Lauren shifted uncomfortably in her seat and sighed.  What had she expected, really?  Three weeks ago, she had finally worked up the courage to do something she had wanted to do for a long time—she had taken out an ad for a disciplinarian.  It wasn’t the sort of thing one could advertise in the local newspaper, however, so she had used certain . . . alternative . . . publications.

       And this was the result.  Even after weeding out all the obvious rejects, all five interviews had been . . . unsettling, to say the least.  Admittedly, she had intentionally worded the advertisement vaguely: Needed: Live-in Disciplinarian to Administer Punishment as Deemed Necessary.  Room and Board Provided but was there really any need to assume that this employment would involve some sort of sexual relationship or degradation?  Judging by her current interviewee, apparently, yes.

       John had cut right to the chase, showing Lauren first the punishment implements he would use on her—fair enough, that was what she had advertised for—then the leash and collar he would expect her to wear.  Then, he had suggested that she take her clothes off, since she “should get used to not wearing them, anyway.”  The interview had gone downhill from there—she never really got a chance to ask any questions because he was spending all of his time trying to get her to disrobe.

It was enough to make her want to scream.  She just wanted a man who would put her across his knee and spank her when necessary, not one who wanted to treat her like some sort of pet.  Finally, she had had enough.  She stood up and took a step towards the door.  “Well, I still have one more interview, but I’m sure I’ll be in touch—“

       John cleared his throat, but made no move to get up.  Oh, dear God, did he really expect . . . well, if it would get him to leave sooner . . .  Lauren cast her eyes downward and folded her hands in front of her.  “Thank you for your time, Sir.  I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made a decision.”

       John got up now and walked towards the door.  “That was better, although you’re still going to need a lot of work.  And this,” he reached out and smacked her butt once as he walked by Lauren, “is for forgetting your place, even if only for a moment.”  Lauren was so shocked that she could only gape after him as he let himself out.

       Lauren sighed and walked over to her kitchen counter where the fax from the next interviewee was sitting.  She read it carefully, but it was short: Interested in position.  May have to discuss compensation.  Is Saturday at noon good for the interview?—Donald Arden.

       Lauren looked at her watch and sighed again.  Saturday at noon—that meant she had almost fifteen hours before she met her last prospect.

*****

       Lauren looked at herself in the mirror.  It was Saturday, 11:45 am, and she wanted to make sure everything was perfect.  Her long dark hair hung freely down her back and a skimpy pink tank top emphasized her small but perky breasts.  A short denim skirt would draw attention to her long smooth legs—and her tight butt, of which she was particularly proud.  She had applied just a slight touch of makeup around her lips and eyes.

       For a second, Lauren hesitated and thought about the message she was sending with her sexy look.  Then, she shook it off and shrugged.  She wasn’t looking for a sexual relationship, but she was fully aware of the power of sexual attraction during contract negotiations.

       The doorbell rang and Lauren looked at her watch: 11:57.  He was early.

*****

       Lauren couldn’t believe this.  The interview had been going on for an hour, and she had spent almost the entire time talking about herself: her childhood, her ambitions in life—and, of course, her motivation behind seeking out a disciplinarian.  Don just seemed to have a way of drawing everything out of her, and he seemed honestly interested in hearing what she had to say.  She had felt comfortable the instant she had seen him; only a few inches taller than her 5’6”, he was stocky and well-built, with powerful-looking arms.

       Lauren, talking about a recent time when she arrived so late for work that she missed an important meeting with a client, stopped mid-sentence.  “You know, I’ve been talking an awful lot for the last hour, and I haven’t heard much from you.  So how ‘bout you do some talking?  I guess the most important thing is, what would your expectations of me be, and what would you be punishing me for?”

       Don hesitated for a moment.  “Well, actually, I’m glad that you talked so much.  It gave me a good idea of what you’re looking for.  As I understand it, your biggest concerns right now are a seeming inexplicable inability to be punctual and persistently backing out of plans with friends.  So, for a failure in either of those two departments, I would spank you.”  Lauren squirmed a little in her chair.  It now seemed inevitable that she would be getting spanked some time soon.  “For other misbehaviors, I’ll usually give you one warning so that you know what’s expected of you, but I reserve the right to spank you for the first incident if I think it’s something that you should have known better than to do.  Also, I expect you to immediately report any actions you take that would warrant a spanking.  If you fail to do so, your punishment will be with my belt.  So, to be safe, if you’re in doubt, it’s best to tell me.”

       Lauren was momentarily, and uncharacteristically, speechless.  “Well, that sounds perfect.  When can you start?”

       “Well, there’s also the matter of compensation to discuss.  I see you have two bedrooms, so room and board is great, but I’m a writer by trade and money hasn’t been great lately, so I’m also going to need $400/ month.”

       Lauren stood up and extended her hand, “It’s a deal.”

*****

       Lauren glanced at her watch as she ran up the stairs of her apartment building.  It was 12:30.  Damn!  And double-damn for the damned slow elevator, too.  She came out on the fifth floor huffing and puffing and ran for her apartment.

       Before Don had left yesterday, she had given him the second key, but he had also told her that he expected her to be here at noon to help him move in.  She slowed as she approached the door, and carefully tested the doorknob.  Damn, it was unlocked; that meant he was already here.  Glancing again at her watch, she opened the door and crept in; there were boxes throughout the living room and Lauren could hear Don moving around in his room.

       He called out from his bedroom, “Just go stand in the corner, Lauren.  I will deal with you in a little bit.”

       Oh, damn.  Lauren was already starting to tear up.  Was this really what she wanted?  And what had he said?  Stand in the corner?  Her back stiffened at that thought—she wasn’t a child.

       Don walked out and seemed a little surprised to see her standing teary-eyed and gaping in the middle of the living room.  “Lauren!  The corner.”  He pointed to a clear corner in the dining room.  “Go stick your nose against the wall, and stay there until I’m ready to deal with you.”  He closed the distance between the two of them, grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her towards the corner in question, then gave her a swat on the behind to get her moving.  Since she had just come from the gym, she was only wearing a thin pair of shorts, and the swat really stung home.

       Standing with her nose in the corner, Lauren could only tell where Don was from the sound of moving boxes, and her heart began to pound with anticipation.  Questions started to pop into her head.  Would he make her pull down her pants?  Afterall, this was a first offense, and the running shorts didn’t provide much protection, anyway; she really didn’t like the idea of him seeing her in only her panties.  He was only going to use his hand, right?  He’d mentioned using his belt if she tried to avoid a spanking, but he had never mentioned what he would use if she cooperated.  How long was he going to spank her for?  She’d never been spanked before and didn’t think she could take a very long one, and, again, this was a first offense.  Pretty soon, Lauren found that she was sobbing quietly and couldn’t even hear Don moving around anymore.

       “Lauren, take your shorts off and come over here.”

       Lauren turned around and looked pleadingly at Don who was sitting in a chair that he had placed in the middle of the living room.  “Could I please leave my shorts up?  I mean, this is the first time I’ve done anything wrong.”

       “Yes, Lauren,” her heart surged with hope before he continued, “this is a first offense—but it’s also been less than twenty-four hours since we started this program.  Anyway, you will certainly never be allowed to wear more than panties while you’re being punished.  Now, I won’t say it again—take off your shorts and come over here.”

       Lauren kicked off her shoes and slid her shorts off before walking over to stand in front of Don with her hands folded behind her back.  Don stared at her for a moment before she cast her eyes downward.  “Now, Lauren, why were you late?”

       Lauren barely murmured, “I was at the gym and lost track of time, sir.”  He hadn’t told her that she had to call him “sir”, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.

       “That’s completely unacceptable, Lauren.  Pull down your panties.”

       Lauren’s head shot back up, “No, please.  Let me—“

       Don raised a hand and cut her off.  “This is not a matter for discussion, Lauren.  Pull your panties down to between your knees and half way down your thighs.  Make sure they turn inside-out.”  She stared at him in disbelief for a moment.  “NOW, Lauren!”

       Tears returning to her eyes, Lauren stared at the ground as she pulled her black cotton panties down to her knees and turned them inside out.  She quickly folded her hands in front of her but put them on top of her head at Don’s command.

       Again, he was silent for a moment.  “Good.  Now this is exactly how you should be any time I have you stand in the corner.  Do you understand?”

       Lauren nodded.

       “Oh, no.  There’ll be none of that.  Answer verbally.  Do you understand?”

       “Yes, sir, I understand.”

       “Now, Lauren, what’s about to happen and why?”

       Her head snapped up again.  He was going to make her say it, too?  Don simply stared back implacably until Lauren cast her eyes down again.  She couldn’t believe what was happening.  Here she was, practically naked from the waist down, and he felt the need to add to her humiliation.  She took a deep breath.  “Sir, you’re about to spank me because I was late for helping you.”

       “So, you’d agree, then, that you need to be spanked both for being late and for letting down a friend, right?”

       Lauren realized the implication behind that—a spanking twice as long—and began sobbing.  “Yes, s-s-sir,” she managed to choke out.

       Don watched her for a moment.  So far, she’d only received one swat to the behind, and she was already a mess.   Well, she was in for a hell of an afternoon.

       “Lauren, get over my lap.”

       It was almost a relief for Lauren to get started.  She placed her hands on Don’s left leg and lowered herself down so that her pubic area fell on his right leg.  Oddly, despite the butterflies in her stomach and the tingling sensation in her butt, this was a fairly comfortable position with her weight spread across his lap; the only discomfort came from her face being mere inches from the rug—and the knowledge of what was about to happen.

       “Lauren, this is going to be very painful for you.  You may yell and you may squirm, but you may not try to get up, and there are two things you may not say: you may not swear, and you may not tell me that you can’t take any more.  I am the only one who will judge when you can’t take any more.  Do you understand?”

       “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, let’s start with your being late.  What time was it when you finally sauntered on in, Lauren?”

Lauren squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember what time her watch had said when she opened the door.  “12:34, sir.  It was 12:34.”

“Well, Lauren, I think we can solve half of your problem right there—your watch is three minutes slow.  It was 12:37.  Let’s call it one spank per minute, shall we?”  Without another word, the first spank fell—hard and towards the bottom of her cheeks.  Immediately tears returned to Lauren’s eyes.

       “You will. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “be. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “on time.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “You won’t. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “use. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “ridiculous. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “excuses.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “You will. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “not. . .”SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “lose track. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “of time.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       After the tenth smack, Lauren was kicking her legs almost uncontrollably.  After the fifteenth, she was sobbing without reserve and trying to promise that she’d never be late again.  Most of it didn’t come out very well, though.  Don finished with three very hard smacks to the middle of Lauren’s butt before pausing.

       “Now, Lauren, that was for being late.  This next set is for letting down a friend.  After that, we’ll have a brief. . .mmm, discussion about your inability to follow simple commands like ‘Stand in the corner’ and ‘Take your pants off’.”

       Lauren lay across Don’s lap crying and trying to listen to what he was saying.  She certainly wasn’t as comfortable as she had started out.  It took a moment for his words to sink in—the second spanking was going to be immediate, and there’d be more to follow after it.  She craned her head around and looked at him pleadingly.  “Please, sir, can’t we let that be my spanking for both?  Or, at least, give me a break between the two?”

       Don stared implacably back at Lauren before sighing and replying, “Well, Lauren, you’ve just made up my mind as to what your third punishment is going to be.”  With that, he raised his hand and began the spanking anew.  For the first few spanks, Lauren tried to figure out what that could possibly mean.  After that, though, she was unable to focus on anything but the slapping that caused a constant flaring of the fire on her backside.

       Lauren quickly found herself kicking her legs and sobbing again.  The spanking seemed to go on forever, and Don was starting to pay attention to her upper thighs because of the kicking of her legs.  After at least forty spanks, she had even given up on kicking her legs and simply lay there sobbing.  It was actually over for a good two minutes before she completely realized and finished her crying.

       Don patted her lightly on the bottom—but not lightly enough as it still caused her to wince—and told her to get up.  She did so, and faced him, putting her hands on top of her head without even being told.  “Now, Lauren, I want you to go stand in the corner again, and while you’re there, I want you to think about the fact that this punishment would be over now if you had just done as you were told.”

       Lauren complied without hesitation, doing the low-panty shuffle over to the original corner.  She wanted badly to rub her butt, but didn’t dare take her hands off her head.  Instead, she wondered what Don had planned for her next; why didn’t she just do as she was told?  Now, she was going to have to suffer through a third spanking.

       But, would she even be so lucky as to get just a spanking?  He had, afterall, said that he would use his belt on her under certain circumstances.

       It suddenly occurred to Lauren why Don had insisted on them signing a contract yesterday.  Right now, all she wanted to do was scream at him and tell him to get the hell out of her apartment—but she couldn’t, not for at least two months, and even then, the buyout they had agreed on was so expensive that she couldn’t hope to get rid of him for another two months after that.  Till then, he could do this to her every day, and all she could do was trust that he would be fair.

       She was brought out of her thoughts by the sound of Don’s approaching footsteps.  Involuntarily, she clenched her butt cheeks.  Don chuckled, “Don’t worry.  I would never spank you with your nose against the wall.  That would be dangerous.  Now, come here, Lauren.”

       She turned to obey and saw what he now held: a laminated wooden paddle about as wide as his hand and two hands long.  It was about half an inch thick and had ten holes drilled in it in two rows.  Immediately, she started to tear up as she did the low-panty shuffle over to Don.  “Please,” she sobbed, “I’ll be—“

       “None of that, Lauren, unless you want this to take even longer.”  She hastily shook her head.  “Well, then.  Since I wasn’t explicit before, I find that I can’t use my belt on you now, but make no mistake: the next time you argue about a punishment, you’ll be spending a long time on the receiving end of that belt.  For now, I want you to bend over and put your hands on your knees.  And Lauren,” he pointed to where her panties had slid down to just below her knees, “if you have to spread your legs a little to keep them up, you’d better do so.  If your panties touch the floor, we start this all over.”

       In her slightly traumatized state, the two demands at the same time were too much for her to process, so she spread her legs enough to pull the panties taut and then dropped her hands down to cover her nether regions.

       “Lauren, I know I didn’t stutter.”  Don moved behind her.

       POP, POP, POP.

       “Now, bend over and put your hands on your knees.”

       Lauren bent at the waist, gasping from the three rapid-fire slaps of the paddle.  With her legs slightly spread to keep her panties from falling down, she knew she was completely exposed to Don’s view.  As if to confirm this thought, Don placed the smooth wood against the inside of her left thigh, slid it up until it pushed her cheeks apart, and then down the inside of her right thigh.  She shuddered at the touch, knowing that the cool, laminated wood would soon be getting much warmer.

       Don walked around to the front of Lauren and tucked the paddle under her chin, guiding her face up to meet his gaze.  “I think it’s good that we started this way, Lauren.  It lets you know my expectations—and what you can expect for failing to meet them—with no uncertainty.  Do you agree?”

       She gulped.  “Yes, sir.”

       “Good.  Now, how many strokes of the paddle do you think you deserve?”

       She squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate.  Pick a number too low, she was sure, and her punishment would be made worse.  Pick a number too high, and she would be asking for needless pain.  Those first three pops alone had hurt more than the earlier two spankings.  Oh, why couldn’t she have just done what she had been told?  Why did she always have to resist?  Was pulling her shorts and panties down really so bad to have earned this extra punishment by resisting those acts?  She had always imagined that the humiliation of being spanked would be worse than the actual physical pain.  Having experienced both now, she resolved that, as bad as it was, she would be much more open to more embarrassment if it helped her avoid pain in the future.

       “Lauren, if you don’t want to pick, then I will pick for you.”

       Her eyes snapped open.  She’d let her thoughts drift and hadn’t done any thinking on the actual question that she was supposed to be answering.  “Fif—no, twenty, sir.”

       Don looked up, seeming to consider the number.  He shrugged.  “That seems about right, Lauren.”

       He walked back around to her already sore behind.  Lauren heard a brief whistle—air rushing through the holes in the paddle, she realized later—before the next:

       POP!  She stumbled forward with a sob.  “Lauren, stop moving.  Bend your knees a little.”  She did so, which had the effect of making her feel as though she was thrusting her butt and nether regions at Don.  More humiliation.

       whistle. . . POP!

       “You will not. . .” POP!

       “argue. . .” POP!

       “during. . .” POP!

       “a punishment.” POP!

       “You will. . .” POP!

       “do. . .” POP!

       “as you’re told. . .” POP!

       “or next time. . .” POP!

       “this. . .” POP!

       “will be. . .” POP!

       “worse.” POP!

       Don walked around to the front of Lauren.  “Do you understand me, Lauren?”

       She took a moment to choke back a sob.  “Yes, sir.  I’m sorry.”

       He nodded and walked back around.

       whistle. . . POP!

       whistle. . . POP!

       whistle. . . POP!

       whistle. . . POP!

       whistle. . . POP!

       whistle. . . POP!

       whistle. . . POP!

       Lauren stood in place, sobbing and legs shaking.  Her panties had slid down to just above the floor.  It took her a moment to realize the paddling was over.

       Don stood in front of her.  “Lauren, stand up.  You can pull your panties up.  Go get yourself cleaned up and come back to help me unpack when you’re ready.”  He handed her a tissue.

       She used it as she fled to her room.  There, once she had stopped crying, she pulled her panties back down and looked at her butt in the mirror.  It looked like a bad sunburn.  She shuddered at the thought of having to sit at a desk all day tomorrow at work.  Worse, she remembered, she had her class tomorrow night.  She couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable the hard plastic seat in that auditorium was going to be for two-and-a-half hours.

       She sighed.  Well, she’d had her first spanking.  She knew what she had gotten—she just wasn’t sure it was she had wanted.

Lauren took a deep breath and steeled herself.  It had been three weeks since her inaugural spanking and paddling from Don.  Since then, he had only spanked her twice, and both had been brief affairs on the seat of her panties.  Frankly, she wasn’t getting the discipline that she wanted, but she hadn’t figured out how to tell him, yet.

       Don was eating his breakfast and doing some paperwork.  Lauren picked up a section of the newspaper and pretended to be reading it as she walked over to the table and—intentionally—knocked over his orange juice.

       He sprung up to move the paperwork.  “Dammit, Lauren!  Watch what you’re doing!”

       “Oh, I’m sorry, Don.”  Watch what I’m doing?  I should be over his lap right now crying and apologizing.  And I shouldn’t even be thinking about calling him by his first name.

       Don’s quick reaction had saved most of the paperwork.  A rush of inspiration, and Lauren decided to just speak her mind.  “Don, I . . . I need you to be stricter with me.”

       He looked up, a little stunned, as orange juice dripped onto the tile floor.  His expression quickly turned to anger.  “Ok, Lauren, if that’s what you want, pull down your shorts and panties, and go stand in the corner.”

       Without another word, Lauren pulled down her shorts and panties—making sure that the latter turned inside out—and shuffled over to place her nose in the corner that Don had pointed at.  Immediately, she began to feel regret.  It wasn’t like she liked being spanked—on the contrary, she found it painful and humiliating—it was just that she needed to know it was a possibility.  And it looked like it was a very real possibility, now.

       She stood there for a good long while—to the point that her shoulders were starting to get sore from keeping her hands on top of her head.  She could hear Don typing in his room.  What was he doing?  What was taking so long?  Couldn’t he just spank her and be done with it?

       She heard Don walk out of his room and tensed up.  This is it, she thought.  Here comes the spanking.  But instead, she heard him open and shut the fridge and then head back into his room.  The sight of the wall in front of her was beginning to get boring, but she didn’t dare turn to look around.  One of Don’s rules was that when he told her to stand in the corner, he meant nose to the wall.  If he caught her doing anything else, it would only make her punishment worse.

       Finally, she heard something being printed and heard Don walk out into the living room a few moments later.

       “Lauren, come here.”  Lauren turned and obeyed, suddenly feeling the tumbling in her stomach and the tingling in her butt that preceded every spanking.  She shuffled over to Don.  He sat on an armless chair in the middle of the living room.  On the coffee table next to him was a stack of papers marked with yellow highlighter.  She was curious about the papers but knew better than to ask.

       “Lauren, earlier this morning, you were either being careless or were intentionally acting out in order to get attention.  Either behavior is unacceptable, so I’m going to spank you either way, but I want to know which it was.  Did you knock over my glass on purpose or not?”

       Lauren gulped.  “I knocked it over on purpose, sir.”

       “I see.  Over my lap, Lauren.”

       She lowered herself into position, feeling intense vulnerability at offering her butt to Don for punishment.

       SMACK!

       “The lesson I want you to learn, Lauren . . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “is that you will communicate directly with me. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “when you need an issue addressed.”  SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

       “Do you understand me?”

       The ten smacks had been delivered hard to the bottom of both cheeks.  Lauren felt her lips trembling but was proud that she hadn’t quite broken out crying, yet.  “Yes, sir.”  Her voice did crack, though.

       “Good.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       Her fortitude didn’t last long, however, and Lauren was soon bawling and kicking her legs.

       Don paused for a second and wrapped his right leg around both of hers before continuing.

       SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “I don’t want to have to repeat this lesson, Lauren.  Do you understand?”

       “Y-yes,” [sob] “s-sir.”

       “Good.”  SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.  The final nine alternated between cheeks, leaving no part of Lauren’s bottom unmarred.

       “Get up, Lauren.”

       She pushed herself up and accepted and used an offered tissue before assuming the required position with her hands on top of her head.

       Don picked up the papers from the coffee table next to him.  “This, Lauren, is our new contract.”  He held out the stack along with a pen.  “I want you to initial where I’ve highlighted next to each clause and sign the bottom of each page.”

       Lauren accepted the paperwork and began reading it.  “I, Lauren M. Hill, hereafter referred to as, ‘the Disciplinee,’ agree to the following terms—”

       “Lauren, what are you doing?”

       “I’m . . . reading the contract, sir.”

       Don snatched the papers out of her hand and pulled the startled woman back over his lap in one smooth motion.  “That’s not what you were told to do, Lauren.”

       “You are going to learn. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.  Her already sore behind blazed anew.

       “to do as you are told. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “not what you want.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “You had better. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “start. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “listening. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “or you are going to spend. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “a lot of time. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “in this position. . .” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

       “Do you think you can do as you’re told, now, Lauren?”

       “Y-yes,” [sob] “s-sir. I—I’m s-sorry.”

       “Then get up, and sign the contract.”

       Lauren pushed herself up once again and started scribbling her initials in all of the highlighted spots and signing at the bottom of each page on the new contract.  When she was finished she placed the contract back on the table and straightened with her hands on top of her head.  Don looked through the contract before standing, grabbing her left arm, and turning her back toward her former corner.  “Good.”  SMACK.  The spank startled her enough to make her jump and resume crying.  “Now go stand back in your corner until I’m ready to deal with you.”

       She shuffled to the corner, still sobbing, and placed her nose against the wall.  What had she gotten herself into?

Don looked over from the football game and stared at Lauren facing the corner.  He really couldn’t believe his luck.  This was exactly the situation he had been looking for for some time.

       It wasn’t like there weren’t other women who would be willing to enter into this sort of relationship, who would even enjoy being disciplined.  But that was the problem: every other woman he had ever met had actually got off on being treated this way, and that wasn’t what he wanted.  It just wasn’t satisfying for him if they enjoyed being spanked or humiliated.

       On the other hand, he also didn’t want to assault someone, didn’t want to force her unwillingly into the kind of embarrassment that he wanted to dish out.  No, what he wanted was someone willing to be disciplined—someone who almost felt a need for it—but who definitely did not enjoy the actual implementation of the discipline.  That was a very rare flower, indeed, and he had found her in Lauren.  And to top it off, he thought as he stared at her reddened bubble butt, she was hot.

       He had been able to tell on their first day that Lauren was not in that former group of girls, had not been one to get off on being dominated.  At most, he thought that she might have just been curious as to what the experience would be like and then decided it wasn’t for her after that first spanking.  So, he had backed off, giving her only a couple of mild spankings so as not to push her too far.

       Today, though, when she had insisted that she NEEDED more from him, he had known that he had finally found what he was looking for, would finally get to experience his fantasy.  And now, intentionally or not, she had given him carte blanche to establish the framework of their new relationship.  It was all he could do not to call her over right now and explain to her the new rules of their household—he couldn’t wait to see her reaction—but, no, he wanted to keep her waiting in that corner for a while, keep her wondering just what that contract said.

       Besides, he had a few errands that he needed to run first.  He turned off the TV.

       “Lauren, I’m going out for a while.  Do you need to use the bathroom before I leave?”

       “No, sir.”  The despair in her voice told him that she had, indeed, been contemplating what their contract might say.

       “Are you sure, Lauren?  You’re not going to be allowed to move from the corner while I’m gone.  It might be a while.”

       He gave her a moment to think about it.  “Well. . . yes, I’d like to go, sir.”

       “Go ahead.”

       She turned and shuffled to the bathroom, keeping her hands on top of her head.  When she came out a few minutes later, she shuffled back to her corner, hands still on top of her head.

       “Ok, Lauren, I’m heading out.”

       “Sir, before you go. . .”

       “Yes?”

       “Can I put my hands down?  My shoulders are getting really sore like this.”

       Don thought about it for a moment.  “You may have one alternate position, Lauren, and that is with your hands behind your back, your left hand holding your right forearm just below the elbow, and your right hand holding your left forearm just below the elbow.  You can move back-and-forth between those two positions as needed.  I might think of more later, but for now, it’s just those two.”

       “Thank you, sir.”  She shifted to the new position and sighed.

       “You’re welcome, Lauren.  I’ll be back in a bit.”  With that, he walked out to pick up his items.

       Lauren didn’t know how long it had been since Don had left, but she was certain it had been at least an hour.  If so, she’d spent more time with her nose against the wall and her butt on display than doing everything else she had done today.

       She shifted her arms from position one to position two, again—the sixth transition since Don had left.  Neither position was painful; her shoulders just became sore after a long time in either one.  What was painful was the spanking that she was sure was yet to come today.  Her rear end began to tingle at the thought, and she suddenly felt more exposed.

