Spanking

That’s really sad to hear it’s closed. I enjoyed reading all the stories and content. It was a very special place for me. I only found this site a few weeks back so hopefully we can support it 🥰🥰🥰🥰🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️

Thank you all so much for your wonderful feedback. It honestly feels incredible to know that you've become so deeply attached to the characters in my story. Chapters 18–20 included several very difficult scenes, and writing them wasn't easy for me either. After I published them, part of me actually felt like stopping the story there because it had become so emotionally heavy. But your comments gave me the motivation and excitement to keep going. I now have a plan for roughly the next ten chapters, and I'm going to update the story at least once a week, and sometimes more often when I have the time and inspiration. So, here's the first new chapter right away:   Chapter 21 – The Devil in the Shed When Elisa opened the apartment door, everything looked just as she had left it. Of course it did. She had only been gone for a couple of hours. Still, after her first therapy session, coming home somehow felt different. I hurt her. Even now, standing in the hallway with her keys still in her hand, Elisa felt something twist painfully inside her at the memory. The therapist had not called her a monster. She had simply listened while Elisa stumbled through the story, asking questions whenever Elisa tried to hurry past the parts she was most ashamed of. By the end Elisa had cried so much that she had been embarrassed to look at herself in the bathroom mirror before leaving. Now she was home, and Aino's shoes were still missing from beside the door. Elisa closed it quietly behind her. Perhaps because she had spent the walk home thinking about Aino, she suddenly seemed to notice her everywhere. There was a hair tie on the little table in the hallway, abandoned beside a handful of coins and an old receipt. One of Aino's scarves still hung from the hook beneath Elisa's own. In the kitchen, the mug with the faded cartoon cat on it was upside down on the drying rack. In the living room, Bunny was sitting against the arm of the sofa. Elisa picked him up and straightened one of his long ears. “You look terrible,” she murmured. The rabbit stared back at her with the serene indifference of a creature that had survived years of being hugged, dragged around, slept on and occasionally cried into. Elisa smiled despite herself. “You always look terrible.” She sat down with Bunny in her lap. “I miss her,” she said quietly. It felt foolish to talk to a stuffed rabbit, but Bunny had probably heard considerably stranger confessions during his life with Aino. “I really miss her.” The apartment had never seemed particularly large before. With Aino in it, there had always been some small indication of another person nearby: bare feet crossing the hallway, a cupboard opening in the kitchen, a question called from another room, or Aino appearing without warning to explain something Elisa had not realised she needed to know about mathematics, trains or some obscure company registration she had discovered online. Sometimes she had found it exhausting. She would have given almost anything to hear it now. Eventually Elisa set Bunny carefully against the cushion and stood. The apartment did not actually need cleaning, but that had never stopped her before. She washed a cereal bowl in the kitchen, wiped a counter that was already clean and rearranged three bottles beside the stove for no reason beyond the fact that arranging things required less thought than being alone with herself. In the living room she folded the blanket over the back of the sofa and picked up a discarded sock from beneath the coffee table. Aino's. It was ridiculous how much it hurt. She carried it into the bedroom. A T-shirt was draped over the back of the chair, and a book lay face down on the bedside table despite Elisa having told Aino several times that doing that was terrible for the spine. There was even a single sticker stuck to the side of the dresser. Elisa touched it with the tip of her finger. She could almost hear Aino insisting that the book was fine and Elisa was being unnecessarily dramatic. She wanted her back. The thought came with painful simplicity. She wanted Aino back in the apartment, in their bed, making breakfast with her and leaving books in ways Elisa disapproved of. She wanted the absurd conversations and all the little routines that had formed between them so quickly. Then she remembered Aino saying no. The fear on her face. Elisa closed her eyes. Perhaps Aino would never come back. She dropped the sock into the laundry basket and returned to the living room. Bunny was still waiting on the sofa. Beside it stood the basket where Aino normally kept the stuffed animals she wasn't currently sleeping with. Elisa glanced at it, took another step and stopped. Something was missing. She turned back. There were two stuffed animals in the basket, partly covered by the little blanket Aino sometimes