Caught Self-Spanking

"Keith, you're up early," I heard my roommate, Pamela, say as I shuffled my way into the kitchen on Monday morning.

Stretching my arms out in front of me, I glanced up at the clock on the microwave and saw that it was 7:30am.  Pamela was right.  At this hour I was usually still sound asleep.  The benefit of working from home as a website designer allowed me to set my own hours.  My ability to sleep in pretty much every day meant that it was rare I would see Pamela in the morning before she left work running her own advertising firm.

"Yeah, I have a Zoom meeting with a new client this afternoon," I replied.  "It's a big account with multiple websites and specifications so I figured I would get up early and create a few mock sites for them to look over prior to the meeting."

Pamela was sitting at the counter drinking a cup of coffee.  Her flavor of choice is cinnamon spice and the smell of the coffee had filled the kitchen with a relaxing aroma.  She was smartly dressed in a pink blouse and blue jeans, with her hair neatly combed into what I swear is the spitting image of The Rachel. 

Opening the refrigerator I pulled out a paper plate with three pieces of leftover pizza from a few days ago.  Placing it in the microwave for thirty seconds, I turned towards Pamela and asked, "So what is on your agenda at work today?  Big day?"

"I have to approve a couple of campaigns my staff have put together.  Not looking forward to it, honestly.  I just don't think they are what the client is looking for.  But we shall see," she replied, stating it would probably take all day.

"Sounds like we both have full days ahead of us," I chuckled while taking the pizza out of the microwave.

"Yeah, fun," Pamela said sarcastically.

I sat down at the counter just as Pamela was standing from her stool.  She took her white ceramic coffee mug, complete with a cartoon cat with its hair frizzy and the words, "No, I have not had my coffee yet," written underneath, and placed it in the sink.  A quick rinse with water and Pamela put it in the dishwasher.

Walking to the nook table Pamela picked up her soft leather briefcase from a chair, and then walked out of the kitchen via the archway that leads to the foyer.  On her way, she stopped at the hooks hanging on the wall just before the archway and grabbed her keys.  "Well, good luck, I'll see you this afternoon," she said as she moved towards the front door.

I turned in my stool just as Pamela was about to open the door.  "You too. Have a great day," I said while raising my hand as if to wave goodbye.

Pamela opened the door and walked out into the bright sunlight.  The door clicked behind her and I could hear her using her key to lock the door.

A sudden rush of guilt washed over me.  Truth be told, I did not have a meeting that afternoon.  In reality, my schedule was open that day, with no work to catch up on, and really no reason to be awake that early.  At least, no reason I could tell Pamela.  My telling her I had work to do was just a cover-up.  It was the first time I had lied to her since she moved in a few months ago.  Thinking back, I don't think I had ever lied to her in the years since we first met as freshman at the University of Rhode Island.  During that time her and I got very close and had kept in touch since graduating almost four years ago.

It was her desire to open her own business and move to the Hartford area, where I grew up and still live, that lead her to being my roommate.  When she first told me her plans I did not hesitate to offer her one of my spare bedrooms.  Her moving in was only meant to be temporary but as I sat that morning on the kitchen stool, I knew we both had it in our minds "why bother moving out, stay as long as you like."

Our close relationship as friends and living arrangement made my lie all the more regretful, but also all the more necessary.  It was a secret "activity" I wanted to do that got me up that morning.  In the past, before Pamela was around, I was able to do as I pleased with this activity.  That all changed when she moved in.  In order to do what I wanted to do I needed the house empty.  This morning would be my first time going through with it since she moved in.

Finishing my leftover pizza I tossed the paper plate into the trash bin under the sink and, after taking a few sips from a bottle of water, I went to my bedroom.  Walking in I closed the door behind me.  At least I thought I did.  An inadvertent leaving of the door ajar left if cracked open maybe six inches.  

Making my way around the bed I went to the nightstand on the far side of the room.  Opening the top drawer I pulled out a stack of spanking drawings I had printed from the internet over the years.  Each one depicting a strong, powerful woman with a stern, and sometimes, downright evil, look in her eyes. The men in the drawings were over their knees getting paddled with a wooden bathbrush on their bare backsides. The look of determination on the woman and look of despair on the men always gave me goosebumps when I looked at them. Shuffling through the stack of 25 drawings I chose three and set them on the bed. The remainder I laid on the nightstand next to the lamp.

