Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.This picture reminded me of someone.
It’s the look isn’t it? You know the one, it is supposed to be a withering stare that says ‘You wouldn’t dare,” but it really says is ‘you need to spank me harder and longer than you were intending to.’
You have just said, “What do you think you are doing? I thought we had agreed that you wouldn’t do that again?”
“Yes,” she says in a small little girl voice, “But you said…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence she just pouts. She is hoping that you will remember some promise you made that even she had forgotten and will come to her rescue.
That is when you sometimes say, “I know but…” But even if you remember some promise, don’t say it for then she has got you. Instead, you just give her your ‘look.’
“But you said…” she tries again.
“What?” You growl.
“You know,” she can’t speak for breathing and she can barely do that.
“Yes,” you say sternly.
“I’m shy,” she whispers.
She looks so cute, but you hold your ground.
“You can’t spank me,” she wheedles.
That is when you do. That’s when she rolls her eyes up at you and gives you her ‘look,’ the one in the picture above. That’s when you know your hand will be sore long before you are done with her and a hairbrush might be needed.
Her look does not usually last long, but if it should then you stop the spanking and back up a little. Some corner time is often helpful here and then you can begin the spanking over.
“Sorry,” she says.
Finally, you think. What happens next is up to you.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.
Thanks to TipTopper for these images. The first two have been seen before, but are welcome nonetheless. the second is Melvyn Douglas and Myrna Loy and a spot of marital OTK from the 1940s.
The last one is new to me and looks like 1960s pop art.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Samantha first noticed the girl on account of her old-fashioned dress. She was walking across the courtyard towards the house right through the others without deigning to notice them. She had a forbidding air about her, which on some level at least Samantha’s cousins must have respected, for they made no move to hurl a snowball in the girl’s direction.
The girl had red hair, all piled on top of her head and under her aloof expression she looked rather sad.
I wonder who she is, Samantha pondered, making a note to herself to ask Aunt Mary. The trouble was there were so many cousins from both sides of the family that Samantha hardly knew any of them. Judging from their behaviour, she really didn’t care to.
Her mother said she would have fun at Aunt Mary’s house. She said there would be young people her own age, even some boys who weren’t cousins. True enough she was right, but the older boys had mostly secreted themselves above the garage to pass around joints with some of the more wayward older girls; and worse, Samantha shouldn’t wonder.
The others had mostly joined in with the younger kids in one great snowball fight in the courtyard, leaving only Samantha and this girl to fend for themselves.
Samantha watched the girl become ever more aloof as she disappeared into the old kitchen block.
The house had a lot of tumbled down areas that hadn’t been used since the house had had servants. That had been back in Great Grandfather’s day when Aunt Mary, the current custodian of the house, had been a child.
I bet she isn’t a cousin at all, Samantha thought once the girl had gone. I bet she is one of the girls from the village invited by Mary’s son Ian in the hopes of joining the orgy, or whatever they called it above the garage. Samantha was glad to see that the girl had more sense than have anything to do with them.
It got her wondering how many other people had come for Christmas that she didn’t know. I bet the girl knows some of them, Samantha thought excitedly. Then she grinned.
Dropping out of the window seat in the bay above the courtyard she broke into a run down the long gallery to the back stairs. The girl must come up them, unless that is she was going into the old kitchen wing in the disused part of the house, but why go there?
Samantha didn’t stop running until she reached the stairs. She was grinning all the way, her mother wouldn’t have approved.
“Don’t be so childish,” she would have said, “No wonder you can’t find…” a man, a job, a flat… her mother’s stock phrase for blaming everything that Samantha didn’t have.
Well at least she wasn’t having a snowball fight in the yard or smoking dope and snogging boys above the garage.
Suddenly Samantha realised that she had taken a wrong turn. She didn’t recognise this part of the house and anyway there was no sign of the girl. Then she heard a door close just above her.
Got you, she thought triumphantly. Doubling back she got to what must have been the closing door seconds too late.
The passage beyond was not as Samantha expected. The walls were hung with tasteful gold and red wallpaper and there were some old pictures of hunting scenes, which looked like the Penfold’s that Samantha had thought had long since been sold off.
Wicked old Aunt Mary, holding out us are you, Samantha grinned. She thought briefly about looking into some of the rooms she was passing for other treasures but she heard her quarry up ahead so she hurried on.
Just as she got to the turn in the passage she saw the girl at big door at the end. But before she could speak it opened and she was admitted to the room.
“I think you have found where the cool kids are hanging out,” Samantha sang under her breath in a happy voice.
Samantha took a deep breath and then ambled along the hall trying to compose herself. With any luck she would know some of the cousins inside and she wouldn’t be turned away.
She was about to tap on the door, her head swimming with thoughts of secret knocks, when she heard a man’s voice from within. He sounded like a grown-up and not at all like one of the cousins. The door was too thick to hear what he said, but the tone of the conversation was serious.
Samantha was thrown now. She had hoped to find her kind of party, but now she was probably intruding. Disappointed, she was about to leave when a sound seized her attention.
It sounded like a clap followed by another, but it was too slow for applause and too loud. Then Samantha blushed. The splat that followed sounded like the impact of something on to naked flesh and she knew what she was hearing.
“Oh God, it can’t be,” Samantha gasped. But she couldn’t tear herself away.
The spanking was loud and crisp and went on for some time before the girl began to cry out.
Occasionally the man would growl a little as if he were scolding her, but the main sound was that of the spanking and that went on for quite some time.
Then it occurred to Samantha that she could ‘accidentally’ go in, as if by mistake sort of thing. It was a thought that once entertained wouldn’t let go.
The spanking was proceeding with some vigour now and if she didn’t act quickly she would miss it.
Finally she took hold of the door handle and swept it open.
The girl she could see was around her own age. Her skirts were turned up and around her ankles were cream cotton knickers. The girl had tears pooled in her eyes and her face was nearly as red as her revealed bottom, which was angled over the man’s knee.
The man was older than Samantha expected; an uncle or a father figure rather than a lover. He was at least 40 with thick greying hair and big sideburns.
Both were looking at her now, the girl with a horrified expression and the man rather amused.
“Can’t you see we are busy?” The girl said haughtily as if striving for some dignity. “Please go away.”
“No I think she should stay and watch. After all she will be next and it will be far more instructive for you,” the man chuckled.
“Ooh you beast,” the girl wailed.
Samantha was transfixed. Surely he was joking but in any case, she would save her refusals for after; just then she only wanted to see.
The man resumed the spanking, turning an already very red bottom to an even more vivid shade and very soon the girl had more things to worry about than an audience, for despite her best efforts she began to cry.
“Now young lady, you can go to the corner,” the man said sternly.
Samantha felt a sense of disappointment, although she was glad to see that the girl did not cover herself and went to face the corner with her skirts still turned up and her knickers around her ankles. This left her sore bare bottom very well displayed.
“Your turn,” the man barked at Samantha.
“But I…” she didn’t say too old, not after what she had seen, instead continued, “I haven’t done anything.”
“You, young lady are a peeping tom aren’t you?” he growled.
Samantha blushed, but despite herself she nodded.
“You won’t tell will you?” she whispered. The thought of being teased by 30-odd cousins was too much to bear.
“No bargains, just come here,” the man snapped.
Samantha glanced at the girl in the corner and then took half a step forward. It was enough and in a moment she was across the man’s knee with her own skirts rolled up and her knickers at her shins.
Jacked-knifed over his lap she had never felt so vulnerable and she was about to protest that the door was still ajar, but then he spanked her.
“Yah,” she yelped, kicking her legs and bobbing her head in unison.
The fiery handprint on her bottom stung worse than she thought. Then he spanked her again.
“No, I don’t want to,” she wailed.
“Be quiet, you deserve this,” he scolded her.
Samantha crossed her ankles as he applied a volley of spanks to her bare bottom until she began to bawl like a lost kitten.
“Please I’m sorry,” she wailed, but he ignored her and went on spanking her until Samantha lost all track of time.
“Now go and stand next to Charlotte and don’t you dare move. I want to see that polished red behind of yours,” the man ordered her.
Samantha felt until shamed now, but it felt so good to cry that she indulged herself to the maximum.
“That’s it, let it out,” the man soothed, “Two Christmas cherry bums contrite and glowing in the corner.”
“Yes Sir,” the girl said.
“Ooh, I’m so sorry,” Samantha sobbed, and she was, but had no idea why.
*
At some point Samantha had drifted off and some considerable time had passed. The warm room had become chilly and she was dimly aware that she and Charlotte, if that was her name, had been dismissed and that man had gone.
By the time the dazed Samantha had pulled her knickers up the girl had also gone, not that Samantha wanted to chat just then. Later she would have a quiet word and learn more about the curious events.
It had got dark and the passage way outside the room was dark, but Samantha found the door to the stairs and heard the ubiquitous cousins before she had a chance to locate the light switch so she didn’t bother.
“Samantha, there you are. Where have you been? We are having charades in the drawing room,” Sarah one of her more palatable cousins called out.
Samantha grimaced and gave her bottom a surreptitious rub under her skit and then politely nodded.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called back.
Then satisfied that she would be left alone again she went off to see Aunt Mary.
She found her as always in the kitchen preparing yet more food.
“Auntie,” she said as casually as she could.
“Mm yes dear,” Mary said without looking up.
“Um, how many cousins are there here?”
“Oh I don’t know… thirty, thirty three maybe if we have everyone,” Mary replied, still placing her attention on the sausage rolls, “No, let me think…”
“Who is Charlotte?” Samantha interrupted; Mary’s thought processes could take a while otherwise.
“Charlotte? I don’t think we have a Charlotte,” Mary said, now she was looking up.
“A redheaded girl about my age,” Samantha prompted.
Mary frowned.
“No I don’t think so,” she said, “Redheaded you say? I had a Great Aunt Charlotte. She was a redhead. Lived here oh… until she married. Matter of fact she lived here with her husband for a time when I was about your age. She only died a few years back… oh sorry. I am rambling on. Charlotte you say? Could be someone from the village. Ian invited some people.”
“Oh yes, that will be it,” Samantha said thoughtfully.
Then as she went to go Mary said, “There is a picture of Charlotte in the hall with her husband; a strange chap I remember.”
Mary’s face took on an odd expression as she spoke.
“A very odd chap, when I was your age he used to… oh well never mind,” Mary said, suddenly becoming tight-lipped.
Matching her mood, Samantha nodded and beat a retreat.
Out in the hall one wall was covered with pictures of family, alive and dead; some going back generations. Under 18th century portraits of bewigged squires sat dour Victorians and stiff-necked Edwardians. Nearer in time were Noel Coward-esque stylish young men and women from the 1920s, 30s and 40s.
There are among them, aloof and removed in time by at least half a century was Charlotte and the man who had spanked them both as clean and fresh as Samantha had seen them; attired in much the same clothes.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.The discussion forums often throw up little spanking snippets, most of them inappropriate for here or completely off topic. Unsurprisingly, the most interesting are often those with tails of yesteryear.
This short by Cally was taken from Fem First:
My grandmother spent most of the war living in an extended household of women and various strangers. At 19 she had taken up a job with the Red Cross in a major British city, but wasn’t able to get independent digs. So she ended up living with three or different families in a big house along with various single women mucking in together.
The house was run by a middle-aged woman who was something of matriarch figure, whether by acclamation, self-appointed or the householder my Granny never made clear.
But she used to take the law into her own hands when it came to the various occupants. Cat-fights, drunkenness, sneaking in men (especially GIs apparently) could all get you ‘a good hiding,’ as granny put it.
Young wives with husbands on active service and 20-something war workers were all fair game for this treatment, Granny said.
Mostly women were ‘walloped with just what came to hand’ wherever they were confronted. This would be over the knee or a handy bit of furniture and given the absence of men, often on the bare bottom.
Granny said she got into ‘all kinds of scrapes’ with this woman and was often on the receiving end. The worst thing she said was being sent to either her room or the woman’s where she had to ‘drop her kecks’ and wait for the woman to gather a birch from the yard.
Then face down on the bed she was thrashed until it ‘felt like a million beestings,’ Granny said.
This went on from 1940 until 1946 when granny was well into her 20s. Of course granny used to say, ‘it never did me any harm,’ and always laughed about it. I bet she didn’t at the time.
=
Obviously it was a different time and place. There will be another like this from a similar forum soon.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.The Russell Corner is a 70,000-odd word novel that was first published in 2009. All things considered it has sold rather well for a micro-publication and I know many of you bought and I am gratified by that.
Generally the book was well-received and many of those those used to my narrative style have said some very complimentary things indeed. However the production values were not as high as they might be and it has to be said that it was written at a very early stage in my journey as a creative writer of erotic fiction.
So it was with some surprise that at a time when my original publisher was considering retiring the book, LSF approached me with a view to republishing it.
After some extensive re-edits and adding some 2,000 words, I am happy to announce that this story has now been reissued and it is now available direct from LSF or on Amazon as an e-book in various formats.
The publishers’ description can be read on my bookshop page. However, also back in 2009 and preview copy was reviewed by David Roman and his short article was included as a forward for the book.
He wrote:
The Russell Corner is an exploration of erotic discipline. At its core is love and the unconditional love of various submissive women for their dominants.
Women are very much at the heart of the story. Indeed the only man to be more than cursorily treated is the nominal hero.
Richard Russell is a patriarch who loves his wife and daughters and genuinely values his friend and faithful secretary. While his secretary can only envy the severe punishment he hands out to his two eldest daughters at his office. It is her obsession with the corner in his office that gives the story its name.
But the true narrative of the story is carried by Catherine Raven and her relationship with her stepdaughter Eleanor. Although she secretly yearns for the submission of her former married life, widowhood has forced her into the role of dominant. She is on a mission to complete her late husbands will to mould Eleanor into her father’s worthy successor.
Eleanor herself is an intelligent independent woman who clearly need not submit to her stepmother’s tyranny, but at heart must because it is the only way that she can address her submissive needs. Again it is really love and a desire to gain Catherine’s respect that motivates her scheming.
For most of the women in the story it is necessary to pretend to be reluctant submissives, even to themselves, or else their world will be exposed as a game and come crashing down.
The story is set around Easter 1990. This removes it in time while still allowing it a contemporary feel. This not only serves to provide it with sense of unreality but is a world before mobile phones and the Internet, which could otherwise inhibit the plot.
The plot itself is not a detailed one. It often merely serves as a hook on which to hang various punishment scenarios. But more importantly it allows for characters to be developed through an exploration of their motivations.
The Russell Corner stands as a metaphor for each of the submissives in the story and their quest to be loved and protected for the price of submission.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Our story began here.
The cellar was mostly dark and somewhere behind her a single drip of water gave out a ping every few moments marking time until Mary returned. Tatiana had been in this position many times before and although sometimes she had been left in virtual darkness, on this occasion she had been afforded a small nightlight. As she the great shadows loomed over her just at the corner of her eye, the maid wondered if the darkness might not have been a blessing.
Set in front of her face was a small mirror that was angled so that Tatiana could see not only her own face staring back at her, but the elevation above it of her bare bottom, thrust upwards and exposed for any and all penalties that Mary Granger decided to impose. It was a familiar position and one that forced Tatiana to contemplate her sins and her fate at one and the same time.
Her head and wrists were locked in a pillory set halfway down two upright posts. Behind her was a high padded bench on which she now knelt so that her knees and breast were almost level and her bottom was placed at the highest point.
Worst of all was the shame and certain knowledge that she utterly deserved all that was about to befall her, a situation impressed upon her by her own visage set blushing and sheepishly not 18 inches in front of nose in the mirror.
Her mother had been a religious woman and given to martyring herself in misery to offset any good fortune that had befallen her and Tatiana often wondered if she had not some of the same inclinations. For as much as she hated her current humiliating and exposed position, part of her revelled in it and her sex throbbed like an unscratchable itch to further torment her. I would be so lost back in Moscow, she thought ruefully; here I am found. The thought did not cheer her overmuch and around she went again in her head, berating herself by turns even as part of her thrilled.
*
Mary saw no reason to trouble Gerald with Tatiana’s snooping. After all, voyeurism might be considered one of the perks of the job so long as the feckless girl was willing to pay the price if she were caught.
The housekeeper knew that minutes became hours in the oubliette-like basement and 45 minutes in the stocks below would see the maid well-humbled. After all Drake had placed Mary there often enough and she was quite sure the little straightener Tatiana was about to get was a poor relation to some of the sessions the housekeeper had endured at the hands of the Spankman. Mary shuddered in erotic dread at the memory as she strived to supress all adolescent thrills at the thought of Drake as she attended to the matter in hand.
As Mary made her way down the steep stone steps, she switched on some of the more subdued lighting, mostly out of necessity, although she knew the progressive brightening of the ever nearer illumination would play on Tatiana’s nerves announcing as it did the housekeeper’s approach.
Sure enough as Mary drew near she saw Tatiana shift a little at the knees causing her bottom to wag ever so slightly perhaps in the expectation of a gift.
The pillory bar that locked the girl’s hands and head was largely a symbolic discipline as Mary knew that the maid would have stood nose to the wall without restraint if she had been ordered to, as she often had in the past. But the housekeeper had to admit that this way Tatiana’s bottom was presented to excellent and impressive advantage.
“Now my girl,” Mary said in her sternest voice, “What have I told you about peeping at doors?”
Tatiana thought better to reply without leave and gulped violently as if only now truly comprehending her fate.
Mary came close and eyed the exposed girl, possibilities running through her mind. This really was a recurring offence and she was within her rights to take all metaphorical gloves off. And perhaps put some very real rubber ones on, Mary thought in amusement. She kicked an aluminium bucket close to her feet to set the maid’s nerves on edge even more. Tatiana would recall the funnels and lengths of hose well enough without a further reminder.
In the mirror the ghostly face became ashen and the spectre began chewing at her lower lip.
“This could get very interesting for you,” Mary said sharply as she addressed the face set below the exposed and rather fetching bottom. “I am seriously considering leaving you here all night with something intimate to keep you company; after a thrashing of course.”
Tatiana now had enough light to see the other toys on the basement shelves and her eyes darted left to a neat row of anal plugs graduating in sizes up to ones that would tax a horse. Some of the unguents that were used to ease their passage carried quite a bite and could sting a girl well passed dawn. The maid quailed and silently prayed.
“Well haven’t you anything to say?” Mary scolded, knowing she hadn’t given leave for the girl to speak and the chiding was unjust.
