A Run-In with Discipline
On a rain-soaked cross-country, Charlotte’s daring shortcut seems to have won her a coveted place on the running club’s prestigious Cotswold training camp, but her strict coach, Miss Denham, is not so sure. Praise turns to punishment, with a very thorough spanking in the clubhouse changing rooms. Along this course of discipline, her coach cuts no corners!
from 📚 Vintage Spanking
Charlotte’s day was going rapidly downhill, and it was only 11 o’clock. To her dismay, she was already facing some of her least favourite things. The running club coach, Miss Denham, had saddled her with an extra run. Officially, this imposition was punishment for her chronic lateness, but unofficially it was for her even more chronic impertinence. As if things weren’t bad enough, the heavens had opened.
She returned to the clubhouse drenched to the skin, her white cotton vest and navy shorts tightly enfolding her athletic assets. It was a warm day, which was some consolation as she dripped her way towards the changing rooms. It had been a relief to see the empty corridor, sparing her the additional shame of staging an impromptu wet t-shirt contest. Still, she revelled in private triumph, knowing her illicit shortcut through the woods behind St Mildred’s churchyard, had shaved a mile from the usual course.
As she approached the changing room, her heart leapt as she heard her name called from the common room. But, with a sigh of relief, she realised it was Lady Pennington, the club’s chair and benevolent patron.
“My goodness, Miss Winthrop. You are so dedicated to be training in these conditions!”
Charlotte almost came clean, admitting she was only here under duress, but it was a pity not to accept some rare praise while it was available.
“You know,” Lady Pennington said, “it just so happens that a last-minute place became available on our Cotswold weekend training camp. Given you’re the only club member braving this inclement weather, I think we should give you the opportunity.”
Charlotte was delighted by the unexpected, and somewhat undeserved, honour.
“That would be so wonderful,” she declared. “I mean, of course, only if you think I’m worthy, ma’am.”
It was a thrilling opportunity, but she had an uneasy feeling that her joy might be brief. Reality had a way of bringing her down to earth with a bump.
“Of course, we’ll need to clear it with Miss Denham first,” Lady Pennington continued, failing to notice Charlotte’s wince of anxiety. “With the dedication you’ve shown today, it will be a mere formality, I’m sure. So, be here at 9 in the morning. The bus and the accommodation are all laid on, and it will be a wonderful couple of days.”
Charlotte retreated to the changing room, proverbial tail tucked between her dampened legs. Her mind was in a spin, concocting justifications that might persuade Miss Denham she deserved to attend the training camp.
If only she could promise to work on her punctuality, and somehow make herself sound sincere, perhaps it would be okay. Standing beside the lockers, the wet running kit felt clammy against her skin, and the chill wasn’t helping her concentration. A hot shower, she thought. That should provide enough time to think.
It was a relief to slip out of her trainers and socks, but the cotton vest proved to be more of a challenge. The sodden fabric stretched out of shape and clung as she peeled it over her head, maintaining its embrace with the enthusiasm of an amorous octopus.
To make matters worse, her hair-bobble somehow entangled in one of the shoulder straps, turning the vest into a temporary blindfold of clingy fabric while the last remnants of her dignity seeped away.
Through the opaque dampness, an unseen voice called out.
“Miss Winthrop! At your age, I would have hoped that you’d mastered the art of dressing and undressing yourself, and with a little more decorum than this. Isn’t wriggling out of things your speciality?”
For a moment she thought the words might be in her imagination, but the stern voice of Miss Denham was unmistakable. The realisation that she was gyrating topless in front of her coach lent renewed vigour to her contortions, and she finally persuaded the sodden garment to untangle itself from her blushing cheeks. Her ponytail had collapsed, disarrayed brunette strands plastering her forehead and cheeks.
Mortified by the exposure, she tossed the vest to the bench and clasped a cupped hand around each of her pert breasts. The gesture was a poor facsimile of modesty, resembling a startled mermaid who had misplaced her seashell-bra, but it was the best she could do in the circumstances. She tried to meet her coach’s eye with a defiant stare, but her state of undress was incompatible with defiance, and she felt an uncomfortable tingle of blushes spreading all over her body.
“I was just about to take a shower, Miss Denham. Do you suppose this could wait until later?”
