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Spanking
All About Spanking
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You know more than anybody what it takes to write a good story… I try and learn from the best. Yes, now that Melissa has tried the Goodnites, there is no end to where that can take her. Yes, she definitely needs something better. This was just a trial run for her. Thanks for the comment! -
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By LittleSusieQ · Posted
If I'm not wearing a onesie, I'm wearing plastic panties. I hardly ever wear just a diaper. I don't like diaper sag but love a wet heavy diaper. Plastic panties are the best way for me to get what I like, wet heavy diaper, no sag. -
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There was a brief lull in the music—one of those soft, suspended pauses where the whole room seemed to inhale at once. The kind of hush that feels accidental but somehow purposeful, like the night itself was holding its breath. Heels clicked gently on the hardwood. A chair squeaked somewhere near the back. Programs rustled. Even the buzz of whispered conversation tapered off until only the faint hum of the overhead lights remained. Then, with a quiet, almost accidental majesty, Libby stepped onto the stage. Her black guitar caught the lights immediately—so sharply it almost looked liquid, like someone had poured ink over polished glass. The white dress she wore shimmered around her like the soft glow of a candle, subtle and almost ethereal. She looked both classical and rebellious at once—the kind of girl who could diagram chord progressions for extra credit in the morning and headline an underground punk show by night. She carried herself with that effortless, magnetic ease of someone who didn’t need applause to know who she was… but earned it anyway. Beth, somewhere near the middle rows, stopped mid-sip. Alyssa’s hand drifted toward her heart without her even realizing it. Dylan froze in place—dessert fork hovering in the air—his eyes wide and bright, his expression flickering with awe, surprise, and pride. From the side of the stage, Mrs. Winslow stepped forward with the microphone, posture crisp with pride, chin lifted as though she were presenting a rare gemstone. “We have one more treat in store,” she announced, her voice echoing against the high, painted ceiling. “A student whose talent has surprised us in the best—and boldest—ways. Please welcome Libby Hemsworth.” The applause that followed began the way Academy applause usually began—polite, contained, predictable. But then Libby plugged in her guitar and gave a single test strum—sharp, clean, confident in a way that electrified the air. The clapping changed instantly. It deepened, warmed, rolled through the room in a wave. Girls leaned forward as if pulled by invisible thread. Parents perked up in their seats. Even a few teachers straightened, curious. Libby adjusted the strap on her shoulder and stepped to the mic, her grin tilting into something mischievous. “Dana,” she said, voice carrying with casual clarity, “you promised you’d sing with me once. I’m calling it in.” The room erupted. Laughter rippled through the audience—bright, surprised, borderline scandalized. Someone near the curtains let out a whistle. A few girls slapped their hands over their mouths in delighted disbelief. And then Dana appeared. Radiant. Glittering. Sequined from neckline to hem. She moved with the exaggerated reluctance of someone who absolutely adored being dragged into the spotlight but would deny it with her last breath. “You’re lucky I like you,” Dana said, taking the second microphone with a flourish. “What else is new?” Libby replied, cool as ever, turning her tuning pegs with practiced precision. Behind them, the band—a small ensemble of Academy girls and a few music staff members—jumped right into position. The opening chords of “Shake It Off” burst into the room like fireworks, bright and unapologetic. Dana launched into the lyrics with her signature flare—half diva, half cheerleader, all confidence. Her voice glided over the notes with bouncy precision. She strutted across the stage, flicking her hair, pointing at girls in the audience, coaxing even the shyest students to tap their feet. Meanwhile, Libby played with a kind of controlled ferocity—her fingers dancing across the strings, each movement fluid and sure. Her foot tapped like the beat lived under her skin. Her expression tightened into intense focus, the kind that made her whole presence sharpen into something electric. Their energies crashed into each other beautifully—Dana explosive and dramatic, Libby precise and grounded. Chaos and order merging into something joyful and irresistible. By the end of the first chorus, the entire room had shifted. The aisles filled with dancing girls—some graceful, some clumsy, all happy. Parents clapped to the beat with the kind of uninhibited delight usually reserved for weddings or graduation parties. Faculty members who normally guarded their reactions like state secrets were smiling—actual, relaxed smiles that belonged more to summer evenings than formal school events. From across the room, Libby’s mother stood with her hands raised above her head, clapping with unrestrained pride. Her eyes shimmered, full and glossy. “She’s never played like this in front of me,” she whispered to Beth, voice trembling. Beth’s smile deepened, soft and knowing. “She’s shining,” she said quietly. “She always had it,” Libby’s mom murmured, almost to herself. “I just didn’t realize how much she needed to show it.” Alyssa stood beside them, hand pressed over her heart, eyes locked on the stage. “She’s incredible,” she whispered. Dylan nodded slowly, still frozen mid-bite, fork dangling uselessly. “I know,” he said softly. His voice was full of admiration, equal parts stunned envy and big, blooming pride. Rachel stood just behind them, her cup of punch forgotten entirely. She didn’t speak. Her smile—slow and warm and so full of affection it bordered on reverence—said everything. She’d watched Libby practice until her fingers throbbed, watched her hide pieces of herself like she was storing them for later, watched her wrestle with the idea of being too much or not enough. And now she was here. Unfiltered. Brilliant. Free. The Academy seemed to glow differently for a moment—less like a place of rules and expectations and more like a place that could hold something beautifully alive. A place that expanded a little, stretched a little, softened a little. As the final chord rang out, Dana blew a dramatic kiss to the audience before leaning toward Libby. Libby turned, grinned with something wicked and soft, and whispered something into Dana’s ear—something that made Dana’s whole face light up like a chandelier. Whatever she said drifted into the air like a warm spark. The applause didn’t fade. It grew. It echoed up into the rafters. Girls laughed and cheered. Parents exchanged glances full of delighted disbelief. Even a few faculty members clapped harder than anyone would have dared predict at the beginning of the evening. And as the band reset their instruments and the lights shifted again, it was clear—even before the next note formed: The night—and the music—weren’t anywhere close to done.
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