used when she curled up on the sofa. Bunny was beside them. The alpaca wasn't there. Elisa looked around the room. She checked beneath the blanket and between the sofa cushions, then went back to the bedroom and looked beside the bed and on the chair. Nothing. Of course Aino could have taken it with her. There was nothing strange about taking a stuffed animal when leaving home upset. Except Aino had left Bunny. Aino had left in a hurry with only a backpack and somehow forgotten the rabbit that had accompanied her through practically everything. But she had remembered the alpaca. And the alpaca had come from Juhani. A cold uneasiness settled in Elisa's stomach. She remembered Aino's investigations. The strange companies. Savola. Juhani's repeated train journeys. The questions Aino had refused to leave alone. “Oh, Aino.” Elisa was already reaching for her phone. She called. The ringing seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment. Once, twice, three times. Elisa told herself there were a hundred ordinary reasons Aino might not answer. She could be in the shower. Her phone could be charging. She could simply see Elisa's name and decide she didn't want to speak to her. That last possibility should have reassured her. It didn't. The call went to voicemail. Elisa ended it and immediately tried again. Nothing. She opened their messages and began typing: I know you don't want to talk to me. You don't have to. Please just let me know you're safe. She sent it. Nothing happened.Elisa began pacing. The missing alpaca didn't prove anything. Aino could be perfectly safe in a hotel room somewhere, deliberately ignoring her. But the more Elisa tried to convince herself of that, the more she remembered the way Aino became when a problem refused to make sense. Once she knew something was wrong, leaving it alone seemed almost physically impossible for her. Elisa called again. No answer. She lowered the phone. Elisa had spent most of her adult life solving problems. There was always somebody to call, something to arrange, a decision to make. She could move people, money and schedules. She could walk into a room full of executives and make them listen. But she couldn't fix this. She didn't know where Aino was. Elisa sank onto the sofa. Bunny tipped sideways beside her, and she picked him up almost instinctively. Aino should have had him. That was the thought that broke her. Not the missing alpaca, not Juhani, not even the unanswered calls. It was the stupid rabbit. Aino had gone somewhere without Bunny, and suddenly Elisa could no longer convince herself that everything was probably fine. She bent forward, clutching him against herself. “Please be okay,” she whispered. The first tears came quietly. “Please, Aino.” Then she imagined Aino somewhere alone, still following the questions Elisa had begged her to leave alone, and whatever control she had managed to rebuild on the walk home finally disappeared. Elisa pressed her face into Bunny's fur and cried. She wanted to go and find Aino. She wanted to make this right. She wanted, with an almost unbearable desperation, to be able to do something. Jan Mikael Savola had been watching ski jumping for long enough to know when a Finnish jumper had already ruined his chances before reaching the end of the ramp. The young man on the television had looked hesitant almost from the moment he pushed himself away from the starting bar. Jan Mikael leaned forward in his armchair as the jumper accelerated down the track, still hoping he might somehow recover, but the take-off came a fraction too late and the skis never seemed to settle properly beneath him. He landed well short of the green line and immediately dropped several places in the standings. Jan Mikael sighed and shook his head. “You can't win anything like that.” The commentators were more charitable. They talked about difficult wind conditions and a slight change in direction just before the jump, but Jan Mikael decided they were making excuses. There had always been wind in ski jumping. That was hardly new. The next jumper was Norwegian. Naturally, he flew. Jan Mikael watched the green line disappear beneath the man's skis and made a dissatisfied sound as the crowd erupted. “They used to know how to jump in Finland too,” he informed the television. Nobody answered. Another Finnish jumper appeared on the television. This one had done well in qualification. At least Jan Mikael thought he had. The jump wasn't terrible. It wasn't particularly good either. Jan Mikael groaned as the distance appeared on the screen. “Oh, come on.” Jan Mikael glanced towards the living-room window and noticed how heavily it was snowing. The flakes were thick enough now that the light from the yard lamp seemed almost solid. The bushes beside the driveway had become rounded white shapes, and the path Jan Mikael had cleared earlier was already disappearing. He frowned. He had cleared it earlier, hadn't he? He could remember standing outside with the shovel and snow sticking to the cuffs of his trousers. That had been today. Probably. There