Institute a system of maintenance spankings

If the knockout won't oblige you by earning a spanking, you'll just change the rules so that you can give her one anyway! You take out the Rulebook and add another entry under the previous ones for your country.

New Rule: Every woman of spankable age receives one spanking each day for no reason other than that she is a woman.

You consider adding more—rules about what happens if a woman doesn't get a daily spanking for some reason, who may administer one or how severe it ought to be, for example—but the Rulebook seems quite good at filling in the blanks, so you decide to stick with that for a while and refine it later, if necessary.

A quick glance around the bus confirms that your rule has changed nothing so far, so you stand up and totter down the swaying carriage, holding on to the straps for support. The little stunner and her friend look up when you draw level with them and smile shyly, so you address the object of your desire directly.

"Have you had your daily spanking yet, young lady?"

"No, sir," they both reply in unison. Not surprising, since you only just created the rule.

"Then I'll give you one," you say, pointing at the brunette, before addressing her blonde pal. "I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else to do yours."

"Ohhh, yes sir," the curvaceous beauty replies, unclipping her cane and handing it to you with trepidation, but no hesitation, whilst her schoolmate mumbles something about her father probably administering hers, which you imagine might turn out to be the most common arrangement for the youngest women.

Your conveyance is already pulling up at the shopping centre, so you alight with everyone else except the unfortunate fare-dodger, who has to remain and wait for another bus load of passengers to spank her. She's standing by the exit doors with her bared bum on display and each traveller who didn't get a chance to chasten her on the journey gives her a couple of smacks with her hairbrush on their way out, so it takes a little longer to get off than usual. When you pass by, you observe happily that her bottom and thighs are varying in colour from red through puce, plum and purple to deep black and her blouse is soaked with tears, so she will certainly have received her just desserts by the end of her long journey.

Once outside, you look around to familiarize yourself with the layout and then take a gentle hold of the elbow belonging to the girl you intend to spank and propel her firmly towards a suitable location you've identified, in this case a covered open-air seating area with raised planters to provide some semblance of privacy and shiny steel ashtrays on metal posts for smokers. Currently the only people present are a couple of men in the livery of vendors in the shopping centre, taking a fag break, so you stride across the stark white pea shingle to the opposite end of the smoking area, your companion scrambling to keep up.

"I want you touching your toes. Request the first stroke when you're ready."

"Yes, sir," she answers promptly, putting her school satchel on the ground and her blazer on top of it. Next, she takes hold of the hem of her skirt and raises it until the whole garment is upside down, then hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her plain white cotton knickers and lowers them to half mast, moving her feet just far enough apart to stop her underwear dropping to the ground. Clearly, this is a practised action, but her bounteous buttocks show no signs of previous chastisement when she demonstrates her flexibility by bending deeply enough to rest the palms of her hands on her patent leather school shoes. She has no tan lines and even the inner slopes of her slightly-parted bum cheeks bear the same golden hue as the rest of her visible skin, but your natural curiosity regarding her sunbathing practices is interrupted when she starts to speak.

"Please cane me, sir."

You haven't decided in advance how many to give her—enough to reduce her to an hysterical bundle of searing agony, certainly, but you'll wait and see how many that takes. The rod is thicker than your thumb, but surprisingly light and strangely textured, like bark on a tree, although there's no doubt it's made of a synthetic material. Manipulating it between your hands, you discover it has quite a nice flex to it and, not knowing how easy it will be to hit the exact spot you're aiming at, you decide to start off with a stroke across the lower quarter of her buttocks, so it won't matter too much if you're a bit high or low.

"Count each stroke, thank me for it and ask me for the next one," you say, raising the cane above your shoulder.

"Yes, sir, yeeeaaargh!"

Her roar of agony is so loud it makes you wince, but you're pleased to note that the livid stripe marring the silken flesh of her perfect cheeks is exactly where you wished to put it. You're less happy that her knees have buckled and you intervene before she has a chance to count the stroke.

"Keep your legs straight, girl! And try not to scream so loudly you annoy the other shoppers. I think we'll start over and repeat that stroke to give you a chance to get it right."

"Yes, sir. Thank-you, I'm sorry, I—please cane me."

Feeling more confident, you put all your strength into the next swing, wrapping it around her buttocks on precisely the same line as your previous stroke. Your aim is incredible—or maybe all men learn exceptional control with the instruments of discipline in this new world you've created. Unfortunately, her reaction is even more pronounced than before, leaping to her feet, grabbing her bottom with both hands and stumbling forwards, almost falling on her face thanks to the knickers around her knees.

"Ooooh! Not the same place, not the same place," she whines, tears already streaming down her beautiful face.

