Vintage Sunday


spanking_by_robert98233-d784e6n defiant-schoolgirl 1960s-fencer-

cute contritionI stumbled across this somewhere and thought now that the weather is warming up it might be a cute seasonal filler.

AB sorryDonna Warren lay face down on her bed in a state of exhaustion. Her bottom felt like it had been reamed by a telegraph pole and the tight intimate bud felt pepper hot as it positively pulsed with pain. In fact this tender gem sat between two engorged hills of aching soreness and she felt like a tiny thing reduced to the red bottom looming up behind her.

She could still feel the tight sawing lines of two dozen cane strokes and how she had wept and begged under the onslaught. Mrs Main had been right; the thorough cleansing had been nothing to that.

Donna blushed at the thought of cleansing, never had she felt so utterly… humiliated wasn’t the word and embarrassed didn’t half cover it. Her mind seized upon the word ‘humbled’ and other words like ‘surrendered’ and… she sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. The phrase ‘carefree liberation’ popped into her head and Donna cruelly supressed it.

She felt emptied out, as if all her preconceptions of self and all her sins had been poured down a drain and she had been reformed anew. It was almost as if she were a blank slate waiting to be written upon.

Donna sniffed and wiped the dampness from her face as she flushed with shame. The walk back from Mrs Main’s room had been an ordeal in itself and the English teacher’s gait had drawn a good many smirks and stares as she had limped to her room.

It was quite possible that she would never ever sit down again, Donna thought ruefully as she shifted on the bed to try and get comfortable.

“I hate that woman, I hate her,” she cursed, slamming the mattress hard with her fist.

But her words lacked conviction or resolve and Donna knew in her heart that they were not true. But what exactly did she feel towards this woman? Nothing sexual, that was for sure, but she blushed as she replayed that thought in her mind. Her sex ached and not from any abuse by the housemother.

I need to be honest, she thought, this time more fiercely. Falling back on her academic training she turned her new life over in her mind. Okay I don’t hate Mrs Main, but what do I feel? She let her mind go blank and the words come.

Awe, respect, intimacy… the last one shocked her and she rolled it around in her head. She had never been so intimate with anyone before, was it sexual? Be honest she thought, you have a thing for spanking and always have. Living in Carlton House is a wet dream made real. She thought then about the lines of spanked girls and what she had seen; it had been better than a good lay.

Donna found a smile.

So it is not Mrs Main but the situation itself I find… she worked her mouth and dived back into her thoughts. It wasn’t that she hadn’t fantasised about being spanked but the reality was, well too real and it hurt. But that had led to other aspects. She thought about her utter surrender.

Superficially I want it, fundamentally I need it, she thought. Then she remembered a trick her father had taught her when she had been weighing up dumping a boyfriend.

“Imagine that you will never see him again,” he had said while sucking on his pipe in that wise way of his, “Perhaps, if you can bear it, think of him dead. What would you do to bring him back, can you bear life without him?”

Donna thought about Abraham Heights, Mrs Warren and all to look it squarely in that face. I must be mad, she decided, but heaven help me but I never want to leave this crazy place.

Suddenly and without warning Donna burst into tears, great buckets of them that went on and on until she was empty.


Roland Archer contemplated Melanie Crow’s bare bottom with an expert eye. His student was kneeling on the leather pouf with her hands on the floor. This, as ever, served to elevate her behind to full effect and roundly presented for correction.

As he took up the cane Archer noted some mottled red marks and some faint traces of bruises on the girl’s otherwise smooth flesh.

“Had a run in with your sorority sisters have you, or was it something more domestic?” he said casually, sharing his observation.

“Two tardies and a eh… smart mouth, Sir” Melanie answered confidentially.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t thoroughly embarrassed or exactly at ease with the thought of a sound thrashing from her tutor but she had signed up for it and there was no denying that today she was entirely deserving. Besides if her sister Anita found out she had reneged on her deal then there would be hell to pay. After all Anita had put her ass quite literally on the line to save Mel’s.

“I see,” Archer continued, “And the domestic situation?”

Was Professor Archer angling for something, Melanie wondered, what did he know? “Not that I know of,” she said.

It was hard to speak calmly in such a compromising position and the posture itself took some effort and that left her breathing audibly. Punishment from Archer sometimes demanded some athletic accomplishment.

Archer thought about his suspicion that his former student Anita and her younger Melanie sister were up to something. Could it be that mummy and daddy, not to mention the sorority didn’t know about Melanie’s bad grades? Not his business, was it?