       Finally, the door opened.  Lauren said nothing waiting for the command that she hoped was coming soon if only to relieve the interminable boredom.  She heard Don moving around for a few minutes during which she shifted back to her having her hands on top of her head.

       “Come here, Lauren.”

       Lauren turned to obey and shuffled over toward Don.  He had moved a bar stool into the living room near where he sat on the couch and, she saw with trepidation as she got closer, had placed the paddle and a leather strap with a wooden handle on the coffee table.

       “Sit down, Lauren.”  He gestured to the stool.  She looked at it, confused for a moment, then leaned down to pull up her panties.  “No, leave your panties where they are.”

       She gulped.  For a moment she had thought she was going to escape another spanking, but she supposed Don was just giving her a break after leaving her standing all day.  It was awkward pulling herself up onto the stool shackled at the knees by her own panties, but she managed it and then held onto the sides of the stool for balance.  The wooden stool was cool and she realized with relief that her butt wasn’t so sore from her earlier punishment.

       “Lauren, I’ve done a lot of thinking this afternoon.”  HE had done a lot of thinking?  She had spent the day staring at a white wall.  She hadn’t had anything to do BUT think.  “When you told me earlier that you needed me to be more strict, I took that to mean that you wanted to yield some control over your life to someone else—namely, me.  Would you say that is an accurate description of what you wanted, Lauren?”

       She furrowed her brow in thought for a moment.  “I guess s—Yes, it is, sir.”  She suddenly felt very sure of those words.

       Don nodded.  “Well, I’m glad I interpreted that right.  The only problem is, Lauren, that if you truly want to yield control, you can’t be the one to set the limit on how much control is yielded.  If you pick and CHOOSE what aspects of your life you’ll yield to someone else, then you aren’t truly yielding control.  Do you understand?”

       “Yes, I. . . I think so, sir.”

       “Good.  Well, then, that is why I wrote our new contract without your input and that is why I had you sign it without getting a chance to read it.  I made the decision on what control you’ll yield to me and, while you may find that some of it pushes your limits, I think you’ll find that it’s overall a reasonable document.

       “I’ve made two photocopies of the contract, Lauren.  One for you, one to hang on the fridge, and I’ll keep the original.  I’m going to go over it with you now.  I’m not going to hit all the details—you can read it on your own later—but we’ll go over the major points.  Are you ready?”

       “Yes, sir.”  More than ready—she was relieved.  She had been worried that she would never be allowed to read the contract.

       “Okay, first, Lauren, consider yourself now under a curfew.  10:30 on weeknights and 1:00 on weekends.  Come home late, and you will be spanked, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”  A CURFEW?!  She was 27 years old.  She hadn’t had a curfew in a decade.  She took a deep breath and calmed herself.  Okay, a curfew wasn’t so bad.  It wasn’t like she stayed out that late most nights, anyway.

       “Next, Lauren, you are a spendthrift.  I don’t think there’s been a week since I’ve been here that you haven’t come home with a new pair of shoes and a matching handbag.  I’m going to help you control your spending.  From now on, you will turn your paychecks over to me.  I will give you $400 per month from that and cover the rent, utilities, and groceries from the rest.  I’ll also start a savings account from which you’ll be allowed to borrow—but at a steep interest rate and with a, mmm, required down payment that will make you spend your money more carefully after that.”  Lauren found her eyes bulging before Don was halfway through his description, but she bit her tongue.  An allowance?  From her own money, to boot?  Well, if she couldn’t stay out late at night, she wouldn’t really be needing the money, anyway, she thought ruefully.

       “And since I will be handling the apartment finances, you are going to start contributing in other ways.  You will keep this apartment clean, Lauren.  You’ll probably want to plan on cleaning at least every Friday because I’m going to be inspecting it every Saturday morning, and if it doesn’t meet my standards, you are going to find yourself over my knee.”  Great.  She was going to be paying him to be his maid.  “You will also make and serve breakfast every day at 7:00 in the morning and, on nights when you don’t have your class, you will serve dinner at 7:00.”  Scratch that—his maid and his cook.

       “And that brings us to your education, Lauren.  What degree are you pursuing again?”

       “A Masters in Finance.”  She had dropped the “sir” intentionally.  She wasn’t too happy about these new requirements.  Although, she supposed, that played back into what Don had been saying earlier.  If she wanted to yield control, she couldn’t control what control was yielded.  Or something like that.

       “Yes, well, I have to say I don’t really approve of you taking those classes.  You’re filling a seat a man could be using.”  Her jaw dropped.  She certainly hadn’t expected THAT from Don.  “But, all the same, you’re there, and while you’re there, you will perform well.  Any assignment that earns a grade of less than a B+ or an 88% will earn you a hard spanking.  Any class in which you earn anything less than an overall A will earn you the strap.”  Now Don looked distracted for a moment.  “By the way, when we’re done here, I want you to hang the paddle and strap up in your room.  Somewhere where you can see them when you’re lying in bed.  From now on, you will bring them to me when you’re going to be punished with them.”  She shuddered at that and decided that maybe she’d throw the “sir” back in to keep Don in a good mood; somehow, the idea of bringing the implements of her punishment just added to the humiliation.

       “Next, your pussy.  First, Lauren, you will always refer to it as your ‘pussy’.  No other title is acceptable.”  She cringed at that.  She hated that word.  “Second, you will keep your pussy neatly trimmed at all times.  I don’t want to have to feel a lot of hair on my lap when I’m spanking you.  You will shave everything except for a trapezoid no longer than the length of your index finger, no wider at the top than your middle three fingers, and no wider at the bottom than your middle finger.  That hair will be kept between one-quarter and three-eighths of an inch long.  You will not, under any circumstances, shave it completely.  I will inspect you at any time to make sure you’re in compliance, Lauren, and if you are not, I will whip your pussy with a riding crop.  Because of the severity of the punishment, that is the only one I will allow you to appeal. . . ”

Her jaw dropped and she stopped listening.  Whip. . . whip her?  She made an immediate vow to herself that if she did nothing else, she would keep her pubic hair trimmed the way Don had just described.  Then, she shifted uncomfortably as the full implications of what Don was saying sunk in.  She had signed a contract earlier today saying that she would keep her pubic area trimmed to his precise specifications or face having it whipped.  It certainly was not currently meeting those standards.  The fact that she had not been allowed to read the contract—and that she had spent the rest of the day with her nose pressed firmly against a wall—might not be a mitigating factor in Don’s eyes.

       “And the final clause,” Don’s voice brought her back to the present.  “You will address every man—defined as any male over the age of eighteen—as ‘sir’ or ‘Mr.’ followed by his last name.  That’s whether or not I’m around, and I expect you to report any failure and accept a severe punishment.”

       “But. . . but, sir, there are men who work for me.  I can’t—”

       Don cut her off with a raised hand.  “I didn’t ask you if it would be difficult.  I told you to do it.  If you think that your job will make this requirement impossible, maybe the job isn’t appropriate for you.”

       “No, sir.  I’ll. . . I’ll be able to do it.”  She had another thought, something that might be able to distract Don from her poor grooming habits and the potential of a whipping.  She cast her eyes downward.  “Sir, I feel like. . . ”

       “Yes?”

       “Well, if it’s wrong for me to not address men as ‘sir’ or with a ‘Mr.’, now, then it’s been wrong all the times I’ve done it in the past.”

       “Yes.”

       “Sir, could you give me just one long punishment to make up for all of those times?”  She was sure her butt could take a lot more punishment than her nether regions.

       Don leaned back and smiled, now.  “Well, Lauren, I applaud your maturity in making that request.  As a matter of fact, I am going to give you one long punishment for your past offenses.”  Lauren felt her heart begin to pound and her stomach to flip.  “But not right now.  No, I’m going to do it tomorrow morning; I want to give you the night to think about it.

       “Tomorrow, Lauren, I am going to give you the longest, hardest spanking I have ever given you, designed to make sure you understand your place in relation to men.  Do you understand, Lauren?”

       She was already crying a little.  “Yes, sir.”

       “Good.  Then at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I want laid out on this table your strap, your paddle, and a one-thousand word, hand-written letter explaining why your past behavior was wrong and apologizing for it.  And I want you, facing that wall, prepared for your spanking.”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Good.  You may go to your room now to get started on that letter.”

       “Thank you, sir.”  She got up to go.

       “And, Lauren?”

       “Yes, sir?”

       “I’m giving you a pass on your pussy, today, but it better be properly trimmed tomorrow.”

       “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

Half an hour later, Lauren was still struggling with the apology letter and decided to take a break to take care of her grooming issue.  She quickly realized that a razor was not going to be sufficient to the task.  After a few minutes of looking through the phonebook and a quick phone call, she walked out to find Don watching TV in the living room.

       “Sir, may I leave for a little while?”

       “Why?”

       “I have an appointment to get waxed, sir.”

       Don looked at her with a grin.  “Waxed, Lauren?  What do you mean?”

       “My. . . my pussy, sir.  I’m going to get it waxed so the hair is in the shape you described.”

       “Very industrious, Lauren.  How’s the letter coming along?”

       “I’m still working on it, sir, but it will be done before tomorrow.”

       “Okay, as long as it is.  Go ahead.”

       “Thank you, sir.”

The waiting room at the day spa was almost as boring for Lauren as standing with her nose against the wall.  At least the magazines are newer, she joked to herself.  She didn’t realize that she had spoken out loud until the woman across from her looked up from her own 6-month old “Cosmo”.

       Lauren smiled weakly at the woman and looked away.  She had always associated the procedure she was there for with strippers and porn stars and she had to keep reminding herself that the rest of the women in the waiting room would just assume she was there for a facial or a pedicure, just like them.

       “Lauren?”

       She looked up to see a white man with a receding hairline leaning through the doorway to the main area.  They exchanged smiles.  “I’m Jim.  If you’ll just follow me. . .”

       She grabbed her purse and followed him musing that, technically, she had no choice.  She had read the whole section in her contract from which the “sir” requirement originated and discovered that the requirements were a little more extensive than that.  First, she was to “courteously discourage” men from calling her “ma’am” or anything along those lines.  Second, she had to honestly answer any question posed to her.  And finally, she had to honor any non-sexual requests.  There’d even been a helpful little graphic to give the order of precedence: Commands from Donŕ Requests from Donŕ Commands from other menŕ Requests from other men.

       She followed Jim into a room that reminded her of a doctor’s office, complete with a raised table with the sliding paper sheet.  “Okay, Lauren, if you can just take off your pants and panties and hop up on the table, we’ll get started.”

       Lauren hesitated and then decided that “honoring requests” didn’t mean “unquestionably”.  “Um, isn’t there. . . won’t a woman be doing this?  Sir.”

       Jim shrugged.  “You asked us to squeeze you in, and all the women are booked at the moment.  If you’d like to come back the day after tomorrow, though. . .”

       Dismayed, she shook her head.  “No, sir.”  She started to unbutton her jeans, then realized Jim was just sort of . . . staring . . . at her.  She turned around and then shook her head at how silly she was being.  It wasn’t like he wasn’t about to get a good look, anyway.

Lauren kicked her shoes off and pulled her jeans down.  She hesitated, steeled herself, and pulled her panties down, too, then folded the jeans and panties up and put them on a chair, turned, and hopped up on the table, folding her hands in her lap.

Jim smiled appreciatively.  “Now, if you could just lie back,” she did so, “and put your feet up in these stirrups . . .”  He unfolded a pair of stirrups from the table.  She gulped, then did as she was told.  In this position, she could definitely feel that there was a draft in the room, and it seemed to be blowing right into her exposed self.

Lauren fixed her gaze on the ceiling, trying to do anything to keep from reminding herself that, naked from the waist down, she was posed lewdly in front of this man she had just met.  She felt a firm grasp on her right ankle and then a strap sliding over it.  She looked down in alarm.  Jim grinned at her.  “Just buckling you into the stirrups so that you don’t accidentally kick me during the waxing.”  He repeated the process with her left ankle.

With that, he opened the plastic wrap on a spatula-looking tool and stepped between her legs.  Lauren closed her eyes and tried to pretend she wasn’t completely exposed to his gaze; pretending didn’t work.  A moment later, Jim gave a wordless grunt.  Lauren opened her eyes.

“Sorry,” he said.  He gestured toward some plugged-in electrical device that he was holding.  “This warmer is supposed to get the wax warm enough to soften it, but not so warm that it burns you.  This one’s not working though.  I’ll be right back.”

He turned and left before Lauren could ask him to release her from the stirrups.  She lay there, legs spread wide, for what seemed like hours but must have only been a minute or two.  She half expected a crowd of people to come through the door at any moment to make her day perfect.

Finally, Jim returned, whistling and apparently with a working wax warmer.  “Alright, then.”  He stepped between her legs again.  A moment later, Lauren felt the warm wax being spread along a segment of her pubic area; it was almost relaxing.

Then, Jim pressed a piece of what looked like parchment paper into the hardening wax and, a moment later, yanked it out.  Lauren yelled in surprise and pain.  She realized now just how necessary the ankle restraints were—her involuntary response had been to try to close her legs which would have earned Jim a hard knee to the face.  She was sure she had felt every single hair individually torn out.  Well, at least it was over now, she thought.

“Ok,” Jim said.  “Another five or six of those and we’ll be done on this side.”  Lauren’s eyes popped wide.  Five or six more?!?  And what did he mean by “this side”?

The second wax application provoked the same responses, and after the third, Lauren could feel tears welling in her eyes.  Jim must have noticed, too.  “Would you like to take a short break?”

She nodded, clenching her eyes but not stopping the tears.  “Yes, please, sir.”

“Ok, I can give you a minute or two.”  He leaned back against the counter and she realized that her “break” wasn’t actually going to involve being released from the stirrups or not having him stare at her exposed vulva.  She sighed and just tried to focus on the fact that at least she wasn’t currently having pubic hair ripped out by the follicle.  “Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.  This your first time?”

Really?  She was naked from the waist down, legs spread wide and restrained, and he thought this was a normal time for casual conversation?  She looked down at him and then wished she hadn’t.  He was clearly enjoying the view, staring at her half-trimmed private area, and that only added to the humiliation that she was feeling.  But she had to answer.  “Yes, sir.”

“That’s a pretty specific request you’re asking for.  Any reason?”

She closed her eyes as though that could shut out the room and considered telling him that was just the way she liked it.  But, no, she had to answer honestly.  “Somebody asked me to, sir, and I agreed.”  Okay, that might have been a white lie, but it was close enough to the truth.

“Heh.  Lucky guy, I guess.  Okay, break time’s over.”  He stepped between her legs and started slathering on the wax again.  The warmth was less enjoyable now that she knew what followed. . .

RRRIIIP!  “AUGGH!” Lauren cried out.  That one had taken her by surprise.

RRRIIIP!  She was crying freely, now.  The break hadn’t been long enough to reset the tears.

RRRIIIP!  Finally, it was over.  Lauren fought back sobs as Jim unstrapped her ankles.

“Okay, now, I just need you to roll over, tuck your knees up under your stomach, and reach back and spread your cheeks.”

The words hung in the air for a moment while Lauren hesitated.  Maybe he wasn’t serious?  But, no, she knew he was.  She considered refusing, considered telling him she was happy with the work he’d done so far and that was all she needed.  But, again, she knew she couldn’t do that.  First, a man had told her to do it, so she had to do it.  Second—and more importantly, in her mind—she’d already done this much to avoid a punishment from Don; all that pain and embarrassment would be for nothing if she didn’t let Jim finish the job and Don ended up punishing her anyway.

So, she slowly turned over, slid her knees up under her torso and—leaning forward onto her forehead—reached back to spread her cheeks.

Jim gave out a low whistle.  “I didn’t notice this before but have you . . . been spanked recently?”

Dammit!  She still had marks from her earlier spanking!  Lauren felt tears—oh-so-familiar recently—welling up.  It wasn’t enough that she, a grown woman, had to get spanked.  It wasn’t enough that she had to expose herself in front of this strange man.  Now she had to discuss her spankings while posed so lewdly?

She took a breath and composed herself.  “Yes, sir.”  And I’m going to get another spanking tomorrow, so can we please just get this done so I can have SOME time to myself today, she added in her head.

“Wow.  Well, now I’m curious.  What was that about?”

“I . . . I spilled juice on some paperwork of his.  But it’s more complicated than that.  Can we just continue, sir?”

“Sure thing.  It’s just not something I see a lot, that’s all.”  The last part almost brought the tears back for Lauren.

She heard him stepping up behind her.  “Now, I should just warn you that . . . damn, I’m out of wax.  Just wait right there, please.  I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!  Can’t I—” but the sound of the door closing cut Lauren off before she could ask to get off the table.  She decided that “wait right there” didn’t mean “freeze in position,” though, and released her cheeks.  A minute or two later, she felt a sudden increase in the draft and turned her head.  Goddammit!  The door was open; the latch must not have caught!

She couldn’t reach it from where she was, but if anyone walked by, she’d be clearly visible from the hallway.  Was it worth a strapping from Don if she had to report to him that she’d disobeyed a man in order to avoid further humiliation?  She was still contemplating that question when one of the spa workers walked by leading . . . oh God, Jason Trimble—her good friend Lana’s younger brother.

He did a double-take and stopped dead in his tracks.  Lauren turned her head and buried her face in her forearms, praying that Jason hadn’t recognized her.

“Naughty, naughty, Lauren,” she heard the door shut just after Jim’s words.  Oh, PLEASE, don’t let Jason have heard my name, she thought.  “I thought I told you to stay just as you were.”  He patted her butt.  “Now spread those cheeks for me.”  Jim, apparently, had decided that her admission of being spanked had allowed him to take even more liberties.

Lauren complied with a barely murmured, “Sorry, sir.”

“Now, as I was saying, I should warn you that most of our customers report that this part hurts a lot more.  It should only take three or four this time, though.”

She gulped and noticed her breathing rate increasing.  Hurt more?  She hadn’t thought that was possible.  Already, Jim was spreading the warmed wax.  Instead of the previous soothing feeling, though, this time it felt . . . well, gross.  He was pressing the paper on it, now.  Oh, God, here it came . . .

RRRIIIP!  “Aaaah!”  Jim hadn’t exaggerated.  Lauren released her cheeks as she clenched her fists.

“Hey!”  Jim smacked her butt hard.  “Keep your cheeks spread.  If the wax hardens on this spreader because I’m waiting for you, you’re gonna stretch this way out, and I’m gonna have to charge you for an extra session.”

Lauren murmured another respectful apology and pulled her cheeks apart again, resolving to control her reaction.

Jim started spreading the wax again, pressed the paper, and . . .

RRRIIIP!  “Aaaah!”  No preparation could keep her from yelling out, but at least she managed to keep her hands in place.

“Hmm.  One more will do it, I think.”  He almost sounded disappointed.

Jim spread the wax again, pressed the paper, and . . .

RRRIIIP!  “Aaaah!”  She was crying again.

“Looks good to me.”  He patted her butt.  “How about you?”  Lauren looked back to where Jim was holding up a mirror for her inspection.  Inside her crack, everything was red . . . but hair-free.

“It looks good, sir.”

“Ok, turn over.”

She complied, and Jim held the mirror.  Again, except for a small triangle of hair, everything was red.  She could trim the hair down to a proper length on her own, she decided.  “That looks good, too, sir.”

“Great.”  He patted her inner right thigh.  “You can pay at the front desk.”

With that, he turned and left the room.  Lauren waited for a moment, getting her crying under control, before pulling her panties and jeans back on and making her way out of the building with as much dignity as she could manage.

Lauren slapped her alarm clock off, still groggy after a night of bad sleep.  She had dreamt all night about her coming spanking; they had not been good dreams.  She was a little embarrassed to realize that she had, in her sleep, rolled over onto her stomach and pushed her pillows down under her pelvis as though she was getting into a spanking position.  Her nightshirt had drifted up leaving her butt exposed to the cool morning air.  It really wasn’t any wonder, she supposed, considering that last night was the first time she had ever gone to sleep knowing without any doubt that she was getting spanked the next day.

That thought gave her pause.  How absurd was this anyway?  She was about to submit to a spanking . . . and she hadn’t even done anything wrong.  She thought about it for a moment, though, and decided that what she had done was lose a gamble.  She had bet that the only way to keep Don from giving her a worse punishment was to distract him by ASKING for the punishment that she was now facing.  She had, it turned out, bet wrong, but now she had to face the consequences.

She was also embarrassed to realize just how horny she had woken up; she hoped it had nothing to do with her dreams.  She thought momentarily about her vibrator, but a glance at her clock confirmed that she didn’t have enough time.  She’d just have to take care of it after breakfast.

She stopped at her mirror to make a last check of her pubic region.  She had trimmed the remaining patch of hair down to the quarter-inch requirement that Don had laid out.  She had to admit . . . it looked kind of classy that way.

Lauren sighed, pulled on a pair of shorts, and went out to the kitchen to start some eggs.

***

Lauren was putting breakfast on the table just as the clock hit 7 and Don walked out of his room.  “Good morning, Lauren,” he said, sitting down to his eggs and bacon.

       “Good morning, sir.” She sat down across from him with her own plate.

       “So, what are your plans for the day?”

       Was he serious?  He couldn’t possibly have forgotten about the promised punishment . . . not after it had kept her restlessly worried all night.  “Well, I have a group meeting at 2:00, sir, so I thought I’d prepare for that until about 9:30 and then get ready for my . . . my spanking.”

       Don stared at her for a moment.  “I see.  So I assume you’ll want your punishment to be over by about 1:00 to give you enough time to get cleaned up and get to your meeting?”

       “Um, yes, that would be nice, sir.”

       “Lauren, you realize, I think, that what you appear to be doing is trying to retake control of the situation by backstopping your punishment.”  She hadn’t thought of that.  “Since you’re so determined to have some control, I’m going to give you a choice about your consequences: you may either call all of your group members to tell them that you might be late for the meeting and explain why, or you may accept a paddling right after breakfast.  I’ll give you to the end of breakfast to decide which.”

       “I’m sorry . .  . I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . please—”

       “I don’t want to hear it, Lauren.  Spend your energy deciding which consequence you’re going to take.”  He grabbed his newspaper and began reading it.

       Lauren ate her now-tasteless breakfast and considered her options.  Not that there was really much of an option, she figured.  Don had to know that she couldn’t endure the humiliation of revealing to others this strange arrangement she had agreed to—and once she told a few, she could be sure that everyone in her classes would soon know!  But a paddling?  And only as a prelude to the longer punishment she’d soon be undergoing?  Worse, she realized, the more she thought about her options and the inevitability of some sort of punishment, the hornier she became.

       All too soon, Don looked up from his newspaper.  “Well, Lauren, what will it be?”

       “The paddle.  I’ll take a paddling, sir.”

       “Ok, then.  Pull down your shorts . . . clear the table . . . and go retrieve your paddle and a pillow from your room.”  She hoped that it was just a coincidence that her horniness surged with each of his commands as she stood up to comply.  She pulled her shorts about half-way down her thighs and then proceeded to clear the table and load the dishwasher.  The shorts hobbled her a lot more than her panties normally did, so the table-clearing took some time.  Meanwhile, she was nervous about Don commenting on her new look—this would be the first time he would be seeing her with her properly-groomed pubic area—but he didn’t look up from his paper until she came out of her room holding the paddle and pillow.

       Don took both from her and folded up the pillow to place it against the edge of the table.  “Bend over, Lauren.”  She did so.  “Your elbows are not to leave the table.  I recommend holding on to the edge of the table if that will help.”

       With the extra height of the pillow, she was forced up onto her toes to comply.  And now she had another fear: the soft pressure of the pillow on her mons pubis.  She was sure the paddling would force her to rub against it, and as horny as she was. . .

       “Lauren,” Don brought her mind away from that thought.  “Does thirty sound fair to you?”

       THIRTY?!?  With the paddle—and she still had her long punishment later today?  “Sir, please . . . I know what I did was wrong, and I’m sorry, but thirty—”

       Don placed the paddle under her chin, silencing her and tilting her face up toward him all in one motion.  “Let me clarify, Lauren.  This isn’t a negotiation.  You’re getting thirty.”

        “Yes, sir.”

       That settled, Don wasted no time getting started.

       whistle. . . POP!  Even knowing it was coming, the first one still managed to take Lauren by surprise, and she yelled out in pain.

       whistle. . . POP!  “This is good, Lauren. . .”

       whistle. . . POP!  “I’m playing tennis later. . .”

       whistle. . . POP!  “And this is a good warm-up.”

       whistle. . . POP!  “I can go forehand. . .”

       whistle. . . POP!  “Or backhand. . .”

       whistle. . . POP!  “Or two-handed.”

       whistle. . . POP!  She was already sobbing and lifting first one leg, then the other, but she maintained a firm grasp on the edge of the table and kept her elbows on the table.

       whistle. . . POP!  Despite the pain, each stroke sent a pulse through her loins and pushed her higher toward her peak.

       whistle. . . POP!  She was fighting it, putting more effort into that than into holding still.

       whistle. . . POP!  Closer. . .

       whistle. . . POP!  Closer. . .

       whistle. . . POP!  She couldn’t hold it any longer. . .

       whistle. . . POP!  She bucked wildly and yelled out, vaguely aware of Don admonishing her to hold still.

       The rest of the paddling passed in a haze.  She must’ve looked like a broken woman as she sobbed limply on the table, absolutely humiliated at what the paddle had driven her to.  She hoped. . . she PRAYED. . . that Don thought her thrashing legs and arching back had simply been a reaction to a particularly painful blow.  Somehow. . . she didn’t know how. . . she had managed to keep her elbows on the table.

       She only became truly aware that the paddling was over when Don walked up to her winding up a kitchen timer.  He placed it on the small of her back where she could hear its incessant ticking, patted her reddened behind, and walked around to tilt her tear-slickened face up toward him.

       “You will stay here until the timer goes off, Lauren, and while you are here, you will think about why you were punished.  Do you understand me?”

       “Yes, sir,” she sniffled.

