A story based on three people I know and maybe you do to? 

They reside on X and are the most lovely of  people. I know they would love to hear your comments on what is a fairly regular occurance in their household. I hope you enjoy.

Tale of Cheek and Consequences

Mike, Bea, and Sophie shared a creaky Victorian house on the edge of a quiet English town. Mike, a stern 45-year-old accountant, ruled the household with a firm hand. His wife, Bea, 42, was a sophisticated woman with a mischievous streak, her elegant demeanor hiding a playful side. Sophie, their 23-year-old surrogate niece, lived with them while studying at university. Her wavy brown hair and cheeky grin brought youthful mischief to the house, often testing Mike’s rules and Bea’s patience.

It was a sunny Saturday morning, the kitchen smelling of coffee and toast. Sophie, in a loose skirt and t-shirt, was teasing Bea, who was trying to read the newspaper, glasses perched on her nose. Sophie flicked toast crusts at Bea, giggling as one landed in her perfectly styled hair. “Sophie, darling, you’re pushing it,” Bea warned, her tone light but sharp, a smile twitching. Sophie, undeterred, mimicked Bea’s posh accent, “Oh, darling, do behave,” and flicked another crumb onto Bea’s nose. Mike, polishing his glasses at the table, raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, his stern look a warning Sophie ignored.

The teasing peaked when Sophie “accidentally” spilled orange juice on Bea’s newspaper, grinning cheekily. Bea’s patience snapped. She stood, chair scraping, and fixed Sophie with a half-amused, half-exasperated stare. “Right, young lady. My bedroom. Now.” Sophie’s grin wavered, but she sauntered out, winking, thinking Bea was bluffing.

In Bea’s plush bedroom, with floral curtains and a mahogany dresser, Sophie’s bravado faded. Bea shut the door with a click, picked up a flat, leather-soled slipper, and pointed to the bed. “Over my knee,” she said, sitting, her silk blouse rustling. Sophie hesitated, brown eyes wide, but Bea’s raised eyebrow silenced her. With a dramatic sigh, Sophie draped herself over Bea’s lap, her skirt riding up. Bea folded the skirt up, revealing Sophie’s white knickers, snug over her pert bottom. “You’ve earned this,” Bea said, her tone mock-serious, a smile lurking.

The first *whack* of the slipper cracked across Sophie’s right cheek. She yelped, more from shock than pain, legs kicking. “Ow, Bea!” she protested. The second *smack* hit her left cheek, leaving a pink flush around her knickers. Sophie squirmed, her wavy hair bouncing, but Bea’s hand kept her in place. The slipper fell steadily, each *crack* echoing, alternating cheeks. Sophie’s bottom reddened, the pink deepening to rose. By the tenth *whack*, she was gasping, her cheeky grin gone, hands clutching the bedspread. The slipper’s leather stung fiercely, her knickers offering little protection. Her bottom quivered with each hit, the flesh wobbling slightly. 

Bea delivered twenty firm smacks, pausing to let the sting sink in. Sophie’s grunts turned to whines, then “Ouch, Bea, please!” Her bottom bounced, the redness spreading to her thighs. By thirty smacks, it was glowing red, hot, with faint slipper marks. Sophie’s legs kicked frantically, the sting building to a fiery peak. Bea teased, “No more toast-flicking,” landing a crisp *whack* that made Sophie squeal. 

The door creaked, and Mike poked his head in, smirking at Sophie’s predicament. “Bea, give her a few from me,” he said. “She didn’t clean the dishes last night—kitchen’s a mess.” Sophie, still over Bea’s knee, protested, “Not just me!” but Bea chuckled and delivered six sharp *whacks*, three per cheek, each making Sophie yelp louder, her bottom jiggling, now a deep red. Tears pricked her eyes, her cheekiness chastened. Bea set the slipper down, helped Sophie up, and said, “Behave.” Sophie flopped face-down on the bed, clutching her burning bottom, muttering, “Not fair,” too sore to argue.

Bea left, slipper in hand, and found Mike in the hallway. Sheepishly, she admitted, “Actually, Mike, I left those dishes too. Got distracted.” Mike’s eyes narrowed, a glint of amusement in his stern gaze. “Is that so?” he said, taking the slipper. “Dining room, now.” Bea’s poise faltered, her cheeks flushing. “Mike, it was just a few plates!” she laughed, but he marched her to the dining room, pulled out a chair, and sat, patting his knee.

Bea, in tight beige slacks that fit like a second skin, sighed theatrically but bent over Mike’s lap, hands on the floor. Mike lifted her blouse slightly, the slacks stretched taut over her shapely bottom. The first *crack* of the slipper landed across both cheeks. Bea gasped, her bottom wobbling under the tight fabric. The sting was sharp, the slacks offering no protection. Mike delivered a second *smack*, then a third, each making Bea’s bottom bounce and quiver, the fabric accentuating every jiggle. By the tenth, she was squirming, her poise crumbling into yelps. “Mike, enough!” she protested, but he grunted, “Not yet.”

He continued, twenty, then thirty smacks, alternating cheeks. Bea’s bottom jiggled wildly, the redness glowing through the slacks. Her legs kicked, heels tapping, her “Ows” and “Ouchs” filling the room. By forty smacks, her bottom was a furnace, bouncing with each *pop*, the tight slacks showing every welt. Mike added ten more, each making her bottom wobble dramatically, her protests turning to gasps. He set the slipper down, helped her up, and said, “Do the dishes next time.” Bea, rubbing her blazing bottom, gave a mock glare but smiled sheepishly, her face matching her backside’s glow.

Meanwhile, Sophie, her bottom still throbbing, crept to her bedroom door, cracking it open. Hearing Bea’s yelps and the *smack* of the slipper, she stifled a giggle, her cheeky grin returning. The irony of Bea’s punishment for the dishes was delicious. She winced at each *pop* but smiled, picturing Bea’s bouncing bottom. 

A few minutes later, Mike’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Bea! Sophie! Get in here!” Both women, bottoms hot and sore, shuffled in, wincing with each step. Mike stood by the sink, slipper in hand, his stern face softened by a hint of amusement. “You two,” he said, pointing the slipper, “leaving dishes like that is unacceptable. Next time, you’ll both feel the cane—six strokes each, no discussion.” He waved the slipper for emphasis. Sophie’s eyes widened, her grin vanishing at the thought of the cane’s sting on her already tender bottom; she shifted uncomfortably, hands hovering over her skirt, imagining worse pain. Bea, still rubbing her sore backside through her slacks, swallowed hard, her mischievous spark dimmed by the threat. “Understood, Mike,” she muttered, exchanging a glance with Sophie, who nodded meekly. They both knew Mike wasn’t bluffing, and the prospect of the cane left them unusually subdued, though Sophie couldn’t resist a tiny smirk at Bea’s chastened expression.