“Tell me what are we in for today?” he asked changing the subject.

“Pardon, Sir,” Melanie said blinking.

“For what am I about to cane you and how many do you think you deserve?” Archer said sharply, enunciating every word.

“Oh that,” Melanie sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Yes that,” Archer rasped.

“Eh… I was late with my essay,” Melanie offered tentatively through nervous teeth.

“You were indeed and for the second time this month,” Archer said deflated. “Tell me, what does that require?”

“That I am punished, Sir,” Melanie offered meekly.

“How many strokes girl? Archer barked impatiently.

“Six,” Melanie suggested and then winced.

“Six extra for cheek you mean,” Archer chuckled.

“Ooh,” Melanie squealed, she never learned, “Perhaps 15…” she tried.

“Melanie,” he warned.

She closed her eyes and winced. Eighteen would have been nearer the mark and had she said that first he might have settled on that. But now if she offered it he might up-it some more. Did she dare ask for the 18 plus his added six or… she gulped, surely he wouldn’t make it 30? Oh Christ, if she got it wrong it could easily edge up to 36.

“T-twen-tee… four,” she said with a wince as if testing a bomb.

“Very well,” he said indulgently, “But one cheeky word or a foot out of place and I’ll add another six extras,” he told her sternly.

Melanie let her mouth hang open to aid breathing and braced herself. The cane cut her like a bitch.

“Ah,” she exclaimed.

Archer waited for the pink line to develop and puff up a little and then sliced in another. Melanie grunted angrily for this and immediately hoped that it didn’t count as attitude.

The third stroke was a little sharper and tears pricked at Melanie’s eyes.

Archer had decided on paying her out for a slow nine before having a pause. The fourth certainly made this point and Melanie rocked back as she let out a long slow hiss as she awaited the fifth. By the time he was finished this set, the second nine would be so much more effective.

Later on Melanie would do half an hour in the corner, on her own time of course, before he served up the extras in front of his next student. That would underline the need for her not to test him.


Fully cried-out Donna felt refreshed. One day she would write a paper on the catharsis of spanking, the thought tickled her and she found a laugh. So young lady, she told herself ruefully, you’re a girl who needs regular spanking hmm, but in the long run is Mrs Main the one to do it?

Obviously not, but on the other hand any situation like this was always going to be beyond her control, that was the nature of it. It was never going to work otherwise. So in fact she might not have a choice.

“I don’t have the courage to just surrender to it, I have to be made to give in,” she whispered earnestly.

This revelation filled her with dread. She couldn’t cope with another session like today’s, she just couldn’t. She felt a surge of panic as if she was falling, but adrenaline wasn’t the only hormone to stir her and she felt an extra throb in proximity to her tender bottom.

At the end of the semester she might need other accommodations, she knew now that any pretence of an exit before then was doomed. She knew too that she might even see out the year, assuming of course that her bottom didn’t fall off. She winced and her hand stole to her behind for a quick rub.

But what then, a lonely rental in town while she tried to make new friends, for some reason she thought of the Heavers and their current lodger? As she mused she broke off to reach for some cold cream on her bedside and grabbed a great handful.

Still face down on the bed, her buttocks slid smoothly through her hands as she massaged them. The small pain was addictive and with her fingertips and nail ends she teased the bumps and welts she found there. With more cream she extended her caress to deeper places as she moaned.

“I wonder if there are any other traditional families in town looking for a lodger?” she croaked in attempt to distract herself from what she was doing.

But as she found her wet place she thought of Paul Heaver and the spankings she had witnessed; tame compared to Mrs Main’ handling of her, perhaps almost fun.

Two freshman girls in the hallway nearby heard a guttural as if someone was trying to supress some pain. They grinned.

“Someone must be having a little talk with Mrs Main,” the blonde giggled.

“A long talk,” the brunette said ruefully, her own bottom clenching as her hands found it. Some memories were too recent to be amusing.

desert5Part 1 can be found here.

The days past in a haze; just one beautiful desert vista after another. It did not take long before both of them to realise that any pretence that Megan was in search of a story had long since been forgotten. The Sheikh and her adventure had become nothing more than a vacation.

“I am so going to get fired,” Megan sighed as she lay on her back looking across the sand at the sunset.

