably exciting. And then he hadn’t.

For years afterwards I reworked this scene in my fantasies. In this version I said, “No, Mr Clark, that’s not fair. I was making just as much noise as Denise. If she gets spanked, I should be spanked too.” And Mr Clark said, “Very well, young lady – if that’s what you really want, that’s what you shall get.” And he turned me over his knee and took down my knickers and spanked me until my poor bottom was bright red and sizzling hot and I was in floods of tears. And then he hugged me and told me I was a brave girl.

But alas, it didn’t happen that way. And though I went and played with Denise again, and even saw her get spanked now and then, her dad never spanked me – and I never had the nerve to ask him to.

I never had the nerve to ask anyone else to, either. Some of my boyfriends had given me the odd friendly swat on the rear, as guys do – but not one of them had shown any interest in doing what I longed for him to do – put me across his knee, bare my bottom and spank me long and hard until I yelped for mercy. And since I never dared ask for it – wouldn’t they say I was ‘weird’, or ‘sick’, or whatever? – I’d reached the mature age of 23 without ever having been spanked.

And now here was this gorgeous man with the dangerous gleam in his eye, telling me he was going to spank me. I’d already learned enough about Tom to know he didn’t issue idle threats.

Scary? Yes, very scary. And embarrassing. And exciting. And sexy. And utterly, gloriously, deliciously wonderful.

So when he ordered me to stand up and drop my jeans, I obeyed without a word of protest. I was conscious of an almost overpowering sense of anticipation – and also that I was getting shamefully wet.

Tom regarded me with a wicked little grin. It was a grin I was to become very familiar with in future. I came to think of it as his ‘pre-spanking grin’.

“You, young lady,” he said – and oh, the butterflies in my stomach at that ‘young lady’! – “are far too prone to disparaging yourself. It’s a very bad habit. I think it’s partly because you’re always comparing yourself that bird-brained clothes-horse you share a flat with.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Susie. No, let me tell you two things. First, you’re just as attractive as Adele physically – and a damn sight more attractive as a person. So don’t you forget it.”

“And second, my girl, I am now going to put you across my knee, take down your knickers and spank you good and hard on your bare bottom for doing yourself so much less than justice. And if I ever hear you putting yourself down again – no matter where we are, or who we’re with – you’ll get another spanking. Even longer, and even harder, and always over my knee and on the bare. Understood?”

“Ye-yes, sir,” I faltered. Hey, where had that ‘sir’ come from?

“Good. Now come here, young lady.”

Reaching out, he grasped me by the hand and drew me down across his knee where he sat on the couch. I settled across his lap with an involuntary sigh of delight. This, I realised, was where I was always meant to be – over the knee of a strong-minded man and about to be soundly spanked. That it would be ‘soundly’ I was in no doubt at all.

But not immediately, it seemed. First, I felt my knickers being peeled down, to lodge behind my knees. That I was expecting. But not what happened next – Tom’s hand very gently stroking and squeezing my bare bottom. It felt so sexy, I couldn’t help wriggling with pleasure.

“You know, Susie,” he told me, still stroking, “you’ve got a gorgeous bottom. Round and soft and sexy – just made to be spanked. In fact I’ve been wanting to spank you from the first day we met. So now that you’re my girl, you’re going to get spanked lots. Whenever you deserve it, whenever you need it – or just whenever I feel like it, simply for the fun of it.”

Oh – my – god. I was melting. Triple whammy. I was ‘his girl’. I was going to get spanked lots. Lots and lots and lovely lots. And best of all, he thought I had a gorgeous bottom.

Like most girls, I’d always thought my bottom was too big, that it stuck out too much. You know, that awful giveaway question, “Does my bum look big in this?” But guess what, it turns out that’s just what men like – or at least men with Tom’s kinky proclivities. “Honey,” he once told me, “girls’ bottoms are meant to stick out. All plump and round and sticking-out is how they’re supposed to be. Just to remind us guys how nice they are to spank.” And where I’d tended to disguise my rear end with loose skirts, he encouraged me to wear tight-fitting jeans and pants that showed off my rearward curves. Curves that he never scrupled to pat, swat and even treat to a ringing spank or two when we were out together. He called it keeping me ‘bottom-conscious’.