As she stood bent over the table, butt throbbing, Lauren decided that, being honest with herself, she had, in fact, been trying to exercise some control over her coming punishment.  She’d avoided telling Don about her meeting until it would be too late for him to move her punishment up.  So, now, without the coercive threat of the paddle, she finally honestly acknowledged that she had deserved her punishment.

       Now, though, she was just hoping that the timer would go off soon.  Her horniness was returning the longer that she stood there, and she wanted time to take care of it before her punishment.  She did NOT want to be brought to orgasm again while being spanked.

       Tick, tick, tick. . . damn, every second left her hornier and with less time to take care of it.  She tried to think bland thoughts, but her mind kept wandering, understandably back to the burn in her backside and the punishment to come—and somehow the two made her ever hornier.

       DING!  Finally, the alarm went off.  Lauren reached back and pulled it off her back, then pulled up her shorts and practically ran into her room.  There, she went immediately to her panty drawer to find her vibrator.

       Fifteen minutes later, with no relief forthcoming and frustration mounting, Lauren knew what she had to do.  She stood up and bent over with her back to her mirror.  Looking back, she saw that her normally ivory butt was already reddened from her earlier paddling—and she still had so much more to go!

       She felt tears coming on but fought them back to focus on the task at hand.  Pressing the vibrator against herself, she thought, “Mr. Arden is going to spank you.  You’re going to do as you’re told, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

       She repeated the thought over and over until it came suddenly and intensely.  Finally, relief.

       Mission accomplished, Lauren hurried to the shower to clean up.

At exactly 9:30, Lauren walked out of her room carrying her paddle, strap, and apology letter.  She placed them on the coffee table, then took off her shoes and jeans, folding the latter and placing them on the table also.

       She then walked over to the corner she had spent facing for so long yesterday and pulled her panties down, ensuring that they turned inside out and rested halfway between her knees and the fully-up position.  It was in one way a little bit of a relief to pull her panties down; with her remaining pubic hair cut so short, it was stiff and caused a lot of itchiness as it brushed up against the inside of her panties.  With that thought, she allowed herself a momentary break in position for a quick scratch, then returned her hands to the top of her head and waited.

       “Lauren, come over here.”  She took a deep breath.  This was it.  She was going to get the longest, hardest spanking she had ever gotten.  She turned and shuffled over to Don, careful to keep her fingers laced behind her head and her panties above her knees.

       Don looked her up and down and then reached out to gently brush her tiny pubic triangle.  “Good job with your pussy, Lauren.”

       “Thank you, sir.”

       “How much did that cost you?”

       “$120, sir.”

       He whistled.  “That’s going to be difficult to maintain on $400 per month, huh?”

       “Now that it’s done, sir, I think I can maintain it with a razor on my own.”

       “Good.  The whole point of that rule is an exercise in discipline.  If I wanted to make it easy for you, I would have just told you to shave completely.  Read me your letter.”

       She leaned over to pick up the letter, then began without any introduction.

Sir,

I want to take this opportunity to apologize for my long history of disrespect to men.  I think I have always known that it was wrong for me to treat men as equals.  I am not under the common illusion that respect is a two-way street.  It is one-way—younger to elder, female to male, inferior to superior—and granted in the other direction only at the pleasure of the superior.  I need to be spanked for my past transgressions, sir, and I thank you for taking the time to discipline me.  I am sure that this will not be the last time that I need to be punished, but I will strive to treat all men with the proper respect in the future.

       This behavior is wrong, sir, because it is not proper for me to fail to treat men with their due deference.  It is compounded by the fact that I have allowed myself to be placed in positions of authority over men which has created the false belief that it is appropriate for me to give them commands instead of requests and that I do not have to treat their requests as commands.  I know now that this is wrong, and I will strive to treat every request from a man as a command from you.  I will also address them all properly as “sir” or “Mr.” plus their last name.

       I sincerely hope that you will punish me severely for my past transgressions, sir.

               Respectfully,

               Lauren

By the end, Lauren found that she was already fighting back tears.  She waited nervously for Don’s response.  He frowned.  “Lauren, you had two tasks to accomplish last night.  What were they?”

       She thought for a moment, confused.  “Oh.  I had to write a letter of apology and trim my . . . my pussy, sir.”

       He reached out casually and traced a finger around the outline of her pus—of her pubic triangle.  She was NOT going to start thinking that word even if she did have to say it!  “And you did a good job with the second.  But what was the criterion for the letter, Lauren.”

       She thought again for a moment.  “It was supposed to be 1000 words long, sir.”

       “Right.  That letter you just read to me is nowhere near long enough, Lauren.  I guess I know that the only way to get you to do what you’re supposed to is to promise you a harsh punishment if you fail.  But don’t worry, you’re going to get an extra special punishment for this failure, too.”

       “I—I’m sorry, si—”

       “This is absolutely unacceptable, Lauren, and I am not going to listen to any excuses.  No, here’s what’s going to happen.  You are going to get the punishment that I promised you right now.  Tomorrow, at this same time, you are going to read me a proper-length apology letter, and then I am going to tell you what your punishment for this little bit of defiance is going to be.  And I promise you, Lauren, you are going to find the punishment humiliating—but no moreso than you deserve for your improperly superior attitude toward men all these years.”  Humiliating? She was a grown woman about to be spanked.  She was forced to stand here half-naked in front of the man who was about to give the spanking.  And she no longer had control over how she trimmed her own pus—pubic area.  What could possibly be MORE humiliating?  “Do you understand me, Lauren?”

       “Yes, sir.  Thank you.”

       “Then, get over my knee, and let’s get this started.”

       She complied without hesitation.  As she bent over, however, Don moved his right leg so that she was only over his left leg.  He brought his right leg back to pin her legs from behind.  As Lauren settled in, Don rested his hand on her left cheek, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing her crack.  “As always, Lauren, you will not interfere with the spanking, swear, or tell me that you can’t take any more.  Do you understand?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Good.  Now, it is, of course, important that you understand why you are being spanked.  Otherwise, the punishment wouldn’t be as effective.  So, tell me, Lauren, why are you about to get the longest, hardest spanking of your life?”

       “Sir, you’re about to spank me for my history of being disrespectful toward men and taking a superior attitude toward them.  I’m very sorry, sir.”

       “I’m sure you are.  The question is, are you sorry for being disrespectful toward men, or sorry because you’re about to be spanked for being disrespectful toward men?”

       “I’m sorry for being disrespectful toward men, sir.  It’s wrong, and I deserve. . . to be spanked.”

       “Anything else, Lauren?”

       “Sir, can I. . . can I know how many spanks I’m going to get?”  She looked back over her shoulder pleadingly.

       Don pursed his lips for a moment.  “I had intended for your not knowing how long the spanking was going to last to be part of your punishment, Lauren, but I’ll meet you half-way.  Today, you are going to get more with my hand than with the paddle and more with the paddle than with the strap.  Now let’s get started.”

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Right from the start. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  It was clear that Don had not been exaggerating. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  When he had promised her her hardest spanking ever.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Lauren had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t cry. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  At least through the first session. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  But she quickly realized that that was a promise in vain.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  As the tears turned to sobbing, she acted. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Half on thought and half on instinct.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Lauren clenched her butt cheeks together as hard as she could.

THWAP!  THWAP!  “Damn it!  Knock it off Lauren!”

She ignored him until she felt him prying her cheeks apart and touching the rim of her anus.  “Lauren, I’m quite sure I can think of ways to make it uncomfortable for you to clench.”

She unclenched immediately but turned and looked over her shoulder imploringly.  “Please, sir, just not so hard.  I can’t take much more like this.”

Don stared back for a moment before moving his right leg to free Lauren’s.  “Roll over, Lauren.”

She did so, confused and unsure of what to do with her arms now that she was laying on her back on Don’s lap.  She settled for using them to keep her t-shirt covering her breasts.  Don traced his left index finger around her navel and his right index finger around her pubic hair.

“Lauren, we are barely into the warm up of what is going to be a long, hard spanking, so you had better get any ideas of leniency out of your head.  I already warned you once, so consider this your final warning: do not tell me you can’t take any more.  Do you understand?”

Lauren gulped, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.  Then roll back over.”  She did so, and Don restarted without further comment.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  If anything. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  The spanks. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Were even. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Harder now.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  And now. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  He switched from smacking. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Both cheeks. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  At once. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  To striking. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  First one cheek. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  And then the next. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Six times in a row. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  VERY hard.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Despite her best efforts. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Lauren was sobbing. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  And kicking her legs.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  “I’m sorry. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  “I’ll be. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  “More respectful.”

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  And Lauren couldn’t manage. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  To get any  more out. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  As Don finished. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  In a flurry. . .

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  Of the hardest spanks yet.

SMACK!

“Get up, Lauren.”

She did so, still choking back sobs, and was surprised to discover that her panties hadn’t moved much despite all of her kicking.  Don stood with her, grabbed her left arm to turn her around, and gave one more sharp smack to her left cheek.  “In the corner, Lauren.  I’ll call you over when it’s time for your next set.”

“Yes [sob] sir.”  She shuffled over to the corner, grasping her forearms behind her back in what she had come to think of as Position 2, and waited with her nose against the wall.

While she was waiting, Lauren thought about what lay ahead for her.  She had tried to keep count during the spanking and was pretty sure that she had received about 100 spanks.  At least now she knew the upper limit to how many whacks of the paddle and strap she would receive.  “Oh, God,” she thought, “the strap.”  She’d never received the strap before and was, frankly, terrified of it.

       Thankfully, Don didn’t leave her long to think about it.

“Lauren, come here.  Bring your paddle.”

She shivered at the command and murmured a barely audible, “Yes, sir.”  He hadn’t told her that that was necessary, but she suddenly felt it proper to not simply do as he instructed but to acknowledge out loud that she was doing things because he had told her to do them.

She shuffled away from her corner, keeping her hands behind her back until she needed to bend over and pick her paddle up off of the coffee table.  Then, she shuffled over to Don, presenting him with the paddle and awaiting further instructions.

“Okay, Lauren, now bend over the back of the couch.”

She shuddered again.  “Yes, sir.”  At least, she thought, she wasn’t combating the terrible horniness from earlier this morning.  Just that thought, though, was enough to stir a vague tingling in her nether regions.

As before, Don began without any lecture.

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  Lauren wasn’t sure . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  if it was her imagination . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  or her butt already being . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  so sore from her earlier . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  spankings, but it sure felt . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  like this was a lot harder . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  than her earlier paddling.

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  She’d been crying since . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  the third pop. . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  and now realized. . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  that her tears . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  were puddling . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  on the couch cushion . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  in front of her.

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  She shifted . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  from one foot . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  to the other . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  but it seemed . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  to have . . .

whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  whistle. . . POP!  no effect.

“Get up, Lauren.”  She was shocked.  She was sure that had only been sixty, and she had certainly expected more.  After the momentary shock, though, she wasted no time in pushing herself up.

Don handed her her paddle.  “Go hang up your paddle and then back to your corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

The wait this time had been much longer.  Lauren wasn’t sure if Don had decided she needed a longer break or if this was simply his way of stretching her punishment out.  Either way, she had had to switch between Position 1 and Position 2 and back three times since her paddling and had maintained firm contact between her nose and the wall the whole time.  She could hear Don moving about the apartment; he certainly wasn’t losing his day to this punishment.

       She sighed, and she wasn’t sure if Don heard and was reminded of her presence or if he’d already been planning on this time.  “Lauren, grab your strap and come over here.”

       She turned with a, “Yes, sir,” shuffled over and retrieved her strap.  She felt the heft of it as she carried it and gulped, then met Don in the middle of the living room.  She handed Don the strap.

       “Lauren, bend over and grab your ankles.”

       “Yes, sir.”  Years of gymnastics made this an easy task, but it didn’t leave her feeling any less vulnerable or embarrassed at the way she was exposing herself.

       For the third time, Don began with no preamble.

       CRACK!  She screamed and jumped up before she even realized she’d felt anything.  It had felt like someone had laid a band of hot metal across her butt.

       Don had grabbed her arm in an instant.  “Bend back over, Lauren!  And do NOT do that again!”

       “Yes, sir.  I’m sorry, sir.”  Tears were already welling out of her eyes as she bent over and grabbed her ankles.

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  No more than sixty . . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Oh, God—how was she . . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Going to make it . . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Fifty more?

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  She was sobbing now,

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Her nose running.

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “AUUGH!”

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “Please [sob]”

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “Stop!”

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  But Don ignored her

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  And moved on to her thighs

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Great—no short dresses for a while

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  She somehow thought.

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Now she braced herself

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  For what she was sure would be

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  A flurry of extra hard final slaps

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  But they didn’t seem to be getting harder.

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Was Don showing her

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Some mercy?

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Finally . . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Wait!  Not fair!  Lauren stood up.

“Lauren, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You [sob] said no more [sob] with the strap [sob] than with [sob] the paddle [sob] sir.”

“I said no more today, Lauren.  Are you forgetting about your earlier paddling already?  Do you need a reminder?”

Lauren paled.  He was counting the earlier paddling.  That was an extra THIRTY!

“Now bend back over Lauren.  You’re going to get five more than I planned on for this.”

       She sobbed anew as she bent over, “Y-y-yes [sob] sir.”

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Oh, God, it felt like it would never end.

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  Yikes, he was definitely hitting harder now.

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “And don’t you. . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “EVER . . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “Get up . . .

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “Until I tell you to!

       CRACK!  CRACK!  CRACK!  “Do you understand, Lauren?”

“Y-y-yes [sob] sir.”

“Good.  Then get up.”

Lauren slowly unbent and took the strap that Don thrust at her.  “Hang it up and go back to your corner.”

She complied, shuffling along with her panties still miraculously at her knees.

Back in her corner, Lauren wondered how long Don was going to leave her there.  It was very possible at this point that she was, in fact, going to be late for her group meeting.  “Lauren, come over here.”

       “Yes [sniff] sir.”  She had fortunately managed to get her crying mostly under control in the few minutes that Don had allowed her.  She shuffled over to stand in front of where Don was sitting on the living room couch.

       “Lauren, I’m making some changes for tomorrow.  Since you have to work, we will meet here at 6:30 pm.  Go get yourself a pen and a piece of paper.”

       She paused for a second, surprised at the command, then murmured, “Yes, sir,” as she shuffled to her room to comply.  Back with the pen and paper, she stood again in front of Don, her hands on top of her head.

       “I’m not going to have you rewrite that letter, Lauren.  There’s no sense assigning you something at which you’ve proven unable to succeed.”  Lauren flinched at that.  She was perfectly capable of writing a 1000-word letter.  She had just forgotten the requirement.  “No, instead, Lauren, you are going to write this statement five hundred times.”  He gestured to the coffee table.  “Write this down, Lauren.”

       She crouched down to lean against the table and Don started slowly dictating:

“I will pay careful attention to what I am told to do so that I do not fail to obey the commands of my superiors.  Forgetting is not an excuse for failure, and I will always request and accept punishment for failure no matter the reason.  My three most important tasks on any given day are: obeying Don and all other men, being respectful to Don and all other men, and keeping my pussy properly trimmed.”

Lauren blinked back tears as the passage got longer.  Five hundred times by hand?!  This would take her hours to write out!

When he was done, Don had her read the passage back to him—in part, she suspected, to force her to say “pussy” again—and then told her she could pull her panties back up and go get cleaned up.  With the latter, Lauren happily complied.

***

Back in her room, Lauren inspected herself in her full-length mirror.  Dear God, her butt was just a swollen bunch of red welts.  She didn’t think she’d be able to sit comfortably for a week.  A few moments later she discovered that showering wasn’t so easy, either, and shortly after that, that just wearing jeans was a problem.  She sighed.  At least she was absolved of her previous sins.

The next day passed interminably slowly for Lauren.  She had made it to her meeting just in time.  As the other group members, all guys, had picked up on Lauren’s unwillingness to say, “No,” she’d ended up accepting all the hardest parts of the project.  Then she had gone home and, as predicted, spent hours writing out the passage that Don had assigned her.

       Now, she was trying to pass time at work.  Because of the soreness of her butt, she spent as little time sitting at her desk as possible.  Walking around completing other tasks presented another problem though: the short pubic hair that she was required to keep was bristly and walking made it rub against the inside of her panties leaving her itchy for most of the day.  Meanwhile, the two interns who reported to her were giving her odd looks at her insistence on calling them “Mr. Smith” and “Mr. Jolik” while requesting that they continue to address her as “Lauren.”

To top it all off, she knew that she still had one punishment yet to be revealed.  What could it be?  She knew only Don’s promise that she would find it humiliating.  She had done some furtive searching on the internet and had come across a few possibilities--  each one more disturbing than the last: Was he going to use her as a footstool?  Make her eat out of a dog bowl?  Force her to tell other people about their arrangement?  She shuddered especially at the last thought.

Finally, the day was over and Lauren headed home to learn her fate.

Lauren stood in front of Don as he examined her 500 hand written passages.  She had been VERY careful to make no mistakes and didn’t expect any problems.  Don hadn’t given her any instructions, and Lauren didn’t expect a spanking, so she hadn’t bothered to pull her pants down.

       Don finally looked up.  “Good job, Lauren.”

       “Thank you, sir.”

       “Now, I suppose you’re eager to find out the last part of your punishment for your failure to write a proper letter.”

       Lauren gulped.  She had almost hoped that he had forgotten.  “Yes, sir.”

       Don smiled.  “Are you familiar with an establishment a few miles from here called ‘The Landing Strip’, Lauren?”

       “Ugh,” she made a face.  “The strip club?  Yes, I know of it, sir.”

       Don looked perplexed.  “Why the face, Lauren?”

       “Well, I just think that kind of place is degrading to women in general, sir.  I have no idea why any woman . . .”  She trailed off.  “Oh, God, no.”

       “It’s a shame you feel that way, Lauren.  You see, they’re having an amateur competition next Saturday and you, Lauren, are going to enter it.”

       “Sir, please, someone I know will see—”

       He talked right over her.  “And if you don’t win, Lauren, if I have any reason to believe you aren’t trying your hardest, I am going to give you a spanking that will make yesterday seem like a love tap.  They only have limited slots, though, so I suggest you go to sign up tomorrow.  You can go now, Lauren.”

       She ran, crying, to her room.

The next day found Lauren looking furtively up and down the street before approaching the entrance to The Landing Strip.  She had changed out of her work clothes in advance and was now wearing a tight pair of jeans and small t-shirt.  Her hope was that if there were any body requirements for entering this contest, the decision-maker would be able to see whether or not she qualified without having her disrobe.

       Finally, she steeled herself and walked up to the bouncer, a man with a shaved head whose biceps were bigger around than her legs.  His name tag said “Eric”.  He held out a hand.  “Fifteen bucks.”

       “Um, actually, sir, I just wanted to sign up for the amateur contest.”

       “Oh, okay.  Fifteen bucks then go to the first door on your left when you’re through the curtain.”

       She looked around uncomfortably, not wanting to be standing in front of the entrance any longer than necessary.  “I don’t have any cash on me, sir,” she practically whispered.

       Eric opened the door and pointed to an ATM in the small entrance before a heavy red velvet curtain.  She could hear some peppy country song coming muffled through the curtain.  She sighed—this was ridiculous—but went in and put her card in the machine.  It warned her that it was going to charge a $6 fee plus 10% of her withdrawal.  Was that even legal?!

       It didn’t matter.  She hit the button for $20, the minimum it would distribute, knowing that it was costing her $28, and turned to give the twenty to Eric.  He gave her five singles in return and told her, “See Mr. Lopez.  Through the curtain and in the office on your left.”

       As Lauren stepped through the curtain, the music got a little louder.  The place was mostly empty.  Just a few patrons paying close attention to a lone woman dancing on the stage.  Lauren knew a moment of hope: the petite blonde dancer was wearing panties and a bra to go with her high heels.  Maybe she wouldn’t have to get completely naked in front of a bunch of strangers.  Sure, the panties were thong and she’d still be really exposed, but anything was better than completely naked.  She did, however, screw her face in distaste at a poster advertising a “Pet of the Month” who would be performing.  Did they need to be so degrading to women by giving them titles like “Pet”?

       Hope faded when she looked around a little more.  There were two other women circulating around delivering drinks.  They were completely naked except for their high heels.  If the waitresses had to be naked, what hope did she have as the entertainment?

       Somewhat furtively, Lauren observed that one of the women had a completely bare mound and the other was maintaining a landing strip.  She gulped and turned left.  The office door was open so that the occupant had a clear view of the stage, but Lauren knocked anyway.

       Mr. Lopez was on the phone, but he gestured her in.  She stood there for a few moments and then suddenly felt her heart pounding.  What if he wanted her to take her clothes off now?  Her butt was still cherry red from her spanking the other day.  It would be so embarrassing.

       As she half-listened to Mr. Lopez’s phone conversation—it sounded like he had some sort of supply issue that he was clearing up—she realized that she was standing in what she had come to think of as Position 2.  She took a deep breath, lowered her arms, and tried to relax.

       He finally hung up.  “What can I do for you?”

        “I would like to enter the amateur night contest, Mr. Lopez.”

       He nodded.  “Turn around slowly, please.”

       She did so, cringing at the feeling of her body being examined.  When she had turned one complete revolution, he told her to take a seat.  As she did so, he added, “You can have our last guaranteed slot for $200 or compete for one of three dance-in slots for $150.”

       Lauren’s jaw dropped.  She had to PAY to be allowed to strip?!  Mr. Lopez apparently read her mind.  “It’s a contest.  The winner gets $2000.  We can’t just give that away.”

       She resigned herself to the situation.  A $50 difference didn’t make it much of a choice when she couldn’t risk not getting into the contest.  “I’ll take the last slot, please, sir.”

       Mr. Lopez nodded and hit something on his computer.  The printer started spitting out paper.  “Ok.  Just need you to initial at the end of each of these paragraphs and then sign the contract at the end.”

       Lauren hesitated, then started scribbling her initials.  “Um. . . I want you to actually read it.  Here.  I’ll go over it with you.

       “The first paragraph just acknowledges that you are not an employee of The Landing Strip, are not entitled to any benefits, and will not receive any direct pay.  You are an independent contractor responsible for all of your own expenses.

       “The second paragraph notifies you that The Landing Strip is a fully nude club.  You are committing to dance at least six sets and get completely nude during each one.  For every set that you fail to complete, you will pay us $1000.”  He looked up.  “We’ve had problems in the past, especially with these amateur nights, with girls getting shy and backing out on us.  It’s a real hit for us financially.”

       He continued with the contract.  “Paragraph three reminds you that The Landing Strip is NOT a no-touching club.  If you prefer to be no-touching, that is still your right, but it is up to you to enforce it.

       “Paragraph four outlines The Landing Strip philosophy.  In general, the customer is always right.  However, in the event of any dispute that you cannot personally resolve to the satisfaction of the customer, any Landing Strip employee can adjudicate.  Whatever decision the employee makes is final.

       “We’re dedicated to making this a truly amateur night, so paragraph five just says that you’ve never done any stripping other than other amateur contests or any porn at all.  If we discover that you did do any before working at The Landing Strip, you’ll have to pay us any money you earned here plus a $5000 penalty.  At the end of the paragraph, you need to write in where you currently work.  Don’t worry.  We won’t reveal it, but our customers like to know that it’s classy white collar chicks or college students taking their clothes off for them, and we want to be able to guarantee that.

       “Paragraph six just says that sexual activity is not permitted on the premises of The Landing Strip.  If you’re caught, you’ll be disqualified, sent home, and subject to the sanctions from paragraph two.”

       Lauren had initialed the remaining paragraphs as Mr. Lopez went through them and now signed at the end of the contract.  “Sir, I’ll just need to go get the cash.”  He nodded.

       Back in the entranceway, Lauren sighed as she put her card into the ATM.  This was going to take up almost the rest of her allowance, she realized.  Back in Mr. Lopez’s office, she handed him the $200.

       “Thanks,” he said.  “Be here and ready to dance at 10:00 am next Saturday.  Oh, one piece of advice: make sure you’re completely clean.”  She must have looked confused.  “Honey, at some point during the day every single bit of you is going to be visible, and these guys WILL make comments, so I’m trying to save you some embarrassment.  Make sure you’re clean.”

The next week-and-a-half flew by.  Don had taken her over his knee and given her twenty hard spanks to her bare bottom the night she had gone to sign up for the contest because she hadn’t had dinner ready on time, but other than that Lauren had avoided the need for any more discipline.  She had taken a personal day the following Friday and spent it cleaning the apartment from top to bottom.  The following day, Don had pronounced the results, “Acceptable.  Barely.”

       The next Friday, the day before the big day, she heard some guys around the office talking about a bachelor party the next day and felt a silent dread that they might show up at The Landing Strip.  She tried to eavesdrop a little to find out their exact plans, but couldn’t learn anything more.

       And then the big day had arrived.  Lauren awoke at 6:00 with a pit in her stomach.  The first thing she did was examine her pubic hair in the mirror and touch it up with a razor and pair of scissors.  She considered asking Don to inspect it for her but realized she’d just be opening herself up to the potential of that horrible punishment.  This was already going to be the worst, most humiliating day of her life; she didn’t need to add that possibility to it.

       She took a long shower, making extra sure that she was clean everywhere just like Mr. Lopez had recommended.  Then, she got dressed quickly and made breakfast for Don and herself.  Don asked her if she was looking forward to the day.

       “Um. . . not really, sir.”

       Don shrugged.  “Well, I’m sorry you feel this is so beneath you.  I just happen to think the world would be a much better place if more women focused on doing what pleased men.  I suppose it’s just as well that you’re not looking forward to it.  This is supposed to be a punishment after all.”

       Lauren wasn’t sure how to respond, so she settled for, “Yes, sir,” and continued eating.

Lauren arrived at The Landing Strip at quarter till ten.  This time she was let in without paying and she went directly back to the dressing room which reminded her of nothing more than a gym locker room but with more mirrors.  Most of the other contestants were already there, looking mostly nervous or sleepy, but all pretty.  Through some surreptitious eavesdropping and casual questioning—she had always been good at making conversation with other women—she got to know a little about her competition.

