Standing Before Aunt Clara

Mia was 23—old enough to believe she was untouchable, young enough to keep making the same mistakes. Failed classes, endless fights with her mother, and a complete refusal to take responsibility had finally run out of patience. The verdict: pack your bags and go live with Aunt Clara until you learn how to behave.

Aunt Clara, late sixties, silver-white hair in a neat low bun, sharp eyes, and the unmistakable posture of a retired high-school principal, ruled her large Victorian home with quiet, iron authority. Always perfectly turned out in a soft cardigan and tailored slacks, she wasted no words and tolerated no nonsense.

The rules were clear: online coursework 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., chores, no visitors, early bedtime, and respect—always respect.

For weeks Mia complied on the surface, hiding in baggy hoodies and silence. But one snowy December night, with the wind rattling the windows, the need to feel free again became unbearable. She was going to sneak out to a downtown club, just for a few hours.

In her bedroom she transformed. Smoky eyes, sharp liner, bold red lipstick. Long blonde hair teased into soft, sexy waves that spilled over her shoulders. Then the hidden outfit: a glossy black minidress with thin straps and a low sweetheart neckline that molded to her athletic body like a second skin. The hem barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. Underneath, only a tiny black lace thong and sky-high stiletto heels that made her legs look endless.

She checked herself in the mirror—confident, defiant, irresistible. A long winter coat would hide everything until she was safely away.

Mia crept down the creaking stairs, heels clicking despite her best efforts. Aunt Clara was in the living room, reading by the fireplace in her favorite armchair.

“Going somewhere, young lady?” Clara’s voice sliced through the quiet like a ruler across a desk.

Mia froze. “Just… getting some air.”

Clara closed her book, removed her glasses, and stood. Her gaze traveled slowly from the voluminous blonde hair down the clinging dress to the towering heels. Disapproval was written in every line of her face.

“That dress is obscene,” she said coldly. “Far too tight, far too short. You look like you’re advertising something no decent young woman should sell.”

Mia flushed hotly but lifted her chin. “I’m an adult. I’ll wear what I like.”

Clara’s eyes hardened. “An adult? Adults don’t lie and sneak around like naughty children. You are not leaving this house dressed like that.”

Mia tried to push past toward the door. Clara’s hand shot out and closed around her arm in an unbreakable grip.

“Not so fast.”

Clara marched her to the center of the living room, directly in front of the glowing fireplace.

“Stand right here,” Clara commanded. “Feet together, hands at your sides. You will not move until I say so.”

Something in Clara’s tone made Mia obey instantly. Heart pounding, she stood straight, cheeks already burning, blonde hair cascading down her back.

Clara circled her once, slowly. “This dress clings to you like paint. It leaves nothing to the imagination. And that tiny scrap of underwear underneath—hardly decent at all.”

Without another word, Clara stopped behind Mia and firmly flipped the tight hem of the minidress upward, folding the glossy fabric neatly over Mia’s hips. The skimpy black lace thong was now fully on display—thin straps framing her pale cheeks, the delicate lace barely covering anything in front.

Mia gasped, hands twitching at her sides. “Aunt Clara—”

“Hands stay down,” Clara ordered sharply.

Clara positioned herself at Mia’s right side, raised her hand high, and brought it down with a loud, resounding slap across the seat of the black thong.

Mia yelped, her body jerking forward, blonde hair swinging wildly.

Another hard slap followed immediately—slap!—then another and another. Clara’s palm rose and fell in a steady, relentless rhythm, each spank landing firmly over the thin lace fabric that offered almost no protection at all.

slap! slap! slap! slap!

“You think you can defy my rules?” slap! slap! “Sneak out dressed like a cheap little tease?” slap! slap! slap! “Lying straight to my face?” slap! slap!

The sharp sounds filled the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and Mia’s increasingly desperate whimpers. Every impact made the delicate thong shift slightly, the lace snapping lightly against her skin before the next stinging slap landed.

Mia danced on her high heels, legs trembling, tears streaming down her face and ruining her makeup. She kept her hands clenched tightly at her sides, knowing any attempt to cover herself would only make things worse. The heat built rapidly under the thin black lace—warm, then hot, then a fierce, throbbing crimson glow that radiated through the fabric.

Clara continued without pause, her voice calm and lecturing between the measured spanks. “You wanted to show off in this shameful outfit. Now you can stand here like a naughty girl and take your punishment right over that ridiculous little thong.”

slap! slap! slap! slap! slap!

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of stinging, burning spanks, Clara delivered one last extra-hard slap across the center and stepped back.

Mia stood sobbing quietly, dress still bunched at her waist, the tiny black thong doing nothing to hide or soothe the blazing heat beneath it.

Clara walked around to face her. “Have you learned your lesson, young lady?”

“Y-yes, Aunt Clara,” Mia whispered, voice breaking, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Good. Smooth that dress down and go straight upstairs. Remove every bit of this disgraceful outfit and put on proper clothes. You will finish tomorrow’s coursework tonight. If this ever happens again, you’ll be right back here for twice as long over that silly thong. Understood?”

“Yes, Aunt Clara.”

With careful, painful steps, Mia pulled the dress down and waddled upstairs—blonde hair disheveled, mascara streaked, rebellion completely gone.

From that night on, the sexy clothes stayed hidden, the rules were followed, and Aunt Clara’s firm, old-fashioned discipline—delivered standing up, right over Mia’s tiny black thong—remained a vivid, burning memory.