Well, I was certainly ‘bottom-conscious’ right now – all too conscious that my defenceless rear end was upturned, bare and about to receive the first spanking of my life. Oh wow…. Oh help…. Oh bliss….

Oh OWWW!

And owww and owww and owww again! Quite without warning, my first-ever spanking had started, and it was stinging my poor soft bare bottom something fierce. Tom had a strong arm and a hard hand, and both were being put to very good use lighting a fire on my squirming rear end. And before long I didn’t need Tom to tell me – though he did so, with great relish – that my bottom-cheeks were blushing vividly, and rapidly coming to resemble a pair of very ripe tomatoes.

I yelped, of course, and squealed, and wailed that I was sorry and begged abjectly for him to stop. Which was a lie. It was hurting like hell, far more than I’d imagined it would in my fantasies – but at the same time it felt so right, so utterly what I needed and deserved and had always longed for, that as far as I was concerned he could have gone on spanking me all night. Besides, the glow of my spanked bottom was having its effect on certain nearby areas, making me wetter and hornier than I’d even been in my life. I utterly loved and adored this man who was spanking me so unmercifully. I didn’t want him to stop – but when he did, I wanted to show him my utter devotion in every depraved, licentious way possible. And then to beg him to spank me again, even longer and harder, till sitting down in comfort became a far distant memory.

I ask you – how crazy, how foolish can a girl get? And me who’d always been such a good girl too….

Rather too soon, that first spanking was over. I was crying, but they weren’t tears of pain or sorrow – they were tears of emotional release, of all the pent-up longing to be spanked that had lurked within me at last being gratified. My bottom was blazing, I was a tear-stained disheveled mess – and I was blissfully, deliriously happy.

Tom stroked my fiery bottom-curves, then lifted me up and we kissed passionately. And then somehow all our clothes had fallen off and we were at it like a pair of randy little monkeys – swept up in a wild wave of shameless lust that finally deposited us, sticky and sweaty and gasping with pleasure, on the exhausted shores of sleep sometime not long before dawn.

That, as you might guess, was just the start of it. Tom was as good as his word – from then on I got spanked long, hard, lovingly and often, just whenever he felt like it. Which he frequently did. As he liked to remark, usually while I was yelping and squirming across his knee, protesting that I ‘hadn’t done anything’, “Honey, a bottom as gorgeously spankable as yours is plenty reason enough. Besides,” he would add, “you’ve got twenty-three unspanked years to make up for. Twenty-three years in which neither your dad, nor any of your boyfriends, had the sense to give this sexy round bottom what it was so obviously and beautifully designed for. So now – welcome to catch-up time!”

So that’s why, most of the time, I was wandering round with a dreamy grin on my face and a delicious just-spanked glow suffusing my bottom. And why, when Addy once again found there was too much month left at the end of her salary, I ‘lent’ her the rent money without more than a token protest. Which did mean, though, that I needed to economise by skipping lunch most days.

“Finished already?” asked Tom in surprise. He’d just dished us both up substantial helpings of one of his specialities – pasta alla puttanesca – but while he was only half through, I’d polished up every last morsel and was wondering if it’d be rude to ask for seconds.

“Yes – I was really hungry. I missed lunch.”

“Oh – why?”

Now you might think I could easily have said I was on a diet, or had to work through, or some other excuse. But I always found it was impossible to lie to Tom. Somehow he seemed to know without fail when I wasn’t telling him the absolute truth. Besides, I wouldn’t have dared say I was on a diet. He despised dieting, since he said most girls only did it because they thought their bottoms needed to be smaller. Which, according to him, they didn’t. They simply needed to be spanked – ‘just to show them what those lovely round soft bottoms were intended for’.

So anyway, it all came out. About Addy, and her hopeless extravagances, and the way I kept having to subsidise her share of the rent. Tom listened – he was a good listener – and when I’d finished he just got up from the table, growled, “Come here, young lady,” took me by the hand and led me over to the couch. And next thing I knew, I was back in that oh-so-familiar position over his lap with his hand cracking down on my bare, stinging bottom while Tom made his views extremely clear.

“Susie, you will not (smack!!) pay Addy’s rent for her. Not now (smack!!), not ever (smack!!). You will tell (smack!!) her she can damn (smack!!) well pay it herself (smack!!). Is that clear?” Smack!! Smack!! Smack!! SMACK!!

“Oww-oww-oww-OWW!! Yes, Tom!”