A brilliant azure sky was on liquid fire, all draped with purple and red against the dying blue. Megan sighed. Here and there red melted into orange with yellow shadows to soften deep burgundy to mauve. The colours reminded her of the marking on her bottom and she blushed. She had squirmed and twisted for long minutes trying to examine her war wounds in a compact mirror after the spanking and even days later she still winced when she sat down.

Next to her Ahmed was breathing softly and she could feel his powerful presence through the short gap that separated where they most definitely didn’t actually touch.

“What was that?” he rumbled contentedly, one arm stretching bear-like as if he had rested too long on the cooling sand.

They had made camp for the night at yet another ruin under some low hills. There was no pool this time but the presence of some trees revealed that water was not very far away. There was even an old rusty pump jutting out of the sand like a dead tree where they had got their water.

Not far away the fire was already lit and huge flames danced high enough to lick the sky. In a few minutes once night had fallen the two mismatched companions would be sitting in a pool of yellow light in a sea of black.

Megan cast a glance sideways and let her eyes drink in the powerful bulges of the cotton-clad prince as the flickering danced over him and his broad chest and heavy set arms.

“I said when I get home I am going to be fired,” she repeated distractedly, “I mean…”

“Shut up woman,” Ahmed dismissed her fears with a firm amused tone, “I will get an advanced press release or something or other from the ministry. That and an exclusive interview with the Minister himself will give you a story.”

“So what has all this been for?” she giggled matching his mood. But as she leaned towards him she felt a pang in her bottom and made a face. One might think she had suffered for nothing, but right then she didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

Ahmed grinned and made an expansive gestured to the sky. “Call it a bit of background colour,” he chuckled.

Megan thought of her punishments and the intimate colours that had accompanied it and made a rueful face. If she had the balls she could write quite a salacious exposé, she might even get a Pulitzer for it, but it would be too embarrassing and no doubt whatever amusing spin she tried to put on it would make Ahmed and his country look bad.

“I think I’ll just call it a pain in the ass and put it down to experience,” Megan said with a pout.

“Are you giving me some attitude young lady?” he said in a mock-serious tone. “Besides, in my country an ass is a donkey. I went to school in England where a gentleman says arse.”

Megan snorted and made a face. “Arse,” she said in an exaggerated accent emphasising the ‘ar’ sound. “I am sure you were bit of an arse,” she giggled at her own joke.

“Young lady, you are giving me attitude,” he said pompously and folded his arms, “Perhaps what you need is another spanking.”

A look pasted between them and then she saw he might not be joking. “You wouldn’t,” she said in faux horror.

Ahmed stood up and she backed away while still sitting while he slowly followed. Then with a shriek she rolled and clambered to her feet and made to scramble away. He caught her easily and pulled to him in a half hug while he swatted her behind finally opting to bend her double so that she was standing bent over with her bottom uppermost.

“Get off you beast,” she shrieked.

But Ahmed firmly swatted her backside with several sharp taps while she squealed. A moment later he hauled her upright and she crashed into his chest. Megan swallowed and she could feel her pulse surge.

“Oh God,” she whispered and tucked her head into him.

A head shorter than her, he hooked his hand under her chin and lifted her head so that their eyes met. Their silent conversation was brief and tinged with both hope and sadness. Then he kissed her and she kissed him back until they were violently clinging and she felt like ivy on a mighty oak.

The kiss lasted for as long as it took for the last of the sun to slide under the curve of the Earth and then she gently broke contact.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” he answered taking her hand.

Above them a million-billion eyes were watching, two lovers in a pool of light under an ocean of stars.


They day was not fully upon them and yet it was hot. Megan had had a restless night and as Ahmed had yet to arise, she guessed he had too. The kiss had promised so much but they both knew it was not to be.

Megan cast an eye around the shredded stones of the ruins. It was impossible to tell what had once stood here and they weren’t a patch on the others she had seen. But where the desert curved gently away to the lowlands the view was magnificent. Her only regret was that there was no pool.

Then she spied the pump and grinned. Ahmed was asleep and even if he did wake… well so what if he got an eyeful? So still smirking she shucked off her shirt and pants to make a dash for it across the quickly roasting sand. By the time she got to the old pipe she had shed her bra and panties too and was now naked and glowing under the old faucet.

The pump stood seven or eight feet high with a wheel about halfway up and to the back. It turned easily and after a fitful start water stuttered in huge droplets onto the sand. Then in a moment the oily red liquid became a cascade until pure silver water streamed onto the iron grate at her feet like a waterfall.

