Funbailey's spanking stories

At the end of a long harassed day of meetings, I like nothing better than to repair to a good restaurant and remind myself of the finer things in life – a perky red wine, a heartening broth, a succulent steak, a rich brandy; all served up in the soothing surroundings, accompanied by light jazz tinkling from a baby grand pianist.

What I don't need is some stroppy little madam who, although quite indisputably my waitress for the evening, seems to think she's too good to wait on tables.

When she first approached my table I admit my eyes lit up. A vision of astounding beauty, dressed in a short, black skirt, white blouse, white apron, stockings and heels. I've always had a weakness for redheads. They have fire and wit and elegance and poise and –

"Do you know what you want or are you just going to sit and gawp at me?"

– breathtaking arrogance! 

"Is that always how you greet your diners."

She shrugged off my remark and pulled out her notepad. "The special is quail. But don't even go there. The Chablis's on offer if you want a cheap night. I can recommend the filet de boeuf – even our chef can't fuck that one up. I'll come back when you've made some sort of decision."

She sauntered over to another table. Part of me was annoyed by her perfunctory attitude; another part – the part that was feasting on her stupendous behind – was thinking "Oh my word, nice arse!"

Hindsight is cunning devil, but I swear that even at that early stage of the proceedings I had an inkling of where Ms Redhead and I were heading. I've been round the block a few times; I know what certain haughty young women need every once in a while.

She let me stew for ten more minutes then came back and took my order. Very distant and indifferent. Apart from an appreciative nod when the wine waiter brought me my wine – a deep satisfying St-Emillion that I as well acquainted with – she did a good impression of not even listening. A few careless scribbles on her notepad and she was off to the kitchen, wiggle wiggle wiggle, leading with her bum. Nice arse sure, but my gosh didn't she know it!

The maitre d' must have seen me frowning. He slide to my table like a snake through grass.

"Everything to your satisfaction sir?"

"Your staff could do with a training day."

The maitre d' smiled forbearingly. "Ah, you've met Linni!"

"Possibly the rudest waitress I've had the displeasure of meeting."

"Sorry sir. She's normally very courteous, if a trifle haughty. Her fatal flaw is that she doesn't like to be crossed?"

"In what way can I have possibly crossed her?"

"No no, it's me she's displeased with. She wanted the night off but we're understaffed. She likes to get her own way. I assure you it's nothing personal against you."

"Well tell her it will be if she carries on like this."

The maitre d' went back to his station. A few minutes later, when Linni returned from the kitchen with my soup, he took her aside and whispered urgently into her ear. She glanced across at me as he spoke. The look in her eyes could have lit a bonfire.

She brought over my soup, placed it in front of me, forced a smile and turned away.

"Thank you, Linni," I said.

She paused for a moment before she turned. "My friends call me Linni. You can call me Ms Carr."

I couldn't help but grin at the sheer audacity of this girl.

"It's not funny," she went on. "I've just had my wrist slapped because of you."

"Oh trust me, that's not the only thing that's going to get slapped if you don't change your attitude."

Her eyes opened in wide astonishment. "What did you say?"

I held her gaze. "You heard me. You are in grave danger of not sitting down till Tuesday." 

And there it was – that challenging spark in her eyes, the look that passes between two duellists as they square up at dawn. Her unspoken message was loud and clear: "Don't even think about it mister." But as she turned and headed off there was a pointed exaggeration to the sway of her hips, adding a touch of petulance as she wriggled her unspeakably cute bottom back to the kitchen. Another unspoken message: "Come on then, if you think you're hard enough!"

I tucked into my pumpkin and lemongrass soup with relish. I never pass up a challenge. She had no idea what was coming her way. Though, frankly, perhaps she did. She'd been asking for trouble from the moment I sat down at my table. And, as the maitre d' had explained, she was used to getting what she asked for. Only a cad would deny her.

The rest of the meal – a fine steak, medium rare, with crisp seasonable vegetables, followed by a tangy lemon tart with raspberry compote – passed without incident. Ms Carr was polite if rather aloof; plenty of "Sirs", "My pleasure" and "You're welcome"; but behind the perfunctory smile an unspoken resentment. 

I appreciated her attempts at civility, of course. And yet, I was slightly disappointed that she'd been tamed so easily.

