No excuses left - Strap and bath brush Spanking, Real Discipline

Sofia_xx
Jul 24
4 min read

The second I heard the keys hit the counter, I knew I’d pushed too far. I didn’t even have to look up—I could feel it in the quiet. It wasn’t angry. Not rushed. Just… decisive. I stayed curled on the couch, pretending to watch something, phone in hand, legs tucked under me like I hadn’t just spent the entire day ignoring every single thing I said I’d do.

He didn’t speak. Just walked past me toward the bedroom. A minute later, I heard the closet open. That slow metal slide. The shifting of something heavy. My stomach dropped. He came back out holding the strap.

Thick leather. Folded in half. Hanging loose from one hand with the kind of silence that says everything.

I sat up immediately, panic crawling up my spine. “Wait—can we talk about this?”

He gave me a look. One glance. Not cruel, not harsh—just pure, unflinching authority.

“No,” he said. “We talked already. When I gave you chances. When I reminded you. When I asked—twice—what your plan was. You said you’d take responsibility. Now you’re going to.”

My mouth opened but nothing came out. He was right. The chores I blew off. The sharp comment I snapped this morning. The petty lies. I’d chipped away at every agreement we’d made over the past week, and now there were no more warnings left to burn.

“Up,” he said. “Now.”

I stood on shaky legs, heart thudding in my chest. He pointed to the edge of the kitchen table. My stomach flipped. I hated that spot. It was wide, solid, and directly under the light—too open, too exposed. I hated it because it made me feel like a child being punished. Which, in this moment, I was.

I walked over slowly, painfully aware of every step, every shift of my bare legs under my skirt. I paused at the edge.

“Skirt up.”

My fingers trembled as I obeyed, pulling the hem up and over my hips, revealing plain cotton panties underneath—nothing cute, nothing protective. Just thin, useless fabric.

He stood behind me now. Close. Quiet. I heard the strap flex in his hand, leather groaning gently. My breath hitched.

“Panties down.”

I froze. “Please…”

“Now.”

The command was calm. Absolute. I slid them down, inch by inch, until they rested just below my knees. The air hit my skin. I blushed, hard, not from modesty—but from shame.

“Bend over. Elbows flat.”

I obeyed, chest against the table, arms stretched in front of me. My bare bottom stuck out, fully exposed, already tight with nerves. The position made me feel helpless. Small. Humiliated. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just let the silence stretch.

“You will stay in place,” he said. “No squirming. No arguing. No counting. Just correction.”

The first stroke of the strap landed wide across both cheeks, loud and deep, drawing a gasp from my throat. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t meant to tease. It was meant to hurt—and it did. The sting bloomed instantly, sharp-edged and heavy.

He didn’t rush. Each stroke came with purpose. Measured. Each one slightly lower than the last, painting my backside with heat. I bit my lip, gripping the edge of the table tighter, legs twitching but refusing to move.

“This,” he said between strokes, “is for the laziness.”

CRACK.

“This is for the lying.”

CRACK.

“And this—this is for the way you rolled your eyes when I reminded you.”

CRACK.

By the tenth stroke, my legs were shaking. By the fifteenth, tears blurred my vision. Not loud sobbing—just quiet, ashamed tears that burned more than the strap ever could. When he stopped, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But then I heard it—the soft click of the bedroom drawer opening again. A pause. The creak of wood as he pulled out the chair. I turned my head slightly. He was holding the bath brush. The big one.

Smooth. Wooden. Unforgiving.

“Sit,” he said. “We’re not done.”

“I can’t,” I whimpered. “Please—”

“You can. And you will.”

I shuffled slowly over, panties still tangled around my legs, skirt bunched at my waist, bottom throbbing. He sat down. I stood in front of him, hesitant, avoiding his gaze.

“Over.”

He guided me over his lap, pulling me into place with practiced ease. His left arm wrapped firmly around my waist. The brush tapped lightly against my sore skin.

“You’re not getting up until I believe you understand.”

The first swat with the brush landed sharp and fast. I let out a muffled cry, burying my face in my arm. He didn’t stop. The swats came in steady, even bursts, alternating sides, building heat over the strap marks until I was breathless again.

“Why are you being punished?”

“Because I didn’t do what I said I would,” I choked.

CRACK.

“And?”

“Because I lied. And disrespected you. And ignored rules I agreed to.”

CRACK.

“And what happens when you act like that?”

“I get punished, Sir.”

The last ten were harder. Slower. With long pauses between, so I could feel each one land and settle deep. I was crying by the end, body limp, bottom on fire, throat tight with regret. When it finally stopped, he rubbed my back. Not tender, but grounding. He let me breathe. Then helped me up—but didn’t let me pull up my panties.

“No,” he said. “Go stand in the corner. Shirt up. Hands behind you.”

I shuffled to the corner, completely bare from the waist down, skin still glowing hot, humiliated beyond belief—and yet… calmer than I’d been all week. I pressed my nose to the wall, lifted my shirt, and locked my hands behind me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I stayed still. I needed to feel this. Not just the sting. The lesson.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more.

When he finally called me back, I walked over, eyes low.

“Any more excuses?”

“No, Sir.”

“Are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now pull your panties up, and go finish the list you promised you'd handle days ago.”

“Yes, Sir…”

And I did. Silently. Gratefully.

Because I had no excuses left.