Chapter Text
Lorraine jolted awake.
She didn’t remember falling asleep—and when she peeled her cheek away from a sheet in her notebook, she realized with horror that she hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.
“Shit.”
She jumped to her feet, the desk chair wheeling away behind her, and snatched her cell phone up to look at the screen.
5:06pm.
“Shit!”
Monday softball practice started promptly at 5:00pm.
Coach Crimson was going to kill her.
And so was Zara.
Zara, her partner, whom she’d parted from a couple hours ago with a promise that no, she didn’t need a reminder about practice, she was perfectly capable of getting herself there on her own—without extra motivation, thank you very much, as Zara’s left hand stung like hell.
Zara, who also had been under the impression that last night Lorraine went to bed the same time she did, and didn’t stay up all night under the covers covertly binge watching NCIS (it was so vibey).
“Fuck, shit, damn it.”
That language around here would earn her a date with a bar of soap, but thankfully no one could hear Lorraine’s profanity except herself. She rushed around the room and dressed as fast as she could in a pair of athletic shorts and a shirt, throwing her long, blonde hair up in a haphazard ponytail, and she rushed out the door.
The team was gathered in groups on the grass when Lorraine got to the field, one person standing at distance from the others with a bucket of balls, a bat, and four or five other girls standing opposite her with their gloves on. Looked like fielding drills—fly balls, ground balls, diving catches, that sort of thing. Lorraine had completely missed the stretching and the throwing warm-ups they always started practices with, but maybe she could sneak onto the field without coach noticing she was late.
That hope vanished almost immediately as Coach Crimson’s hawk-like gaze zeroed in on her the second Lorraine stepped foot onto the grass; Coach brought her whistle to her lips and blew it sharply, and Lorraine’s stomach plummeted to the ground. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked Coach’s direction, anticipating a new instruction, but Coach Crimson’s attention was completely focused on Lorraine.
“Townsend.”
The sound of her last name had never sounded so sinister before; it sent a shiver down her spine. “Coach, I—”
“How nice of you to finally join us,” Coach Crimson interrupted, her words polite but her tone clipped. “You have a good reason for showing up late to my practice?”
Swallowing, Lorraine gave the only answer she could. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry,” she added, with little hope of it making any difference—her fate was sealed. She just hoped she’d be spared the—
“Fetch me the Grand Slap from the locker room.”
Shiiit.
Lorraine conjured her best puppy dog eyes. Most of the RBU staff was immune to that look, but she had to try. Anything to save her ass from the dreaded team paddle. The Grand Slap was a long and flat paddle, similar to the design of a cricket bat, and it packed one hell of a punch. Some genius had coined it the Grand Slap as a nod to the baseball term “Grand Slam” and it stuck—and one year, one of the coaches even presented it to the woodshop department to burn “Grand Slap” into its grain. Every year since then, when the words started to fade from the paddle’s use, they had the woodshop department re-burn it.
The Grand Slap hung proudly on the wall in the locker room at Blazing Buttocks Stadium, RBU’s home softball field, in easy reach for any girl to grab it when it was necessary. Coach Crimson often sent her girls to fetch it themselves, especially when they were on the field, even timing them with a stopwatch to make sure they didn’t dawdle.
Coach Crimson reached for her stopwatch and Lorraine quickly abandoned her best attempt at a pleading puppy dog look and, with her mouth twisting in dismay, she turned on her heel to sprint towards the locker rooms. Taking longer than Coach Crimson deemed necessary always resulted in extra swats.
Sometimes delaying the inevitable seemed worth it, but today, she didn’t dare risk it. She plucked the paddle right off its stand and sprinted back out to the field with it in hand, fantasizing all the while of breaking or conveniently losing it.
In a way that would be utterly blameless and entirely plausible, of course.
Coach Crimson had her eyes on the stopwatch when Lorraine ran back out to the field. None of her teammates had started practicing again, which could only mean one thing: Coach Crimson was going to make an example out of her.
Lorraine groaned, tempted to slow her pace before she reached Coach, but the memories of watching past teammates get paddled for the very same thing she had done kept her steadying on. Coach Crimson clicked the stopwatch when Lorraine stopped in front of her, red-faced as she presented her coach the team paddle.
“It seems you are capable of keeping to time,” Coach Crimson commented. “When you want.” She pocketed the stopwatch again and took the paddle from Lorraine’s hands, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “You look like you just rolled out of bed. Your hair’s a mess, your shirt’s on backwards, your cleats are roughly tied. I expect my starting pitcher to have more respect than this.”
“I do, Coach,” Lorraine insisted. She loved the game, she always had, and she was proud to be RBU’s starting pitcher; she had worked so hard to earn that spot. “I didn’t mean to be late—and it won’t happen again, ma’am, I promise.”