“Please Ma’am I… I mean if it pleases you to allow me to say…”
Tatiana’s voice was lost in Novgorod or might as well have been for all the clarity it carried for the words all ran together in a string of buzzing Zs and twangs. But Mary was used to that and cut the girl some slack. After all, the maid’s English was usually near perfect which was more than Mary could say for her own Russian.
“You may speak,” Mary’s voice announced it as an order.
“I’m sorry I listen…”
Mary coughed warningly.
“I look and listen at the door… I just… I’m sorry, there is no excuse Ma’am,” Tatiana gave up on a hopeless position.
“No there isn’t is there?” Mary scolded. “So this is how it is going to be…”
Tatiana craned her neck, first right to where the bucket stood and then left at the row of plugs, and gulped in anticipation.
“…For the rest of this month I am going to work out a quite challenging array of ‘pleasures’ and some really quite embarrassing, not to say uncomfortable, little experiences; more on that you will discover. For now…”
Mary reached over and took a heavy leather strap from a hook off the wall and then dangled it in front of Tatiana’s face. It was a good solid broad taws-like affair with one side left rough and embossed with fine file-like teeth. The only strap that was worse was the one with glass paper coated on the striking surface.
Tatiana regarded the object with horrified fascination with a look normally reserved for courgettes or soggy Brussels sprouts; two regularly served foods that the maid loathed.
Taking up the food theme Mary reached for a jar of pickled Scotch Bonnet and began to siphon off some of the oil they had been steeped in.
“Before we roast, first we baste,” Mary said in amusement as she began to liberally apply the liquid fire.
Tatiana gasped at first contact and squealed, although the initial sensation was the cold. There was some tingling where the oil drizzled onto her most intimate eye and trickled lower, but the Russian girl was still more apprehensive about the strap to take note.
Mary demanded that Tatiana perfectly present her now shiny wet bottom and then waited for the tension to build before laying on the first rasping stroke of leather-delivered fire.
The girl responded with an eye-popping gasp and then shimmied her tail back and forth for Russia.
The tender Slavic skin took the crimson stain at once, the textured striking surface chafing the maid where it would do the most good. The sting-scratch of the leather now reacted with the spiced oil making an unpleasant burn positively flare.
Mary nodded before placing another stinging slap as she set-in to make a determined attempt to spank the bottom dry before applying another coat of Scotch Bonnet paint.
Tatiana began to grunt in ever higher tones until she really became quite shrill. By which time her bottom was glossy and red like a glazed summer strawberry.
The housekeeper only paused to reply some of the unction, again not stinting the girl as she let the oil cascade over her bottom and upper things and all in between. Tatiana’s skin shocked to pebble-like gooseflesh and Tatiana wailed her appreciation; a blessed interlude before another thorough application of the strap.
The leather rose and fell with a vigorous swing echoing of the constricted walls, the heavy splat a counterpoint to Tatiana’s shrieking wails as beat followed beat at a steady rate eight or 10 times a minute. Even so the punishment took some time until eventually even Mary could see that the stoical Russian had had enough.
“Raw is it?”
“Yes Ma’am,” Tatiana squealed between panting.
“I am minded to insert a little company for you and leave you to stew overnight,” Mary told the girl, “But some creative begging on your part might sway me.”
“Anything,” Tatiana gasped in a panic, “Please Ma’am.”
“I have it in mind to read for an hour or two before bed,” Mary continued, “ and it would be such a pity to miss the glow of your punished bottom whilst you languished down here. What would you say to a long stint in the corner with a bottom untroubled by massaging hands while I settle down with a book?”
“Oh yes Ma’am, thank you Ma’am,” Tatiana gushed, her gratitude genuine. “It is more than I deserve.”
“Indeed it is,” Mary agreed, “But if I catch you again it will be a dose of the glass-paper strop as a prelude to the cane and a night’s contemplation with a very large friend.”
Tatiana needed no telling as to the nature of that friend and shuddered.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Some years ago I wrote a short series about the adventures of Lizzie Baines, a New York girl who marries a soldier on the eve of the Korean War and is transplanted to Louisiana to live with his family while he serves abroad. While there she has to deal with some very quaint and challenging Southern customs until her husband returns from war.
It was inspired by a very short missive I once read on this subject; its funny how such things can grow in the mind. Funnier still LSF have now published it as a novella and it is now available.
If you are interested the publishers blurb runs:
Lizzie is a young woman who is in love with George, a serviceman. After they are married, Lizzie finds herself living with George’s mother and sisters Marey and Janey. The discipline regime in the Baines household gives her a stunning realisation of how infractions are dealt with in this family as she watches Marey and Janey receiving a switching whilst bending over the couch. It isn’t long before Lizzie feels the impact of Ma’s hairbrush, and later a very stingy switch. Lizzie realises she is seriously enjoying watching the many spankings in the household – but when her husband returns home, it seems he has plans to discipline her himself. Spankings are just part of life in this household.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.LSF have published another story of mine. This time it is the novella first published in five parts as the Bannerman Saga and includes the stories The Life and Times of Rachel Kent, The Wise Fools and The Last Days of Eden.
It is an eclectic western adventure about a spoilt girl from ‘back east’ tamed by the strong-willed cowboy and of frontier life at home and at school spanning two generations of cousins.
For those who want it for their kindle or just to keep it is available from Amazon or LSF direct.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.I always had this thing about rules. I guess it stems from the fact that at home I never had any. My brother and I did pretty much what we liked, when we liked. It made for a complicated adolescence, but being such a free spirit contributed to my creativity and led me to my passion for photography.
Even so, I think from those earliest times I had a craving for some structure, but by the time I got to college had assumed that such things had passed me by. However, events were to prove me wrong and my journey began quite by chance.
In my last year in college I shared a room with Fran, a lively cute blonde from Colorado who complimented my chaotic nature. Where I was messy, she was tidy and where I was tardy, she was always on time.
In some ways Fran and I were alike. She had lost her parents in her early teens and had been brought up by relatives on some kind of commune and although I had parents, mine like hers were largely absent when it came to guidance.
One day I came back to our room and heard raised voices. It didn’t take long for me to realise that Fran was having an argument with a strange friend of hers, Ellen, a somewhat older woman I had met only once before. But who I knew had a great deal of influence over Fran.
For a moment I pondered leaving them to it, but I had a heavy bag of books with me and I wanted to grab some money for my purse form my stash. So with an ostentatious cough I pushed open the door and went in.
To my utter shock Ellen was sitting on my bed with Fran draped across her lap. The latter’s baby-blue cotton pants and smiley panties had been pulled right down to her ankles in preparation for a spanking.
“I eh…” was the fullest extent of my vocabulary at that moment and I remember that I pointed lamely to my bedside cabinet.
“Come in Addison,” Ellen said breezily, “We won’t be too long, we just have something to settle.”
I hated being called Addison, it made me sound like I was an old president from back in the day. Most people called me Addie. But just then I was too dumbfounded to reply.
“Addie, please go away,” Fran wailed, “Ellen please don’t, not with her here.”
“You know the rules,” Ellen said impatiently, “Spankings are given with no consideration to company. And in any case Addison lives here, so she’s family.”
Embarrassed for Fran who might be seen from the hall, I stepped back and closed the door, although I remained in the room. Then as I watched, Ellen retrieved a hairbrush from her purse and lined it up on Fran’s protruding rear end. I was just wondering how often this sort of thing happened between then when Ellen let go with a volley of hard determined spanks and a red-faced Fran responded by clenching her jaw. So I gathered that they were both familiar with these roles.
In a few short minutes Ellen delivered a fast series of cracks to every part of Fran’s bare bottom until it was tomato red and she was panting like a marathon runner. I didn’t count them, but there could easily have been a hundred spanks and the older woman showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Fran must have concluded the same thing, for at that moment her face cracked into a grimace and she began to call out.
In a few more short minutes the petite blonde went from angry groans to open howls as she gurgled to open sobbing. By then of course her bottom was quite something to see, with dark cherry blemishes over an angry red rash and not a little swelling. I had heard the expression a blistered behind, but this was taking it literally.
“I really think she’s…” I swallowed, suddenly ashamed that I had let my fascination overcome Fran’s hind-end interests.
Ellen shot me a hard glance and I got the vague impression that I could so easily be next. Maybe to make a point or maybe just because I had spoken, the spanking lasted another minute or so before the sobbing Fran was pulled into Ellen’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” the well-spanked girl cried, “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s it, let it all out,” Ellen soothed.
“What did she do?” I asked.
“Someone spent their hall fees on shopping,” Ellen tut-tutted.
“I was going to cover them with my savings and put them back later,” Fran hiccoughed.
She cast me a sideways glance. Her face was close to the colour of her bottom and the look reminded me of a girl I saw once after a public wedgie in senior high.
“You know that was never going to happen, don’t you?” Ellen scolded. “Admit it now or someone is going back over my knee.”
“I suppose,” Fran sobbed, tucking her face into Ellen’s chest.
“Now young lady, you can go and stand in the corner,” Ellen said.
“But…” Fran gaped.
Ellen just pointed firmly at the only corner in the room without furniture.
To my surprise and without pulling up her panties, a thoroughly meek Fran got to her feet and shuffled over to the corner. Then without being told she put her hands on her head and leaned forward at the waist so that her bottom stuck out behind affording Ellen and me a good view of her spanked behind.
“Addison,” Ellen said with a broad smile as she stood up and extended a hand, “How are you?”
“I… I’m fine,” I managed, taking it with a shake.
Ellen was about 10 years older than us with a big mane of fiery red hair. Her blue eyes were flecked with brown making them appear greenish and coupled with her generous curves I was somehow put in mind of an amazon queen.
“Hasn’t Fran told you about how we deal with things at home?” Ellen said in an amused but slightly chiding voice.
I noticed she had sat back down on my bed as if she were holding court. This and the confident smile that blessed her heart-shaped face put reminded me of the amazon queen again.
“No,” I drawled slowly, “She hasn’t.”
“Well then, let me fill you in,” Ellen chuckled.
Fran shifted uneasily and gave a groan at this.
Then for the best part of an hour while Fran stood bare-bottomed in the corner, Ellen laid out the commune’s unusual disciplinary arrangements.
*
For days after what I had seen, Fran hardly acknowledged my existence. She couldn’t look me in the eye and all our conversations were generally of one syllable. However, for my part, I could not get the whole affair out of my mind. Everything about it thrilled my imagination. I noticed that Fran winced every time she sat on her bed and tended to favour her hip. She avoided the chair at her desk altogether. I wanted to ask so many questions, but that would have been far from politic.
Then about a week afterwards Fran walked up beside side me on campus and asked if I wanted to get coffee.
“Sorry I have been a bit off with you,” she said in a low voice.
I notice her eyes darting around to make sure no one could overhear.
“Don’t tell Ellen will you, she doesn’t tolerate what she calls attitude,” Fran continued.
I shook my head, reluctant to say anything that would make her clam up.
Fran blushed and licked her lips nervously and I knew she had something to ask.
“No one… I mean there wasn’t anyone in the corridor when you came in? That day I mean,” she asked, “No one saw or heard anything did they?”
I saw plenty, I thought, but all I said was, “I am pretty sure no one saw anything.”
I was equally sure someone must have heard something, but thought it better not to say so. Fran was openly relieved.
“You must think we are nuts,” she gushed.
“You mean what Ellen said?” I smiled.
“Well that too, but I mean… anyway…” she blushed, “I guess I had it coming, but I am not so… I don’t know, relaxed about it as Ellen is.”
“Is this what you had growing up?” I asked.
“Oh no, hey no that was the weird thing,” Fran took my arm and lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I was never supposed to go there as a kid, but it was that or an orphanage. My aunts had the devil’s own time keeping their lifestyle from me. Of course I guessed some stuff.”
“So this commune thing, is it for lesbians…?” I let the question hang.
I knew her mother’s sister and her partner were gay and from Ellen now I knew that their wider group on the ranch in Colorado had some sort spanking deal that was at least half kink, but in Fran’s case at least seemed genuinely a disciplinary thing.
“Oh hell no,” Fran seemed amused; “Mostly not in fact, Ellen’s partner is a guy. Matt, you would like him.”
“Does he spank you too, or does your aunt?” I ventured.
Fran blushed and became a little shifty. “No, not Aunt Belle, she won’t… but Aunt Dale has once or twice. It was her I confronted about the whole thing when I turned 18. I was actually a bit het up on entitlement at the time. She… well she put me straight.”
I could guess how she did that and couldn’t help smiling. I also noticed that she hadn’t answered about Matt.
“It was really awkward at first. I mean I had no place to go but I wasn’t quite one of them. Dale considered having me lodge with her folks but I…” she looked at the floor and shot me a hard quizzical stare.
“You wanted in?” I suggested.
Fran blushed for America and then slowly nodded.
“Ellen came to the rescue and offered to mentor me,” Fran continued, “She took it real slow at first; Aunt Belle was pissed for a long time actually.”
The last point seemed a sore one in more way than one, so I let it slide.
“Commune rules say new members have to over 21,” Fran added as if that explained it all.
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Anyway, Ellen has asked if you want to come to Colorado for the summer,” Fran said casually.
Fran was a bit of a butterfly when she spoke and sometimes random bits of conversation didn’t fit and led to misunderstandings. Was this one of those times? I blushed to my ears and had the most peculiar feeling come over me.
“I… I’m not 21 yet,” I blurted.
A hard little line formed on Fran’s pale brow, she was shaking her head as if groping for something. Then she giggled as a penny dropped.
“No silly, we can have visitors. It’s just normally I can’t… well you know, it’s embarrassing, but since you kinda know…” she shrugged, “Anyway, it was Ellen’s idea. It’s a great place to take photographs.”
“Photographs yes,” I said distantly, but I was still blushing and for some reason for once photography was the last thing on my mind.
*
The summer seemed a long way off but I knew at once that I was going to go. I think my interest was piqued in the other matter then too, but that was a little harder to assimilate and I spent many idle moments on web boards and scouring the library for literary references.
There were other visits from Ellen of course, but not many and I was too shy to meet her for more than a few minutes. Also try as I might, I was never able to catch her and Fran having a ‘talk’ again. Although once or twice after I noticed Fran had a reluctance to sit down after one of her mentor’s visits.
Finally the semester ended and after a slow two weeks with my folks I set off for the West.
Ellen and Fran had picked me up from Denver and from there it was some hours’ drive north-west on progressively narrower roads. Colorado and its mountains were much as I expected, only more so. The commune on the other hand was a surprise.
I had expected some kind of compound or at least a village, but instead there were separate houses set back from a single track in a tight wooded valley that wound its way up the mountain. Further up near Ellen’s house was a meeting house with storerooms, but that was the only communal activity of any kind that I could see.
“The women, like Fran’s Aunt Belle, tend to form committees to handle social things. There are even some conventional families living further out and in the next valley. But most of the hard core to the group are here in 17 houses. The men sort out lumber and maintain the fences and the road between them,” Ellen explained as she guided the SUV up the twisty track.
“Do they have a committee too?” I asked.
“Ha,” Ellen laughed, “Not so that you’d notice. Matt more or less handles the ordering of things. You might call him a committee of one. Leastways, he is in our house.”
“So it’s just the three of you?” I put in.
“Now that’s a question,” Ellen replied and shot me a smile over her shoulder before putting her attention back on the road. “Actually there are four of us usually, as well as Fran who spreads her time between us and Belle’s place; we have Alexia on more or less a permanent basis. But others come from time to time. My sister Darlene for one, although she is not really my sister, but there is a lot of that around here. Family is what we agree it is, if you follow?”
I didn’t entirely but just then we pulled to a stop outside a stout pine and rock wall house that was styled like an over-large mountain cabin.
“Welcome to Tear Valley,” Ellen grinned as we got out.
*
That summer we hit the ground running as far as my personal journey was concerned. The moment we walked in the door I was confronted by the sight of a short dark filled-out sort of girl standing in the corner with her denims and panties at her ankles.
It was clear she had been soundly spanked but given her face was a lot redder than her bottom just then, I figured me being a witness to her punishment was a bigger concern.
“Don’t mind her,” a big plaid-shirted man said on seeing my gaze. “I am not through with Alexia here yet.”
He had an easy grin which defined a square jaw set under wiry salt and pepper hair.
“I’m Matt and you must be Addison,” he said.
I didn’t know where to look and my eyes flicked from the big guy to the small bare-bottomed girl in the corner.
“Call me Addie,” I said.
“What’s our Alexia done now?” Ellen said in an exasperated voice.
“You know those cookies she had to bake for Martha and the committee?” Matt said in a stern voice.
I noticed Alexia shift her weight.
“But I told her if she got up this morning…” Ellen began.
Matt was slowly nodding.
“Oh she didn’t,” Ellen groaned, and then to Alexia she snapped, “But that was the third time.”
“I over slept ma’am,” Alexia said repentantly.
Ellen stared in her direction with a look of disbelief.
“Young lady you are grounded,” Ellen said severely.
“Yes Ma’am,” Alexia said miserably.
“You want me to handle it?” Ellen asked Matt.
I stood wide-eyed and made like a fly on the wall, but Fran was smirking and just lapping it up.
“No I think I have it covered,” Matt drawled.
“What you got in mind?” Ellen asked, “The switch?”
There was an eagerness about Ellen that I hadn’t seen before, in her own way, she loved this too.
Matt eyed her for a moment but didn’t answer. Then he walked away.
I was shown to my room while the mortified Alexia stood vigil and even though it was a good hour or so while I was shown around and had unpacked, the girl was still there when we came back down. Even then it was quite a while before Matt came back into the room.
“Okay little lady, let’s take this into the den,” he rumbled.
Alexia stooped to gather her clothing and pulled it up as far as her knees so that she could shamble off with Matt. I saw that he now held a broad and thick leather belt and I swallowed in sympathy. Hen as Alexia passed me I saw she was sucking her lips into her mouth, but refused to meet my gaze.
I shot a glance at Fran who just shrugged as she tried hard not to smile. I sensed that she was embarrassed and didn’t push it by asking, even when the slow steady thwack of the rise and fall of a belt could be heard form deeper inside the house.
I didn’t know where to put myself and stood uncomfortable in the middle of the open plan room as the punishment continued. After a few moments the sound of leather on bare skin was added to by some pretty throaty yells, followed soon afterwards by the obvious sound of crying.
“Come on, you can meet Alexia later… well tomorrow anyway,” Fran whispered.
Before we could move off the sound stopped and Matt marched Alexia back into the main room to stand in the corner again.
