Erotic writer, focusing on transgender chastity, spankings, and all-around hot sexy things. I do commissions, and I'm always looking for new writing prompts. Feel free to reach out.
Emily was no stranger to spankings. Her mother’s vicious little paddle, the hairbrush that had been a permanent fixture on top of her dresser for as long as she could remember and had never once been used to brush hair; and a broad selection of belts, spoons, spatulas,and most anything else handy had been used tp bring her to tears at one point of another. However, at the top of the pain pantheon was The Strap. A thick, well-worked piece of butter-soft leather, cut into two piercing little tails. It hung on the wall at the foot of her bed; often the first thing Emily saw in the morning and the last thing she saw before bed. A warning and a reminder of what would inevitably happen should she break one of the Big Rules.
Walking home from Kaitlyn’s house, sealed note to her father in her hand, Emily was worried. The chances that the note contained anything remotely good were zero and the heavy black leather tawse weighed heavily on her mind: This was the third time this month that Kaitlyn had sent her home with a note. One of those times was admittedly her own fault, but these last two had been pure petty sadism from Kaitlyn. Being sent home like this meant the hairbrush at a minimum, and getting spanked over her panties had never been an option. But the strap… bare… she certainly hoped not, but she would find out sooner than she liked, one way or the other. Her cage, once practically throbbing with desire, was numb, her already appreciably small appendage smaller than ever, cowering in its steel prison.
Her mind briefly dallied with the idea of stopping on the way home, for a hot chocolate, or maybe a cookie from the corner store. Something to make her feel better, even a little. But she knew that if Kaitlyn had called her parents, they would have an eye on the clock, and she wasn’t sure that her poor nervous stomach would tolerate food, it was struggling with Kaitlyn’s quite thick and copious load from earlier as it was. Rounding the corner to the narrow street where she lived, her last hopes died: The lights in the living room were burning brightly, leaving no doubt that her parents were awake. Her legs felt leaden as she walked the last hundred feet to the front door. Turning the knob she stepped into the house. Carefully and quietly she slipped off her shoes and placed them neatly together on the mat. No point in aggravating her parents any further. “Emily!” her father’s voice called out. “Please join us in the living room.” Emily sighed, her breath shaky, and already starting to catch in her throat. Not trusting her own voice, she silently and obediently padded across the soft carpet into the living room.
Emily’s father looked up from his book as Emily padded into the room; her mother didn’t even look up from her knitting. The fateful letter wasn’t immediately apparent, as in her nervousness, Emily had unconsciously crumpled it into a small, slightly sweaty ball in the palm of her hand. “Well, how did it go?” he asked; his voice kind, but reserved. “Not… not great…” Emily admitted, staring at her feet. She could hear her mother’s knitting needles pause in their metronome-like clicking, and she felt the room suddenly grew colder. Her father’s voice was harder now. Stricter. Nervously, Emily held out the letter, and t seeing its rather sad condition withdrew it. Hastily, she tried to straighten out the worst of the creases in the paper, though to little effect. When the paper was at least somewhat less crinkled, Emily stepped forward wordlessly and handed the letter to her father.
Although she had known by the vicious gleam in Kaitlyn’s eyes that whatever lies the letter contained were sure to get her in the worst sort of trouble, she had had no idea of what specific offense she was being accused of. The thought of telling the truth barely flitted across her mind; but her parents would want the whole truth, and that would mean admitting to the times that Kaitlyn had left her alone with her vibrator for a few minutes. Cumming without permission was pretty much the Golden Rule, and the punishment she got for that would likely be worse than whatever the letter contained,so she held her tongue. Kaitlyn might be a mean-spirited, awful bitch, but on rare occasions she gave Emily the release her parents so consistently denied her.
She saw her father’s eyes scan the letter, then pause, and read the letter gain. Like his daughter, John Black read fast and thorough, and what felt like minutes to Emily was no more than a few seconds. When he was satisfied that he fully understood the letter’s contents, he folded it neatly, and placed the letter on his thigh, pressing out the remaining wrinkles with smooth, even strokes with his broad hand. His eyes met Emily’s, nearly the identical shade of blue. “Is this true?” Emily nodded. She couldn’t elaborate, not knowing the details of the letter. “You know what that means, then?” he asked. Emily knew that her agreement wasn’t really needed, and she desperately hoped that she was wrong, but she nodded again; “The strap…” she said, closing her eyes to keep in the tears that were already forming.
