Zelensky Screws the Pooch

Oh, it was glorious, seeing that coked-up midget, “the green T-shirt”, get his spanking from Trump!

In case you live under a rock, Zelensky recently visited the White House, ostensibly to sign an agreement to share in the exploitation of mineral rights with whatever is left of Ukraine after the peace. Trump wants to recoup for the USA the hundreds of billions they poured into that never-should-have-happened war, and set it as a pre-condition for anything else to happen. If he doesn’t take the deal, according to Trump, he can “fight it out” with Russia without US support.

Scott Bessent, the US Treasury Secretary went to Ukraine to sign the deal that had been hashed out and Ukraine had agreed on, and Zelensky “slept in”, arrived late, and wound up shouting at him and did not sign. He later said he would sign in at the Munich summit, and then got into a shouting match with Secretary of State Rubio and Vice President Vance, and didn’t sign it again. Then he said he would come to the White House and sign it. Instead, he became belligerent and refused to sign it without concrete security guarantees from the US. Thus despite the fact he was told by the White House and by all his supporters in Congress that wasn’t happening and he needed to sign.

The deal would have guaranteed investment in post war Ukraine, been prosperous for both parties, and would have created a de-facto security guarantee by putting Americans and American companies and interests in the East of Ukraine, which would deter further aggression from Russia after a peace was established.

All he needed to do was smile and sign, have a nice lunch, say nice things, and go home. But no.

The full exchange is here:

Full clip

The part where it really goes off the rails is near the end, starting at 38:15

If you want good clips and commentary, here is a Roumanian commentator Sebastian Sas living in the UK whom I like a lot on this topic:

Excerpts with commentary by Sebastian Sas

Basically, Zelensky was antagonistic towards Trump and Vance, insisted on concrete security assurances in exchange for signing, and refused to shut up and take it behind closed doors as suggested by Vance, might have called Vance a “bitch” under his breath in Russian (! https://x.com/mylordbebo/status/1895555421269868776?s=61), threatened America with getting directly drawn into the conflict and having its citizens suffer directly, basically said he would never enter into any agreement with Russia, refused any talk of a compromise, and accused Trump of echoing Russian propaganda. Not smart!

It did look like Zelensky was setup, but it was a very mild provocation from Vance that led to this. From the way it ended, it looked like Trump had orchestrated it to show America, Ukraine, and the world that Zelensky was the complete obstacle to peace. This now paves the way for the US to remove support and/or Zelensky to either do a 180 on his attitude or be replaced by his own country.

Trump is playing this brilliantly.

• He always goes back to the talking point that all he wants is for the fighting and killing to stop.
• He always goes back to the talking point that it was a needless war and would never had started if he was in office.
• He wants to recoup the hundreds of billions of tax payer money poured into the war by Biden.
• He’s normalizing relations with Russia, citing diplomacy.
• He and his proxies are saying there will be territorial compromises with Russia, no NATO membership, and no US troops on the ground or US security guarantees.
• He’s finessing the obstacle, Zelensky.

Polling shows that Trump has the US public on his side, and has managed to bring even the war hawk Republicans in Congress to his side as well—Dan Crenshaw (!) Lindsey Graham (!!). Dems, Europeans, and Canada, come off as screeching forever-war mongers without skin in the game. They are being invited to step up if they want to keep the war going. They won’t.

Vance mildly criticized Zelensky on free speech issues and his brutal forced conscription of unwilling Ukrainians, for which there is ample evidence (here’s an X thread with a hundred video examples: https://x.com/mylordbebo/status/1895752927991792126?s=61). Zelenskyy had an American journalist, Gonzalo Lira, arrested and he died in a filthy Ukrainian prison (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gonzalo_Lira?wprov=sfti1#). He’s shut down all free speech critical of him and his actions, he’s stayed in power after his term effectively as a dictator. Corruption remains rampant with billions of aid dollars unaccounted for and US weapons supplied to Ukraine winding up on the black market.

Zelensky said Putin could not be trusted as he “violated the Minsk Accords 25 times”. That’s a very one-sided view as I covered in previous blog posts. In fact, Angela Merkel, the former Chancellor of Germany, was caught saying Ukraine and Europe never intended to uphold the accords as they were just buying time to arm Ukraine against Russia (e.g., see Reuters article https://www.reuters.com/world/putin-russia-may-have-make-ukraine-deal-one-day-partners-cheated-past-2022-12-09/). And then there was the actions of the Ukrainian Banderas Nazis who kept fighting despite the accords.

Some of the more based European countries, such as Slovakia and Hungary, agree with Trump.

As I wrote on my blog in January 2022, before the invasion, in Russia and the Ukraine:

War with Russia can be avoided by ratifying their ownership of the Crimea, by promising not to take Ukraine and the nearby countries bordering Russia into NATO, and by guaranteeing Russian-speaking minority rights. Yeah, hate to be pro-Putin on this, but I would advocate for that over war.

The alternative is to take them into NATO, and then there is the requirement to defend it when it's not at all of any strategic importance to the West, but is of massive strategic importance to Russia. Russia has lots of nukes, a giant army, supplies natural gas to most of Europe, and almost half of Ukraine is pretty pro-Russian already. Plus, the West needs Russia cooperation in Iran and Syria, and an ally against China. Extremely unwise to tangle with Russia over Ukraine. And not least because the ultimate loser would be the Ukraine itself.

Yup. Pretty prescient there, although I was just echoing thinkers like John Mearsheimer at the time.

Then after they invaded, in March in Russian Invasion of Ukraine, I said this:

While it is true that Latvia and Estonia border Russia and were NATO countries since 2004, a quick glance at the map shows that it's nothing like the same threat to Russia as would be Ukraine joining NATO. Of course, Russia protested vehemently their membership at the time, but Russia did not invade.

In 2008, the West tried the same trick in Georgia, but this time Russia went to war to successfully prevent that country from joining NATO. It was a very similar situation as in Ukraine.

My take on the matter is that it has been foolishly, foolishly provocative of the West to not make it off-limits Ukraine joining NATO (in fact, the West has been provocatively encouraging the opposite). Most high-level diplomats and analysts would agree with that sentiment.

Do I believe Russia is therefore justified in invading Ukraine? No. But at the same time the West backed them into a corner. Russia has repeatedly made clear, by words and deeds, the results of pushing for Ukraine's entry into NATO. If Russia ever senses it's about to happen, which they now, justly, have, the result was always inevitable and was completely predictable and predicted.

If you are a threatening looking person with a gun in your hand (NATO), and you step closer and closer to a giant known bully with a crazy look in their eyes (Russia), and who have a track record of punching people who step too close (Georgia, Crimea, Donbas), and the crazy man is telling you to stay back, not cross this line, and yet you keep stepping closer, with your gun drawn, until you are nose to nose, is that person justified in punching you? No. But why THE FUCK were you doing that in the first place???

So, do I agree that the war was needless and would never have happened had Trump been in office? Damn straight!

There was even a peace deal fully brokered in Turkey and initialed by both sides that would have been satisfactory to Russia, but Europe and the US famously scuttled it at the eleventh hour via Boris Johnson telling Ukraine to fight and die in a hopeless unnecessary conflict as the West would back them 100%.

FUCKING EVIL WAR MONGERS RESPONSIBLE FOR MILLIONS OF DEATHS AND UNTOLD SUFFERING!!!

At that time, Ukraine would not have had to cede any territory beyond Crimea. That deal was the best they could have ever hoped for. It was clear (to me, and many others, just not the propagandized, that Ukraine had NO chance against Russia).

Thank God Trump is putting an end to it.

Fiction with Grok3: The Unraveling Thread (FM/M, chastity, anal)

Grok 3 from Elon’s X.ai is now out, and it’s the best yet! Excellent storyteller, very little censorship, and can get really filthy if you ask it too! I took an old favourite for a spin to compare the results (image by Grok3 as well).

Clara had always prided herself on her intuition. It was a quiet strength, a compass that guided her through the chaos of life with David, her husband of twelve years. But lately, that intuition had been buzzing like a trapped fly against a windowpane—restless, insistent, impossible to ignore. It started with the late nights at the office, the faint whiff of perfume on his collar that wasn’t hers, the way his phone seemed to live face-down on the counter. She didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence stitched itself together into a tapestry she couldn’t unsee.

One rainy Tuesday evening, she found the thread that unraveled it all: a text message, carelessly left open on his screen while he showered. “Last night was amazing. Same time tomorrow?” The sender was labeled simply “J.” Clara’s stomach twisted, but her mind sharpened. She didn’t scream or cry. Instead, she waited.

When David emerged, towel slung low around his hips, she was sitting at the kitchen table, the phone resting beside a glass of wine she hadn’t touched. His face paled as he saw it.

“Clara, I—”

“Don’t,” she said, her voice steady as steel. “I know. And you’re going to listen.”

He sank into the chair across from her, eyes darting like a cornered animal. She leaned forward, her gaze pinning him in place.

“You’ve got two choices,” she said. “Divorce—clean, simple, and I take half of everything you’ve worked for—or you agree to a punishment. My choice. No backing out. You decide now.”

David swallowed hard. Divorce would gut him financially; they both knew it. His business was finally turning a profit after years of lean times, and he’d poured everything into it. He rubbed his jaw, avoiding her eyes.

“Punishment,” he muttered, barely audible.

Clara nodded, a faint smile curling her lips. “Good. You’ll see what that means in a few days. Until then, act like nothing’s changed.”

The next three days were a strange limbo. David tiptoed around her, his usual bravado replaced by a nervous compliance. Clara, meanwhile, planned. She wasn’t interested in vengeance for its own sake—she wanted control, a guarantee that this wouldn’t happen again. She spent hours researching, ordering discreet packages that arrived in plain brown boxes, her mind spinning with the shape of what was to come.

On Friday evening, she called him into the bedroom. The air was thick with tension as he stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Strip,” she said simply.

He blinked, hesitating, but the look in her eyes—unyielding, almost clinical—pushed him to obey. When he stood bare before her, she stepped forward with a small metal device in her hands. His eyes widened as he recognized it: a chastity cage, sleek and unforgiving.

“Clara, what the hell—”

“You agreed,” she cut in, her tone brooking no argument. “No backing out. This stays on until I say otherwise. It locks—don’t bother trying to get out of it.”

His protests died in his throat as she locked it into place with a soft click, the key dangling from a chain she slipped around her neck. Then she handed him a pair of lacy pink panties and a matching bra.

“Put these on.”

“Clara, come on—”

“Now.”

Face burning, he complied, fumbling with the unfamiliar garments. The bra hung awkwardly on his shoulders, the panties snug against his hips. He looked ridiculous, and he knew it, but Clara’s expression was unreadable.

“This is your new reality,” she said. “You don’t get to stray anymore. This—” she gestured to the cage and the lingerie—“makes sure of it. But we’re not done.”

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden. David’s head snapped up, panic flaring in his eyes.

“Who’s that?”

Clara didn’t answer. She motioned for him to follow her downstairs, and he trailed behind, the rustle of lace against his skin amplifying his humiliation. When she opened the door, there stood Victor, their next-door neighbor. He was a retired firefighter in his late fifties, broad-shouldered and weathered, with a quiet strength that made David fidget even on normal days.

“Evening, Clara,” Victor said, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement as he took in David’s attire. “This the project you mentioned?”

“It is,” Clara replied, stepping aside to let him in. “David’s agreed to a little discipline. I thought you’d be the right man for the job.”

Victor raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Happy to help.”

David’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Clara pointed to the living room couch. “Over his knee, David. Now.”

Victor settled onto the couch with the ease of a man who’d handled tough situations before, his broad frame filling the space. He patted his thigh, a casual gesture that carried an unspoken command. David hesitated, the pink lace of his panties rustling faintly as he shifted his weight, the bra straps digging into his shoulders. His eyes darted to Clara, but her arms remained crossed, her expression a wall of resolve. With a shaky breath, he shuffled forward and stood in front of Victor.

“Hold on,” Victor said, his voice low and gravelly, laced with a mocking edge. He reached out and hooked his fingers into the waistband of David’s panties and yanked them down to his knees in one swift motion, exposing the chastity cage that gleamed faintly in the lamplight. Victor let out a rough chuckle, leaning down to inspect it. “Well, look at this. Locked up tight, huh? Guess you ain’t much of a man anymore, are you, princess?”

David’s face burned, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he tried to shrink into himself. Victor didn’t let up. “And what’s with this getup? Pink panties, a little bra—hell, you’re all dolled up like a proper little girl. That’s what you are now, ain’t it? A bad little girl who needs a good, hard spanking.”

Before David could respond, Victor pulled him down across his lap, the older man’s denim-clad legs solid beneath him. Victor’s hand came down—large, calloused, and unrelenting. The first smack landed with a sharp crack against bare skin, the sound bouncing off the walls. David jolted, a yelp escaping his lips, but Victor’s other arm pressed firmly across his back, pinning him in place.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Victor said, his tone dripping with condescension. “You’re gonna take this like the naughty girl you are. Bet you thought you could sneak around, didn’t you? Well, Daddy’s here to set you straight.”

The second strike was harder, a deliberate thud that left a stinging red imprint. David squirmed, his legs kicking uselessly, the panties tangling around his ankles. Victor didn’t pause—his hand rose and fell in a slow, punishing rhythm, each blow heavier than the last. The room filled with the relentless sound of flesh meeting flesh, punctuated by David’s gasps and stifled cries.

“Look at you,” Victor taunted, pausing just long enough to reach between his legs and run a rough finger along the edge of the cage. “All caged up and whimpering. What’s the matter, little girl? Can’t handle a real man’s discipline? Maybe you oughta pretty yourself up some more—put on some lipstick, flutter those lashes. Beg Daddy to stop.”

“Please,” David choked out, his voice cracking as another brutal smack landed, the pain blooming across his skin. “Please, stop—”

“Stop?” Victor laughed, a deep, mocking rumble. “Oh, no, sweetheart. You don’t get to call the shots. Say it—say ‘Please, Daddy, stop.’ Go on, let’s hear it from my bad little girl.”