Then turning to me Matt said, “Fran tells me you are a photographer,” as if nothing had happened.
I looked over at the thoroughly miserable Alexia and wished for a moment I had my camera to hand.
“Yes Sir,” I squeaked.
Let me tell you, I had never called anyone sir in a domestic context before in my life.
*
The next day Alexia was even more stand-offish than Fran had been following her spanking. So apart from a very polite hello and a grunt in answer to some leading questions, we didn’t really talk. So instead of hanging around I decided to go with Fran to meet her aunt.
The mountains were obscured with clouds and a light drizzle meant it was not a good day for pictures.
“What do you do around here?” I asked Fran.
“There’s chores, for me anyway; there’s hiking, we could borrow some horses maybe and down at the lake we can fish or sail,” Fran said. “Then if I can get Ellen’s car we could go into town, but I warn you it is not much of a town.”
It was a useful answer but it didn’t really tell me much about the commune and how it all worked. I might have asked more but we arrived at a small brown wooden house about a mile from Ellen and Matt’s place.
I knew that Fran had a room here as well as one at the other house, so I wasn’t surprised that she walked up to the door and went right in and I followed her.
The small house was nothing like the well-appointed house I was staying at. And although it was tidy it had so many knick-knacks that it looked almost like a shop. It was a country style that didn’t exactly suit my tastes.
Fran looked about to call out when we heard something. It was pretty obviously the sound of a vigorous spanking and we froze in our tracks. Standing behind her and somewhat to her right, I was able to glance around the door post into a room beyond. But it was only a momentary look, for almost at once I was ushered quietly back the way we had come.
“Oh gross,” Fran giggled. “Aunt Belle is pissed at Aunt Dale again.”
I hadn’t thought so. For a start, both women were much younger than I had expected and although it was hard to say much about them on so small an acquaintance, I could tell that the woman draped over the others lap with her denims and panties around her ankles was far smaller than the woman spanking.
Later on I was to learn that Dale was a small dark smiley woman who was not much older than Ellen and she was the sub in their particular partnership. While Fran’s blood relation Belle was a slightly older woman in her late 30s with iron grey hair and a curvy rural figure.
“We had better not go back until tomorrow,” Fran said in a brittle voice, “It is so embarrassing when Aunt Dale is in the corner and I bet she’ll be there for a while afterwards.”
I said something non-committal and when Fran said she would swing by another friend I told her I would meet her back at the house.
Once she had gone I went a short way in the other direction and took a short series of test pictures of the mountain and then on a hunch I came back by another way that ‘accidentally’ took me to the back of Fran’s aunts’ house.
As luck would have it the track went close to the house and it was the obvious way to go, but I couldn’t resist standing on tip toes and peeking in. I was just in time to see a dishevelled Dale being led to the corner with her jeans and panties still at her ankles. It took a moment to hold the camera over my head and snap a quick auto-roll of pictures. Then sure that no one had seen me I headed back to the house.
*
I don’t know what I was going to do with the pictures; I had taken them more on impulse than anything. After one quick glance at the badly framed, if embarrassing contents of the camera’s memory, I decided to delete them.
“Addie,” Fran called from the hall outside my room.
I hastily turned off the camera and went to see what she wanted. If she noticed my shifty blushing, she did not show it.
“We can go horseback riding,” she said excitedly. “Alexia,” she called again.
Alexia appeared somewhat sheepish as she came to her bedroom door.
“Horses,” Fran said again eagerly.
I thought Alexia would spit or throw something but after darting a look at me she said in a sullen voice, “I’m grounded, besides, I don’t think…”
Her hand stole to her behind.
“Sorry, I forgot,” Fran pulled a face.
I smiled at the idea of a 20-something women being grounded, but one look at Alexia’s face and I immediately regretted it.
Despite my faux pas the rest of that day was magical and even the weather improved so that I got a zillion pictures of Fran and myself on horseback and even more of the snow-capped mountains. So successful was our outing that Ellen and Matt agreed to take us out again a few days later and off on to some of the more out of the way tracks.
As before we collected our mounts from a ranch house further down the valley and it was explained that it was part of the commune deal. There I was given a brown mare called Billie. She was passive enough and quite biddable so to begin with the day went much the same as before.
“Don’t get too far ahead,” Matt cautioned.
“Okay Matt,” Fran replied, but already she was out in front.
We were both young and excited and about an hour out we broke out of the treeline and got a spectacular view of the valley. Matt and Ellen were some way behind and Fran said the fateful words, “I’ll race you.”
I am no real horsewoman and far from giving her a race I struggled to keep up. I only managed that because the horses struggled on the incline somewhat, but even so Fran raced on. Then I saw she had missed a path off to the right which looked as if it would cut ahead of her. I took it.
Billie was in trouble almost at once. She had already been struggling, but now with a sharp steep upward slope to contend with, she began to lurch like a dog wading through snow. I knew at once it was a mistake but the trouble was I could not turn on account of the narrowness of the track.
Billie finally took matters into her own fate and broke through the undergrowth to our left and back onto the lower track. It was an action that was just about possible for the horse but left me contending with low level branches that tore me from the saddle.
I landed on a soft heap of pine needles.
“That was one of the most stupid things I have ever seen,” Matt growled form somewhere behind me.
As he spoke a sour-faced Ellen rushed past us at a gallop, presumably in pursuit of Fran.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just didn’t think.”
“Do you know what I would do if Fran pulled a stunt like that?” Matt continued.
“No,” I lied, swallowing hard.
I looked at Billie who was a short distance away nibbling on some grass.
“She’s fine, no thanks to you,” Matt said angrily. “Are you okay?”
I nodded and got to my feet.
“Can you think of one good reason that I shouldn’t put you across my knee here and now?” Matt said in a stern tone.
I blushed and chewed my lip as I stood with my knees and elbows at odd angles, not knowing where to put myself.
“You have exactly 30 seconds to speak or I will take silence as consent,” he said, advancing upon me.
My throat was dry and my heart pounded. I wanted to say no or that I refused or better yet, that I didn’t deserve it, but none of these phrases could I honourably summon to my lips.
So with the Rocky Mountains as a backdrop I found myself draped helplessly across Matt’s strong thighs as he sat on a boulder.
“Generally in our house these come down,” he said tugging at the waist band of my denims.
“Oh,” I squeaked.
He set me on my feet next to him and glared at me.
“You mean…?” I said in a hushed voice.
He didn’t answer, but continued to glare.
I knew I could refuse and equally I knew what he wanted. Had Ellen known I would capitulate? Had she told Matt? My mind turned over every possibility as I stood blushing. Then as if by their own volition my Levi’s and panties were at my knees and I was again tumbled across Matt’s lap.
The spanks echoed across the valley like a Winchester from an old movie. Even as the impossible sting seared me I wondered if anyone below could hear. Then the sting built to a blaze and I was overwhelmed. One minute I was thinking it hurt and then cascading from my mouth came a wail that ended in me yowling.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I bawled over and over as Matt’s hand blasted down on my bare bottom.
The spanking lasted about a week and I was a sobbing mess long before he was done with me. In fact by the time he set me on my feet I didn’t care about anything but being good.
“I have a good mind to make you walk back with your breeches down, but we have some ground to cover,” Matt said in a scolding tone.
“Yes Sir,” I sniffed as I pulled my jeans up over a sandpaper sore bottom that made me wince.
Sitting on the saddle was trial as we set a rapid pace to catch up with Ellen and Fran.
When we found them about a thousand feet down Fran was bent over a fallen log with her denims and panties at her ankles while Ellen belaboured her big bare bottom with a switch.
There were already worm-like ridges and scores of purple reals criss-crossing her hind end as she wailed and stamped angrily in response to the onslaught, but it looked as if they had been at it a while and would be a while longer.
“You deserve the same,” Matt promised, “And if you are ever so reckless again you will get it, do you hear me?”
“Yes Sir,” I gulped.
Ellen was less merciful than Matt. Even when she had finally finished and left Fran a sobbing mess, there was no way Fran could sit a horse. So Ellen made her step out of her Wrangler’s and tie them in a knot to the pommel with her panties hanging on top.
Then a very tearful Fran had to lead her horse back down to the horse ranch.
“Won’t someone see?” I asked Matt.
He shrugged and I had never seen Fran look so miserable.
It took a while to get down, but the horses need a rest and it was mucho embarrassing for Fran when we got to there. The woman who came out was grinning, but didn’t say much. The way she looked at me I knew that she had guessed that I too had been spanked.
Not that things got any better after that. Fran was made to walk home still sans culottes and when we got there she headed straight for the corner and put her hands on her head.
Then all eyes turned to me.
I swallowed and I felt my face melt.
“Do I have to…?” I said in a strained voice as I flicked my belt with my thumb.
No one answered, but Matt continued with the hard stare.
With a heavy sigh and for the second time that day my Levis’s and panties came down and this time I went to the corner across the room from Fran for most of the remainder of the day.
The spanking, corner time, the whole thing whirled around in my head and sent me wild. I could not take it in. At one point I sneaked a peek over my shoulder and caught Ellen’s disapproving eye. Yet we exchanged something, a recognition perhaps of something we had both known that day weeks before in my room at college after she had spanked Fran. It was always going to come to this.
*
I finally met the aunts a couple of days later. Even then I could still feel it where I sat and Fran could not sit down at all. A fact that Aunt Dale could not help teasing her about. A situation not helped because Fran had to take her coffee standing at the mantle by the fire.
Aunt Belle on the other hand was so down to Earth that she could have been right at home in my family. She was outwardly a cookie baking civilian and to look at her you would never have taken her for someone in a same sex marriage let alone as someone living on a DD commune.
I got the impression that she didn’t like sharing that aspect of her life with Fran, who in her eyes was still a little girl.
“What did you catch it for anyway?” Aunt Dale asked.
I blushed and told the world that I had been in on it too.
“We were kind of a bit enthusiastic with the horses,” Fran sad sheepishly.
“I hope you git good then,” Dale said with a chuckle.
“You ain’t kidding,” Fran said as she rubbed her bottom as she took another sip of coffee.
“I get my tail paddled often enough so I can’t exactly talk,” Dale agreed ruefully, casting a glance over at Belle.
“They don’t need to know about that,” Belle said grumpily, and then poured me another cup of coffee.
It was then that I remembered the photographs I had taken. I hadn’t deleted them I realised. I felt sick. As soon as I got back I was going to download the horse riding and mountain pictures and delete the snooping ones I decided.
There are times in one’s life when you feel something coming from a long way off. Something will catch your eye for some reason and as you watch you know it will fall and break and then it does. You turn a card and know it will be an ace before you see it, or sometimes that it won’t be. I felt something like that all the way back to Matt and Ellen’s house. I tried to remember where I had left my camera and with every step I told myself that no one was going to look at it.
The camera was on the kitchen table when we got back and by then I knew I had left it in the living room. That morning Ellen and I had even talked about the pictures I had taken on the mountains before… I blushed as I remembered and it all came flooding back. I still couldn’t get my head around it.
Ellen was in the kitchen and while Fran bounced in looking for a snack I just stood feeling sick with eyes on the camera.
“I had a look back through your photographs,” Ellen said carefully, “There are some good ones, you are a real artist.”
“There were a couple of test shots,” I said thickly, “I meant to delete them, I barely looked…”
“Are you on Facebook?” Ellen asked me suddenly in a seemingly unrelated way.
I nodded. Who wasn’t? I shifted uneasily where I stood.
“You post much? Your pictures I mean?” she continued.
“No,” I whispered with a shake, “I hardly bother with it these days.”
“So the candid pictures… you were honestly going to delete them?” Ellen pressed me.
I felt like I had on the mountain with Matt and I could not meet her eyes.
“What’s up?” Fran asked through a mouthful of something.
“I was just… it was just… I didn’t mean…” I stumbled over my words.
“You were curious?” Ellen sounded sharp.
I nodded.
“How curious? I mean I can arrange for a very full on experience,” Ellen did not sound generous.
Fran suddenly guessed something and swallowing down her snack snatched up the camera. Before Ellen or I could speak she was scrolling through the HD.
“These are good, wow, some of these… oh,” she said suddenly.
There was an accusation in her eyes too.
“I believe you meant no harm and I don’t want you to leave,” Ellen said, “But if you stay…”
I nodded. I still felt sick.
“Do you want me or Matt to handle it?” she said.
“You can’t make her,” Fran said angrily, “She didn’t mean anything…”
“It’s alright Fran,” I said quietly.
“Who is worse? You or Matt?” I was thinking of the switch and the state of Fran’s bottom afterwards. I knew she still could not sit down.
“Matt I would say, unless he went easy on you again,” Ellen admitted, “But I wouldn’t be, I can tell you that.”
“Maybe then if you both… that way…” I muttered.
“Are you sure?” Ellen asked; she sound calm now.
I nodded and whispered, “Please don’t make me say it.”
“I’ll cut some switches; Matt is waiting for you in the den. Oh and by the way, you are grounded,” Ellen said.
I looked around and gulped and then back at Ellen. I didn’t really know what to do.
“Take your things down and step out of them. Then go into the den,” Ellen ordered from the door to the outside.
I felt my face burn as I fumbled with my belt and then with Fran looking on I stepped out of my jeans and panties, at one point hopping awkwardly on one leg. Then naked below the waist and clutching at my front I walked meekly to where Matt was waiting.
The den was a large room at the back of the house. It had warm stone walls that matched the outside and along one wall was a big flat screen TV. In the centre of the room was a huge ornately carved wooden round table with the crossed hammers and mountain emblem of Colorado in bas relief. The only object on it was an old leather strap like one that in previous centuries might have been used with razors.
The other furniture was mostly of leather, but there were a couple of shaker style armless plain wooden chairs, one of which had been pulled away from the wall. It was between this and the table that Matt stood with his arms crossed in an echo of his heavy visage.
“This high up it gets too cold for an actual woodshed for much of the year, so this is where I deal with naughty girls,” he said.
“Yes Sir,” I said meekly. Believe me meek is the only way that a girl can feel when she is naked below the waist in front of a man and about to get a spanking. “I’m real sorry about… everything.”
“Yah, I guess so,” he drawled as he sat on the chair. “Over my knee first to get you warmed up and then you can over the arm of the Chesterfield here.”
He pointed at the heavy brown leather couch. I was still looking at it in wide-eyed horror as he drew me over his knee.
“A little tender still?” he rasped.
“Yes Sir,” I blushed.
“You think taking secret photographs of our neighbours is any way acceptable,” he scolded.
“No Sir,” I said quietly.
“No Sir,” he agreed as he spanked me hard.
Somehow I expected more preamble, but the sudden tang made my eyes start in my head. It was the first of many and all through spanking he spoke in a hard tremble-making voice.
“When I get through with you, you won’t sit down until Thanksgiving,” he barked, “Who do you think you are?”
In short order I spluttered to sobs like a kid, but it made not the least impact on his spanking of me. That went on for some considerable while until I looked fondly upon my tail warming on the mountain and didn’t know what way was up. I do know I was all begging and promise-making but I had no idea what I said.
Finally he had me stand and after a quick reassuring squeeze he put me to facing the stone wall until I had recovered myself a bit.
I must have stood there a good while and it took an age and a half until I could stop crying. But when I was done I did feel much better. Then I remembered the arm of the couch.
“Put yourself over,” he said at last.
I turned sheepishly and saw the leather in his hand. I wished then that I hadn’t been so nobly contrite when offered a choice of punishments. But I could not go back on it now, so I just nodded.
The leather was cold on my lower tummy and the arm of the couch was so high that my head was deep into the seat and my toes barely touched the ground. I shifted my weight, revelling in the cool of the leather on the side facing down and the tight hotness of my bottom on the other.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Is anyone? I thought, but I nodded and then realising he couldn’t see my head too well, I said, “Yes Sir.”
The strap blazed across my bottom and hurt like nothing ever had before. The noise was terrific and worse yet as I lay there dreading another, the first kept hurting. By the second I was certain that there was no teeth-gritting bravery in me and just as I had under the palm of his hand I began to yell. Again there was no coherence to what I shouted and the biting tang in my tail built up like a forest fire.
Time is a subjective thing during such a punishment and I could not have counted the strokes had he ordered me too and just then I would have done anything he asked. It was probably only a short bottom blasting by the standards of the house, but for me it was geological age clawing on leather and praying to be anywhere but there.
In any case my bottom was just one continuous pain and after a while the only way I could tell I was still being strapped was by the sound.
Finally it stopped and Matt left me there to have a good cry.
Tentatively I reached behind and felt the shocked flesh had become as two hard leather pads and as hot a bed warmer. It was fascinating really, and I could only speculate on what it looked like.
“You’re done. Get into the other room and go to the corner. You’re going to stay there for about a week or until I let you out,” he said firmly.
“Yes Sir,” I sniffed.
The corner was a relief after the den. That was until I remembered that I still had a session with Ellen. My courage failed then and I burst into tears and bawled like a kid. In panic I looked around and saw that there were three switches on the kitchen table. I guess Ellen was real pissed at me.
My bottom already felt hot and twice its size with a texture like boiled leather.
Matt came out then, having put away the strap I guess, and saw the switches there.
“I think she’s done,” he said.
“But…” Ellen began, “She agreed and she has it coming.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I say she is done,” Matt growled.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ellen pick up the switches and I cringed. Then she pursed her lips before breaking them and tossing them in the trash. I remembered then what Ellen had said of Matt that first day and I guess the committee of one had spoken.
It was a couple of weeks after that that Ellen finally gave her first spanking, but usually I was dealt with by Matt. I say usually because by then I had become part of the family.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Now this short article, whilst hopefully being informative, is not intended to be exhaustive and can better be viewed as a bit of fun.
Many of you will either be in a spanking or DD relationship or will have had one at some point. If not then no doubt your turn will come.
As you will know the reality of such experiences differ markedly from spanking fiction. The main reason for this is that on one hand Tops and Doms and on the other Bottoms and Subs have the inconvenient status of being real people.
These terms (Tops, Doms, Bottoms and Subs – not ‘real people’) are used advisably as none quite satisfy true definition, but given the on-going debate here they are a useful shorthand.
But as real people they tend not to behave or respond as you want them too.
This is as real an issue for the submissive half of the relationship as for Mr Dom Top, but we will come back to that. Let us first address the other side for the uninitiated.
Ladies and Gentlemen please pardon the language in advance but it is a dead cert that at this point there is a small selection of readers who are saying “the bitch had better do what I want her to or…” well you know the type of thing. Therefore we must take a moment to remind ourselves of the term relationship. Do you see where we are going with this?