       The first one she met was Connie Du, an Asian girl who was about to start her sophomore year at the local college.  Connie was hoping to make enough money—maybe even win the big prize—to pay for her textbooks this semester and next.  Her sorority sister Becky, a dirty blonde tall and athletic white girl, was there for the same reason.  They were both thin and hot in the way that most even average nineteen year old women can be hot.

       Emma was definitely going to be some competition.  She was also white, but dark complected  She was a shorter woman—maybe 5’1”, but definitely older than the first two.  She was maybe 25, but her hotness had nothing to do with youth.  Everythnig about her was tight and perfectly proportioned and she had a mischievous look to her, and not a bit of nervousness.  Lauren didn’t learn much about her except that she worked for the city government in some way.

       Amy was next, and she seemed to have gathered all of Emma’s missing nervousness.    She had quite a chest but was otherwise pretty-but-average.  She confided in Lauren that this was her way of getting back at an ex-boyfriend.  He had always wanted her to do a strip tease for him, but she never would.  He had broken up with her, so now she was going to do a strip tease for anyone who was willing to pay to see it.  Lauren wasn’t sure how that rated in terms of good ideas.

       Juliet was next.  She was a law student in town for a summer internship.  Her parents had fallen on hard times and the unpaid-but-prestigious internship no longer seemed like such a great idea, and she was definitely hoping to make some money to cover some of her summer bills.  She was a pretty brunette, but pale skinned.  She seemed convinced—and was arguing with others about it—that full nudity was not required, and she didn’t intend to strip down past her bra and panties.  Considering that she didn’t understand what was plainly put forth in a simple written contract, Lauren doubted her future acumen as a lawyer.

       A pale, shapely red-head claimed to be Kelly, but Lauren had the oddest feeling she was lying about her name.  She was, perhaps, one of two contestants older than Lauren but by no more than a couple of years.  Lauren wasn’t really able to learn anything about her background.

       Tracy was the second woman older than Lauren.  She was easily in her mid-thirties, but with her broad, pearly smile, wave-y dusty blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and, most importantly, large breasts, Lauren was pretty sure she she’d be a hit with the guys.  And Lauren was astonished to learn that she was a professor!  And a finance one, too, but fortunately at a competing school to Lauren’s program.  Lauren wasn’t able to figure out what in the world her motivation was for being here today.

       Sarah was shorter than Kelly and blond, but equally shapely.  She was a resident at a local hospital and was apparently doing this because, “you only get this body for so long, and I want to do something crazy with it while I still can.”  She didn’t seem to share Lauren’s nervousness or Emma’s cool confidence.  She was plainly excited.

       The ninth contestant was the most physically similar to Lauren.  A girl in her early-20s, she was slim with pert breasts and a tight, heart-shaped ass.  She had wave-y dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, and a faint tan.  She came in at the last minute and all Lauren learned was that her name was Amber.

       Lauren did noticed that, except for Connie, they were all white.  That said something about Mr. Lopez’s tastes, she supposed.  As she thought of him, he walked into the dressing room unannounced.  “Ok, girls,” he shouted, “gather ‘round.  I need to cover a few things.”

       The excited and nervous chatter died out as the dancers-to-be clustered around the bench that Mr. Lopez stood on.  Lauren felt the pit in her stomach growing—she was dreading what loomed ahead of her.

       “Here’s how it’s going to work today, girls.  First, two rules.  Number one: no drinking.  Some of the customers might offer you drinks.  You will graciously accept and then dispose of it while no one’s looking.  You will not drink alcohol tonight.”

       Great, thought Lauren.  There went Plan A on how to get over her nervousness.

       “Number two, and I know I already said this to all of you but I can’t stress it enough: no sex with the customers.  You all know the consequences.  Don’t do it.

       “So, for your dancing.  You will dance in sets of four songs.  You will start the first song in some sort of sexy outfit.  By the end of that song, you will be down to your bra and panties or whatever underwear you’re wearing as part of the outfit.  By the end of the second song, you will be topless, by the end of the third song, you will be naked, and you will dance through the fourth song naked.  If you fail to complete any of these steps on time, you will be docked points.”

       Lauren felt goose bumps as she listened to how regimented her stripping was going to be.  Looking around, it was clear that some of the other girls were uncomfortable, too.  There were a lot of folded arms and worried looks.

       “There are two things you will not take off,” Lauren felt a surge of hope.  “You will not take off your tip garter, and you will not take off whatever footwear goes with your outfit.”

       Oh.  That wasn’t too comforting.

       “When you are done with your fourth song, you will not gather up your clothes, and you will not stop to get dressed.  You will immediately go to the cashier’s window to deposit your tips so that they can be counted toward your point total.  You will then go and serve as a waitress through the next three girls’ performances.  Once again: you will not stop to get dressed before this.”

       Lauren was appalled.  She was going to have to walk around amongst the men, serving food and drinks completely naked?!?  That was far worse than even dancing naked on stage.  By the muttering that was going on, most of the other contestants agreed.

       “Shut.  Up.”  The muttering stopped and Mr. Lopez glanced at a note card.  “Once you have finished your turn waitressing, you have the next six girls to take a break or offer up private dances.  Just remember that we get $20 from each private dance so whatever rate you charge needs to be above that or you’re going to be losing money.  And make sure you’re in your new outfit and ready to go when your turn is up.  You will not wear the same outfit twice tonight, and you will not trade outfits with the other girls.”

       Shit!  Lauren hadn’t thought to actually bring any outfits.  Again the worried looks surfaced.

Mr. Lopez seemed to notice them.  “Don’t worry.  There are all sorts of outfits available for purchase or rent in the shop.

“At the end of the night, I will gather all of you girls up and interview each of you before a panel of judges.  Your final score will be based on three categories: the tips you earn while dancing, your private dance fees and waitressing tips, and the judges’ score at the end.  Are there any questions?”

Only Juliet raised her hand.  Mr. Lopez pointed to her and grunted.  “Do we have to get naked?  We can just get down to our underwear and dance, right?”

Mr. Lopez stared at her for a moment.  “You don’t have to do anything, but if you remember from the contract you signed, you will be fined $1000 each time you don’t.  And the point penalty will be enough that you will not possibly win the competition.  Now, if there are no further questions, you all need to get into your first outfit for the group photos.”

Lauren wasn’t sure if she was comfortable with the idea of a group photo, but she hurried with most of the rest of them out of the dressing room and to the shop.  There she picked out what appeared to be a very short red dress with a hood on it.  It came with a pair of red, 5” stilettos—how in the world she was supposed to dance in those she didn’t know—a lacy red thong that would barely cover her pubic hair, and a lacy red bra.  She wasn’t sure exactly what it was supposed to be, but she was hoping that the hood might disguise her a little in the group photo.  And most importantly, it was only $35—five dollars cheaper than the next cheapest outfit.  Unfortunately, she hadn’t brought any cash and there was a five dollar fee for her to run a tab and pay for the outfit at the end of the night after she had all of her tips.  She rolled her eyes and signed the necessary paperwork.

Back in the dressing room, she surreptitiously observed her competition as they changed.  Amy and Tracy hadn’t shaved back their pubic hair much if at all, though they were neatly trimmed.  Amy had a large butterfly tattoo on her lower back—a tramp stamp, Lauren supposed it was called.  Becky had one, too, though it was some kind of cartoon character that Lauren didn’t recognize.

She was a little shocked to see that Becky had her pubic hair shaved into a “V”, and Sarah and Connie were completely bare.  She was more shocked to see that Juliet, for all her protests of the nudity requirement, had a pencil-thin line of hair, and Emma was sporting a landing strip narrower than her own.  The woman who claimed to be named Kelly joined Amy and Tracy in the unshaved-but-trimmed club—her pubic hair slightly darker than Lauren would have guessed based on the red hair on her head—and Amber had a landing strip maybe a touch narrower than Lauren’s own.

Once they were all dressed, they lined up outside the dressing room for the photo.  Sarah was wearing a nurse outfit, Emma a schoolgirl outfit, and Amber a French maid outfit.  All three of them had skirts that, like Lauren’s own dress, didn’t quite cover their scant panties depending on how they stood.  Becky’s track star outfit was similarly revealing with the bottom of her cheeks peeking out from the teeny spandex shorts.  Amy had chosen some sort of uber-patriotic red, white, and blue dress, though it was a little longer than some of the others.  Connie had gone the stereotypical route in some sort of geisha get-up, Tracy looked like a stern school teacher—she even had a pair of fake glasses on with her hair pulled back—Kelly had a Jessica Rabbit thing going with a shimmering red dress, and Juliet was in a cheerleader’s outfit.

       The photographer had them line up in a row, each with her arms over the shoulders of the contestants next to her.  Lauren pulled her hood up before taking her spot.  “Cute,” the photographer said, and let it stand.

       He took a few pictures of them this way then barked, “Okay, everybody turn around.  Girls on the left look back at the camera over your right shoulder.  Girls on the right, look over your left shoulder.  Reach back and flip those skirts up or pull those pants down to show those asses.  And smile.”

       As the dancers followed his directions, he moved along the line giving an arch your back a little here and a shift your hips to the left there.  He also pulled Lauren’s hood down.  She was mortified that there was going to be photographic evidence of this moment, but didn’t see much choice.

       The photographer snapped a few photos this way, ordering minor adjustments between each snap.  Then he dropped the bomb.  “Okay, now I need everybody to take off everything but your footwear and garter.  We’ll get one final shot from the front that way.”

       This was greeted with immediate loud protests, but Mr. Lopez quickly stepped in.  “Don’t worry, girls, it’s only for our wall.  Nobody’s going to see it that wouldn’t be able to see you anyway.”

       The protests quickly died to Lauren’s amazement, and the contestants began to disrobe.  She knew she couldn’t refuse, but surely one of these other women could speak up for the rest of them?  Instead, she saw reactions ranging from Sarah seeming to relish the moment to Emma looking uncertain to most of the women looking extremely reluctant, but every single one of them was complying without complaint.

She realized that this was it.  For the first time ever she was about to be naked in front of a man with whom she wasn’t planning on having sex.  And she was going to let him take pictures of her.  She tried to tell herself that this was all part of a well-earned punishment for her long years of failing to give men their proper respect; it was truly a good way to remind her of her proper place.

She pulled the too-short hooded red dress over her head, folded it neatly, and put it on the floor, then realized that she was delaying when she looked around and saw the other contestants almost done disrobing.  Tentatively, she unclasped her bra and dropped it on the before slowly easing the red thong panties down and awkwardly pulling them off over her high-heeled boots.

She and the other contestants milled—most with their arms crossed in front of themselves—as the photographer placed them.  She ended up in the center of the row with Emma to her left and Sarah to her right, arms over one another’s shoulders.  She really didn’t like the feeling of the outside of her butt cheeks pressed up against the outside of their butt cheeks, but she told herself it was to keep those cheeks from feeling a lot more discomfort later, plastered a fake smile to her face, and got through it.

Back in the changing room, the girls learned their rotation.  Sarah would dance first and Lauren immediately after her.  Emma would follow her.  Lauren felt sorry for Amber, Becky, and Connie who had drawn the last three slots; they would have to wait tables naked before they’d ever even been up on the stage.  Except for those last three, the contestants were all squeezing back into their first outfits.

       Sooner than she wanted, Lauren heard Sarah announced.  The blond walked out onto stage with music blaring while Lauren watched surreptitiously, hoping to get some hint of how she was actually supposed to dance.  There weren’t many men in the club, yet.  She supposed that was some consolation, but still . . . was she really going to do this?  Strip and dance in front of a bunch of low-class hooligans?  She blinked back tears at the thought.  This was so humiliating!

       She closed her eyes and sighed, silently chastising herself.  Hooligans?  Will you listen to yourself?  That’s the attitude that got you into this mess in the first place.  They are men, deserving of your respect, and you are going to entertain them tonight.

       A raucous cheer from the crowd brought Lauren’s attention back to the stage where Sarah was naked and whipping herself around the golden pole while grinning hugely.  Lauren sighed.  How could that woman enjoy degrading herself so much? 

       She jumped at the feeling of a hand sliding under her skirt.  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Lopez said in her ear.  “You’re going to do just fine.”

       She gulped.  “Um, thank you, sir.  I . . . I prefer not to be touched though.  You said we could enforce that—”

       He pulled his hand out.  “I was trying to help you.”  He showed her a bill in his hand.  “I was sticking a ten-dollar bill in your thong.  Never mind, now.”  He patted her behind through her tiny skirt.  “But just for future reference, you girls’ no-touching rules do not apply to me, understand?”

       She gulped again.  “Yes, sir.”

       A sudden silence made her realize that Sarah was done dancing.  She looked out again and saw the woman crawling around on the stage picking up a few spare bills.  She hopped off, then, to replace Amber as a waitress.

       Lauren took a deep breath.  This was it.  She strode on to stage, trying to hold her head up, as the DJ introduced her.  Only when the music started, Little Red Riding Hood, You sure are looking good, did she finally realize what her costume was supposed to be.

       She tried to strut around to the beat of the music, but she really wasn’t sure what to do, and the high heels didn’t make it very easy.  The crowd responded appropriately: a few catcalls, but more boos.  She tried swaying her hips a little and sliding her skirt up and down.  That seemed to help.  One man even held out a dollar bill.

       She bit her lip as she crouched down next to him.  The heels forced her to spread her legs wide in order to get low enough for her tip garter to be in his reach.  She might as well have not been wearing even that tiny skirt as far as things were concerned from his viewpoint—and all for a single dollar.  This felt so degrading.  He slid his hand up her inner thigh all the way to the border of her thong before bring the dollar back down to her garter.

       Then, the song started to wind down, and she realized she needed to take her dress off.  As she started to pull it over her head, tears came unbidden to her eyes.  The DJ mixed in some country song, Lap dances are always better when the stripper cri-ies, and the men watching her laughed.

       She bit her lip and finished pulling the dress off, then tried to be sensible.  If she didn’t win, Don was going to spank her.  Hard.  And to win, she needed to earn tips.  That meant dancing the way these gentlemen wanted.

       She dropped to all fours just at the right moment and mock-howled along with the wolf in the song.  That brought the dollars out and she crawled over to the nearest group of men holding out their singles.  It didn’t escape her that crawling around almost naked and practically begging for dollars was the perfect way to reinforce her position in relation to men.  What they wanted was what was important; her value was in the entertainment she could provide them.

       The next song started.  It was a Bon Jovi one whose title she couldn’t remember, but she mostly just stayed kneeling by this group, knees spread wide and gyrating as she ran her hands through her hair and whipped her head about to the beat.  Every man who tipped her felt it necessary to run his hand all the up her inner thigh to the edge of her thong before sliding the dollar back down into her tip garter, but she didn’t complain.

       She got lost in the zone and almost missed the ending of the song, but took her lacy bra off just in time.  One man casually reached out and tweaked her left nipple, and she jerked away.

       “I’m ‘no-touching’,” she shouted over the lyrics to Hungry Like a Wolf.  Most of the men looked disgusted and leaned back, tucking their dollars back into their pockets.  Lauren paused, unsure of what to do.  Were they serious?  Nobody would tip her if they couldn’t grope her?  She felt the tears coming on again; there was no way she could win at this rate, and that meant facing another punishment from Don.

       She crawled over to another group and turned with her butt facing them, shaking it with its thin stretch of fabric her only protection.  This earned her a few more dollars—and a swat from someone she didn’t turn in time to identify.

       And then the song was winding down.  This was it.  She was going to have to expose her most intimate parts to these men, and she was sure that she was going to get groped for her effort.  Then she had a thought—she crawled over to the golden pole, pulled herself to her feet, and started to seductively twirl around it as she untied the sides of her thong.

       She was now completely naked, dancing on a stage in front of a bunch of cheering men.  This was officially the most humiliating moment of her life.  She had to put up with catcalls, and one man yelled, “Wooh, nice pussy!” but at least no one could touch her here.  And most importantly, the dollars kept getting placed on the stage.

       The song seemed to by mercifully quickly.  Lauren didn’t quite recognize the song and wasn’t sure how to dance to it, so she settled for twirling around the pole—though she doubted the fake smile she plastered on her face was as big as the real one that Sarah had had.  A few times she bent over and shook her butt in the general direction of a group of men; she found it extra embarrassing but noticed that more money ended up on the stage every time she did it.

       As the last song wound down, she crawled around to collect up her tips, dodging the gropes as best as she could.  She hopped off the stage with the last note and tottered over in her heels to the cashier’s window.  She counted out the money as she handed it over to go toward her total score.  Thirty-seven dollars!  Not bad, she figured, for twenty minutes of work.  Then she realized she owed $40 for her outfit.  Great—she had just paid $3 for the privilege of dancing naked in front of a bunch of men.

       She shook herself and tried to remind herself that this was a privilege.  She should feel honored to be able to serve men like this, she told herself, but she knew it was a lie.  She just felt humiliated.

Lauren relieved Becky of her waitress duties.  The other girl gave her a wan smile; she did not look like she had been enjoying herself.

       As she walked over to check on her first table, Emma walked out on stage; some song with the lyrics, “bad, bad girl,” was playing and Lauren stopped to watch her successor for a moment.  The girl had a backpack on and, from it, she pulled out a small paddle.  “I just can’t seem to make it through the school day without getting in trouble,” she announced to the bar.  “And I wanna know who’s gonna play the role of principal and teach me a lesson?”

       The money came flying out, and Emma was strutting back and forth from group to group teasingly holding out the paddle as the amounts held up increased.  Lauren couldn’t believe what she was seeing; Emma was auctioning off the right to paddle her on stage.  And it was a revenue winner.

       Finally, one man seemed to win out and Emma handed him the paddle as she whispered in his ear.  She popped back up and addressed the whole, now very excited crowd.  “And as every good schoolgirl knows,” she put a finger coyly up to the side of her mouth.  “I mean naughty schoolgirl . . . if you get paddled at school,” she pulled a strap out of her backpack, “you can expect to get it just as bad at home.”

       The money came flying out again and Emma repeated the process with the strap.  Lauren just couldn’t belie—

       SMACK!  The slap to her bare butt startled her right out of any thoughts about Emma.

       “Hey!  Sweetcheeks!  How ‘bout you get outta the way so we can see the show?”

       Lauren turned, brought back to her humiliating reality where she was standing wearing nothing but a garter and high heels while waiting on the men there to see the show.

       The group at this table looked to be construction workers or some other sort of blue collar workers.  The man who’d slapped her bottom—she caught herself rubbing it—was husky, his palms rough and his forearms like tree roots.

       “Sorry, gentlemen, and good afternoon,” she said.  “My name is Lauren, and I’ll be serving you for the next hour or so.”  The thought of that made her shudder—an hour stumbling around naked in these heels delivering drinks and food to a crowd of rowdy men!  “Just so you know, I’m no-touching—”

       “Sure ya are, sweetcheeks,” the husky man casually reached out and patted her on the behind as the rest of the men laughed.

       Lauren didn’t know how to react, so she smiled to keep from crying and continued, “Is there anything I can get you?”

       “Yeah, how ‘bout you start us off with a free round for blocking our view?”

       Lauren started to object and then a brief flash of her contract flashed through her mind: treat all requests from men as commands from Don.  She gave her fake smile again, “That seems fair, sir.  What will everybody have?”

       After a few minutes of dithering, Lauren was clopping off toward the bar to get a round of two Red Bulls and vodka and four high end bourbons.  She had to fight back tears when the bartender told her how much it was going to cost her: $66!  Even not counting the cost of her outfits, that would probably consume the tips from her next two sessions of dancing!

       When she delivered the drinks, they at least had the courtesy to thank her, but they forced her to bend over the table to reach the furthest men; the two nearest her commented on the view and she turned bright red, provoking more laughs.

       By the time Lauren had circulated to all of her tables and filled their orders, Emma was on her fourth song and dancing naked and flirtatiously on stage.  As the song wore down she pulled the first man who’d won her auction on stage, took on a contrite expression while he, with poor acting, admonished her, and then bent over for five licks of the paddle.  She repeated the process for the second man with the strap.  The crowd loved it but what Lauren noticed was that, even though Emma was biting her lip and clearly struggling to hold back tears, the strokes didn’t look nearly as hard as what Don delivered; she wished she could convince him to ease up a little.

       As her shift as a waitress wore on, Lauren hustled around taking orders, delivering drinks and food, and slowly getting the hang of walking quickly in her high-heeled boots.  She reflected on her situation.  Yesterday, she had been a well-paid financial consultant, working in an office, respected by her peers, and, most importantly, clothed.  Today she was running around naked, struggling to keep up with the demands of the men around her while trying to dodge their gropes and just hoping that they would tip her generously.  Soon, she would again be dancing naked on stage for them—and still just hoping that they would tip her generously.  In place of the respect she was used to, when they wanted her attention they slapped her on the butt or yelled some degrading name at her.

       But that p-word was the problem, wasn’t it?  Peers.  She had to get it through her head that men were not her peers; they were—and always would be—her betters.  She was convinced that if she could just make herself believe that, this whole experience would be less humiliating.  Once she believed that, it was a simple step to understanding that these men had a right to treat however they wanted, and she should just be grateful for any kindness or generosity they showed her.  The only respect that was owed was from her to them, and she had spent too long not acting that way.

       If nothing else, she certainly deserved this punishment.  She was just grateful that Don was even giving her this opportunity after she’d messed up such an easy task like writing that letter.  He could have just proceeded to a harsher physical punishment.  She’d started to read up on the internet and, frankly, there were some physical punishments out there that terrified her far more than the strap.

       SMACK!  “Hey, you ditz.  Get me another Sam Adams.”

       Lauren turned to the gentleman, trying to rub the sting out of her butt.  “Yes, sir.”

Lauren was on her third dance.  Both waitressing stints had been fairly richly rewarded—almost $70 in tips from each one—as had her last turn dancing; the $55 from that one had actually more than covered the cost of her sexy cat outfit.  She got the impression she might have even been in the lead tip-wise.  Each time had left her exhausted, sore, and just wanting for some time out of her heels, though, so she’d yet to offer any private dances.

       Now, though, The Landing Strip seemed to be in a pre-dinner lull.  She hadn’t counted yet, but she knew she wasn’t anywhere close to paying for the cop outfit that she had started this session with.  There just weren’t enough men to dance for.  She grimaced at that thought—now she was wishing that there were more men to dance naked in front of?

       Thinking that the third song was almost over, she’d prematurely dropped her thong just as the DJ sent it in to some extensive remix, so she had spent the better part of five minutes on all fours in front of the lone man at the bar and shaking her ass to the beat of the music.  She didn’t care how obscene it was—she needed the tips.

       He slid a bill up and down her inner thigh and tickled her slit with it before stuffing it in her garter.  Then, he hauled back with a full-armed slap to her rear.

       SMACK!  “Yeah, shake that ass baby.”

       It really hurt.  He hadn’t held back at all.  She turned to him, about to tell him in her anger to keep his goddamned hands to himself.  Then she saw the stack of bills in front of him.  Twenties.  He was tipping with twenty-dollar bills.  So, she smiled and shook her ass a little more seductively.  She needed the tips.

       A moment later, a friend of the first man sat down next to him and leered at Lauren’s display.  He walked his hand up and down the back of thigh like a spider before tucking a bill into her garter.  Then he slapped her ass and shouted over the music, “Hey, how ‘bout giving us a different view?”

       She looked back at him, looked at the stack of twenties, and then, hating herself for it, rolled over onto her back and opened and closed her legs to the rhythm of the music.  The song was almost over.  Please, she thought to herself, turning her face so they wouldn’t see the wetness in her eyes, just one more twenty and that will make this worth it.

       But the song ended without any more tips.  Lauren pushed herself up and thanked the two gentlemen for watching—hoping more than anything else that they’d take it as a signal to give her another tip, but the big spender ignored her completely and his friend brushed her off with a, “Yeah, yeah,” and a pat on the butt.  They were too engrossed in Emma’s entrance in a very skimpy Wonder Woman outfit to pay Lauren any mind.

       Dejectedly, she walked over to the cashier’s window and counted out her tips.  Seventeen dollars, and the outfit had cost her $45.  She’d just paid $28 to dance naked for . . . wait . . . how could that be?  The one man had been tipping with twenties!

       She stormed over and grabbed the friend’s shoulder.  “Give it back,” she yelled.  “Give it back now!”

       The man turned and shrugged her hand off his shoulder.  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

       In an instant, one of the bouncers was over interposing himself between the heavy man and naked Lauren.  “What’s the problem?”

       Suddenly uncomfortably aware of the power dynamics involved in a naked woman arguing with dressed men, Lauren was relieved to have the help.  She pointed vehemently at the thief.  “This . . . this asshole stole some of my tips.  His friend was tipping with twenty dollar bills but when I got over to the cashier, I only had $17.”

       Before anybody else could speak, the big spender started laughing.  “I wasn’t tipping that big.”  He held up his stack of bills and showed that it was a twenty on a stack of ones.  “I always stick a twenty on top because it draws you gold-digging twits right over.”

       The bouncer looked from the not-so-big spender to Lauren with a frown.  “You have two choices.  You can be disqualified, forfeit all your tips plus pay the fines that your contract calls for, and leave now, or you can give this man a free private dance when your waitressing shift is up.”

       She felt her arms sliding back into Position 2 and forced herself to keep them at her side; she would maintain what dignity she could.

       She smiled and said through clenched teeth, “Is there a specific outfit you’d like me to wear, sir?”

       The heavy man looked her up-and-down, smirking.  “Let’s go with the Princess Leia outfit.  Not that you’ll be wearing it long.”

