Spank A-to-Z Fiction: Coaching the “Dom”

I have agreed to do the spanking A to Z challenge, and will publish 26 stories over the month, each containing corporal punishment, starting with "A" and ending with "Z".

This is a far longer tale than I planned: it’s in excess of 4000 words. Sorry; I got logorrhea. I promise I will do better for the rest of the week and keep my posts under 1000 words. Maximum! 😉 

She was strong when she needed to be: my initial impressions of Katherine was that she was brutishly powerful and yet at times as gentle as a butterfly. She was clever too: sharper than an axe with a wit that could cut through pathetic ripostes like a tropical storm would decimated sandcastles.

She lived with my aunt because she worked on the farm; I lived there for three months while our house was being rebuilt after the fire. I doubt she would have chosen me as a room-mate, and I certainly wouldn’t have chosen her, but the two rooms in the suburban B&B the insurance company had given us wasn’t suitable for four of us, and once my final exams had finished, my parents packed me off to the Kent countryside for the summer.

Aunt Jackie, and Uncle Bill, had hundreds of acres to farm, and everywhere was a hive of activity. I was overwhelmed at first: something Katherine was happy to tease me about.

I was also a city boy. I had no idea what a combine harvester looked like, let alone what the rusting contraption did, and had to buy my first pair of Wellington boots since I was a toddler, just to help on the land by the stream.

I was everything the farmhands, and Jackie’s sons weren’t, and the physical exertion took their toil. I was missing the dainty Phoebe with her uncontrolled vanity: I desperately wanted to be back in heart of Manchester and not stuck on the South Coast.

I wanted to feel her writhing touch under my skin, dancing to whatever delight I choose to seize from her perfect body. She was obliging; she did what I told to her to do, enjoying the thrill of yielding to my power and my command. I missed her. I missed the parting of her bud as I pushed the blunt head of my lubricated cock against her anus, squealing as I filled her. I wanted to see the bobbing blonde head of my girl in the lap of my friends, as she served them with oral treats while we watched football. I longed for the bra-less girl to hold my hand and turn heads as we walked through the Arndale Centre or offer an unknown teenager a handjob, just because I told her to.

I wanted my toy back, but my sweet little toy was savouring life in suburban Manchester while I was stuck with my Aunt and her farm.

Jackie was apologetic to both Katherine and myself, but she had to share with someone and all the other farm girls lived in the village.

Katherine enjoyed teasing me; always ensuring that she returned from the bathroom while I was there, and normally just after I had finished speaking to Phoebe. My little toy would masturbate for me on the phone and I didn’t have the privacy to reciprocate: just soaking my boxer shorts with pre-cum as she orgasmed 300 miles away. Our snatched conversations would finish as Katherine entered her bedroom and smile seductively at me; she was well out of reach, but I wanted to rip her towel from her body and ravish the svelte beauty.

I wasn’t sure exactly how much action she did get. I certainly never saw her with any guy, but I’d turn and face the wall as she got dressed, sneaking a peek in the mirror at her flawless body and succulent breasts.

Other times she would read out parts of the book she was reading – always the romps of her erotic novel – before asking an inane question. The taking of Miss Phillips was a sordid and rampant affair: half-a-dozen men thrusting desperately into the main character and showering the florist with orgasms and their cum, all written with sordid candour in delightful prose. “But would she really be that exhausted after just six men?” Katherine would enquire as she finished reading the explicit passage, looking at the desperately horny, and extraordinarily teased eighteen year-old, writhing with unsated lust. It was agony.

I had hormones, I had needs and I was being teased. And I had no outlet. Unlike Katherine who was allowed to use Jackie’s en-suite, I had to share the toilet and showers in the out-house attached to the farm-house: two toilets, two showers and a washbasin with tepid water, and all open plan. I couldn’t sneak down for a quick wank while I couldn’t have any privacy. And Katherine knew it.

Meanwhile, my little slut in Manchester was living my lust: not a day went past when I didn’t text her something to do. Fuck someone at work, no knickers for the week, masturbate to a dozen orgasms. I had to do something, and Phoebe sent a steady stream of pornographic picture messages to my phone, showing her completion of my commands.