David’s pride crumbled under the weight of the next strike, a blistering hit that made his whole body tense. “Please, Daddy, stop,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“Louder,” Victor barked, delivering two quick, searing smacks in succession. “I wanna hear it like you mean it.”

“Please, Daddy, stop!” David shouted, his voice raw, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. The spanking didn’t relent—Victor’s hand kept its merciless pace, each blow a thunderclap that turned David’s skin a deep, angry red.

“Not good enough,” Victor said, his tone hardening. “You’re gonna promise to be Daddy’s good little girl from now on. Say it—‘I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl.’ Repeat it till I tell you to stop.”

David’s breath hitched, the pain and humiliation intertwining as Victor’s hand crashed down again, harder still, the impact reverberating through him. “I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl,” he stammered, his voice trembling.

“Again,” Victor demanded, punctuating the word with a smack that made David’s toes curl.

“I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl.”

“Keep going.” Another strike, then another, the rhythm unrelenting, each one building on the last until David’s pleas blurred into a desperate chant.

“I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl—I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl—I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl—” The words spilled out between gasps and sobs, his body shaking as Victor’s hand continued its brutal work. The spanking stretched on, long and drawn-out, a marathon of discipline that left David’s skin raw and his spirit shattered. Victor’s taunts wove through it all, a constant thread of mockery—“That’s it, princess, sing for Daddy” or “Look at those tears, such a pretty little crybaby.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Victor paused, his hand resting heavily on David’s throbbing backside. “One more time,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Make it sweet, now. Convince me you’re gonna behave.”

David swallowed a sob, his voice small and broken. “I’ll be Daddy’s good little girl. I promise.”

Victor gave a satisfied grunt, landing one final, resounding smack that drew a ragged cry from David’s lips. Then he shoved him off his lap, letting him collapse onto the floor, panting and disheveled, the panties still bunched around his ankles.

“Good enough,” Victor said, brushing his hands together. He glanced at Clara, who’d watched the entire scene with an inscrutable calm. “Reckon she’s learned her lesson. For now.”

David remained on the floor, his breath ragged, his skin still ablaze from Victor’s relentless hand. The room hummed with a tense silence, broken only by the faint creak of the couch as Victor shifted his weight, his broad frame looming over the scene. Clara stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood, her presence a quiet storm in the aftermath of the punishment. She looked down at David—his tear-streaked face, the crumpled pink bra, the panties tangled around his ankles—and a faint, satisfied smile curved her lips.

“You’re not done yet,” she said, her voice smooth and deliberate, cutting through the haze of his humiliation. “Victor’s gone out of his way to help you learn your place. I think you owe him a proper thank-you.”

David’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with a flicker of dread. “Clara, please—”

“No,” she interrupted, her tone sharpening. “You don’t get to negotiate. You agreed to this—my rules, my choice. And I say you thank him properly.” She tilted her head toward Victor, who raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he caught her meaning.

“On your knees,” Clara ordered, stepping back to give him space. “Now.”

David’s hands trembled as he pushed himself up, the chastity cage a cold weight between his legs, a constant reminder of his diminished control. He hesitated, glancing at Victor, who leaned back on the couch, legs spread casually, his expression a mix of amusement and expectation.

“Go on, princess,” Victor said, his voice a low growl. “You heard your wife. Show Daddy some gratitude.”

David’s stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising as he grasped their intent fully. He’d never done anything like this—never even imagined it. The thought alone made his hands tremble, his palms slick with sweat as he stared at the denim stretched across Victor’s thighs. The older man chuckled, a rough, mocking sound, and shifted forward slightly, his fingers moving to the brass button of his jeans.

“Guess I’ll make it easy for you, princess,” Victor said, his tone dripping with condescension. He popped the button free with a practiced flick, the sound sharp in the tense silence. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged the zipper down, the metallic rasp grating against David’s nerves. Victor’s large hand dipped inside, and with a casual tug, he pulled himself free—a thick, stiff member, already swollen and imposing, springing out from the confines of the fabric. It stood rigid, the skin taut and veined, a daunting presence that made David’s breath catch in his throat. The sheer size of it, the coarse dark hair at its base, the faint musk that hit the air—it was overwhelming, alien, and terrifyingly real.

David froze, his eyes locked on it, his mind screaming in protest. “I—I can’t,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, cracking with panic. “Clara, please, I’ve never—”

“You will,” she cut in, stepping closer, her shadow falling over him. “You agreed to this. My punishment, my rules. Do it, or else.”

Victor leaned back, one arm resting along the couch, his erection jutting upward like a taunt. “Better listen to her, little girl,” he said, smirking. “Daddy’s waiting.”

Tears welled in David’s eyes, hot and humiliating, as he forced himself to inch closer. His hands hovered uselessly, unsure where to go, until Victor grabbed one and guided it roughly to the base, the heat and hardness shocking against David’s palm. “There you go,” Victor grunted. “Now open that pretty mouth.”

David’s lips parted reluctantly, trembling as he leaned in. The scent was stronger now, earthy and overpowering, and as the tip brushed against his tongue, he gagged instantly—a reflexive, choking sound that made his whole body shudder. The taste was bitter, foreign, coating his mouth as he struggled to take it in. Victor’s hand clamped onto the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp, pushing him down with unyielding force.

“That’s it,” Victor growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Take it, sweetheart. You’re Daddy’s good little girl now.”

David’s throat tightened, the girth stretching his jaw painfully as he tried to breathe through his nose. Tears spilled down his cheeks, mingling with the saliva that dripped from his chin as he gagged again, the sound wet and desperate. He’d never felt so helpless, so utterly lost—his inexperience laid bare as Victor controlled the pace, thrusting shallowly, forcing him deeper each time. The older man’s member pulsed against his tongue, hot and insistent, and David’s stomach heaved with every inch he was made to take.

“Look at you, crying like a baby,” Victor taunted, his grip tightening. “Gagging on Daddy’s cock—what a sight. Bet you never thought you’d end up here, huh, princess? Keep going—don’t you dare stop.”

David’s sobs broke through, muffled and ragged, as he struggled to obey. His throat spasmed, his chest heaving with each choked breath, but Victor’s hand kept him pinned, relentless. The tears streamed freely now, his vision blurring as the ordeal dragged on, the taste and pressure overwhelming his senses. He wanted to pull away, to scream, but Clara’s presence loomed behind him, her silence a chain he couldn’t break.

“Swallow it all when it’s time,” Victor ordered, his voice dropping to a rough command. “Every damn drop, you hear me? Show Daddy how grateful you are.”

David’s mind spun, fracturing under the weight of it all—the pain, the shame, the sheer impossibility of what he was doing. His body moved on autopilot, tears falling onto Victor’s cock as he gagged and sobbed, the act stretching into a blurred eternity of submission. When Victor finally tensed, a low groan rumbling from his chest, David braced himself, the hot rush hitting his throat with brutal force. He choked, nearly retching, but Victor’s hand held him fast, forcing him to comply. He swallowed, the act mechanical and degrading, every drop a bitter seal on his defeat.

When it was over, Victor shoved him back, and David collapsed onto the floor, coughing and gasping, his face a mess of tears and saliva. Victor tucked himself away, refastening his jeans with a lazy smirk, and glanced at Clara.

Victor stood, stretching his broad shoulders with a satisfied grunt, his smirk lingering as he adjusted his jeans. Clara watched it all, her posture regal and unyielding, the key to David’s chastity cage dangling like a talisman at her throat.

“Well,” she said, breaking the silence with a voice that was calm yet edged with promise, “that was a good start. Victor, you’re invited back next week. Same time. Another spanking to keep him in line, followed by some… bedroom discipline.”

Victor raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his weathered face. “Bedroom discipline, huh? What’s that entail?”

Clara’s lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. “You’ll see. Let’s just say it’ll be a deeper lesson. Something to make sure he never forgets who he belongs to.”

David’s stomach dropped, a fresh wave of panic surging through him. He looked up at her, his voice hoarse and pleading. “Clara, what—what does that even mean?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to Victor, ignoring David entirely. “See you next Friday.”

Victor chuckled, tipping his head in a mock salute. “Wouldn’t miss it.” With that, he sauntered out, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving David alone with Clara and the echoing weight of her words.

“Get up,” she said, her tone clipped. “Clean yourself up. You’ve got a week to think about what’s coming.”

The days that followed were a slow descent into torment for David. Every moment was shadowed by dread, his mind spinning with possibilities—each more terrifying than the last. “Bedroom discipline” hung over him like a guillotine, its vagueness amplifying his fear. He couldn’t ask Clara for details; she’d shut down every attempt with a cool, dismissive glance, leaving him to stew in his own imagination. The chastity cage chafed against him, a constant reminder of his powerlessness, and the pink bra and panties she made him wear under his clothes rubbed his raw pride as much as his skin. Sleep eluded him, his nights filled with restless tossing, his days with a gnawing anxiety that tightened his chest.

By Thursday, he was a wreck—jumpy, pale, barely eating. He tried to plead with her once, late at night, his voice small and desperate. “Clara, please, just tell me what it is. I can’t—I can’t handle not knowing.”

She’d looked at him over the rim of her wine glass, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’ll handle what I give you,” she said simply. “You made your choice. Now live with it.”

Friday arrived like a storm cloud, heavy and inevitable. When the doorbell rang, David flinched, his hands clammy as Clara opened the door to Victor. The older man stepped in, his presence filling the room, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he took in David’s trembling form.

“Ready for round two, princess?” Victor asked, cracking his knuckles with a deliberate slowness that made David’s knees weak.

Clara gestured to the couch. “Start with the spanking. Panties down, over your knee. Make it hard—he needs to feel it.”

David’s heart pounded as he obeyed, the ritual now achingly familiar yet no less degrading. Victor yanked the lace down with a rough tug, exposing him, and delivered a spanking that rivaled the last—long, brutal, and merciless. Each smack reverberated through David’s body, his skin turning a deep, throbbing red as he bit back cries, tears streaming anew. Victor’s taunts were a constant undercurrent—“Cry harder, little girl” and “Daddy’s just warming you up”—until David was a shaking mess, splayed across his lap.

When it was over, Victor shoved him off, standing with a grunt. “Now what?” he asked Clara, wiping sweat from his brow.

She stepped forward, her voice low and deliberate. “Now, the bedroom discipline. Upstairs. Both of you.”

David’s legs nearly gave out as he followed, his mind a whirlwind of terror. Clara led them to the master bedroom, the space suddenly foreign and foreboding. She pointed to the bed. “On your knees, David. Face down.”

David knelt on the bed, face down, his body trembling as he gripped the sheets, the sting of the spanking still pulsing through his skin. Clara stood by the dresser, her arms crossed, her eyes glinting with cold anticipation, while Victor loomed behind him, his belt already unfastened, the rustle of his jeans a menacing prelude. The older man stepped closer, his broad shadow falling over David, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled his thick, stiff cock free—eight inches of rigid intimidation, veined and heavy, swaying slightly as he adjusted his stance.

Victor smirked, looking down at David’s quivering form. “Alright, princess,” he said, his voice a rough growl laced with mockery. “You’re gonna lube this up for Daddy. Spit’s all you’re gettin’, so you better lay it on thick—‘cause that’s the only mercy this little girl’s gonna feel.”

David’s head snapped up, his tear-streaked face paling as the words sank in. “W-what?” he stammered, his voice a high, shaky whimper, his eyes darting between Victor’s imposing member and Clara’s impassive stare.

“You heard him,” Clara said, her tone sharp and amused. “Get to it. You don’t want it dry, do you, little girl?”

Panic flared in David’s chest, his breath quickening as he realized the stakes. Desperation overrode his shame, and he scrambled to obey, leaning forward on his knees, his hands trembling as they hovered near Victor’s cock. He pursed his lips, forcing a glob of saliva to drip from his mouth, landing with a wet splat on the tip. It glistened faintly, but it wasn’t nearly enough, and the sight drew a deep, rumbling laugh from Victor.

“Pathetic,” Victor chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s all you got? Come on, sweetheart, slobber it up—I ain’t goin’ in with a dainty little drip like that.”

Spurred by fear, David redoubled his efforts, spitting again—harder this time, a thick stream that splattered across the shaft, dripping down its length. His hands darted forward, smearing the saliva frantically, his fingers sliding over the hot, veined surface as he tried to coat every inch. His movements were clumsy, almost frenzied, and the wet, squelching sounds only fueled Victor’s amusement.

“Ha! Look at her go!” Victor roared, his laughter booming as David’s hands rubbed faster, his face flushed with humiliation. “She’s polishin’ it like a damn pro—bet you never worked this hard for anything, huh, princess?”

Clara’s laughter joined his, a cold, cutting sound that made David flinch. “Oh, look at him,” she taunted. “So eager to please now. Where was that effort when you were sneaking around, huh?”

Desperate to avoid the pain he knew was coming, David leaned in closer, his breath hitching as he opened his mouth and took the tip inside. He sucked sloppily, his tongue swirling as he forced more spit to pool around it, gagging slightly at the taste and the sheer size pressing against his lips. Drool spilled down his chin, coating Victor’s cock in a slick, messy sheen, and he pulled back only to spit again, his hands still working feverishly to spread it.

Clara clapped her hands, her laughter sharp and delighted. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, stepping closer to get a better view. “Look at you, David—such a good little girl, slobbering all over Daddy’s cock. You’re practically begging for it now.”

Victor grinned, grabbing a fistful of David’s hair to hold him still as he admired the glistening result. “That’s more like it,” he said, his voice thick with approval. “Nice and wet—guess you really don’t want it to hurt too bad, huh? Too late to back out now, though.”

David pulled back, panting, his chin dripping with saliva, his eyes wide with terror as he stared at the now-slick shaft. He’d done all he could, but the reality of what was next loomed like a nightmare. Victor released his hair, giving his cheek a mocking pat.

“Good girl,” Victor said, positioning himself behind David. “Let’s see how that holds up.”

Clara’s smile widened, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You’re about to learn your place, princess. All that spit won’t change what’s coming.”