“Prove it,” Coach Crimson said grimly. She had a reputation for being a hardass on and off the field—she taught courses in both the Top and Bottom track when she wasn’t coaching—but she was well-respected both as a coach and as a professor.
Partly because she had a really tough swing, and partly because she made it clear just how much she really wanted you to succeed.
Now, with her face set resolutely, Lorraine couldn’t help but wish Coach Crimson would want her to succeed less. That wish only grew stronger as Coach adjusted her grip on the Grand Slap and nodded at Lorraine.
“Bare your bottom, then come here where everyone can see, and bend over and grab your ankles.”
Lorraine flushed. Bare and in front of everyone too? They’d all gathered up into one group, some sitting on the grass, some standing looking unimpressed with their gloves tucked beneath their crossed arms—and Lorraine winced as she realized Zara was very much one of that particular group—and some looking far too interested in the proceedings. All par for the course at RBU, but it didn’t make being the one about to punished on display any easier.
Lorraine hesitated, shuffling her feet and shooting a last-ditch pitiful expression at Coach.
Coach Crimson snorted. “I’d suggest you study harder for your Smooth Talking and Other Ways to Appeal a Spanking course, because what you’re doing? Isn’t doing you any favors.”
Shit.
She didn’t have any other options but to just get it over with. Shoulders slumping, Lorraine turned her back on her teammates, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled her shorts and underwear down to her knees. They fell the rest of the way to the ground. She wiggled in silent protest as the fresh air brushed over her bare bottom. There wasn’t anything in the world more shiver-inducing than having to bare yourself for a spanking. Lorraine reluctantly stepped out of her clothes, spread her feet wide, and bent over to grip her ankles, her bottom poised in prime position for Coach’s infamous mean swing.
“You were, by my count, twenty-three minutes late to practice. You will receive twenty-three swats, and you will count them out.”
Lorraine dropped her head with a soft groan, and the same instant she realized she could see clearly some of her teammate’s upside-down faces behind her, Coach Crimson swung that great big paddle, and it landed with a hard crack against Lorraine’s bare backside. “Ah!” she cried out, her head snapping up, her face burning almost as fiercely as the line of fire that spread across her bottom. “One, ma’am.”
Not one to mess around, Coach cracked the next swat immediately after the count left Lorraine’s lips, right on the same spot across both of her cheeks. Lorraine hissed through her teeth, “Shhhiiii… uh… mmn, two, ma’am.”
Only twenty-one to go.
God help her.
The Grand Slap covered enough ground that even just two swats in, Lorraine’s whole ass burned. How stupid could she have been to be late to practice? Coach Crimson swung that damn big paddle with what felt like every ounce of her strength, rewarding each number Lorraine counted out with a fresh crack. At five, she was already sincerely regretting her life decisions. By ten, it was getting harder to keep herself from jumping up and trying to put out the fire. She had to clutch her ankles tighter to keep herself where she was, without a doubt aware that if she broke position, Coach Crimson wouldn’t hesitate to start over from the beginning.
And Lorraine did actually enjoy sitting down sometimes.
Each each swat piled over the previous ones, blazing heat in its wake, the sheer impact of the paddle driving Lorraine up to her tiptoes. If anyone asked her to, she absolutely would attest that the Grand Slap was aptly named—and Coach Crimson definitely swung it like she was batting for a homerun.
Around count sixteen, Lorraine’s ass seemed fried to the point she was confident she wouldn’t ever sit again. Ever. She’d have to get a butt transplant from someone much better behaved than her, someone who didn’t stay up all night watching NCIS, who listened to her Top and didn’t lose track of time.
Coach Crimson steadied on though; a promise of twenty-three swats meant twenty-three swats, and Lorraine knew better than to hope for a reprieve. Her voice wavered more and more as she counted, not helped by the fact that Coach Crimson set her hand between Lorraine’s shoulder blades. A light touch, but a comforting one; an anchor in the storm to rely on. Tears stung at the corners of Lorraine’s eyes from just the gesture. While Coach definitely knew how to light a girl’s ass up, she was the same woman who sometimes treated them to congratulatory cookies after a hard-won game, who gave each girl on her team their own personal water bottle to make sure they stayed hydrated, who sat them down in front of her to braid their hair. Lorraine felt awful disappointing her.
“Twen—” Lorraine drew in a strained breath, “twenty, ma’am, I’m sorry, I won’t be late again!”
Coach didn’t respond, but her hand rubbed a little on Lorraine’s back before the next whack of the paddle landed.
Almost there, almost to home plate, Lorraine silently encouraged herself, and she spit the count out as fast as could, eager to finally be done with it, “Twenty-one, ma’am!”
Crack!
“Tw-” her voice cracked, “twenty-two, ma’am!”