Which made me hornier than ever. I needed a release and another picture from Phoebe on my phone wasn’t what I needed.

Out of a fit of crazed horniness, I grabbed Katherine’s book from the table and headed onto the farm: there was a small copse of trees about a third of a mile from the farm house and I had every intention of finding a quiet corner of the woodland and enjoying her steamy novel with nothing but birdsong and the stiffness of my cock for company.

The wood was empty, my spot behind a small bush was hidden from everyone and anything as I slouched against the rough bark and ran my fingers over the bulge in my shorts.
Miss Phillips was a sinful wench: the words on the page danced into an erotic mirage in my mind as my ragged breathing floated into the air. The smooth arch of her back as she was pounded from behind, the heavenly flow of her legs as her ankles were lifted into the air, the sweet sounds of her grunting and squealing were in the clearing with me. I could see them, as my fingers closed over my erect cock, poking through the slit in my shorts.

“You happy there?”

My heart jumped, swinging my torso to face the giggling smile of Katherine. “Do you mind?” I barked, pulling my erection back through the fly in my shorts. “What …”

“You happy there?” She asked again, walking into the clearing and pulling her book from my grasp. “Ahh yes, Miss Phillips and the rugby team. Such a lucky girl …”

“Hhmmmpphhf” I snorted, staring at her as she crouched down to my eye level.

“I’m not sure your Aunt would be best pleased if I told her you had stolen an item of mine to masturbate to.”

“I didn’t steal. I’m just reading and …”
“… and playing with your little man,” she giggled, pushing my hand away from my crotch with the tip of her finger. “Well at least it’s not my knickers! It’s …” Katherine rose to her full height and pulled my phone from her pocket. “… pathetic. Oh, and Phoebe rang. What have you been doing to her?”

“That’s private!” She laughed again as I reached for my phone, which she held out of my reach. “That’s …”

“You think you’re quite the Dom, ordering her to all sorts of things.”

“That’s private,” I cried, scrambling to get to my feet. “I …”

“Andy, sit down,” she barked, pushing me onto my back as I struggled for balance. “We need to talk.”

She adjusted her shorts and T-Shirts as she leant against the tree, looking disdainfully at my nervous expression. “I don’t think we …”

“No you don’t do you?” She giggled. “Think. But as you like to play with BDSM, I think a little bit of education is in order. You seem to see Phoebe as just your plaything.”

“She is.”

Katherine’s face flickered. “How often do you think about what she wants? BDSM is mutually enjoyable, not just so you can order around a naïve girl for your moronic satisfaction!”

“Yeah, well, stay out of my life!”

Katherine thumbed through the faded pages of her book. “You know why I love this book? You see it for the sex scenes: the threesomes, the foursomes, the orgies and the depravity. But it’s much more than that. It’s the story of a woman lured into a cesspit of filth: delighting in it, until she finds a proper partner. Someone who stretches her imagination, and makes her think. Takes her places she had never been before. Question to you: what’s the most powerful sexual organ?”

I shrugged. “You’ll say your clit, I’ll say my cock. It doesn’t matter. It’s …”

She snorted an interruption. “So tragically wrong. It’s your fucking brain.”


“Your brain is unbelievably powerful and if you haven’t mastered that, then you can never hope to be good in bed.”

“Well real women like …”

“Don’t even think of starting a conversation with me of ‘real women like.’” Her eyes narrowed and glared at me. “Real women don’t like to be patronised by silly little boys playing games they don’t understand,” she barked. “And real women don’t like their books being used for the silly little boys to masturbate too.”

I felt a surge of excitement at the ferocity in her voice; it evoked passion and excitement. I had got to her, and after she had spent weeks teasing me, I felt a rush of adrenaline. I smiled, it was a mistake.

Her breasts heaved as she took a deep breath, grabbing hold of my ear and dragging me across her body. I yelled and fought her, but Katherine had been working on the farm since she was fourteen and was too strong for me, expertly using my flailing limbs against me. She was used to handling creatures on the farm and it showed. “You. Will. Learn. Respect.”