David whimpered, his breath hitching as Victor went behind him, his rough hands seizing his hips, yanking him into position. The first press came—a blunt, unyielding pressure against him, the tip of Victor’s thick shaft nudging insistently. David tensed, his body instinctively resisting, but Victor’s grip tightened, and with a slow, deliberate push, the first inch breached him. It was a sharp, burning sting, and David squealed—a high, girlish sound that spilled from his lips unbidden.

“Oh, listen to that,” Clara taunted, stepping closer, her voice dripping with mockery. “Such a dainty little cry. You’re not a man anymore, are you? Just a cheating little girl getting what she deserves.”

Victor grunted, forcing another inch inside, the stretch intensifying as David’s body fought to accommodate him. His legs quivered, his toes curling against the sheets, and a sob broke free, high-pitched and pitiful. “Please,” he gasped, his voice trembling like a scolded child’s. “It hurts—”

“Keep going,” Clara ordered, ignoring him. “He needs to feel every bit of it.”

Inch by agonizing inch, Victor pushed deeper—three, then four—each advance a slow, searing invasion. David’s cries grew shriller, his face buried in the mattress as tears soaked the fabric, his body shaking with each new depth. At five inches, he let out a keening wail, his hips twitching uselessly against Victor’s iron hold. “Too much—please, stop!” he squeaked, his voice cracking into a feminine lilt.

Clara laughed, a cold, cutting sound. “Too much? You didn’t think it was too much when you were sneaking off with her, did you? Take it, little girl. You earned this.”

Six inches now, and David’s sobs turned frantic, his breaths coming in short, girlish gasps as the pain mingled with a humiliating fullness. His fingers clawed at the bed, his back arching involuntarily, and when Victor reached seven, he shrieked—a shrill, desperate sound that echoed off the walls. Finally, with a low growl, Victor thrust the full eight inches inside, his balls pressing flush against David’s trembling flesh, buried to the hilt. David screamed, a high, broken cry, his entire body quaking as he felt the overwhelming depth, stretched beyond anything he’d ever known.

“There we go,” Victor rumbled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Balls deep, princess. How’s that feel, huh?”

David couldn’t answer—his words dissolved into a series of whimpering sobs, his face a mess of tears and snot, his body pinned and helpless. Clara leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. “Look at you, crying like a proper little slut. This is what happens when you cheat, David. You get fucked like the girl you are now.”

Victor didn’t pause. With David fully impaled, he began a relentless rhythm—pulling back only to slam forward again, each thrust a punishing jolt that rocked David’s frame. The pace was merciless, a steady, brutal fucking that drove the air from his lungs. His girlish squeals morphed into a continuous wail, his voice rising and falling with each impact, his body jerking helplessly beneath Victor’s weight. The bed creaked violently, the headboard thumping against the wall as the assault stretched on, minute after punishing minute.

“Please—mercy!” David finally sobbed, his voice a ragged, feminine plea. “I can’t—I can’t take it anymore!”

Clara smirked, crouching to meet his tear-filled eyes. “Oh, you can, and you will. But if you want it to end, beg Daddy properly. Tell him to cum inside you. Go on, little girl—say it. It’s the only way this ends for you.”

David’s resistance shattered, his mind fraying under the relentless onslaught. “Please, Daddy,” he whimpered, his voice small and broken, each word punctuated by a thrust. “Please—cum inside me—please, Daddy, I can’t—”

“Louder,” Clara snapped, her tone sharp. “Make him believe it.”

“Please, Daddy!” David cried, his voice a high, desperate shriek. “Cum inside me—please, Daddy, do it—I beg you!”

Victor’s grip tightened, his breaths growing ragged as he drove harder, faster, the rhythm building to a crescendo. With a guttural groan, he buried himself fully one last time, his release flooding David with a hot, overwhelming rush. David keened, his body shuddering as he felt it, his tears flowing freely, his submission complete.

Victor pulled out slowly, leaving David collapsed and sobbing, a trembling wreck on the bed. Clara stood, her expression one of cold triumph. “That’s your lesson, princess,” she said. “Cheat again, and it’ll be worse. You’re mine—inside and out. See you next week, Victor.”

The week had crawled by for David, each day a slow drip of dread pooling in his gut. Clara’s cryptic promise of Victor’s return had haunted him, her silence on the details only sharpening his fear. By Friday evening, his nerves were frayed to threads, his body tense as he stood in the master bedroom, awaiting her next move. The door creaked open, and Clara entered, her expression a mask of cool authority, followed by Victor, whose broad frame filled the doorway, his grin as predatory as ever.

“Strip,” Clara commanded, her voice crisp. David hesitated, his hands trembling, but her sharp glance silenced any protest. He shed his clothes, leaving only the pink bra and panties she’d forced him to wear all week, the lace now a second skin of shame. “Panties down—halfway,” she added, pointing to his thighs. “Let’s see that cage.”

With a shaky breath, he complied, sliding the fabric down until it rested at half-mast, the chastity cage exposed—a gleaming, humiliating shackle that made his cheeks burn. Clara nodded, satisfied, and gestured to a spot near the foot of the bed. “Stand there. At attention. Don’t move a muscle unless I say so.”

David shuffled into position, his legs stiff, arms rigid at his sides, the panties sagging awkwardly around his thighs. His eyes darted to Victor, who was already unbuckling his belt—not to drop his jeans, but to pull it free with a slow, deliberate tug. The leather slithered through the loops, a soft hiss that made David’s stomach lurch. Victor didn’t speak; he simply draped the belt over the back of a nearby chair, its buckle glinting in the lamplight, a coiled threat within arm’s reach. The message was clear: move, and pay.

Clara turned to Victor, her demeanor shifting—less the cold enforcer, more a woman in command of her desires. “Come here,” she said, her voice softening as she stepped toward the bed, shedding her blouse with a casual grace. Victor’s grin widened, and he moved to her, his hands finding her waist as she pulled him close. Their lips met, a hungry, unhurried kiss that deepened as Clara tugged at his shirt, peeling it off to reveal the muscled expanse of his chest.

David stood frozen, his breath shallow, watching as Victor’s hands roamed Clara’s body, unfastening her skirt, letting it pool at her feet. She wore nothing beneath but a black lace bra and panties—ironic, David thought dimly, a twisted mirror of his own attire. Victor’s jeans hit the floor next, kicked aside, and soon they were entwined on the bed, a tangle of limbs and low murmurs. Clara’s sighs filled the air as Victor kissed her neck, her breasts, his hands guiding her thighs apart with a practiced ease.

“You see this, David?” Clara said suddenly, her voice cutting through the haze of their intimacy, her head tilting to fix him with a taunting stare. “This is what a real man does. Not some sneaking, cheating little girl like you.”

Victor chuckled against her skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles as he glanced at David. “Stay put, princess,” he drawled. “Wouldn’t want Daddy to have to use that belt on you.”

David’s legs trembled, but he didn’t dare shift an inch, the belt’s presence a silent whip cracking in his mind. His eyes burned with unshed tears as Victor entered Clara—slowly at first, then with a steady rhythm that made the bed creak, her moans rising in pitch. The mattress rocked beneath them, inches from where David stood, his cage a cold, mocking weight against his exposed skin. Clara’s hands gripped Victor’s shoulders, her nails digging in as she arched into him, her pleasure a stark contrast to David’s mute suffering.

“Watch closely,” Clara gasped between breaths, her eyes locked on David’s. “This is what you’ve lost. You’re just a caged little sissy now—stand there and take it in.”

Victor’s pace quickened, his grunts mingling with her cries, the headboard thumping against the wall in a relentless cadence. David’s knees locked, his body rigid as a statue, the panties slipping lower with every involuntary twitch he suppressed. The belt gleamed in his peripheral vision, a constant warning, and his heart pounded as he fought the urge to collapse, to flee, to do anything but stand there and witness his own erasure.

When Clara’s climax hit, her voice rang out—a sharp, triumphant sound that pierced David’s chest. Victor followed moments later, a low growl rumbling from his throat as he stilled, their bodies pressed together in the afterglow. They lay there, panting, ignoring David entirely until Clara looked up, her hair tousled, her smile cruel.

“Good boy,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. “You didn’t move. Maybe you’re learning after all.”

Victor rolled off the bed, his breath still heavy from exertion, and Clara sat up, her skin flushed, her eyes glinting with a cruel satisfaction. The sheets fell away as she shifted, spreading her legs wide, her thighs glistening with the mingled evidence of their passion. She looked at David, still standing rigid at the foot of the bed, his panties sagging at half-mast, his cage a humiliating centerpiece, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face.

“Time for cleanup duty, princess,” she said, her voice a silken command. “Get over here. On your knees. You’re going to lick me clean—every drop of me and Victor. Go on.”

David’s stomach lurched, his legs nearly buckling as the order sank in. He hesitated, his eyes pleading, but Clara’s gaze hardened, brooking no defiance. “Now,” she snapped, spreading herself wider, the scent of their combined juices hitting the air.

With a choked sob, he dropped to his knees, crawling forward until his face hovered inches from her. Victor, pulling on his jeans, let out a booming laugh, the sound rough and mocking. “Look at her go,” he said, reaching for the belt still draped over the chair. “Little cleanup girl—ain’t that a sight?”

David’s tongue darted out, tentative at first, brushing against her slick folds. The taste hit him—sharp, musky, a bitter blend of Clara’s arousal and Victor’s release. He gagged, his girlish whimper muffled as he forced himself to lick, his hands trembling on the mattress. Clara sighed, leaning back on her elbows, her head tilting as she watched him work.

“That’s it,” she purred, her tone dripping with condescension. “Get it all, David. You don’t get to miss a spot—not after what you’ve done.”

Victor stepped closer, the belt now doubled in his hand, the leather creaking as he flexed it. “Let’s give her some motivation,” he said, his grin widening. Without warning, he swung, the belt cracking against David’s exposed ass with a loud snap. David yelped, his cry high and feminine, his tongue faltering as the sting bloomed across his already tender skin.

“Lick harder, princess,” Victor barked, landing another whip, the leather biting into him with a sharp thwack. “Daddy wants it spotless.”

David’s tears fell freely now, dripping onto Clara’s thighs as he lapped faster, his tongue delving deeper to escape the pain. Each stroke of the belt—crack, crack, crack—drew a squeal from his throat, his body jerking with every hit, but he didn’t dare stop. The mingled juices coated his mouth, his chin, his humiliation complete as Victor’s laughter filled the room.

“Listen to her squeak,” Victor said between swings, the belt painting red stripes across David’s ass. “Squealing like a little pig while she cleans up Daddy’s mess.”

Clara moaned softly, her fingers threading through David’s hair to hold him in place. “Good girl,” she taunted, her voice breathy. “You’ll learn to love this. Keep going—don’t you dare stop.”

The whipping continued, a relentless rhythm that matched David’s desperate licking, until his sobs were a constant, broken melody. When Clara finally pushed him away, satisfied, her legs closed, and Victor gave one last, hard lash, dropping the belt with a clatter.

“Clean enough,” Clara said, wiping a hand across her thigh. “Stay there, David. On your knees. Think about what you’ve tasted—what you’ve lost.”

Victor chuckled, buckling his belt back on. “See you next time, cleanup girl,” he said, heading for the door, leaving David crumpled, his mouth stained, his ass welted, and his spirit shattered under Clara’s unyielding rule.

Fiction: Peeper Switched (F/M, witnessed, sibling, medical)

A reader, seth, sent me a captioned drawing that inspired him. I got AI to help craft the story…

It had been a peaceful afternoon in the Johnson household until the shrill cry of Mary, the eldest daughter, pierced through the air. She came storming into the living room in her underwear, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“Mom! Bobby was peeking at me while I was changing in my room!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with fury.

Mrs. Johnson, a formidable woman with a reputation for maintaining discipline, set her knitting aside, her eyes narrowing at Bobby, who had been lounging on the couch. His face turned as red as a ripe tomato as he stammered, “I-I wasn’t! It was an accident!”

Mary, her hands clenched into fists, fired back, “An accident? You were crouching there with your eye pressed against my keyhole!”

Mrs. Johnson stood up slowly, smoothing her dress as she fixed Bobby with a steely gaze. “Bobby, that behavior is completely unacceptable. Spying on your sister like that is disgraceful. You know better.”

“But, Mom—”

“No buts!” she snapped, already heading to the back porch. Bobby’s heart dropped as he watched her retrieve the thin, flexible switch she kept in a barrel of water—a tool she always kept for serious offenses.

When she returned, Mary was standing to the side, arms crossed and lips pressed into a thin line. Bobby’s eyes darted nervously between her and his mother. Mrs. Johnson pointed to the center of the room.

“Come here, Bobby,” she commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

Reluctantly, Bobby shuffled forward, his head hanging low, muttering under his breath. “This isn’t fair…”

Mrs. Johnson pulled a chair to the middle of the room and sat down, the switch in her hand flexing slightly as she tested its weight. She fixed Bobby with a stern glare. “Take off all your clothes. Everything.”

Bobby’s head shot up in alarm. “W-What? Mom, no! Not everything!”

“Yes, everything,” she repeated firmly. “You’ll be punished exactly as you deserve—completely exposed and humbled. If you didn’t want this kind of embarrassment, you should have thought about that before spying on your sister.”

Bobby glanced nervously at Mary, who was watching with a mix of anger and smug satisfaction. His hands trembled as he hesitated.

Mrs. Johnson’s voice cut through his hesitation. “If I have to do it for you, Bobby, you’ll regret it even more. Now, not another word!”

Swallowing hard, Bobby began to undress. First came his shirt, then his shoes and socks, then his pants, until he was standing there in just his underwear, his face burning with shame. He looked pleadingly at his mother, but her expression was unyielding.

“All of it, young man. I said everything.”

Bobby let out a shaky breath, then slowly pulled down his underwear, stepping out of them and now completely bare. He covered himself with his hands, his face crimson as Mary raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Mrs. Johnson grabbed his arm and pulled him over her lap, ignoring his attempts to shield his dignity. “You’ll learn today that actions have consequences,” she said firmly, adjusting him so his bottom was perfectly positioned.