       “Yes, sir,” she said, turning to relieve Becky of her waitress duties before any more degradation could be piled on her.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m happy to have feedback from anybody whether it be through reviews or emails.  I have two specific requests, one about the story and one not:

1. Clearly, Lauren is going to have some music to face when she gets home (she just called a man “asshole”).  I have something in mind, but I’d like to hear your ideas.
2. There was a featured video-of-the-week on the website cmnf-rules.com called Getting_Into_the_Academy.  I’d like to find the website on which that video originated.  I’ve already contacted the site owner of cmnf-rules.com, and he doesn’t know.  Please pass on the info if you know.

Lauren’s waitressing shift dragged along.  The club was still in a lull and the lack of customers to wait on, while sparing her the need to dodge their gropes and slaps, left her with little to do but contemplate having to give a private dance to that fat slob.  He didn’t make it any easier, constantly catching her eye and leering at her.

       Just as Amy was yielding the stage to Tracy signaling the end of Lauren’s shift, a crowd was trickling in, but it was too late to do Lauren any good; this shift had been a waste in terms of tips.  She went back to the cashier’s cage to turn in her meager cash and purchase the Princess Leia outfit.

       Fifty-five dollars!  She sighed and took the plastic-wrapped outfit back to the changing room.  There, unwrapping it again forced her to fight tears: a metal thong and bra with a “skirt” that was really no more than two hand-sized pieces of fabric connected by a thin metal band . . . and a collar with a metal chain leash leading from it.  Was she really supposed to wear that, to be led around like a pet?

       She gulped and clasped it around her neck just as Sarah came around the corner, returning from giving a private dance with hickeys on her breast.  “Woohoo!”  The blonde yelled.  “Looks like someone gets to be a slave!”  SMACK!  “Go get ‘em, girl.”

       Lauren was stunned at the swat to her behind from another woman and said nothing as Sarah continued walking away.  Once she had the leash, bra, thong, and skirt on, Lauren went to work on the hardest part: heeled boots that were mostly rawhide strips designed to lace around her shins and calves halfway to her knees.  It took a few tries for her to get it right which did nothing to bolster her rapidly dwindling sense of intelligence.

       Back in the main room, Lauren saw that Tracy was already down to just her thong, and she had a fair amount of cash stuffed into her garter.  Dammit!  She didn’t want Tracy catching up with her on tips while she was stuck dancing for free for some lowlife!

       She walked over to said lowlife, holding her leash to keep it from swinging.  He had his face mere inches from Tracy’s rear end as she prepared to lower her thong while squatting.  Glancing at Lauren, he non-chalantely slapped Tracy’s ass, then grabbed Lauren’s leash and pulled her close to him by it.  “Wait here.  I wanna see this twit finish.”  When Tracy looked back uncomfortably, he sneered at her.  “Yeah, that’s right, bitch.  You’re about to get naked just for me!”

       Her look turned from discomfort to disgust and she instead crawled to the other side of the stage.  And that’s when it hit Lauren: when any of the other women here decided she’d taken enough abuse, she could just move away.  As long as they obeyed the broad rules of the contest, they didn’t have to interact with any specific individuals.  Lauren didn’t have that option.  It seemed so unfair!

       But then another thought hit her.  That meant they’d be missing out on tips from the most obnoxious men.  They didn’t have to win like Lauren did.  That meant she had an advantage—she’d be getting more tips.  Only Sarah and Emma, who seemed to have a high tolerance for abuse, were her real competition.

       “Let’s go!”  The man interrupted her thought process with a sharp tug on her leash.  “I wanna get this dance started.”

       “Yes, sir,” Lauren answered, struggling to keep up as he marched off toward the private dance rooms.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m happy to have feedback from anybody whether it be through reviews or emails.  I have two specific requests, one about the story and one not:

1. Clearly, Lauren is going to have some music to face when she gets home (she just called a man “asshole”).  I have something in mind, but I’d like to hear your ideas.  Be creative.  Keep in mind, this is kind of a “last straw” sort of thing.  Don made Lauren go there specifically to punish her for failing to give men their proper respect, and here she is, not just acting as though she’s their equal, but in some ways thinking herself superior enough that she can apply derogatory titles to them.  He needs to come up with something that is going to leave a lasting impression on her.
2. There was a featured video-of-the-week on the website cmnf-rules.com called Getting_Into_the_Academy.  I’d like to find the website on which that video originated.  I’ve already contacted the site owner of cmnf-rules.com, and he doesn’t know.  Please pass on the info if you know.

The door of the private dance room had a sign prominently hanging on it which stated in bold letters, “THIS ROOM UNDER VIDEO SURVEILLANCE.  NO SEXUAL CONTACT OF ANY KIND PERMITTED.  VIOLATORS WILL BE REMOVED FROM THE LANDING STRIP.”

The room itself was small—just an armless chair with a very tiny area right in front of it to dance.  Doing so was difficult.  It didn’t help that Carl—he wouldn’t tell her his last name, so she was stuck with “sir”—kept yanking on her leash and forcing her to press up against him.  He was disgustingly sweaty.

Her clothes, scant as they were, came off in a blur.  She couldn’t even keep track of which items were taken off by her and which ripped off by Carl.  She supposed she’d figure it out later by which items were ruined.

Carl seemed to enjoy slapping her—especially her breasts and ass—and tweaking her nipples.  At one point, he yanked her face to within inches of his and cupped her right butt cheek as she was forced to bend toward him.  She flinched from his sour breath, but he held her firm by the clasp of the leash.

“You know the best part of this?  I can tell you hate this.  You think you’re too good for this, that you’re better than me.  I don’t know what’s forcing you to do this, but I’m glad for it.”

She felt tears welling up in her eyes.  He was right.  She’d never thought she’d find herself in this position.  She was educated.  She was good at her job.  She had no need for this.  But not what, she thought.  Who.  But she mentally chastised herself, But the “who” is you.  Your own actions brought this on.  Don isn’t making you do anything you don’t deserve.  If you’d get over yourself, if you’d stop it with your superior attitude, if you’d just do a simple thing like write a letter the way you’ve been instructed to, you wouldn’t be stuck here.

But other than that, Carl was right.  She did think she was too good for this, and she did think she was better than him.  She knew it was wrong, and she knew it was only going to cause her problems, but she couldn’t help it.  Maybe—just maybe—punishments like this would help teach her her proper place.

As the thoughts finished forming, Carl let go of her leash—causing her to stumble backward—at the same time as he pinched her right nipple.  The pain flashed through her and released her tears.  For a second she didn’t realize that her dance was done until Carl barked at her, “Well?  Yer done.  Get out of here.”

She quickly gathered up her outfit, and stumbled out of the room, tears flowing freely as she fled toward the back room.  As she passed the cashier’s window, the woman there—a heavy African-American lady—yelled out to her, “Hey, forgettin’ something?”

Lauren hadn’t quite figured out the woman’s status compared to her own.  She wasn’t a dancer, but she also wasn’t a man.  She erred on the side of caution.  “What do you mean, Miss Brown?”

“Twenty dollars from your private dance.”

“Oh, I was told to give that dance for free.  I didn’t get paid.”

“Free for him.  Not free for you.”

“Well I . . . I already gave you all my tips.  I don’t have any extra money on me obviously.  Can you take it out of the tips I’ve given you?”

She harrumphed.  “They’re not your tips until the end of the night.  I’ll mark it in your ledger as a debt.  Means it’ll cost you $25 out of your tips at the end of the night.”

That seemed so unfair, but Lauren didn’t know how to argue with her about it.  “Okay.  Thank you, Miss Brown.”

Lauren peeked wearily out onto the stage as Sarah started yet another set.  Two more dances to go.  She was so tired and her legs and lower back ached from walking and dancing in these damned high heels all night, but just two more sets—plus all the hustling to get men their drinks and snacks between—and she’d be done.  She just prayed that she won the contest.  She didn’t even want to think of how bad her morning would be if she didn’t; her butt tensed just at the thought.

       Now she was wearing a skimpy Supergirl outfit, the plastic red thong giving her an uncomfortable wedgie underneath a skirt that didn’t even reach the bottom of her butt cheeks.  She wasn’t sure what she was going to go with next.  She’d been trying to avoid the outfits that seemed to add to her submissive position—the naughty schoolgirls and sexy animals—especially after being forced to dress as Slave Leia.  She just felt that if she chose a “powerful” persona, no matter how skimpily dressed, it at least started her out on something close to even ground with the men in the crowd; there weren’t many of those left, though.

       She shook her head at her own irrationality.  Even ground?  Who was she kidding?  She was a woman, here to entertain the men in whatever way they saw fit—and that way was to dance for them while taking off her clothes.  There was no “even ground” about it.

       Besides, wasn’t that why she was here?  To help her learn that she wasn’t even with the men?  Why did she keep needing to remind herself of basic facts?  “They.  Are not.  Your equals,” she found herself muttering.

       A sudden site broke her out of the self-admonishment.  The bachelor party—the group of men from work—were sitting down at a table.  Worse, it was a table that Becky was currently waiting on . . . which meant that it was one Lauren would be taking over after her next dance.  Even if they somehow managed not to pay attention to her while she was dancing, there was no way they wouldn’t recognize her when she walked up to them, introduced herself, and started serving them!

       Oh, God!  She felt her throat swelling and tears welling.  What was she going to do?  Please, please, please, she thought.  There has to be a way out of this!

       Just then, Juliet made her way backstage after being relieved by Connie from her waitressing duties.  The naked girl looked exhausted and ready for a break, but the only thing on Lauren’s mind was one glaring fact: Juliet had the longest time back here before she had to go on stage!

       She rushed over to the lawyer-in-training.  “Juliet, please, please, please, can we switch places?  Can you go out for me after Sarah, and I’ll take your next spot?”

Juliet looked startled by her sudden approach at first, then flabbergasted.  “Are you crazy?  I just finished.  I need a break.”

“Please,” she begged.  “There are men I know out there.  They just came in.  I can’t . . . I can’t bear to have them see me doing this.”

Juliet’s eyes suddenly turned from bafflement to avarice.  “Tell you what,” she tilted her head slyly.  “You pay for my last two outfits, and I’ll switch places with you.”

Two outfits . . . and this grubbing bitch would probably choose some of the most expensive ones knowing that Lauren was paying?  That was probably going to run her at least $100 . . . but it was her only chance.  She absolutely couldn’t be seen by that group and still keep her job.  She only hoped that the hour and forty minutes it would buy her would be long enough for them to leave.  She stuck out her hand.  “Deal.”

“Excuse me, girls.”  Lauren jumped, not realizing that Mr. Lopez had been right behind her.  “Are you forgetting something?  I decide the dancing rotation, not you.”

“I . . . I . . . I . . . ”  It was all too much for Lauren.  The tears started flowing as she sobbed.  “Ple—Please, sir.  There . . . there . . . there are men out there I work with.  I ca—can’t dance in front of them.  I can’t be naked in front of them.  Please let us switch.”

Mr. Lopez stroked his chin before reaching out casually and running his hand up Lauren’s inner thigh and under her skirt.  “Shh . . . shh.  I think I have a deal you’ll like.  At the end of these nights, I usually pay a few of the girls a little extra to let me take some promotional pictures and videos of them for the website. You do that for free, and I’ll let you two switch spots.”

She tried not to flinch from his touch.  It was an effort.  “But . . . but that would defeat the purpose.  I’ll . . . I’ll still be seen—”

“Definitely be seen by your co-workers right now, out there or possibly be seen by them at some point in the future—when they might not even realize it’s you—on our website.  It’s your choice.”

Lauren didn’t see that she had any choice.  Please let them be gone before I have to go out there, she thought.

She even felt grateful enough to lean forward and hug Mr. Lopez.  “I’ll do it.  Thank you, Mr. Lopez.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m happy to have feedback from anybody whether it be through reviews or emails.  I have three specific areas where I’d like your feedback/vote, but anything about the story is good:

1. Clearly, Lauren is going to have some music to face when she gets home (she just called a man “asshole”).  I have something in mind, but I’d like to hear your ideas.  Be creative.  Keep in mind, this is kind of a “last straw” sort of thing.  Don made Lauren go there specifically to punish her for failing to give men their proper respect, and here she is, not just acting as though she’s their equal, but in some ways thinking herself superior enough that she can apply derogatory titles to them.  He needs to come up with something that is going to leave a lasting impression on her.

2. Should the men from Lauren’s office still be at the club when she has to go back out on stage?  If so, how will they react?

3. SPOILER ALERT: Lauren is not going to win the contest.  However, she’s going to be sent home with a score report that indicates she put forth a full effort.  Don told her she’d be punished harshly if she didn’t win, but his intent was to make sure she didn’t sacrifice her best performance possible just to avoid humiliation.  So, should Don hold her to the letter of his promise, or the spirit?  Should she be punished for not coming in first place or get a reprieve because she clearly tried her hardest?  If you think she should be punished, what should the punishment entail (it’s going to have to be at least partially physical since that’s what Don promised her)?  Keep in mind that she’s already going to be facing a punishment for her disrespectful attitude toward Carl (though Lauren doesn’t yet realize this).  I’ll go with majority rules out of the votes I receive.

Lauren was getting agitated.  It had been over an hour since she’d made her deal with Juliet and Mr. Lopez, and the bachelor party was still ordering more drinks and having a grand old time.  Sure, she thought, they get to have the time of their lives at the price of my humiliation.

       As she was peeking out, a naked Amy was yielding the stage to Tracy in a fishnet stocking suit that left little to the imagination.  The rowdy bachelor party cheered and greeted Amy with some enthusiastic slaps on the ass as she walked up to replace Juliet.  “What a bunch of animals,” she muttered.

       And now she only had one dancer until she, too, would have to dance for them.  Twenty minutes or so.  To top it off, she thought as she resisted the urge to pick at it, this damn plastic thong was the most uncomfortable thing she’d ever worn; it was almost bad enough to make her want to take it off now.

       This seemed so unfair.  The deal with Juliet had cost her $120—the girl had, predictably, picked two of the most expensive outfits—and the one with Mr. Lopez meant she was going to have to appear—for free!—in an ad on the internet.  And despite that, it looked like she was still going to have to dance naked in front of the men from her office.

       And what of it, she thought.  She remembered something Don had told her about her job before, that if his requirements didn’t mesh well with her job, then maybe her job wasn’t appropriate for her.  Maybe I shouldn’t be working in an office like that.  She had to admit that it was difficult to do her job while being properly respectful—and obedient—to men.  For one thing, her position was above that of several men, and it was difficult to phrase things properly and have them realize that there was a deadline on their tasks; and that was her fault, not theirs.  Should I even be in a position to give men tasks?

       But she liked her job, and she liked working with the people there.  I wonder if there’s any way for me to stay there in a different role, some way for me to keep doing my work but not have to be in charge of men. 

       Of course, it probably would no longer be an issue if the men from her office were still there when she went back on stage.  There was no way she could return to work if they saw her.  She was down to one song.  She peeked out again and saw Tracy, predictably, crawling around naked on the stage . . . and the men from her office giving cash to Amy to pay their bill!  Lauren was thrilled; if Amy hurried, all the men should be out of the bar before she had to go out there!

       Lauren kept watching and saw Amy waiting way too long to get change at the register.  A couple of the men from her office got up to use the bathroom and still got back before Amy did with their change.  “C’mon, c’mon,” she found herself muttering.  She was so close . . . but Tracy’s last song was winding down.

       Finally, the last song ended just as Amy got back to the table with the cash.  As the men were standing up and leaving their tips, the DJ sounded off with, “Next up . . . Lauren!”

       Lauren cringed.  She just needed a few seconds, just needed them to get up and leave.  The DJ started up a new song, and the men were putting on their coats . . . a few more seconds, she thought.  Please!

       They were walking toward the door . . . a few more seconds.  “Let’s try that again,” the DJ had stopped the music.  “Next up . . . Lauren!”

       A hand grabbed her roughly by the upper arm.  “What the hell are you doing?” Mr. Lopez hissed in her ear.  “Get your ass out there!”

       Lauren started to protest that she only needed a few more seconds, but then the first of the men from her office reached the door, and they all had their backs to the stage, so she decided to risk it.  She strutted out on stage to the tune of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” . . . and a guy from her office walked out of the bathroom.  She thought his name was Andy; he made eye contact with her and had a look of confused recognition on his face before turning and stumbling toward the door.  Her dancing came to a complete halt before the booing brought her back to the present.

       She said a silent prayer that Andy would be too drunk to remember her, dropped to her knees, turned her ass toward the nearest man, and bent forward, flipping her skirt up flirtatiously.  With her back to the audience, they couldn’t see her tears.  Dear God, please just let this night end.

Lauren finished her waitressing shift feeling like she could sleep the rest of the weekend.  One more to go, she thought.  Just one more.

The last shift dancing had actually been fairly lucrative.  She’d been so absorbed worrying about whether or not Andy had seen her that she didn’t have her normal reaction to being groped which meant the tips had poured in—until one man had brought her back to the present with a particularly hard slap to her ass.  She’d turned on him and snapped angrily, “Keep your damn hands to yourself!”  And that had been the end of the free flow of dollar bills.  Still, she’d finished that round with $83 in her tip garter and then picked up another $65 waitressing, though one man had made her sit on his lap and talk to him for a few minutes to earn a measly $5; she was feeling good about her chances of winning the competition.

As she walked backstage, Mr. Lopez was standing by the changing area watching some of the girls get ready.  When he saw Lauren, he smiled broadly.  “I just want you to know that I’m docking you 100 points for that little stunt you pulled.”

“Stunt?  What stunt, Mr. Lopez?”

“How ‘bout missing your queue and leaving us with an empty stage and music playing?”

For that?  He was docking her points for that?  “B-but, sir, the men I knew were leaving . . . I . . . I just needed a few seconds—”

“I don’t give a shit what you think you needed.”  She became uncomfortably aware of her nudity while he was chastising her and began to cross her arms in front of herself.  He slapped them down.  “Don’t you cover yourself in front of me.  And I don’t give a shit if you have to show your ass to some dudes you work with.  You signed a goddamned contract, and that’s your job tonight little Miss Uppity.  You say another word about it, and I’ll make it 200 points.”

She stood there gaping, tears welling up in her eyes.  When she didn’t say anything, he continued.  “Good then.  Get yer ass ready for your next dance.  You only have about fifteen minutes.”  He turned around and walked away.

She looked out to the main area and saw that he was right.  Switching shifts had left her with a very small break here.  Sarah was already down to a lacy white bra and sheer panties and whipping herself around the pole.  Lauren hurried off to buy her final outfit.

Her options were rather limited at this point.  While she was looking through them, she thought about what Mr. Lopez had just said.  It really didn’t seem fair that he was deducting points from her like that.  Before now, she’d never worked in a restaurant or any kind of menial job.  In high school, her parents had wanted her to focus on her grades, so they’d given her any spending money that she needed, and in college, she’d always had excellent career-boosting internships—good office work that exercised her brain.

And despite that, despite what a lowering of herself this was even if she’d been fully clothed, she’d done everything asked of her tonight!  She had hustled all night for drinks and food.  She’d bussed tables and cleaned up after all the rowdy men.  She’d taken their orders and dodged their gropes.  And she’d done it all with a smile while tottering along in these impossibly high heels and otherwise stark naked. 

Well, mostly with a smile, she admitted to herself.  She’d stripped in front of a room full of strange men and spread her legs to reveal her most intimate parts to them.  She’d given a private dance to that pig Carl!  And she had only wanted a few seconds to avoid utter humiliation.  Was that too much to ask?

But it was, she realized.  Respect and obedience were not part time pursuits.  She was either respectful and obedient at all times or she was disrespectful and disobedient—even if it was only for “a few seconds”.  She sighed deeply.  She had to get this through her head.  That was the whole point of her being here, to help her learn her proper place.  Her needs and desires—or what she thought were her needs and desires—were irrelevant until she’d satisfied those of the men around her.

But that wasn’t completely true, either, she thought.  She didn’t have to submit to sexual contact or obey sexual demands.  That was in her contract.  She straightened up a little.  That’s right, she thought, I don’t have to be completely obedient.  It was lost on her for the moment that that was irrelevant in terms of her going out on stage late.

She picked out her final outfit, a $70 cowgirl affair in which the hat was by far the largest item.

When Lauren went out on stage—For the final time! she told herself with a strong feeling of relief—she strutted out with as much confidence and energy as she’d had all night.  It didn’t last, though.  She was exhausted, and just couldn’t muster much perkiness for these last dances.  A small part of her felt guilty—these men that came later deserved the same enthusiastic show that the earlier men had received, after all—but a larger part just didn’t care.  She was tired, and hungry, and she just wanted to complete her task and go home.

       Her low energy performance was reflected in her tips.  By the end of the third song, she’d only accumulated $12.  It was only then, as she slid her thong off to dance fully nude again, that she realized the mistake she was making.  This was her last chance to make serious tips toward winning the contest.

And if she didn’t win, Don was going to spank her, and paddle her, and strap; it would be, she knew without a doubt, the most painful experience of her life.  Giving a fair performance to the gentlemen here didn’t motivate her, but that certainly did.  And so, naked, she decided not to retreat to the pole as she had most of the rest of the night and instead crawled over to a cluster of men to dance in front of them.  She even willingly pushed her body up against them when they leaned in, though she shuddered to do so.  That, apparently, sent the signal that she was no longer “no touching”, and soon she was getting her ass slapped and breasts fondled as she thrust her butt into the air to the tune of Nickelback’s “Bottoms Up”.

She tried to tell herself that she was doing this because it was the right thing to do, that these gentlemen wanted and deserved entertainment from her and therefore she needed to provide it to them no matter how tired she was or how degrading she found the experience.  But she knew that wasn’t true.  She was doing it because she was terrified of the idea of a punishment even worse than she’d received the other day, and this was her only hope of avoiding it.  And it seemed to be working; the tips were flowing a lot more freely now.

She still had her limits, though, smacking a man’s hand away when he tried to tickle her slit even though he was holding a five dollar bill.  He scowled and pulled the bill back, but some of the other men laughed and said something about her being “feisty” and the bills kept getting slid into her tip garter.

When it finally ended, and Lauren hopped off of stage to go to the cashier’s cage, she discovered that she’d managed to earn a hefty $56 during the dance, and only at the cost of most of her remaining dignity.  Her dignity took a bigger plunge when she thought about the cost of the cowgirl outfit.  Fourteen dollars.  She’d just paid $14 to strip for twenty-odd minutes.

Lauren was surprised to see Carl sitting at one of her tables when she relieved Becky; she hadn’t noticed him while she was dancing and thought that he had left.  She decided that she needed to start off on the right foot with him.  “Sir, I just wanted to say again how sorry I am for . . . for our earlier encounter.  You didn’t deserve to be talked to that way,” she shouted over the bar’s music.

       He looked up at her, scowling.  “What’s your name again, stupid?”

       She nervously glanced around at the other three men at his table.  They were all smirking at her.  Without thought, she found her hands sliding behind her back into Position 2.  “Lauren, sir.”

       “Well, I think we’ll just stick with ‘stupid’ since you’re too dumb to know to introduce yourself when you walk up to a new table you’re going to be serving.  Wouldn’t you say you’re pretty dumb?”

       A quick glance around again, and she decided that she probably had more education and made more money than the four men at the table combined.  She almost said something to that effect but hesitated.  And, of course, all that education hadn’t exactly made a difference considering that she was the one standing here naked preparing to take their orders.

Was he trying to banter?  It hardly seemed fair, and thinking about why made her even more self-conscious: she was a woman alone against four men.  She stood before them naked, about to cater to their needs for the next hour—and hope that they’d tip her generously—while they were lounging fully clothed and watching another woman dance naked as their entertainment.  The power dynamics just didn’t seem set up for fair banter.

She decided to avoid conflict and looked down; she just had to get through this last hour.  “Yes, sir, that was pretty dumb.  I’m sorry.  Can I get anything for you?”

His next words made her wish she had shown a little more backbone.  “Well, if you’re really so sorry about before, how ‘bout we drink for free while you’re serving us?”

If the other tables found out, she’d end up buying everybody’s drinks for the next hour.  She looked around and lowered her voice.  “Okay, but just you gentlemen, right?  Don’t tell anyone else I’m doing that, okay, sir?”  She cringed internally.  She was treading a fine line here by trying to limit what a man could request of her.

Carl shrugged.  “Yeah, I don’t give a shit about the other tables.”

She relaxed at his response and smiled.  “Great.  Thank you, sir.  I’ll be right back with your drinks.”  She turned to go.

“Hey, stupid,” one of the other men yelled.

She paused, uncertain at first if she should validate them by responding to ‘stupid’ but ultimately deciding it wasn’t in her interest to fight that.  “Yes, sir?”

“We haven’t even told you want we want, stupid.”

“Oh . . . oh, yeah.”

“Goddamn, you’re dumb.”  He looked over the drink menu.  “Bring me an Irish car bomb and two shots of Jameson.”

“Yes, sir.”  She looked around the table.  “And everybody else?”

Carl reached out and casually slapped her ass.  “Just make it four of them.”

She jumped, more startled than hurt, then gulped at the thought of the cost.  “Yes, sir,” she said and fled to the bar.

The hour passed mercifully fast.  The bar was working up to a fever pitch, so Lauren was kept busy hustling for drinks and food.  The men were getting increasingly aggressive, too, so the gropes and slaps were becoming almost impossible to dodge.  She tried to convince herself, with some success, that it was all a small price to pay for all the times she’d failed to give a man proper respect.

       Despite her initial fears, Carl’s table seemed satisfied with their single round of drinks, although they did keep forcing her to sit on their laps when she stopped by to check on them.  Surprisingly, they kept their hands relatively chaste when they did so, never sliding up past her upper thigh.

Still, she found it incredibly degrading.  Whenever she walked up to check on the table, one of them would just slide his chair out and pat his lap and expect her to perch herself there while they talked for a few minutes.  Certainly, none of them was the kind of guy she’d give any attention to if she had any choice in the matter.  Plus, the time she spent with them was time she wasn’t earning tips from some of the other customers.

She sighed internally at the thought.  She had to stop thinking along those lines.  First of all, she needed to get over the idea that she had some kind of right to be choosy about men; they were her superiors, and she needed to treat them that way.  Second of all, even though her ultimate goal was to win the contest, she needed to stop focusing on that; she was here to learn how to treat men properly—do that, she decided, and winning the contest would follow.