Picking up the three I had chosen I looked at them with a want in my mind. Sighing, I thought of how I wished they were real, and I was the one getting his bottom scorched. Instead, the activity I was about to do was all I had.

Reaching out over the bed I took each of the three and leaned it against the pillow, facing out.

Satisfied with the mini-gallery I had created I went to the dresser and took out a wooden bathbrush from the bottom drawer. It was a good weight, perfect for delivering a solid smack. I placed it on the bed to where I could reach it with my right hand. Standing at the base of the bed, I slowly slid my shorts down, baring my bottom. With a deep breath I then bent over the edge of the bed.

Staring forward I could see the drawings I had leaned against the pillow. Reaching with my right hand, I picked up the brush and rubbed it across my bare bottom. A quick gulp was followed by my raising my arm as far back as I could before bringing the brush down hard. A jolt of pain raced through me as I swung the brush down three more times. The sound of the wood on my bare bottom echoed through the bedroom.

I began to spank myself, trying to make each swat hurt as much as possible. Trying in vain to mimick the distress and sobbing seen in the drawings. After only 15-20 of the hardest smacks I could give I stopped. The sting of the brush was too much to take. I laid the brush back on the bed. My eyes focused back to the drawings. I sighed wishing the spanking was being done for real, by a strong woman who would continue the paddling well past when the sting got to be too much. Spanking myself, I knew I could stop at any time, and even let up on the hardness of each smack. It was the same story unfolding as each time before when I tried to spank myself. How I wished I was a man in one of those drawings...getting my bottom roasted for real.

With an almost humorous effort, I picked the brush back up and tried again to give myself a proper spanking. My arm being uncomfortable from the odd angle I had to use each of these new smacks were not very hard, and only minimally stinging.

"What the hell, Keith?" I heard a voice behind me exclaim. My heart skipped a beat. I quickly dropped the brush onto the floor and turned over pulling my shorts up as fast as I could. Pushing the door wide open Pamela was standing, staring at me with a look of shock and disbelief.

My face turned red from embarrassment. "I...I...I can explain," I fumbled for the words but was finally able to stutter them out.

The room was thick with tension, the only sound the faint echo of the last smack of the brush and my heavy breathing. The drawings on the bed, and the wooden bathbrush lying discarded on the floor told a story that didn't need words.

"Pam, I...I had no idea you were home," I managed to get out, my voice quivering. "I thought you had left for work."

Pamela stepped into the room, her eyes glued to the spanking drawings and the fallen brush. "I forgot something and came back for it," she replied. "What are you doing?" she asked with a hint of disdain.

My mind was racing. I had never talked to anyone about my spanking fantasy, not even my closest friends. Now, here I was, caught red-handed by my roommate. "It's just...I...I have this fantasy," I stammered barely above a whisper, trying to find the right words.

Pamela's gaze moved towards the drawings. "This is pretty crazy," she chuckled as she picked up one of the images and studied it closely. "This woman is spanking this guy really hard. Is that what you were trying to do to yourself?" She turned the drawing towards me, holding it in front of my eyes.

I felt my face blush. "Well...yes," I admitted through a shaky voice. "It's...a...a fantasy I have. I've had it for a while."

"But spanking yourself, Keith? I can't imagine you can really spank yourself as hard as in this drawing," Pamela remarked.

Her voice outlined a sense of bewilderment. Gulping, I tried to compose myself. "No, I can't...I...I always hold back knowing how much it stings."

Pamela set the drawing down and walked closer to me, curiosity overtaking her initial shock. "Why do you look at these while you do it?" she asked me, her voice a little softer.

Fidgetting, I turned my head to look at her directly, "It's just...it makes it more real, I guess," I mumbled, now avoiding eye contact. "I imagine it's a woman doing it, you know, like in the drawing."

Pamela nodded slowly, taking it all in. "I see." Looking down she picked up the brush, examining it closely. "How does this brush feel?"

Swallowing hard, I looked at the brush in Pamela's hand. "It's...it's not as painful as I fantasize it being. I mean, I...I can't spank myself as hard as want it to be because I...I can't bring myself to smack as hard as I can."