She pushed him further up than normal, his legs dangling on one side and his head nearly touching the floor on the other. His raised position left his bare backside high and exposed, while his legs were spread just enough to ensure nothing was hidden from view. Mary, standing directly behind, couldn’t help but notice the humiliatingly clear view she had of her brother’s most private areas. Her lips curled into a small, smug smile as Bobby squirmed in embarrassment, clearly aware of how much was on display.

Mrs. Johnson wasted no time, raising the switch high and bringing it down with a sharp whap! The first stroke left a thin, angry welt across the middle of Bobby’s bare backside. Before he could catch his breath, another stroke landed, then another. The switch moved quickly, the pace relentless.

“Ow! Ow! Please stop, Mom!” Bobby cried out, his legs kicking furiously as the strokes continued to fall in rapid succession.

Mrs. Johnson delivered the strokes methodically, starting high on his waist and working her way down to the tops of his thighs, the switch biting into his tender skin with each strike. She didn’t pause, her arm moving like a piston as the strokes rained down with stinging precision.

Bobby’s cries turned to sobs as the switch moved even lower, striking the sensitive backs of his thighs and finally his bare calves. His legs flailed and kicked, his toes curling as he twisted and squirmed in a futile attempt to escape the stinging wrath of the switch.

“You will not invade someone’s privacy again!” Mrs. Johnson scolded, her voice firm and unyielding. “Do you understand me, Bobby?”

“Yes! Yes! I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again!” Bobby wailed, his voice cracking as the strokes continued to fall. His bottom was a deep, fiery red, crisscrossed with thin, raised welts that extended all the way down to his ankles.

Finally, Mrs. Johnson stopped and allowed Bobby to stand, though his reprieve was short-lived.

Mary stood to the side, her arms crossed, her eyes riveted on her brother as Mrs. Johnson issued the command with unmistakable authority.

“Raise your hands above your head, Bobby, and keep them there,” she ordered sharply.

Bobby’s tear-streaked face flushed a deeper shade of red as he hesitated, his voice quivering. “Please, Mom, not like this—”

“Now!” Mrs. Johnson snapped, the switch cutting through the air with a menacing swish.

Reluctantly, Bobby lifted his trembling hands high, exposing himself completely. From her vantage point, Mary couldn’t help but smirk at the view—his skinny chest, tummy, and legs, his dangling privates, his entire front vulnerable and on display. It was a humiliating spectacle, and Mary felt a twisted satisfaction seeing him so exposed.

As the first sharp whap! landed just above Bobby’s knee, he yelped and his body jolted, his legs attempting to close out of instinct. But the swift follow-up stroke to his other leg forced him to widen his stance again.

Mary’s gaze was glued to her brother, witnessing every flinch and twitch. Bobby’s futile attempts to minimize his exposure only drew more attention to his predicament. With each strike of the switch, his legs shuffled and his hips twisted, his face contorted in anticipation of the next painful lash.

With every strike, Bobby’s body twisted and squirmed, inadvertently causing his privates to swing and twirl in an almost dizzying manner. Mary watched, a complex mixture of emotions crossing her face as she saw how each movement made him even more exposed, his attempts to shift away from the pain only accentuating his helplessness.

“Ow! Mom, please!” Bobby cried out, his voice cracking as the switch rose and fell, grazing dangerously close to his most sensitive area.

“Stand still, Bobby!” Mrs. Johnson commanded. But as she delivered another quick, sharp stroke across the upper thighs, Bobby’s sudden shift to avoid the pain caused an unintended consequence. The switch misfired, striking his penis tip with a stinging flick.

Bobby screamed—a high-pitched, shocked cry that echoed off the walls, his body freezing in sheer agony. His hands instinctively started to descend to shield himself, but a stern look from Mrs. Johnson halted them midway.

“Hands up, Bobby! I didn’t say you could move them,” she reminded sternly, though her eyes briefly flashed with concern at the unintended strike.

Mary’s smirk faded into a more complex expression, a mix of concern and lingering satisfaction. She couldn’t deny the shock of seeing her brother in such acute distress, yet part of her felt it was a fitting addition to his punishment.

Mrs. Johnson adjusted her aim, making sure the subsequent strokes were carefully placed, staying clear of his most vulnerable area. Each stroke was now met with Bobby’s gasps and pleas, his body trembling from the intense stinging that radiated up his thighs.

When the switching finally ceased, Mary watched as Bobby’s legs nearly buckled beneath him. The room was heavy with the sound of his sobbing, his entire front marked with welts, but now he stood, more subdued and humiliated than Mary had ever seen him.

“That’s what you get for being such a little sneak,” Mary couldn’t resist saying, her voice a blend of mockery and an undercurrent of genuine sibling chastisement, knowing he wouldn’t dare respond after such an ordeal.

Mrs. Johnson set the switch aside and motioned for Bobby to lower his hands. His arms, numb and trembling from being held aloft, fell slowly to his sides as he struggled to regain his composure. His body was a canvas of red welts, his breathing heavy and uneven from the ordeal.

“Come here, Bobby,” Mrs. Johnson said, her tone softer now, tinged with a hint of concern as she beckoned him closer for a closer inspection.

Bobby hesitated, his eyes downcast, the embarrassment of the situation compounded by the unintentional strike to his most sensitive area. He shuffled forward, the pain evident with each step as he approached his mother.

Mrs. Johnson gently took his chin, tilting his head up to meet her gaze. “Look at me, Bobby. I need to make sure you’re alright.” Her voice was firm but caring, a mother’s instinct to ensure no lasting harm had been done despite the harshness of the lesson.

Reluctantly, Bobby obeyed, his cheeks flushed with shame. Mrs. Johnson’s eyes then lowered to inspect the area where the switch had accidentally struck him. There, among the redness of his thighs, was a thin, distinct welt on his penis tip, a stark reminder of the misfire.

She carefully examined the mark, her touch clinical and devoid of any discomfort that might worsen his embarrassment. “It’s just a welt, Bobby. It will heal, but it was an accident that shouldn’t have happened,” she said, her voice softening further. “You’re going to be fine, but let this be a lesson about the consequences of not keeping still during punishment.”

Bobby nodded, relief washing over him at the confirmation that there was no serious injury. The pain was sharp but fading, a dull throb that reminded him acutely of the incident.

Mrs. Johnson stood back, giving him space. “Get dressed now, and remember what you’ve learned today. I won’t tolerate such behavior in this house. This punishment, though harsh, is because I care about you and your upbringing.”

Bobby, still shaken, managed a quiet, “Yes, Mom.” He retrieved his clothes, his movements slow and careful as he dressed, each fabric brushing against his tender skin making him wince.

Mary, who had been a silent observer since the incident, walked over to her brother as he buttoned his shirt. Her expression was complex, a blend of sympathy and the residual satisfaction of seeing justice served. “Bobby, I… I hope you really did learn something today.”

Bobby looked at his sister, his eyes rimmed red from tears. “I did, Mary. I’m really sorry for what I did. It won’t happen again.”

Mary nodded, the severity of the punishment sobering her mood. “Good. Let’s try to move past this, okay?”

Mrs. Johnson, observing the siblings, felt a pang of maternal pride mixed with regret for the necessity of such measures. “Alright, you two. Why don’t you go on and help set the table for dinner? Let’s put this behind us and enjoy the evening as a family.”

As they left the room together, the atmosphere lightened slightly, the day’s events settling into a tough, learned lesson. Bobby walked carefully, the physical reminders of his punishment a stark note of his mother’s strict but loving discipline, ensuring such behavior would not soon be repeated.

——

The next morning, Bobby woke with the dawn, the sharp discomfort reminding him of the previous day’s events. Despite his attempts to get out of bed normally, each movement brought a fresh sting from the welts that decorated his body, particularly the one on his penis, which seemed to pulse with a throb more acute than the rest.

Mrs. Johnson, upon hearing Bobby shuffle painfully around his room, decided to check on him. She found him trying to dress, a grimace painted across his face as the fabric of his underwear brushed against the tender welts. The sight of her son in such discomfort tugged at her heartstrings.

“Bobby, let me see how you’re healing,” she said gently, her voice laced with concern. Reluctantly, Bobby showed her the marks, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he revealed the worst of them. The welt on his circumcised penis tip looked particularly painful, slightly swollen and a deeper red than the others.

Mrs. Johnson sighed, the decision clear. “I’m taking you to see Dr. Miller. Just to be sure everything’s alright.”

The car ride to the doctor’s office was quiet, Bobby’s embarrassment palpable. Upon arrival, Mrs. Johnson explained the situation to Dr. Miller, a kind but straightforward woman who had been Bobby’s doctor since he was a child.

As they entered the examination room, Bobby’s face turned a deep shade of red, the reality of having to expose his punishment marks to Dr. Miller setting in. He undressed slowly behind the privacy screen, the sound of his breath deep and unsteady.

“Mrs. Johnson, Bobby,” Dr. Miller began, as she pulled on her gloves, “let’s see what we’re dealing with today.”

Bobby stepped out, his body a canvas of stark, red lines and welts, the one on his penis standing out grievously. Dr. Miller’s eyebrows lifted slightly, her professional demeanor softening just a touch. “I see. It looks like you’ve had quite the punishment, Bobby.”

Mrs. Johnson, standing beside Bobby, nodded. “Yes, he was punished for peeping on his sister. Unfortunately, one of the strokes went awry when he couldn’t keep still.”

Dr. Miller nodded, understanding the situation as she examined the welts carefully, her touch gentle. When she reached the welt on his penis, she took extra care, inspecting it closely. “This looks painful, Bobby, but it hasn’t caused any serious damage. But I’m sure it must sting terribly.”

Turning to her medical cart, Dr. Miller retrieved a tube of topical cream. "This cream will help with the healing and reduce the inflammation. I’ll apply a bit now so you can see how to do it," she said, her voice clinical.

As Dr. Miller applied the cream, Bobby felt an uncomfortable mix of sensations. The touch was professional and meant to be soothing, but the intimate nature of the application caused an involuntary response—his body reacting despite the pain and the mortifying circumstances.

Mrs. Johnson noticed the beginning of his arousal and her eyes narrowed. "Bobby, control yourself. This is no time for such reactions," she scolded sharply.

Dr. Miller, noticing the tension, intervened with a professional calmness. "Mrs. Johnson, it’s perfectly normal for boys Bobby's age to have involuntary reactions like this, especially under stress. It's purely physiological and not something he can control in this moment," she explained, aiming to ease both their discomforts.

"Thank you, Doctor," Mrs. Johnson said, her tone still stern but slightly softened by the doctor’s reassurance.

As they walked out of the doctor's office and headed back to the car, Mrs. Johnson's stern expression returned. "I don't care what the doctor said, Bobby. There's nothing normal about reacting like that. You'll get another spanking as soon as we get home."

Bobby wailed, the prospect of another punishment on top of his current pain overwhelming him. His mother’s words echoed in his head, the car ride home filled with his sobbing and the heavy silence of impending discipline.

——

When they arrived home, Mrs. Johnson immediately directed Bobby to the living room. “We need to address what happened today at Dr. Miller’s office,” she stated firmly, pulling a chair into the center of the room and sitting down. She patted her lap, signaling Bobby to come over. As he shuffled hesitantly towards her. Mary, arms crossed, leaned against the doorway, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement.

As he stood in front of her, Mrs. Johnson reached out with a swift, practiced motion. She unbuckled his belt, and without a word, she pulled down his pants and underpants in one smooth action, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. Bobby’s face burned with embarrassment, his eyes darting towards Mary, who tried to stifle a giggle behind her hand.

“Bobby, what happened today at the doctor’s office was unacceptable,” Mrs. Johnson began, her voice steady and severe. “You need to understand the seriousness of your actions.” She gestured at his exposed state. “An erection?” she said pointedly, “is not how you behave at the doctor’s office.”

Bobby’s face burned with embarrassment, his eyes darting towards Mary, who burst into loud guffaws.

“You actually had a boner in front of the doctor?!” Mary exclaimed, her voice loud and mocking, filled with disbelief. “Oh my god, that’s just… I can’t even believe you! How embarrassing!”

Mrs. Johnson ignored Mary’s comment, focusing her attention on Bobby. “You’re not a little boy anymore. It’s high time you learned to control yourself. Your actions today were not only embarrassing but also disrespectful.” Her hand gestured towards Bobby’s nudity, emphasizing his current shame.

Bobby squirmed under his mother’s scolding, feeling every bit the child she accused him of no longer being. The cool air of the room contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from his cheeks.

“This kind of reaction is not only embarrassing but also deeply disrespectful to the doctor who is a professional merely doing her job. You must learn to control yourself and distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate responses to physical contact.”

As Bobby stood there, his mother’s words hammering down on him, his hands twitched towards his midsection, driven by a deep-seated urge to shield himself from the dual onslaught of his mother’s words and his sister’s mockery.

However, Mrs. Johnson sharply batted his hands away, her expression one of controlled irritation. “Keep your hands at your sides, Bobby. You will not hide from this, nor will you ignore the lessons you need to learn from today’s failure in self-control.”

Bobby, chastened and more embarrassed than ever, nodded slowly, his cheeks burning as he obeyed, leaving his hands rigidly at his sides. Mrs. Johnson’s eyes softened just a fraction, but her voice remained firm.

“I hope this is a lesson you will remember, Bobby. We do not behave like this, not in our family and certainly not in public or professional settings.” Her words seemed to echo in the quiet room, punctuated only by Mary’s occasional giggles, reminding Bobby just how far he had strayed from the behavior expected of him.

Mrs. Johnson’s tone grew colder, more pointed as she regarded Bobby with a critical eye. “What’s next, Bobby?” she asked as she reached out and shook the offending member in her hand. “Are you going to start having such reactions in front of me or your sister?” Her question was rhetorical, laced with sharp disapproval, highlighting the absurdity and inappropriateness of his behavior at the doctor’s office.

Bobby shuddered at the thought, the humiliation burning hotter with each word his mother uttered. The idea of such a thing happening in front of his family members was unthinkable, adding a layer of horror to his already embarrassed state.

“No, Mom, I… I wouldn’t,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes cast down to avoid the stern gaze that bore into him.