The next morning, Emily wouldn’t even remember being marched up to her bedroom, her father’s stout fingers firmly gripping her elbow. She just remembered the pain. As they entered the room, her father steered her towards her closet as he released her arm. The strap hung in its familiar, hateful place, at eye level, just to the right of the thin paneled door. She pulled the hated implement off the wall, holding it in the palm of her hand. Somehow,it was always heavier than she remembered. Turning around she walked to the end of the bed, as her father rolled up his right shirtsleeve. Knowing that delay, or worse noncompliance would make things so much worse, Emily unbuttoned her jeans with a scarcely-audible whimper. A quick glance down gave her a tiny sliver of comfort – at least she was wearing fairly modest, basic panties. A thong, or too much lace would mean no mercy, but these black bikini cut panties were conservative enough to meet her father’s approval. Reluctantly, she rolled her tight jeans and panties down, and handed back the strap.
The reason Emily hated the strap so much wasn’t the noise (loud), or the effects the next morning (quite vivid and angry looking stripes); it was the deep, unpredictable, and nigh-unbearable pain of it. She could take a hand-spanking fairly well from nearly anyone. The brush burned like fire, but eventually her bottom got numb enough that it wasn’t quite so bad. Even the school paddle was over in no more than a dozen swats, but the strap was something different. The narrow bands of leather bit deeply into her flesh, while the weight of it struck deep into the muscle underneath. The worst was the tips, which always wrapped around her narrow bottom to bite like vipers into the tender flesh just behind her right hip. She was always crying before it began, and truly broken weeping was never far behind. A dozen strokes was absolute torture, and anything beyond that was worse than being scalded. The most she had ever gotten was 24 strokes, and that had kept her out of school for the rest of the week, physically unable to sit down without breaking freshly into tears.
Her father, satisfied with her level of nudity, lightly slapped the tawse across Emily’s bared cheeks. It was much less than a quarter the strength of what she would get in a few seconds, but even this light tap stung more than she remembered. She gritted her teeth. His silence wasn’t a good sign: If it was just going to be six, he’d have started the lecture by now. His silence meant she was really in trouble. What had that damned redheaded monster put in the letter? The tears were already flowing; her fear of the strap, helplessness at her unjust punishment, and her sense of exposure at her father seeing her like this once again were a potent cocktail. Without a word of warning, her father drew back the tawse, and brought it down hard across the bare and vulnerable bottom of his only daughter. Emily’s punishment had begun.
The first stroke landed with a resounding crack, with the sensation beginning with a deep thudding pressure, followed by the searing burn as her body realized exactly how much that had hurt. Emily drew in a sharp breath through her teeth, and her tear ducts redoubled their efforts. Her arms, braced on the bed, shook with the effort of staying in position. The strap was a wicked implement, and it showed absolutely no mercy from the very first stroke. Emily tried not to cry out. She would be sniveling and howling soon enough, and begging for mercy even before that, but she tried to keep her composure, fruitless an effort as it was. The second stroke landed immediately below the first, the vicious tips of the tawse digging cruelly into her quivering flesh. Emily made a sound somewhere between a cough and a sob, and a shudder ran through her whole body. The third landed on the backs of her thighs, and it was this stroke that drew the first sounds of real regret from Emily: somewhere between a yelp and a whine, she tried to cut the sound off, but the pain drew it out of her. The fourth was nearly on top of the third, right where it hurt the most, and where she would feel it the most strongly in the coming days. The two strokes, one atop the other, made Emily feel as though she was being branded. Her fists twisted the comforter as she fought to stay in position, and “Please… No…” passed her lips before she knew she had said anything at all.
