She looked so innocently radiant, dressed in a short plaid skirt and skimpy white blouse, and smiling virtuously at me. Her eyes were devoid of mischievousness and malevolence; she didn't look guilty. "You are accused," I barked. "Of being disrespectful to your husband."
She giggled and looked coyly at me. I felt my cock swell at her bashful expression and impish demeanour. "Me?" She asked.
I tapped stoutly on the oak desk. "You will speak when you are spoken to, unless you want contempt of the Spanking Court to be added to your charge sheet." She bowed her head respectfully as I picked up a piece of paper, reading it out in the small, intimate room. "It says that you wilfully told your husband to 'go and get it himself' when he asked you to bring him a beer from the kitchen."
"That's not true!"
"Your husband is a fine, upstanding man," I interrupted. "He would not lie." She bit her lip and smiled at me as I said this. "So how do you plead, guilty or extremely guilty?"
She gave a girlish titter and twirled her hair in her fingers. "I'm extremely guilty," she admitted with a laugh. My cock swelled a bit more as she licked her lips.
"Then as a punishment, twenty spanks of the hand, thirty spanks of the paddle and five..."
" ... no ten, strikes of the cane."
Her face dropped instantly and she shook her head. "I'll do a hundred spanks but please not the cane," she begged. Her eyes looked pleadingly at her sentencer but I shook my head unwavered by her pleas.
"Fifteen if there is any more insolence," I threatened and beckoned the young lady to my side with a wiggle of my index finger. She slowly shuffled to my side of the desk, head bowed, and I pushed my chair with the backs of my legs; she knew the rules of the spanking court and I pulled her over my outstretched knees.
She squawked as she landed on my thighs, her scarlet and green tartan skirt, riding up as my hand guided her onto my lap. A sense of power surged through me, executing a punishment onto the unspoilt rump of the lady underneath me, wriggling as I touched her.
I pushed her skirt above her waist and I gently rubbed her cotton coated bum, soft and peachy to the touch. She clenched her buttocks the moment my hands made contact, but I wasn't ready to smack her just yet. I adored the softness of her flesh, stroking and patting it for a few moments; it felt wonderfully sensual, but I had a job to do.
I tugged down her knickers painfully, causing her to squeal in discomfort as I roughly removed them: she should know to never turn up to my courtroom with underwear and I contemplated further hits of the paddle or cane as a punishment to serve as a reminder. "Only good girls wear knickers," I reminded the errant woman as hand came down on her left buttock. "And you're no good girl."
I didn't hit her hard, just enough to warm and blush the skin; it is never fair to hit the young ladies in my courtroom exceedingly hard: that's up to their husbands or partners in the bedroom. In all my years as Judge, only three women had ever received the whip that hung on the wall, guaranteed to strike fear in even the most uncontrollable of women.
She barely made a whimper: she knew that the twenty spanks of the hand would be easy for her to take. I struck her right buttock equally as hard, before adopting a quick tempo on her unfettered butt, increasing in intensity as each strike of the hand met her skin with a loud smack that filled the room.
She squeaked in pain as I neared the end of the twenty, my cock filled with blood as I turned her skin a blushed red; I loved spanking this minx when she wriggled against my erection.
"Now hands on my desk," I ordered in a dictatorial tone; it was important to be assertive with her and she grumbled as she steadied herself on the wall behind me.
"But, I've learned my lesson," she begged. It was part of her game, she did this every time, but I ignored the pleading eyes and hopeful grin as I reached for the stout wooden paddles. I hesitated as I looked over my shoulders: there was a defiance in her body language that I needed to squash and my fingers reached for the widest paddle with a large split down the middle. "Oh no, please," she begged, standing up to face me.
"Hands on the desk or I'll double the amount," I warned as I rubbed the paddle with my hand. It was a gloriously smooth implement of pain that I had used several times on her before; we both knew her bum would be tender all day and her eyes traced my forearm down to my grip and the paddle. She gave a little whimper.
"But I really have learned my lesson," she pleaded. "I promise I won't do it again." I was not interested in her pleas; she knew the rules when she consented to be bound by the decisions of the Spanking Court and her cheekiness a few moments ago had disappeared. I grabbed hold of her shoulder and pushed her on the desk.
She squirmed and struggled against my hand, but I held her firmly in place while I put the paddle next to her and pulled her skirt, causing the fasteners to break: it had done that many times before and her repair jobs appeared to be getting less robust. "You make one move and I'll treble the sentence," I shouted, my calm assertiveness being tested.
I took a deep breath. It was not wise to issue punishments when my blood was up and I picked up my paddle, rubbing her exposed bottom with the paddle, stalling for time as I composed myself. "Don't move a muscle," I added, my left hand still resting on her back to remind her that I could and would force her into submitting if she made me.
The first few hits were always more gentle as even the most hardened of wrongdoers require easing into their punishment. She gave a gentle grunt as the first strikes landed, exhaling a gentle puff with each one as if she was letting the pain escape her body as she breathed out.
She steadied herself; she knew what was coming and instead of pulling the paddle back half-a-foot, I started bringing it back further and further. The sound reverberated in my court room as she squealed with every hit. Instead of being slightly red, her buttocks glowed with anguish as I alternated each side of her rump. She was suffering and I pressed down with my left hand on her body, to remind her that I was still able to hold her down if she resisted.
"Ten," I called out to her and gently rubbed her abused rump with the paddle; she could use one of the court safewords if she needed to, but things had never gone that far. I knew where her limits were and I was nowhere near. Her hands relaxed as the paddle soothed her lightly ruddled skin: no longer squeezed into fists but open handed. "Breathe slowly," I reminded her, watching as she took deep breaths.
.... There is more of this story ...