Spanked my neighbor
The key clinked softly in the lock, a familiar sound I’d grown accustomed to over the past week. Jill’s apartment, typically bustling with her vibrant energy, felt eerily quiet. She’d been gone for a business trip, and I’d agreed to keep up appearances, bringing in her mail and newspaper to deter any unwelcome attention. It was the least I could do for a good neighbor.
I stepped inside, the cool air of her meticulously kept condo a stark contrast to the humid summer outside. My first stop was always the kitchen counter, where I’d stack her mail, then a quick check on the plants. She had an impressive collection of orchids and ferns that needed regular watering, a task I enjoyed, finding a quiet satisfaction in nurturing something so delicate.
As I moved deeper into the apartment, a soft, rhythmic thudding caught my ear. It wasn’t a loud noise, more like a persistent pulse, faintly audible from the living room. My brow furrowed in confusion. Had I left a window open? Was something loose? I crept closer, curiosity overriding my usual discreet movements, and then I heard her voice. Not talking, exactly, but a low, guttural moan, punctuated by gasps.
The sight that greeted me in the living room froze me in place. Jill sat at her computer, her back to me, completely naked. Her body was arched, her head thrown back, a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sounds that still escaped. Her other hand was busy between her legs, moving with an urgent rhythm that corresponded to the thudding I’d heard. On the screen, I could just make out a man’s face, his eyes fixed on her. A chat window was open, scrolling rapidly, and my eyes snagged on a phrase: "…naughty girl, you need a good spanking for that."
My breath hitched. Jill’s back stiffened, and she slowly turned her head, her eyes wide with shock. The moan died in her throat, replaced by a strangled gasp. Her hand fell away from her mouth, then instinctively flew to cover herself, but it was too late. I’d seen it all. The raw desire, the public performance, the specific fantasy she was indulging. Her face, flushed moments before with pleasure, was now a mask of mortification.
“Jill,” I managed, my voice a breathy whisper. “I… I’m so sorry.”
I backed away, stumbling over my own feet, the newspaper I’d been carrying slipping from my grasp. I turned and fled, the sound of her frantic scramble to cover herself echoing behind me. I didn't stop until I was safely inside my own apartment, the door locked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The rest of the day was a blur of replays. The image of her, so exposed, so consumed by her secret desire, burned in my mind. The humiliation in her eyes was palpable, a wound I’d inflicted just by existing. I couldn’t imagine how she felt, how she could ever face me again. For my part, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen, not just the nudity, but the words, the craving for discipline.
Over the next few hours, a strange clarity began to settle in. Jill’s embarrassment was immense, yes, but what if I had stumbled upon a means to not just diffuse it, but to fulfill something she truly yearned for? The casual observer might cringe, but I saw something else. I saw a woman caught in a vulnerable moment, expressing a desire she perhaps never thought would be seen. And in her mortification, there was a hidden plea.
I knew what she needed. Not an apology that would only reinforce her shame, but an acknowledgment, a validation of that deeper urge. I had to take control, not of her, but of the situation, to set things right by giving her the discipline she craved, the very thing she was cyber-chatting about. It was a bold, almost insane thought, but it felt profoundly, instinctively right.
I walked back to her door, my heart still thumping, but this time with a different kind of resolve. I knocked, a firm, deliberate rap. Silence. I knocked again. Finally, the door creaked open, just a sliver. Jill's eye peered out, red-rimmed and wary.
“Go away, Pat,” her voice was barely a whisper.
My voice, however, was steady. “Jill, I know what you need.”
Her breath hitched. She didn't respond, just stared at me, her eye wide.
“And you’re going to get it,” I continued, my gaze unwavering. “Are you going to submit, or not?”
A long, agonizing moment passed. I could see the battle in her eyes—humiliation warring with something deeper, a spark of recognition, perhaps even a flicker of relief. Then, slowly, the door opened wider. Her shoulders slumped, and she met my gaze, a fragile defiance gone.
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “Give me what I deserve.”