“Good. And now, young lady, you can go and fetch the hairbrush.”

You might well wonder why I didn’t just move in with Tom. In many ways I’d have loved to. But he lived in what the estate agents laughingly call a ‘studio flat’ – in other words, a tiny bedsit. Snug, well-furnished, but tiny. And not being – as you’ll have gathered – the world’s most self-confident person, I was convinced that if Tom and I were crammed together in such close proximity he might very soon tire of me. So I resisted the idea and stayed where I was, with Abby. Besides, it was a lovely flat – and apart from Abby’s rent-paying deficiencies, pretty well ideal.

But Tom’s lesson stayed with me – physically for at least a couple of days, and psychologically for a good deal longer. So when the next end-of-month rolled around and Addy started in on the usual sob-story, I hardened my heart and said no, with a firmness that visibly startled her – and quite surprised me, too.

“Oh,” she said. Then, in her most beseeching tones, “But it’s only for a few days, Susie. You know I’ll pay you back!”

I almost softened. But then I reflected that, of the past half-dozen times she’d ‘borrowed’ off me for the rent, she’d paid me back precisely once – and I said no again. Interestingly, it seemed to get easier the second time around.

“Oh,” repeated Addy. “Oh well, ok. I expect I can find it somewhere.”

And she did. Two days later, she paid her half of the rent in full, out of what looked like a sizeable stash of banknotes. I assumed it came from Jake, one of her current stable of male escorts, since he seemed to be particularly well-heeled, and said as much. Addy smirked.

“Oh no,” she said. “I got a loan from the bank. Easy-peasy!”

She wore that smug-pussy-cat look I knew well. It usually meant that some susceptible male had let himself be played for s sucker.

I told Tom what she’d said. His eyebrows shot up. “A bank loan? To pay the rent? Doesn’t sound too likely. And what collateral could she possibly be offering?”

“No idea,” I said. “But so long as she can pay her share…”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Tom. But he looked thoughtful.

A couple of days later, on Saturday morning, Tom showed up unexpectedly at the flat. “Is Adele in?” he asked as soon as I opened the door. “In there,” I said, closing the door and following him in. Just what was going on, I wondered.

When I’d left the sitting-room a moment before Addy had been sitting normally, but on hearing a male voice she’d immediately adopted what I thought of as her Madame Recamier pose: draped elegantly along the sofa, her long slim legs on display. “Oh hello, Tom,” she breathed, in the voice she reserved for men – that husky voice that promised so much, but delivered so little. “What a nice surprise.”

“Don’t count on it.” There was an odd edge to his voice. I knew that edge; it meant trouble for someone. “What’s all this you’ve been telling your bank manager about being seriously ill and needing an operation – and having to go private to get it?”

Addy blushed, all her poise and composure suddenly gone. I couldn’t believe my ears. “Well, I – I’d run up an overdraft again,” she confessed miserably. “I saw some clothes and – well, you know how it is…. How did you know?”

“Your mistake, young lady. I know that guy; I see him down the pub now and then. He knows Susie’s my girlfriend, so he asked after you – how did the operation go and all that. Nice fellow – really seemed quite concerned about you.”

Addy sat gazing at the carpet. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. I wondered if she guessed what was going through Tom’s mind. I was pretty sure that I did.

“Sorry, are you? Nothing like as sorry as you’re going to be in a few moments, my girl.”

Addy looked up. There was sudden fear in her expression, but also – was I imagining it? – a hint of suppressed excitement. “What – what are you going to do?”

“You know, Adele,” said Tom, advancing on her with a cruel grin on his face, “I think you need help. And I know exactly what kind of help you need.” I’d seen that grin often, and knew just what it meant. What it meant was that some misbehaving young lady – usually me – was about to receive her just deserts: and those deserts generally involved the lowering of knickers, and the raising of palms (or slippers, or hairbrushes, or whatever else came to hand). After which, a certain rounded portion of the young lady’s anatomy would start becoming very warm and tender indeed. I’m pretty sure Addy didn’t know what that grin meant. Well, she was about to find out.

“Susie tells me no one’s spanked you since you were a kid,” said Tom. “Is that right, Adele?”

She gazed at him with big round eyes, a rabbit in the headlights. “Ye-yes,” she breathed.