And just like that, Coach landed the last blow against Lorraine’s poor ass, searing white hot fire into her flesh like a cattle brand. Lorraine groaned, drawing the sound out as the scorch in her bottom made her entire backside throb. “Hng… twenty-three, ma’am.”
Coach rubbed her hand between Lorraine’s shoulder blades. “All right, Townsend. Stand on up. Easy does it.”
Lorraine would have jumped back up—if for nothing else than her pride—but Coach’s hand moved from her back to her arm, and she helped her take it slowly enough not to get a headrush.
Coach squeezed her elbow and turned to the rest of the team behind Lorraine. “Back to business. Davis, take the bucket.”
“Yes, ma’am,” responded their center fielder, Sloane Davis, a fellow junior like Lorraine and Zara, who was on the Top track.
“You can pull your shorts up,” Coach said quietly, letting go of her elbow and gesturing at Lorraine’s clothes piled on the grass.
Blushing, Lorraine stooped for her clothes, wincing as the fiery skin of her backside pulled taut, and she dressed as quickly as she could, swallowing the yelp as her clothes brushed her sore bottom. Coach waited for her to get herself together before she nodded her towards the front of the stadium and the locker rooms. “C’mon then.”
Lorraine started towards the locker rooms, and Coach followed her. It was a quiet journey and physically uncomfortable for Lorraine, but Coach’s company wasn’t uncomfortable in the least.
Once they were inside, Coach Crimson hung the paddle back up in its rightful place on the wall, and Lorraine glared hard at it.
For all the damage it did to Lorraine’s butt, it should have been splintered, scuffed, something, but it looked just as it had before Lorraine had picked it up. Meanwhile, she was sure her ass was as dark red as the garnet birthstone necklace that Zara gave her last year.
Hmph. So unfair.
“If looks could kill.” Coach commented, a tinge of amusement in her voice. She clapped her hand on Lorraine’s shoulder. “How you feeling?”
Lorraine grimaced. “I’m sore, ma’am.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Coach said wryly, massaging a bit where her hand rested. “You know my expectations. You made a commitment to this team, and it’s your responsibility to honor it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Appreciate it. I’m not mad. We’re good here, but you look like hell. Not just from getting your butt handed to you; you look tired. I want you to go on home—”
“Coach, please no—”
“—I’m speaking.”
Lorraine shut her mouth with a click, her stomach twisting into knots at Coach’s tone.
“You’ve been punished. This isn’t that. This is me telling you to go home, drink some water, get some sleep, and make sure you get your butt to practice on time Wednesday. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am—but I can practice, I don’t have to go…”
Coach narrowed her eyes, and the ache in Lorraine’s sore bottom pulsated.
“Um… I mean… yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”
“Good girl.” Coach drew her into her strong arms, wrapping Lorraine’s frame into one big, inarguable hug. Lorraine sank a bit into the comfort, tucking her face into Coach’s shoulder. Coach didn’t seem to mind. As tough as she was, Lorraine knew from the classes she taught just how much she valued aftercare, and she never skimped on it. She also had the knack of making it seem like time just stopped around them, that whatever was going on could wait until they were done.
Coach Crimson might be a hardass, but she cared deeply.
They stood like that for Lorraine wasn’t sure how long, but it wasn’t until Lorraine was ready that they stopped hugging. There was possibly a wet patch on shoulder of Coach’s shirt, but she didn’t seem to notice, and Lorraine certainly wasn’t going to point it out. She swiped her hand over her eyes when she stepped back.
“One more thing.” Coach stepped over to one of the lockers and unlocked it, taking out a small mason jar. She passed it to Lorraine. The substance inside was a soft yellow-white color and thick, and the label on the lid read ‘Battered Butt Balm’. “This is yours. Rub it on your bottom before you leave this locker room. Got it?”
Lorraine nodded, but she couldn’t help wondering,
“Did you make this?”
“Yes,” Coach answered matter-of-factly, “it’s a recipe I modified from the one my Soothing the Burn and Other Ways To Treat a Well-Spanked Bottom professor taught us back in the day. Should last you a couple days, and will treat the marks as well as the surface heat. Don’t bother hiding it from your partner,” she added knowingly, and Lorraine blushed, “it takes the edge off and cares for your skin; it doesn’t eliminate the effects of a spanking. You’ll still be sore.”
“Got it,” Lorraine murmured, ducking her head.
“All right. You need anything?”
Lorraine shook her head. “No, ma’am. Thank you.”
“’Course.”
Coach left. Lorraine set the jar of lotion down on one of the benches and put her hands behind her to rub vigorously, hissing curses under her breath as her hands at first agitated and then soothed the pain.
“Ow, ow, ow,” she whimpered.
The Grand Slap was one awful motherfucker.
She vowed never to be paddled with it again.