Today we continue with part 3 of Rollin Hand's story, "The Woman Next Door" from his collection of female dominant stories, Ladies in Charge. Last week, our hero Curt had been caught while installing microphones in the house of his next door neighbour, to go with the cameras he had already placed there. He knows he's in trouble!
If you would like to refresh your memory, read part 1 and part 2 first.
“Perhaps you would care to explain this?” Her face was an angry mask.Naughty boy! He got what he deserved.
Curt froze. His heart leapt into his throat. He tried to think fast.
“I, er, needed to make an adjustment to your setup. We got a tech notice and…”
She put her hand up. “Stop. Bullshit. You snuck into my house. Why?” She came forward, her eyes on the mic in his hand. “What is that?” she said, snatching the mic from his hand. “This looks like a microphone. Just what do you think you are doing?” Curt just stammered something unintelligible. “Explain this!” she said, sticking the mic in his face.
Curt could not think of a thing to say. The jig was up. He quailed in the face of her justifiable anger. He was in deep shit and he knew it. His knees literally knocked as he admitted the whole thing. He watched her expression as he explained it, hoping against hope for some sign of mercy. She went from astonishment to anger to a cool appraisal as the story spilled out.
Then she pointed to the bed and said, “Sit.”
She stood in front of him, ticking things off on her fingers. “The way I see it, you have a big problem. You set up spy cameras, which has to be a felony. You snuck in my house, another felony. You are a peeping tom, surely another crime. One word by me to anyone and losing your job is the least of your worries. You are looking at jail time, my boy.”
Her words washed over Curt, soaking him with fear, a nightmare come true. He trembled as he pleaded with her. “Look. Please don’t. I’ll take it all out. I swear. I’ll move away. You won’t ever see me again. Just…let’s forget all this. I’m just, you know, your average horny guy and you’re, well, gorgeous.”
“Hmm,” she said looking around. She made him show her the cameras. Made him tell her all about what he’d seen. “Very interesting,” she said. “So you saw all that, hunh? Saw what I do with my friends?”
“And all of this was recorded? You hit a button and it records?”
Curt nodded again.
“Say ‘yes ma’am’ or ‘yes, Ms. Whitehall.’ That’s who I am to you now.”
“Good boy. Now to business. Let’s go into the family room.”
She put on a covering wrap and ushered him into the family room. Told him to sit on the couch. Curt walked on shaky legs, but now he saw he had a glimmer of a chance to get out of this. She obviously had something in mind.
“I have friends who I see in person, Curt, and friends who would like to see me but can’t. They live too far away. But if I could illustrate some of their fantasies about me, they would be very happy. Do you see?”
Curt didn’t see, but she continued.
“What I need is a partner, sort of a co-star who can help them live vicariously, someone whose reactions will be very authentic, very in-the-raw, as it were.” She went to the cabinet that housed the correctional implements. She selected a few. “Ever had an honest-to-gosh spanking, Curt? Did mommy ever put you over her knee and give you a real ass burner that stung like ballyhoo and made you cry big salty tears?”
She held up a big squat hairbrush. “Look at this. The classic hairbrush. Are you saying your mommy or aunt never spanked your little bottom with one of these until you cried?”
“No, ma’am.” Now Curt was beginning to worry. What did she have in mind?
“How about this? Leather strap. Ever lie over the end of the bed while mom or dad whaled your butt for lying? Or this---regulation school paddle. Ever take licks from the principal for tardies?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did get paddled once at school.” This one had happened to him. In junior high. Some youthful high-jinks had landed him in hot water. He remembered the summons to the office of the assistant principal. His friends Nick and George were already there. They sat on benches outside, waiting, not daring to talk. Curt could not even remember what they had done.
Then Mrs. Harlowe had come out. She was a big woman, heavyset with calves like piano legs and shoulders like a stevedore. It was to be six swats a piece, she told them. Curt had shivered at the news. Six paddle swats from a woman of her size was something to be feared. All the other kids said so.
George went first. He and Nick strained to hear. Then a loud ‘pop!’ A few seconds went by, then they heard a crack accompanied by a faint yelp. The next four swats were equally loud and the cries, though muffled were even louder. George emerged, furiously rubbing his butt. Tears ran down his red face. He was about to lose it.
Curt had gone in next and it was as bad as he’d been told. He bent over a desk supported by his forearms, his butt stuck out like a big target. The paddle burned like a hot iron. He never forgot it. It was one thing to be fascinated by the punishment of others, but quite another to get it yourself, he realized. He handled the first lick. It was a shock to feel that swelling wave of heat engulf his butt, but he could handle it. But then came the second and the third. The pain took his breath away. Each swat look the last one to the next level of pain. By the sixth he wanted to break down and cry. It took a superhuman effort to hold back the tears. He described the incident.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “My clients have all these fantasies and more.” She put the implements down. “And you are going to help me bring them to life.”
Curt wasn’t sure what she meant by that. But first things first. She marched Curt to his house. She made him disassemble his computer setup while she watched. Together they carried it all back to Robin Whitehall’s house where it was reassembled then demonstrated to Robin’s satisfaction. She made him show her how to turn on various cameras and microphones, how to switch from one to the other, how to show split scenes, and most importantly, how to record.
“See?” he said as they watched the monitor. “This is FR1. You get one angle. Then you can switch to FR2 for another. But each camera has its own channel so they are all recording everything. Later you can edit the shots so you don’t just show one static scene.”
“Very good. My, but you are an inventive little scamp. I’ll give you that.”
She proved to be a remarkably quick study, Curt noticed. After working her way through the control panel, selecting cameras, recording static scenes and learning how to save them to files, she stood up.
“Interesting. You know, I think we have time to do a test run. And to see how photogenic you are. Let’s go into my bedroom, shall we?”