Naked now Megan stepped under the icy shrill of water and gasped. A thousand needles of desert wine tingled her sun-bronze flesh leaving her slick and glistening as she rocked and wheeled under the flow.

As she bathed she bent over to jut her bottom into the shower stream or she would swivel around to offer her breasts. All the while she giggled carelessly.

She didn’t see the prince who had been roused by her frolicking. He stood now at the tumble of stones where he had slept away from the fire: away from her. The sight of her naked was more than he could stand and his member stiffened and then pulsed within his clothes. The tightness clawing at his belly was unbearable and he had to avert his eyes.

Megan saw the motion from the corner of her eyes and flushed as she turned to confront the man. Shy hands covered her sex, but as he looked back uncertainly she parted her fingers like a gate and did pirouettes to afford an unrestricted view of her body. She even flicked a cheeky nipple enticingly.

“Hey, why don’t you join me?” Megan challenged him.

She meant the offer platonically, or so she thought. After all if he hadn’t taken her last night then he never would. Besides the day was growing hot and they only had one impromptu shower and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen something of her body before.

But Ahmed looked horrified.

“What are you doing?” he yelled and then spying her shirt on the ground he seized it and made a dash forward. “Cover yourself woman,” he raged.

Megan was confused and while he spun the wheel to turn off the flow she hastily dragged on the shirt, tugging at the short hem in a forlorn attempt at further coverage. He was right she had acted like a whore and she blushed furiously.

“I see the magistrate was right about you,” he growled, “I think we have matters to attend to.”

Ahmed seized her and easily threw her across one shoulder. Then ignoring her wet naked bottom that thrust up like two temple domes close to his ear he strode purposefully towards the shade of the broken wall.

“What the hell?” she screamed, “Put me down.”

“Oh I will,” he promised and slapped at her behind.

“Oh no, come on you can’t,” she wailed.

“Oh yes I can, and we both just know you have this coming,” he said archly as he sat down heavily on a large flat stone and hauled across his lap.

His hand stung her hard and fast, in his rage spanking her as if he might save the world.

“You little temptress,” he bellowed, furious at his own restraint in the face of such frustration.

Well if he couldn’t have her he would spank as she deserved. His hand blasted down as if to make his point. She get a spanking like no other, one that she would remember until the end of time.

“Ahmed please,” she squealed, but she sounded strained and girlishly important under the onslaught of the spanking.

“Don’t you Ahmed me please,” he snarled spanking her faster.

He reasoned that if he spanked her long enough he would address his oath and never see her again. Damn he would never forget her but after today she would ever remember him.

“Ahmed, Ahmed, Sir… oooh,” her cries quickly descended into angry wails and then miserable surrendered ones.

The prince could see that her bare bottom was as red as he had seen it and here and there it had collected some darker blotches. But he wasn’t done yet and in his anger he decided to teach her more firmly.

“Get your nose in that corner,” he barked as he brought the first part of her correction to a pause. “I want your hands on your head and if you move an inch…”

Megan was sniff-hiccoughing back sobs as she scurried to obey. She nodded though and as her hands touched her head she made herself small in the corner.

Ahmed nodded in satisfaction and adjusted himself. If he couldn’t have her one way then he would settle for another.

“You have a hairbrush among your belongings?” he said casually.

She was breathing heavily and her eyes came out on stalks in the shadow of the wall.

“Well,” he barked.

She nodded.

“May I fetch it?” he asked.

She knew darn well that he would only have her do it if she refused so she nodded again, this time visibly gulping.

It didn’t take him long to find, although he was in no hurry to apply it.

“You know what you did don’t you?” he said gently, addressing her bare bottom.

She sniffed and thought about her crude dance in the shower. She had been teasing him out of revenge and all because his own sense of honour did not allow him to use her as she wanted him to. As, she now realised, he wanted to.

Ahmed could smell her sex even from where he sat and it was obvious he wasn’t the only one stimulated by the spanking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I…”

“I am so going to spank you again,” he sighed, “And this time, if you can sit down again before you leave my country it will be a miracle of the ages.”

“Ooh,” she groaned.

Ahmed paused for long effect and then firmly took her arm.

“Ahmed, Ahmed,” she wailed, her breathing close to frantic as he draped her again firmly across his knee.

“Now for the main event,” he said sharply and the soundest spanking Megan had yet had begun in earnest.