A relationship is and can only be between equal partners built on trust and mutual respect. The rules in DD you see are no different from any other relationship. If you are 20 and into This Thing That We Do (another irritating little phrase that we will employ as a shorthand), then you may be forgiven for struggling with this; if you are over 40 then not so much.
Okay so she has agreed to and wants to get taken in hand, brought into line and to cut a long story short get spanked (in some form or other actual practices differ so see small-print for details). But she isn’t going to make it easy for you. Come on get a life.
She has a job and is probably the manager of two dozen people on a salary that may well exceed yours. Imaginative intelligent women are often much more likely to be submissive than otherwise. And here again for clarity the reverse is not also true – in other words not all intelligent imaginative women want you to take her in hand in any shape of form. So do be aware.
In other words, unless you are just playing at it or having a scene, then an argument is an argument and she is going to give you static until you can get on her wavelength and calmly and psychologically sort her out so to speak.
After all the women who are serious about this want help to be better than they are and not give into certain behaviours. If this was easy then you my dominant friend would be surplus to requirements.
Also it has to be said that she may want you to win but that doesn’t mean she is going to roll over without a fight.
All of this is before her parents just happen to drop in, her boss phones up or infallible you (or sometimes her) have seriously screwed up and it is all hands to the pump in the grown-up world.
On the other hand she has just as many problems with you.
In books the masterful hero always reads the bratty heroine right, always knows what to do and can probably pick her up and throw her into the next county for good measure. I don’t know about you but even though I can still (almost) bench-press my own weight I gave up wench-throwing along with rugby when I turned 40.
It is a challenge always being in charge and manfully being the answer to a maiden’s prayers. Try it sometime. Seriously, it is hard work spanking a wench whenever and wherever she needs it. Shakes head. But somebody has to do it.
Look in the mirror sometime. How do you stack up against Wolverine or James Bond?
Okay let us say that you have trust and mutual respect and that you are both compatible. What next?
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Spanking
How long and how hard do you spank?
This can only be deduced from experience and varies from woman to woman.
Start off slow and soft and build up. Even die-hard roughtie-toughtie girls can get in the wrong head space if you start off too hard and fast.
Spanking on the bare bottom is always desirable for more reasons than one. It is as well to monitor ‘damage’ as you go.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Spanking implements
What do you use to spank a woman with?
For beginners and experts alike you cannot beat the hand. It is always there at the end of your arm (well usually – sorry if it is not) and it can only take so much punishment itself so being overzealous is much less likely.
Even after you graduate to other implements the hand is a classic and the intimacy of it cannot be underestimated.
Then we have the trusty hairbrush, clothes brush or bath brush. Apart from the weight and therefore severity, they are all variations of the same things as far as spanking is concerned. The advantage of these common household items is that they are also easily come by and are in no way incriminating when her parents come to call.
If you want something harsher but discretion is important then a man’s belt is a good staple. It is also a good psyche tool as some girls turn to jelly at the sound of leather pulled through trouser hoops.
Specialist items like leather paddles are often preferable as they sting as much but often do not bruise. But do be careful where you leave them. Also do be careful when using wooden or other unyielding paddles or she really won’t sit down for a week and medical help may be required.
Other equipment like canes, crops and the like require some skill and practice and are only for the truly committed. But they are obtainable and can be hung at the back of the wardrobe or secreted in a hat-stand.
One person even bought a Charlie Chaplin outfit ‘for a fancy dress party’ which just happened to come with a cane. See, you can hide things in plain sight. Same goes for riding crops. They can be wall ornaments or a legacy from a horsey youth.
But we are veering into areas that are not strictly spanking.
Canes, crops and birches are whole other level.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Spanking techniques and positions
These are too many and varied but here are few things to keep in mind.
Over the knee (OTK) is a good standard start. Obviously for use of the cane and such this will not work so the girl might need to stand up and bend over.
If bending, beginners should have her use a chair or bed to bend over. You cannot expect most girls to hold position if you mean it.
The other aspect of spanking that cannot be stressed enough is cause and effect.
She has to know why she is being spanked and ideally should agree that she deserves it. Then in a non-confrontational way, she should be scolded and put in the correct submissive frame of mind.
Failure to do this can make the whole experience unpleasant for both parties and instead of clearing the air, it can cause resentment.
As with above, it is a good idea to always begin with a gentle hand-spanking and build up. At the same time one should reiterate the offence and continue with an appropriate level of scolding.
Some women cry. This is usually good. It is an emotional response and it usually means that the spanking is working. A woman who is growling angrily through gritted teeth is probably not in the right head space.
But do not worry if there are no tears. These are a rare gift. Listen for gentle whimpering and laboured breathing as both can mean she is struggling but not resentful. It is a good indicating of how she is doing.
Also don’t be afraid to stop. Use the pauses for scolding and maybe a time out in the corner if you are really making a point.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Corner time
Corner time is the ultimate bondage position. However much she complains, if she goes to the corner she has to contend with the fact that she is submitting and is a under discipline.
You can leave a woman alone in the corner, but unless you are confident she won’t challenge you in absentia, you might consider light bindings around thumbs that can be removed but not replaced coupled with having her press a coin to the wall with her forehead or nose.
Talcum powder on the floor, small objects that can’t easily be put back if disturbed can also be of use. In sororities, they used a trick involving empty bottles crossed with pencils set behind the ankles.
Some women can handle corner time better than others.
For some 20 minutes is hard and others can handle two or three hours, but note this is extreme and presents health issues without practice and know-how.
Start off with short periods, after all 5 minutes is a long time for a girl in the corner.
Also corner time with anticipation is effective beforehand and although it is satisfying for a top to see his handiwork set in the corner, many women want to be forgiven after a spanking and do not respond well to after spanking corner time.
Also it is wise to be aware of any issues such as back pain and the like. A 20-year-old will ruefully pout after an hour in the corner (on the whole) but the more mature miss might struggle both physically and mentally so start off slowly as with spanking.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Figging and other invasives
This is a delicate subject and one that can be left entirely out of the equation if it squicks either partner.
This is effective both as a supplement to a spanking or if for some reason (such as noise) spanking is difficult it can be a substitute in its own right.
Proceed with care.
At one end of the spectrum (so to speak) there is the simple mouth soaping for lying or swearing. It is a juvenile punishment and not for everyone.
More usually we address ourselves to the other end. Here we are in the territory of anal plugs of various sizes. Small ones can be worn as day wear for added submissive discomfort, but more usually the woman will be lying down with the largest she can handle inserted in her bottom.
Figging is a variant of this that involves ginger or some other mild abrasive to really get a girl’s attention. Beware of women with allergies and also of those who do not get much sensation from it.
At the extreme end we have enemas, which is a subject in its own right.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Spanking Regimes
This is an interesting area. Most couples have a spanking regime even if they do not think of it as such. For instance, some couples start the day off with a spanking or if not they will have some spoken or unspoken rules as to when a spanking will be due.
In a more formal setting more elaborate rituals may be temporary punishment sets that can be employed.
At the moderate end we are talking about maintenance spanking. This is where a girl is spanked at regular set intervals for no particular reason other than to let her know her place and to remind her what will happen if she truly steps out of line.
A classic spanking regime may be also be imposed as an elaborate punishment.
For instance for some serious offence a girl may be told that she will be spanked every morning and again every evening for a set number of days. These spankings maybe varied with canes and such or in extreme cases before witnesses for added (spice) humiliation.
These are options not obligations and will be applied according to the nature of the relationship and what has been agreed.
Ultimately the spanking regime is the overarching arrangement that forms the basis of the relationship.
Any one of the headings above could be a book let alone an article in its own right so if you want to know more, proceed with care and research more wildly. But above all be safe and have fun.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.“Go in 20 seconds Stacy,” the voice said in her ear.
Stacy strained to see the monitor out of the corner of her eye as the make-up boy put the final touches to her eyes. The guests were already seated, but one of them was getting the same last minute touches that she was.
“Oh, your husband called earlier, he seemed very anxious to speak to you,” the same voice added in her earpiece.
“Mark? Shit. Not now I’m busy,” Stacy replied through clenched teeth lest she smear the immaculate lipstick as it was reapplied.
“Go in 10, nine, eight…” the director counted down.
As the make-up boy ducked away the monitors revealed an immaculately presented brunette in a red skirt and grey jacket sitting on the studio sofa. Next to her was a slightly older woman of around 40 even more smartly dressed who looked so serious that she looked like she was about to announce the ending of the world.
One her right was a petite blonde woman in her early 20s who sat blinking under the TV lights with wide innocent eyes. The camera panned in on Stacy.
“Four, three, two… and we’re are live people,” the director barked.
An instant smile burst onto Stacy’s face and from some cheesy but insistent music began to play, complete with over-important heavy undertones.
“Welcome to Culture Corner,” Stacy gushed, “I’m Stacy Steadman and tonight my guests are Margaret Holman of the Domestic Discipline Society…”
“Hello,” the older woman cut in with a tight polite smile.
Stacy’s eyes twitched in irritation but the voice in her ear told her to keep going.
“…and Michelle Cameron a postgraduate student from London University who is one of a growing number of young women who is seeking firm guidance and discipline in their lives,” Stacy concluded.
The small blonde girl’s lips moved in acknowledgment and she shifted a nervous glance at Margaret Holman sitting next to her.
“Oh that is cute,” the voice in Stacy’s ear muttered, “Looking good from here, this is great TV Stacy.”
“Now before I speak to Michelle, can I ask you Margaret about the Domestic Discipline Society and its aims,” Stacy said with an inane grin as she half turned to the older woman.
“We are just a loose collection that includes people from all walks of life who feel that things have just gone too far in this day and age,” Margaret said confidentially.
Stacy’s smile became fixed and she waited for a beat.
“Just great, how vague is that?” the anxious voice said in her ear.
“In what way exactly?” Stacy said pleasantly.
“Oh, when you consider such phenomena as the ladettes from a few years ago or the antics of certain young pop stars cavorting on stage, well we feel that more decorum and more respect for woman are needed,” Margret told her.
“And is this very much a movement coming from young women themselves in your view?” Stacy prompted her.
“Well not only women, men are also taking an increasing lead here, as they should. These girls need a firm hand and they know it,” Margaret said in a scolding tone.
“And by firm hand you mean…” Stacy’s eyes crinkled up in frustration. This was like pulling teeth, she thought.
“A good salutary spanking on their bare bottoms, yes,” Margaret said casually.
“Bingo,” the voice in Stacy’s ear said in triumph.
“But isn’t this return to the past just an avocation of domestic violence and demeaning to women?” Stacy gave the line as it was pre-written on her cue-card.
“Nonsense,” Margaret snorted, “A good sound spanking never did a girl any harm. I can tell you that if I get out of line then my husband spanks me and if I am not too old neither is anyone else.”
Margaret looked significantly at Stacy.
“Even against a woman’s will?” Stacy accused.
“Not at all. That is the point of the Society, increasing numbers of women are seeking us out voluntarily,” Margaret said sharply.
“Michelle, you are one of those aren’t you?” Stacy said turning to the younger woman.
The blonde blushed and whispered something that might have been an acknowledgement.
“Here we go,” the irritated voice in Stacy’s ear said.
“Are you telling me that you are actually spanked?” Stacy pressed the close-mouthed Michelle.
Michelle nodded.
“Can you tell us about that? Who spanks you?” Stacy pressed her gently.
Michelle took a deep breath and then said more confidentially, “When I deserve it I am spanked by my mentor.”
“Your mentor?” Stacy glanced into the camera and then back at Michelle. “I mean does this hurt?”
Michelle forgot herself then and rounded on Stacy.
“Well yes that is the point isn’t it? I am set rules and targets and if I don’t meet them or fall short of his… well no, my expectations really. Well then yes I am punished,” she said.
“Your mentor is a man? Is this a sexual thing?” Stacy said excitedly.
“No, no, not at all… well I am sure it is for some, but what is wrong with that? But that is to miss the point. Oh and yes he is a man of course. It would be weird if it was a woman who mentored me… not that… well I know others feel differently. But I was always looking for something more paternal.”
“So you are looking for a father figure?” Stacy said dismissively and a relaxation around the eyes suggested she had found her box to put Michelle in.
“Yes, in a way, but it is more than that. I just don’t like the way that society thinks it has all the answers and seems to expect me to have them too. I am only 22, why should I? I am not a child but… well that doesn’t mean that I am all the way grown-up.”
“And you think spanking is the only answer?” Stacy pursed her lips.
“It is not the only answer, but it is my answer,” Michelle said firmly.
Next to her Margaret nodded encouragingly.
“Can you tell us about this? I mean typically what do you have to do to get a spanking and how exactly are you spanked? Margret mentioned earlier about getting spanked on her bare bottom? Are you?” Stacy ignored the babbling in her ear, she was genuinely interested in her own question.
Michelle blushed and visibly swallowed.
“I can be spanked for anything really. Usually once a week my mentor and I sit down and talk about my behaviour and… well if we agree… well, then I am spanked,” Michelle looked flustered.
Stacy nodded expectantly.
“Typically a girl will be required to take her own knickers down and undress sufficiently so that the area needing attention is revealed,” Margaret chipped in, her eyes seeking out Michelle’s for confirmation.
It came by way of a small nod and a shy smile.
“Then the girl will be sent to the corner to think about what she has coming to her,” Margaret continued.
“The corner? How long for?” Stacy asked excitedly.
“It can vary depending on the offence and… well it can vary. It is not unknown for a girl to be in the corner for an hour or more, but 20 or 30 minutes is more usual I think. But as I say it varies from mentor to mentor,” Margaret was blushing a little herself now.
“Typically I have to stand in the corner for 45 minutes before and after my spanking,” Michelle said enthusiastically, adding proudly, “My mentor is strict. Then I might be made to go to bed without my supper or be told that I am grounded.”
Michelle shrugged.
“My mentor also canes me sometimes, but only if I am really bad,” Michelle added.
“The cane,” Stacy exclaimed.
Michelle giggled and nodded as she blushed. “Man that really can hurt and sometimes I can’t sit down afterwards.”
“This is usual,” Margaret explained, “I mean most mentors need to somewhere to go if a spanking doesn’t work and the cane or strap say provides this… added incentive.”
Stacy clutched at her throat and let her eyes bounce from the camera to Margaret.
“Have you yourself been caned?” she asked.
“Oh yes and I am not too old to be sent to the corner too. It is really embarrassing, but then that is the point,” Margaret said brightly.
“I can’t imagine ever going to the corner and as for getting caned…” Stacy blurted.
“No indeed, which is what many Guardian-reading, educated and career-centric women say until they are confronted with it. And although I do not say everyone is suited to this approach, you might be surprised about how many are when they set aside the cultural norms and think about objectively,” Margaret said significantly, again eyeing Stacy with an amused smile. “You might be surprised.”
Stacy blushed and opened her mouth for a pithy comeback which died on her lips.
“Wrap it up for the break now,” the voice in her ear told.
“Well thank you Margaret Holman of the Domestic Discipline Society and Michelle Cameron, who is a… follower…?
“I am not connected to the DDS,” Michelle put in, “And I am not a follower of anything. I am a practitioner and participant in what I think is a cultural shift in this country. The modern world has failed hasn’t it? Society needs new answers. Margaret is right, maybe a good spanking isn’t for everyone but don’t knock it until you have tried it.”
“Lovely,” the director cheered in Stacy’s ear.
“Thank you Michelle,” Stacy said cheerfully, the insincere smile returning to her face. “After the break we will be talking to a spokeswoman from the Latter Day Church of the Prophet Andrea Dworkin, who to put it mildly feel very much that the DDS is on the wrong path. And also to Anthea Heller of the Feminists Against Coercion In Society.”
“That’s a wrap go to break,” the director said.
*
Stacy was still sitting on the studio floor when her husband found her.
“Did you catch the show?” she smiled warmly.
He frowned. At least the cold mannequin from that TV show had fled her now. Still, it was her career and as long as she did come back to him.
“I saw it,” he said.
“What did you think?” she asked nervously. She was always after praise following a show.
“You were suitably… neutral, I suppose,” he shrugged, “But you over did the shock horror when the cane was mentioned.”
“Well… it is going a bit far don’t you think?” Stacy felt a little defensive.
“It all depends, doesn’t it? I mean suppose a regularly spanked wife got out of line once too often. Say she was approached by a big TV outfit in the States and didn’t tell her husband…?” he growled.
“Oh…” Stacy grimaced, “You heard about that… I was going to tell you but…”
“Slipped your mind? Every day for… a month?” he countered.
As her husband stepped out of the shadows she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He was a big man for a writer; he looked more like a rugby player. His sandy hair was touched by premature grey that always made him look serious enough and positively scary when he had that stern expression.
“Six weeks,” she squeaked with a nervous smile.
“I hate fucking LA,” he growled.
“It’s New York,” she told him, “And anyway I haven’t said yes. They haven’t even made me an offer. You always said you could work form anywhere and…”
“You should have told me.” His voice had that edge now.
Stacy nodded and averted her eyes. “I suppose you are going to give me a spanking when we get home.” She lowered her voice and glanced about nervously now.
“I am seriously thinking about that cane at the moment,” he growled, “And you, young lady, are definitely going in the corner as it is.”
Her eyes flashed wide.
“The corner,” she hissed, “You never… we don’t… I mean…”
“Well, we are going to start. You were far to condescending and smug about it on your show. The hypocrisy is… understandable I suppose, but you could have given those women an even break. I know they were a bit wacko, but they were positively normal compared to those loons you had on afterwards. Couldn’t you find a sensible and reasoned response from someone?”
“The Toni…” she lamely pointed away to the control room, “She wanted something a bit more livelily.”
“If you can’t have integrity here, they will eat you alive in the States. You know what their TV is like?” he sighed.
“It’s not a done deal… but the money. They are talking about an anchor slot on prime time. With an international profile I could go back to the BBC in three or four years with…” Stacy gushed excitedly.
“I know about the pros,” he snapped, “But let me get you focussed on some of the cons.”
Mark through a look around the empty studio and then made up his mind. Sitting down next to her on that trademark sofa he pulled her firmly across his lap so that her tight skirt-encase bottom was domed up over his knee.
“Not here Mark,” she squealed.
Ignoring her, he brought his hand firmly down across her bottom and spanked her hard.
“You so have this coming,” he growled as he spanked her again.