Pamela's eyes lit up with understanding. "Ah, so you want the real deal," she smirked. She twirled the brush in her hand, the wood glinting against the light of my ceiling fan. "Maybe you need someone to do it for you? For real."

Butterflies enveloped my stomach and my heart beat faster and faster. "What? No, I...I don't know," I quickly shot back.

Pamela looked intently back at me. "I think you do know. You wouldn't be fantasizing about these drawings while spanking yourself if you didn't want to do it for real."

Jokingly, I laughed, "Hardly! I mean, even if that were true, it's not like I know anyone I could ask to do it for real. So it doesn't matter anyway." With a shrugging of my shoulders I stood up and collected the spanking drawings and put them away in the nightstand.

Pamela, unfazed, responded, "You're right, it's not something you can just ask anyone....But..."

The sentence hung in the air. "But what?" I questioned.

Pamela smiled, a hint of mischief in her look as she bit her lips. "But...what if you told me your fantasy? Your full fantasy."

My eyes rotated to the brush, and then back to her. "You don't want to know," I replied flippantly, hoping to end the conversation.

"But what if I do?" she countered. "We're friends, right?"

Nodding in agreement, I offhandingly remarked, "Yeah, but..."

Pamela moved the brush around in her hand, testing its weight. "Yeah, but...what?"

I stood next to the nightstand not believing the conversation I was having with my closest friend. Could I really tell her? Would she judge me? My throat was dry as I nervously said, "Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh."

"I promise," she said smiling, placing the brush down on the bed. Patting the spot next to her, she motioned for me to sit down. "Come on, tell me all about it."

Hesitating for a moment, I sat down, my legs shaking. In a low voice, I began, "Okay, so in my fantasy, I hand a woman the wooden bathrush...," I paused in disbelief I was about to tell Pamela my real fantasy.

Pamela put her arm on my shoulder, encouraging me to go on, "And then?"

Wetting my lips, I slowly continued, "I ask her to put me over her knee for a real spanking, not love taps, and..." I paused again, unable to speak through my heavy breathing.

"And?" Pamela prodded.

"And...I ask her to spank me with the wooden bathbrush with no holding back. I tell her I want every smack as hard as possible."

Pamela further prompts gently, "Anything else?"

A cackling, almost inaudible response is delivered. "And I want it to last no less than fifteen minutes, with no safeword. Once I ask for it...there is no getting out of it."

Pamela's expression remained neutral. "And...anything else?" she asked, trying to get me through it.

A large exhale leads to the final aspect of the fantasy. "And...and...bare bottom."

Pamela's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, of course it has to be bare bottom, Keith," she teased.

A wave of relief came over me. "It's just...it's what makes it more real, you know?" I explained.

Pamela, sitting quietly, was contemplating what I had just confided to her. "So, you want to experience this fantasy," she questioned, "but you don't think you can find a woman who will put you over her knee, is that right?"

An embarrassing red filled my face as I admitted, "Yeah, it's pretty...specific."

Pamela's expression changed to a more serious look. "Keith, that is really specific. The spanking you fantasize getting will be very painful. Are you sure that is what you really want to do? I mean, no safeword? What if ten smacks in you say you have changed your mind because it hurts too much?"

My eyes darted around the room. "I know it's a lot to ask. But in my fantasy, it's like...it's like the excitement of asking and being made to go through with it. I want it for real. If after ten smacks I say I changed my mind...I...I want her to say "I'm sorry to hear that." I wouldn't want her to stop even if I said it hurt too much. I think my fantasy would be fun to do for real."

"Keith, this is a serious spanking. If you want the fantasy...you need to be prepared for the reality of it."

"I know," I said with a murmur, "I've thought about it a lot. I guess it doesn't really matter because it's not like there is anyone to do it." I let out a laugh to break the coldness of the situation.

Pamela reached beside her and picked up the brush again, gazing at it with an eerie stare. "Well...Keith?" Her voice becoming more serious.

"What? You mean..." I gasped, unable to finish my sentence.

"That's right. I'll do it," she scolded, "Right here. Right now."

"You...you'd...surely, you can't be serious?"