was still plenty of evening left. Better to clear some of it now than wake up to twice as much in the morning. Jan Mikael waited for the next jumper to land before pushing himself out of the armchair. Getting dressed took longer than expected. One glove had disappeared, although he was certain he had left the pair together. He checked the shelf and both coat pockets before finally finding it inside his hat. Jan Mikael stared at it. “Well, that's a sensible place for you.” Outside, the cold immediately caught at his face. Snow had already softened the edges of everything, and the tracks he had made earlier were little more than shallow depressions. The shovel wasn't beside the steps. Jan Mikael looked to the other side. Nothing. He frowned and tried to remember where he had put it. The shed. Of course. He trudged across the yard. By the time he reached the old storage building, a thin layer of snow had gathered across his shoulders. He grabbed the handle. The door didn't open. Jan Mikael frowned and tried again. Locked. That was strange. He rarely locked the shed. There was nothing in there worth stealing unless somebody had developed a criminal interest in thirty-year-old gardening tools and broken furniture. He searched his pockets. No key. There was a small window at the back. If the shovel was inside, he could at least see it before going back to search for the key. Jan Mikael made his way around the building, muttering as the snow deepened around his boots. The window was partly covered in frost. He brushed it with his glove and leaned closer, but at first all he could see was his own dim reflection. He cupped both hands around his eyes. There were shelves along the opposite wall, the old workbench and several cardboard boxes. Something long was leaning against the wall. The shovel? Jan Mikael shifted slightly. That was when he noticed something on the floor. At first he assumed it was an old blanket or another pile of things he had forgotten about. Then he saw something pale beneath it. Jan Mikael leaned closer until his hat touched the glass. The shape resolved slowly, one detail at a time. Hair. A face. A person. Jan Mikael stopped breathing. There was a young woman lying on the floor of his shed. For several seconds he simply stared through the glass. She was lying awkwardly on her side, dressed far too lightly for the cold. Her arms were behind her back in a position that looked wrong until Jan Mikael realised why. Her wrists were tied. He recoiled from the window so suddenly that his boot slipped in the snow. “What in God's name…” His heart hammered. Perhaps he had seen it wrong. The glass was frosted. It was dark inside. He was an old man looking through a dirty window in the middle of a snowstorm. He forced himself back towards the glass. The woman was still there. This time he saw the bindings clearly. He saw bare skin where there should have been winter clothing, a diaper where her trousers should have been, and something small lying close beside her, covered in soft brown fur. An animal? No. A toy. The absurdity of that detail frightened him almost more than anything else. Monsters belonged to darkness and nightmares. They did not leave stuffed animals beside young women tied up on the floors of sheds. Then the woman moved. It was barely anything, perhaps a small shift of her head or shoulder. But Jan Mikael saw enough. He stumbled backwards and ran. At seventy-six, running through deep snow was neither graceful nor particularly fast, but fear made a surprisingly good substitute for youth. He struggled across the yard, nearly losing his balance twice before reaching the porch. His fingers were so clumsy that he missed the door handle the first time. Finally he got inside and slammed the door behind him. Then he locked it. For a moment Jan Mikael stood there breathing heavily while snow melted from his boots onto the floor. There was a woman in his shed. He looked towards the hallway window and suddenly imagined somebody standing outside it. Jan Mikael hurried into the living room and pulled the curtains closed. The ski jumping was still on. A Slovenian had apparently taken the lead while he was outside. Jan Mikael stared at the television without understanding a word. He should call somebody. That much was obvious. There was a young woman tied up in his shed. You called the police when there was a young woman tied up in your shed. Jan Mikael reached towards the telephone, then stopped. How had she got there? Someone must have put her there. He looked towards the closed curtains. Someone had been on his property. Perhaps someone was still there. He tried to remember the previous day. Had he heard a car? Had somebody knocked on the door? There had been a man at some point. Or had that been earlier in the week? Jan Mikael rubbed his forehead. There had been people asking questions recently. A young woman had come to the house. He remembered that. She had asked about companies and papers and things Jan Mikael didn't understand anymore. Was it the same woman? Dark hair. Young. Polite. Perhaps