Mrs. Johnson, still stern but now with a glint of determination in her eyes, turned to Mary. “Mary, go to the kitchen and bring me the olive oil,” she instructed firmly. Mary, taken aback by the unexpected request but intrigued, hurried off without a question.

Bobby’s eyes widened in confusion and a new wave of anxiety washed over him. “Mom, what are you doing with the olive oil?” he asked, his voice quivering slightly, uncertain of his mother’s intentions.

Mrs. Johnson faced Bobby, her expression unreadable. “We’re going to test your control, Bobby. Since you seem to have trouble managing your reactions in appropriate settings, we need to see how you handle a simple test at home.”

Mary returned, bottle in hand, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she handed it to her mother. She couldn’t help but tease, “What, are we cooking something, or is Bobby the main course?”

Ignoring Mary’s comment, Mrs. Johnson took the bottle and placed it on the table. “This is a serious exercise, Mary. I want you to watch and learn as well. It’s important for both of you to understand the importance of self-control.”

Bobby stood there, heart racing as his mother continued. “I’m going to apply a small amount of oil to your member. Your job is to remain calm and in control. No reactions beyond what is normal for any clinical examination.”

As Mrs. Johnson unscrewed the bottle cap, Bobby’s mind raced with the implications of this test. The sensation of the cool oil on his penis, the firm yet gentle touch of his mother’s hand, he knew it would be difficult to maintain composure, especially under the watchful eyes of his sister.

Mary, sensing the seriousness of the moment, bit back further jokes, her curiosity piqued about how her brother would handle the situation.

Mrs. Johnson’s touch was clinical, devoid of any familial warmth for the sake of the test. “Focus, Bobby,” she instructed calmly as she observed his reactions closely.

Bobby, determined not to fail this test, kept his breathing even, his gaze fixed on a point across the room, trying his best to think of anything but the sensation on his skin.

Mrs. Johnson watched for several long moments, then wiped her hands and Bobby’s penis clean with a towel. “Well done,” she finally said, a small nod indicating her approval. “You managed to stay in control. However, we still need to address your behavior at Dr. Miller’s office. That incident cannot go without consequence.”

His mom pulled him across her lap, as he braced himself for what was to come. Mrs. Johnson adjusted him, positioning his bottom higher to ensure the spanking would be effectively felt.

“Bobby, today at the doctor’s, you embarrassed yourself and me by not controlling your body,” Mrs. Johnson began, her tone sharp and reprimanding. “You need to learn to manage your reactions, especially in public settings.”

Mary couldn’t resist teasing her brother as their mother prepared to start the punishment. “A boner in front of the doctor, huh Bobby?” she taunted, her voice dripping with mockery.

The first spank landed hard on Bobby’s backside, making him flinch not just from the pain but also from his sister’s words. Mrs. Johnson didn’t pause, delivering another firm spank. “This is about self-control, Bobby. Such reactions are unacceptable,” she declared, each word punctuated with a slap.

Mary giggled, clearly enjoying her brother’s discomfort. “Can’t keep your boner under control? That’s just sad, Bobby,” she continued to mock, her laughter filling the room.

With each spank, Bobby’s cheeks grew hotter, both from the sting of his mother’s hand and the sting of his sister’s teasing. He squirmed over his mother’s lap, feeling increasingly humiliated by the dual assault of physical pain and verbal jabs.

Mrs. Johnson’s hand moved methodically, covering every inch of Bobby’s sore backside with disciplined precision. “You must learn to handle yourself better. What happened today was shameful,” she said sternly, reinforcing the lesson with every swat.

Mary leaned closer, her face alight with mischief. “Maybe this spanking will help you control your little boner next time, or do you need mommy to keep spanking it out of you?”

Bobby whimpered, feeling utterly humiliated by his sister’s relentless teasing and the harshness of the spanking. There was no sympathy from either his mother or sister; his punishment was a stark lesson in self-discipline.

As the spanking continued, Mrs. Johnson did not offer any comforting words or pauses, each slap echoing her disappointment and determination to teach Bobby a stern lesson. “This is for your own good. You’ll thank me later when you’ve learned to control yourself,” she insisted, her voice firm and without a hint of softness.

Once the spanking was finally over, Bobby was allowed to rise, his face streaked with tears and his backside glowing red. Mrs. Johnson’s demeanor remained strict as she observed him standing awkwardly, trying to cover his humiliation.

“Bobby, I hope today’s lesson has made a clear impression on you,” Mrs. Johnson began, her voice calm but firm. “But let me be absolutely clear about what I expect moving forward.” She paused for a moment, ensuring she had his full attention. “If I ever see even a trace of such behavior—of you getting an erection in any inappropriate situation again, I will take a much more drastic measure.”

Bobby looked up, his eyes widening slightly as he listened to his mother’s next words.

“I will place you in a chastity device, and you will remain in it until you are married,” she stated unequivocally. “That will ensure that such lapses in self-control are effectively managed.”

Mary, who had been silent up until now, gasped slightly at the severity of the punishment her mother proposed. Even she hadn’t expected such a stern ultimatum.

Bobby’s mouth fell open, the threat hitting him like a physical blow. The thought of being put into a chastity device felt overwhelming, a deep, sinking feeling of dread pooled in his stomach. He quickly realized the absolute seriousness of his mother’s words.

“Go to your room now,” Mrs. Johnson concluded, her tone still strict. “Take some time to think about what we’ve discussed and how you’re going to ensure this never happens again.”

As Bobby walked slowly to his room, the weight of his mother’s words hung heavily on him. The physical pain from the spanking was sharp, but the threat of such a severe and controlling punishment loomed even larger.

Mary watched her brother retreat to his room, her earlier teasing mood completely evaporated. The stern warning their mother had issued was a stark reminder of the discipline under which they lived. For the first time, Mary felt a pang of genuine sympathy for Bobby.

With Bobby gone, the heavy air began to lift slightly, and Mary couldn’t help but let her curiosity get the better of her. “Mom, would you really lock him up until he gets married?” she asked, her tone a mix of skepticism and genuine interest.

Mrs. Johnson paused, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she turned to face her daughter. “Maybe for a day or two, or a week at the outside,” she confessed, her voice lowering into a conspiratorial tone. “But Bobby doesn’t need to know that. The uncertainty might just be the deterrent he needs.”

Mary’s eyes widened, and then she too cracked a smile, the tension easing out of her as laughter bubbled up. “Can you imagine his face if it actually came to that?” she said, covering her mouth to stifle a giggle.

They both imagined Bobby, the seriousness of the situation hitting him as he found himself locked in the chastity device, his usual bravado replaced by urgent, pleading appeals. Mrs. Johnson mimicked a distressed Bobby, her voice high and wobbly, “Oh please, Mom, let me out! I promise I’ll be good!”

Mary doubled over in laughter, appreciating her mother’s rare display of humor in such a stern context. “He’d be the best behaved boy we’ve ever seen,” she managed to say between laughs.

Mrs. Johnson joined in, her laughter rich and warm. “Exactly, and maybe that’s just what he needs to keep him in line. A little shock to his system to remind him of what’s expected.”

As their laughter died down, Mary nodded, her earlier amusement giving way to a thoughtful appreciation of her mother’s tough love approach. “I guess Bobby will be thinking twice before he lets himself get carried away again.”

“Yes, he will,” Mrs. Johnson affirmed, her voice firm but filled with love. “And hopefully, without needing to resort to more… creative measures.”

As they cleared the room together, the mood was lighter, the shared laughter having bridged the gap between disciplinary action and familial affection. They understood each other a little better now, the dynamic of their small family a bit stronger for the trials of the day.

Fiction: Nannies with Fair Discipline (F/M)

Thank you to AleX from Embarrassing & Fun for another fun collab! He made this pic for me and suggested the storyline. I filled it out. Enjoy!

“Indeed, when you are a busy single mother and you think you have tried everything with your rebellious, ungrateful son, you better call Nannies with Fair Discipline and request their top nannies!”

Michael’s mom had tried everything with her son. At eighteen, he was defiant, rude, and utterly convinced he was beyond her control. He mocked authority, disrespected her, and ignored every attempt at discipline. She knew she needed something drastic—something that would break through his arrogance and truly humble him.

That’s when she found Nannies with Fair Discipline. Their programs promised real results, and after careful consultation, she chose the Little Girl Package. It was exactly what her son needed, even if he didn’t know it yet.

When Friday evening arrived, she waited for the knock at the door. Michael had no idea what was coming. He sauntered over and opened it, and found himself face-to-face with Rebecca—a tall, confident woman in a tight red dress, her expression calm yet commanding.

Michael frowned. “Who—?”

Mom stepped forward with a smile. “Michael, meet your babysitter for the weekend.”

Mom was delighted with Rebecca who seemed strong and fit. By comparison Michael was of small stature, and quite weak due to his sedentary lifestyle.

Michael’s face twisted in confusion, then outrage. “What? Babysitter? Mom, I’m eighteen!”

Rebecca walked inside without waiting for permission, setting her bag down. “Oh, sweetie,” she said smoothly, “whether you need a babysitter is not for you to decide.”

Michael shot his mom a furious look. “Mom, this is a joke, right? You’re crazy if you think I’m—”

Rebecca didn’t wait for him to finish. She grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, dragging him over to a nearby chair as his mom smirked, everything going exactly as planned. Before he knew what was happening, Rebecca sat down, pulled him across her lap, and pinned him in place.

“H-hey! No! Let me go!” he protested, wriggling against her firm hold.

Rebecca wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping him effortlessly still. “Oh, hush, young lady,” she scolded.

Michael stiffened. “What did you just call me?!”

She smirked. “Your mommy picked the Little Girl package for you. That means you are a little girl now. And little girls get spanked when they misbehave.”

Rebecca wasted no time asserting her authority. With one hand still firmly pressing down on Michael’s lower back, she reached for the waistband of his sweatpants.

“No! Stop it!” Michael yelped, kicking frantically as he realized what she was doing.

Rebecca only smirked. “Oh, hush, little girl. This is happening whether you like it or not.”

With a sharp tug, she pulled his sweatpants down over his hips. Michael howled in protest, wriggling wildly, but his struggling only made things worse—his movements helped her work the fabric further down his thighs. In one smooth motion, she yanked them past his knees, then down to his ankles.

“Stop! You can’t—”

“Oh, I can, young lady,” she corrected, slipping the pants completely off his feet and tossing them aside. “And I will.”

Michael barely had time to recover before she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers.

“No! No, please—”

His voice cracked in pure panic as she swiftly peeled the underpants down, baring his bottom completely. He thrashed, but Rebecca had expected it. She simply adjusted her grip, pinning him more securely across her lap.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart,” she cooed mockingly as she pulled his underwear down his legs. “Little girls don’t need modesty.”

Michael was mortified. The cool air against his bare skin made it all the worse. His mother stood nearby, arms folded, watching approvingly as Rebecca slid his boxers down to his ankles.

“Mom! Help me!” he begged, his face flaming red.

His mother only chuckled. “Oh, honey, I am helping you. You need this.”

Rebecca slipped the underpants off completely and set them atop his sweatpants. Then, as if to emphasize his complete helplessness, she reached for his socks.

“No, no, please,” Michael whimpered, his legs trembling.

Rebecca ignored his pleading and pulled off one sock, then the other, leaving him completely bare from the waist down. She gave his now-naked bottom a firm pat.

“There we go,” she said cheerfully.

His mother clucked her tongue. “So much fuss over a simple below the waist stripping. You really do need this lesson, young lady.”

Rebecca reached into her bag and pulled out a small handheld wooden paddle.

SMACK!

The first stroke of the paddle landed hard across both cheeks, cutting off his protests immediately.

SMACK! SMACK!

Michael gasped, his entire body jolting with each impact.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“AHH! STOP! PLEASE!”

Rebecca ignored his wailing, delivering crisp, stinging swats in rapid succession. “Such a fussy little girl,” she mused. “And we’re only getting started.”

SMACK! SMACK!

Michael let out an anguished sob, his legs flailing helplessly.

Rebecca didn’t stop. She continued to paddle him thoroughly, his bottom quickly turning from pink to deep red. “You will behave like a proper young lady,” she said sternly. “You will listen. And if you throw a tantrum? You’ll be spanked.”

Michael sniffled, too humiliated to answer.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Rebecca showed no mercy as the paddle continued its relentless assault on Michael’s now crimson backside. The wood cracked sharply against his skin, each smack drawing a fresh yelp from the eighteen-year-old who had, up until now, believed himself too old for discipline.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael’s struggles became weaker, his legs no longer kicking but trembling. His hands, once clenched into fists, now gripped the fabric of Rebecca’s dress in desperation, his sobs coming freely.

“That’s better,” Rebecca remarked, her tone almost pleasant as she brought the paddle down with precise, punishing strokes. “I think we’re starting to break through that nasty little attitude.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael barely heard her. His mind was consumed by the fire burning across his bottom, the unbearable shame of being bared and paddled like a misbehaving child in front of his mother. Tears streamed down his face, his sobs growing more pitiful by the second.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he howled, his voice cracking.

Rebecca smirked, not pausing the punishment. “Are you really, young lady? Because I don’t believe you. I think you’re just sorry your little bottom hurts.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael let out a strangled cry. His head hung low, his entire body shuddering. The room around him faded, his humiliation complete. The arrogance, the defiance—all of it was gone, burned away by the sting of Rebecca’s paddle. He was nothing more than a sobbing, sorry little girl over a strict nanny’s lap.

His mother stepped closer, looking down at him with satisfaction. “I told you, sweetheart, this is exactly what you needed,” she said. “Are you ready to behave now?”

Michael could barely speak, but he nodded frantically. “Yes, Mom! Please, I’ll be good! I swear!”

Rebecca paused, resting the paddle against his swollen, throbbing bottom. “Hmmm. I think you’re finally learning. But I don’t think we’re quite done.”

Michael’s breath hitched. “No, please! I—”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“You don’t get to decide when your punishment is over, young lady,” Rebecca reminded him, her voice firm. “That’s up to me.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael let out a wail, utterly broken.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Rebecca finally stopped, setting the paddle aside. Michael lay limp over her lap, his body shuddering, his face wet with tears.