Standing before her coach in nothing but a pair of wet nylon running shorts, Charlotte was feeling quite ridiculous.
Why did their coach have to be so perfect? Not a single strand of Miss Denham’s hair was out of place, and her makeup was flawless. It was as if nothing so vulgar as rain would ever dare to sully her appearance. Her hands were clasped behind her back, like an officer standing at ease before an inspection. Somehow she was always the epitome of elegant composure, while Charlotte currently possessed all the composure of a soaking, sulky kitten.
To make matters worse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the one who was about to become the subject of this unannounced inspection.
“No, I think we need to discuss this right away. I’ve been speaking to Lady Pennington, and it was a most enlightening conversation. Did you explain to her, for instance, just why you are here for this run today?”
Charlotte tensed, her toes curling.
“Well, I was getting around to that, but then I thought she might be in a hurry. And after all, she didn’t ask me for details. I’m pretty sure she was just pleased to see someone completing the cross-country circuit in this weather.”
“I see,” Miss Denham noted. “So when she honoured you with a place on the training camp, a privilege you knew you had not earned, you thought it was okay to lie by omission, neglecting to mention the actual dishonourable reason that brought you here?”
Charlotte gave a guilty nod, bracing herself for yet another scolding.
“Admittedly,” Miss Denham acknowledged, “I do have to agree with Lady Pennington on the point of dedication. You made excellent time given the poor conditions.”
Feeling another prickle of guilt at her deceitful shortcut, Charlotte still couldn’t resist seizing the opportunity to win favour.
“I always try my best, Miss Denham. I think the rain may have provided some extra motivation. So, I suppose, in a way, perhaps I might deserve the place after all? And I promise I won’t skimp on my training.”
Miss Denham frowned, a look of perplexity mixed with a fleeting, sly smirk.
“It might interest you to know,” Miss Denham observed, “that Lady Pennington isn’t the only one who noted your dedication for running today. I’ve also had a message from the vicar.”
Charlotte blushed anew, staring at the floor. “Oh, really?” a faint tremble betraying her nerves.
“He asked if we could avoid the churchyard on training runs. He’s concerned that young ladies flashing their bare arms and thighs may be a little too racy for holy ground. His comments surprised me though, seeing as our cross-country route doesn’t pass anywhere near the churchyard. I wonder if you would care to explain?”
“Poor visibility...” came Charlotte’s cheeky reply, laced with her habitual misplaced optimism.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Winthrop?”
“Well, with the heavy rain in my eyes, Miss Denham,” she tried to explain. “I suppose I must have taken a wrong turn. An honest mistake, you know how it is.”
Miss Denham sighed. “Charlotte, my dear, you disappoint me. You have failed to make amends for your earlier poor conduct by cheating on today’s run. Not the first time you have shown contempt for the club’s regulations, I might add. To make matters worse, you admit deliberately deceiving Lady Pennington. And now, to top it all off, you have the audacity to insult me with even more of your impertinence. Well, I’m not putting up with your bad attitude any longer.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. She wondered if this is how it might feel to be a naughty schoolgirl, facing the threat of expulsion by the headmistress. She was desperate not to be thrown out of the running club and tried hard to concoct a better excuse.
“Please, Miss Denham. I really am very sorry, but the usual path was wet and muddy, so I used my initiative. It was a small strategic detour. I promise I would never normally do anything like...”
But she fell into an abrupt, stunned silence as she saw Miss Denham’s hands slide forward, revealing the item that she had been concealing behind her back. Their eyes met, Charlotte frozen in horror.
“No way! Seriously, Miss Denham, are you actually suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? This is like something you’d see in a stage play, not in real life!”
The implacable coach inclined her head with a wry smile. With understated menace, she turned the heavy wooden hairbrush, brandishing the unsettling length and breadth of its polished back. Charlotte blinked at the instrument as if it were some antiquated medieval artefact, rather than a common household grooming implement.
“Frankly, Charlotte, I have exhausted every conventional avenue of motivation. There is, however, an unconventional course that remains open. It’s a little unorthodox, perhaps, but it’s one that I’ve often found to be effective.”
Charlotte shifted, feeling her unease growing.
“No, Miss Denham, I’m twenty-two years old. I mean, I’m an adult, and this is totally inappropriate. That thing is for hair, not hide!”