The words punctured my consciousness as I was almost dragged behind her. She sat on a fallen tree, pulling my body half over her knee while I fought her. She knew my weak points, squeezing the lobe of my ear with her fingers that triggered an overwhelming bolt of sharp pain. It was debilitating; draining my fight in seconds.

I whined. I knew what she wanted to do, but the firm grip on the small of my back prevented me from moving as her right hand swiped my shorts downwards. “This is probably going to hurt,” she warned me, her voice sizzling with expectation. “But you need to be taught a lesson!”

I groaned loudly as she rubbed my exposed buttocks, chuckling to herself, before raising her palm. I closed my eyes, knowing what to expect and tensing my muscles. I had done this to Phoebe, smashing my hand against her bottom as hard as I could until tears fell from her eyes. I had inflicted sheer pain and agony on my partner, and expected a violent hit across my seat.

It didn’t come. The strike of her hand landed firmly on my bum: the slapping of my flesh resonating in the clearing, but it was merely painful not agony: she could hit harder, I knew she could, but her quick slaps against my flesh were stinging the skin not a fearsome burning like I feared. She was being measured and controlled, not a wild beast, and I didn’t understand.

But what I did understand was the searing shame. The humiliation of her seizing control from me, an adult man, was burning. My cheeks reddened as she countered my writhing with a firmer grip. I was helpless, beholden to her control as she lectured me. It was wrong to use her property without asking, she reminded me. I was wrong. I had to apologise.

And meekly I did. As her slaps reverberated around my thighs, I apologised. Profusely and genuinely.

It hurt, but I had to, filling my body with shame and my cock with blood. I was horny; how could I be so aroused from the capitulation towards my tormentor? But betray me it did, my cock pointing between her thighs as she delivered a final spank onto my bare cheeks with a growl. “Get up,” she ordered, smirking as her eyes focused on my erection. “Take my stuff again and I’ll make you cry for your mummy,” she warned, squeezing my ear lobe as she got up and digging her nail into my flesh, causing me to collapse to the floor.

Something happened that evening that changed Katherine. Or how Katherine behaved with me. Gone was the sadistic teasing, and in came the cool measure of control. She had me under her spell and suddenly Kent life was much more exciting and unpredictable.

We were not lovers, nor would we be; it was not that kind of relationship, but that evening a respect was earned. We talked: she was keen to understand my limits in a weird conversation. I felt wrong talking about my red lines and fantasies but she subtly encouraged me by listening intently. It was cathartic, although I was teased afterwards. In private, she called me Christian after the character from 50 Shades – “a wannabe Dom with no fucking idea of how to do it properly or safely.” It was harsh, but on reflection probably true.

The following morning I wouldn’t wake as quickly as she wanted, so a tug of the covers and a battery of short, sharp strokes on my bare thighs awakened me with yelps.

Over the next three or four days, she never missed an opportunity to exert her dominance, and unlike what I did to Phoebe it wasn’t sexual or physical. Little things like ordering me to get her a drink at lunchtime reinforced that I was to do as I was told. She made me vacate the bedroom while she got dressed but did not feel the need to afford me the same courtesy. It was small, subtle and powerful things.

“Your brain,” she reminded me with a knowing smile. “Most powerful weapon I have to use against you.” I scoffed, slightly less than before, and she rewarded me a slap on the backs of the legs with her hairbrush, sending a rush of pain to my legs and making me fall onto my bed.

I think that was probably the hardest she had ever hit me. “I don’t want to physically break you,” she explained. “Just bend you mentally. If I hit you as hard as I could, you’d be broken beyond repair. It’ll be too much.” She let the words hang in the air as I rubbed my legs. “Feeling guilty for what you do to Phoebe yet?”

I didn’t need to answer that, but Katherine knew and as the week drew to a close, was much more open about her experiences, reiterating her mantra of RACK and SSC. In her eyes, Phoebe wasn’t safe with me, until I learned that BDSM was power and responsibility and not just power. It was chastening.