Amy took her by surprise when she came to relieve her.  Lauren turned to the men at Carl’s table and said, “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure to serve you.  And, again, I’m sorry for our earlier . . . unpleasantness.”

Carl barely acknowledged her with a grunt.  She hurried to the cashier’s cage-- $75, her best yet!—and then back to the changing room.  There, she sat on one of the benches and leaned over to rub her calves.  As she did so, she thought about the recent changes to her life.

Just a few months ago, she had been a confident young woman, a high-performer at work on the fast-track, practically guaranteed to make vice president by the time she was thirty.  She made a more than comfortable living in a job that came easy to her.

She was still all of that, she supposed, though perhaps less confident than before.  And wasn’t that justified?  She was good—very good—at what she had chosen to do and that justified her confidence.  But take away those choices, force her to make her own desires secondary to serving and entertaining men, and she became barely adequate.  She was struggling to make ends meet tonight, and she certainly hadn’t been 100% obedient and respectful as she should have been.  This was hard for her; she almost wandered if she should volunteer to do it again, not as punishment, but just because it was a damn good way to teach her respect and test her obedience—sink or swim, as it were.

No, she told herself fiercely.  She liked her job, and she wasn’t going to set herself down a path to losing it.  But how was she going to continue on the path she had been on?  She didn’t even have control over how she trimmed her own pubic hair—how did she expect to operate as a vice president when the newest intern could order her around?

A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts.  It was Mr. Lopez.  “Let’s go.  It’s time for the interviews.”

She’d forgotten about this part.  She wasn’t looking forward to it.  “Oh . . . should I . . . should I put some clothes on?”

Mr. Lopez scowled.  “Of course not.  You do the interview naked.”

She got up in dismay and filed out with the other performers and onto the stage.

“Girls, girls, girls!”  The Motley Crue song was blaring as Mr. Lopez walked around getting the crowd riled up.  Sarah had convinced Becky to dance provocatively with her, and a few of the other performers were dancing individually, but nobody had told Lauren that she had to dance and she was just too tired, so she stood with her hands crossed in front of her pubic area and waited.  She noticed that the five men at the judges’ table were already taking notes, so she supposed she should put forth more effort, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do so.

       She jokingly thought of the way she was standing as “Position 3”.  It probably wouldn’t have been acceptable in Don’s presence, but she supposed she could get away with it in front of a bunch of rowdy drunks.  It was silly—she was still standing here stark naked and on display, most of them had already gotten a close look at her anyway, and she was quite sure that any who hadn’t soon would—but it helped her maintain a little dignity, a minute sense of control.

       As the music died down, Mr. Lopez was yelling something.  It took Lauren a second to realize he was instructing all the contestants to get in a line across the stage.  It took her longer to realize he was placing her at the far right extreme.  As the performers lined up, Mr. Lopez took center stage and announced, “Okay, now’s the part when I interview each of the girls to give them one last chance to make an impression on the judges.  Their final score will depend on the tips they earned while dancing, the tips they earned while waitressing, and the judges’ score here.  Lauren is first up.  C’mon up here, Lauren.”

       Lauren gulped.  She wasn’t looking forward to being put especially on display for the interview and hadn’t considered the possibility that she would be going first.  She walked forward, smiling hesitantly, unsure of how to behave.  When she stood next to Mr. Lopez, she crossed her hands in front of herself again but, without saying anything, he reached out and moved her hands to her sides, so she left them there.

       Placing one hand on the small of her back, Mr. Lopez started the interview as though it was the most natural thing in the world to have a question-and-answer session with a naked woman in front of a crowd of cheering and hooting—and clothed—men.  “So, what’s your name?”

       “Um, L-lauren, sir.”

       “And do you have a last name, L-lauren?”  The crowd laughed at his making fun of her nervousness, but Lauren looked at him astonished.  Was he serious?  He wanted her to give out her full name?

       But he didn’t look like he was interested in waiting.  “It’s, um, Hill, sir.”

       “And what do you do for a living when you’re not taking off your clothes, Lauren?”

       His phrasing confused her.  “Well, I don’t . . . I don’t do this regularly, sir.”

       “Yes, I know, dear.”  The crowd joined his chuckling.  “That’s why I’m asking what you do do regularly.”

       “Oh . . . I’m . . . I’m a financial consultant, sir.”

       “I see.  And where do you work, Lauren?”

       Full name and where she worked?!?  He couldn’t be serious!  She was almost guaranteed to get harassed if she gave all that information out.  But he didn’t look like he was joking, and she couldn’t . . . she wasn’t allowed to lie to a man or refuse to answer his question.  She felt tears coming up, but beat them back furiously, and pretended to wipe a bit of dust out of her eye.  She’d be damned if she was going to cry in front of this crowd again.  “I work for Schmooz Allen, sir.”

       “Whoa!”  Mr. Lopez looked shocked though he had to have known the answer already.  “You fellas hear that?  A financial consultant at a snazzy place like that?  There’s no way she’s here just for the prize money.  She musta just wanted to take her clothes off and dance for you fellas.  Is that it, Lauren?  Did you need the prize money, or did you just want to strip for these men?”

       Lauren gulped.  She certainly couldn’t tell the full reason that she was here.  If she had to pick between the two options Mr. Lopez had given her, she thought the second one lined up better with her real motivation.  “Yes, sir.  I just wanted to . . . to dance naked . . . to show my body off to these gentlemen and serve them all day and night, sir.”

       The crowd hooted in appreciation, and Lauren felt some of her confidence returning.  She straightened her back and stood more proudly.  She could do this.  She could still win.

       “Ah, yes . . . showing off that body.”  He started walking in a circle around her, making her feel even more nervous and inspected.  She pressed her hands flat against her thighs to hold them in place.  “And let’s see what we have to work with here.”  He reached out and nonchalantly cupped her left breast.  “You’re not much in this department.  But that’s okay, that’s okay.  What size bra do you wear?”

       Despite the fact that she had been dancing naked in front of these men all day, the question seemed especially personal and made her even more uncomfortable.  Still, not answering wasn’t an option.  “Um, 34B, sir.”

       He reached out and brushed his fingers up through Lauren’s pubic hair.  She jumped, startled, and the crowd laughed.  “I like this.  Do you always keep it this way, or did you do it in honor of the club?”

       “My pub- my pub-” She stammered, the question having taken her by surprise, then grit her teeth and said it.  “My pussy, sir?  I . . . I always keep it this way, I guess.”

       “Yeah, a nice landing strip.”  He brushed it again gently.  “So . . . how many guys you let fuck you?”

       Her jaw dropped, and the crowd laughed.  This was certainly far more personal information than she wanted to give out . . . but again, she found herself constrained by her contract—he was a man, so she couldn’t refuse to answer, and she couldn’t lie.

       “Four, sir,” she answered quietly.  There’d been her high school boyfriend from senior year of high school until the end of freshman year of college, another college boyfriend, and two guys since graduating.

       “Four?!” Mr. Lopez repeated her answer for all to hear and sounded surprised.  The crowd joined him, yelling “Prude!” and “Bore!”.  Mr. Lopez quieted them with a raised hand.

       “Okay,” he said, putting a hand under her chin.  “But surely you’ve sucked some cocks in your day.  How many different cocks have you sucked?”

       This was almost too far.  How could she even be expected to know that number?  A blowjob was just . . . it wasn’t the same thing.  Sometimes it could even happen at the end of a first date if things went really well.  She honestly didn’t know the answer to the question and quietly said as much.

       “You hear that, fellas?”  Mr. Lopez shouted.  “She’s sucked so many cocks, she’s lost track of the number!”  The crowd roared at that, yelling “Cum-guzzler!” and “Slut!” and “Cock-sucker!”  What did they want from her?  If she didn’t have sex with enough men she was frigid, but if she was with too many, she was a slut?  How was that fair?

       “All right, all right.”  Mr. Lopez raised a hand again.  “She’s had enough, fellas.”  The crowd quieted.  It was only then that Lauren realized she had started crying freely.  The realization embarrassed her and made her want to cry even more but she managed to restrain herself.  Mr. Lopez handed her a tissue, and she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.  This was humiliating!

       “Y’know,” Mr. Lopez started when she was once again under control.  “I’ve saved your best part for last.  Or should I say your best asset.  Why don’t you turn around and show the judges that ass of yours.”

       Lauren complied sullenly, feeling more than ever that she was just an object for their inspection.

       “C’mon,” Mr. Lopez pushed on the top of her back.  “Bend over and show these men your ass.”

       She sighed heavily but bent over and put her hands on her knees.

       “Now, gentlemen, will you,” he slapped her right cheek and took a firm handful of it, shaking it vigorously.

“look at this,” he followed suit with her left cheek.

“ass.”  He spread her cheeks back and forth, ensuring that Lauren was fully on display.  The crowd hooted its appreciation.

       “Now what I’ve been wondering, Lauren,” he turned his attention to her, “pretty much since the moment I met you.  Is if you’ve ever . . . been fucked . . . back here?”

       She felt the penetration as he finished his question, and threw her hands back in startled response.  She tried to straighten up, but Mr. Lopez leaned on her back.  “Relax,” he hissed in her ear.  “It’s just my finger.”  The crowd absolutely roared with laughter at her reaction.

       “Well?” Mr. Lopez continued more loudly.  “Answer the question.  Have you been fucked in your ass or not?”  He drove home the question by sliding his finger in and out.

       “N-no, sir.”

       “What a waste.  This is an ass made for fucking.  Are you willing to let someone fuck you in this perfect little ass?”

       Lauren found herself crying again, but did her best to hide it with her face away from the crowd.  Did she have to put up with this?  Didn’t his finger probing count as sex?  But, no, even if it did—and she wasn’t sure Don would agree, and it was ultimately his opinion that mattered—she couldn’t sabotage all her work to win the contest by backing out now.  She settled on just answering the question and decided that she should be happy that her contract at least allowed her to refuse that.  “No, sir.  I . . . I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”

       He finally pulled his finger out and slapped her hard on the ass.  “That’s a damn shame.  Now, how ‘bout you turn around and tell these gentlemen why you should win the contest.”

       Feeling relief that Mr. Lopez had finally pulled out of her, Lauren took a moment to compose herself and then decided this was her last chance to make an impression.  She straightened and turned, trying to look her sultriest by putting her left hand on her outthrust hip and pouting, “Because, sir, I’d do anything to win.”

       That got a few cheers.

       “Would you let them fuck you in the ass?”  That got more—and completely deflated her.

       “No, sir,” she said quietly, and the crowd laughed.

       “That’s what I thought,” Mr. Lopez said with a slap to her ass.  “Go ahead and fall back into the line.  Emma, c’mon out here.”

       Emma strode forward full of the confidence that Lauren had tried so unsuccessfully to fake.  “I’ll save you some time,” she announced.  “I’m Emma Ratner, I work for the city’s environmental protection agency, I’ve slept with three guys, I’ve given a blowjob to seven, and yes, I’ve had anal sex.  After all,” she continued, putting her index finger up to her cheek and posing coyly, “I was a Catholic school girl trying to maintain my virginity.”

       The crowd hooted at this and Lauren knew, with certainty, that she was not going to win the contest.  Even if Emma wasn’t the ultimate winner, she had just guaranteed that she was going to beat Lauren.

The rest of the interviews went similarly to Lauren’s, but she spent much of the time zoned out and thinking about her own problems.  For one thing, she still had the uncomfortable feeling of Mr. Lopez’s finger in her ass.  It was disgusting, but she couldn’t seem to escape the phantom feeling.  She wanted to shower.  And Mr. Lopez!  How unfair was it that she had to address him with respect!  He had just molested her on stage in front of a crowd of people.  As far as she was concerned, he was an animal—a disgusting animal.  In her moment of anger, she folded her hands over her landing strip.  He might have moved her hands before, but he hadn’t told her she had to leave herself exposed, so she could at least comfort herself with that act of rebellion, no matter how minor.

       As she watched, Mr. Lopez made Emma bend over in front of the judges, too, but he didn’t put his finger into her ass.  Lauren zoned out into her own thoughts again, trying to control her anger and frustration.  It didn’t matter what Mr. Lopez was “as far as she was concerned” she reminded herself because her concerns didn’t matter.  He was a man, and that was all that mattered.  It entitled him to her respect and obedience.  It didn’t entitle him to molest her, though.  No sexual contact—that was in her contract!  She was going to give him a piece of her mind after the contest was over, she thought.

       And that reminded her of the new trouble that she faced.  She was sure she wasn’t going to win.  What was she going to tell Don?  He had been clear: win or get punished worse than the spanking, paddling, and strapping she had gotten the other day.  It wasn’t fair though!  She had tried as hard as she could, and she was still going to be punished.

But, she thought, maybe coming here was just an opportunity to avoid the punishment she’d earned for failing to write a proper length apology letter; in that sense, the pain she had to look forward to now could have been avoided if she had just listened to her instructions before.  How hard was it to write a 1000-word letter?  She couldn’t even get that right.

Sarah was busy telling the judges that she’d be willing to hook them up with prescription drugs.  Not to win the contest but if she had a permanent gig here because while this was a special place where the performers had to cater to men—as opposed to the wider world (Ha,  Lauren thought, if only that was true for me!)—if she knew she had to face the music when she came back here, it would behoove her to be accommodating in the wider world, too.  The woman was insane, Lauren decided.

She spent the rest of the interviews contemplating her coming punishment and wondering what, if anything, she could do to avoid it.  A few times, she felt tears coming on as she thought about her prospect, but she forced them down.  Finally, the interviews were done and the contestants were made to stay on stage while the scores were tabulated.  After a few moments, Lauren was called forward with Emma and Sarah.

“Okay, fellas, girls.  These were our top three performers tonight.  Good job to all the girls and congratulations to you three for making the cut.  You ready to hear the winner?”

The crowd cheered, and Lauren allowed herself to feel hopeful.  Mr. Lopez continued.  “Okay, in second place, and earning a free entry into the next amateur contest . . . Emma!”  The crowd cheered, and Emma beamed, raised her hands in the air, and jumped in a circle—which must have been difficult in her heels but made her breasts bounce alluringly for the men.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Mr. Lopez announced and the crowd hushed.  “The winner of this month’s amateur contest at The Landing Strip . . . she’ll be taking home a cool $2000 . . . we’ll be happy to have her back anytime . . . Sarah!”

Lauren parked her car.  The tears she’d been struggling with since she realized she was going to lose the contest finally came on, unstoppable now.  It was so unfair!

       She’d been in a daze after Sarah was announced the winner.  A little bit of shock, she supposed, even though she’d already been convinced she was going to lose.  The worst part was, she’d gone and gotten completely dressed in her street clothes before Mr. Lopez came to collect her for the agreed upon video shoot.  He’d stood there and watched her strip down again, then escorted her to the videographer, apparently under the belief that she was trying to skip out on their deal.  When he’d placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her along, the memory of him fingering her caused her to clench her cheeks noticeably enough that he had chuckled.  She couldn’t work up the courage to tell him off as she had planned.

       The video session had been a nightmare by itself.  It had been her standing between Emma and Amber with their arms around each other wearing nothing but a pair of the impossibly high heels that they’d had to dance and wait tables in.  The videographer had started with the camera zoomed in just on their feet and then zoomed out while panning up until he had them in view from head to toe.  At that point, Lauren was supposed to say, “You’ll only see my landing strip at The Landing Strip!”

       The videographer kept making them reshoot, complaining that Lauren’s smile looked fake.  Well it was, dammit!  She sure as hell wasn’t happy to be there.  And then the other women started getting annoyed at her; they just wanted to go home like her, and they saw her as the impediment to that.

       Once they finally got that right, the videographer had decided they needed another take with Lauren instead saying, “You’ll only see my pussy at The Landing Strip!”  She’d stumbled over “pussy” a couple of times—God, she hated that word—and the whole process had taken at least as long as the first iteration.

       The absolute worst part of her night had come after that when she had gone to cash out.  Miss Brown had kept a detailed spreadsheet for each dancer.  Lauren’s read at the end: $300 in tips earned dancing, $358 in tips earned waitressing, $515 worth of outfits purchased, a $162 bar tab for the rounds she had purchased, and $25 charged to her for the private dance she had given.  Worse, she was required to tip out the guy who had gathered up her clothes after each dance, the DJ, and the bartenders: 5% of her dancing tips to the clothes-gatherer and 10% to the DJ, and 10% of her waitressing tips to the bartenders.  Lauren was good at math.  She didn’t need the total—she owed the club $125.  On the plus side, she mused, she had earned about $47 an hour, and much of that was time spent sitting in the changing room.

       “Sir, I . . . I just don’t have it,” she had protested to Mr. Lopez.

       “That’s okay,” he had replied.  “Ten percent interest per day, rounded up to the nearest dollar, until you pay it off.”  He had leaned in to whisper in her ear.  “And if you don’t pay it in a week, we know where you live.  You’ll come work it off.”

       She had gulped, not doubting the threat for a second; even if he meant it as a joke, the merest suggestion was enough to make it a requirement for her.  Great—she’d just moved into a new month and had a fresh balance of allowance, and she already had a big chunk of it gone.

       Finally, though, she was home, and desperately wanting to go to bed.  She managed to stifle her crying and walked up the stairs, hoping desperately that Don was already asleep.  She opened the door.

Don was awake and reading.  “Well, welcome home, Lauren,” he said energetically.  Of course, it was probably easy for someone who hadn’t spent the last fourteen hours dancing and waiting on tables to be energetic.  “Come here.”

       “Thank you, sir,” she said, walking over to stand in front of where he sat on the couch.

       “So, how was it?  Did you enjoy yourself?”

       She hated the implication that there could have been anything enjoyable about her experience, and she was sure that Don knew she hated it.  In her tired state, it was a struggle to maintain a respectful demeanor, but she knew it was especially important considering she was about to reveal that she hadn’t won the contest.  “No, sir.  I can’t . . . Having to be naked . . . Having to serve all those men . . . It was . . . it was the most humiliating experience of my life.  Every second of it.”

       Don frowned.  “I see.  Well, it was intended as a punishment and a lesson, and you do look well-chastened, so I suppose that’s good.  Do you think it was sufficient punishment for not showing proper respect to men over the years?”

       Lauren hesitated.  This was, after all, the punishment Don had assigned her—along with that horrible spanking, paddling, and strapping session—to make amends, so by definition, it should have been sufficient.  But she was 27—even if she was only responsible for the time since she had legally been an adult, that was over nine years of her treating men as equals or even being openly rude to them.  Could one severe corporal punishment session and one day of even extreme humiliation really make up for that?

       “I think, sir,” she answered slowly, “that it was a very good lesson to help teach me how to treat men and my proper role around them.”

       Don frowned.  “That’s not what I asked you, Lauren.  I asked if you thought it was sufficient punishment.”

       She gulped and answered quietly, “I . . . I don’t think I can possibly make up for years of bad behavior with a one night punishment, sir.  It’s going to take me a long time to make amends.”  She paused, then rushed to continue.  “But I am happy that you’re here to guide me through it and ensure that I am moving in the right direction.”

       Don pursed his lips for a moment.  “Fair enough.  Do you think it would help you to work there again?”

       She had been afraid he would ask that.  “I . . . I don’t want to go back, sir,” she answered softly.

       “Lauren,” he sounded angry, “Stop evading the questions.  It’s too late and I’m too tired for that crap.  Do you think going back to the Landing Strip would help teach you to treat men properly?”

       “Sir, I think . . . I think it was as much the waiting tables as anything else that served as a good lesson for me.  I’ve never had to do work like that.  I’ve always . . . I guess I’ve always thought I was above it, but it helped to teach me my proper role is serving men.  I . . . I could get that at any restaurant.  It wouldn’t have to be a . . . a gentlemen’s club, sir.”

       Don was silent for a moment, just staring at her.  Lauren was starting to get nervous when he finally spoke.  “Lauren, let me make sure I have this straight.  Are you sincerely claiming that you think working at the Olive Garden is going to be as helpful as working at the Landing Strip in teaching you—in forcing you to internalize—that men are your betters, entitled to your obedience and unquestioning respect?”

       It sounded silly when he put it like that, but she didn’t think she could just back away now.  She smiled sheepishly.  “Well, I . . . maybe not exactly as good, sir, but I definitely think it would be helpful.  I think a big part of my problem, sir, is never having had to do that kind of work growing up.”

       “I’m going to take you at your word, Lauren, but let me tell you,” he leaned forward, “I think you’re lying.  You don’t want me to think you’re lying too often.”  Her sheepish smile disappeared.  “So, I’m going to walk you through this.  You and me, Lauren, we understand our roles, right?  Between you and me, who is in charge?”

       “You are, sir.”

       “That’s right, Lauren.  Things between us flow only in one direction.  Would you ever tell me what to do?  Ever even think to tell me what to do?”

       “No, sir,” she shook her head emphatically.

       “And let’s take a look at us right now.  You’ve been on your feet all day, waiting tables and dancing on stage.  I’ve been relaxing.  You’re probably more tired than me, and you’d probably like to be sitting down.  Yet, we’re having this conversation with you standing and me lounging on the couch.  Why is that?”

       She hadn’t really thought about that.  She hadn’t even considered the idea that she would sit down during this conversation.  It was so clearly not appropriate.  “I . . . I guess it’s just a matter of respect, sir.”

       “You guess.  I see.  Can you recall a time when this was ever reversed, when we were having a conversation and I was standing while you were sitting?”

       She thought for a moment.  “No, sir.”

       “Okay, so we’ve established both that this setting is a demonstration of respect and that you do it for me automatically. Now, what if I told you to take off all your clothes and put your hands on top of your head—or, better yet, had you lay across my lap while we continued this conversation?”

       She gulped.  “That . . . that would be your right, sir.”

       “I know it would be my right, Lauren.  The question is, how would it affect our power differential?  Would it change this conversation at all?”

       “I . . . I would feel more vulnerable, sir.  I would probably take more time to make sure I was replying appropriately.  I would definitely be more aware of the fact that you were in charge.”

       Don nodded with a smile as though she was finally getting it.  Which, she supposed, she was.  “So, requiring you to be naked during our interaction would reinforce our relative positions for you, wouldn’t it?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “So do you see why having you work at The Landing Strip would be different—better—than having you work at The Olive Garden in terms of helping you accept the need for you to respect and obey men?”

       “Yes, sir,” she practically whispered.

       “Then I’ll ask you again, do you think going back to the Landing Strip would help teach you to treat men properly?”

       “Yes, sir . . . but please,” she felt tears welling up in her eyes, “I don’t want to do it again.”

       “Well, Lauren,” his voice hardened, “When it comes to making sure you learn to give men their proper respect, what you want is absolutely irrelevant.  I haven’t decided when, but you are going to be going back to work at The Landing Strip.  Do you understand me?”

       She was staring at the ground and the tears were coming freely now.  “Yes, sir,” she said sullenly.

       He lounged back again and smiled.  “Good.  Now that that’s settled, how did you do in the contest?”

       She managed to stifle her crying for a moment and wiped her face with her sleeve.  “Sir, I . . . I came in third.  But I swear, I tried my hardest.  I really did, sir.”

       His smile turned hard as quickly as it had appeared.  “Third.  I see.”  He pointed to the manila envelope Lauren was carrying.  “What’s that?”

       Lauren was as surprised as she was relieved that she hadn’t immediately been pulled across Don’s knee.  It took her a moment to realize what he was asking and a moment longer to realize she had no idea what was in the envelope.  “I . . . I don’t know, sir.”

       “Give it to me.”

       She handed it to him.  He took it and immediately slapped it back into her hand, startling her.  “You know better than that, Lauren.  When I tell you to do something, you don’t just do it.  You acknowledge that you’re doing what I told you.  Now let’s try that again.  Give it to me, Lauren.”

       “Yes, sir,” she said, handing him the envelope.  Suddenly, her fear heightened.  She had no idea what was in that envelope.  Could it possibly make her situation worse than it already was?

       Don laughed as he flipped through the papers from the envelope.  “This is your score report, Lauren.  I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t try to deceive me about the results, huh?”

       She gulped.  “Yes, sir.”

       “Now, while I’m reading through this and deciding what we’re going to do about your third place finish, do you have anything else to tell me?”

       Before she realized she was going to do it, Lauren found herself telling Don about her encounter with Carl.  Very quickly, she was crying and staring at the floor.  Crying at the frustration she’d felt when she thought she had been robbed.  Crying as she remembered her embarrassment at realizing she’d falsely accused Carl of theft and at the greater remembered shame from her forced private dance.  And crying with the anticipation of the punishment she was sure she had earned herself.

       With that in mind, she tried to emphasize how she had already been punished by being forced to give Carl a private dance and how degrading he had been toward her during the dance.  Don interrupted her at that point.  “I know what you’re doing, Lauren, and you can forget about it.  I don’t care what punishment you may have gotten at the club.”

He stood up, now, looking angry.  Without thinking about it, Lauren found that she had slipped into Position 2.  He circled behind her, but Lauren decided it would be more respectful to remain staring straight ahead.

He leaned in to talk directly into her ear and Lauren flinched.  “Why did I send you to the Landing Strip, Lauren?”

“To . . . to punish me for behaving disrespectfully toward men, sir.  And to help me learn my proper place in respect to them.”

“That’s right.  And yet you decide to perpetuate your poor behavior while you’re there.  This is absolutely unacceptable, Lauren, and you can be damned sure that I don’t care what punishment you might have gotten there.  When you behave in an embarrassing manner in public, you are going to face the music in private.”

He circled back in front of her and looked at his watch.  “It’s 4:30, so here’s what we’re going to do.  Forget breakfast.  You will have lunch on the table at 12:30.  Between now and then, I am going to finish reading through your score report before I decide on your punishment for failing to win the contest.  You are going to do some hard thinking about what your punishment should be for your disrespect toward Carl at a time when you were supposed to be focusing on improving your behavior.  You will give me that suggestion after lunch.  Do you understand, Lauren?”