Fifteen minutes or more would pass before he let her up and then he set her again in the corner for a good long cry until the sun moved around to banish the shade. They would go nowhere that day or next while Megan lay belly down in her misery as her bottom throbbed under a series of cold wet flannels until nightfall.

To be continued…

The Journal



I am telling you this because I wish someone had told me about it when we started on this. This is a practice that helps us and may help some of you who live this life style. I understand that for some people this would be a terrible idea and those people should give this a miss.

questions2Once a week I bring a notebook to DJ that has these questions at the start of it. He picks 3, 4 or 5 of them and returns the book to me.

I take the book to our bedroom and read the questions through. I take a bath and think about how I will answer these questions and then I write the answers in the book. I write them by hand, using a fountain pen. I write the answers slowly. I take care over them and I am utterly honest.

He comes to me and reads what I have written. I don’t interrupt as he reads which is hard sometimes as I want to know what he thinks. Sometimes he puts my across his lap, with the book on my naked back but often he sits on the bed and I curl into him.

Afterwards we may talk. He mostly spanks me, sometimes to punish me and set the slate clean, sometimes to teach me what he wants me to hear and sometimes just because he wants to.questions3

This is a very simple practise but it helps support us in our lifestyle. It reminds us both of our roles – his is to lead and to guide, mine is to accept and follow. It gives me a chance to tell him something I have kept from him. It reasserts the importance of honesty and communication in what we do. There is so much more to it than this, so many reasons why this helps us – it would take a book to tell you what a difference this book makes.

Here are the questions we have.

1) Tell me about a secret you have kept this week.

2) Tell me something you have felt guilty about this week.

3) Tell me something you wish you’d been punished for this week.

4) Tell me about a time when you were disrespectful to me this week.

5) Tell me about a time when you did not tell the truth this week.

6) Tell me about a bad habit you have had this week.

7) Tell me something rude you’ve been daydreaming about

8) Tell me about the time you felt most submissive this week

9) Tell me about the time you felt safest this week.

10) What is one thing you would like to change about your behaviour next week?

11) Tell me about a punishment you read about or thought about last week.

12) Tell me about a time you were good this week.

13) Tell me about something you have seen that intrigued you this week.

14) Tell me a wish you have had this week (even if you think it is silly.)

15) Tell me about something that you are scared you or worried about.

16) Tell me something you are proud of this week.

17) Tell me something simple you could do to make yourself feel better next week.

18) Tell me about a time this week when you did not live up to your expectations you have for yourself.

19) Tell me about something you did this week to nurture your childlike side.

20) Tell me when you felt happiest this week.




bottomI have often been told that with a bottom like mine I have to expect to be spanked. That hardly seems fair to me, but then I suppose if I have been naughty then… I mean I usually deserve it when Charlie spanks me and I have had my share of spanking boyfriends. If that was all then I would just chalk it up to being an occupational hazard of being a girl.

However, in my time I have been spanked by almost complete strangers. I mean what is that all about? Take the time I was going home on the tube. It was so busy as usual that I had to stand and I swear some of the prodding and nudges weren’t by accident.  I got so many stares with even old ladies gaping at my bum that I got quite self-conscious. Anyone would think I was naked, but I was wearing jeans and short lightweight jacket, nothing too provocative at all.

Eventually the passengers thinned out a bit and I was able sit down. That’s when I saw him.

Sitting opposite was a man of around 40 with steel grey hair and firm stern gaze. Just my type actually, but there was something about him that made me nervous and I couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Making quite a spectacle of yourself aren’t you?” he said lightly.

There was a hint of laughter in his voice, but I didn’t think he was mocking me. I thought about my bum and the stares I had been getting and blushed.

“Do you always wear such tight jeans as that in public?” he pressed me.

I muttered something like it was none of his business and blushed.

“One might argue that you have made it everyone’s business don’t you think?” he said in an almost friendly way.

I glowered at a point past his head, still not meeting his eyes.

“I’m speaking to you,” he said sharply, “If you don’t want to speak to me then politely say so.”

I felt foolish and even more embarrassed.

“Sorry but…” I looked around and lowered my voice. “It’s not my fault I have a big bum.”

“So why dress like that?” he said sounding puzzled, “I could see you were uncomfortable.”

My face was hot now and I dipped my head. He had a point I supposed.

“My name is Michael Antony,” he smiled and offered me his hand. Then added, “If I am bothering you…” he shrugged and went to lean back.