One lesson that we disagreed on was the subject of pain. If she wanted to hurt me, break me or disarm me then the easiest and most powerful method would be the stick or paddle, or even the nail in my earlobe that had me whimpering with pain. It had to be physical torment, whereas Katherine disagreed and after an hour of argument and counter-argument, she sighed and kicked back on her bed. “Let’s go for a picnic tomorrow,” she offered. “We can take, Becky, you like her too. Go up to the top field where it’s overgrown.”

I should have been worried by the glint in her eye, especially when the following morning came and she removed the boxer shorts from my hands and replaced them with an old pair of her lacy briefs. I refused, I flatly refused, arguing vociferously as she crossed her arms and listened to my reasoned objections. “I know you’re not gay,” she replied with a smirk. “But it’s all part of your education. Wear them.”

“I want to safeword you,” I muttered; her quizzical eyebrow waited for my shout of “Redrum” but when it didn’t come, her fingers found my earlobe and a few seconds later I was begging for mercy at her feet.

It was humiliating and degrading, as well as being a poor fit, but Katherine’s lingerie was not going to spoil a picnic in the Sun: I had worked hard during the week and the small spread Katherine had rustled from the kitchen smelt delightful.

The black-haired beauty of Becky was not the only guest, but Katherine had persuaded two other farm girls to join us; they were talkative as we paced around the small woods meandering towards the isolated hay meadow. “Here will do,” my dominant teacher remarked with authority as she slumped on the array of wild flowers. “What we need is a bit of fun,” Katherine suggested as she opened the picnic bag and removed four bottles of local cider, passing one each to her friends. “Strip for us, Andy.”

“Ahhh …” I muttered, my heart beating furiously in my chest. Surely Katherine wouldn’t force me into a striptease. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

She glared at me. “Strip for us,” she said firmly, her voice carrying a threatening tone. “Strip!”

“But …”

“Strip!” My fingers shook as the girls sat back on the grass, shielding their eyes from the sun as I stood nervously removing my T-Shirt in the baking rays. It was unfair, it was mean and it was ultimate degradation; but my cock quivered in her lingerie. “Would you rather have a thousand spanks than continue?” Katherine asked and I nodded, ignoring the wide eyes of Becky. “Really? Tough!”

“But …”

“Get them off or I will get them off for you!” I whimpered as I closed my eyes, trying desperately to block out the thought of four sexy women watching me in ladies underwear. It was too humiliating to bear and I wished them all away.

They didn’t go, but erupted into a cacophony of evil laughter when my shorts fell to the grassy floor and the pink lacy knickers, struggling to contain my rapidly engorging cock, was introduced to the bright sunlight.

They teased. “It’s so cute,” cried one, pawing to get a better look at my humiliation.

“So sweet,” added another.

“Ahhh, he suits them so much …”

My burning cheeks testament to my embarrassment shone as bright as Katherine’s evil laughter, as she stopped me from removing the lingerie: it did nothing to hide my erection, but clearly sensed a desire to rid my body of her underwear. “Leave them on,” she giggled. Just sit with them on.” I groaned.

“But …”

“I hope you are not arguing,” she muttered menacingly. “That could get painful.” I flounced onto the soft grass, as she smiled and passed the sandwiches and crisps around the group. I felt exceedingly conscious of every move, the knickers tight against my skin as the sun beat down on my almost bare body.

Becky kept staring at my lacy crotch and giggling; it made it a hundred times worse. I liked her, and every laughter at my predicament was another nail through my heart. I wanted them off, happier to sit naked than humiliated.

Katherine was relentless as I suggested it; begging her profusely caused her to burst into cackles and respond with a battery of ribald vulgarities.

“Actually …” She chuckled with a scheming tone. “I have an idea.” My heart sank as she used the tea towel from the picnic to wrap around her hand and pluck a small handful of nettles from the hedge row. “Blindfold him,” she ordered.

I groaned and Becky had pulled a velvet eyemask from the picnic bag and twirled it around her finger.