Emily’s face was actually more scarlet than her bottom, and soaked with both tears and sweat. Breaking position nearly always meant extra strokes, and Emily was desperate to avoid that. Her cheeks were aflame, and she was sure she could feel each individual point where the tips of the tawse had landed like an individual bright spark of pain. The fifth and sixth strokes came rapidly, one after the other, across the fattest part of her bottom, and that shattered whatever resolve she had left. Emily collapsed onto her elbows, leaning into the bed with the pain, but not daring to reach back. Her yelps of pain had given over to gentle sobbing. “Get up.” Her father ordered. With effort, Emily struggled back to her feet. Please, Daddy… No more…” she wasn’t aware of it, but the only time she ever called her father Daddy was when she was desperate for the punishment to end. “You know why we’re here?” Emily still had no clue what was in that bitch Kaitlyn’s note, but she hoped her father wouldn’t press her for details. She nodded her head, gulping back a sob, so she could answer “Yes, Sir.” Her father tapped the tawse against his leg, letting what he hoped was regret sink in. “So you understand why this is necessary?” Emily let out a particularly loud and heartfelt sob at his choice of words: “Is necessary” rather than ‘Was necessary” meant there would be more to come. After a moment she recovered herself, and nodded vigorously again; “Yes, Sir.”
John considered Emily’s position. He knew how much she hated the strap, her bottom was already quite red, and bruises were inevitable by the morning. She was crying quite unreservedly, any pretense of bravery of self-control totally abandoned. He looked down at the strap in his hand. She deserved more than just the six strokes she had just received, but probably not twelve. “Three more...” He announced, taking his position once again, and tapping the strap against Emily’s bottom to remind her to hold position. Emily vowed inside herself to hold position. John drew the leather back and swung through, the tawse an extension of his arm, more than a tool. Emily was many things, but well-behaved was seldom one of them, and her father wielded the strap with the sure hand of one long practiced. It landed with a resounding snap, followed a fraction of a second later by a wail of purest pain and misery from Emily. The strap was doing beautiful, terrible work, as was its wont. He was entirely ignorant of her innocence, as Emily cried, and begged, and pleaded for mercy any time he took the strap down off its hook on the wall, and tonight was no exception.
Emily braced herself and dug her toes into the carpet. Her father usually gave her the last two or three licks in quick succession to drive his point home. She was already broken, and almost totally given over to the pain, but she had just enough of herself left to brace. She didn’t have to wait long; the final two fiery strokes landed within a second of each other, and Emily’s howl of pain was drawn out into a wail. Soaked in sweat and tears, Emily collapsed onto the bed, crying harder than ever, relieved that it was finally over. Her bottom was a mess of welts, some already beginning to show the telltale signs of deeper damage that would soon be bruises. Gingerly, she reached back one small hand to try and inspect the damage. It was bad: The skin was hot to the touch and inflamed under her fingertips, the raised weals felt puffy, and the marks where the tips had dug into her were still too sore to touch. She realized that she was repeating the same apology over and over, though she couldn’t say when she had started.
John inspected his work for a long moment, making sure he hadn't broken the skin. Blood he would have to deal with, anything else was his errant daughter's problem. He hung the strap back on the wall and left the room. He didn’t need to warn Emily to go straight to bed. He didn’t need to. He knew she would cry herself out on the end of the bed, and then probably fall asleep immediately after.. He closed the door, but left the light on. Emily cried alone for another few minutes. The injustice of it stung, but not nearly so bad as her crimson cheeks. As the tears faded, and her sobs turned to hiccoughs, kicked he rjeans and panties down to her ankles. Pulling herself fully onto the bed, she kicked off both, leaving them lying on the floor, and half-crawled, half-dragged herself to her pillow. She thought about her day. About that miserable cow Kaitlyn, a tiny part of her feeling proud that she had blue-balled her at least, and about her poor aching bottom. She looked up at the strap on the wall, and wondered for the thousandth time why she didn’t rip it down and cut it to pieces. She thought about the strap, and Kaitlyn, and she rubbed her bottom. As she drifted off to sleep, the thoughts blended together, and suddenly it was Kaitlyn wielding the hated strap, nude, and laughing. Emily’s cage was oddly feeling quite cramped as she fell asleep, on her stomach, so her bottom could cool in the evening air.
