OTK Spanking in the Dorm Room

Sofia_xx
Sep 2
4 min read

Curfew was never something I took seriously. Everyone bent it, everyone stretched the rules. Eleven o’clock meant eleven-ish. At least, that’s what I told myself when I slipped out for coffee with a friend, promising I’d be back in no more than fifteen minutes.

By the time I crept back into the dorm, the clock above the entrance glowed 11:32. My stomach tightened. The hallways were quiet, most of the rooms already dark, but one light was still on—the one in the common area. And he was there, waiting.

“You’re late.”

His tone wasn’t raised, but it was enough to make my pulse quicken. Arms crossed, expression calm, he didn’t look surprised. He’d been expecting me.

“I lost track of time,” I said quickly, dropping my bag by the couch. “It wasn’t that late.”

“Half an hour is not a slip,” he said firmly. “You knew the rule. Eleven means eleven.”

“I didn’t think it was that strict,” I muttered.

His eyebrows lifted just slightly. “You didn’t think. And now you’ll be reminded why it matters.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he pulled the old lounge chair out from the corner, placed it squarely in the middle of the common room, and sat down. His hand patted his thigh once, deliberate and unhurried.

“Over my knee.”

My breath caught. “Wait—you’re serious? Here?”

“Yes. Here. Now.” His tone was calm, absolute.

The humiliation was instant. The dorm wasn’t empty—people could pass by at any moment. But his gaze told me there was no arguing. My legs felt like lead as I stepped forward, then slowly lowered myself across his lap. The chair was low; my hands touched the carpet, my toes barely brushing the floor, my body tipped forward at an angle that left me completely vulnerable.

His left arm came across my back, holding me steady. “This is discipline,” he said evenly. “It isn’t fun. It isn’t negotiable. And you’ll remember it the next time you think rules are suggestions.” The first spank landed with a sharp crack that echoed in the small room. I gasped, the sting immediate, sharper than I expected. A second followed, then a third, each one landing square across my bottom, building heat with a steady rhythm.

“You were told the standard,” he said, punctuating his words with swats. “You ignored it. And now you’re learning why that doesn’t happen again.”

I kicked slightly, more from shock than resistance, but his arm across my back kept me in place. The spanking continued, hard and unrelenting, until my skin burned under the steady assault.

Then, without warning, he reached for the waistband of my pajama shorts and tugged them down to my thighs.

“No—please—” I whispered, mortified.

“No,” he said simply. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about correction.”

The next swat landed bare, and I couldn’t help the yelp that escaped my throat. The sting was hotter, sharper, searing into already sensitive skin. He didn’t pause. His hand fell again and again, firm and measured, covering every inch until I squirmed helplessly across his lap.

“Keep your voice down,” he warned, his palm finding the lower curves of my backside where the sting lingered longest. “You don’t want the others to know exactly what’s happening in here, do you?”

The threat made my face burn hotter than my skin. I buried my face in my hands, biting my lip to keep quiet as the spanking went on.

Finally, he stopped. I thought it was over—until his hand disappeared briefly, and I heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping against wood. He had opened the desk drawer.

When I turned my head, my heart dropped. In his hand was a sturdy wooden hairbrush, simple but solid, the kind that had no business in discipline but was perfect for it nonetheless.

“This,” he said, tapping it against his palm, “is to make sure you don’t forget.”

“No, please—”

But the first crack of the hairbrush silenced me. The sting was blinding, sharper than his hand, sinking deep with each strike. He placed them with precision, covering the tender areas already blazing red.

“Count the last ten,” he ordered.

My voice shook. “One.” Crack. “Two.” Crack. By five, I could barely speak. By eight, my legs trembled. By ten, I wasn’t thinking about coffee or curfew anymore—I was thinking about the fire in my backside and the humiliating certainty that I’d earned it.

When it finally stopped, he set the hairbrush on the table with quiet finality. His arm guided me up to my feet, my shorts still tangled around my thighs, my face flushed crimson.

“Corner,” he said simply, pointing to the wall.

I shuffled over, pulled my shorts only to my knees, and stood with my nose nearly against the plaster, bottom still bare, the heat radiating outwards. Every second was agony, not just from the sting but from the shame. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see.

Minutes stretched like hours before he finally spoke again. “Pull yourself together.”

I tugged my shorts back up, adjusted my shirt, and turned, my face burning.

“What’s the rule?” he asked.

“Eleven means eleven,” I whispered.

“And what happens when you break it?”

I swallowed hard. “I get corrected.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

He pointed to the couch. “Now sit. You’ll stay here for the next half hour and think about it.”

The sting of lowering myself onto the cushion was worse than the spanking itself. I bit my lip, wincing, the fire across my bottom ensuring the lesson wouldn’t fade.

And for the first time, I realized curfew wasn’t a suggestion at all.