“Lie down,” Katherine ordered, standing next to me with a handful of nettles. “And blindfold him!” There were three of them and only one of me, and the lingerie around my waist was making me subconsciously submissive.

“Whoa! I’ve not played with …” Becky reassured my nervousness with a gentle rub of the shoulders. I could not have envisaged at any point of my life being so easily led, but I was helpless as Becky slipped the smooth black blindfold over my eyes, blocking out the fierce sun.

I fell backwards with her hands guiding me onto the soft meadow floor, gently and comforting. It was natural: almost trance-like as my mind swam with soothing birdsong and serene whispering of the zephyrs stumbling through the bushes. My breathing stalled, and slowed as Becky’s hands rubbed my chest.

But I was being lulled into a false sense of security. I knew this at the time, but still allowed my consciousness to wander, trapped in the tranquil bubble the girls had created. I knew what Katherine would do with the nettles and as much as my thoughts drifted through a vacuum of emptiness, I was still alive to her malevolent machinations. She was filled with twisted intrigue.

The first slash of the plants across my thighs caused me to squeal, the second made me scream. Burning, fierce pain erupted where the nettles slashed across my skin and white-hot agony erupted. I begged for her to stop; my safeword was absent from my mind as I frantically pleaded.

Desperately pleading for her to stop. She had to, I couldn’t take it.

And then she yanked her knickers, wrapped around my waist to my knees. My mind raced. I could barely process the influx of sensory data in my mind as I gibbered meaningless blubber. She couldn’t.

But she did, draping her plants of pain over my engorged dick, cackling as they made contact.

I screamed. It was sheer agony.

The very touch of her plants on my cock was excruciating as every synapse whirred into overdrive, conveying the torment Katherine was inflicting. Becky held my hands to the floor as I floundered, tears rolling down my eyes.

“I’ll put my plants down, if you want to put your knickers back on,” she suggested. I breathed a sigh of relief, as I agreed in a heartbeat. “Beg,” she sadistically added. “Beg to wear my knickers again.”

I’m not sure if I could have blushed much more, and at that point I didn’t care. Words tumbled from my mouth quicker than a bat out of Hades, panting desperate cries. “Please let me wear the knickers again,” I appealed to the sadist.

The girls burst into laughter, as my blindfold was removed and Katherine stood over me, holding nothing more than grass in her right hand. “Nettles are over there,” she said with a giggle. “But come on, let’s have you pulling up your little knickers.”

“But …” I looked down at my thighs: unmarked and unreddened. I screwed up my face, but Katherine was impatient and crossed her arms, waiting for her underwear to rejoin my hips.

It was agonising; bringing her underwear back to my waist was torture, and the girls delighted in my pain. It was me that begged to be allowed to wear them again, but the grass felt like nettles. I was expecting agony and my mind delivered; I had been tricked, duped and was paying the price.

They didn’t stop with the torment; they “made” me kiss Katherine’s boots. They tickled me until I almost wet myself and then they shaved my pubic hair off. It was humiliating and horrible, and yet I found myself strangely aroused, something that Katherine reminded me constantly of.

I never understood her games until we returned to our bedroom, dressed and tired.

“You set that all up, didn’t you?” I asked the scheming woman as I undressed “Everything about today was all planned by you.”

“Of course. I was always three steps ahead of you,” she replied with a grin.

“Well I go home in a few days, you can have your knickers back; I’ll wash ’em first obviously.”

“Keep them.”

“No, I’d rather …”

“Keep them,” she said, a little firmer. “Because I want you to have them in your drawer at home, and every time you play with Phoebe or whoever and think you need to beat them to make them cry, or abuse them to feel dominant or just behave like an irresponsible jackass, I want you to put them on.” I sighed at her, and she shrugged. “I’ve started your education. It’s up to you to keep learning. A good lover will never stop trying to learn. I had you in tears today several times but I haven’t left a single mark. Don’t forget that!”

How could I?

The featured image comes from here under a CC license. 

Spanking A-to-Z Challenge


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  1. I think there must be a closet dominatrix in me as I found that hot as hell! I’m adding you to my blog roll. So glad the A2Z led me your way.

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