Pushing to Hard

Pushing to Hard

Chapter 5 - “Teacher Spanking”

Story by Lisa

Inspired by George

The phone feels heavy in my hand, my thumb hovering over his name in my contacts. Daily check-ins. He’d been so clear. Every evening at seven. For weeks, I’d been good. My thesis draft was submitted, the defense scheduled. But the meticulous study plan? The regular meals, the mandated sleep? That had… slipped.

The hollow ache in my stomach isn’t just from hunger. It’s from shame. My ankle throbs, a dull, insistent pulse beneath the ice pack. I’d been in the garage, organizing data printouts at two AM, dizzy from no food and less sleep. My foot had just… turned. A stupid, clumsy fall.

The phone rings only once before he answers. “Lisa. You’re fourteen minutes late.”

His voice is a cold splash of water. I swallow. “I know. I’m sorry.”

A pause. “Report.”

“I… I finished the revisions for chapter four. I sent them to my advisor this afternoon.”

“And the rest? Your well-being was a condition of our arrangement.”

The words stick in my throat. “I… I might have skipped lunch. And dinner yesterday. And I was up late, I just wanted to—”

“Lisa.”

That single word, sharp as a blade, cuts me off. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I got wobbly. In the garage. I hurt my ankle.”

The silence on the other end is absolute, and somehow more terrifying than any shout. I can picture his face, the way his analytical eyes narrow, processing my failure.

“I’m coming over. Do not move from where you are.”

“Mr. Thorne, it’s fine, really, I just need to—”

“I will be there in twenty minutes. Be ready.”

The line goes dead.

The twenty minutes are an eternity of trembling dread. When the firm knock comes, I hobble to the door, my heart pounding against my ribs. I open it, and he fills the doorway, tall and imposing in a dark sweater. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my rumpled clothes, my pallor, the careful way I’m favoring my right foot.

He steps inside without a word, closing the door with a soft, final click. “Show me.”

I gesture lamely to the sofa where I was sitting. He guides me back to it, his hands firm on my shoulders. He kneels in front of me, his movements precise, and takes my foot in his hands. His touch is clinical, probing the swelling around my ankle. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with pain.

“It’s not broken. A mild sprain,” he announces, his voice flat. “But this is not the issue, is it? Look at you.” His eyes lift to mine, and they are like dark flint. “When did you last eat?”

I look away. “This morning. A piece of toast.”

“And sleep?”

“I… I napped on the couch earlier.”

“You are lying to me. Your eyes are hollow. Your hands are shaking.” He stands, looming over me. “We had rules. Rules for your health, for your success. You have broken them. Deliberately.”

“I was just trying to push through,” I whisper, the excuse sounding pathetic even to me.

“Stand up.”

The command brooks no argument. I push myself up, wincing as weight settles on my tender ankle. He points to the clear space in the center of the living room rug, the same spot as before. A familiar pit opens in my stomach.

“You know the consequence of dishonesty. Of neglect.” His voice is low, deadly calm. “Strip. From the waist down. Everything.”

My breath hitches. “Please… my ankle…”

“Your ankle is a symptom. Your disobedience is the disease. This is the treatment. Now.”

His stare is a physical force, just like last time. It pins me in place, stripping me bare with its intensity. My fingers fumble at the button of my jeans. The sound of the zipper is obscenely loud. I push them down, along with my panties, stepping out of the pooled fabric. The air is cool on my exposed skin, making me tremble. I stand there, in just my t-shirt, feeling utterly, devastatingly vulnerable.

“Good,” he says, a note of grim approval in his tone. “Now, bend over the arm of the sofa. Present yourself.”

Tears blur my vision as I hobble forward, leaning over the padded arm. The position arches my back, thrusting my bare bottom into the open air. The humiliation is a hot flush that spreads across my chest and up my neck. I feel the hem of my shirt ride up, leaving me completely exposed from behind.

I hear him move closer. Then, the first contact isn’t wood. It’s the broad, warm plane of his hand.

Smack.

It lands with a solid, stinging crack on my right cheek. The shock of it—the intimacy, the sheer sound of skin on skin—makes me gasp.

Smack.

The left cheek now, the pain blooming sharp and bright. His hand is heavy, his spanks methodical and unwavering. They aren’t frantic; they are deliberate, covering every inch of my backside. The sting builds quickly, a surface heat that sharpens with each impact. I bite my lip, trying to stay silent, but a whimper escapes.

“You will not neglect your basic needs,” he says, his voice even as his hand falls again. Smack. “You will not lie to me.” Smack. “Your body is your instrument. You will treat it with respect.” Smack. Smack.

The spanking continues, his palm painting a deep, throbbing pink across my skin. The pain is a live wire, connecting my mortified brain directly to the burning flesh of my bottom. I’m panting now, my fingers clawing at the sofa fabric.

He pauses. I hear a drawer open in my kitchen. My blood runs cold.

He returns. I don’t have to look to know what he’s holding. The wooden spoon.

The first strike is a different universe of pain.

Thwack.

It’s a thin, biting, concentrated line of fire that cuts through the generalized ache. I cry out, my body jerking.

“Count them,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for protest.

Thwack.

“One!” I sob.

Thwack.

“Two!”

The spoon is relentless. It finds every tender spot, layering a fierce, smarting heat over the deep burn from his hand. Each stroke is a punctuation mark to my failure. Three. Four. Five. I lose count in a haze of pain and shame, babbling promises I don’t even fully form. My world shrinks to the rhythmic thwack, the searing stripes, the feel of my own hot tears on the sofa cushion.

He lands a final, brutal volley on the crease where my bottom meets my thighs, the most sensitive spot of all. I scream, my body convulsing over the arm of the sofa, my sore bottom a single, blazing constellation of agony.

He stops. The silence is broken only by my ragged weeping. I feel the cool wood of the spoon rest lightly on my ravaged skin, a cruel contrast.

After a long moment, he speaks. “Up. Straighten your shirt.”

I push myself up, my movements shaky and slow. The air feels like sandpaper on my throbbing backside.

He points down the hall. “To your bedroom. Now. You are going to sleep.”

“But I—”

“Now, Lisa.”

The tone is final. It’s the voice that sends children to their rooms. A fresh wave of shame crashes over me, deeper than the nudity, sharper than the spoon. I feel about five years old—punished, put in my place, and dismissed. I shuffle past him, not daring to look at his face, my nakedness from the waist down feeling more infantilizing than erotic.

I reach my bed and stand beside it, unsure.

“Get in,” he says from the doorway. “On your stomach.”

I crawl onto the cool sheets, the pressure on my burning bottom making me hiss. I bury my face in the pillow, the scent of my own shampoo and tears filling my nose. I hear him move around the room. The curtains are drawn, plunging the room into soft gloom. The door clicks shut.

I lie there, aching, humiliated, and perversely… cared for. The throbbing in my backside is a brutal, undeniable reminder of his control. A control I craved, and just spectacularly failed. I listen, but hear nothing. Is he still in the apartment? The uncertainty is its own torture. I am a naughty child, sent to bed without supper, waiting to hear if the grown-up is still angry.