I stepped inside. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but also with a strange, burgeoning understanding. I looked at her, then motioned towards her overstuffed armchair, pointing to the armrest. She understood. Her hands went to the waistband of her track pants, fumbling slightly before she pushed them down, followed by her panties. She folded them neatly on the floor beside her.
She turned, bending over the arm of the sofa, presenting herself. Her back was surprisingly graceful, her bottom firm and pale. I took a deep breath, raising my hand. The first crack felt sharp, a clear smack that echoed in the quiet room. Jill gasped, her body jolting against the sofa arm. I heard a muffled whimper, but she held firm.
I continued, each strike landing with a sting that resonated through the room. I wasn't just hitting her; I was delivering precisely what she'd asked for, what she’d craved in her secret digital world. Her skin quickly bloomed crimson under my palm. She began to squirm, twisting against the plush fabric, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Each movement was a silent plea, an offering of more.
The rhythm intensified, and her squirming grew more frantic. A low, keening moan escaped her lips, no longer one of shame, but of pure, unadulterated sensation. She pushed back against my hand with her backside, urging me on, her fingers digging into the sofa cushion. The sounds she made grew louder, more guttural, building with a raw urgency I recognized.
Then, with a final, desperate cry, her body convulsed. She arched violently against the sofa, a long, drawn-out moan escaping her lips as her orgasm ripped through her. Her body trembled uncontrollably, clinging to the last vestiges of pleasure.
She slowly sagged back, breathless, her head still buried in the cushion. After a moment, she lifted her face, her eyes still swimming, but now filled with a startling clarity and a profound gratitude. A faint flush remained on her cheeks, but the embarrassment was gone, replaced by a radiant satisfaction.
“Thank you, Pat,” she whispered, her voice rough with emotion. “Oh, thank you. You… you knew.” She reached back, her hand finding mine. “Whenever you think I need it,” she said, her grip firm, her eyes locking onto mine, “give me what I need.”
A comfortable silence settled between us, not heavy or awkward, but light, as if a great weight had been lifted. The air in her apartment no longer felt tense or violated, but charged with a new, shared understanding. We both knew then that everything was precisely as it should be. Her parting words were you will be back won't you.
I stepped inside, the cool air of her meticulously kept condo a stark contrast to the humid summer outside. My first stop was always the kitchen counter, where I’d stack her mail, then a quick check on the plants. She had an impressive collection of orchids and ferns that needed regular watering, a task I enjoyed, finding a quiet satisfaction in nurturing something so delicate.
As I moved deeper into the apartment, a soft, rhythmic thudding caught my ear. It wasn’t a loud noise, more like a persistent pulse, faintly audible from the living room. My brow furrowed in confusion. Had I left a window open? Was something loose? I crept closer, curiosity overriding my usual discreet movements, and then I heard her voice. Not talking, exactly, but a low, guttural moan, punctuated by gasps.
The sight that greeted me in the living room froze me in place. Jill sat at her computer, her back to me, completely naked. Her body was arched, her head thrown back, a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sounds that still escaped. Her other hand was busy between her legs, moving with an urgent rhythm that corresponded to the thudding I’d heard. On the screen, I could just make out a man’s face, his eyes fixed on her. A chat window was open, scrolling rapidly, and my eyes snagged on a phrase: "…naughty girl, you need a good spanking for that."
My breath hitched. Jill’s back stiffened, and she slowly turned her head, her eyes wide with shock. The moan died in her throat, replaced by a strangled gasp. Her hand fell away from her mouth, then instinctively flew to cover herself, but it was too late. I’d seen it all. The raw desire, the public performance, the specific fantasy she was indulging. Her face, flushed moments before with pleasure, was now a mask of mortification.
“Jill,” I managed, my voice a breathy whisper. “I… I’m so sorry.”