“Okay, but at least take me to my dressing room,” she gasped.
Mark ignored her and spanked her again with a will.
The spanking went for a few minutes until she frantically begged.
“I’ll take the cane and the corner oaky,” she wailed, “I’m sorry, I know I have it coming, but please, please not here, someone will see.”
“If I stop now I’ll spank your bare bottom in the dressing room and then when I get you home…” he was angrier than she first realised.
Damn, she should have told him, she knew.
“Alright, I get it, you’re right, I have it coming I said,” she was breathing heavily.
He set her on her feet and led her firmly and somewhat embarrassingly to her room ignoring the glances of the odd technician stacking away gear from the show.
Up in the gallery Tom Harrison and Toni Parks were collapsed into pools of laughter at what they had seen on the monitors.
“As you always say Tom, some great TV,” Toni, his producer giggled, “Even if we can only ever air at it at the office Christmas party.”
“If she does get that New York gig we could make millions with the rights,” Tom agreed.
“What do you say, a copy each?” Toni smirked.
Tom gave her a hard stare. You utter bitch, he thought. I know someone else who could use a good spanking. Then reached out with his hand and hit the delete button.
“Hey…” Toni scrabbled to stop him.
“Let’s imagine we are real people for once,” Tom growled, giving Toni a warning stare.
There was something in his eyes that made her gooey inside. She had to content herself with the knowledge that he couldn’t possibly be thinking what she was thinking right then.
*
Stacy’s skirt and knickers were casually draped over the back of the chair in the corner while the girl herself was draped firmly across her husband’s knees.
“Come on Mark, please,” she wailed as she kicked out and squirmed in place.
Mark hadn’t hesitated and had set to soundly spanking her bared bottom as soon as she was in place. Only this time instead of his hand he was vigorously apply a hefty dose of hairbrush from Stacy’s own private handbag stock.
At Mark’s insistence and to keep her in line Mark always insisted that Stacy keep two brushes with her for emergencies; one for the more usual purpose and the other for situations that wild horses couldn’t have got Stacy to admit to.
“Oh God, Mark,” she shrieked as the brush to a piece out of tail.
Her bottom was already rash red and now darker mottled patches were forming on the curves and crowns of her behind, marking that was emphasised by the hard white edges of some serious spank welts.
“You beast, I have to sit down for tomorrow night’s show,” she squealed.
“Well that will take some explaining when you have to do the show standing up, won’t it?” he chuckled as he spanked on.
He didn’t hear the knock at the door and on hearing what they took to be a muffled acknowledgment, the person outside entered.
“Oh… oh I…” Margaret Holman spluttered in the door way. “Oh excuse me I was just… eh… sorry.”
The red-faced woman went to pull the door too when Mark stopped her.
“Oh Mrs Holman,” he asked, “Do you know where I can get a decent cane?”
“Eh… oh, eh yes… I’ll…” she shot a glance at the angry red bare bottom of the famous Stacy Steadman’s and replied, “I’ll email you.” Then she was gone.
“Oh my God,” a mortified Stacy groaned, her hands clamped to her face. “She saw me.”
The words revealed that his wife was close to tears now.
Mark shrugged. “Well it could have been worse.”
Don’t I know it, Stacy thought ruefully.
“Now some corner time here ‘at the office’ will be a novelty for you,” Mark growled as he pointed to the corner of the dressing room.
Corner time will be a novelty to me anywhere, Stacy thought miserably, but meekly she obeyed. Maybe one day I’ll come out of the closet and do a proper show on domestic spanking, she mused, but not just yet awhile. I don’t think prime time is ready for that yet; either side of the Atlantic.
Then with a sigh and an earnest prayer that no one else would come in Stacy went to the corner and hoped that Mark wasn’t serious about that cane.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Ophelia Open stood in the hallway for the longest time. It smelled of wet newspaper and sawdust and the yellowing walls looked like they had not seen a lick of paint in years. The building was one of those New York brick affairs that had been grand enough back in 1896, but in the last 60 or so years had fallen into hard times. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place that her ex-husband would usually have done business, but then when it came to Richard Open, nothing was exactly usual.
Ophelia eyed the battered wooden door and the chipped gold letters on the frosted glass. William Wendell Wentworth, Private Justice Adjustment Incorporated, it read. What by the stars was Justice Adjustment, private or otherwise? What kind of job was that? But she knew. She knew Richard. She had tried to tell Sophie that, but the foolish kid had gone on the lam.
“Listen, it is far better to just go and get this over with. Richard will find us in the end, he always does. Then it will be much worse.” She had told her sister the day before.
“You’re crazy, you just gonna let him spank you,” Sophie had gaped at her, “Didn’t you have enough of that crap when you married to the guy?”
“That was between us and anyway, I usually had it coming. Well almost always actually. I wasn’t a saint you know,” Ophelia countered.
“Yeah, well I am over 21 now and no one is going to spank me,” Sophie spat back.
Sometimes her little sister could be such a brat.
“Listen hon,” Ophelia remonstrated, “We played our hand and we lost. Sure it was a good idea of yours to stiff Richard on a couple of deals and make some extra dough, but I should have I known he would get wise to us. Now let’s just take our licks and call it quits.”
“We were only getting what was due,” Sophie had wailed.
Ophelia hadn’t pointed out that Sophie had been owed nothing by Richard; in fact given that his money had put her through college she should have more respect.
“Richard has been more than generous with us. I had nothing when I married him and now I have an apartment and more than I could earn as an allowance. Admit it kid, we just got greedy,” she had said.
“Yeah well I still ain’t gonna let him spank me, so I am going to skip town for a while, it is you he wants to settle with, he’ll soon get bored and forget about me,” Sophie had sneered.
That had been only yesterday at the station. Ophelia hadn’t even asked where Sophie’s train was headed. But Richard would find out, stupid kid.
The tattered door hadn’t gone away during her remembrances and still stood stark and hard to accuse her. So taking a deep breath, she knocked. The person on the other side must have seen her outline through the glass because it opened almost at once.
“Mrs Open?” a young spectacled secretary asked her.
The woman was around 30 and a natural blonde. Quite a looker despite the glasses, and the tight pencil skirt made a good show of her figure. She looked way too classy for this joint, Ophelia decided.
“I-I am here to see Mr Wentworth,” Ophelia offered nervously.
The woman nodded, “I thought you might be. I haven’t seen anyone so scared since… well anyway come in. Mr Wentworth is on the phone in the other room. He will be with you directly.”
Ophelia entered as if into a bear’s cave. Her fashionable blue skirt suit an anachronism in such an office of danger.
“You do know why you are here don’t you?” the secretary asked pointedly.
Ophelia shot her a terrified glance with a flash of her baby blues under the dark fringe and nodded.
“My ex-husband… he obviously doesn’t want to bother with me himself anymore.” She sounded almost as if she regretted that particular decision.
“I know how you feel,” the blonde answered, then with a quick subject change she added, “Might as well sit down while you still can.”
Ophelia gulped and looked at the hard office chairs as if it was poison.
“I don’t think you have any idea of how I feel,” Ophelia muttered as she took the chair.
The blonde snorted and gave Ophelia a cock-eyed smile.
“Listen sister, the first time I came to this office… well let’s just say I wasn’t here to take dictation,” she said. “That’s right, I was a client. Mr Wentworth had been employed to straighten me out on a few things. And boy did I get straightened. Once I learned my lesson he offered me a job and I never looked back.”
“I see,” Ophelia murmured. “Tell me, do a lot of girls come here? I mean…”
“We get three or four a week,” the secretary replied thoughtfully. “But mostly it is just paperwork and admin from this building. You see most girls aren’t as smart as you and they decide to run. Then we have to outsource the contract to field operatives.”
“My sister,” Ophelia winced, “She wouldn’t come here with me. She decided to skip town.”
The blonde glanced at a file on her desk.
“Sophie Weizmann?” she read and looked up.
Ophelia nodded.
“Well if she doesn’t change her mind and get here by eight then I’ll put the contract out to tender, or Mr Wentworth will. Do you think that likely?” the secretary sighed.
Ophelia shook her head.
“Stupid kid,” the woman sighed.
Just then the door opened and a big square shouldered man in a grey suit bowled in. Ophelia was relieved to see he was almost old enough to be her father, although the fact that he had a build that fitted him for football rather than office wok was rather more distressing.
Ophelia could see at once that there was something between him and the blonde secretary and she felt strangely warmed by the observation.
“Now Mrs Open, I am glad to see that you have been sensible,” Wentworth said in a voice that reminded Ophelia of dry gravel and the marine corp.
“I…” she squeaked, but quickly closed her mouth and fell silent.
“You know why you are here?” he barked.
Ophelia nodded.
“I need you to say it out loud and then I am going to ask you to sign something,” Wentworth said in an almost kindly tone.
Ophelia took a deep breath and sighed. “I am here to get a spanking.”
“And you agree you have it coming?” the man pressed her.
“I guess so,” Ophelia agreed with a nod, but she was blushing hard now.
“That is good news, for you and for me,” Wentworth brightened. “Your husband told me to say that if you took the situation without a fuss then his previous arrangement with you would still stand and there might even be a bonus.”
Ophelia was relived, but she was too scared to show it so she could only give the man a nervous nod.
“Is your sister here?” Wentworth looked around the office suspiciously as if he thought Sophie might be hiding. Well it had happened.
Ophelia choked on the word ‘no’ and then coughed and trying again said, “No Sir.”
“Skipped eh? Well it is common enough. Draw up the papers Patty and you can post them in the morning after I make the call. No sense in jumping the gun, she may yet show.”
“Yes Mr Wentworth,” Patty, the blonde agreed.
Wentworth turned back to Ophelia and looked her up and down as if sizing her up. Richard Open had briefed him on his wife and had told she could take it and wouldn’t ‘kick about it.’ Or at least, he had said, that was what the girl he had married was like.
Sometimes with clients he just took them over his knee and gave them a paddy-whacking that wouldn’t faze a teenager. It was just what they were used to. There was no point over doing it and even less if it didn’t make a point.
Looking at Ophelia he decided that she could handle ‘the works’ as Open had contracted him for and he decided to proceed.
“Here sign this,” he said and then a moment later, he looked at Patty and told her, “Take Mrs Open into the back room and talk her through it will you? I will be in, in a moment,” Wentworth said pointedly.
“You mean what we discussed?” Patty asked quietly.
Wentworth nodded.
“This way please,” Patty said, leading Ophelia away.
*
Wentworth had already removed his jacket and rolled-up his sleeves before he went through the door. He was gratified to find Ophelia was already completely naked and kneeling on the padded chair in the corner. Most women opted for a courtroom or at least kicked back at such a set-up. But Wentworth didn’t deal with the type of operator who took kindly to that sort of thing. His world was on the edge of the legal. That’s why he had to read his clients right and know who was going to make trouble and who needed special handling. He had been a long time in this game and he never got it wrong so nobody got hurt. Well except where they were supposed to.
Ophelia didn’t move as he came into the room and he had already learned from Patty that she didn’t need his girl to hold her hand. Some women didn’t need a witness, he knew. He eyed the full curves of Ophelia’s bottom and felt something go tight in his lower belly. Some days he loved his job, maybe he was a heel? But Patty always said he offered a valuable service and that he knew how to play it. Like the sign said, he was just an adjuster and he dealt in justice. He sighed, time to get into character.
“Your husband is really pissed at you,” Wentworth growled.
“Yes Sir,” Ophelia acknowledged.
“But under the circumstances you’re going to get off light,” he said sharply.
“I guess so,” Ophelia’s voice was rather hollow and she adjusted her knees on the seat of the chair.
Wentworth was only the third man ever to see her completely naked and her heart was going 18 to the dozen in her chest. She was more excited than scared, but she was no novice at this. That would change once the man got going. She heard a zip-shush of leather on, she guessed wool from the look of his suit before. But in any case she knew the sound of a belt being pulled from around a man’s waist. A moment later the cold leather tapped against her bare bottom to confirm her guess.
“I have a letter on my desk from your husband. If you take this without holding a grudge I am to give it to you and then it will be between you and him.” Wentworth flicked the belt against her behind and then asked her, “Are you ready?”
“Yes Sir.”
The belt stung. A long line of violent tingle that peppered her skin; and then it stung again like the first had only been practice. Her Pa had given her worse and the guy wasn’t even in Richard’s league so far.
The third stroke landed under her bottom close to where she lived and this time he got her attention. From then on it was all she could do not to cry out as the belt really lit a fire that burned thoroughly and extensively across her sitting equipment.
From a long way away she heard someone wheezing as if they had whooping cough and it took her a moment to recognise her own struggle for breath. By then the fire in her bottom had reached her soul and her tail end felt as if it had a gravel burn. No really, she thought in that perky detached way that only someone who was truly awake could, I’ll sit on barb-wire or you can blister my bottom with bees, she offered God as a substitute.
Ophelia hadn’t counted, but she guessed that they had passed 20 or so. About halfway for a usual belting at home and just a fraction of what Richard would have given her. I’ll be stoic, I’ll be brave, I’ll be… be jiggered, she thought as she hugged into the chair, the man is a demon.
“Wah,” she wailed and then tumbling into tears, “I’m sorry okay, please tell Jesus and all the saints I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t a plea for mercy exactly; one didn’t do that when one had it coming, not in Ophelia’s book. But just then it would have been a bonus, a favour from God that she would have welcomed. But just then William Wendell Wentworth was her god and she solemnly believed that he had left mercy at the door.
Wentworth was just getting into his stride and marvelled at how red Ophelia’s bottom was. She was pale for a brunette and they tended to colour-up almost as much as redheads. But inside every brunette was an olive complexion waiting to bolt and they gave out a hard harsh red that was something to behold when they wanted to.
On the other hand this girl was tough and hadn’t let go with a peep until he hit double figures. That meant he had to go the distance or it was his ass. Still she had a vivid set of blisters now and she wasn’t going to sit down until Thanksgiving at this rate.
Then she gave out a yell and babbled something about being sorry and Jesus. He didn’t get the rest. At least now he had a marker to set her against and a good idea when to finish it. But that wouldn’t be for a while.
*
Ophelia just sobbed and sobbed after Wentworth left the room. She felt clean and forgiven, although she cursed the day she had let her fool of a sister talk her into such a reckless stunt. Fool is she, but then what does that make me? She could have almost call Wentworth back to start over. Almost, but then she could eat dirt first or invite a hive of bees to chew on her tail.
It was 10 minutes before Patty came in to help her to dress.
“I should leave the panties off if I was you,” she said. “Maybe the… don’t you have a looser skirt honey?”
Ophelia shook her head miserably.
“I’ll dig one out for you, but you have to look out for crosswinds on the subway,” Patty said with a smile. “I know from bitter experience. He’s quite an operator ain’t he?”
Ophelia smiled through tears and nodded.
“Feel better?”
Again she smiled and nodded. “About just about everything I think.”
“That’s how I feel usually, although sometimes eating standing up off a plant stand is a trial.”
Ophelia frowned.
“He sometimes really lets me have it where it does the most good and then I have this wooden plant stand in my apartment… well you get the idea,” Patty blushed. “Anyway, here’s that letter. I’ll go and find that skirt.”
Ophelia recognised Richard’s handwriting and her heart leapt. He has come to gloat, she decided. Well he has the right I suppose.
“Hi Baby,” he had written,
“Thought that you could get the better of me did you? I reckon I know what happened. Your kooky sister put you up to it. Well no hard feelings, but I couldn’t just let it pass. I would love to have handled things myself like the old days, but you had to know I was serious and that it was business as much as anything. If I had lambasted your hind-end you wouldn’t have taken it seriously.
I’ll leave it to you if you want little sister to get the same, presuming that she hasn’t already of course. But I am betting she already skipped town. That is her style. Hand this to Wentworth and tell him I want to cancel that bit of the contract if you want.
Proud of you for stepping up and taking your licks, that’s my girl. As soon as you can sit down for it, you and I should do dinner on me. I would love to give it another go between us, but I guess you made up your mind. Anyway the offer stands. And I do mean both offers. See you soon and if not, have a great life kid.
By the way, like you should have been told, once I get my money back, you can keep the rest as we agreed. Just don’t try to stiff me again or you and Wentworth will be a regular item, get me.”
Ophelia smiled broadly at the way Richard’s writing fit his voice. Then she finished putting on most of her clothes. When Patty brought the skirt she pulled it on and then put the letter in her purse.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you again one way or another. Hopefully it will be just to return your skirt,” Ophelia said breezily as she left the back room.
Outside she put on a brave front and offered Wentworth her hand.
“Thank you Mr Wentworth, I expect I needed that.”
“Thank you Mrs Open,” he said with a lopsided grin, “I wish all my clients were so agreeable. Oh Mrs Open, your husband said you might have a word to say on your sister’s contract?”
Ophelia paused and then smiled. With a shake of her head she said, “No. I don’t think so.”
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Here is a set(?) found on different Tumblr’s. It isn’t clear who the artist (or artists) are but despite the differing styles two were grouped as if they might be the same. Taken together they contrast and compare the notorious medieval to 19th century traditional domestic corporal punishment with the Soviet era (note the picture of Stalin and the Babushka in the last picture).
It is probable that they originated on Deviant Art, but the couldn’t be traced to identify the artist. Anyway, enjoy and if you do know where the credit goes sing out.
Once upon a time in a land on the outer reaches of Europe dwelt a man and his daughter. They both lived in what had once been a small castle, but was now little more than a fortified house on the edge of town.
Count Verity was a tall dark haired man of middling wealth and discernment, although not all that blessed as an intellectual. His daughter, Cinderella, was beautiful, being flaxen haired and blessed with deep blue eyes as clear and deep as the fabled ocean so far away. It was this perhaps that was to be her downfall.
The Count’s wife having died many years before, he decided to remarry a poor widow with two grown daughters purely because she happened to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. However, as pretty as the widow and her daughters were, they were not as fair as Cinderella. A fact not lost on the new Countess and her daughters.
Even then all might have been well but less than two years after the wedding Count Verity succumb to a fall whilst hunting and died three weeks later.
Cinderella was heartbroken of course, but that was not all she had to grieve. For no sooner had the good count been placed in the ground when Countess Verity ordered Cinders to vacate her rooms to make way for her own daughters and move to the servant’s quarters.
“Since she is living in the maids garret now, perhaps she should help with the chores rather more,” suggested the eldest stepsister Virella.
A small self-satisfied smile danced cruelly on her lips as she spoke, prompting Denise, her younger sister to snigger.