"What do you think you're doing? I warned you I was going to repeat the stroke," you say, pretending that the doubled impact was intentional. She looks at you, open mouthed in horror, realizing that you're going to require much greater self-control than she's used to needing. You tell her to hold out her hands and she does so, looking at her palms as if checking for blood. You take hold of the fingers of her left hand and bend them back, then crack the cane onto the fleshiest part of her palm, raising a bright red ridge. She wails in anguish, but doesn't resist when you repeat the action upon her other hand.

"Get back in position. We'll start again and this time I'm doubling the number of strokes, alright?"

"Uh-huh, yes, sir. Thank-you. Please cane me again."

You notice that this time her fingers are barely touching her toes, so you put the cane on the back of her head and push downwards until with a groan, she bends more deeply and lowers her palms to the tops of her shoes once more. You inspect the bruise and decide that, although terribly tender, the thickness of the rod means that another stroke is unlikely to cause injury. Your third swing is mid-way in **** between the first and second and lands perfectly along the same line again. This time, the suffering eighteen year old is expecting it and manages to stay still, although a pitiful moan still escapes her lips, turning into a cascade of helpless sobs.

"One, thank-you, sir. Please cane me again," she finally manages to gasp out.

You lash out again, just above the first triple-stripe and the brunette rises briefly onto tip-toes before giving the count.

It only takes two more strokes to reach the top of her bum and you decide that even six of the best would be quite excessive for a maintenance spanking, so you'll give her another four, not counting any extras.

Each blow has created a black band of deep bruising, fading to red on either side, the first obviously much worse than the others. You lay number five on top of the red edging between the third and fourth and the helpless schoolgirl screams again, rising up until only the tips of her fingers are in contact with her shoes, before forcing herself back into position and counting through her sobs.

"Ahh, five, thank-you, sir. Oh, it hurts so much, sir. Please cane me again."

"I'm glad that it's having the desired effect, but you don't need to speak except as I've instructed you. Also, try to keep your bottom still so I don't have to repeat any more strokes and mind the noise you're making."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Please cane me again."

You strike expertly between the bruises left by the second and third strokes, causing an even louder shriek, though she tenses the muscles in her slim and toned thighs determinedly, to prevent herself moving in a wayward manner.

"Six, sir! Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you, but please stop, please, I can't take any more, please, no more…"

"Be quiet. Resisting verbally is just as disrespectful as struggling physically. I will decide when to stop, not you."

"Oh, no, sir, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, I swear. Please cane me again, I'm so, so sorry. Oh, no."

"Very well. I'm adding three strokes for that outburst, but you'll be relieved to know that the previous one doesn't need to be repeated as you thanked me properly and held your position."

"Thank-you, sir, thank-you. Please cane me again, sir."

You think it would be excessive to cane the edges of her first, awful welt, so you put number seven right along the bottom of her buttocks, making her rock forward with a groan, but she seems to be able to endure this better and counts with admirable stoicism.

When the rod slashes across the top of her thighs, her legs buckle once more, but she straightens up and counts immediately. Still, you can't let her weakness pass without consequences.

"I'm repeating that last one," you inform the trembling teen.

"Thank-you, sir," she gasps out between avalanches of sobs. "Please cane me again."

As before, you hit as hard as you can on the repeat, leaving a weal as thick as the implement that inflicted it, but apart from a near-silent scream that goes on until her lungs are empty, she manages to stifle any unwanted reaction.

"Eight, ugh, thank-uh-you, s-sir. Nnnn, please c-cane me again," she whimpers, perhaps starting to despair that you will ever end the relentless torment.

She endures the ninth a little lower bravely, but the tenth striking the edges of the previous two again causes a bending of the knees and a wail of utter wretchedness when she realizes another repeat is imminent.

She somehow holds still for this one, but it takes nearly fifteen seconds for her to bring her breathing under control and give the count as required. You give her no chance to rest and strike the very point where her buttocks meet her thighs. She screams, but remains in position,

"I'm sorry," her voice breaks as she sobs out the words. "I'll try to be quieter, sir, I promise I will. Thank you for the eleventh stroke. P-please cane me again."

You're about to tell her that the eleventh stroke was also the last, when through the sound of her weeping, you hear a man's voice asking why she's being punished and you spin round to see that a small crowd has gathered behind you, mostly men of various ages, but a few older women and also three ladies of spankable age, each with tears in her eyes and an older man looming over her. You heard footsteps on the gravel behind you, but assumed it was smokers coming and going to use the area for its designated purpose. None of the spectators are smoking though, so they must all have come here just for the flogging. Apart from the newcomer, they seem unnaturally silent, as though to so much as whisper might end the brutal display on offer.

To your surprise, one of the young women is the blonde schoolgirl from the bus, a fat sweaty old man in a grey cardigan holding her by the chin so she can't look away, his other arm around her waist proprietorially. Before you can explain what's going on, one of the other younger women answers that it's a mandatory daily spanking.