it was. But that made even less sense. Why would the woman who had been asking him questions now be tied up in his shed? If he called the police, they would ask him that. They would ask how she had got there and why the door was locked. And Jan Mikael didn't know. He hated not knowing. People had begun treating him differently when he couldn't answer things. His daughter became gentle in that particular way that made him feel like a child. Doctors asked what day it was. People repeated themselves slowly even when he had heard them perfectly well the first time. Jan Mikael knew there was something wrong with his memory. Knowing that did not make the missing pieces any easier to find. He sat in the armchair while the ski jumping continued. Five minutes passed. Perhaps ten. Then the thought returned with sudden force. The woman was still out there. Whatever else he did or did not understand, she was still lying in the cold. Jan Mikael looked at the telephone. He needed help. Someone who would know what to do. Someone who wouldn't start asking questions before Jan Mikael had even managed to explain. Then he thought of Pastor Heikkinen. Of course. Pastor Heikkinen had known him for years. He never became impatient when Jan Mikael lost the thread of a conversation, and when Jan Mikael became confused, the pastor somehow made the confusion feel less frightening. He would know what to do. Jan Mikael picked up the telephone. Finding the number took longer than it should have. He passed it twice before recognising the name, and by the time he pressed the call button his hands were trembling again. The phone rang twice. “Hello?” Jan Mikael swallowed. “Pastor?” There was a brief pause. “Jan Mikael?” The familiar voice almost undid him. “Yes.” “Is everything all right?” Jan Mikael looked towards the closed curtains. He wanted to say yes. It was an old reflex. People asked whether everything was all right and you told them it was. “No,” he whispered. The pastor's voice changed immediately. “What is it?” Jan Mikael looked towards the window. Beyond the curtains, the snow continued falling across the dark yard, quietly filling the tracks he had made between the house and the shed. He lowered his voice. “The Devil is in my shed.”

I can,t get enough of this great story . I want to read more .   please .

19. Misinformation Management I arrived at Keppler pretty early, despite a slightly more leisurely walk than usual around the perimeter of the campus. I realised almost as soon as I arrived that I was nervous to let anyone see me; and somehow it felt that it would be easier if everyone was working, rather than joking around in the lobby. Of course, there were a couple of people there, competing for the top score on an original Pac-Man machine, which had appeared the week before. But they weren’t paying too much attention to me, so I went straight to the restrooms and tried to straighten myself up in the mirror. It felt weird. Every time I shook my head, I could feel that the weight of all my hair was no longer swishing behind me. I could admit that I did actually look good now; like a real businessman rather than a guy who didn’t know that his teens were over. The suit did suit me, when it wasn’t clashing with the various loud colours I had dyed my hair in the past. I knew that I looked good, but seeing that reflection made me think that it would be a long time before I actually saw that serious guy as ‘me’. “Wow,” Constantine said, flashing a smile in that direction as I actually entered the office. “New threads? I hope you’re not going to be dropping dad jokes all day.” “No worries,” I said. “Just checking out a new style.” I’d actually had shorter hair the day before as well, but until I changed the rest of my wardrobe nobody had said anything about it. “Dating someone who has a thing for older men?” he said, with a wink. “You can pull it off, dude. Just keep the music playing in your head.” “Right,” I answered, trying to work out if that was a reference to the sudden absence of punk or metal imagery on my person, or some deep joke that I didn’t get. Consty was a philosophy graduate who had landed here straight out of the ivory towers of academia, and there was a good chance whenever he opened his mouth that you would need a lot of research to get the joke. And there was always a joke, or some kind of hidden reference that only the intelligentsia would spot. I might have asked him to clarify, but any further debate about my appearance was squashed when Matt breezed into the room. “I need the A-team on this,” he said, and everyone immediately turned to face him. Cherri didn’t look away from the arcade machine, but she knew Matt wouldn’t expect her to. He saw challenging your high score as an almost sacred ritual, so no matter how urgent the matter was, he would wait for her to finish the game. It didn’t last long. She didn’t have the reflexes for key levels. And then we were all watching Matt, our immediate boss, as he told us what today’s crisis was. “A manager over in Nielssen,” he said. “Observed one of his