“Whatever you think,” The Countess said dismissively, “I have no time for the girl.”
“Then she doesn’t need all those dresses does she?” Denise sniggered.
“But…” Cinderella protested.
“We will start with that gown,” Viral sneered prodding Cinder’s particularly fine blue eye-matching silk dress with a sharp finger.
“My father bought me…” Cinders began.
“Your father is dead, now get undressed and get out of our sight,” Virella snapped.
“You can’t do this…” Cinders wailed.
The Countess who had been about to leave rounded on her and glared.
“You are barely 20 and the will states that I have full authority over you until you are 30 or until you are married, whichever is the longer,” she hissed, “And since you cannot get married without my consent…”
She let the full implication sink in.
Cinders was still considering this and pondering her options if she fled when the Countess seized her and pulled towards a divan outside her suite.
“Denise, fetch me my hairbrush,” the Countess barked.
With Virella’s help she was quickly stripped of her blue gown and silk underskirt. It being an age before women’s draws and such like, this left Cinder’s naked bellow her short shift so that her pert bottom was elevated across the Countess’s knee.
By the time Denise had returned with the hairbrush Cinders had already been spanked for long enough to give her a smooth cherry red behind at the Countess’s hands and tender in the extreme as the spanking was continued with the flat side of the brush.
“Oh please, oh mercy,” Cinders wept, but to no avail.
The Countess spanked her stepdaughter for long, long minutes until Cinders was a sobbing heap.
“Now since the maid’s room is not good enough for you, you will sleep by the hearth in the scullery until further notice. And I give Virella full authority to punish you as she sees fit if you don’t mind her,” was the Countess’s parting words.
*
Days and weeks passed and Cinders soon adjusted to her new regime. For one thing, opportunities for an unmarried woman were not abundant at this time and free of the normal conventions she was able to run in the woods and pick flowers without the constant presence of a chaperon.
True she had chores, but most of these were given to her out of spite and very little she had to do had very much offer the smooth running of the house. So little of what she did, or failed to do, came to the attention of her stepmother.
Of course if Virella or Denise caught her not doing her chores then she was punished. But then she was often punished at other times too.
The Countess, with a passing regard for her duties would infrequently summon Cinders to her rooms. There the girl would be scolded for the tattered rags she wore or her unkempt hair. On these occasions Cinders would be upended over her stepmother’s knee and soundly spanked with the flat side of a hairbrush for long, long minutes before being sent to the corner in the main hall.
Such times were a trial for Cinders because with her hands upon her head her short rags rose up behind to display her russet sheened bare bottom and she was utterly at the mercy of Virella and Denise’s teasing. But these were not the worst of times.
Often when she crept in following a walk in the woods or a day’s bathing in her favourite pool Virella would be waiting for her.
“You have not swept the hearth today, nor have you…” Virella would scold in that self-important way of hers listing a hundred chores that had either been done or were endless tasks and unimportant. The result was always the same.
Cinders would be sent back out to the woods to cut lengths of apple switches or birchen withes and directed not to return until she had collected all that she could carry. Then she would be set at the scullery table making putative rods long into the evening and well beyond supper time.
Then Virella and Denise would come to her and have her bend across the table to present her smooth white bottom to them while they ‘tickled’ it with the first of the birch bundles.
These thrashings were intense, like brands of fire, biting blisters would sear every nook and fold of her exposed bottom as she squealed and wailed at the onslaught. Each licking of viper-like rods lasting for a time well beyond counting until Cinders sobbed piteously.
Then with a grin Virella would take up a fresh rod from a great pile in the corner and begin again and again until every rod was used up and scattered like brittle rain across the scullery.
“That you can have instead of your supper,” Virella would sneer, “Now get this place cleaned up before you get to bed.”
The days that followed these thrashings were the worst. For although Cinders was always left purged and renewed by them, she was too cowed to go out and instead had to get on her knees under close scrutiny of the girls while she scrubbed endlessly clean floors while they stood behind her mocking the violent rash of fire that scared her still exposed bottom.
Sometimes she would be taken over Virella’s lap for another spanking until she cried and pleaded that she would be good. But as stinging-making as this was, it was sometimes a welcome break from the being alone and she came to often ruefully regret it when they at last became bored and left her alone.
And so the summer days would pass picking flowers and swimming naked by herself. A time punctuated only by an occasional spanking from the Countess until she was again caught out by Virella and soundly thrashed without mercy.
*
And so things went along. The months turned into years as Cinderella experienced an endless round of scrubbing, sweeping, swimming, flower picking and some of the soundest punishments of any girl’s young life. But within it all she found a kind of peace, for after all she knew where she was and no one expected very much from her.
Then one fateful day news reached the castle from the capital. It seemed that the King’s eldest son had decided to marry and all the nobility of the land had been ordered to gather at the royal palace to present their daughter’s for consideration.
“There is going to be a ball,” Denise shrieked excitedly, “There is going to be a ball.”
Virella too was excited by the news but she contained her jumping up and down to the inside as she considered what to wear.
Secretly too the Countess wondered if she not yet beautiful enough to be considered, but then decided that marriage to a callow youth might prove tiresome and so she decided to pin her hopes of aggrandisement in her daughters.
“But what about Cinderella?” Denise asked suddenly.
“What about her?” Virella said dismissively.
“Well the order says all nobility must attend the ball,” Denise said nervously.
To defy a royal order was a grave crime, but if they obeyed to the full regard then not only might Cinderella outshine them all, but someone might begin to ask questions about the equitable disposal of the late Count’s wealth.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Virella sneered.
And after a moment’s pause the Countess too shrugged and went about planning their attendance.
But as luck would have it, and as unlikely as it may seem, not far from the castle lived an old friend of Count Verity, a powerful witch who in absentia had appointed herself as Cinder’s godmother. Clementine Tardyhope had been following Cinder’s fate for some time and had been pondering for years what she might do about the situation when the news reached her that Castle Verity had accepted three invitations to the royal ball.
It did not take her long to realise that Cinderella would not go to the ball and she resolved to remedy that prospect.
Now matters get somewhat confusing. For in some versions of the tale Clementine gathers up various unlikely and assorted goods and manufacturers a coach and horse team complete with servants. Now given that one of the principal objects was a pumpkin, a vegetable completely unknown outside of North America at the time of this tale, we can treat these suggestions with a certain amount of doubt. Especially when carriages and horses were plentiful and a day’s labour for a coachman could be had for a small coin.
But however it happened on the day of the ball Cinders was scrubbed up and dressed in one of her old gowns (or had one conjured if you prefer) and put in a coach bound for the palace.
Now consider this. Firstly Cinderella was astonishingly beautiful and yet did not entirely know it. Secondly she hardly ever went to balls and unlike the rest of the aloof nobility gaped in a wide-eyed and charmingly innocent way about everyone and everything from the moment she arrived. And thirdly, she had no idea who the prince was or what he looked like and so spurned his advances when he asked her to dance.
The combination of these three things insured that Cinders was not only noticed, but became the centre of attention.
The prince was not best pleased to be spurned at his own party and so with righteous boldness he seized Cinders by the arm and dragged her on to the patio overlooking the rose garden.
“What do you mean by spurning my advances?” he demanded, “You could at least pretend to consider my suit.”
“But don’t you know that I am just a scullery maid and in any case you look far too gentle a soul to suit my… disposition,” Cinders said carefully.
Outraged at being described as too gentle and by being tricked by a scullion he upended poor Cinderella across his knee and tumbled up her skirts until he had exposed her pert round bottom. Then grabbing one of her own slippers he brought it down with a sharp report on her behind extract a pretty squeal from the girl.
It was such a satisfying smack that he spanked her again before looking on the girl anew. This, he thought, was going to be fun.
Thereafter he spanked Cinderella for a good few minutes until her bottom was as red and polished as a summer strawberry and she was wailing as ever she had when the Countess had at her with hairbrush.
“Ooh, you… you beast,” Cinders wailed and scurried away holding her behind leaving the amused Prince holding her slipper.
“Well done your highness,” chuckled the Lord Chamberlain emerging from the shadows.
The Prince shrugged and asked, “Who was she anyway?”
“The young Countess Verity I believe,” the Chamberlain answered.
“But I thought…” the Prince frowned.
“The other woman is the Dowager Countess, the girl’s stepmother,” the Chamberlain said smoothly, “I fear they do not get on.”
“Is that so?” the Prince mused aloud, “Perhaps you should make some further enquiries.”
“Your Highness,” the Chamberlain bowed.
*
A week later the Prince called upon the residents of Castle Verity and asked to see the Countess.
The Dowager Countess greeted the Prince with a gracious smile and invited him into the parlour.
“You are the Countess?” the Prince asked carefully.
“Indeed,” the Countess smiled.
The Prince appeared to ponder this for a moment and then he too smiled.
“I have in my possession a slipper belonging to one of this household,” he said, “I would match it to the owner for it is her that I will marry.”
The Dowager Countess greeted these words with a wide-eyed inhale and clutched at her heart. Before she could make a suggestion the Prince announced that he would see all gentlewomen in residence for a personal comparison.
“There are but two others,” the Countess said hastily.
“Only two you say?” the Prince said sharply.
“Indeed yes your highness,” the Countess gushed, “Myself and my two daughters.”
The Prince paused to see if she would say more and then he nodded and bid her summon the two girls.
“Shall I remove my shoe?” Virella asked eagerly.
“Your shoe?” the Prince said in a puzzled voice, “No, indeed not,” he said imitating the exaggerated manner of her mother. “For I have no interest at all in feet, I intend to match this slipper to a bare bottom.”
All three women gasped and gaped at him.
“I will spank all three of you, youngest to oldest and the one that matches I will wed,” the Prince said barely hiding his smirk.
“Mother, I don’t think…” Denise wailed.
“Yes spank her first and hard too, your highness,” the Countess snapped, “For I am sure she is the one.”
The Prince removed his coat and sat firmly upon an armless chair and took the reluctant Denise across his lap to bare her bottom. He wished at once that he had something more compelling with which to spank her, but nonetheless he did a fair job with the slipper and quite enjoyed himself for several long minutes spanking her until she howled like a sorry banshee at midnight.
“This is not the girl,” he said disdainful and at long last.
Virella gulped and began to back away. She had presumed until then that Denise had been the one, for she was certain she had made no impression upon the prince at all. Now she began to suspect a trap.
“Oh no you don’t,” the Prince growled and seizing the eldest he dragged her over his lap and bared her copious bottom to his wrath.
This time he took an age to spank the woman and by the time he was done Virella’s bottom was a blistered purple and she was sobbing like a queen who had lost her kingdom.
“That leaves only you,” the Prince sighed turning his attention to the Countess.
“I-I… you would marry me?” she spluttered wondering if a spanking was worth the price.
“I doubt it, but you are the only one left,” the Prince chuckled.
“Wait,” the Countess protested, “There is one other.”
“Then bring her to me,” the Prince ordered, addressing the still weeping Denise.
Then grabbing the Countess, he dragged her across his lap and bared her bottom for the longest hardest and soundest spanking he had ever given. So long did he spank her that the poor woman confessed all, over and over. Not that this stayed the Prince’s hand for he spanked her long into the afternoon until everyone in the castle and beyond knew of her fate.
“Now go and stand in the corner,” he snapped, “All of you and leave those bottoms bare.”
As Cinders who had watched all the proceedings with an admixture of awe and apprehension turned to obey the Prince took her arm.
“Tell me little one, why did you lie about being a scullion?” he asked her.
Cinders cast a glance at the row of three red bottoms and their sniffing miserable owners and then back at the Prince and shrugged.
“No matter, first I will spank you and then we will talk further,” he barked at her.
Cinders was quickly bared and once the pert dome of her bottom was uppermost on the royal lap she too was spanked. And while she did not suffer as the Countess had, she was spanked long and hard until she had thoroughly surrendered.
“No you too can go to the corner for you are their equal, at least until we wed and you can all think on that while I take my supper,” the Prince chuckled.
*
The wedding was a state event and princes from all over Europe came to pay their respects. Cinders had only placed one condition on the marriage and fully expecting her to be avenged on her stepmother and the two sisters, the Prince agreed.
However Cinderella’s request was rather more unusual and after due consideration the Prince acceded. On that we will hear more shortly. Nevertheless the Prince was not content to let the scandalous Dowager Countess Verity and her daughters escape justice for their harsh treatment of Cinders and their usurpation of her position.
The two daughters were married off to modest yeoman farmers who were charged not to spare their bottoms when they gave trouble and work them fairly for the rest of their days. In truth Denise was not so troubled by this and soon settled down much as Cinders had in those early days. But Virella was appalled and rebelled often in the first months of her new life.
On each occasion she was denuded from the waist and belaboured with straps and switches until her bottom was well striped and too sore to sit upon. Then she was set bare bottomed in the corner until her pride was well curbed and she was ready to apply herself to her chores. In time even she found peace and lived like her sister, happily ever after a fashion.
The Dowager Countess did not fare half so well.
About a month after the wedding the palace was quieter than usual and Cinders had awoken early. She still hadn’t got used to wearing fine silk every day and made her way self-consciously to breakfast. She only got as far as the foot of the stairs leading to the grand hall when she saw a maid servant scrubbing at the slate floor.
She was a raven haired beauty in rags so sparse and tattered that as she worked upon her knees the hem of the brief skirts rose up behind to expose the heroic curves of her bottom. It was clear that the woman had been soundly birched for the entire area of her spilt rounds was grazed with prominent tender purple rills.
Even as she thought the woman looked a little familiar the maid turned her woeful face to regard Cinders and the newly-wed princess gasped. It was the Countess her stepmother who was working as a maid in her own palace. The woman’s sad eyes seemed to say ‘go on, mock me.’
“The King has ordered that the former Countess be indentured as a scullion for at least five years,” a stern voice announced.
Cinders whirled around to see her husband the Prince at her side.
“Must we be so cruel,” she asked, her eyes still wide with astonishment.
“Perhaps if she applies herself without complaint in time she might be allowed to wed a worthy peasant,” the prince shrugged. “She has more hope than you did in her position.”
Nearby the kneeling former countess baulked at this news, for ever the schemer she had still held some hope of a reprieve.
Cinderella considered this for a moment and then lightly kissed the prince on the cheek.
“You are so wise my prince,” she said shyly.
The prince embraced her and kissed her back hard.
“Now are you sure you wish me to honour your… request?” he asked carefully.
He glanced significantly at the former countess still on her knees, reluctant to speak too much before the woman.
Cinderella returned a small uncertain nod and then licking her lips she whispered, “Yes.”
“Very well then,” said the prince, “All is prepared.”
*
In a quiet corner of the royal estates and far from the palace stood a small cottage with lime-washed walls and warm reddish-brown beams all set under a thatched roof. There were roses at the borders and a winding cinder path to the door.
Inside it was much as any humble cottar’s house, but with an open fire place and flagstones upon the floor. There was also heavy oaken furniture that few peasants could afford, but it was as close to such an abode as the prince could conceive of. At the back there was a steep wooden staircase, almost a ladder, leading up to the half open attic floor where there was a wide quilt covered bed.
The clothes on the bed were too brief for decency and were little more than rags, but nonetheless Cinderella stripped herself of her fine silks and packed them away carefully in a battered coffer in the corner. Then she donned the attire so that rough material scratched at her skin and when she pulled at the fabric small rents exposed her flesh.
Then once dressed she descended the steps, taking care to hold on tight as she went and presented herself to her husband who had found the only serviceable chair in the whole house.
“You look very becoming,” he said, “But hardly much like a princess.”
“And when we are here you agreed not to treat me as one,” she said shyly.
He nodded as her eyes strayed to the implements hanging from the walls and she gulped. There were knouts aplenty, riding switches, paddles and all manner of dire rods of correction.
“This floor is filthy,” the prince scolded her, although it was not, “And you have not made up the fire,” which was so, for they had just arrived.
Cinders swallowed and glanced nervously at the grate.
“As this is your first offence here I will merely spank you with your own slipper that I have kept. But in future you can expect much harsher treatment.” The prince sounded severe and not a little angry so that Cinders feared she may have really crossed him in some way.
Then he winked and almost smiled; the last she would see of his kind side for the rest of the day.
It took very little for him to bare her bottom for as soon as she was bent across his knee her short hem rose off her thighs exposing most everything below her waist. If anything the clothing was even more revealing than that worn by the former countess that day.
The slipper landed with a resound splat across both her proffered cheeks and she squealed. It had been some weeks now since her last spanking and that only the tame affair handed out by the prince in her own home. Now he threatened to spank her soundly, the bite of the soft leather across her bottom certainly promised as much.
In a few short moments the blasting sting took away her breath and she began to squirm and kicked at the treatment. Idly she wondered if she was unfair demanding such handling from her gentle prince against his nature. Then she remembered how he had first spanked her without prompting and his treatment of her stepmother and the sisters.
Thinking of the former countess she resolved that when next permitted to return to the palace she would enjoy sitting with a glass of wine and watch the woman endure a good sound birching. Then the sting set her bottom to a real tang and she realised that she would have to settle for standing for a while.
It was then that the first of a great many silver tears splashed onto the floor and she yelled in protest. The prince was settling in now to spank her for a very long time. During their days here she would have to be very diligent indeed, she thought ruefully as she again glanced at the rods and paddles.
Then the burn took her and all she knew was the spanking and the fire in her bottom. No girl ever wanted this, she wailed inwardly, but if it wasn’t a lie then she did not dwell overmuch on such a need.
And they both lived happily and unhappily ever after.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.We knew the Victorians were keen on spanking on the birch, it went hand in hand with keeping young women in their place but just how far did they go? Here we have a true account of a woman offering a discipline service for unruly adult daughters.
I came across this tale in the History of the Rod, but investigation online reveals several sources for this tale including from the contemporary source the Truth magazine.
It seems Mrs Walter operated from Oakfield Road, Clifton, in Bristol England and advertised her respectable chastising service for unruly daughters in the national papers. One advertisement read: ‘Bad temper, hysteria, idleness etc. cured by strict disciple and careful training’.
The Truth sent an undercover woman reporter along to find out. She explained she had an unruly daughter she wanted tamed. For the sum of £100 Mrs Walter offered to take the unruly girl under her wing for a whole year. She even offered references from the Dean of Lincoln, an admiral, a general and several aristocrats.
Mrs Walter was well equipped with a birch table, several birches and evidentially made the girls dress in a gown that was open at the back. She claimed never to birch or punish in anger, but to always punish soundly on the bare bottom when the young woman was ‘needful.’