Miss Denham nodded, turning to leave.
“Very well, I suppose you may be right. In that case, if that’s your decision, I’ll break the news to Lady Pennington. I hope she won’t be too disappointed in you.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. She fidgeted, turning this way and that, feeling her panic rise. The pride she had felt at Lady Pennington’s compliments had meant a lot to her, and that signal honour was about to be dashed forever.
Unconsciously, as if from a distance, she heard herself saying: “Wait, please. I... I don’t want you to tell her.”
With her hand already reaching for the changing room door, Miss Denham paused. “So, can I presume that you wish to accept my proposal, after all?”
There was a note of satisfaction in her voice, scarcely concealed. Charlotte sensed that, beneath the formality, Miss Denham was relishing every moment. She seemed to be savoring a vindictive pleasure in asserting her authority, one that would put Charlotte firmly in her place. And, there could be little doubt now as to exactly where that place would be.
“I shall address your behaviour,” Miss Denham announced, “and I shall do it in the old-fashioned way... with a very thorough spanking!”
Charlotte squinted, her jaw clenching. It was hard to utter the words, yet she felt compelled to comply with her formidable coach. “I understand, Miss Denham.”
The silence that descended upon the changing room felt oppressive as Charlotte watched her coach unbutton her jacket and seat herself on the slatted wooden bench below the clothes hooks.
“You may not believe me, but this is for your own good. Over my lap, young lady. This should help restore your focus, your honesty, and then we can put this regrettable matter behind us.”
She was far too old for this indignity, but the stark outcome seemed inevitable. Relinquishing the last semblance of modesty, Charlotte dropped her defences and let her hands fall to her sides, feeling her fingers brush the cool, silken fabric of her running shorts.
Miss Denham’s lap, clad in a knee-length skirt, was firm and supportive as Charlotte lowered herself. The elevated position of her hips caused the figure-hugging shorts to stretch even more taut, the outline of her cotton briefs appearing to be embossed through the moist, navy-blue fabric. This wasn’t a ‘lap of honour’ that Charlotte had ever dreamt of.
With a shudder, she felt the stiff, uncompromising back of the hairbrush come to a gentle rest, in line with the leg elastic of her panties. A few tormenting taps accompanied its arrival, measuring, aiming, and even this light contact sent Charlotte’s pulse racing. An uneasy grimace settled on her face as she braced for the inevitable.
“Remember, this is formal discipline, Miss Winthrop. I do not tolerate wriggling, or back-chat. The next few minutes will determine your future at the club, and your possible presence at the training weekend.”
Charlotte whimpered, and without further preamble, the punishment began. Raising the brush above her shoulder, almost level with the line of clothes hooks, Miss Denham sent it on a crashing collision course with the delicate curves of the presented posterior.
The squeal of surprise at the biting pain reverberated around the changing room, echoing from the tiled shower area. There was a buzzing sting, prolonged and insistent, barely subsiding before another firm thwack layered even more misery upon her firmly toned buttocks.
Miss Denham had established her intentions early and maintained a steady rhythm. The heavy crack of the brush against the light nylon shorts was like clockwork, Charlotte’s yelps and gasps going cruelly unheeded.
Desperate to maintain her resolve, the younger woman kept her palms pressed to the floor, fighting the urge to squirm upon the elegant lap. The heat and the smarting intensified fast. The merciless delivery offered no respite to the swelling pain that throbbed, penetrating deep into her upturned bottom. Having come this far, Charlotte was determined to endure the discomfort, paying the agonising price that would safeguard not only her club membership, but also guarantee her place this weekend.
Praying it wouldn’t last too much longer, Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, feeling a lone tear dribble along her nose.
Following another intense volley of blistering spanks, Miss Denham announced, “And now, you will stand up and place your hands on top of your head.”
Charlotte, stunned by the stinging intensity, obeyed, staring back, incredulous at this perversely specific ritual. She half-expected to be sent to stand facing the corner in disgrace. But what she did not expect was to feel Miss Denham’s nimble fingers lifting the elasticated waistband of her shorts and giving a firm tug on the drawstring closure, loosening the neatly tied knot.
“Miss Denham,” Charlotte pleaded, unable to hide the dismay in her voice, “this really isn’t necessary. Please don’t pull down my shorts.”