secretaries browsing a website he disapproves of. FetishLibrary. For anyone who doesn’t know, it’s a site where anyone can post stories to share their kinks with the world. It turns out that the manager had already placed a floor-wide entry on the blocklist, keeping staff off of that site in particular. But the secretary figured out that he can access FetLib content through FanLibrary, which is more commonly used by teens and specialises in fan-fiction. In case you don’t know, a user account can be shared between the three sites, and once you’ve signed in on one of the sites, you can access its stories on the other frontends by using the same login. “What does he want?” Consty chipped in. “The manager has asked for a forensic examination of the logs. He wants to know everybody who’s been on the site, and which stories they’ve been reading. He wants to crack down on people reading content that casts doubt on their moral character, even during break times.” “Does he know what company he’s working for?” Lisette asked, followed by a laugh that was almost more of a snort. “I mean… is the guy reading psychological abuse porn? Even if he was, would it be management’s business?” “No, and no,” Matt answered quickly. “We’ve already responded to remind him that employees are entitled to quiet enjoyment of their time in the office unless there’s actually somebody waiting for them to submit a project. But this manager is a real piece of work, and he’s likely to ask some of the more tech-savvy members on his team to try and dig up the data.” I almost groaned, when I realised that was exactly what Tommo Gently had done in a very similar situation. And then I found that Matt was standing right in front of me. “Cain,” he said. “You could probably have found some hints at the information he wants. So you’re taking the lead on this one. I want to go back to Vicky with the news that there is no possible way for him to snoop on his colleagues. That’s the mission, guys. Test and improve the internal department nunya filters. Take whoever you want.” “Got it,” I said. It was one of the tasks that had been suggested when I was first given this transfer. We would shadow the IT department and make sure that all colleagues’ secrets were safe. But I was shocked that he would actually put me in charge of a project like this when it had only been a month and a half since I transferred over here. With everything they kept saying about this being a meritocracy, it was a clear statement that he had confidence in my abilities, and that only meant more pressure for me. “Everybody else,” he continued, “if you don’t have priority tasks or four-day deadlines on your current process, you’re trawling through the root logs for anything that could indicate an interest in alt, poly, or ABDL lifestyle for any employee. Anything you find, that whole file gets archived and nuked. Backups on three-eyes-only, if there’s anything in the same file that some department needs in future, they’ll have to come through us.” There was a murmur of agreement, and then everyone was scurrying over to their desks. I tapped Consty, Kevin, Jane-Jane, and Pol for my team. They were the people I guessed would have relevant skills. And then we got down to work. Nobody else said a word about my clothes or hair; there were more important things to pay attention to. And so my first day dressed in conventional business attire went by smoothly. I only thought about how I looked again when it was time to go home, and I wondered if I was going to see Carter outside. How would she react to me in a suit? I’d asked her about it, but then waited quite a few days before I actually found the courage to try out my new look. And what would she think when she saw it? Could she think, after our previous conversation, that this was some abstract way of hitting on her? I wanted my friend to be happy; not to convince her that I wanted something more from her. She wasn’t in the Keppler courtyard. So I found my mind drifting back onto the day’s work. It was often like that when I had a tough problem to focus on; my mind would keep returning to it until I actually had an answer. But this time, the puzzle that kept cropping up was only tangentially related to the problem we’d been making such great strides in solving. There were stories about adult babies on FetishLibrary. But they weren’t even close to the things I’d done with Carter. They were telling stories about a completely different lifestyle, only kind of similar. But as part of the work we’d been doing, some of those stories had appeared on screens in the office. The kinds of material that SYL employees might want to look at on work computers in their break time, and which we were supposed to ensure their managers couldn’t see a trace of. And that set up a new question in my mind. Because nobody on my team showed any signs of disapproval, even of these over-the-top interpretations of how someone could be a child again. And more than having no disapproval, there was no surprise. I probably wouldn’t have been able to remain so composed