“Rachel, Rachel Roux,” I said shyly and took his hand.

“Roux,” he said thoughtful as we shook, “It means wheel doesn’t it, a special kind of wheel if I am not mistaken.”

I was intrigued. I knew it meant wheel but that was all. “Really? What do you mean?”

“The roux was a kind of mediaeval torture or punishment device,” he said. “How appropriate.”

My heart leapt and my ears pricked up as it always did when someone mentioned punishment. I must have given myself away because he was grinning.

“Why don’t we get a coffee and I’ll tell you more,” he said. It sounded like an order not a request.

I liked that, sort of.


Coffee turned into late afternoon tea at a rather grand building in Oxford Street. It looked a bit like a night club and even had several bars on the various levels, but Michael told me it was a drinking club.

We took a seat in a secluded alcove well away from the busy public areas, not that there were many people about at that time of day. There were books and a large airy window overlooking Marble Arch.

He talked about medieval punishments, both domestic and judicial for almost half an hour while we took tea and then he asked about me.

“I am a journalist,” I said, but I was distracted and squirmy from some of the things he had told me. So I asked, “What did you mean, ‘how appropriate?’”

“Well considering your behaviour and your rudeness to me I think you could stand a spell on the roux,” he chuckled.

I blushed again and gaped at him. “You mean whipped,” I blurted.

He laughed and his face cracked into friendly crags that added character to his face. “It would probably do you good, but I was thinking of nothing more serious that a good sound spanking and a spell in the corner.”

I went dizzy at this and my heart was pounding.

“You wouldn’t,” I gasped, but I didn’t sound at all certain.

“I bet you have been spanked before,” he said with a twinkle.

I blushed again and averted my eyes.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a very spankable bottom?” he said.

I nodded.

You could have cut the air with a knife as they, say and the silence was suddenly oppressive. It wasn’t only my face that was suddenly hot and damp. Michael pushed a button in the wall and I heard a very faint bell somewhere.

A minute later the smartly dressed woman who had served the tea presented herself with an efficient smile.

“I seem to have picked up some dust or something on my jacket,” he told her, “Can you find me a nice stout clothes brush?”

Her eyes flicked to me and I could have sworn that she smirked.

“Yes Sir,” she answered demurely.

I was still puzzling out the exchange when the woman returned with the large ebony brush and put it on the table. Just seeing it put me in mind of an alternative use for it and then the penny dropped.

“M-mr Antony…” I spluttered, “I think I had better go.” I thought my face would melt.

“Not until I have given you the spanking you so richly deserve,” he said earnestly as he took up the brush.

“But…” I looked around in horror, “You wouldn’t, not here?”

You notice I didn’t dispute my deserving it or his right to do it; for some reason that never occurs to me.

“Why not? Everyone here is very discreet and the club doesn’t get busy for hours,” he told me as he crooked his finger.

“Mr Antony please I…” I didn’t run and could only hug myself nervously.

“I am curious, do you honestly think it isn’t going to happen?” he asked with seemingly genuine interest.

I opened my mouth to reply and then closed it again.

“Come here then,” he said with a sigh as if it was all too much trouble or I was.

Somehow a moment later I was tumbled across his lap with the seat of my jeans bursting into his face. He patted my bottom twice and then sighed again. “Stand up and take them down.”

I was breathless now and anxiously looked towards the open end of the room alcove to the larger room beyond. Not a soul was around and the only sound was traffic outside and my own breathing.

I stood up then and worked the button in front. It was hard to get them down without taking my knickers too, which was why he probably said, “Those too.”

I half turned to hide my front and thought about how often I had done this at school.

“Now come here,” he said sharply, pulling me back down across his knee with my now bare bottom sticking up.

“Ooh Michael, I mean… Mr Antony…” I gasped, muttering, “Why does this always happen to me?”

He laughed and then stung me very sharply me with his hand right across my bum.

“Ow,” I squealed and I meant it, but he only spanked me again.

“You are going to do exactly what you are told and accept exactly what you are given,” he told me sternly.

The spanking was brisk and very stingy. It was loud too and for the first part I was more worried that someone would hear or come for the tray. I said as much.

“Be quiet,” Michael snapped, “If I say so we will do this downstairs where everyone arriving can watch.”

I was horrified and had no doubt that he meant it. There wasn’t very much I could do about it was there?

The spanking with his hand lasted a while and I was quite squirmy and sore long before he finished.

