Spank A-to-Z Fiction: Opening his mind

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".

The audience clapped, cheering loudly at the shock on the face of the uneasy politician. He gave a wry shake of his head, with a desperately forced smirk: squeezing his body language to convey disagreement or disgust. “Oh no, no, no,” he started with faux sincerity.

“Yes!” The woman to his right interrupted. She barely glanced at other panellists or the television audience at the political Questions and Answer show, staring at the Government minister who had espoused his right-wing views. “Absolutely. Sex work is work and we deserve to have the same rights, protections and freedoms. We aren’t an underclass but are regular men and women. Could be your friend, your neighbour, even your sister.”

“Pah!” He cried. His animated hands gestured aggressively at the experienced prostitute who had eschewed his defence of Governmental policy. “My sister would not be selling her body.”
Sandy laughed loudly. “Hubert, I do not sell my body.”

“Yes you do,” he snapped, chortling to himself as he tried to patronise the young lady. His face glowed under the studio lights from perspiration, his shirt clammy to the touch. “You admitted you do.”

The prostitute rubbed her eyes as she stood up; the cameras panned into the svelte woman in a resplendent black dress as she looked at him, putting her stocking-clad leg onto the table. “Still got my feet, my legs,” she told the right-wing minister, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “I’ve still got my belly,” she cried as she squeezed her hands around her waist and ran her fingers up her gorgeous body to cup her bosom. “And my breasts. And my arms, my neck and my head. So please tell me, what part of my body have I sold?”

Her nemesis spluttered as she sat down on her chair. “Well I think you’ve made your point.”

“No, this bill will endanger the lives of me and my fellow sex workers. It will increase prejudice and it will cause harm. It does nothing to help us, or stop any illegal activities. It is just evil, pure and simple.”

“What would you want? A brothel on every street corner? This bill will help you escape your horrible life and …”

“My life is not horrible!” He stopped talking with the ferocity of her interruption. “I don’t need to escape or be rescued. I am happy doing the job I do. I like it, and certainly don’t want to trade it in to be on minimum wage. I am good at what I do, which is why I get paid and I enjoy it. The only problems I have are when the establishment declare war on me. I want a land where I can do the work I choose to do with the freedoms I need.”

He snorted. “That’s not going to happen. People don’t want dirty whores on their doorsteps sleeping with their husbands.”

“Oh no? You are more likely to contract an STI from a regular girl than a working girl. So much for us being dirty, we are the cleanest girls in the land.” She waited for him to sneer, before continuing. “Because, if nothing else, if I am ill I don’t work. And can’t provide for my little girl. I take my health and those of my clients extremely seriously. And I’ve lost count of the amount of marriages I’ve saved. A man isn’t going to run off with me, but he might run off with his office secretary,” she joked as a number of the audience clapped again. “Don’t condemn people for their sexual choices. What goes on the bedroom, is up to the consensual adults,” she added over the applause while the host tried desperately to regain control of his television show.

“I think we’ve heard everything we need to hear from this,” the retired journalist said. “And moving on …”

However, the Governmental minister wanted the last word. “Well, I’d just like to add that we’ve heard the disgusting propaganda from the likes of Sandy here, but that’s not reality. In truth, most whores are filthy and disease-ridden, marriage-breaking strumpets and this idea of not condemning people for their sexual preferences. I think people are worried when perverts and deviants move next door, and they don’t want degenerates and dirty sluts in their neighbourhood with all the problems that brings. I don’t want to find used condoms on the park or whores …” He didn’t finish as Sandy rose from her chair, and calmly walked behind him. “What you doing?”

She smiled to the camera, as she grabbed the shirt on the back of his neck and threw him over the desk, sending his nameplate cascading onto the carpet below. “I’m going to teach you some manners,” she barked, grabbing a fist full of his trouser waistband and jerking it downwards.

Cotton tore as his arms floundered, calling out for help from the security guards and the host. The security team watched from the edge of the studio, ignoring the politician’s pleas to see the young lady inflict punishment on the unpopular man.

“Now, I think that’s enough,” the host simpered.

“No,” she replied firmly as the black trousers loosened. “Your guest here is a privileged bigot. I haven’t started yet.”

“Security. Can we get security please?”

But the half-a-dozen men watched, their arms folded as the man who had driven anti-Union legislation through Parliament was bent helplessly over the desk, his suit trousers gathered around his knees.

She laughed. “Look at these little red things,” she shouted, guffawing as the cameraman focused on the silky scarlet briefs that adorned his rump. “Still think perverts and kinkiness is bad?” She taunted, rubbing his bum through his silk underwear. “These look like women’s knickers.”