She gulped.  “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, then.  Tell me what you’ll need to do between now and tomorrow.”

She hesitated, unsure of what he was asking of her.  “You want me to . . . I don’t . . . ”

“You’ve demonstrated a poor ability to follow simple instructions, Lauren.  The only way I can be sure you really understand what you’re supposed to do is to have you explain it back to me.”

She once again found herself tearing up by the end of Don’s statement.  She wasn’t stupid.  She knew the way she had behaved toward Carl was wrong, but it wasn’t something she had done intentionally.  She’d just gotten angry—inappropriately so, but angry all the same.

She blinked away the tears and answered.  “Sir, I’m . . . I’m going to take a shower and think about what my . . . my punishment should be for being rude to . . . the gentleman at the Landing Strip, and I’ll decide what that punishment will be before I go to sleep so that I can wake up at 11:30 and make lunch in time to have it on the table by 12:30 and report to you, sir.”

“Well,” Don stepped back into her field of vision.  “I guess it’s a good thing I asked.  First of all, you are not deciding what your punishment will be.  Don’t be silly.  You are deciding what to suggest for your punishment.  And it had better be appropriate, Lauren.  Second of all, you forgot something very important.”

Lauren struggled but she couldn’t think of anything she had missed.  She was just too tired.

“Come on, Lauren.  It’s something you do every day.”

She thought again.  “But I . . . I already said I was going to take a shower, sir.”

“No, not that.  Although maybe it’s something you do in the shower.”

She suddenly realized what he was hinting at, but she didn’t want to say it.  She steeled herself.  “Tomorrow morning, sir, I’ll . . . I’ll make sure my . . . pussy is properly trimmed.”

“That’s right, Lauren,” he patted her on the behind.  “It would be a shame to have to add a good whipping to everything else you’ll be getting tomorrow.  Now, let’s try it again.  What do you have to do between now and lunch tomorrow?”

She took a deep breath.  “Sir, I’m going to take a shower while I contemplate what my punishment should be . . . what I should suggest for my punishment for my rude behavior at the Landing Strip.  I’ll decide on that suggestion before going to sleep.  Then I’m going to wake up at 11:30 and ensure that my . . . my pussy is properly trimmed before making lunch and having it on the table at 12:30.”

“Good job, Lauren.”  He patted her behind again.  “Now get to it.”

Lauren let the hot water of the shower wash over her, and it felt so good—like it was washing this horrible day away.  And the day was over, finally, she realized.  Yes, she still had to face some sort of punishment when she woke up, but on Monday, she’d be back at work and as close to normal as she could get anymore.  Today she might have been hustling around naked serving a bunch of rowdy men and dancing for them, but Monday she would go back to being a professional woman, respected by her colleagues, and even in charge of some men.

       She leaned against the wall, frustrated with herself.  Had she learned nothing today?  She shouldn’t be happily anticipating being in charge of men again.  If anything, it was so difficult to do within the strictures of her rules that she should be trying to avoid it.  Serving men . . . that she should be looking forward to.  Whether she liked it or not—and she wasn’t sure that she did—that was what had set herself up for when she had agreed to these rules.  Resisting that . . . trying to maintain some unnatural position where she could be in a position superior to men . . . that was just going to make her life more difficult.

       She straightened and looked down at her glistening body, musing about that this is pretty much how she’d been dressed all day, all while dancing on a stage in front of a bunch of hooting men or running to get their drinks.  The only real difference, she thought as she leaned down to massage her calves was that at least now her feet were flat on the ground.

       Deciding to save herself some time in the morning, Lauren grabbed her razor to run it over her legs and everywhere she wasn’t allowed to have hair in her pubic region.  She was pretty sure that the latter was unnecessary because nothing had yet come back in post-waxing, but she didn’t want to take a chance of even a little stubble.  She went a little too close on the left of the landing strip and accidentally trimmed some existing hair, forcing her to spend time evening it out on the right.  This, she decided, was something she could do without; besides all the time it was taking her it was simply ridiculous that she had something so private dictated to her—not to mention how degrading it was to have to refer to a part of her body with that vulgar word.

       She turned off the water and shook her head, forcing herself to focus on what was important at the moment—deciding what she should suggest for her punishment tomorrow.  She had the uncomfortable feeling that it was going to have to involve a spanking, so she thought back on her past punishments to establish a frame of reference.  The only thing similar she could think of was that horrendous spanking, paddling, and strapping Don had given her the previous week.  That had been for nine years of not properly respecting men, however.  This was for one stupid incident, although admittedly one in which the disrespect was especially bad, so it wouldn’t have to be anything nearly as severe as the other day, but it couldn’t be as simple as a ratio of one night versus nine years.
       Twenty—no, fifteen.  Fifteen with the strap, she decided, was what she would suggest to Don.  That seemed more than fair to her.  It was pretty severe, really, for one tiny indiscretion.  Don couldn’t possibly fault her for that suggestion.

       She shook her head one more time and made a snap decision.  Don, Don, Don, she thought.  That’s wrong.  Even in my head, I should be thinking of him as ‘Mr. Arden’.  She was going to add one suggestion to what Do—Mr. Arden—had required of her: she deserved to be punished for not thinking of him properly.  She cringed at the idea of asking for even more punishment but hoped that maybe Do—Mr. Arden—would take it as a signal that she was taking his words to heart, doing her best to internalize the subservience that should come naturally to her.

       Finally, she laid down to go to sleep and realized she had one last obstacle to a well-earned rest: as humiliating as it had been, dancing and waiting tables naked for a bunch of rowdy animals had left her horny.  It was, of course, an inherently sexual experience, she reasoned.  It didn’t matter that she’d hated every minute of it.

       She got her vibrator and went to work, first thinking of her last boyfriend and, when that failed, imagining herself on stage.  Naked.  The bright lights putting her on display while blinding her to her audience.  Forced to dance for them.  To bend over and grab her high heels.  To shake her ass.  “Mr. Arden is going to make you go back,” she repeated over and over.  “You don’t have a choice.  You’re there for their entertainment.  Show them some respect.  Give them a good show.  And you’re going to do it.  You’re going to do as you’re told, or you’re going to spend hours with your nose against the wall before he pulls you over his lap and gives you a good.  Hard.  Spanking.”  When it came, it was quick and intense, but it left tears in her eyes.

       Finally, she could roll over and go to sleep.

Lauren’s alarm went off far too early the next morning.  She hit the snooze button twice before finally dragging herself out of bed.  She was still utterly exhausted, and she desperately wanted a good full-body massage, but she settled for jumping in the shower so she could get her hair wet enough to get rid of her bed head.

Maybe some time this week, she’d treat herself to a massage, she thought.  She definitely deserved it after yesterday.  But, no, she decided.  It would take too big a chunk of her monthly allowance and, besides, after today she was pretty sure her butt was going to be red for a few days, and she definitely didn’t want to risk someone seeing that again.

She put on a pair of shorts and a light shirt.  She had momentarily contemplated doing without the shorts on the assumption that they’d be coming down soon anyway, but she decided there was no need to subject herself to the indignity of walking around bottomless.

In the kitchen, she quickly got to work make a few grilled cheese sandwiches for Don and her lunch.  The kitchen clock said 12:28 as she walked the food over to the table—just in time for Don to be walking out carrying that damned manila envelope.  “Good afternoon, sir,” she placed his plate in front of him.

“Good afternoon, Lauren,” he replied as he slid into his chair.

As she went to sit down, he held up his hand.  “Ah ah ah.”  She stopped.  “Turn around.”

She did so, remembering belatedly to acknowledge Don with a, “Yes, sir,” but a little uncomfortable that she was obviously being examined.

“Are you wearing panties, Lauren?”

“No . . . no, sir,” she answered nervously.  Had she broken a rule unwittingly?

“Go put on panties.  Then you can eat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Back at the table after putting on panties, she sat down and bit into her grilled cheese.

“Did you sleep well, Lauren?”

“Not great, sir,” she admitted.  “It’s difficult when I know I’m . . . I’m going to be punished the next day.”

“Well, good.  Anticipation is part of the punishment, after all.”

They finished eating at about the same time.  Don got up.  “Lauren, do the dishes and go get your strap and paddle, then take off your shorts, pull down your panties, and stand here,” he directed, pointing a few feet in front of his chair.

“Yes, sir.”  She hurried to comply as Don walked off to his room.

By the time Don returned carrying a sheaf of paperwork, she had taken off her shorts and was standing in front of Don’s chair with her panties pulled down to just above her knees and her hands on top of her head.  She glanced nervously at the table where she’d placed her paddle and strap wondering just how many times she was going to feel them today.

As Don sat in silence, reading some of the papers, she grew increasingly uncomfortable standing in front of him exposed as she was.  She realized it was silly to feel that way after spending a day dancing and serving men naked, but she couldn’t help it.  She wondered if she’d ever get over the feeling.  Hopefully, she decided, she wouldn’t have enough similar experiences for this to feel normal.

A few minutes passed, and Lauren shifted to Position 2, each hand grabbing the opposite forearm behind her back.  What was Do—Mr. Arden—doing?  Couldn’t he just get this started?  You don’t get to dictate the timing, she chastised herself.  He’ll get started when he’s ready, and you will wait patiently and quietly until he does.

Finally, Don looked up.  “I’ve read all through your score and confirmed my suspicions, Lauren.  For the most part, beyond the obvious that we’ll be talking about later, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

She allowed herself a moment of hope.  Was she really going to be spared punishment?  But then a moment later, did she want to be?

“But what’s important at the moment is not anything specific you did wrong but what you failed to do.  Reading through this score report, Lauren, all I see is that you just. Don’t.  Get.  It.”

“Sir, I don’t understand—”
       “How many private dances did you give, Lauren, other than the one you were told to do?”

“N-none, si—”

“How many times did you ask the men there what kind of outfit they’d like to see you in?”

“I didn’t thi—”

“Did you think that maybe the men you work with might have wanted a chance to see you dancing naked?”

“Sir, I’m so—”

“Did you think that the audience wanted to see you covering yourself instead of getting in a last dance while waiting for your interview?”

“Nobody,” she was tearing up now, “nobody told me I couldn’t cover myself, sir.”

“And nobody should have had to.  If you’d really accepted your role, you would have been actively thinking of how best to please the men in that club, Lauren.  I gave you a wonderful opportunity.  The only expectation anyone had of you there was that you serve and entertain men.  It was your perfect chance to show you’d learned a lesson, and instead you spent the day trying to figure out how you could get by on the bare minimum, didn’t you, Lauren?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Then let me explain how we’re going to deal with this.  What I have here,” he held up a few sheets of paper, “are some additions to your contract that you are going to sign.  They are specifically designed to force you to spend a lot of time each day thinking about what you can do to please men and reminding you that all men are your superiors.

“I would have thought,” he added glancing below her waist, “that having to trim your pussy to my specifications each day would have given you enough opportunity to contemplate your place, but I see now I overestimated your ability to mentally adapt.”

“I’m sorry, si—”

“If you’re sorry, then you won’t mind signing the new contract.”
       “No, sir.  I don’t mind.  I’ll sign it.”

“Good.  First, I want you to tell me the most important parts of your contract so far.”

“The most . . . I don’t understand, sir.”

He stood up and started walking around her.  “I’m about to add a lot of requirements to you, Lauren.  So far, you’ve demonstrated your mental capacity to be . . . not great.  So, I want to make sure you remember all your current requirements before adding to them.”

She grit her teeth at the suggestion that she was dumb but didn’t object.  “Sir, the most important things from my contract are for me to obey all men and respect all men.”

“And?  Anything else?”

“I,” she searched around mentally.  “I have to make sure to have dinner and breakfast on the table at 7 and 7 every day, sir.”

“And?”  He patted her on the behind gently but in a way she found threatening.

“Also, I have to keep the apartment cleaned to your standards and can use only $400 of the money I earn each month, sir.”

“Think harder.”  The pat was a little harder this time.

“I . . . I have to maintain my grades, sir.”
       “Lauren,” he reached around and brushed a finger through her strip of pubic hair.  “I’m going to give you one more chance to list one of your most important requirements or you’re going to face the punishment for failing to meet that requirement.”

She clenched her eyes shut.  Oh, God, he was going to make her say it.  “Sir, I . . . I have to keep my . . . pussy properly trimmed at all times and must always refer to it as my pussy.”

“There,” he patted her gently on the behind again.  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?  Speaking of your pussy, I want you to trim it in an extra centimeter on each side.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” he said, walking around her and retaking his seat.  “Now, let’s say, Lauren, that I had a friend at The Landing Strip last night and he told me that your pussy was in ragged shape.  Not properly trimmed at all.  What should we do about that?”

Lauren was shocked.  She didn’t know what to say.  “That’s . . . that’s not true, sir.”

“Are you calling my friend, are you calling a man, a liar, Lauren?” he asked with a hint of menace in his voice.

“No . . . no, sir.  Maybe . . . maybe he thought I was the wrong dancer.  Some of the other women hadn’t trimmed their . . . their . . . their pussies properly.”

“So, he’s not lying, he’s just stupid?”

“No, sir.  He could just be wrong.”

“So a man is wrong and you’re right?  Are you listening to yourself?”

“Sir, I don’t . . . you can see that my pussy is properly trimmed!”

“Watch your tone, Lauren.  Of course I can see it’s trimmed now.  Are you trying to tell me you haven’t trimmed it between now and when you were dancing?”

“No, I . . . I trimmed it in the shower last night, sir.”

“Right.  So I couldn’t look at it now and know if it was in good shape last night, could I?  Since you don’t seem to get it, Lauren, this is a hypothetical question.  Nobody told me your pussy wasn’t properly trimmed, but I want to know what you think would have to happen if someone had.”

She was crying again.  “Sir, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He sighed.  “I suppose I have to spell it out for you.  This example was supposed to help you realize that if a man says you have done something wrong, you have two choices.  In this case, your first choice would be to have your pussy whipped.  Your second choice would be to say that the man was wrong or lying.  If you chose that option, you would be strapped for disrespecting a man, and then have your pussy whipped.  Do you understand, Lauren?”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpered, this ramification of her status with respect to men sinking in.

“Good.  Now that that’s out of the way, initial at the end of each paragraph and sign each page of that contract addendum.”

“Yes, sir.”  She started to crouch down to comply, and then remembered her decision from last night.  She straightened but hesitated.  Did she really want to put herself through this?  “Sir, it occurred to me last night, and our conversation has reminded me that I . . . I have been violating the terms of our contract.  You pointed out that I need to internalize my respect and I think that should mean even thinking of you by the appropriate title.  I . . . I haven’t, sir.  I’ve been thinking of you by your first name, and I recognize now that that’s wrong.”

“I see.  Well, I’ll give you some credit for acknowledging your mistake.  Now, sign the contract, and then we’ll deal with that.”

“Yes, sir.”  She leaned over, initialed at the end of each paragraph, and signed each page, before straightening to wait for what was next.

She didn’t have to wait long.  Don sat back down and quickly looked over the contract before looking up.  “Okay, Lauren.  Bring your strap over here.”

       Her knees buckled at the command, and she started crying freely.  Oh, God, she thought, He’s going to use the strap on me!  But she murmured, “Yes, sir,” and shuffled over to pick up the strap, then shuffled back to hand it to Don.

       “Now, Lauren,” he said when she had returned her hands to the back of her head, “you just confessed to being disrespectful to me in your head.  What’s the punishment for being disrespectful to me?”

       “The strap, sir,” she murmured.

       “The strap to?”

       It took her a second to understand what he was asking.  “The strap to my bare butt, sir.”

       “That’s right,” he said it almost like she was a slow student.  “Normally, I would have you bend over to receive, well, whatever number of slaps of the strap that I thought you deserved.  It’s probably the second worst punishment you’re subject to the moment.  Why do you think that is?”

       “Because you really want to discourage me from being disrespectful to men, sir.”

       “That’s right.  And for you, anything less than an acknowledgement of their superiority is disrespect.  I’m tempted, however, to let you get by with a lesser penalty—maybe just a hand spanking—in this particular instance.”  She knew a moment of hope.  “But I’m worried that you’ll think you can get away with being disrespectful in the future just because it’s in your head, so I’m warning you right now, Lauren, this is the one time you’re getting anything less than the strap for disrespect.  With that in mind, are there any other instances you need to confess to?  This is your one pass.”

       She thought for a moment.  “Sir, at the . . . the strip club, I thought of myself as better than the men there.  I thought of them as low class and me as too good to be there.”

       Don laughed.  “Well, that much I could tell just from reading your score report.  Anything else?”

       One final thought came to her.  “I . . . there was a man who slapped my butt, and I yelled at him, sir.  Told him to keep his hands to himself.”

       “I see,” he wasn’t laughing now.  “Well, this is going to be for that, too.  Here, put your strap back.”

       “Yes, sir,” she said, trying to hide her relief as she took the strap and placed it next to the paddle.

       “Now, over my knee.”

       “Yes, sir.”  She lowered herself awkwardly over Don’s lap.

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “This is not a game, Lauren.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “This is not part time.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “This is your life.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “You will show”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “proper respect to men”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “at home”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “at work”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “in your head”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Everywhere.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Do you understand me, Lauren?”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  She was sobbing now, and struggled to answer.  “Y-y-yes, si-si-sir.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Good.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Because the next time we have to have this conversation,”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “The next time you so much as think disrespectfully about a man,”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “I promise you that”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “this conversation will be with the strap.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Do you understand me, Lauren?”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Y-y-yes, sir.”

       SMACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  “Good.  Now get up and we’ll discuss the changes to your contract you just signed.”

       She didn’t understand at first what Don had said and instead lay across his lap crying.

       SMACK!  “I said get up, Lauren, and now how about you go stand in the corner until you can get your crying under control.”

       “Ye-ye-yes, sir.”  She pushed herself up, grabbed her forearms behind her back, and shuffled over to stand in the corner, still crying as she pressed her nose against the wall.

       She tried but couldn’t seem to stop.  Between Don threatening to whip her . . . and then threatening to strap her . . . and as it set in that she had just agreed to new, unknown rules, that there would likely be no respite in going to work . . . and on top of THAT that she had just set the precedent that she could be punished for her thoughts.  And her butt hurt so much, and she knew she was in for more.  It was just too much.  How had she let herself get into this position?  She couldn’t seem to stop crying.

       Finally, she did seem to be getting it under control and was at the point where she was just doing the stuttering breathing that came after a good long cry when she heard Don walk out into the room.

       “Good God, Lauren.  You’re still crying?”  She heard him winding up the kitchen timer.  “When this goes off, we are going to discuss the additions to your contract, and you had better have stopped crying by then, or I’m going to give you something to cry about.”

       The threat was enough to get her crying all over again.  It was so unfair!  How could she be expected to remain composed when facing a spanking or worse?  The ticking of the kitchen timer seemed to be getting louder and she started panicking.  Finally, she hit on two thoughts that helped her calm herself, and she repeated them over and over in her head: not only had she deserved the last punishment, she had asked for it, and no matter what, she got to go back to some semblance of normalcy at work tomorrow.  The second thought, she realized, assumed that one of the new requirements in the contract to which she had just agreed.

       And finally, finally, she was able to stop crying.  Moments later, the kitchen timer went off.  Don walked out of his room.  “All right, Lauren.  Come over here. We’re going to go over your new contractual requirements and then discuss your punishment for the way you behaved toward that man at The Landing Strip.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: As always, happy to get any feedback at therealjohnadams at inbox dot com.

Also, it seems Lauren has now set the precedent that she is subject to punishment even for her thoughts.  Don, unfortunately, cannot read her thoughts . . . but you the reader can.  So, if you see her thinking something inappropriate and failing to report herself, feel free to chime in (and send along your suggested punishment).  And of course as long as you’re a man, if you say Lauren did something wrong and she says she didn’t . . . well, read Part 28 again if you don’t know how that ends.

Don leaned back on the couch, eying Lauren up and down.  His gaze lingered on her landing strip.  It was a shame Lauren was so conscientious about grooming there; he was really looking forward to whipping her.  Ah, well—given enough time, she was bound to slip up.  He imagined getting whipped there would be agonizing.  How could it not, a thin strip of leather whipping into the most sensitive part of her body repeatedly?

       And even still, even though she had to know that it would be the most painful thing she’d ever experience, Lauren would accept his judgment if he decided she had earned a pussy whipping.  Oh, she’d probably protest, and cry, and beg, and try (in her ridiculous fashion) to negotiate—the girl really was a wuss when it came to pain which is why it was the best way to modify her behavior to what Don considered more acceptable—but ultimately, she would allow herself to be hung upside-down, legs spread, and whipped.  Rules were rules, after all, and if nothing else, Lauren was good at accepting the consequences of violating rules.

       Even rules she hadn’t been aware of until she violated them.  Or, Don thought with an inner smile, rules he had never intended to impose on her.  Seriously, confessing to thinking about him with a lack of proper respect?  That was a nice touch and had really made his day.  The new interpretation was bound to give him ample opportunity to strap her bare ass in the coming weeks.

       It was that “enough time” part that left him worried.  Yeah, given a long enough period of time, Lauren would fail to trim her pubic hair one day, but the contract had an expiration date, and it wasn’t actually that far off.  Or hadn’t been that far off, rather.  That was why he had written a six-month extension into the addendum that he had just made Lauren sign.  That should be more than enough time for her to slip up.

       Really, the extension was for Lauren’s own good.  She was nowhere near the point, yet, of having internalized her inferiority to men; if the contract expired, she’d revert to behaving as though they were equals in no time without the threat of a spanking looming in her mind.  That thought gave him another idea: he wasn’t going to point out the extension to her.

She’d be free to read the contract on her own time, of course, but if she didn’t bother or missed that part, she’d walk around thinking that time was rapidly running down.  Wouldn’t it be rich if she thought the contract had expired and returned to her previous behavior only to have Don point out the extension to her after a few days?  By then, she would probably have accumulated all manner of punishments.  Maybe she would have even neglected her pubic hair for those few days giving Don the excuse he finally needed to whip her.  Yeah, that would be great, Don decided.  Just the look on her face . . . as it sunk in, as Don began quizzing her on all her recent rule violations, as he made her walk over to stand in the corner and wait for the kind of long, hard spanking that she thought she would never again have to endure . . . just that tremulous, well-eyed look would be worth letting her misbehave for a few days.

But that was getting ahead of himself.  Being too eager would make him impatient which could ruin the great thing he had going on.  Instead, he focused on the moment.  He had been reviewing the video of Lauren’s performance that he had had his friend Fidel send him.  He hadn’t watched the whole thing yet—she had worked at the Landing Strip for over 14 hours, after all—but what he had seen certainly had been entertaining.  The only disappointment was that he had yet to come across any inappropriate behavior on Lauren’s part that she had failed to report.  It would have been fun to confront her with that and watch her desperately hem and haw and try to avoid a punishment.

Still, it was entertaining.  Hilarious, even.  Watching Lauren start out awkward and uncoordinated on stage, skimpily dressed and uncomfortable, and getting less dressed and more uncomfortable by the minute . . . she had clearly been humiliated, and watching her vacillate between that humiliation and desperately degrading herself just to get a man to tip her a dollar had been a thing of beauty.  The highlight had been during a lull when Lauren was naked, down on all fours, clearly looking desperately to earn some tips, and practically being ignored by the few customers as she shook her ass right in front of them.  That must have done wonders for her sense of self-worth.

And when she was waiting tables naked . . . well, even without having to be naked, Don didn’t think Lauren was a very good waitress.  She had been constantly running back-and-forth—probably not too easy in her succession of ridiculously high heels—and still managed to take forever to get people their orders.  She had gotten better with time at both dancing and serving, but there was no doubt that the experience had to have taken her down a much needed peg or three.  Her self-image of competence was probably shot at the moment which was just the way Don liked her.

He had already decided that he wasn’t going to show her the video.  Not yet, at least.  No, he would save that for some time when he wanted to make her cry without threatening her with a spanking.  Yeah, she would definitely cry when she saw it . . . cry to see how ridiculous she had looked . . . cry to be reminded of her humiliation . . . most of all, cry to learn that the whole thing had been recorded in high definition.  Heh—maybe he’d just email it to her and order her to pick who she was going to forward it to from a list of friends, relatives, and co-workers.

But not now.  Now was the time to reveal the new rules to Lauren.

Lauren stood in front of Don, hands on top of her head and panties pulled halfway down to her knees.  She felt like she’d been standing there forever, but she tried to remain patient.  Don shuffled through some papers for a moment before leaning back and spreading his arms wide to lounge on the couch.  Now that Do—Mr. Arden—had pointed it out, Lauren thought, she saw that this setup perfectly defined their relationship: her standing before him, at attention, required to be partially exposed, and waiting on him and him comfortably dressed, relaxing, and choosing when their interaction would begin.  Mr. Arden was clearly in charge.  More than “in charge”, she thought.  A boss was “in charge”.  Mr. Arden could tell her to do almost anything and she had to obey or face a punishment no normal boss would be able to dole out.

       “Lauren,” Don finally began, “What part of your current contract do you dislike the most?”

       She considered her words very carefully before replying.  “May I . . . may I speak freely, sir?”

       “Certainly.  Freely, but respectfully.”

       Still, she hesitated.  “Sir . . . there’s very little about my contract that I do like.  I . . . I wanted someone else in charge, but in my mind, it was just going to be someone enforcing rules that would be considered . . . more publicly acceptable.  More normal.  I didn’t necessarily need or want the . . . the forced inferiority.  I’m doing my best to convince myself and behave as though men are inherently superior, but if I’m being honest with myself, I . . . I don’t believe it, and I find it really degrading to have to behave that way.”  She gulped, wondering if she had said too much, but continued softly.  “I think men and women are equals and should be treated that way.”

       “Oh, Lauren,” he laughed.  “I know all that.  But don’t worry.  In time, we’ll get your deeper beliefs adjusted so that you’re not just acting but truly accepting your inherent inferiority to men.  But that’s irrelevant, Lauren.  Right now I just want to know which part of your contract you like least.”