“I think you enjoyed that,” he said.

“I didn’t,” I protested, conscious that my bottom hurt and I was rather damp at both ends, situations that rather cancelled one another out I thought. I told myself that this meant I wasn’t lying.

“Well in any case you made an exhibition of yourself and were then rather rude,” he said.

“I wasn’t,” I whined.

“Then why did you come here with me?” he growled.

He did have a point, one that he shortly pressed home with the flat side of the big black wooden brush. My yelling superseded any impact sounds, either one of which would have roused any normal curious waiting staff.

In the hands of an expert a good spanking can make the buttocks ache and the skin covering stingy and sore all at the same time. Bruising is to be expected, but it should be an aftershock that reminds a girl for days after that she has had a good long spanking. This was my experience with Michael.

My sobbing was clean and genuine, something to really settle into. It was embarrassing too for I was certain now that anyone around knew what was happening. But this emotion quickly became secondary to my rather tortured tail end sufferings.

At several points during the spanking I thought he was never going to stop and even when he paused to scold me I knew it was only a brief reprieve. But finally the onslaught ended and collapsed in a heap of open tears as I hugged into his lap.

“Now while you go and stand in the corner I am going to have more tea,” he said at last.

I was still panting hard and had expected to be released.

“But…” I was frantic now, “Someone will see,” I wailed.

“Only Janice and she is an old friend,” he chuckled. “If you are a good girl then we will be out of here before anyone comes and then I’ll buy you dinner.”

I wanted to protest some more but a girl like me knows when not to argue.


Janice did indeed get an eyeful and I could hear her silent laughter the whole time she collected the tray and again when she returned with a refill for just Michael. It was completely mortifying and at several points I almost rebelled.

I have no idea how long I was there but at least twice someone rounded the corner and muttered something like, “Oh, sorry” or “Whoops.” I could have died.

Later one we had dinner and I have to admit that Michael is a pretty interesting guy. A man I now call a friend, albeit one with a rather hands on attitude to my welfare.

Weekly Round-Up


wr 298 wr About18
wr hoppmann_ray_makeacomic wr outlander  wr tumblr_n2acgss1zt1r14aomo1_1280 wr tumblr_ncwttdQK7k1tk6crdo1_1280 wr vix4862 wr-rump-roast-500x701

wr tumblr_inline_nmhmo5TAQ31sqx8vb_250My foot has rather come off the accelerator pedal lately (auto correct just changed that from paddle – is that an omen?) and output has slowed. I am not going to say too much about that or what’s cooking in case I am tempting fate, but things are picking up here, I even have a few little new snippets.

Over Easter Indigo and I slipped away to the country and visited a country house. It was one of those private ones where the local earl was still very much in residence and opens up to the public to pay his tax bill. Apparently the old servants’ areas and kitchens were very much in use up until the early 1970s before a more modern set-up was moved into the family wing.

The reason we found this interesting was that in the corner next to a nice range of pervertable hand brushes was a nursery birch. Indigo even asked in case there was some more innocent use for the modest bundle of rods, but the guide was just as puzzled as Indigo was pretending to be.

I have written before about the reality of spanking and birching maids right up to the Second World War, and this little punitive item not only serves as confirmation but hints at a more recent continuance of this custom. Nor is this the first such find we have chanced upon.

Now on to Spankville.

The latest threat to spanking blogs now comes from Blogspot who have moved against nudity and one or two bloggers are playing a game of wait and see. Rollin moved back in February as some will remember. Whether it happens or not, it seems strange in a time of more mainstream spanking that the Internet is becoming coyer.

Speaking of mainstream spanking Outlander is more than decent in this regard, see the picture from Au Fills des Jours above. I particularly like the scene at breakfast where our fuming heroine can’t sit down.

I was thinking of writing a spanking therapy story but Kia at Acknowledging Imperfection has beat me to it. I include a picture from another post of hers above.

Devlin has a post about tan lines, which is rather fun, sample picture above.

While my attention was elsewhere the Spank Statement had a post on a sponsored spanking event in support of Alan Turing of all people, although this was posted on 1 April, but it looks real enough. There is a movie.

Other images are from: Abel, Scarlet’s Real Magic, RollinRichard Windsor, All Things Spanking, and About Spanking.