Curt followed her, a knot of fear forming in his stomach. She seated herself on a chest at the end of the bed and told Curt to stand in front of her. “Now strip. I want you in your birthday suit.”
“Take off everything?” said Curt.
“Everything. And right now. Hop to it.”
Curt blushed all over as he undressed in front of Ms. Whitehall. He took off his shirt, then unbuckled his pants and let them drop. That left him in his white y-briefs and socks. He kept his head down, too ashamed to look at her. He wondered what she thought of his physique. He was no gym rat, tending instead toward a boyishly slender build, but proportioned well. He hesitated once he got down to underwear.
“All of it,” said Ms. Whitehall. “Naked as a jaybird, Curt. Oh, and put your pants and shirt over that chair,” she said, pointing at a chair in the corner.
He hastened to do her bidding then walked back, self-conscious as all get out. Oddly, his penis had started to thicken.
“Well, well, what have we here?” she said, and reached out to touch his bobbing erection. Curt sucked air in through his teeth as she fondled it and tweaked the tip. “A very horny lad, that’s what I think. So let’s see if this stays up, shall we?” She looked him up and down, then told him to turn around. When his back was to her she said, “Stop.” He felt her hands on his buttocks, squeezing and pinching as if testing the flesh. “Very nice. I think you’ll do. For a boy you have pretty buttocks. Almost like a girl’s, very cheeky and round.”
“What are you going to do?” His voice almost broke.
“Well, first you are going to turn around and face the camera. Then you’re going to say what you did. Then you are going to ask me to punish you for it.”
Blushing red Curt stammered out an apology after explaining his crime. It was utter humiliation standing there in the nude explaining what he had done. He just hoped no one would ever see it. Then she questioned him.
“Look at the camera, Curt. Do you think you should be punished for what you did?”
“How should I punish you, Curt? What do you think would be appropriate for a young man who peeps in on a woman undressing?”
Curt sweated and shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Well I do. If you were my boy and I caught you doing such a thing I’d spank your little fanny until it was raw and blistered. I’d give you a tanning you’d never forget.”
Curt had been hoping against hope that that was not where this was going, but now his worst fear was confirmed. She was going to spank him like he’d seen her do to the others. Like some naughty child.
“Don’t you think that’s what you deserve?”
How was he going to argue with her? She held all the cards now. She could do anything she wanted. “I guess so,” he said.
“You guess so? After what you did?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
The look reduced him to jelly. “I mean…yes, ma’am.”
“Very well. Go to my dresser and open the left top drawer.”
Curt did as she asked. Inside was a paddle, about ten inches long and four inches wide, and made of some sturdy wood. He shivered. This would hurt.
“On top of my dresser is a bottle of baby oil. Bring that and the paddle over to me now.”
Curt did as she asked and brought both things over.
She pointed down at her lap. “Over my knee, Curt. Toddyside up.”
Gingerly, Curt laid himself face down across her lap. She had pulled back the wrap so that her thighs were bare and the skin to skin contact with his cock sent an electric charge up his spine. She shifted him forward, and it made his feet come off the floor. He had to put his hands on the other side to steady himself. His rear end was now arched up over her knees in a shameful and vulnerable pose. Then he felt the oil being dribbled onto his bottom. Her hand smeared it all over his bottom cheeks and rubbed it in. It felt good, arousing. His prick started to swell up again.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Curt. This is so you’ll feel it more.”
Then he felt the cold tap of the paddle on his bottom and understood that the pleasurable feelings were at an end.
He thought he felt a breeze blow across his bottom before the sting of that first paddle swat exploded across his backside. Yeow! His head jerked up and his legs splayed out. Christ that had hurt!
Splat! Crack! Whap!
She put the paddle to him in a volley of ear splitting cracks that sent blast after blast of hot sting to sear his bottom.
“Ohhh….ahhhh!” He moaned. This was terrible. It had looked sexy on camera when it had been happening to someone else, but now that it was him, it was unbearable agony. Each paddle smack built on the previous one, producing searing blasts of heat on his seat and reducing him to a jabbering wreck. He chanced to look up and to his horror saw himself in a mirror facing her bed. He was flopping around, kicking his legs in a futile lap dance as the determined Ms. Whitehall brought the paddle down again and again to deliver its message of fiery pain to his quivering behind. It would look comical to an observer, he realized -- a nude young man, over the knee of a fully dressed woman, squirming and humping up and down in almost slapstick fashion as the paddle spanked his bare fanny repeatedly, making it ripple under the impacts while he flailed around in a panic.
“Stings, doesn’t it?” said Robin Whitehall.
“Ow! Y-yes, ma’am.” It was in fact an atrociously intense burning sensation -- the worst he’d ever felt. He was about to come out of his skin. The paddling applied to his oiled bottom cheeks stung so bad it threatened to reduce him to a sobbing mess.
“Now (crack!) are you sorry (whap!) for what you (whack!) did (smack! crack!)?” Nearly each word was punctuated with a crisp smack.
“Ow! Yah! Yes, MA’AM!” Curt wriggled but her hold on him was very effective. He had no purchase with his legs. “Ok! Ok! Please, stop!” He wailed.
But she didn’t stop. His punishment went on and on. The popping sound made by the paddle competed with his yelps. He was astonished that it could hurt that much. Tears poured from his eyes, snot ran from his nose. Finally he collapsed over her lap, completely spent and crying. Once he had stopped the wriggling, she put the paddle down. “Now get up, Curt. Face out there. Apologize to me again.”
It was a face of utter anguish that Curt displayed to the camera. In between sobs he somehow managed to choke out another apology. Only then did Robin Whitehall allow him to retrieve his clothes and go home.