She gently patted his scalding red bottom, making him flinch. “There, there. That’s a good little girl. I think you finally understand your place.”

Michael let out a weak sob, unable to do anything but nod.

By the time Rebecca finally set the paddle down, Michael was a sniffling, red-bottomed mess. Rebecca stood him up. He was still sniffling, his face damp with tears, as he gingerly stood in place, shifting from foot to foot. His mom was entertained as he attempted to cover his cute little pee-pee with his hands. His bottom throbbed—a deep, pulsing heat radiating from where Rebecca’s paddle had left its unmistakable impression. He had never been spanked in his life before tonight, and now… now, he felt completely defeated.

Rebecca stood and reached into a large bag she had brought with her. Michael’s stomach twisted.

What now?

His heart pounded as she pulled out an object and placed it deliberately in the center of the room.

Michael blinked.

It was… a potty chair.

Not just any potty chair—a small, pink, plastic one. The kind meant for toddlers. The kind with a removable bowl for easy emptying.

Michael’s breath hitched. His body stiffened.

Rebecca clapped her hands lightly, as if presenting something delightful. “There we go. Now, this is where you’ll be going potty from now on.”

Michael’s entire face turned scarlet. “W-what?” His voice cracked.

Rebecca crossed her legs gracefully. “Oh, sweetie, did you really think we wouldn’t be covering that?” She gave a slow, deliberate shake of her head. “Proper little girls must be fully potty trained. Potty training is included in the Little Girl Package.”

Michael’s stomach twisted. “B-but I don’t—I mean, I’m not—”

Rebecca tutted, giving him a look. “Ah, ah, ah. What did I just say?”

Michael swallowed hard. His backside still ached viciously from the earlier paddling, the memory all too fresh.

Rebecca patted the seat of the potty chair lightly. “Now, little one, when I tell you it’s time to go potty, you will immediately sit down—no hesitation.” She let the words settle, her tone firm but sweet. “And if you ever disobey? If you so much as hesitate, fuss, or try to be stubborn?”

She picked up the paddle from where it rested beside the chair, tapping it meaningfully against her palm.

Michael flinched.

“Little girls who don’t go potty when they’re told get spanked,” she reminded him simply.

Michael let out a small, strangled whimper, his lower lip trembling.

Rebecca smiled. “I knew you’d understand, sweetheart.”

She tilted her head, appraising him with an amused smirk. “Now then. It’s time for you to try.”

Michael’s body locked up in fresh horror. His mind raced for some escape, some way to resist, but… but Rebecca’s paddle was right there. His bottom still burned.

And he knew—without question—that if he disobeyed, she would have no hesitation in yanking him straight back over her lap.

With slow, trembling steps, he shuffled forward. The humiliation was suffocating. Each movement toward that ridiculous, pink potty felt like another piece of his dignity slipping away.

He hesitated for only a second.

Rebecca immediately lifted the paddle.

Michael scrambled the rest of the way, dropping down onto the potty with an awkward plop. His knees were pressed together, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his entire face burning hotter than the spanking he’d just received.

Rebecca beamed. “Good girl.”

Michael let out a shuddering breath, his head dropping forward in shame.

Rebecca leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a soft, teasing whisper. “See, sweetheart? This is so much better than another paddling, isn’t it?”

Michael bit his lip hard, too humiliated to answer.

Rebecca simply reached out and smoothed his hair with a satisfied smile. “Such a good little girl for me.”

Standing over him, Rebecca crossed her arms and tapped one manicured finger against her elbow, her lips curling in satisfaction as she looked down at him.

“Well, sweetheart?” she cooed. “We’re waiting.”

Michael swallowed hard, his face beet red. His mother stood beside her, watching expectantly.

“I—I can’t just go on command,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rebecca sighed dramatically and shook her head. “Oh dear. It looks like someone needs another lesson in obedience.”

Before he could protest, she reached down, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him up off the potty.

“No, wait—!” Michael yelped, but his words were cut off as he was once again bent over Rebecca’s lap.

SMACK!

The first slap of her paddle sent a fresh wave of agony through his already raw backside.

SMACK! SMACK!

“You will go when you’re told, little girl,” Rebecca scolded, landing a sharp series of spanks across both cheeks.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael kicked his legs frantically, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m trying! I swear!”

SMACK!

“Try harder.”

SMACK! SMACK!

Michael let out a pitiful sob, his body going limp. When Rebecca finally set him back on his feet, he was trembling.

Rebecca placed both hands on his shoulders and firmly guided him back down onto the potty seat. “Now, let’s try again, princess.”

Michael sniffled, his face burning with humiliation. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to cooperate. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He was eighteen, sitting on a pink training potty, being watched by two grown women as if he were a toddler in potty training.

“You have ten seconds, darling,” Rebecca warned, reaching for the paddle again.

Michael whimpered. He had no choice. With his whole body trembling in shame, he finally let go, the humiliating sound filling the room.

“There we go!” Rebecca cheered. “Good girl! See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Michael’s face was buried in his hands, his entire body burning with shame as the loud stream continued.

Rebecca reached down and stroked his hair condescendingly. “Next time, no hesitation, understand?”

Michael could only nod weakly as he sat hunched on the tiny pink potty, his knees pressed together, his entire body trembling with shame as he peed. His face was burning hotter than his still-throbbing bottom, his breath uneven as he fought back the miserable lump in his throat.

He was using the potty like a little girl!

And now they were watching him.

Rebecca sat with perfect poise in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching him like a patient teacher overseeing a student’s lesson. I stood nearby, arms folded, nodding approvingly.

Michael swallowed hard, staring down at the floor, wishing it would just swallow him whole.

As the tinkling finally stopped, Rebecca reached into her bag and pulled out a small pack of wet wipes.

He flinched.

Rebecca calmly opened the package and pulled one out, holding it toward him. “Here you go, sweetheart.”

Michael’s stomach twisted. He stared at the wipe in her hand as though it were a live snake. “W-what?”

Rebecca’s smile remained pleasant, patient. “Little girls don’t wipe like nasty boys,” she explained, her voice light but firm. “They must be clean and proper. Which means wiping the right way—front to back.”

Michael’s lips parted, his chest tightening in horror. “I-I don’t—”

Rebecca sighed, adjusting the paddle in her lap. “Sweetheart, are you hesitating?”

Michael’s entire body went stiff. “N-no, ma’am!” he blurted out.

Rebecca gave a satisfied nod. “Then go on, little girl. Take the wipe.”

His hands trembled as he reached out and took it. The cool, damp texture against his fingertips sent a fresh wave of humiliation through him.

Rebecca leaned forward slightly, her voice instructive but sweet. “Now, listen carefully. A young lady always wipes front to back. We don’t want you getting all messy, do we?”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut.

This wasn’t happening.

But it was.

He could feel their eyes on him. Watching. Waiting.

His hands were shaking as he brought the wipe to the tip of his penis—his one remaining shred of masculinity—now utterly useless under Rebecca’s authority. He let out a shuddering breath as he dabbed at it’s tip, his humiliation reaching unbearable new depths.

Rebecca clapped her hands gently. “That’s a good girl. Be thorough.”

Michael’s cheeks burned so hot he thought he might pass out.

He wiped again, his stomach twisting in knots, his fingers stiff and mechanical. His mortification was limitless.

Rebecca nodded approvingly. “Now, let’s make sure your little bum is just as clean, shall we?”

Michael barely suppressed a whimper.

His body went rigid as he reached behind himself with the wipe. He could feel them watching—could hear Rebecca’s amused exhale as he hesitated just a second too long.

So he did it.

He wiped between his cheeks, running the cool wipe over his most private place: his bum hole.

His breath hitched in his throat.

His humiliation was absolute.

Rebecca’s voice was smooth as silk. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it, princess?”

Michael didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Rebecca reached out and plucked the used wipe from his limp fingers, tossing it into the small waste bin beside her. Then she beamed, smoothing his hair with a condescending pat.

“Such a good little girl for me.”

Michael swallowed hard, his whole body trembling.

Rebecca sat back, the same pleased smile on her face. “Now, let’s get you into some proper clothes, shall we?”

Apparently Michael still had defiance left in him. When Rebecca pulled out a pair of pink panties and held them out, he shook his head. “No. I won’t wear those! Mom, please!”

Rebecca sighed and picked up the paddle again.

Michael barely had time to yelp before she yanked him back over her lap.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Little girls do not tell me no,” Rebecca scolded, paddling him with sharp, rapid swats.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael sobbed, kicking wildly, but Rebecca didn’t stop until he was wailing again.

When she finally released him, he was too broken to argue. He took the panties with shaking hands and slid them up over his sore, throbbing bottom.

Rebecca smirked. “There. That’s much better, isn’t it, princess?”

Michael sniffled. “Y-yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, standing awkwardly in the center of the room, his bottom still throbbing from the paddling, his pride shattered beyond recognition. His legs were trembling, his arms limp at his sides, his cheeks burning with unbearable shame.

He was standing in nothing but a pair of pink panties beneath the waist.

Next, Rebecca bent down to retrieve something else from her bag. When she straightened, she was holding…

A dress.

A frilly, sickeningly girly dress. Pale pink with little white lace trimmings along the hem, short puffed sleeves, and a ribbon that tied in the back. It was short—very short. The kind of thing a little girl would wear to a birthday party.

Michael’s breath hitched. “N-no way. No way, I’m not—”

Rebecca gave him a patient smile as she stepped closer, draping the dress over her arm. “What was that, sweetheart?”

Michael’s throat went dry.

Rebecca cocked her head, gaze dipping toward the paddle resting within easy reach. “I know my little princess isn’t telling me ‘no’ again… is she?”

Michael swallowed hard, his body locked up in fresh horror.

Rebecca sighed, shaking her head. “You’re just so forgetful, aren’t you? I told you what happens when little girls hesitate, didn’t I?”

Michael’s entire body trembled. He remembered.

The paddling. The unbearable, scorching heat that had left him sobbing like a child. The way she had reduced him to a sniveling wreck with nothing but sheer force and authority.

And she would do it again.

Michael let out a shuddering breath. His hands curled into fists.

“…I-I’ll be good,” he choked out.

Rebecca beamed. “That’s my good girl.”

Michael barely suppressed a shudder as she reached for the hem of his T-shirt. He flinched when her fingers brushed against his skin, but she merely tutted.

“Oh, stop squirming,” she chided. “You’re acting like you’ve never been dressed before.”

Michael bit his lip hard as she peeled the fabric upward. His arms instinctively raised, his face burning with shame as she pulled the shirt over his head and off completely—leaving him bare-chested.

He crossed his arms over his scrawny torso, wishing he could disappear.

Rebecca smirked. “Oh, don’t be shy, sweetheart,” she teased. “You’re going to be such a darling little thing when we’re done.”

Michael whimpered.

Rebecca lifted the dress, shaking it out before bunching it up to prepare it for him to wear.

“Arms up, princess.”

Michael hesitated for just a second—then quickly obeyed.

With expert efficiency, Rebecca slipped the dress over his head. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as it slid down, cascading over his scrawny frame in delicate frills and lace.

Michael’s fingers twitched as the hem settled just barely past his waist.

It was short.

Too short.

He barely moved, and the lace-trimmed hem lifted just enough to reveal a hint of the pink panties beneath.

Michael’s entire face turned crimson.

Rebecca clasped her hands together, stepping back to admire her work. “Oh, precious,” she cooed, her voice dripping with delight. “You look darling.”

Michael clenched his jaw, fists trembling at his sides.

Rebecca tilted her head, drinking in the sight of Michael standing there in his frilly pink dress, his fists clenched at his sides, his bottom still throbbing from the thorough paddling she had just administered. His face burned with humiliation, and she relished every second of it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned, “you look simply adorable. But I think there’s something missing.”

Michael swallowed hard, his stomach twisting into knots. “W-what?” he stammered.

Rebecca turned back to her bag and retrieved a pair of matching pink socks with little white lace trim and a pair of shiny black Mary Jane shoes. She placed them in front of him deliberately, then patted the seat of the chair beside her.

“Sit down, darling. Let’s get your little feet properly dressed.”

Michael’s pulse pounded in his ears. His first instinct was to refuse—to fight back, to say no, to run. But… but he didn’t. The memory of Rebecca’s paddle was still fresh in his mind, and his bottom ached with the reminder of what defiance earned him.

With a pitiful sniffle, he shuffled over and carefully lowered himself onto the chair. He winced as his sore cheeks made contact with the wooden surface.

Rebecca smiled sweetly as she reached down, lifting one of his feet and sliding on the first sock. She folded the delicate lace trim into place, making sure it sat just right before repeating the process with the other foot.

“There we go,” she murmured. “Such a precious little thing.”

Michael bit his lip, his face burning with shame.

Rebecca then picked up the first shoe, slipping it onto his foot and fastening the strap. “Now, sweetheart,” she began conversationally, “do you know why little girls wear short dresses?”

Michael hesitated, his throat tightening. “N-no…”

Rebecca finished fastening the second shoe, then sat back, crossing her legs gracefully. “Well, sweetheart, it’s quite simple,” she said, her tone taking on a condescending sweetness. “Little girls still need help with their potty training, and short dresses make it easier for grown-ups to check if they’ve had any accidents.”

Michael’s stomach dropped.

Rebecca smirked. “And you, my dear, are a little girl in training, aren’t you?”

Michael shook his head frantically. “N-no! I’m not—”

Rebecca sighed and reached for the paddle. “Are you arguing with me, young lady?”

Michael immediately stiffened, every muscle in his body locking up. His sore bottom throbbed at the mere sight of the paddle.

“I—I mean…” He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “N-no, ma’am…”

Rebecca’s smirk deepened. “That’s what I thought.”

She stood up, smoothing out her dress before stepping closer, towering over him. “Now, sweetheart,” she continued, her voice honeyed yet firm, “short dresses also serve another purpose.”

Michael dared to glance up at her, his expression desperate. “W-what’s that?” he whispered.

