The Volleyball Coach's Discipline

Jessica was 23, fiery red hair tied back in a high ponytail that swung like a flame with every leap and dive. She had real talent on the amateur women's volleyball team—quick reflexes, a killer serve, and the kind of athletic build that turned heads—but punctuality was not in her skill set. Practice started at 6:30 sharp three evenings a week, yet Jessica routinely rolled in ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty minutes late, offering breathless apologies and flashing her bright smile as if that would smooth everything over.

Coach Ramirez, a no-nonsense former professional player in her mid-fifties, ran a tight ship. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped dark hair streaked with silver and calloused hands from decades on the court, she believed in discipline above all else. She had warned Jessica twice already that week. The third time would have consequences.

That Wednesday, Jessica dashed into the gym at 6:50, red ponytail bouncing, gym bag slung over her shoulder. Warm-ups were well underway; the team shot her irritated glances as she hurried to join the line. Coach Ramirez’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing—until practice ended.

“Jessica. Locker room. Now,” Coach called, voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.

The rest of the team filed out, whispering. Jessica followed Coach into the empty women's locker room, heart pounding harder than during any spike drill.

Coach Ramirez closed the door behind them and leaned against it, arms crossed.

“This is the third time this week,” she said. “You’re talented, Jessica, but talent means nothing without reliability. You disrupt the team, you disrespect me, and you disrespect everyone who shows up on time.”

Jessica shifted from foot to foot, red hair falling loose around her flushed face. “I’m sorry, Coach. Traffic was bad, and—”

“No excuses,” Coach cut in. “You have a choice. Sit out the next game—let the team down when we need you most—or accept private team discipline right here, right now. Old-school style. One hard spanking, we wipe the slate clean, and you prove you’re serious about this team.”

Jessica’s mouth went dry. “A… spanking?”

“Bare-bottom, over my knee,” Coach confirmed evenly. “You’re an adult. You decide.”

The thought of missing the game—of letting her teammates down and watching from the bench—was worse than the embarrassment. Jessica swallowed hard.

“I’ll… take the discipline,” she said quietly.

Coach nodded once. She moved to the long wooden bench in the center of the locker room and sat down, patting her thigh firmly.

Jessica’s legs felt heavy as she approached. Still in her practice gear—tight black volleyball shorts and sports top—she hesitated only a second before Coach guided her forward and down across her sturdy lap. The position left Jessica’s hands braced on the cool tile floor, toes barely touching on the other side, red ponytail spilling forward.

Coach didn’t waste time. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of Jessica’s shorts and spandex panties beneath and tugged both down to mid-thigh in one firm motion, fully baring the younger woman’s athletic bottom.

Jessica gasped at the sudden exposure, cool locker-room air rushing over her skin. “Coach—”

“You earned this,” Coach Ramirez said simply.

She raised her calloused right hand and brought it down hard across the center of Jessica’s bare cheeks. The slap echoed sharply off the tiled walls—like the crack of a perfectly timed volleyball serve.

Jessica yelped, more from shock than pain at first.

The next slap landed just as firmly on the opposite cheek, then a steady, relentless rhythm began—slap, slap, slap, slap—each one precise and forceful, alternating sides, covering every inch from the curve where bottom met thigh to the fullest part of her athletic rear.

“You will be on time,” Coach lectured between spanks. Slap, slap. “You will respect the team.” Slap, slap, slap. “And you will remember that discipline builds champions.”

Jessica squirmed, kicking her legs involuntarily as the sting built into a fierce, spreading fire. Her pale skin flushed pink, then deep rose, then a glowing crimson under Coach’s unyielding palm. Tears pricked her eyes; she bit her lip to stifle the yelps that escaped with every sharp impact.

The locker room amplified every sound—the crisp slaps, Jessica’s gasps, Coach’s calm voice—making the humiliation burn almost as hot as her bottom.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of stinging slaps, Coach delivered one last resounding smack to the sensitive undercurve and stopped. She rested her hand briefly on the scorching skin.

“Lesson learned?”

“Yes, Coach,” Jessica managed, voice thick and shaky.

Coach helped her up. Jessica stood trembling, shorts and panties still tangled at her thighs, hands hovering but not quite rubbing, red hair disheveled around her tear-streaked face.

“Good,” Coach said, standing. “Pull yourself together. Ice pack if you need one. And be here tomorrow—on time.”

Jessica nodded quickly.

From that day forward, Jessica was the first player in the gym for every practice, red ponytail swinging as she warmed up early. The memory of that echoing, bare-bottom spanking in the empty locker room—and the knowledge that Coach Ramirez would not hesitate to repeat it—kept her punctuality perfect and her commitment unbreakable.