My disappointment was short lived.

As Linni approached my table with a tray of coffee, brandy and petit fours I could see a determined, even defiant, spring in her step. She leaned over as she placed the petit fours on the table, arching across me and raising her bum slightly higher than necessary.

"Thank you, Ms Carr. Your attitude has improved greatly."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, of course it has. Are you some kind of idiot? Did you really think I was going to give you an excuse to humiliate me in public?"

I frowned. "Careful now."

"Careful nothing. I've been sweetness personified. Now shut up and drink your coffee."

She slammed down the double espresso on the table in front of me. The cup toppled over, catching the lip of the saucer and spraying dark black liquid down the front of my crisp white shirt.

"Shit!" Her face was a picture: a mix of self-annoyance, apology and then pure dread as I rose to my feet. She backed away. "Now look, that was a genuine mistake. Sorry. I'll pay for the dry cleaning."

"You'll definitely pay, young lady!"

I seized hold of her arm and, in a swift well-practised manoeuvre, lifted her off her feet, perched myself on the edge of the dining table and swept her over my raised knee. After her initial gasp of surprise, she tried to struggle free. I gripped her tightly around her slender waist. My free hand grabbed the hem of her tight skirt and started hitching it up. To her credit she did not give up easily: she writhed and kicked and squirmed, doing her damnedest to resist; and yet curiously each wriggle only seemed to ease the passage of her skirt up her thighs. In a trice, her heart-stoppingly gorgeous bottom was exposed, clad in a pair of sexy black lace panties. I tucked my fingers into the waistband.

She twisted round and hissed over her shoulder, "No way!"

"This is going to happen, Ms Carr. There is nothing you can do or say."

I yanked down her knickers, ripping them in the process, and immediately began spanking her with a vengeance. No preamble, no pause, no mercy; just harsh angry slaps, loud and hot and furious, my hand rising and falling with increasing weight and pace as I unleashed all my pent-up anger on this her sassy bare bottom. SPANK!! SPANK!!! SPANK!!!!!

As before, she did not go gently – she yelped and fought and hollered, finding her voice every now and then to utter a choice phrase – "Let me OWWW!", "How dare OWWW!" – that were cut short by the pain spreading over her rapidly reddening arse. 

Her protests only fuelled my wrath. I trapped her legs between mine, tightened my grip and tanned her backside harder than she could ever have imagined possible, relishing every wild almighty wallop, keeping a vice-like hold of her as she continued to kick and struggle, making sure she felt the full force of my fury. It was a wild, ferocious battle of wills, and I had no intention of stopping until I'd shown her who was in charge. I was into my stride now. I kept spanking her and spanking her, long and hard, taking her breath away with a crescendo of stinging slaps until she had no choice but to surrender. 

And finally she did, hanging limply over my knee, a haughty young woman reduced to a naughty little girl who had finally been taught what a soundly smacked bottom really felt like.

My work done, I let her go and she sprang to her feet, her hands instinctively clutching her blazing behind. She looked shocked and bewildered, as if trying to take in what had happened to her. 

The room burst into applause. In the heat of the moment I'd forgotten we'd had an audience. So, I suspect had she. Now she suddenly found herself in a crowded dining room with her skirt around her waist, her knickers tangled round her knees and her soundly spanked arse on display for all to see.

She hurriedly hitched up her panties and hissed, "I'll never forgive you for this.'" Then she made her exit, with as much dignity as she could muster, struggling to tug her tight dress down her thighs as she passed the amused and still applauding diners.

I took a bow. It would have been impolite not to.

As the applause died down and diners returned chuckling and gossiping to their meals, the maitre d' took me to one side. His furrowed brow suggested he was displeased by the commotion, but then a tiny smile danced across his lips. "Well done. That's been overdue."

"My pleasure." 

"The meal is on the house. A token of my appreciation."

I took a business card from my jacket pocket and handed it to him. "If my services are ever required again, don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you sir."

"You might mention to Ms Carr that I'm a dab and with a wooden spatula."

"I'm sure the threat alone will keep her in line."

I glanced across at where Linni was standing by the kitchen, a study in red: red hair, red face, a shockingly red bottom. More than that, even at twenty paces I could see the red rage simmering her eyes. 

She might never forgive me, but I suspected this wasn't our last encounter.