Pamela laughed, "I am serious, and don't call me Shirley." Her deadpan impression of Leslie Nielson brought a smile to both of us. "But," she said sternly, "you have to be sure." Pamela held the brush out for me to take.

My hand shook as I took the brush from her. This was it. This was the moment I had fantasized about for so long, and it could be happening with my roommate, Pamela.

Placing a hand on my arm, she comforted me. "The decision is yours. I'm not going anywhere. I am going to take the day off. So I will be in the living room. If you decide you want to do your fantasy for real...just bring the brush to me and ask."

The anxiety was thrilling. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You're not...you're not joking, are you?" I asked, hoping she would say she was.

Pamela's eyes held mine, "I'm not, but remember...no safeword. Once you ask, you're committing to the full fifteen minutes, no matter what."

"Okay, I'll think about it," was all I could say in response.

"Take your time," Pamela said, as she stood up. "I'll be in the living room. Remember, no safeword. And bare bottom."

I watched her leave my bedroom, my hand shaking as I held the brush. Standing up, my legs like jelly, I walked over to the door, closing it gently.

I opened the drawer to the nightstand and pulled out my favorite spanking drawing. The woman in the drawing is a goddess of discipline, her arm raised high, the brush coming down with a fierce force. The man's bottom a patchwork of red. Suddenly it hit me. This isn't just a fantasy anymore; it's a reality that could unfold in a few minutes.

I took another long deep breath and slid my shorts down. My cheeks were still tender from my so-called self-spanking, but the pain was nothing compared to what I'd been dreaming of.

Moving the brush back behind me I rubbed it again on my backside. Bringing it up, I paused for a moment, and then smacked my bottom as hard as I could. The pain was sharp and intense. Flinching, my eyes watered a little.

My thoughts immediately drifted to how much harder, how much more painful, Pamela's smacks would be. The sensation from the brush was nothing compared to what I imagine her spanking would feel like. I brought the brush up and down again with more force. Laying the brush on the bed I wondered if she heard me just then.

The room felt suffocatingly hot, my thoughts swirling. I can't believe that Pamela is willing to help me live out my fantasy, I told myself. My options were clear.

If I don't ask her, I might never get the chance again. What if she sees it as a sign that I'm not truly committed to the realness of the fantasy, that I'm too scared to go through with it? I could just see Pamela shrugging it off, saying, "You had your chance."

But if I do ask, and she really does it...Will I be able to handle it? Will I break down and sob, kicking and squirming, only to have her remind him that there's no safeword?

I joked to myself, "Maybe I should flip a coin?"

Chuckling nervously, the absurdity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. Here I was, contemplating asking my roommate, of all people, to fulfill my darkest spanking fantasy. The idea was so ludicrous that I felt like I was in some kind of twisted sitcom episode.

"This is it. This is the moment," I finally said to myself under my breath. With a still unsure decision, I pulled my shorts back on. The craziness of the moment showed as I leaned over and picked up the brush.

It was only a few seconds before I reached out for the doorknob. This is the moment of truth. With trembling fingers, I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

My heart pounded in my chest like a drum as I inched my way to the living room.

"Pamela?" I called out, seeing her sitting on the couch. She had changed out of what she had been wearing and was now in her blue pajamas covered in little moons and stars.

Pamela looked up from the book she was reading, and with a raised eyebrow, asked casually, "What's up?"

"I...I've been thinking," I could not help but look at the floor.

Pamela set her book down, her eyes locked on me. "And...what are you thinking?".

I tightened my grip on the brush. "I...I want to do it. I...I...I want you to do it for real."

Pamela's smile faltered for a moment, and she looked at me with a serious expression. "Are you absolutely sure, Keith? "There's no turning back once we start."

You could hear my breathing in the quietness of the moment. "I'm sure," I croaked it out with a heaving voice

Pamela stood up, her eyes searching mine. "Then ask me," she firmly said.

My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. I tried responding but no sound came out. Trying again, I finally eked out, "Pamela, would you...would you spank me?"

Pamela's expression remained serious as she looked at me. "No, Keith, ask me just like you said you wanted to ask in your fantasy," she insisted, her eyes boring into mine.

"Pamela, "would you...please...put me over your knee and spank me with this wooden bathbrush? As hard as you can, for fifteen minutes, with no safeword?"

Pamela scolded, "And...what else?"