Now Addy knew Tom spanked me – she could hardly not, since his promise that I’d get spanked ‘no matter where we are, or who we’re with’ – had turned out to be no idle threat. If he decided, when we were at my place, that I needed a session across his knee, it didn’t bother him in the least if Abby was in the flat – or even in the same room.

Not that she acted particularly shocked – if anything, she seemed rather amused. When, after the first time of seeing me get spanked, she asked me if I enjoyed it and I admitted that I did, she just laughed and said, “Might have known!”

I wasn’t sure just what that implied, and decided I’d rather not find out. Instead, I asked if she’d ever been spanked herself.

“Oh, not since I was about eight, I think,” she responded carelessly. “I was making a bit of a fuss because there was a dress I really wanted. But afterwards, Daddy said he was terribly sorry and took me out for ice-cream. Lots of ice-cream,” she added with her smug-pussy-cat look. “And he bought me the dress.”

“So none of your boyfriends…?”

“Them?” she retorted contemptuously. “They wouldn’t dare!”

Oddly enough, when I relayed this conversation to Tom he said exactly what Addy had said: “Might have known!”

Yet now, as Tom advanced on her with evident intent, the cool, self-possessed young woman I’d always known seemed to vanish. And in her place sat a girl looking several years younger, quivering with apprehension and wearing an expression that could only be described as submissive.

Tom stood over her. “So no one’s spanked you for fifteen years, young lady?” he asked quietly. “That’s an awful shame. Too bad your dad didn’t spank you as a teenager – and carry right on spanking you until you moved out. Because if he had, maybe you wouldn’t be behaving the way you do, like a spoilt, self-centred brat. Would you?”

Mesmerised silence from Addy.

“Well – would you?”

The bastard – he was really drawing this out.

“N-no, Tom,” she gulped.

“No, Tom. Well, we’d better do something about that now, hadn’t we? Stand up, please, young lady.”

Grasping Addy’s wrist, he pulled her to her feet, then sat down on the sofa and drew her down over his knee. She whimpered, “Oh please, no,” but put up no resistance at all, just collapsed over his lap like a rag-doll and lay there as he adjusted her into prime spanking position – long slender legs straight out, hands touching the floor, immaculate blonde hair flopping down over her face and her shapely bottom uppermost, awaiting his attentions. He flipped up her skirt, revealing brief, lacy black panties stretched tautly over shapely globes. They’d have been very little protection, but that didn’t stop him peeling them down, baring her ripe rearward curves. Tom, as I knew all too well, believed not only that all females should be spanked, soundly and often – but that all such spankings should be given on the bare. “It looks nicer, it sounds nicer, it feels nicer – and it does a way more effective job!” he would remark cheerfully, while proving the point by making my defenceless mounds bounce and blush beneath his merciless hand.

Seeing her like that – this elegant, spoilt young woman, usually so conceited and smug, now lying passively face-down across Tom’s lap with her knickers down, her bottom bared and invitingly ready for punishment – made me realise just how satisfying a man must find it to spank a girl like Adele: to rid her of her cool, elegant, superior airs and reduce her (as I knew from personal experience she soon would be reduced) to a wailing, wriggling, tousle-haired, scarlet-bottomed mess, begging desperately for mercy as the smacks rained remorselessly down on her hot, squirming cheeks. Especially a girl with such a sweetly spankable bottom – and Addy’s, though not large, was appealingly rounded, full and smooth and white, just begging to be spanked.

It didn’t stay white for long. Down came Tom’s flattened palm, first on one pretty cheek and then the other: two ringing, stinging smacks that made Addy yelp and squirm wildly. Tom, as I was well placed to attest, could spank very hard indeed, and he plainly intended to show Addy no mercy. She was finding out what it felt like to be spanked properly – by an expert, someone with a hard male hand and strong male muscles, someone who really knew how to spank and enjoyed nothing more than applying his expertise to a naughty girl’s soft, pampered bare bottom-cheeks.

So now Addy was getting the first real spanking of her spoilt young life, and she didn’t seem to be enjoying the experience one little bit. She gasped and wailed at each smack, kicking her long slim legs and tossing her blonde mane, begging for mercy and promising better behaviour. All to no avail, as I could have told her. Once Tom had set his mind on spanking a girl, then spanked she would be, just as long and as hard as he liked, and no amount of pleading or promises would make a jot of difference.