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The Role Model: Pt 2
Emily was no stranger to spankings. Her mother’s vicious little paddle, the hairbrush that had been a permanent fixture on top of her dresser for as long as she could remember and had never once been used to brush hair; and a broad selection of belts, spoons, spatulas,and most anything else handy had been used tp bring her to tears at one point of another. However, at the top of the pain pantheon was The Strap. A thick, well-worked piece of butter-soft leather, cut into two piercing little tails. It hung on the wall at the foot of her bed; often the first thing Emily saw in the morning and the last thing she saw before bed. A warning and a reminder of what would inevitably happen should she break one of the Big Rules.
Walking home from Kaitlyn’s house, sealed note to her father in her hand, Emily was worried. The chances that the note contained anything remotely good were zero and the heavy black leather tawse weighed heavily on her mind: This was the third time this month that Kaitlyn had sent her home with a note. One of those times was admittedly her own fault, but these last two had been pure petty sadism from Kaitlyn. Being sent home like this meant the hairbrush at a minimum, and getting spanked over her panties had never been an option. But the strap… bare… she certainly hoped not, but she would find out sooner than she liked, one way or the other. Her cage, once practically throbbing with desire, was numb, her already appreciably small appendage smaller than ever, cowering in its steel prison.
Her mind briefly dallied with the idea of stopping on the way home, for a hot chocolate, or maybe a cookie from the corner store. Something to make her feel better, even a little. But she knew that if Kaitlyn had called her parents, they would have an eye on the clock, and she wasn’t sure that her poor nervous stomach would tolerate food, it was struggling with Kaitlyn’s quite thick and copious load from earlier as it was. Rounding the corner to the narrow street where she lived, her last hopes died: The lights in the living room were burning brightly, leaving no doubt that her parents were awake. Her legs felt leaden as she walked the last hundred feet to the front door. Turning the knob she stepped into the house. Carefully and quietly she slipped off her shoes and placed them neatly together on the mat. No point in aggravating her parents any further. “Emily!” her father’s voice called out. “Please join us in the living room.” Emily sighed, her breath shaky, and already starting to catch in her throat. Not trusting her own voice, she silently and obediently padded across the soft carpet into the living room.
Emily’s father looked up from his book as Emily padded into the room; her mother didn’t even look up from her knitting. The fateful letter wasn’t immediately apparent, as in her nervousness, Emily had unconsciously crumpled it into a small, slightly sweaty ball in the palm of her hand. “Well, how did it go?” he asked; his voice kind, but reserved. “Not… not great…” Emily admitted, staring at her feet. She could hear her mother’s knitting needles pause in their metronome-like clicking, and she felt the room suddenly grew colder. Her father’s voice was harder now. Stricter. Nervously, Emily held out the letter, and t seeing its rather sad condition withdrew it. Hastily, she tried to straighten out the worst of the creases in the paper, though to little effect. When the paper was at least somewhat less crinkled, Emily stepped forward wordlessly and handed the letter to her father.
Although she had known by the vicious gleam in Kaitlyn’s eyes that whatever lies the letter contained were sure to get her in the worst sort of trouble, she had had no idea of what specific offense she was being accused of. The thought of telling the truth barely flitted across her mind; but her parents would want the whole truth, and that would mean admitting to the times that Kaitlyn had left her alone with her vibrator for a few minutes. Cumming without permission was pretty much the Golden Rule, and the punishment she got for that would likely be worse than whatever the letter contained,so she held her tongue. Kaitlyn might be a mean-spirited, awful bitch, but on rare occasions she gave Emily the release her parents so consistently denied her.
She saw her father’s eyes scan the letter, then pause, and read the letter gain. Like his daughter, John Black read fast and thorough, and what felt like minutes to Emily was no more than a few seconds. When he was satisfied that he fully understood the letter’s contents, he folded it neatly, and placed the letter on his thigh, pressing out the remaining wrinkles with smooth, even strokes with his broad hand. His eyes met Emily’s, nearly the identical shade of blue. “Is this true?” Emily nodded. She couldn’t elaborate, not knowing the details of the letter. “You know what that means, then?” he asked. Emily knew that her agreement wasn’t really needed, and she desperately hoped that she was wrong, but she nodded again; “The strap…” she said, closing her eyes to keep in the tears that were already forming.