“Taking the birch, I measure my distance and, standing at the side, I proceed to strike slowly but firmly” Mrs Walter explained. “By moving gently forward, each stroke is differently placed and six strokes may well be enough if given with full force. If the fault has been such as to need severe correction, then I begin on the other side and work back again.”
Mrs Walter did not like the girls to resist or even scream and for such behaviour she would add strokes or even repeat the punishment.
At its height Mrs Walter ran a respectable business advertising her services openly and contracting via the church magazine for a supply of birch rods from a reputable supplier.
Here is the The Truth article in full.
Some months ago I called attention to the advertisements on the part of the women, offering to flog unruly girls of any age on payment of a fee. It struck me that this sort of thing ought to be exposed, and I endeavour to enter into correspondence with the “operator.”
She probably, however, suspected the hook, for she did not rise to the fly. On October 5th the following advertisement appeared in the Daily Telegraph: — Bad temper, hysteria, idleness, &c, cured by strict discipline and careful trainer. Three girls received. — Address G., care of Mrs Clapp, St. John’s Wood, Clifton.
This was followed by this further advertisement in the Times of October 21st:— intractable girls trained and educated. Excellent references, “Hints on Management of Children,” “Training of Children,” and “The Rod,” Is each. Advice by letter, Is.— Address, Mrs Walter, Clifton. Since then several other advertisements of the same nature have appeared.
A friend of mine has thrown a fly, and the fish has risen to the bait. He got a lady of his acquaintance to write to say that she had an intractable daughter, whom she wished to be “broken in,” and requesting the advertiser to send pamphlets, and letter of advice. The books and the letter were sent. Here is the letter, together with a list of persons to whom references are kindly permitted:— Clifton, October 24. Dear madam, —Thank you for your latter of to-day. I am prepared to take another girl at any time, and offer her a comfortable and refined home, with educational advantages.
With much experience I am able to say that those girls who will not work at home, do so when they are taken individually. I have one girl here who had been troublesome for five years, yet who is most amenable to me and my wishes.
Her friends live near London, but I prefer not to refer to them unless I am obliged, because the daughter’s neglected education is a very sore subject with them. You will see from enclosed testimonials and lift of references that I can be recommended. Mr Christopher Heath knows the parents of one of my pupils, and will, I am sure, be happy to answer any questions you may like to ask him. My old friend, Admiral Strode, will be iu Town next week, but a man at, his club is not easily seen by a lady.
Mr proper name is Mrs Walter Smith, “Walter” being my nom-de-plume. My second daughter assists me with the girl and I have professors for music, painting, dancing, &c. I could take your niece for £100 per annum, entering at any time, if she is under twenty years of age. If more, I must have some little extra for holidays. My present arrangement is to be in Town about the 11th of November for a day, but I may be called there on Saturday for a few hours.
You will, perhaps, let me know as soon as you have come to a decision about your niece. My fees are usually paid three months in advance. Enclosed please find the explanation of my system. Believe me, dear madam, yours faithfully, E. Walter, MODUS OPERANDI WITH IXTRACTAULE CURLS.
Unwilling as I may be to say it, very often the fault of the girls is merely the natural result of careless training. Parents do not always realise the fact that unless the girls are well occupied and carefully trained at all times, much mischief will accrue. Some girls are idle constitutionally, this must be cured; others have a superfluous amount of energy, this needs to be well directed.
Whether at lessons or play, real interest should be taken so as to do it thoroughly. It is better if girls have got troublesome to make plans, and then completely change their system, beginning in a new groove. Change of scene is, of course, helpful but if for fresh habits are formed, and on the return improved comfort shows itself.
My first object when a girl is placed with me is to show her kindly, but firmly, that I must be implicitly obeyed It is always a good plan to rule by moral suasion if possible. When that has been fairly tried and fails, then it is positively necessary to use some other means of making the girl obey. First I warn her of the consequences of repeated faults; then, when a direct act of disobedience, a lie, or very serious fault shows itself, I tell her that presently I shall punish.
Never birch when angry. During the interval she thinks over the fault. I make preparations. These consist in having ready a strong narrow table, straps (waist band with sliding strap, anklets and wristlets), cushions, and a good, long, pliable rod, telling her to prepare by removing her dress, knickers, &c, and putting on the dressing-gown (hind part before). Then I talk seriously to her, show her the nature of the fault, and the need of punishment as a cure. Next I put on the waist band, after having told her that if she submits quietly no one need know; if she struggles I must call in help (girls generally prefer to be quiet).
Placing her at the end of the table (on which there are cushions to protect the person) I turn her body over the table and fasten the straps underneath it. Then I fasten the knees together, wrists the same, unless I anticipate a struggle— then I use anklets and wristlets, and fasten the limbs to the legs of the table. This really takes less time to do than to write about. Unfastening the dressing-gown, the orthodox surface is found at the right angle for punishing.
Taking the birch, I measure my distance, and, standing at the side, proceed to strike slowly but firmly. By moving gently forward each stroke is differently placed, and six strokes may be enough if well given with full force. If the fault has been such as to need severe correction, then I begin on the other side and work back again.
For screams increased strokes must be given. If a girl tries very hard indeed to bear it bravely, then, perhaps, I give 10 instead of 12.
Directly it is finished I cover up the part exposed, unfasten the girl, and, finding her probably more subdued, help to resolutions of amendment. If this birching has been judiciously and conscientiously administered, the girl will bear against the operation no resentment, but be ready to “kiss and be friends.”
After allowing the culprit a little time to compose herself and re-dress, I expect her to join the others, and no mention of any kind is made of the punishment unless future misconduct makes it necessary, and this is not often.
Birching is an extraordinary thing, not an every-day work, therefore care must be taken that the operator has the proper nerve and patience for the operation. Mothers are the proper persons to whip girls; but if they have not the necessary nerve, then it is better to appoint a deputy. After this serious business is over, much steady patience is needed, for a birching is no use whatever if a girl is to be petted again and allowed to do just as she likes. She must be under firm, kind discipline.
None of my girls have been more attached to me than those whom I have been obliged to discipline severely. They have a great respect for those who can master them, and who do not taunt them with past misdeeds. One good scolding is worth months of “nagging.” Efforts at amendment must be encouraged, and those having the charge of girls must not expect to reform them all at once. ” Rome vas not built in a day.” The old Adam will sometimes show itself, and for checking his work nothing is so useful as a birch rod judiciously used. E. W. [Here follow the names of gentlemen whose reference? are kindly permitted].
My friend then put himself in communication with the woman, saying that he had an intractable ward, aged sixteen. He had three interviews with her at a boarding-house in Porchester Gardens. Subsequently, as he was passing through Bristol, he called on her.
He describes her as a tall, strong woman, arrayed in the dress of some sort of order, and wearing a medallion with the effigy of a “Good Shepherd” stamped upon it. As an inducement to him to confide his ward to her tender mercies, she said she had girls of twenty in her house, to whom a week or two previous she had administered 15 cuts with a birch rod, and she explained that she had a considerable number of clients in London whose daughters she chastised. This appears probable, for when my friend called on her, it was difficult to get more than a few minutes’ conversation with her, there were so many waiting for an audience. Each interview costs half-a-guinea. She had before her a book, in which her flogging engagements were registered, and they appeared to be numerous.
I append two extracts from the pamphlet entitled “The Rod”: According to some writers and physicians, flagellation is a remedy for torpid condition and lack of muscular energy; it clears the brain, and braces the nerves; in short, there is nothing it will not do, when properly applied _ The rod has been found to cure all feigned diseases. For hypochondriacally cases it is an excellent remedy.
To be effectual the rods should be of the right sort. They can be bought at Clifton of Mrs Clapp, St. John’s road, from 5d upwards, trimmed if required. They can be sent post free for 3d each. They should be made from 2. to 3ft. Gin. long, and very thin and pliable. I get mine from a family who have made them for generations. And here are two extracts from the pamphlet entitled “Hints on the Management of Untractable Girls “Parents who have not the necessary patience or nerve should depute some person for this office, and, having done so, let them not be restricted in any way, for something must be left to the discretion of the operator. Anyone who would be deterred by screams or struggles from carrying out what has been begun should never attempt whipping, because, unless it is thoroughly done, ground is lost, and the girl will rejoice in her triumph.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Once bucolic countryside had taken on a sinister aspect and where green trees had been charming they now looked gnarled, like ancient trolls, where glades had shone in dappled sunshine, the feeble yellow grass now looked garish. She was gone.
Adam threw the car around the bend as if it and he had no value and almost clipped a tree. He didn’t care really, she was gone. A sob threatened to overwhelm him and his hands gripped the wheel as if to let go would be his end too.
“You bloody fool,” he raged at the space between him and the windscreen, not seeing it.
Yes she has gone, over a year now, he sighed now pulling himself together.
“You’ll be alright,” she had said kindly, her eyes sparkling as she drank the very remains of him. Those had been her last words in the hospital. He had still been answering her when she slipped away.
“I am 58, Brenda, what the hell do you think I will do without you,” he screamed at his dead wife as in his mind he lost her again.
There were days like these, days when memories and the present merged and he rambled on to a ghost. Those were the better days. All the rest drifted by in a haze, one rolling into the next.
The car skidded at the bend and for a brief moment he thought it would all end and he would follow her, but his driving skill held up and the car steadied.
“I am driving like a fool,” he chided himself and slowed.
Brenda would not have been impressed and nor would he if he were to involve someone in a crash. More than once he had spanked Brenda for such recklessness and years before his daughter at the great age of 23 had suffered the same indignity. But that had been a life time ago and another era, the world had moved on without him. Without them, he added, on the cusp of renewed despair.
“You old fool,” he sniffed tears he had not noticed and wiped his eye.
At the next bend he almost ran into the back of a dawdling tractor, his heart lurched. Not a minute before his driving style would have ended him here and the irony raked him.
“You’ll be alright,” Brenda said. Startled he made a half turn to where she had once sat beside him, but of course she was gone now.
A glance to his mirror threw up another car closing fast and he slowed further. The Range Rover looked far too large for its driver and for a moment Adam did a double-take, convinced that the car was empty. Then with a roar it surged past him and he saw the small blonde woman perched behind the wheel.
“You stupid little girl,” he yelled, although she would not hear him.
He thought of his daughter, this girl was older still and should have known better, but the woman made it and left the old man shaking his head as her tail end disappeared up the lane.
The tractor delayed him for another minute or two before he too made a pass, but at least by then he could see the road ahead.
“Brenda, Brenda, Brenda old girl, this world is too fast for me, I’m getting old,” he said with a chuckle. The first time he had laughed in days, an omen his wife would have called it.
*
The Range Rover was side on in the ditch and Adam was genuinely relieved to see the young blonde woman standing upright and angry nearby rather than slumped behind the wheel. At least her reckless turn at the bend had not met with another tractor, he thought as he slowed and pulled up.
The blonde was around 30 as near as Adam could tell, although she could easily be five years either way of that, he had trouble working it out these days. But she wasn’t exactly an innocent judging from the stream of vile abuse she hurled at the car. It was as if the Range Rover had a mind of its own that could carry the blame.
“I know what I would do if you were one of mine,” Adam growled as he got out of his car and shook his head with maximum disapproval.
The girl wheeled on him as if she would swear but instead on seeing him she blushed and dipped her head.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She nodded.
“The bloody car,” she sighed.
“It looks okay to me,” Adam said reassuringly.
“Yeah, but I’ll need a tow,” she replied dejectedly letting out a long slow ragged breath.
“Live far?” he asked glancing at his watch as if he had to hurry.
Hurry where, to the empty house and a frozen meal in front of one of those clever panel shows?
“Nah,” the girl shrugged and gestured up the lane. “’Bout two miles, I guess I can walk.”
She looked unsettled and shifted uncomfortably as if too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Her blonde hair would have been long but she wore it braided Germanic-style close to her head so that he couldn’t help notice her faultless model-like skin that emphasised her full pout lips and large blue-pools for eyes. Adam guessed that she was in her early 30s and that her small statue and juvenile dress only suggested youth; that and her poor driving.
“You in a hurry?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“You made a rather reckless pass just now,” he suggested.
She shrugged and blushed again.
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift home, you could probably do with a drink or something, it’s just shock,” he said kindly.
“No I am fine,” she blurted.
“Come on,” he said firmly and after a show of fluttery protests she nodded.
*
The cottage was small and ill-kept. A renter she told him hastily when she saw his expression. Adam glanced at the jungle where presumably a garden had once been and absently made improvements in his mind.
“Thanks for the lift, I guess…” she was embarrassed again and looked like she wanted him to go.
He gave her a wave and turned away.
“Coffee, tea…?” she said tentatively.
He made to refuse and crinkled his face in readiness but suddenly she looked lost and he thought of his daughter.
“You’ll be alright,” Brenda said brightly and he startled. Of course she wasn’t really there.
“Um… sure just a quick tea would be great… thanks,” he said casually.
The girl looked relieved.
“Stacy,” she said, holding out a hand.
“Adam Stone,” he answered and took it with a quick firm shake.
The interior of the house was clean enough but none too tidy. Adam guessed that Stacy was single and he appraised the room beyond the hall much as he had once done his daughter’s room. He smiled as he thought of Brenda chivvying her as a teenager. Both gone now, he realised and he almost cried.
“Do you take sugar Mr Stone?” she asked once they were inside.
If she noticed his sadness it didn’t show, in fact she looked rather distracted herself Adam thought. Shock maybe?
“Not for me,” he replied as he inspected the kitchen, he had seen worse.
They stood in silence for what seemed an age, she stirring her tea, and him sipping politely as he glanced at idle messages pinned to the fridge door and the array of magnets stuck there.
“What did you mean before?” she said quietly.
He frowned. She wasn’t looking at him and held her head at a tilt and gazing into the middle distance.
“When?” he didn’t know what she meant.
“When you first got out of your car? You know, about what you would do if I were one of yours,” she didn’t look up and sipped at her tea with her head still dipped and her eyes rolling up coyly as if she had only now noticed the ceiling.
“You know perfectly well what I meant,” he said in a tone of stern indulgence. But he let a small smile touch his lips to reassure her.
Stacy blushed and shifted nervously where she stood.
“Not really,” she lied and bit at her lip.
“If my wife or daughter had driven as recklessly as you, let alone run off the road like that I would I have given them a good sound spanking,” Adam informed her.
Stacy gasped and looked up at him horrified.
He didn’t care if that shocked her, she was playing games with him anyway.
“I suppose I should go,” he shrugged and put down his cup.
“Ah…” she interjected and extended a tentative arm. “You wouldn’t really would you? I mean it’s just an expression isn’t it?”
“No, no it isn’t and I yes I would and did,” he chuckled, “My daughter was 23 when had words about a situation similar to yours and my wife and I…”
He sudden closed his mouth to a tight line and swallowed. That was our life, why am I telling this girl?
“Twenty-three, you spanked her when she was 23?” Stacy gasped, her eyes were fixed on Adam now and darted back and forth in her head.
“Oh she deserved it,” Adam said emphatically.
“I suppose she did, but that was the olden days for you, I guess,” Stacy said ruefully.
Adam bristled. “Not so long ago; I’m not that old. She certainly wasn’t too old for a spanking.”
“I bet you think I am not old too,” Stacy said biting her lip and blushing yet again.
“I know you’re not,” Adam said with a friendly snort.
Stacy nodded as she kissed the air and looked off to the side as if considering something. “H-how, how did you do it?” she asked in the voice of a mouse.
Adam pushed out his lower lip and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know,” Stacy shrugged, “Did you just grab her and slap her bum or were you mad…?”
“I was always calm and I never just grabbed her,” Adam said wistfully remembering.
“Tell me,” Stacy whispered. For emphasis she stood up straight and moved to the kitchen table and sat down. “More tea?” she asked.
Adam dropped into the chair opposite and held up his cup to the tea spout.
“Well… first we would talk it over and when I was sure, I would tell her to get ready,” Adam began. “She would…” he became uncomfortable, he had never thought about this before, it had all been organic, something that had been silently agreed between them once Brenda had relinquished the discipline side of things. It had only happened two or three times after she turned 18 anyway.
“She would remove whatever she was wearing below, you know… take off her trousers or skirt, whatever, and her pants too,” he added pointedly, “And then she would stand and face the wall in our dining room with her hands on her head.”
Stacy sucked in her teeth as if she was bored, but Adam sensed something intense going on.
“I would leave her to her own devices for a while; until I was thoroughly calm at least,” he continued, “Perhaps half an hour. Then I would sit in a chair and take her across my knee.”
The kitchen clock seemed very loud and Adam realised that it was the only sound in the room.
“Did you use your hand?” Stacy asked after a moment. She sounded both muted and eager all at once.
“Sometimes yes, I would spank her bare bottom that way, but often I would use a sailing shoe, a bit like a tennis pump, I bought a pair and never wore them.” Adam wondered if he sounded cruel. Why did that matter?
“How long… how hard, did you spank her I mean?” Stacy couldn’t breathe.
Adam shrugged. “Until she was good and sorry, until her bottom was dark red and couldn’t take any more and then usually a touch on top of that to make my point. That last time when she was 23 I was mad at her and she knew better. I added a bit until she looked quite raw and was bawling her head off.”
Stacy shuddered and hugged herself.
“After that I usually resisted the temptation to cuddle her, although I wanted too of course. I made her go back to face the wall until she had calmed down.” Adam added. He leaned in to try and gauge Stacy’s reaction. There was more going on than he understood, so he continued, “Brenda usually got her and made her get dressed. I… I don’t know, there was a kind of peace between us when she was standing there, I don’t think either of us wanted it to end.”
“Did you hug her then?” Stacy asked.
“Oh yes, big hugs,” Adam chuckled, “She usually cried again and said over and over how sorry she was.”
Stacy was smiling and nodded vigorously.
“Was that how it was with your father?” Adam said gently, his mouth a tight sympathetic line.
“I never knew my father, but I have always wished I had had one like you,” Stacy said shyly.
Adam shifted uneasily, embarrassed at the statement. “Oh well, I suppose I should go,” he muttered.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Adam frowned.
“You are right, I deserve a spanking,” adding a “yeah,” as if courting his agreement. Stacy could scarcely get the words out, “Just like your daughter got.” She was blushing just as his daughter had done when confronted with the inevitable.
“I don’t think…” Adam swallowed.
Stacy held his gaze now and pleaded with her eyes.