So I watched fascinated while, for a good ten minutes, Tom spanked Addy hard and steadily, covering every inch of her peachy, squirming bottom, from flank to flank and from crown to soft, sensitive undercurve. Under his vengeful palm the quivering mounds turned from white to pink, to rosy red, to burning fiery scarlet. Occasionally he glanced at me with that wicked grin, as if he knew just what was passing through my mind. He probably did, too. I was thinking just how much those resounding spanks must be stinging Addy’s tender flesh, and just how burning hot her bottom must be getting – and jealously wishing it was me across Tom’s knee instead of her. How crazy can you get?

Finally, after what must have been several hundred spanks, he paused and glanced down at the slender blonde beauty lying sobbing across his lap, her soundly-smacked bottom blazing like a sunset. “Susie,” he said quietly, “bring me the hairbrush, would you?”

“Oh no!” howled Addy, struggling desperately, but Tom was adamant. As I returned with the brush I heard him telling her, “You’ve earned yourself a double punishment, young lady. The hand-spanking I’ve just given you was for so thoughtlessly getting into debt again so you can buy a load of stuff you don’t even need. Now comes the second part of your punishment – for telling lies about it to the bank-manager. And not just lying – but telling clumsy, foolish lies that were sure to come out. For that, Adele, you get the hairbrush. There’s nothing like a hairbrush for using on a naughty girl’s bare bottom – especially when that bottom’s already been thoroughly hand-spanked till it’s all nice and tender. That way – as I’m sure Susie can tell you – the hairbrush really stings.”

“Oh please Tom,” wailed Addy, “no more, please! I’m sorry, honestly! I’ll be good – I won’t – owwww!” For the hairbrush had cracked mercilessly down on the glowing curve of her right cheek, leaving a deeper crimson oval on the already scarlet flesh. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Time and again it swished down, printing its burning kiss on her tormented spank spot, each stroke making her howl like a banshee.

I’d often felt that hairbrush on my own bared rear end and knew just how it stung – especially, as Tom said, when applied to an already spank-warmed bottom. And I was used to being spanked, too. Addy had never been properly spanked before, much though she’d deserved it. Well, she was certainly catching up now, wasn’t she? I was even beginning to feel a little sorry for her. OK, she was a spoilt, self-centred bitch, and a good smacked bottom was just what she’d been needing for a long time, but Tom was really laying it on without mercy. Still, it was more than my life was worth to intervene; and besides, watching Addy getting spanked was making me feel very wet and excited indeed.

I got mine, though, as I knew I would. I wasn’t keeping count, but I reckon that wicked brush must have cracked down a hundred times or more on Addy’s wildly squirming rump before Tom at last paused. “Ok, Adele,” he said, “now you know what happens to naughty girls. Especially if they tell porkies. And if I hear you’ve been up to your tricks again, young lady, then believe me I’ll be round to spank you some more. And next time I won’t let you off so lightly!”

“But for now, I’ll just finish off with ten good hard smacks – on each cheek!”

“Oooooh!” wailed Addy, as down flashed the hairbrush harder than ever. Ten times it connected with the quivering curve of her crimson right cheek, then ten more times on the left, each stroke making her squeal wildly, before Tom released her, utterly chastened, to run wailing into her bedroom in search of tissues for her eyes and lotion for her blazing bottom-cheeks. Grinning, he watched her go, then turned to me, a wicked gleam in his eye. With a mixture of apprehension and excitement, I knew just what was coming.

“Very naughty,” he said smugly. “Very naughty indeed, to enjoy a friend’s discomfiture like that. Your turn now, young lady.” He waved the hairbrush at me and patted his lap. “Come on now, across my knee with you.”

And a moment later, sure enough, it was me who was across his lap; me whose jeans and knickers were lowered and whose defenceless bare bottom – plumper than Addy’s, but no less spankable, as Tom so kindly informed me – was bouncing and squirming beneath the stinging onslaught of the hairbrush; me whose tender cheeks were suffused with a rich rosy blush, steadily deepening with each ringing spank; me who was squealing and pleading for mercy, just as frantically as Addy and to just as little avail, until my ever-loving boyfriend had spanked me, as he always did, long and hard and to his heart’s content.

Well, it was what I wanted, wasn’t it? I mean, I ask you – how crazy can a girl get?