Rebecca reached down and gently lifted the hem of his dress, just enough to reveal the pink panties beneath. Michael gasped, his hands flying to his lap to push the dress back down, but Rebecca tsked and swatted his hands away.

“Oh, no, no, no, little one,” she chided, her voice full of amusement.

Michael whimpered, his eyes darting to his mother, who was still standing nearby, watching with an approving smile.

Rebecca smoothed the fabric of the dress back down but left it resting high enough that the tops of his thighs were still exposed. “You see, princess,” she explained, “short dresses remind little girls to be mindful of their manners. If they aren’t careful, everyone might see their panties.”

Michael’s breath hitched. His face burned hotter than ever.

Rebecca giggled. “And isn’t that such a wonderful lesson in modesty?”

Michael let out a small, strangled whimper.

Rebecca leaned down, her voice dropping into a whisper. “But that’s not even the best part,” she cooed. “Do you know what happens when a little girl is naughty?”

Michael barely had time to shake his head before Rebecca reached down and, in one swift motion, lifted his dress completely.

His stomach plummeted.

“No! Please!” he yelped, his hands flying to push the dress back down.

Rebecca caught his wrists effortlessly, holding them firmly at his sides. “Uh-uh, sweetheart,” she teased. “I want Mommy to see.”

Michael let out a desperate, miserable whine as his mother looked him up and down, smiling warmly. 

Rebecca nodded in satisfaction. “This way, when she’s naughty…” She reached out and gave his sore, panty-clad bottom a sharp pat. “We can immediately deal with it.”

Michael let out a small yelp, his whole body trembling with humiliation.

Rebecca finally released the hem of his dress, letting it fall back into place. She stood back up, brushing her hands together. “There we go,” she declared. “Our little princess is all dressed and ready for the weekend.”

Michael barely suppressed a sob. His mother smiled. “I feel better already, knowing she’s in such capable hands.”

Rebecca gave her a wink. “Oh, don’t you worry. By the time I’m finished with her, she won’t even remember how to be a naughty little boy.”

Michael let out a pitiful, shuddering breath.

This weekend was going to be a nightmare.

His mother picked up her overnight bag and adjusted the strap, her expression calm—if not a little amused—as she glanced at her watch.

“Well,” she said brightly, “I should be going. The girls are waiting for me at the resort.”

Michael’s stomach dropped. His head snapped up, eyes wide with sudden panic.

“W-wait—” He took a desperate step toward her. “Mom, please! Don’t—don’t leave me here!”

Mom arched an eyebrow. “Oh, sweetheart. We talked about this.”

Michael’s heart pounded. “But—but I—”

Rebecca, still seated gracefully in her chair, smirked at him over steepled fingers. “Oh, darling, are you whining?” she purred.

Michael’s breath hitched.

Rebecca slowly, almost lazily, reached for the paddle resting on the arm of her chair. She didn’t even lift it—just tapped it lightly against her palm. A silent warning.

Michael froze.

He let out a small, strangled sound, every fiber of his being begging him to keep fighting—but terror of another merciless trip over Rebecca’s lap kept his lips tightly sealed.

Mom smiled approvingly. “Much better.” She turned to Rebecca. “He’s in your hands. Whatever you think he needs, don’t hesitate.”

Rebecca beamed. “Oh, I won’t.”

Michael let out a small, panicked whimper.

Michael’s stomach twisted into knots. “P-please, Mom, I’ll be good! I—”

Mom shushed him with a finger to her lips.

“I know you’ll be good,” she said sweetly. “Because now we both know exactly what happens to little girls who aren’t.”

Michael swallowed hard.

Mom turned back to Rebecca. “I assume you’ll be putting her to bed at a reasonable hour?”

Rebecca smirked. “Of course. Little girls need their beauty sleep.”

Michael’s throat tightened.

Mom nodded. “Wonderful. Well, I should be off.”

She stepped toward the door. Michael snapped.

He stumbled after her, panic clawing at his chest. “M-Mom, please! Please take me with you! I’ll do anything!”

Mom simply smiled and patted his cheek.

“Now, now, sweetheart. I’m going to a grown-up affair. Little girls belong at home with their nanny.”

And with that, she opened the door and stepped out.

Michael watched, his body trembling, his entire world collapsing as she waved over her shoulder—then shut the door behind her.

Rebecca took Michael’s hand and gently guided him to the floor, her grip firm enough to remind him that resistance would be utterly pointless. His dress flounced slightly as he was lowered onto the plush pink rug, and he let out a small whimper as his still-throbbing bottom made contact with the soft surface.

“There we go, sweetheart,” Rebecca cooed, patting his head condescendingly. “Now, little girls need activities to keep them busy, don’t they? We can’t have you just standing around, fidgeting.”

Michael swallowed hard, his stomach twisting with fresh humiliation. “I-I don’t need—”

Rebecca cut him off with a warning look. “Hush, young lady,” she said smoothly, tapping the paddle against her palm. “You don’t need to do anything but what I tell you.”

Michael immediately shut his mouth.

Rebecca reached into her bag and pulled out a large, colorful princess-themed coloring book. It was oversized, clearly meant for toddlers, filled with cartoonish pictures of tiara-wearing ponies, fairies, and castles. She set it down on the floor in front of him and then produced a small box of crayons.

“There we go!” she chirped, as if she were talking to an excited preschooler. “Time for some nice, quiet coloring.”

Michael’s face burned. He stared at the book, his fists clenching at his sides.

Rebecca arched a brow. “You will color, sweetheart,” she said, her voice deceptively gentle. “Or I will decide you need another little warm-up over my lap.”

Michael barely suppressed a whimper. His bottom was still throbbing from the paddling. He couldn’t bear the thought of another.

With trembling fingers, he reached for the coloring book and flipped it open to a random page. His stomach sank as he realized what it was—a picture of a smiling princess, complete with a big, poofy dress, dainty little slippers, and a glittering tiara.

Rebecca beamed. “Oh, that’s perfect, sweetheart! A princess, just like you!”

Michael wanted to curl up and disappear.

Rebecca handed him a pink crayon. “Start with her dress, darling,” she instructed. “A pretty princess must wear pink, just like you.”

Michael hesitated—just for a second.

Rebecca reached for the paddle.

Michael’s heart jumped. Without another word, he snatched up the pink crayon and quickly set to coloring, his hand shaking slightly as he scribbled across the page. The humiliation burned hotter with every stroke, the reality of his predicament sinking deeper and deeper.

He was eighteen years old.

He was wearing a frilly pink dress and panties.

And now he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, coloring princess pictures like a toddler.

Rebecca smiled, watching him work. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” she praised. “Such a good little girl for me.”

Michael bit his lip hard. He felt like crying all over again.

Rebecca stepped closer, peering down at his work. “Oh, look at that,” she mused. “She’s actually staying in the lines. I am impressed! You see, princess? Maybe there is a sweet little girl inside you after all.”

Michael clenched his jaw. His face was on fire.

Rebecca reached out and gently smoothed his hair, her tone turning syrupy sweet. “You’re going to be such a good little princess for me this weekend, aren’t you?”

Michael swallowed thickly, his fingers tightening around the crayon.

“Say it, sweetheart,” Rebecca purred. “Say, ‘I’m a good little princess.’”

Michael’s breath hitched. His pulse pounded in his ears. His body shook with humiliation.

Rebecca’s fingers trailed down to the paddle.

Michael panicked.

“I—I’m a good little princess,” he blurted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rebecca’s smile widened.

She reached down and patted him lightly. “Yes, you are, sweetheart.” Then she sat back, watching him continue to color, utterly satisfied.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, willing himself not to break down.

It was going to be a very long weekend.

Michael had barely adjusted to the horror of his situation when there was a sudden knock at the door.

His heart stopped.

Rebecca, still smirking with satisfaction, gave him a slow, knowing glance before casually stepping toward the door. She didn’t rush. She didn’t explain. She simply opened it, letting in a breath of fresh air—and a second woman.

“Hello, darling,” Rebecca said smoothly.

The woman who stepped inside was tall and striking, her blonde hair swept into a neat bun, her eyes sharp and calculating. She carried the same aura of effortless control that Rebecca did. And behind her…

Michael’s breath caught in his throat.

There was another boy.

Except…

He didn’t look like a boy anymore.

He was dressed nearly identically to Michael—a short, frilly pink dress, puffed sleeves, delicate lace, the hem barely covering the pink panties beneath. He was shorter than Michael, with soft features, his cheeks a deep, furious red. His eyes darted to Michael’s for the briefest second, filled with mortified understanding, before dropping to the floor in absolute shame.

Michael felt his stomach drop.

Rebecca closed the door behind them, clasping her hands together. “Sarah, darling, you made it.”

Sarah smirked, giving Michael a once-over. “Oh, Rebecca, you weren’t kidding,” she purred. “She’s absolutely adorable.”

Michael’s face burned.

Rebecca grinned. “I knew you’d love her.”

Sarah placed a firm hand on her own charge’s shoulder, guiding him gently but unquestionably forward. “And this little lady is Oliver,” she said sweetly. “Or, as I call her for the weekend—Olivia.”

Michael’s breath hitched.

The other boy—Oliver, Olivia, whatever he was now—shifted uncomfortably, his hands twitching at his sides, but he didn’t say a word.

Rebecca clapped her hands together. “Well, now that our two little princesses are together, I think it’s time for a proper playdate.”

Michael’s heart pounded.

No. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening.

Sarah grinned, placing her hands on her hips. “Oh, absolutely. They’re going to have so much fun together.”

Michael swallowed hard, his fists clenched, his whole body trembling as realization settled deep in his gut.

This wasn’t just his nightmare anymore.

It was theirs.

Michael’s eyes flickered upward as Sarah guided Oliver down onto the rug beside him.

The other boy—no, other little girl—hesitated, his blush deepening as Sarah gave him a firm, guiding push. He plopped down ungracefully, his frilly dress fluttering, his pink panties flashing for a humiliating moment before he quickly adjusted himself.

Michael saw it in his expression—the exact same horror he felt.

Sarah beamed. “There we go! Now the two little princesses can color together.”

Rebecca smirked, stepping forward to grab a second coloring book from her bag, setting it down in front of Oliver. “Be a good girl and color nicely, Olivia.”

Oliver—his jaw tight, his hands twitching in his lap—managed a miserable nod. “Y-yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.

Michael winced at how easily the words slipped from the other boy’s lips. But could he blame him? They both knew what disobedience would bring.

Sarah knelt down beside Michael, smoothing his hair back gently. “And what about you, sweetheart?” she cooed. “Are you coloring like a good little girl?”

Michael swallowed hard. His whole body screamed to resist.

But then—the paddle.

It still sat on the coffee table within reach, a silent reminder of what had already happened.

Michael’s fingers clenched around the pink crayon. His head dipped in humiliation.

“…Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

Sarah smirked. “Good girl.”

Rebecca crossed her arms, watching them with amusement. “Oh, they’re just precious, aren’t they?”

Sarah chuckled. “Aren’t they just? Two perfect little princesses, coloring nicely like good girls.”

Michael and Oliver sat in absolute silence, their fingers trembling over their coloring pages, their faces burning.

They had no choice.

They were trapped.

And their playdate had only just begun.

The room was filled with the soft sound of crayons scratching against paper. Michael sat stiffly on the plush pink rug, his small hands clutching a crayon as he carefully colored the princess on the page in front of him. He was trying to focus—trying to keep his strokes neat, his movements precise.

Because he knew what would happen if he didn’t.

Beside him, Oliver—Olivia—was not being so careful.

Michael hadn’t meant to look, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oliver’s hand trembling, his grip on the crayon awkward and unsure. His coloring was frantic, uneven, the crayon slipping wildly outside the lines. His princess looked like a mess.

Michael’s stomach clenched.

This wasn’t going to end well.

Rebecca noticed first.

“Now, now,” she cooed, reaching down to pick up Michael’s coloring book. “Look how neat Michael’s coloring is.” She turned the book toward Sarah, showing off his careful strokes, her voice dripping with approval. “Such a good little princess.”

Michael’s face burned, but he kept his eyes down. He didn’t want this attention.

Sarah, meanwhile, leaned over Oliver’s shoulder and let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, Olivia,” she tutted, shaking her head. “What is this mess?”

Oliver’s whole body stiffened.

Michael could feel the panic radiating off him.

Sarah plucked Oliver’s coloring book from his lap and held it up. The page was a disaster—crayon marks extending far beyond the lines, uneven swipes of color filling places they shouldn’t.

Rebecca clicked her tongue. “Oh dear. That’s not how a proper little girl colors.”

Sarah sighed, setting the book down and reaching for Oliver’s arm. “You know what happens to little girls who make a mess, don’t you, Olivia?”

Oliver’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched.

“P-please, ma’am,” he whispered.

But Sarah didn’t hesitate.

She yanked Oliver forward, pulling him directly over her lap. His dress fluttered up, the hem flipping over his back, exposing his soft pink panties to the entire room.

Michael’s stomach flipped.

It was the exact same position he had been in not long ago.

Oliver let out a humiliated gasp, struggling for only a moment before Sarah secured an arm around his waist. “You will learn to be neat,” she scolded.

Then—in one swift motion—she yanked Oliver’s panties down to his knees.

Michael flinched.

His breath hitched. His whole body locked up as horrible, horrible recognition washed over him.

Because he knew what was coming.

He remembered the unbearable sting. The way his bottom had burned, how the paddle had cracked against his skin again and again, how he had squirmed and kicked and cried.

And now—Oliver was about to experience the same.

SMACK!

The first spank landed hard, snapping Michael from his thoughts.

Oliver yelped, his hands flying to the floor, his toes curling.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Michael’s breath shuddered.

It looked just like when he had been spanked.

The way Oliver’s bare bottom bounced with each sharp smack. The way his feet flailed. The way his voice cracked into desperate, pitiful wails.

Michael’s fingers dug into his dress.

Oh, God. That’s exactly what he had looked like.

Rebecca chuckled beside him. “She’s precious, isn’t she?”

Michael swallowed hard, his face burning.

Sarah, still spanking steadily, sighed. “Oh, I know she is.”

SMACK! SMACK!

