With a firm spanking

You take off your jacket and let Léa dab her tears out of it whilst you look around for an appropriate spanking implement. If the last day or so has shown you anything, it's that a little light thrashing always makes things better, but Léa's bullwhip seems quite fearsome and perhaps a little excessive for what you have in mind. You quickly settle on a venerable hairbrush you spy on the bedside table. As you heft it in your hand, testing its weight, the blonde lectrice glances over at you with growing apprehension and concern.

"I think this will be fine now, Jaques."

"Thank-you, Léa. Now come back and sit down; there's something I want to say to you."

You sit on the side of the bed, where she joins you, then, putting the brush down on the side opposite her, you take her hands in yours and look into her eyes.

"Léa, I didn't hear much of that conversation, but there's no excuse for how your feller was talking to you there. However, you're clearly aware that you exacerbated the situation, even inadvertently."

"Yes, Jaques. I am sorry. I will sort it out properly as soon as I may."

"That's good, but you still need a spanking, not to mention a few smacks for crying on my jacket."

"I am so sorry, Jaques, I…I do not know what to say."

"It's alright, Léa, just come over my knee and all will be forgiven."

In fact, you decide to have her strip completely naked and lie over your lap, so that you can bounce the brush off her rump with rapid flicks of your wrist. The naked form is every bit as alluring as you remember and her bum shows almost no sign of the strapping you gave her yesterday, which isn't too surprising, considering how gentle it was. You tell her not to bother counting, because you're planning to pepper her backside with a significant number of easy swats, delivered with only moderate ****.

You give eight light smacks in the same place before moving on, mottling her cheeks with a web of pink splotches darkening to mauve in the middle. After two sets, she starts to writhe most pleasantly atop you and soon she's burying her face in the duvet and howling as the blistering breaks down her defences.

It's very satisfying to replace her earlier tears with the more wholesome ones of pain by roasting her buttocks, her relative inexperience showing in how little effort it takes to reduce her to a sobbing wreck. You would love to continue down the backs of her thighs and see how she reacts to the sharper and more intense sensations, but her minor faults don't warrant that—unless, of course, you decide that her vocal and physical reactions in themselves deserve more intense chastisement.