before I had discovered that this stuff was a thing. So did that mean that everyone in my office had heard of it before? Were some of them even into the same things? Of course I couldn’t ask that. The whole point was that it needed to be kept private. But I couldn’t stop myself wondering if any of my colleagues wanted to be little girls again just like Carter did; or indulged in the more disturbing activities mentioned in some of those stories. And how many of them had come across it before in the name of protecting employees’ privacy; or had learned of it when someone else in the office hadn’t been quite as discreet as I was trying to be. Dr Lentz had said it, after all. Carter and I weren’t the only ones here. And there was such a tight sense of camaraderie here; if someone let something slip and the whole team found out, it was easy to imagine that they would have been supportive. For all I knew, it could be an open secret. Maybe I was the newcomer who didn’t know yet; except that I wasn’t the only new person on this team. We were all new, so even if some of these people had known each other’s secrets beforehand, it wouldn’t have so easily spread to everyone. Some of the people on my team were “littles”, I was sure of it. I just didn’t have the first idea who it could be. I knew that I should let them share it when they were ready, but that was still the question that my subconscious mind came back to try and solve every time there was nothing else to focus on. I was surprised when I saw Carter sitting on my doorstep. My mind had slipped so far down the rabbit hole that I’d completely forgotten that I had been expecting to see her. “Good evening, little one,” I said, and ruffled her hair. And then we were inside. She didn’t say anything about the change in my hair, or the suit. She just stayed close, but I could see that she was smiling. “Did you have a lot of fun at school today?” I wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but after a momentary laugh she answered like it was the most natural thing in the world. She recounted the things that had happened in Fitzgerald in the excited tones of a child reporting the gossip from the classroom, and I found that adorable. The judgemental Miss Noel was now the teacher in Lily’s retellings, and she talked about coworkers like they were her classmates. I could imagine things just like she described, and the conversation turned into a whole lot of giggles. We had dinner, and we watched cartoons. As the evening drew on, I lifted out a toy chest from the corner of the room, and when she opened it today she found a couple of dolls I’d picked up the day before from one of the discount stores. I was really starting to think about Lily like she was a real child, and it was easy to see things when I was out shopping that she might enjoy. I still didn’t call her Lily, but the name had somehow settled in my mind, and I hoped that I would be able to keep on treating her like this forever. But as the evening drew on, there was a change in the atmosphere. Something was different, and I wasn’t quite sure what it was. She packed away the toys neatly in the chest; which was about as common as it could be for any small child ever. And then when she closed the lid, I knew that she was no longer feeling the safety of her childlike role. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked. Had I done something to pull her out of that happy state. “Nothing wrong,” she said, and came up to sit on the couch beside me. “There’s something else I want to say to you, and I don’t know if you’ll be willing to do it. But I’m nervous to even talk about it. I think I’ve found a way to express it through that story, but it was pretty tough even setting up the first steps on a path that will lead there. And… And like, whether you want to do that or not, there’s something I want to share with you first. While I’m not acting childlike at all, and you know that everything I say is my own choice, something I’ve thought about for a long time, and there is no doubt in my mind.” “What do you…” I stammered. My mind was racing, but I didn’t know what she could be thinking of. There were so many thoughts in my mind that my thoughts turned into a kaleidoscope, where I couldn’t even identify the broad strokes that had broken down into so many confusing pieces. “Call me Belle,” she said. “Right now. Not a separate name for my little side. Not a joking use of surnames between coworkers. Just a… my first name.” “Belle?” I said, still not entirely sure why she set so much value in names. But if it made her happy, of course I would say it. And as soon as I made the first sound, she was swinging one leg around to sit in my lap, facing me with one knee on the sofa cushions to either side. There was no ambiguity in that pose; I couldn’t misunderstand her now. “I need you, Cain. Not as a daddy this time, but… an adult.” And then she leaned closer, and there was not the faintest hint of hesitation in that kiss.

Yes a nurse and a nurse's aide cleaned me put a fresh diaper on me and it was great!