He spluttered, trying to push up on the desk, and wriggle free but Sandy was far stronger, resisting his indignation. “I just … they’re … I’m …” His mind frantically searched for an exit route to his predicament. “I was in a hurry. Put on the wrong clothing. Now let me go!”
A Mexican Wave of titters surged through the assembled crowd as the prostitute swiped his red underwear to his knees, still holding him onto the desk. “Oooooh,” she teased loudly. “What a lovely spankable arse you have.”

Incredulous cheers swept through the studio as he struggled and pleaded, writhed and wriggled. She remained immovable, stoutly refusing to yield to his demands. “Stop this bill,” she demanded. “It will criminalise consensual sex acts, and that’s a bad thing.”

“It isn’t,” he yelled back. “Now let me go!”

She didn’t, stroking his hairy arse with the soft palm of her right hand before delivering a painful smack squarely onto his behind. “Consensual kinkiness is fine. Prostitution is fine,” she delivered, squarely thumping his bum with every word and savouring the yell of his distress, screaming into the studio as the driven women delivered justice to the right-wing bigot.

He pleaded with her, begging her to let him go. “You’ve had your fun.”

“And you’re having yours,” she replied, smiling. “Ladies and gentleman,” she said to the audience. “Your Minister for Bigotry has a fucking hard-on! Maybe he likes getting pinned to a desk in front of five million people and having his arse reddened by what was it? A dirty, disease-ridden prostitute!”

Laughter, cruel laughter pierced his soul as the audience at home, and in the studio roared with delight at his toppling. The video of his experience would be shared within minutes, he would be a laughing stock everywhere he went. He cried inwardly, pathetically pleading for mercy as the relentless woman held him firmly to the desk.

“What your bill does, is to hold sex workers down while they are thumped by repression and prejudice. What it does is apply shame and humiliation to desires and fantasies. It’s 1984 and it’s not nice is it?”

“No!” He screeched.

“Then withdraw the bill, Hubert. Withdraw it. Kill it!”

He shook his head. “I can’t,” he wailed as Sandy smashed several more firm handspanks on the minister’s buttocks, crowing as they turned a bright shade of pink. She adjusted her stance, pulling her momentum into every hit, delighting in every yell, cry and whimper from the humiliated man.

He wriggled, and she repeated her demands. But Hubert Armstrong could not yield. The proposed legislation was the succession of a decade’s work. A decade of hard work from small-minded groups up and down the country. He could not abandon their toil to this woman, to these pressure groups of whores and sluts. He wouldn’t. He told her so.

“You can’t beat us!” He spat at her, his red face matching the colour of his buttocks. “And hitting me on live television isn’t going to help. Tens of thousands of women will be rescued by this bill and go onto lead normal, God-fearing lives, free of depravity. You can’t stop that!”

“Watch me … you can’t beat us!” She yelled, as her hand warmed his buttocks, smashing against his flesh to the tune of his desperate cries. She had dreamt of this, slapping the Government minister responsible for their oppression. Hurting the man desperate to hurt her, and instilling the same dread and fear into him that he drove into so many of her fellow sex workers. It felt good, better than good. She felt in control, calm arousal sweeping through her as she held him tighter than ever.

“Understand this,” she continued. “We don’t want to be rescued. We don’t want your help. We just want you to stop the oppression. I like my job, I fucking love it. Sure there are some bits that are shit, but on the whole I love it!” Her words punctured his soul as her hand smashed continually into his abused buttocks, glowing brightly under the hot studio lights. “I am kinky and will remain so. I am a whore and will remain so. Get used to it. Because it’s nothing to do with you.”

He groaned as she spun her waist to propel more and more force into her hits. Her hand hurt, as her palm slammed faster and faster, harder and harder into the crying man. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he begged for release. Begged for a respite to his torment. Pleaded with the woman pounding his arse. Desperate to salvage any of his dignity.

“Withdraw. The. Fucking. Bill!”

Each word was punctuated with an angry smack of white hot humiliating pain and a desperate cry from the disciplined man.

“I’ll withdraw it. I’ll withdraw it,” he whimpered, as he sobbed into Camera 4; the whole country witnessing his capitulation.


“Yes,” he wept, pathetically sliding off the desk to pull his red underwear to his waist. Sandy backed off, staring at him as he looked away from her.

“Tell the world. Tell the world, yes I am kinky, I like the feel of silky women’s underwear. Tell the world that you liked that spanking. You like a bit of humiliation. You like a bit of depravity,” she said, pointing at his erect cock. “The only people who will judge you are small-minded people anyway.”

He gulped, shaking his head as the host shuffled his papers.

“Open your mind,” she added. “There’s a colourful world out there.” He slumped in his seat, as she accepted her round of applause from an appreciative studio audience, wondering just how he was outmanoeuvred. Surely, she was nothing to him, he pondered; he was an Eton-educated, Oxbridge alumni multi-millionaire with a safe constituency and a dutiful wife.

But she just beat him on live television: how could he recover from such humiliation?

Featured image from here

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".

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