"That's all just maintenance?" The curious young man is understandably incredulous.

"She's had lots of extras," the quietly crying shopper murmurs, "so many extras…"

The presence of an audience excites you even more and you can hardly wait to **** the delightful teen to pleasure you in a cruelly demeaning fashion, but you expect that she's not going to be providing much in the way of natural lubrication, so you order her to her knees, with the intention of having her wet you with her mouth before you mount her.

Unaware of your designs, the schoolgirl slowly adjusts her knickers down to mid-calf, then peels the tops of her white socks down over her knees so they don't get dirty when she gingerly sinks onto the rough shingle on the ground.

"Take off your blouse."

She obeys, her fingers slightly clumsy, maybe partly due to the cane strokes across her palms, or perhaps due to the unwanted spectators enjoying the sight of her involuntary strip-tease. Nevertheless, her blouse and bootlace tie soon join her blazer on top of her satchel, exposing to all her trim tummy and shapely torso, ribs gently moving under her supple flesh in time to her continuing sobs, along with a plain and functional white bra. She must expect your next instruction.

"Now the brassière."

Her blubbering becomes even more pronounced while she fumbles with the undergarment, finally freeing her fantastic fun bags, not huge in themselves, but seeming larger on her slim frame. You drink in her superlative beauty, face red and slick with tears, hair sticking to her shoulders with perspiration, pear-shaped boobs quivering as she trembles in anguish. Her thick pink nipples are flat, not even slightly erect and beneath her skirt, her sex is neat and tight, although slightly hidden by an immaculately trimmed bush. Suddenly, she opens her cherubic mouth and a torrent of words rushes forth.

"Please, sir, my breasts are so sensitive, you don't know, one stroke on them is worse than ten on my bottom, I beg you believe me and take that into account when you cane them. I know I'm not supposed to say things like that, but you couldn't know unless I told you, so please understand why I said it—"

Her verbal flood is cut off when you slap her face, sharply but not hard, shocking more than hurting her.

"If you know you're not supposed to give unsolicited advice during a spanking, then why did you? Your punishment was over: I'd given you four strokes maintenance, doubled to eight because of repeated lack of control, plus a further three for verbal resistance. I had you bare your breasts as part of your tip to me, but now I need to punish you further. Put your hands behind your head and push your chest out, elbows back."

The horrified teenager wails as she helplessly obeys; anything else will inevitably lead to even worse pain. You tap the vicious rod across her nipples, the shudders running through her body suggesting that she was telling the truth about their sensitivity.

"Please cane my breasts, sir," she yelps, when she eventually realizes why you're waiting.

With a swish, you bring the cane down almost vertically to inflict a merciless purple weal right across both her boobs from side to side. She immediately screams and grabs her callously mistreated tits, doubling over in agony. It takes several breaths before she can speak again.

"One, thank-you, sir." She slowly returns to her correct position. "Please cane my breasts again."

"I think you know that wasn't good enough. I will repeat that stroke and if you can take it without hurting my eardrums, I'll leave it at that. Otherwise, you will get one more, assuming you don't earn any further repeats."

You square your shoulders and prepare for the repeat, at full **** and on the same line as before. The impact sends the tortured globes bouncing and their owner draws breath to howl her anguish, but no sound comes. The schoolgirl sways and you wonder whether she's going to faint, but instead she warbles out the thanks you require and begs to tip you.

Your reward is interrupted by an impromptu round of applause by the group watching, which is now even larger and you fight the urge to take a bow. The approbation rightly belongs to the girl kneeling on the rough gravel in front of you, but you feel a deserved measure of pride for your part in helping her to improve her self control.

You allow yourself a smile as you undo your fly and lower your trousers and pants to the ground, your throbbing erection right in the brunette's face, then order her to take your full length into her mouth and lick your balls. There is a murmur from the crowd of excitement rather than distaste and the teenager stares cross-eyed at your member while she struggles to open wide enough to take the tip between her lips without catching it on her teeth. You put your hands on hers, still behind her head, and apply pressure to ease the journey into her throat, feeling her gag and retch continually.

Finally, without the need to give her any advice, you slip past the point of restriction and drive deep into her gullet, holding yourself there until she gathers herself and thrusts her nimble pink tongue out to poke at your sweaty scrotum. It's a creditable effort for what you assume is her first tip and you withdraw, a trail of slimy sputum coating your prick.

The young beauty is coughing, retching and gasping for breath when you tell her to lie on a nearly bench so she can tip you with sex and she awkwardly staggers to her feet and obeys, knickers now hanging forlornly from one ankle and skirt bunched round her waist, but just as you are about to throw yourself on top of her svelte form, she cries out in desperation.

"Please, sir, I'm a virgin. I'm supposed to wait until I'm married for my first time!"