“You’ll be alright,” Brenda seemed to say.
“Alright then,” Adam said in a stern voice he hadn’t found in years. He stood up. “I saw the way you overtook that tractor and what speed were going at that bend, words fail me,” he scolded.
Stacy dipped her head and chewed at her lower lip.
“You are a damn sight older than my daughter was and you should damn well know better. So this is what we are going to do. I am going to find something appropriate and you little girl are going to get your things down and face that wall in there,” he barked as he pointed to the lounge. “If you aren’t bare-arsed and waiting when I come in, then I’ll just go. If you are ready then we will do this. But I warn you…”
“I know, I need this, you know yeah, for real,” Stacy said gently.
Adam nodded.
The kitchen yielded nothing that would serve as a paddle and the brush hanging in the hall looked too heavy for a novice. Then he noticed an embossed leather mat on the hall table. It looked like something one might stand a row of teacups on to protect good furniture, but it was over a foot long and as wide as a man’s hand. He picked it up and hefted it like a short paddle. It was springy enough and a slap of his palm promised quite a sting.
“Okay then Stacy, Contrition City Arizona,” he muttered something from his youth.
When he entered the room Stacy was facing the wall in just a T-shirt. Her long bare legs were tapered and pale as they extended from the floor and on upwards towards her naked hips. She had a good pert bottom that jutted out behind like a shelf, each buttock smooth and tightly separated and as white as a porcelain statue.
But this was his ‘daughter’ not his wife and only a sense of justice stirred within him. Maybe if he taught this girl a real lesson he would save her life one day and this would be more than some bored woman’s little adventure.
Stacy shifted uneasily as she heard him come in and the blush came back with a vengeance; strong enough to dominate her face and neck when seen from behind. Just like Karen, he thought, allowing himself his lost daughter’s name for the first time since…
Adam gave the girl’s back a grim smile and dropped into an easy chair nearby. He would let her stew for a bit. Maybe she would bail and ask him to leave, a lesson by itself. If not, then he had a purpose for the first time since Brenda had died.
*
Stacy was a fidget. Not in a big way, not in a way that would get her in his bad books. But she twitched and shuffled a little. He hadn’t told her to put her hands on her head and occasionally she would steal a stroke of her bare bottom as if contemplating its fate. Well that was the point and one well-made in his book. Adam smiled.
She had faced the wall for 40 minutes or so and had showed no sign that her resolve to go through with it had waned. Well good for her, he thought.
Finally he stood up and hefted the impromptu paddle-strap he had found. There was no suitable chair in the room so he headed to the kitchen to get one. As he moved away Stacy moaned as if her expectations had been lifted and dashed. The psychology of corner time was ever thus, he thought with a shrug. Not that he kept her waiting long.
Placing the chair on the carpet nearby, he sat down and finally spoke to her.
“Now young lady, come here and get across my knee,” he said in a scolding voice.
Stacy jogged on the spot nervously and turned around with a grimace. Her hands fluttered nervously in front of her sex and he averted his eyes. Karen had been better at that and he became uncomfortable again.
But in the event the girl was as eager as him to get it over with and she flopped heavily across his knees without preamble and wriggled until her bare bottom was sticking up helpfully and her head hung down.
“Okay then,” he sighed, “You asked for it.”
He slapped her hard with his hand leaving an immediate red patch and she hissed. Then matching it across both cheeks he spanked her for a minute as she squirmed and groaned until he had her measure. It is funny how you never forget, he thought, just like riding a bicycle.
The next part of the spanking was rapid and hard. Stacy made little noises in her throat as she bucked and kicked, but safe to say she offered no real resistance.
“I don’t think you are going to go playing racing cars around country lanes again are you?” he snarled.
“No Sir,” she yipped.
“Or anywhere else for that matter, will you?” he barked at her as he spanked with a will.
“No Mr Stone,” she said breathlessly.
“You know we haven’t even got started don’t you?” he continued.
“Yes Mr Stone,” she panted, pain dripping off her voice like bad medicine from a spoon.
Her small but prominent behind was quite red by then, but she would mock him surely if he ended it now. In any case he had resolved, as she had demanded, that he should handle her soundly.
The length of leather was nearby and he took it now and lined it up with her bottom. The first swat cracked loudly and Stacy’s reaction was a shrill one.
“Handy little thing this,” he observed with a chuckle.
This was as much fun as when he had spanked his wife and yet with the drama and justification of those otherwise grim occasions with Karen. Adam was suddenly alive and in his element.
He spanked Stacy heavily and hard several dozen times as she kicked and bucked. Her voice was a guttural growl and more than a little wet now. Indeed there were tears like sheet down her face and her nose was running. Hardly surprising when you considered the state of her bottom: now a very dark red and textured like old leather, so that both buttocks were capped with welty pads that had formed rubbery ridges where the burgundy stain met the white flesh.
Adam noticed too that her bottom had a chalky white dusting from the serious application of the leather. All-in-all, her generous little bum had become quite raw.
Stacy expressed her appreciation of this happenstance by bawling vigorously and hiccoughing spluttered sobs as her angry outburst slipped away into miserable resignation.
“I’m sorry,” she wailed, adding more shrilly at a shriek “I’m sorry.”
“Are you? Are you really,” Adam said firmly, “You agree then that this is deserved?”
He could have sworn that she was mooing like a cow and in a thick strained voice she wailed an incoherent “yes.”
“Have you learned your lesson then?” he asked sharply, not stopping his spanking arm for a moment.
“Oh God yes Sir, please Mr Stone, I’ll be a good girl,” she blubbed earnestly.
“In truth, sorry is where it starts,” Adam said calmly, “I mean you might have been killed, you might have killed someone. If you were my daughter and more used to this I would give you a very firm lesson indeed…”
Stacy’s peony-soaked face gurned into space. She was in a state of accepting horror as she contemplated further blistering.
“Please Mr Stone, pleeeese,” she wailed.
Adam stopped the spanking and let her draw a breath.
“You want to give up on this little punitive adventure do you?” He waited.
Stacy’s breath was laboured and her shoulders heaved up and down for an age. Then with a small motion she shook her head.
Adam was surprised and almost continued her ordeal. But she was spent now and even Karen or Brenda would have been.
“Alright,” he sighed, “You know what happens next?”
Stacy got up painfully, struggling to stop her crying, but she nodded. He had never seen anyone look so miserable. But with strange staggered steps Stacy turned and went to face the wall and half-leaned against it. Then she broke again and great gouts of sobs began over.
*
Adam waited until five or 10 minutes after she had completely calmed down and then he spoke.
“If it were down to me I would leave you there for another hour” he chuckled, half expecting Brenda to lead her away and help her put on her jeans and knickers.
“It is up to you,” Stacy said breathily.
Adam blinked, it was, wasn’t it?
“Have you learned your lesson?” he asked.
“Oh yes Sir, thank you Mr Stone,” she said with an exaggerated gratitude.
“Call me Adam,” he said.
“I’d rather not,” she said with a shrug.
He nodded. “Well… I would give you a hug but…”
She nodded, it would have been wrong this time.
“How long do I have to stand here, I mean if it were up to you?” Stacy asked making a half turn and chewing her lower lip nervously.
“You’re feeling better then?” Adam chuckled.
“Yes thank you Sir,” she agreed.
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll go home and phone you. Assuming no one else calls you first then you can sit down then, that’ll be in about 35 minutes I suppose,” he told her.
“I doubt if I’ll sit down, but yes, thank you,” she said ruefully, “So you live quite close then?”
He nodded, but she had already turned back to face the wall so he eyed her bottom and marvelled at how sore it looked. “Eh… yes,” he answered.
“Will I see you again?” she said casually.
Silence fell and only the clock filled it.
“I’m a bit… bit old for you don’t you think?” he said sounding regretful.
“You could be my daddy… to begin with anyway, couldn’t you?” she said hopefully.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, but his mood had strangely lifted.
“Mr Stone,” she said. She was looking over her shoulder with her face set with an adult demeanour. “I have been waiting for someone like you all my life.”
Adam could have sworn that Brenda patted him on the shoulder and then gently slipped away.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Many years ago I saw a beautiful graphic portrait from the 1950s. It was of a very smart looking aristocratic woman with a young maid across her knee giving her a spanking. The drawing was within an otherwise vanilla collection and no particular attention was drawn to this image as if it was quite commonplace.
I have not seen this image since, but I do remember the caption was simply ‘spanking the maid.’
Now I have posted on this topic before but every now and then I chance on something I haven’t seen or don’t remember seeing before. This time I found some interesting articles on Google Reader.
This incomplete snippet was taken from Woman’s Weekly in 1911 was supplied under the heading ‘domestic discipline.’
Do you still spank your servant girls? Many perfectly sound housekeepers still do, although the practice seems to be in decline. Professional agencies have suggested that the decline is down to modern thinking and the growing shortage of girls willing to enter service in the first place.
The Modern Woman’s Guide to Good Housekeeping says that spanking of girls over 21 is very much a thing of the past and good servants will expect better conditions than previous generations.
Your grandmothers probably had girls in their house who had begun their service at aged 14 or 15 and who were treated as part of the family. But this way of things is sadly in decline and modern women are more inclined to move on or even get married younger.
In 1883, the Domestic Gazette, suggested that “birching your maid is decidedly old hat, and not to mention barbaric. If one has a girl in their house needful of such harsh treatment, then this humbler reporter is of the opinion that you might consider seeking a new maid.”
However, unlike the later article there is no doubt that maids needed punishing as the article goes on to say, “if your maid needs corporal chastisement then might this writer suggest that a good old-fashioned slipper applied to the naked posterior is quite effective enough. Or for the older more recalcitrant girl that one applies a patent leather strap to the same place.”
I particularly like an advertisement form an even earlier date that ran the legend ‘Domestic Trouble?’ above a crude line drawing of a nervous young maid and went on to offer: “Whips, crops, rods of all sizes for those difficult servants.”
No doubt the reality of this employee abuse was rather grim, but I chose to remember that drawing I saw of the 1950s maid and the romantic fantasies it conjures up.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Our story began here.
Alice realised that Janet and Jenny had allowed her to mark time and had given the training schedule some shape.
While they were there then keep two basically good kids in line just about justified Alice’s existence but now thing were getting serious. Mrs Baxter expected great things from Alice and the Sinclair Method and so did Katherine and Mary; her two eager volunteers.
Mary eager, what a turn up, the little mouse had come a long way and in no small part due to Alice, but this was no time to rest upon her laurels. Katherine too needed her and the governess knew she could take little credit in that direction. Even without her guidance, Alice knew that within a year or two Katherine could very well be standing in her shoes.
Not so many years before, in the dying days of the 1940s, Alice herself had come to Muriel Baxter as a cynical ex-WAVE looking for some direction. She remembered clearly standing in the hall of Sinclair’s house with her one bag and dressed to kill. She had all but dared the world and Mrs Baxter to show her something new, to show her who she really was even.
Mrs Baxter had obliged and by supper time she had found herself tumbled pell-mell over the formidable woman’s knee for a bare bottom spanking she would never ever forget.
For an ex-naval officer, corner time had been an excruciatingly embarrassing experience, especially as a dozen or so other girls and women had filed past on their way to the refractory barely batting an eyelid at her predicament.
The utter shame of exposure coupled with the casual indifference had been hard lesson in humility and one she had taken to heart.
But how to handle Katherine and Mary, that was the question. Mary needed a confidence boost, but Katherine reminded Alice of herself and had yet to be truly humbled.
“Time to get serious,” Alice sighed and took a long hard look at herself in the mirror.
*
Katherine and Mary too were enjoying the calm before the inevitable storm. Now that their younger friends had gone they knew that soon Alice’s entire attention would be turned upon them.
Both of them were sitting in Katherine’s room on the bed and missing the unearthly quiet that had descended now that Jenny and Janet could no longer be heard bickering. In fact the only sound was the hush of wind in the trees outside and the ticking of a clock somewhere.
It was strange in the house now. No one was being spanked and all the corners were empty of penitent girls. They both missed it and wondered what Alice was planning.
“I want this to work,” Mary said anxiously.
Katherine smiled and nodded encouragingly. “I want to go to the mother house as trainee governess, not just one of the girls. Do you think…?”
“You will easily make that, but me? I have no idea what to do. Do you think Alice is really going to teach us?” Mary gushed.
“Why don’t we ask her?” Katherine said thoughtfully.
“Oh, you know I get tongue-tied and… well you know, it is so embarrassing isn’t it?” Mary sighed.
“Hmmm,” Katherine pondered. “We could write a letter.”
Mary came alive and bounced up on the bed.
“What do you mean? A letter to Alice, but that’s silly,” Mary said, but hoped she was wrong.
“No it isn’t,” Katherine said sharply, but her mind was fixed on her idea now. “What we need to say is…”
“Please Dear Alice, hmm, we really want to make this work and we know what a great opportunity you and Mrs Baxter have offered us…” Mary offered tentatively.
“Something like that, yes,” Katherine agreed, “Let’s start a list of what we think…”
Mary nodded eagerly.
An hour later they had a half decent draft.
Dear Miss Bowman,
Can we start off by thanking you for the great opportunity that you and Mrs Baxter have offered us and we truly hope to make the most of it.
We know that there will be difficult and not to say painful times ahead for both of us, I doubt if either of us will be sitting down much for many weeks to come. But this is what we truly need and we both want to assure you that despite our girlish protests we both respect and appreciate your firm hand. If we may be so bold as to say so, never were two bare bottoms blistered so thoroughly in a good cause.
You have taught us both that there is nothing so good for a young woman as a thoroughly spanked bare bottom and a good hour or more standing nose tight to the corner, but we know that there is more to it than that and we don’t just mean the canes, switches and other needful horrors that our training might entail.
We don’t mean to be impertinent when we say that we know that you went through this too and we desire very much to follow in your footsteps. That is, we both very much wish to be trained as governess in the Sinclair Method and urge you not to spare our behinds or minds in any regard when training us to this end. The end being very much to the fore if you pardon the pun.
Please Miss Bowman, Alice, know that we are ready.
Yours very sincerely and very humbly,
Miss Katherine Anders and Miss Mary Welling
*
Alice had read and re-read the letter while the two young women sat in patient nervousness on the couch. All the while Katherine adopted a stance of nonchalant poise, her apprehension only hinted at by the constant twittering of her hands, while Mary couldn’t sit still and insisted on chewing her lips.
“Are you sure about this?” Alice said at last.
Katherine pursed her mouth and gave a single nod as she smiled. Followed by Mary, who stole a glance at the older girl and then finding her brave said, “Yes Ma’am.”
“Very well,” Alice said slowly as she drew in a breath. Standing up she frowned and then carefully folded the letter and put it away. “Mary, go to my room and fetch a hairbrush.”
Katherine let the bridge of her nose furrow as a thousand nameless things nibbled at her tummy. She couldn’t think what she had done, but copious reading of Alice’s training manual had suggested that regular maintenance spanking was a desirable practice and she gulped. If that was her governess’s intent then there was nothing either of them could do about it.
For a long second Mary didn’t obey and worked her mouth in confusion. Then with one last glance at Katherine she dipped her head and slowly found her feet.
“Yes Ma’am,” she sighed before marching away.
“Miss Bowman, Ma’am, have I… have we… well I know it is entirely up to you but…?” she shifted in her seat and moistened her lips. Before she could continue Mary returned and the older girl fell silent again.
“Mary,” Alice scolded as she took the brush from Mary’s nervous hands, “You were late getting up this morning and you failed to make your bed.”
Mary blanched and then sucked in her lower lip. “Yes Ma’am,” she agreed.
“From now on neither of you will make the slightest error in any regard,” Alice snapped.
“Yes Ma’am,” they both parroted before Katherine added, “I think we mean, no Ma’am.”
“Then it is understood,” Alice sighed, “Mary come here, I am going to spank you.”
Mary’s jaw dropped and then she closed her mouth and nodded. There was a moment of awkwardness as she moved forward and haplessly half-bent over before Alice slapped her arm and gently held her back.
Mary blushed and still at a standing crouch she reached under her skirt and tugged down her panties. Then as elegantly as she might she eased herself across Alice’s knee as the older woman flipped up the skirts and slip in back.
Katherine help a fidget as she fixed her eyes on Mary’s two pert domes now exposed across Alice’s lap and she felt a hint of giddiness. One day she would have to spank a girl too and just then she hoped it might perhaps be Mary.
“I am going to spank you using what we call the thorough method. Mrs Baxter rarely uses any other way, but I have tended to be more lenient,” Alice explained as she patted Mary’s bare bottom and parted the cheeks slightly. “I will spank you soundly and relentlessly until you are quite, quite miserable and your whole demeanour displays adequate humility. By this time I expect you will be properly crying at the very least. Now where some may call a halt to the spanking at this point I shall not. Taking note of the time it has taken to so reduce you I will spank you for at least as long again. Is that understood?”
“Yes Ma’am,” a rather wooden-voiced Mary answered; her nose just a few inches from the rug.
Katherine thought the explanation somewhat clinical but she got the point and anyway she was here to learn.
Alice was in no hurry and the spanks landed in tight short bursts that didn’t tax the governess’s arm too much. But for seemingly light spanks they got a reaction from Mary all the same and in moments she was yelping and kicking her heels.
“I think we have you somewhere nice and prominent for your corner time, I am not expecting any visitors but principles need to be upheld don’t they? From now on your shame will be as public as possible, you are going to learn,” Alice said sharply as she got into her stride. “That’s another aspect of the thorough method, not only should a spanking be as long thorough and painful as possible, but it should be as public as possible.”
Alice remembered her early treatment at Mrs Baxter’s hand, a grown woman and an ex-WAVE yet, spanked where teenagers and even delivery boys might see her… heat rose and fuelled her steely arm.
Mary squealed and renewed her squirming. But as yet there were no tears or real contrition; after all it wasn’t something one could fake. In the end it took almost 20 minutes to break Mary down and Alice made a note of the time.
“Are you learning your lesson?” she asked the sobbing girl.
“Yes Ma’am, oh yes ma’am,” Mary sobbed between gasps.
Katherine was breathing almost as heavily as Mary and had to cross and re-cross her legs frequently as a distraction. This was better than the movies, she thought to her shame, surely Mary misery shouldn’t be fun.
“Now we can begin,” Alice said sharply as he did her duty.
The spanking turned out to be one of the longest Katherine had so far witnessed. It was quite an education for the both and one neither would ever forget.
This picture reminded me of someone.
Image may be NSFW.