The next morning, Emily wouldn’t even remember being marched up to her bedroom, her father’s stout fingers firmly gripping her elbow. She just remembered the pain. As they entered the room, her father steered her towards her closet as he released her arm. The strap hung in its familiar, hateful place, at eye level, just to the right of the thin paneled door. She pulled the hated implement off the wall, holding it in the palm of her hand. Somehow,it was always heavier than she remembered. Turning around she walked to the end of the bed, as her father rolled up his right shirtsleeve. Knowing that delay, or worse noncompliance would make things so much worse, Emily unbuttoned her jeans with a scarcely-audible whimper. A quick glance down gave her a tiny sliver of comfort – at least she was wearing fairly modest, basic panties. A thong, or too much lace would mean no mercy, but these black bikini cut panties were conservative enough to meet her father’s approval. Reluctantly, she rolled her tight jeans and panties down, and handed back the strap.
The reason Emily hated the strap so much wasn’t the noise (loud), or the effects the next morning (quite vivid and angry looking stripes); it was the deep, unpredictable, and nigh-unbearable pain of it. She could take a hand-spanking fairly well from nearly anyone. The brush burned like fire, but eventually her bottom got numb enough that it wasn’t quite so bad. Even the school paddle was over in no more than a dozen swats, but the strap was something different. The narrow bands of leather bit deeply into her flesh, while the weight of it struck deep into the muscle underneath. The worst was the tips, which always wrapped around her narrow bottom to bite like vipers into the tender flesh just behind her right hip. She was always crying before it began, and truly broken weeping was never far behind. A dozen strokes was absolute torture, and anything beyond that was worse than being scalded. The most she had ever gotten was 24 strokes, and that had kept her out of school for the rest of the week, physically unable to sit down without breaking freshly into tears.
Her father, satisfied with her level of nudity, lightly slapped the tawse across Emily’s bared cheeks. It was much less than a quarter the strength of what she would get in a few seconds, but even this light tap stung more than she remembered. She gritted her teeth. His silence wasn’t a good sign: If it was just going to be six, he’d have started the lecture by now. His silence meant she was really in trouble. What had that damned redheaded monster put in the letter? The tears were already flowing; her fear of the strap, helplessness at her unjust punishment, and her sense of exposure at her father seeing her like this once again were a potent cocktail. Without a word of warning, her father drew back the tawse, and brought it down hard across the bare and vulnerable bottom of his only daughter. Emily’s punishment had begun.
The first stroke landed with a resounding crack, with the sensation beginning with a deep thudding pressure, followed by the searing burn as her body realized exactly how much that had hurt. Emily drew in a sharp breath through her teeth, and her tear ducts redoubled their efforts. Her arms, braced on the bed, shook with the effort of staying in position. The strap was a wicked implement, and it showed absolutely no mercy from the very first stroke. Emily tried not to cry out. She would be sniveling and howling soon enough, and begging for mercy even before that, but she tried to keep her composure, fruitless an effort as it was. The second stroke landed immediately below the first, the vicious tips of the tawse digging cruelly into her quivering flesh. Emily made a sound somewhere between a cough and a sob, and a shudder ran through her whole body. The third landed on the backs of her thighs, and it was this stroke that drew the first sounds of real regret from Emily: somewhere between a yelp and a whine, she tried to cut the sound off, but the pain drew it out of her. The fourth was nearly on top of the third, right where it hurt the most, and where she would feel it the most strongly in the coming days. The two strokes, one atop the other, made Emily feel as though she was being branded. Her fists twisted the comforter as she fought to stay in position, and “Please… No…” passed her lips before she knew she had said anything at all.
