The Library Supervisor’s Lesson: OTK Spanking with forced Display

Sofia_xx
Aug 26
6 min read

I thought it would just be a warning. Maybe a sharp look, maybe a whispered “quiet” and nothing more. That was how discipline worked in a library—everything was kept low, discreet, respectful. Or so I believed. But when I snapped at the student across the aisle for tapping his pen, my voice carried farther than I meant it to. People looked up. Heads turned. And the library supervisor’s eyes found mine from across the reading room.

It wasn’t anger in his gaze. It was something worse—steady, quiet, absolute. The kind of look that doesn’t make a scene, but promises one later. My stomach twisted as he closed his laptop, rose from his chair, and nodded toward the restricted study rooms.

I followed without a word, pulse racing. The sound of our footsteps felt too loud on the old parquet floor. He didn’t speak until we reached a narrow, glass-panelled room tucked into the back of the stacks. He unlocked it with his staff key, let me in, and shut the door behind us.

“Do you remember what I told you last week about handling distractions?” he asked, voice low but firm.

“Yes, Sir.” The automatic response slipped out before I could stop it.

“And what did you do instead?”

“I… raised my voice.”

“You snapped. Loudly. In a reading room.” He stepped closer. “That is not acceptable.”

I shifted on my feet, staring at the long oak table that filled most of the little room. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut me off. “You don’t get to excuse it. You get corrected for it.” He pulled a straight-backed chair away from the table and sat. “Over my knee.”

I froze. “What? Here?”

“Yes. Here. Now.”

My throat went dry. This wasn’t a personal matter. This was the library supervisor, the authority of the building itself, about to punish me. The walls were thin, and the silence outside absolute. Anyone passing by could hear everything.

But his patience had limits. “You disrupted others. You’ll be disciplined where the lesson sticks. Over.”

I stepped forward reluctantly, the silence between us louder than any scolding. I eased myself over his lap, palms meeting the smooth wood floor, toes pointed just enough to keep balance. His hand pressed lightly against my back, steadying me, holding me.

“This is not for show,” he said, lifting my skirt with clinical ease. “This is for your discipline.”

Then the first swat landed.

The sound echoed off the narrow walls, sharp and unmistakable. I stiffened, my breath catching. He didn’t pause. A second followed, then a third, each one measured, solid, and hot against my thin underwear.

“You will not raise your voice in the library,” he said, punctuating each phrase with another swat.

The sting grew quickly, biting through the thin cotton until my hips twitched involuntarily. I clenched the chair leg for balance, cheeks heating both from the punishment and the humiliation of knowing how close the nearest study table was. If anyone sat there, they’d hear every strike.

He paused only to tug my panties down to mid-thigh. “Proper correction isn’t given through fabric.”

“Please—”

“No negotiating.” His tone was calm, final. “You’ll learn what happens when you break the standard.”

The next spank landed bare, and I gasped aloud, the sound carrying far too easily. My hand flew to my mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” he reminded me, delivering another swat, harder this time. “If anyone hears, that embarrassment belongs to you.”

The spanking continued, steady, deliberate, methodical. He worked evenly across both cheeks, sometimes low where it lingered most, sometimes high to spread the sting. My skin burned, each swat layering heat upon heat until my breathing grew ragged. I wasn’t crying, but my face flushed hot enough to match my bottom.

After what felt like forever, he paused. I dared to hope it was over. Then I heard the scrape of wood on wood. He had reached into the desk drawer. When I turned my head, my stomach dropped.

In his hand was a thin, flat library ruler—the kind used to check bindings. Transparent, slightly flexible, deceptively light.

“This will remind you more sharply.”

I swallowed hard, gripping the floor.

The first crack of the ruler bit into the tender skin already burning from his hand. It was sharper, meaner, and I jerked in surprise. He held me firmly and continued, each strike precise, quick, and merciless.

“Count the last ten,” he ordered.

My voice shook. “One…”

The ruler cracked down again. “Two.”

By six, my bottom felt seared, and I shifted helplessly in his grip. By eight, my voice cracked with the effort of keeping it low. At ten, my eyes stung—not just from the pain, but from the humiliation of saying it aloud, baring myself like this, corrected like a child in a place meant for quiet learning.

He set the ruler down, guided me up, and pointed to the corner. “Skirt stays up. Panties stay down. Hands behind your back. Ten minutes.”

I shuffled into position, facing the bare plaster wall, heart hammering. The corner felt colder than it should have. The silence pressed in harder than the spanking itself. From the hallway, faint footsteps passed, a door creaked, and every sound reminded me that discovery was a single bad stroke of luck away. My bottom throbbed with every breath, exposed, on display even if no one could see it.

The minutes dragged. I imagined the heat in my skin glowing like a beacon, announcing my shame. My face burned hotter than the welts, knowing that at any moment the door could open and I would be caught like this.

When the timer on his phone finally beeped, he spoke. “Pull yourself together. Then repeat the rule.”

I turned slowly, pulled my panties up with trembling hands, lowered my skirt, and faced him. “No raising my voice in the library. Respect, always. Even when I’m frustrated.”

“Good.” He nodded once. “Next time you forget, the door stays open while you’re corrected. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I thought it was over. I really did. But just as I reached for the door, it swung open from the other side.

Another staff member—a senior librarian—stepped into the narrow room. His eyes went straight to me, then flicked to the supervisor. The silence felt like it swallowed the air.

My face flamed hotter than my bottom. The supervisor didn’t flinch.

“She was corrected,” he said simply, as though explaining a shelf misfile. “She needed it.”

The senior librarian’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t leave. He lingered in the doorway, gaze cool and assessing.

The supervisor gestured toward me. “She was disrespectful in the reading room. This was deserved. And it will do her good for someone else to see she’s held accountable.”

My stomach twisted. My knees nearly buckled. Being spanked was bad enough. Corner time was worse. But standing there, knowing someone else knew exactly what had just happened? That humiliation cut deeper than the sting ever could.

“She knows the standard now,” the supervisor continued. “And she’ll remember it. But you should see the proof for yourself.”

My heart stopped. “Please, no—”

“Skirt up,” he ordered firmly.

I hesitated, trembling, but his steady gaze left no choice. Slowly, I gathered the fabric of my skirt and lifted it to my waist.

“Panties down.”

Tears burned my eyes as I lowered them back to mid-thigh. My bottom, still hot and welted, was bared completely.

"Bent over, show that you've been punished,"

I followed his commands. I've never felt such embarrassment in my life.

“She needed this,” the supervisor said, his tone calm as if reciting policy. “And now she knows the price of breaking rules.” He slapped my ass soft, as a quick reminder of what I just went through.

The senior librarian’s eyes lingered, cool but sharp, taking in the marks, the redness, the undeniable proof. The humiliation made me shake, exposed in the quiet room, displayed like a lesson.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “She’ll think twice.”

“She will,” the supervisor replied. “And if not, the next correction will be longer—with the door left open.”

At last, he gestured for me to lower my skirt. I pulled my panties back up and stood straight. My hands shook as I obeyed, tugging the panties back up and smoothing the fabric over trembling legs.

The senior librarian stepped away, leaving the door slightly ajar as if to underline the point. The supervisor didn’t close it.

“This,” he said in a voice only I could hear, “is what happens when you test the rules.”

I nodded quickly, too mortified to do anything else. The humiliation was complete—my first library correction wasn’t just private anymore. It was witnessed. Confirmed. Displayed.

And that memory would haunt me far longer than the sting.