She flinched as Miss Denham untied the drawstring, her manicured nails momentarily drifting across her belly, just below the navel. She was desperately ticklish and struggled to keep her hands on her head as the conflicting tickling and smarting sensations vied for her attention.
“Your shorts?” came Miss Denham’s dry chuckle. “My dear, I’m afraid you should be far more concerned about the garment that currently resides beneath your shorts!”
With those ominous words still hanging in the air, Charlotte felt her shorts and panties descend in unison, sliding down her legs to bunch around her ankles. She winced, her thighs squirming and the cool air doing nothing to soothe her burning bottom. With her hands shamefully upon her head, there was not the slightest opportunity to cover herself. She knew Miss Denham could see everything, and already felt a pair of insistent hands gripping her bare hips, guiding her back across the waiting lap.
“We’ll try a dozen more, Miss Winthrop, and then I shall decide if you are sufficiently redeemed.”
The swats slowed, becoming more purposeful. Each thwack of the brush against Charlotte’s glistening reddened cheeks felt more intense than the one that came before. The blazing sting sparkled and pulsed, lingering, fading, only to be reignited seconds later. As she writhed and kicked in discomfort, the shorts tumbled from her ankles and only her panties remained, clinging stubbornly to the heel of her left foot.
Charlotte didn’t want to dwell on the prescribed number, twelve, yet she couldn’t resist silently counting the swats. From the disheartening low numbers, rising to the double-digits, the spanking proceeded with relentless certainty. Reaching the count of ten made the excruciating bite of the hairbrush a fraction easier to bear, offering a glimmer of hope in knowing that only two more remained.
Miss Denham’s aim was clinical, the final swats grazing the tops of Charlotte’s tender thighs. In a concluding punctuation, the dangling panties gave up their grip and plopped to the floor.
“I hope this has made an adequate impression?” Miss Denham asked, the brush still resting upon Charlotte’s tender rump. Its latent menace remained, but for now it lay motionless.
“Yes. It has, I promise, Miss Denham.” The throbbing soreness had certainly made an impression upon one area in particular, and Charlotte knew it wouldn’t fade for a considerable time.
Satisfied by the tearful assurance, Miss Denham helped her to her feet, and they stood face to face. Stark naked, the discomfort outweighing her mortification, Charlotte gingerly massaged her rear. As she rubbed and kneaded her smarting cheeks, she was careful to remain attentive to her coach’s every word.
“I feel certain we have made progress here today. Putting you ‘back on track’, as the expression goes. I shall inform Lady Pennington that you will be welcome to join us this weekend. But,” her eyebrows arched, “something else is joining us this weekend too.”
Once again, she tapped the fearsome hairbrush against her palm. Charlotte gulped.
“Any nonsense, any impertinence, any shortcuts... you know exactly what to expect, and now you know you’re never too old to expect it.”
Charlotte nodded, wincing as she continued to endure the prickly, burning consequences of her behaviour. The sensations gave her a new appreciation for the comfort of training runs, which, for the time being, seemed far more appealing than attempting to sit down.
Miss Denham smoothed her skirt, which remained miraculously unruffled by its brief ordeal, and departed. Her heels clicked against the tiles, and the door snapped shut. She, and her hairbrush, were gone.
Charlotte shifted, eyes wide as she turned around before the changing room wall mirror. Her backside was flaring, angry and red, darker bruises beginning to blossom at the centre of each cheek.
At last she found refuge in the showers. Steam clouds billowed as the hot water cascaded over her body in a shimmering velvet embrace. She massaged the musky, scented soap into a creamy lather, watching the foamy suds cling, slide, and break apart along her delectable curves. The warmth of the bubbles’ silken caress, and the calming rhythm of the water washed away some of the discomfort. However, no amount of froth or fragrance could ease the fiery reminder that still pulsed across her tender behind.
She resolved to pack an extra-soft feather cushion for the bus journey tomorrow, and to ensure she was always the last to exit the training camp showers. The thought of her friends catching a humiliating glimpse of her radiant derrière was almost unbearable.
Miss Denham’s hairbrush had delivered an unforgettable lesson. Charlotte was very sore, and a little wiser. If the temptation of a shortcut ever crossed her mind again, she knew she would always remember the destination that this one had led to...