Emily’s face was actually more scarlet than her bottom, and soaked with both tears and sweat. Breaking position nearly always meant extra strokes, and Emily was desperate to avoid that. Her cheeks were aflame, and she was sure she could feel each individual point where the tips of the tawse had landed like an individual bright spark of pain. The fifth and sixth strokes came rapidly, one after the other, across the fattest part of her bottom, and that shattered whatever resolve she had left. Emily collapsed onto her elbows, leaning into the bed with the pain, but not daring to reach back. Her yelps of pain had given over to gentle sobbing. “Get up.” Her father ordered. With effort, Emily struggled back to her feet. Please, Daddy… No more…” she wasn’t aware of it, but the only time she ever called her father Daddy was when she was desperate for the punishment to end. “You know why we’re here?” Emily still had no clue what was in that bitch Kaitlyn’s note, but she hoped her father wouldn’t press her for details. She nodded her head, gulping back a sob, so she could answer “Yes, Sir.” Her father tapped the tawse against his leg, letting what he hoped was regret sink in. “So you understand why this is necessary?” Emily let out a particularly loud and heartfelt sob at his choice of words: “Is necessary” rather than ‘Was necessary” meant there would be more to come. After a moment she recovered herself, and nodded vigorously again; “Yes, Sir.”
John considered Emily’s position. He knew how much she hated the strap, her bottom was already quite red, and bruises were inevitable by the morning. She was crying quite unreservedly, any pretense of bravery of self-control totally abandoned. He looked down at the strap in his hand. She deserved more than just the six strokes she had just received, but probably not twelve. “Three more...” He announced, taking his position once again, and tapping the strap against Emily’s bottom to remind her to hold position. Emily vowed inside herself to hold position. John drew the leather back and swung through, the tawse an extension of his arm, more than a tool. Emily was many things, but well-behaved was seldom one of them, and her father wielded the strap with the sure hand of one long practiced. It landed with a resounding snap, followed a fraction of a second later by a wail of purest pain and misery from Emily. The strap was doing beautiful, terrible work, as was its wont. He was entirely ignorant of her innocence, as Emily cried, and begged, and pleaded for mercy any time he took the strap down off its hook on the wall, and tonight was no exception.
Emily braced herself and dug her toes into the carpet. Her father usually gave her the last two or three licks in quick succession to drive his point home. She was already broken, and almost totally given over to the pain, but she had just enough of herself left to brace. She didn’t have to wait long; the final two fiery strokes landed within a second of each other, and Emily’s howl of pain was drawn out into a wail. Soaked in sweat and tears, Emily collapsed onto the bed, crying harder than ever, relieved that it was finally over. Her bottom was a mess of welts, some already beginning to show the telltale signs of deeper damage that would soon be bruises. Gingerly, she reached back one small hand to try and inspect the damage. It was bad: The skin was hot to the touch and inflamed under her fingertips, the raised weals felt puffy, and the marks where the tips had dug into her were still too sore to touch. She realized that she was repeating the same apology over and over, though she couldn’t say when she had started.
John inspected his work for a long moment, making sure he hadn't broken the skin. Blood he would have to deal with, anything else was his errant daughter's problem. He hung the strap back on the wall and left the room. He didn’t need to warn Emily to go straight to bed. He didn’t need to. He knew she would cry herself out on the end of the bed, and then probably fall asleep immediately after.. He closed the door, but left the light on. Emily cried alone for another few minutes. The injustice of it stung, but not nearly so bad as her crimson cheeks. As the tears faded, and her sobs turned to hiccoughs, kicked he rjeans and panties down to her ankles. Pulling herself fully onto the bed, she kicked off both, leaving them lying on the floor, and half-crawled, half-dragged herself to her pillow. She thought about her day. About that miserable cow Kaitlyn, a tiny part of her feeling proud that she had blue-balled her at least, and about her poor aching bottom. She looked up at the strap on the wall, and wondered for the thousandth time why she didn’t rip it down and cut it to pieces. She thought about the strap, and Kaitlyn, and she rubbed her bottom. As she drifted off to sleep, the thoughts blended together, and suddenly it was Kaitlyn wielding the hated strap, nude, and laughing. Emily’s cage was oddly feeling quite cramped as she fell asleep, on her stomach, so her bottom could cool in the evening air.