Friday, 17 June 2016

Friday, June 17, 2016 -

Camp Briarswitch

domestic discipline behind closed doors
by Art Zeeton
Published: Jun 02, 2016
Words: 25,046
Category: domestic discipline
Orientation: F/F, (M/F)
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Chapter 1

Damn the luck! Wouldn't you know it? The dumpster was only about twenty yards from the cabin, and Ron and Clair had collected trash in the car on the trip - mainly paper cups and food wrappers. It would take only a few seconds to make a dash with the trash. Clair went for it in a sprint.

But Mr. Finney whirred around the curve on his little golf cart. Clair dropped in the trash and let the lid on the dumpster fall shut with a bang - and sighed.

"I'm busted, aren't I?" she said.

Mr. Finney chuckled and stopped the cart.

"'Fraid so, Mrs. Lattimer," he said as he stepped out. "You know what the rules say."

"I know, I know. Rule 6. No ladies allowed away from their cabins after five wearing clothes below the waist," Claire said.

"Actually, socks and shoes are okay," Mr. Finney said.

He reached into the basket on the back of a cart and brought out a clear polymer paddle with a double regiment of holes running the length of its business end. Claire examined the weapon for an instant, then looked around. Only a few of the cabins had vehicles parked in front of them, but it was only Wednesday. They would fill up by the weekend. A pickup truck was parked a couple of cabins down and a man in jeans, white tee, and dark shades sat on its little porch nursing a beer. Watching. Thunder rumbled in the east.

"We're gonna get it this evenin'," Mr. Finney said. "Hear Beaver Run is already out of its banks. Gonna come a gully-washer."

"I think I'm going to get it right now, Mr. Finney," Claire replied.

The man chuckled. Somewhere between middle age and death, Mr. Finney, as always, was dressed in pressed khaki. A floppy straw fedora was centered on his head.

"'Spect that's true, Mrs. Lattimer."

Clair unbuttoned her white walking shorts and shimmied them down to her knees. Black panties followed. She bent and grasped her shins.

"Why don't you turn t'other way, Mrs. Lattimer, so Mr. Barker can see."

Clair waddled around so the man on the porch could see her bare bottom.

Sometimes, the whole thing seemed absurd. Clair Lattimer, thirty six years old, looking much like a prim school teacher - which she was (maybe not so much the prim part) - standing bare-bottomed where a man who was not her husband would see her get spanked.

"Ready, Mrs. Lattimer?" Mr. Finney said.

Clair quickly brushed a stray lock of her short chestnut-colored hair out of her eyes, widened her stance a little for stability, and grasped her shins tighter.

"Ready, Mr. Finney."

The paddle crashed into her bottom with such force she almost stumbled forward.


Damn, he hit hard for an old guy! Clair regained her stance quickly and the second swat almost lifted her off her feet.