I backed away, stumbling over my own feet, the newspaper I’d been carrying slipping from my grasp. I turned and fled, the sound of her frantic scramble to cover herself echoing behind me. I didn't stop until I was safely inside my own apartment, the door locked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The rest of the day was a blur of replays. The image of her, so exposed, so consumed by her secret desire, burned in my mind. The humiliation in her eyes was palpable, a wound I’d inflicted just by existing. I couldn’t imagine how she felt, how she could ever face me again. For my part, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen, not just the nudity, but the words, the craving for discipline.
Over the next few hours, a strange clarity began to settle in. Jill’s embarrassment was immense, yes, but what if I had stumbled upon a means to not just diffuse it, but to fulfill something she truly yearned for? The casual observer might cringe, but I saw something else. I saw a woman caught in a vulnerable moment, expressing a desire she perhaps never thought would be seen. And in her mortification, there was a hidden plea.
I knew what she needed. Not an apology that would only reinforce her shame, but an acknowledgment, a validation of that deeper urge. I had to take control, not of her, but of the situation, to set things right by giving her the discipline she craved, the very thing she was cyber-chatting about. It was a bold, almost insane thought, but it felt profoundly, instinctively right.
I walked back to her door, my heart still thumping, but this time with a different kind of resolve. I knocked, a firm, deliberate rap. Silence. I knocked again. Finally, the door creaked open, just a sliver. Jill's eye peered out, red-rimmed and wary.
“Go away, Pat,” her voice was barely a whisper.
My voice, however, was steady. “Jill, I know what you need.”
Her breath hitched. She didn't respond, just stared at me, her eye wide.
“And you’re going to get it,” I continued, my gaze unwavering. “Are you going to submit, or not?”
A long, agonizing moment passed. I could see the battle in her eyes—humiliation warring with something deeper, a spark of recognition, perhaps even a flicker of relief. Then, slowly, the door opened wider. Her shoulders slumped, and she met my gaze, a fragile defiance gone.
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “Give me what I deserve.”
I stepped inside. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but also with a strange, burgeoning understanding. I looked at her, then motioned towards her overstuffed armchair, pointing to the armrest. She understood. Her hands went to the waistband of her track pants, fumbling slightly before she pushed them down, followed by her panties. She folded them neatly on the floor beside her.
She turned, bending over the arm of the sofa, presenting herself. Her back was surprisingly graceful, her bottom firm and pale. I took a deep breath, raising my hand. The first crack felt sharp, a clear smack that echoed in the quiet room. Jill gasped, her body jolting against the sofa arm. I heard a muffled whimper, but she held firm.
I continued, each strike landing with a sting that resonated through the room. I wasn't just hitting her; I was delivering precisely what she'd asked for, what she’d craved in her secret digital world. Her skin quickly bloomed crimson under my palm. She began to squirm, twisting against the plush fabric, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Each movement was a silent plea, an offering of more.
The rhythm intensified, and her squirming grew more frantic. A low, keening moan escaped her lips, no longer one of shame, but of pure, unadulterated sensation. She pushed back against my hand with her backside, urging me on, her fingers digging into the sofa cushion. The sounds she made grew louder, more guttural, building with a raw urgency I recognized.
Then, with a final, desperate cry, her body convulsed. She arched violently against the sofa, a long, drawn-out moan escaping her lips as her orgasm ripped through her. Her body trembled uncontrollably, clinging to the last vestiges of pleasure.
She slowly sagged back, breathless, her head still buried in the cushion. After a moment, she lifted her face, her eyes still swimming, but now filled with a startling clarity and a profound gratitude. A faint flush remained on her cheeks, but the embarrassment was gone, replaced by a radiant satisfaction.
“Thank you, Pat,” she whispered, her voice rough with emotion. “Oh, thank you. You… you knew.” She reached back, her hand finding mine. “Whenever you think I need it,” she said, her grip firm, her eyes locking onto mine, “give me what I need.”
A comfortable silence settled between us, not heavy or awkward, but light, as if a great weight had been lifted. The air in her apartment no longer felt tense or violated, but charged with a new, shared understanding. We both knew then that everything was precisely as it should be. Her parting words were you will be back won't you.
36-40, M