       Again, she hesitated.  She had never thought to rank how much she disliked her requirements.  Certainly, she didn’t like being Do—Mr. Arden’s maid.  She wasn’t a fan of her curfew, and having to treat all men as her betters was the part that made her external life the most difficult—dismissing one-offs like being told to dance and wait tables naked at a club, of course.  But really, the part she disliked the most were the rules regarding her pubic area—having someone else dictate how she groomed there, having to use that vulgar word, the horrible punishment associated with it.  She gulped, “It’s the rule about my . . . my pussy, sir.”

       “There are several rules regarding your pussy, Lauren. Which one do you dislike the most?”

       “I guess . . . I guess all of them, sir.  I don’t like having that part . . . having my pussy subject to so much control and examination.”

       “Excellent, Lauren.  Wouldn’t be much point to you yielding control if the result was only things you would choose for yourself, would there?  Anyway, my hope is that one or more of the new rules you just agreed to will bother you more than the prospect of getting your pussy whipped occasionally.  So let’s go over them.

       “These are two main sets of new rules, both designed to force you to think, every day and throughout the day, of what you can be doing to please men.  Your failure to recognize your need to do that, more than anything, is what caused you to lose the contest, so that’s what we’re going to work on.

       “The first set of rules concern how you dress.  Keep in mind that the rules I’m about to outline to you are the minimum requirements or maximum allowed.  You can always try to show you’re accepting your status below men by exceeding the standards.  I want you to also note—and I hope you’re grateful for this—that nothing I’m requiring quite pushes you over the bounds of professionalism.  People might notice the change, sure, but it won’t be over the line.  Of course, you can always choose to do better than standards to show your commitment like I said, and that might cross a line, but that’s your decision.”

       He stood up.  “Let’s start at the top and work our way down.”  He pushed her hair back from her ears.  “First, from now on, you will wear either large hoop earrings or earrings that dangle at least two inches.  Second,” he stepped back to look her up and down, “in the next two weeks, you’re going to get four new piercings.  I want to see two of them as small hoops in the upper part of your ears,” he touched the upper portion of her ear and Lauren flinched a little, “and at least one somewhere below the neck.”

       Lauren took a deep breath.  That wasn’t . . . horrible.  She liked to keep her earrings modest for work, but she had plenty of larger ones that she wore when she was going out.  They would seem a little gaudy at work, and she would have preferred to keep her jewelry wear entirely professional, but, well, she would just have to accept that that wasn’t an option anymore.  The upper ear piercings . . . well, they weren’t so uncommon anymore and could even be cute.  She wasn’t too happy about the body piercing—just acknowledging that she could be forced to have her body pierced was demeaning, and she was certain it was going to hurt—but at least it wasn’t anything that would be visible at work.

       “Moving down,” Don continued, “from now on, when you are in a professional environment—and that means work or school—you will wear dresses or skirts, never pants.  You can still wear jeans and stuff when you go out with friends, but they had better be skin tight.  When you wear them, the bottom of your skirts and dresses will go no lower than where your thumb joins your hand when your arms are hanging at your side.”
       “Sir, I think . . . I think that might be shorter than you realize.”

       “Oh?  Please, tell me more about what I do and do not know, Lauren.”

       “I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir.  I just thought . . . You said that it would still be professional, so I thought maybe you . . . you didn’t realize how short that is.”

       “Oh, I’m sorry, Lauren.  Are you concerned that this dress code might cause your co-workers to view you less as a competent peer and more as someone beneath them?”

       “Y-yes, sir,” she said softly, realizing belatedly that that was the whole point.

       Don snorted and, apparently seeing the realization in her eyes, moved on.  “Finally, Lauren, whenever you leave home, your footwear must have heels at least three-and-a-half inches tall.  And I think you’ll agree, I’m being pretty generous there.”

       “Sir, I . . . I don’t have any heels that tall.”

       Don frowned.  “Lauren, are you trying to tell me that in the half dozen or so outfits you bought while working as a stripper yesterday, not a single one of them included heels over three-and-a-half inches tall?  I find that hard to believe.”

       She could feel herself tearing up.  “No, sir, they all had heels much taller than that but . . . but they’re obviously . . . stripper shoes.  I can’t wear those to work, sir.”  She hated referring to them as “stripper shoes”.  She’d been wearing them all day yesterday, after all, and she wasn’t a stripper.  That had . . . that had been a one-time thing.

       “You can and you will.”  He shrugged.  “Or you can go buy yourself some new shoes for work.  I don’t really care.  But every day, when you put on your shoes, that will be one more moment when you’re thinking about what you can be doing to please men.”

       “Yes, sir,” she said, looking down.  So much for work being a comforting retreat.  How could she expect to be viewed as a strong, competent woman if she had to dress like that?  Then again, she thought, how many strong, competent women spent a lot of time standing half-naked in their own living rooms having a dress code dictated to them by a man who, as far as she knew, hadn’t even graduated from college?  A tiny, tiny voice in her head answered, “All of them should be,” but she resisted that idea.

       Don patted her on the butt and then sat back down.  “And that’s it, Lauren.  Like I said, not too restrictive.”

       Lauren had to admit that as much as she didn’t like the new dress requirements, Mr. Arden was right.  When he’d first started talking about her new dress code, she thought there would be more to it.  She was surprised—and relieved—that he hadn’t said anything about her underwear.  She’d have to wear too-short skirts and too-high heels, but it was a relatively small penalty; she’d still have some dignity.

       “Now, let’s go over the smaller set of rules.  It’s really just two parts.  The first is for whenever you are at home or anywhere else that our arrangement is known.  Under those circumstances, when a man walks into the room that you are in, you will stop what you are doing, you will immediately stand up and hold your forearms behind your back, you will greet the man appropriately, and you will continue to stand there silently until he tells you to do something else or leaves the room.

       “The second part will govern your behavior under other circumstances.  Because I know you can’t behave that way at work and keep your job for long, this is a little more relaxed.  When a man walks into the room, you will still stop what you’re doing and immediately stand up, and you will still properly greet the man, but you may simply hold your hands behind your back.  And you may sit back down once the man sits or tells you to sit down.

       “Easy enough, Lauren?”

       She didn’t, actually, think it sounded very easy.  Certainly, it was going to draw attention at work.  And it seemed like something she could forget to do if she was distracted.  But she guessed that was part of the point—she didn’t get to be distracted.  It would force her to be thinking about how to behave toward men at all times.  Regardless, she didn’t think arguing about it would do her any good.

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Excellent.”  He looked down at his paperwork.  “There are a couple more stipulations in here, Lauren.  You may not change your appearance—like, no getting a weird haircut or gaining a lot of weight—without my permission.  Also, while leaving you in your current job seems to be a necessary evil at the moment, you will not accept a position of greater responsibility over men without first consulting me.  Is that understood?”

       Lauren’s jaw dropped and she started crying freely.  The promotion she was competing for . . . that was a huge step . . . and now she wouldn’t be able to accept it?  But Do—Mr. Arden—was right.  If she was going to try to accept that men were her superiors, it didn’t make any sense for her to be placed in a position over more of them.  If anything, she should be looking for ways to be demoted.  Maybe she could get placed into an internship position if she just told her boss that she was going through some personal issues that were going to be detracting from her work.  It certainly wouldn’t be a lie.  But, no!  A part of her fiercely resisted.  She had worked hard to get where she was!  She wasn’t just going to give it all away!

       But, again, there was no use arguing.  It was in the contract, she had signed it, and that was that.  She bit her lip.  “Yes, sir.”

       “Good,” he thrust the papers at her.  “There are a few other minor points.  You can read it yourself on your own time.  For, now, go make two photocopies of this.  One for you, and one to hang on the fridge.  Then, bring it back here and get ready to tell me your proposed punishment for how you behaved toward that man at The Landing Strip.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As always, I am happy to receive feedback either here or at therealjohnadams at inbox dot com.  I am more likely to reply to an email.

Lauren hurried back from hanging the second copy of her new contract on the refrigerator to give the original to Don.  He hadn’t given her a time limit, but she thought it best not to keep him waiting under the circumstances.  She should never keep any man waiting, a small part of her observed.  And it was true, she realized.  Even if she couldn’t fully accept that she was to treat men as her betters, as long as she was living under her contract, it would only make her life easier if she behaved as though their needs were foremost in her mind at all times.  Their time was important; hers was not.  It was that simple.

       Of course, Do—Mr. Arden could’ve made things easier for her.  He hadn’t told her that she could pull her panties up, so she had been stuck shuffling around and trying to keep them from sliding below her knees.  Besides making her feel ridiculous, it had obviously slowed her down.  Once again, she chastised herself: How you feel is irrelevant.  If Mr. Arden wants you to shuffle around like this, then that’s just what you’ll do.  A small part of her even considered asking to go over his knee again for even considering otherwise.  The threat of a spanking looming over her was the only way she ever really learned, she thought, but she tamped the idea down.  She wasn’t going to spend all her time asking for more punishments.

       Besides, as she had stood at the photocopier, no longer distracted by having to answer Mr. Arden’s questions, she realized how much her butt still hurt from the previous spanking.  She had deserved it, she acknowledged, definitely she had deserved it, but she certainly wasn’t looking to ask for any more than necessary.  In fact, she thought as she rubbed her butt, when Mr. Arden asked her what punishment she was recommending for her rude behavior toward Carl, she was going to go with the number she originally thought of: fifteen with the strap.  It was a risk, she realized, that she might be picking too lenient a punishment, but she didn’t think so, and she was certain she’d be thanking herself when it was over five lashes earlier.

       And now, here she was, once again standing in front of Mr. Arden waiting for him to begin the proceedings.  She had automatically laced her fingers behind her head and hoped that that won her some points.

       “Lauren,” Don began after having flipped through the original contract.  “Why did I send you to the Landing Strip?”

       She had to think for a moment.  It seemed so long ago, now.  “Because . . . because I failed to write a proper apology letter, sir.”

       He looked annoyed.  “Well, yes, it was a punishment for that, but why do you think I picked that punishment?”

       “It was . . . it was to force me to show respect to the men, sir.  To remind me that my place is in serving and entertaining them.”

“Exactly.”  He paused.  “And yet once you got there, one of the first things you did was get uppity with a customer you should have been entertaining.  You hurled false accusations and insults at a man, Lauren.  I hope you realize how serious that is.”

“Yes . . . yes, sir.  I know it was wrong.”  She hesitated.  “And I . . . I know I deserve to be punished for it, sir.  I don’t have any excuse.”

Don nodded.  “What was his name again?”

“Car—I mean, I, uh, don’t know his last name, sir.”

Don looked disgusted.  “God, you can be so dumb sometimes.  You are not to address a man by his first name.  Generally, you shouldn’t even refer to him by his first name.  But surely you realize that I am not on the same level as you, so if I ask you for his name, I want his first name so that I can actually refer to him.”

She grit her teeth.  She hated when he called her dumb.  She wasn’t dumb.  She was better educated than him . . . she took a deep breath and calmed herself.  He did have a point.  Of course, Do—Mr. Arden wouldn’t need to refer to a man as respectfully as she did.

“I’m  . . . I’m sorry, sir.  His name was—is Carl.”

“Okay, then.  Do you recognize that Carl is your superior?”

“Y-yes, sir.  I mean I recognize it intellectually, but I was having trouble accepting it and I was angry so—”

“Do you think another stint at The Landing Strip would help you accept it?”

She started crying, remembering their conversation from last night.  “Yes, sir, probably.”

Don looked at his watch.  “Let’s just get down to basics.  What do you think your punishment should be for your unacceptable behavior toward Carl?”

“I . . . I’ve thought about it a lot, sir, and I think fif-fifteen with the strap would be appropriate.”

Don waited, and then his face turned dark.  “That’s it?  You blatantly disrespected a man during a time when you were specifically supposed to be focusing on your proper role—”

Lauren didn’t know what came over her, what possibly inspired her to interrupt Don, but she was talking before she even realized she had thought of the words.  “And . . . and also, sir, I’ve been reading that story you wrote . . . the one about the reporter who did the fake expose on the corporation, and they pay that man to get retribution, and the whole thing is filmed so they get to watch . . . and . . . and I really think it’s important that Car—Ca—the man from The Landing Strip be able to witness my punishment, so I should have to invite him over to watch.”

She was breathing rapidly by the end, astonished and mortified at her own suggestion, but she had had to say something before Don declared a much harsher punishment for her.

Don, for a moment, was silent, then, “That’s actually a good idea, Lauren.  And you will do that.  But don’t think for a second that I believe that you intended that as your suggestion from the beginning.  So, for trying to go easy on yourself, I’m adding two penalties to your punishment.

“First, you will handwrite a 1000-word letter of apology to Carl for your behavior.  And I think you know, Lauren, that when I say, ‘1000 words’, I mean 1000 words.

“Second, you are grounded for the next week.  That means you will not leave the apartment except for work, school, or errands having to do with your contract.  When you are in the apartment, you will only sleep, eat, or do chores related to your contract, work, or school.  When you are not doing any of those things, you will stand with your nose in the corner thinking about what a privilege it is to be able to suggest your own punishment and how next time you will take the opportunity more seriously.

“Do you understand me, Lauren?”

Her jaw had dropped as he had described her grounding, thinking about the sheer quantity of time she was going to waste staring at a wall over the next week.  Now, she fought back tears.  “Yes . . . yes, sir.”

“Good.  Now you have a lot of work to get done.  Get to it.”

“Yes, sir,” she turned and shuffled crying to her room.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: As always, I’m happy to receive any feedback and suggestions as to how you’d like to see the story go, preferably by email at therealjohnadams at inbox dot com.  Specific points I’d be interested in seeing:

1. Writing that 1000-word apology letter is probably harder than it sounds.  If you’re a woman who’s been reading and enjoying this story, I’d like you to take a stab at it, doing your best to sound contrite while staying in Lauren’s character.

2. For the men, recall that Lauren’s failure with the last letter was what got her sent to The Landing Strip in the first place, so if you have any suggestions as to what her punishment should be if she fails this time, I’d be interested in hearing them.  (Okay, if the women have any suggestions as to what they’d expect their punishment to be if they failed at writing the letter, that’s cool, too.)

3. Do you want to see Lauren actually get whipped at some point, or should that remain a threat hanging over her head if she fails at what she considers a time-consuming and demeaning task?  (And is the task really that bad, or is Lauren just whiny?)  Also, if Lauren does end up getting whipped, would you rather it be for an actual, definite failure or for the hypothetical that Don described (a man says she failed, and her word carries no weight in rebuttal)?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: A while ago, it seemed like bdsmlibrary was no longer posting stories, so I began posting solely at understories.com.  I noticed that bdsmlibrary was back up and decided to post this new entry here in case there was anybody who was interested in continuing to read the story who had not been aware of the transition.  There is material past this at understories, and all new entries will be posted there as the comment/review function there works.

***

Lauren walked toward the Landing Strip from where she had parked a few blocks away.  After Don had sent her to her room, she had gotten her crying under control and went through a list of things she needed to get done.

First on her list was bringing her pubic hair in another centimeter on either side, and that immediately faced her with a dilemma: did Mr. Arden mean another centimeter all the way down, or just a centimeter at the top while tapering so that the bottom remained the same width?  The first option, she decided, just left her with a small, goofy patch of hair like a man with a soul patch on his chin.  She figured that couldn’t be what Don wanted and went with the second option.

After taking care of that annoyance, she had gotten dressed, taking into account her new rules.  She considered wearing the tight jeans Don had said she was allowed, but she decided on a skirt for now instead in hopes that he would see his requirement was just too short for work.  She had gone with a tennis skirt, choosing to save her slightly more formal “going out” skirts for work, but she still had to really stretch her arms to make sure her thumbs were below the hem.  She had almost forgotten the earrings but had then picked out a pair of large red hoop earrings, and had, reluctantly, put on the 5” heels from her Little Red Riding Hood outfit before teetering into the living room.  She resolved to find some heels closer to the 3-1/2” limit while she was out.

In the living room, Don had made her hold her arms at her side and had tsked at how close her skirt was to the thumb-limit, but he had approved the outfit.  Then he had handed her an envelope and said, “Give this to Carl when you find him.”

“What is it?  Sir?”  Startled by the demand, she hadn’t even taken it from him right away.

“It’s an envelope that I’ve told you to give to Carl.  What other information could you possibly need?”

“Nothing . . . nothing, sir.  I’m sorry.  I’ll do it.”

“Of course you will.  And Lauren,” he added as she turned to leave, “You’ll notice that that envelope is sealed.  It needs to be sealed when you hand it to Carl.”

“Yes, sir,” she had murmured before leaving.

Now, she was almost at the front door of the Landing Strip, though it was slow going in the heels.  She stopped for a second and shook awkwardly.  The stubby pubic hair Don forced her to keep was so itchy when it rubbed against the inside of her panties.  Did he not realize how uncomfortable it was?  It was maddening!

But she tried to ignore the itchiness and continued on.  She had been smart this time and had $160 in cash on her-- $15 for the cover charge, $138 to pay her debt to the club, and $7 to spare because the ATM only paid out in tens and twenties.

She didn’t recognize the bouncer, and he looked confused when he saw her.  “Gotta go in the back,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

It was her turn to be confused, and then she realized: her clothes made him think she was there to strip!  She blushed furiously and then stammered, “I’m . . . I’m not here to dance, sir.  Just to pay a debt.”

“Oh.  Fifteen bucks then.”

She paid him and went in.  Carl was in there, and she couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.  Good, she thought, I’ll get to have my spanking and this can be over.  And she deserved it, she decided.  She’d been unbelievably rude to Carl and if it took going over Do—Mr. Arden’s knee or bending over and taking a few with the strap to make amends, it’s what she would do.  Ha—like you have a choice.

But Carl was distracted by the dancer he was teasing with a dollar bill.  It was some blonde floozy, down on her knees and elbows in front of him, knees spread wide and not a hint of shame.  Lauren grit her teeth.  That had been her only a day before, though she liked to think she’d maintained a bit more modesty.

Since Carl hadn’t seen her, she went straight to the cashier outside of the outfit store and settled up her debt from the previous night’s work.  It still rankled that after hours and hours of dancing and waitressing naked for those lowlifes she had owed the club money instead of the other way around.

With that accomplished, she steeled herself, walked over to Carl, and tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned and sneered at her.  “What do you want?”

She realized she hadn’t prepared anything to say to him and found herself just thrusting the envelope Don had given her at him.  He flinched from it and looked suspicious.  “What’s that?”

“Sir, I . . . I still feel bad about how I behaved toward you last night and I’m . . . I’m going to be punished again for that.  I think that letter might explain it.”

He took it and opened it cautiously.  After reading for a few minutes, he looked up.  “This true?”

“Sir, I . . . I haven’t been able to read it, but if Mr. Arden wrote it, I’m sure it’s true.”

He leaned back in his seat.  “Lift up your skirt.”

“Sir?”        

“This letter says you have to obey men. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir,” she gulped, suddenly very fearful of what could happen here.  “Within limits.”

“Then lift.  Up.  Your.  Skirt.”

She did so, slowly and reluctantly, and revealed a pair of high-cut blue-and-white striped panties.

“Turn around.  Slowly.”

She did so, wobbling slightly on her high heels.

When she was facing him again, he dropped the bomb.  “Give me your panties.”

“Sir,” she balked, “We’re in public—”

“We’re in a strip club, stupid.  Take off your panties and give them to me.  Keep holding your skirt up.”
       She still hesitated.  What if she refused?  She didn’t have to tell Mr. Arden.  She could claim she hadn’t been able to find Carl.  But what if Mr. Arden had put contact info in that letter? Ugh—this was so frustrating!  She’d never thought that outsiders would be brought into their arrangement!

After a moment’s hesitation, she muttered, “Yes, sir,” and started to comply.  It was hard to hold her skirt up without using both hands, so once she got her panties over her butt, she had to wiggle to get them to slide down her legs.  Carl seemed to like that even more, unfortunately.

The dancer looked down and yelled, “Hey, slut.  Find your own—”

“Relax,” Carl interrupted.  “You’ll still get your dollar.”

After handing Carl her panties, Lauren stood in front of him, holding her skirt up and waiting for further instructions.  His eyes fixated on her crotch.

“Looks like you trimmed that pussy back, din’t ya?”

Lauren wasn’t sure which made her more uncomfortable—that Carl had memorized the appearance of her pubic hair well enough to notice the change or that he was forcing her to talk about it.  She grit her teeth.

“Yes, sir.”

“’Yes, sir’ what?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

He sighed.  “Yes, sir, you did WHAT?”

She realized that the letter Mr. Arden had written must have told Carl about some of the rules by which she was bound.  She really wished she could read it, to know just what information Carl had on her.

She squeezed her eyes shut to try to keep from crying.  It was too much, being forced to display herself in public for this disgusting bastard, and now to talk about herself in degrading terms.  “Yes, sir, I trimmed my pussy back.”

He laughed, clearly enjoying her discomfort.  “Spread your legs a little more.”

She slowly complied.

“A little more.”

She squeezed her eyes shut again and spread her feet wider than her shoulders.  He whistled.  “Well, will you look at that gash.  You got a real nice gash, you know that?”

She bit her lip before answering.  “Thank you, sir.”

Carl ran her panties through his fingers and started to say something but caught himself before starting again.  “You know what?  I’m going to keep these.  Go buy yourself another pair to wear home.  Don’t put them on, though.  Bring ‘em here first.  You can let your skirt go.”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”  Right after she said it, she kicked herself for feeling gratitude at being allowed to let go of her skirt.

In the store she picked out the least sexy panties she could find. Whatever game Carl was hoping to play, she wanted to make it as unrewarding for him as possible.  Plain, white cotton panties, but still a thong.  And all the same, $35!

Unfortunately, she realized her payment options were still cash or starting a tab over.  She supposed she could go out to the ATM and bring back cash, but she was scared of what might happen if she kept Carl waiting.  She was just going to have to come back one more time to pay this off.

As she returned to Carl, she saw that there was a new dancer now, a slender Indian woman who was shimmying around in a lacy black thong and bra.  The last dancer was Carl’s waitress now and had brought him a bowl of chips and some sort of hot sauce.  She smirked at Lauren as Lauren tottered up holding her new panties out to Carl.

“Exellent,” he said.  “Good job.”  And before she could answer he took the brand new panties and immersed them in the bowl of hot sauce.  He pulled them out dripping.  “Now,” he held them toward her.  “Put these on.”

“You . . . you can’t be serious. That’s disgusting!”

“Oh, I’m serious.  And it’s going to be a lot worse than disgusting.  Put.  Them.  On.”

She grimaced as she took them from him and slid the wet, dripping mess up her legs.

“That’s right.  Make sure you put them on right.  Get that thong up into your crack.”

Lauren did as she was told, pulling the thong up between her cheeks.  She didn’t know what Carl was expecting, but it felt absolutely disgusting, like she had wet her pants.

Carl was grinning ear-to-ear.  “Excellent,” as he talked, she began to feel just the faintest tingling.  “Now, when you get home, make sure you give this to Don.”  He handed her the same envelope she had brought.  The tingling was turning into a slight burning, and she shifted uncomfortably.  “And don’t even think about reading it.”  The burning was growing.  Without thinking, Lauren started to reach for the panties to pull them back off.  “Oh, and do NOT take those panties off until Don tells you it’s okay.  And do NOT ask him if you can take them off.  You got that?”

“Please, sir,” she could feel the tears coming, but she didn’t care.  It burned.  It burned so badly.  “I—I—”

He laughed hard.  “Just shut up and get out of here before I change my mind.  I’ll see you tomorrow.  We’re going to have a lot of fun.”

She turned and walked away as quickly as she could.  Someone snickered and another person yelled.  “Look at her.  She’s walking like she’s got a load in her parents.”  If not for the extreme burning, she might have felt more shame, both for the comment and the fact that it was right.  She was walking with her feet spread wide, doing whatever it took to mitigate the burning.

In her car, her vision blurred, and she found herself flooring it.  She had to . . . had to . . . had to get home as quickly as possible so that Mr. Arden could let her take these panties off.  A light in front of her turned yellow.  Shit . . . she wasn’t going to make it.  She accelerated even more and still the light turned red just before she got to the intersection.  She saw the flash.  Shit, she thought, a red light ticket.

Finally, she was back at her apartment, still in agony, and she raced in.  Don was sitting in his usual chair reading.  He looked up and smiled as she came in.  “How did it go?”

She thrust the envelope at him.  “Uh, Mr. . . . uh, Mr. . . . Mr. Carl told me to give this to you, sir.”

Don took it and slowly read the contents as Lauren bounced from foot to foot, but kept her arms held behind her back.  She tried to think of anything . . . anything to distract her from the burning as Don took his sweet old time.  Finally, he looked up.  “Well, Carl says he’ll be joining us to watch your strapping tomorrow.  Maybe take a few licks himself.  Won’t that be nice?”

Immediately, she started bawling, finally—if only for a moment—distracted from the incredible burning in her crotch and ass.  How was she supposed to react to that, the reminder that not only was she going to be forced to submit to a bare-assed strapping, not only was her tormentor going to be invited to watch, but the same jackass was going to be allowed to participate?  But she knew how she was supposed to react.  She straightened out and regained her composure.  “Yes, sir.  I’m thankful that he’s going to take the time to participate in my punishment.”

Don shrugged.  “Somehow I doubt that.”  He looked down at the note again and his lips twitched.  “Oh, and Lauren,” he started speaking very slowly, “Would . . . you . . . like . . . to take . . . your panties . . . off?”

“Yes, sir,” she almost interrupted him in her haste.  “Please, sir, I would like to.”

He looked thoughtful for a few long moments.  “I have to say, I like Carl's style.  Okay.  Take them off.  Go get yourself cleaned up so you can get dinner on the table.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”  She fell down in her haste to get the panties off over her high heels, but she didn’t care how silly she looked.  She got up and rushed to the bathroom, suddenly appreciative of how her short skirt let the cool air flow over her.