Rebecca leaned in, her voice a soft, teasing whisper in his ear. “Keep coloring, princess.”

Michael couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

But somehow, his fingers found the crayon.

And as Oliver’s wails filled the room, he forced himself—with every ounce of willpower he had left—to lower his head…

Oliver’s spanking came to a bend and he was set back to his coloring with the admonishment to both girls to color inside the lines.

And just when Michael thought it couldn’t possibly get worse—

Rebecca’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Alright, girls,” she said sweetly, stretching lazily on the couch. “It’s time for potty.”

Michael froze.

Beside him, Oliver stiffened, his hands clenching the crayon in his grip.

Sarah smiled, sitting forward in her chair. “Oh, yes, it’s been quite a while now, hasn’t it? We certainly wouldn’t want any accidents.”

Sarah smirked, glancing between them. “Who should go first, hmm?”

Michael’s body stiffened.

Rebecca chuckled. “Oh, I think our dear little Olivia should go first, don’t you?”

Michael’s stomach dropped in horror.

Oliver let out a small, strangled whimper.

Sarah patted his head. “Up you go, sweetheart.”

Oliver hesitated for just a second—

Then gasped as Sarah grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet.

Michael watched, mortified, as Oliver stumbled forward toward the potty, his hands twitching at his sides, his entire body trembling with shame.

Oliver whimpered.

Michael could feel the shame radiating off of him.

Sarah simply smiled and reached for the hem of his dress.

Michael’s breath shuddered as she slowly lifted the frilly pink fabric, exposing Oliver’s pale thighs, then the soft pink panties beneath.

Oliver squeaked, his hands trembling at his sides.

Michael couldn’t look away.

Sarah held the dress up high, making sure everyone had a perfect view. Then—without hesitation—she slipped her fingers into the waistband of Oliver’s panties and peeled them down.

Michael’s heart stopped.

The fabric slid slowly, revealing Oliver’s tiny, helpless genitals. His little boy parts—now completely bare, completely vulnerable—were on full display for both nannies to see.

Rebecca smirked, taking a slow sip of her tea.

Michael’s face burned.

His stomach turned.

He could see Oliver’s entire body trembling, his knees pressing together, his hands clenched at his sides as his little privates sat exposed beneath his raised dress.

Sarah tilted her head. “Oh, Olivia,” she teased. “What a modest little thing you are.”

Oliver let out a tiny whimper.

Michael wanted to disappear.

Because he knew.

He knew what Sarah was doing.

She was making sure he watched.

Making sure he saw every second of Oliver’s humiliation.

Making sure he understood that—very soon—

It would be him.

Sarah gave Oliver’s exposed hip a little pat. “Go on, sweetheart. Sit.”

Oliver let out a shuddering breath—then, his body visibly shaking, he lowered himself onto the potty.

The second his bare bottom touched the plastic, Michael felt his own bottom clench in dread.

Sarah kept his dress raised, standing over him like an instructor watching a student perform a task.

Michael couldn’t breathe.

Rebecca glanced at him, smirking. “You’re watching carefully, aren’t you, princess?”

Michael’s stomach twisted violently.

Sarah patted Oliver’s cheek gently. “Now, now, Olivia, you know what happens if you don’t go potty when you’re told.”

And then—after a long, agonizing moment—Michael heard it. A soft, humiliating tinkle. Michael’s stomach turned over. His face burned.

Sarah smiled. “Good girl!”

Michael felt sick.

Rebecca clapped her hands together. “Alright, Olivia. All done! Let’s wipe you up.”

Oliver let out a small, pitiful whimper as Sarah handed him a wet wipe.

Rebecca leaned down toward Michael.

“You’re next, sweetheart.”

Michael’s whole body locked up.

“No,” he whispered.

Rebecca’s smile sharpened.

“What was that, princess?”

Michael knew. Knew if he resisted—if he even hesitated—He’d be over her lap again.

Then—before Rebecca could grab him—Michael forced himself to his feet.

Rebecca smirked, standing up beside him. “There’s my good little girl.”

Michael’s stomach turned.

Rebecca led him to stand right in front of the pink potty chair, facing outwards, positioning him exactly where Oliver had just been moments ago. His eyes darted to Oliver—Olivia—who sat miserably on the rug, his face still red, his hands clenched tightly in his lap, his legs pressed primly together beneath his humiliatingly short dress.

Rebecca let out a pleasant sigh. “Now, sweetheart,” she murmured, placing her hands lightly on his shoulders, “you saw how nicely Olivia followed directions, didn’t you?”

Michael swallowed hard. “Y-yes, ma’am,” he choked out.

Rebecca beamed. “Good girl.”

Her fingers brushed down to the hem of his dress.

Michael’s breath hitched.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Rebecca lifted the fabric.

Michael’s stomach sank as his thighs were exposed. Then his pink panties.

Rebecca didn’t stop.

She held his dress high, making absolutely sure there was nothing hidden from view.

Michael shivered.

Rebecca glanced over at Sarah. “Hold this for me, will you?”

Sarah grinned as she stood and took the fabric from Rebecca’s hands, holding the dress high, making sure Michael’s panties—and the way they clung embarrassingly to his form—were completely visible to the entire room.

Michael wanted to die.

Rebecca hummed in approval. “There. Now we can see everything nice and clear.”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body trembling.

Then—soft fingers slipped into the waistband of his panties.

His breath caught.

And slowly—agonizingly slowly—Rebecca peeled them down.

The fabric inched down his thighs.

And then—Michael let out a miserable whimper as his tiny, helpless genitals were fully exposed for Rebecca, Sarah, and Oliver to see.

Sarah giggled. “Oh, Rebecca, she’s just precious.”

Michael’s face burned hotter than ever before.

Rebecca sighed happily. “Isn’t she, though?”

She kept him there.

Standing.

Exposed.

Panties bunched around his knees.

His little privates completely visible.

Rebecca smoothed a hand down his back, patting his bare hip. “Now, sweetheart,” she said lightly, “I want to make a few things very clear before we continue.”

Michael’s entire body trembled.

Rebecca turned slightly, making sure Sarah and Oliver were watching.

Her fingers brushed lightly against his bare thigh, a silent reminder that he was completely vulnerable.

“A proper young lady does not hesitate when she is told to go potty,” she explained patiently. “She does not make a fuss. She does sit down immediately when instructed, and she does wipe herself properly—every single time.”

Michael’s breath came out in short, panicked gasps.

Rebecca leaned in, her voice softer. “And, my darling, if I ever catch you standing to go potty like a nasty little boy—”

Her fingers gave a sharp smack to the inside of his thigh, making him flinch.

Michael let out a tiny, strangled sound.

Rebecca smirked.

“You’ll find yourself right back over my knee for a very long paddling,” she finished smoothly.

Michael couldn’t breathe.

Sarah chuckled. “She understands, don’t you, princess?”

Michael’s throat tightened.

And then—Rebecca’s hands guided him down.

His bare bottom touched the cold plastic of the potty seat, his legs trembling, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, unsure where to go.

Sarah smirked, still holding his dress high.

Oliver sat silently, his face bright red, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Michael’s body locked up.

Rebecca waited.

Sarah waited.

Oliver waited.

Michael wanted to disappear.

But he knew that if he didn’t go, he’d be forced to sit there until he did. He kknew that Rebecca would have no hesitation in bending him right back over her knee if she sensed the slightest bit of resistance.

Knew that Oliver had been forced to do it—and now he had to do the same.

So, with a deep, shuddering breath, Michael let go and a soft, humiliating tinkle filled the room.

Rebecca beamed. “There’s my good little girl.”

The playdate continued in dreadful humiliation, with Michael and Oliver forced to sit primly together on the floor, legs tucked neatly under their frilly dresses as they finished their coloring. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to. Their matching blushes, their identical pink panties peeking from beneath their hems—every moment reinforced that they were both trapped in this nightmare.

Eventually, Sarah decided it was time to take Oliver home.

Michael should have felt relief.

But watching Oliver curtsy to Rebecca, sniffling as she cooed over what a sweet little lady he had been, sent a horrible chill down his spine. Because that meant Michael was now alone again.

Alone.

With Rebecca.

As the door shut behind them, silence filled the room.

Rebecca turned to him, smiling.

“Well, princess,” she said sweetly, stretching her arms, “now that it’s just the two of us again, I think we have a very busy day ahead of us.”

Michael’s stomach dropped.

And she was right.

Michael quickly learned that there was no escaping Rebecca’s discipline.

Every hour brought new humiliations.

He wasn’t just a little girl for the weekend—he was expected to act like one, to learn like one. And Rebecca made sure of it.

Saturday morning, Rebecca tied a frilly pink apron around his waist, guiding him into the kitchen. “A proper little lady should know how to cook,” she informed him as she placed a wooden spoon in his hand.

Michael wanted to argue. But he knew better by now.

He obediently stirred the batter, his bare thighs brushing together beneath his dress, his face burning as Rebecca corrected his posture, making sure he stood gracefully.

When he made a mistake—spilling flour on the counter—he was immediately bent over the table and given ten sharp swats with the paddle.

By the time breakfast was served, his hands were steady, his movements precise, his bottom stinging.

That afternoon, Rebecca sat him down at the coffee table with a small pink sewing kit. “Every young lady should know how to sew,” she purred, handing him a delicate piece of fabric and a needle.

Michael fumbled terribly at first.

And each clumsy mistake?

Earned him a sharp smack to his inner thigh.

By the end of the lesson, his stitches were neat, his hands graceful, his confidence shattered.

Of course, there were many more spankings.

Rebecca always found reasons.

A single moment of hesitation? Over her lap.

Forgetting to curtsy properly? Bent over the chair.

A slight frown on his face? Ten swats on the bare bottom.

By Sunday afternoon, Michael was so conditioned, so thoroughly broken, that he didn’t dare step out of line.

His bottom throbbed constantly.

His face burned with shame.

And the worst part?

He never knew when the next humiliation would come.

By the time Sunday evening arrived, Michael was exhausted—physically, emotionally, completely.

And then—the front door opened.

Michael’s breath hitched.

Rebecca smiled. “Ah. That must be your mommy.”

Michael’s stomach churned.

Rebecca took his wrist, guiding him toward the door. His legs wobbled slightly in his dress, his pink panties snug against his still-stinging bottom.

Mom stepped inside, her suitcase in hand, her eyes immediately lighting up at the sight of him.

“Oh, my sweetheart,” she gushed, pressing a hand to her chest. “You look darling.”

Michael shrank under her gaze, his face hotter than ever.

Then—Rebecca gave his wrist a small squeeze.

Michael knew what she wanted.

His hands trembled. His whole body screamed against it. But he obeyed. Slowly, stiffly, he bent at the knees—lifting the hem of his frilly dress slightly, lowering his head—And curtsied.

Mom beamed. “Oh, Rebecca, you outdid yourself!”

Rebecca chuckled. “Oh, she was an absolute angel by the end of it.”

Michael’s stomach twisted.

Mom stepped forward, brushing his hair back. “Did you learn your lesson, sweetheart?”

Michael’s lips trembled.

And then—so quietly, so miserably—

“…Yes, Mommy.”

Mom grinned. “Good girl.”

Michael’s soul shattered.

And he knew.

This wasn’t over.

Because the next time he misbehaved—

Rebecca would be back.

“At the end of the weekend, he was a different boy—no longer arrogant, but respectful. He knew that a tantrum might bring Rebecca back, and he certainly didn’t want that. Calling Nannies with Fair Discipline was the best decision I ever made.”

Nannies with Fair Discipline

Helping Mothers Restore Order, One Naughty Boy at a Time!

Are you at your wit’s end with your rebellious, ungrateful son? Has he grown defiant, lazy, and disrespectful? Does he scoff at authority, thinking himself too old to be disciplined?

It’s time to remind him who’s in charge.

At Nannies with Fair Discipline, we specialize in correcting behavior and reshaping attitudes with firm, effective discipline. Our most popular program, the Little Girl Package, is designed for boys who need a complete attitude adjustment—and a heavy dose of humility.

The Little Girl Package

What can you expect?

✔ Immediate & Thorough Correction – Your naughty young man will receive a firm, bare-bottom paddling upon arrival to establish authority.

✔ Complete Behavioral Transformation – Your son will no longer act out like an unruly young man—he will be trained to behave with the grace and obedience of a proper young lady.

✔ Proper Attire – To reinforce his new behavior, your son will be dressed in a frilly little dress and pink panties, carefully selected to ensure absolute embarrassment and submission.

✔ Full Potty Training – He will no longer use the toilet like a rude, careless boy. Instead, he will learn to relieve himself like a proper little lady—on a pink potty chair, under strict supervision.

✔ Hands-On Domestic Training – From cooking lessons to sewing practice, he will be taught practical skills befitting a young lady. Any mistakes will be met with immediate correction.

✔ Frequent, Firm Discipline – Hesitation? Paddled. Backtalk? Paddled. Improper curtsy? Paddled. Your son will learn that obedience is non-negotiable.

✔ Structured Playdates – To reinforce his new role, your little princess will be paired with another boy in the Little Girl Package for an afternoon of guided play. Activities include:

• Coloring princess pictures (with a strict emphasis on staying inside the lines).
• Doll play and tea parties to nurture grace and etiquette.
• Shared potty time, where each little girl will take turns using the pink potty under strict supervision.
• Encouraging proper behavior—if one little girl misbehaves, the other watches her receive a bare-bottom spanking to reinforce the importance of obedience.

✔ A Lasting Impact – By the end of his stay, your once-arrogant son will greet you with a deep, graceful curtsy, addressing you with the respect and deference you deserve.

Hear From a Satisfied Mother:

“I thought I had tried everything with my son, but nothing worked—until I called Nannies with Fair Discipline. After one weekend in the Little Girl Package, my once-rebellious boy was completely transformed. When I returned home, he curtsied to me! I’ve never seen such immediate results! If he ever steps out of line again, I know exactly who to call.”

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Don’t let your son’s arrogance go unchecked. Give him the humbling experience he desperately needs.

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Nannies with Fair Discipline – Because Some Boys Need to Be Taken Down a Peg.