Domestic Discipline: a well-deserved Living Room Spanking

Sofia_xx
Sep 23
4 min read

The basket of laundry sat untouched at the end of the hallway. He had reminded me about it earlier in the evening, before dinner, before the dishes, before the movie I now had playing in the living room. I told him I’d do it. I meant to. But the couch was comfortable, the lights were low, and I thought I could get away with letting it wait until tomorrow.

When he walked in and saw me curled up with the remote in hand, his expression told me instantly that I had been wrong. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He stood still for a moment, looking at the glowing TV and then at me.

“Pause it,” he said.

The click of the remote sounded louder than it should have. The room was suddenly too quiet, the weight of his gaze pressing down harder than any lecture.

“You had a task,” he said slowly, deliberately. “It’s still sitting there, exactly where I told you not to leave it. You decided to ignore me.”

I shifted uneasily on the couch, heat rising in my face. “I was going to get to it…”

He shook his head once, calm but certain. “Not anymore. You’ll get to discipline first.”

He crossed the room and pulled one of the straight-backed chairs into the center of the living room, placing it directly in front of the still screen. The chair scraped loudly across the floor. He sat down, and I saw the paddle in his hand—solid wood, smooth and unforgiving, something I’d felt before and knew well.

“Come here,” he said, patting his thigh.

My stomach dropped. “Here? In the living room?”

“Yes. Right here. Now.”

I stood slowly, each step heavy with dread. He waited, patient, until I was standing beside him. My legs felt weak as I bent forward, lowering myself over his lap. My hands touched the rug, my hair falling forward, the blood already rushing hot to my face.

His left arm settled firmly across my lower back, holding me in place. The paddle rested against my bottom, a cold warning before the real correction began.

“You don’t ignore me. You don’t ignore what’s expected. And you certainly don’t decide your own priorities when I’ve already set them.”

The first swat cracked down without further warning. I gasped, my body jolting at the sting. The second followed, then the third, each one loud in the quiet room, each one burning hotter than the last. The paddle landed with a steady rhythm, sharp and punishing, until my backside throbbed under the relentless swats.

I tried to hold still, but the sting was too much. My legs kicked once, my hips shifted helplessly, but his arm pressed me down firmly.

“Keep still,” he warned, delivering two harder swats that made me gasp. “You’re not here to wriggle away. You’re here to learn.”

The paddle smacked down again and again, until my bottom burned deep, the heat spreading across every inch. When he finally paused, I thought it might be over. Instead, his fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts.

My breath caught. “Please—don’t.”

“This is correction,” he said, calm and immovable. “Not negotiation.”

He tugged them down to my thighs, baring me completely. The next swat landed bare, sharper and hotter, making me cry out despite myself. The sting doubled, and with each crack of the paddle, the humiliation sank deeper. The television screen reflected the scene faintly, and the thought of what it must look like made my cheeks burn almost as much as my backside.

“Count the last fifteen,” he ordered.

I swallowed hard, my voice trembling. “One.”

The paddle smacked down again. “Two.”

By seven, my eyes stung with tears. By twelve, my voice cracked with the effort of keeping steady. At fifteen, I was breathless, my bottom blazing, the lesson written in every strike.

He set the paddle on the coffee table with quiet finality, then guided me up to my feet. My shorts were still tangled at my thighs, my face crimson, my whole body trembling from the sting and shame.

“Corner. Over there.”

He pointed to the far wall beside the window. My legs felt unsteady as I shuffled over, pulling my shorts only to my knees. He instructed me to lift my shirt and hold it up so that my punished bottom was left bare. I pressed my nose to the wall, hands behind my back, heat radiating outward.

The blinds were thin. If anyone outside walked past, they would see enough to know. That knowledge burned worse than the paddle itself. I shifted from foot to foot, the sting unrelenting, every second a reminder of why I was there.

Ten minutes stretched like an hour. The movie continued to play behind me, the faint sound of dialogue almost mocking, as if the world had carried on while I stood shamed and sore.

When he finally called me back, his voice was calm, as though the discipline had been nothing more than routine. “Pull your shorts up. Come here.”

I obeyed, my face still hot, tugging the fabric carefully into place.

He stood tall, arms crossed, eyes steady. “What’s the rule?”

“When you give me a task, I do it right away,” I whispered.

“And if you don’t?”

“I get the paddle.”

His nod was slight but certain. “Good. Now finish the laundry. Every last piece.”

I folded clothes in silence for the rest of the night, the sting still alive across my bottom. Every shift, every bend, every crease reminded me that the movie hadn’t been worth it, and that the lesson wasn’t just in pain, but in humility.