Vintage Sunday


vintage vintage ready vintage

impolite societyA spring breeze came up from the meadow and rustled the trees along the edge of the garden. This set a small cascade of white petals to rain onto the lawn like snow. Or at least that was how it seemed to Ruth standing on the terrace at the back of Hedley Hall. She sighed.

But there was something else on the wind and with no one to see her she stood arms and legs akimbo as if bracing herself against a storm. Her white cotton gown clung to her limbs and several strands of light brown hair escaped her bonnet. But Ruth cast her bright blue eyes and delicate nostrils wide and opened to the world. The scent was seasonally sweet, but that wasn’t it. This was the wind of change and she felt her life at Hedley was coming to an end.

“Whatever are you doing?” Aunt Edwina said sharply.

Ruth whirled around with a start and a blush to confront her fusty old aunt carrying the tea tray. It was unusual to see Edwina doing such menial tasks, but then Ruth remembered that Milly had a head cold and that the other one… the new girl must have gone to the village by this time.

“Young women do not adopt such postures in polite society,” he aunt continued absently, her attention more on the tea and dusting stray biscuit crumbs from her old-fashioned blue dress.

“No auntie,” Ruth said quickly while adjusting her pose.

But Aunt Edwina was no longer listening and as she stooped to put the tray down on the garden table her high-piled dome of hair wobbled, but not a strand broke free. Never was the façade to be broken.

Ruth frowned at the stifling formality her aunt represented. The young woman had little idea what polite society was exactly, society as far as she was concerned existed in London somewhere, not in the more forgotten fringes of Hampshire. But things were certainly changing. The old queen was dead and the Barton’s across the way even had a motor car. So maybe society would find its way to Hedley too. But Ruth hoped not, society sounded dreadful.

Perhaps Ruth had spoken aloud for Edwina said disapprovingly, “Tommy Barton makes the devil of a noise with that infernal vehicle of his; I just don’t see the point.”

Ruth tended to agree, but she would never say so. A horse was both faster and more elegant than a stupid old motorcar.

“But at least he is not as bad as that older brother of his,” Edwina added with a sigh. “They say such scandalous things about him. Did you know that he turned 30 last year and he isn’t even married, or likely to be?”

As far as Aunt Edwina was concerned the world was divided into two camps: the married and the marriageable. Anyone outside of this just wasn’t part of society.

But Ruth had stopped listening. So James Barton was back was he? She allowed her teeth to trouble her lower lip as she had when scheming as a girl. Old thoughts and fancies tumbled into her mind and she leant back against the wall and looked up at the sky with the dreamiest look on her face.

“Ruth? Ruth…?” Aunt Edwina repeated in some consternation.

But Ruth still wasn’t listening.


James Barton looked conventional enough in his grey broad-lapel suit. He had even worn the kind of hat Ruth’s uncle wore for church, not that he wasn’t handsome. However Ruth was disappointed, she had expected someone more devilish not a man with all the style of a banker.

Tommy of course was more garishly attired in a broad-striped blazer and boater. The pale green and maroon bands clashed, or so Ruth thought, but that did not put Maud off making cow-eyes at him.

Maud was Ruth’s friend from the village, a mousey girl in a pale lime dress, an absolute requirement if Ruth was going to get her aunt’s approval to invite the Barton men over for tea. But Maud required no encouragement, not with Tommy Barton to make eyes at.

Tommy appreciated the attention and was happy to play the clown while Maud giggled at his every joke and foolish jape. This was an ongoing exchange that caused Ruth to roll her eyes and make impatient little puffing sounds as she loudly broke into the couple’s banter to press yet more tea and cake upon them.

James was another matter entirely. He was taller than his brother and had the solid physical build that comes with maturity. Not that he was aloof. Rather he stood back making pithy witticisms as the younger people conversed.

“I sense that you are far too sensible for such foolishness,” he said to Ruth suddenly.

Ruth caught her breath and fixed her attention of the steady reddish-brown stream of tea glugging into the cup. Sensing James’s gaze she held her eyes averted, but a heavy blush gave her away.

“I do rather,” she blurted, what? Do rather, what am I saying? She added hastily, “I mean, yes I do think it foolish, not that I…”

“I would have thought you married at your age,” James cut her off. “I mean that is what they do around here?”

“Here?” Ruth said suddenly interested.

“Here in society.” James gestured to the house and garden.

“This is hardly society,” Ruth snorted, but she sensed that James Barton shared her disdain of convention.

Just then Tommy and Maud laughed raucously and appeared to have started a game of patty-cake.

“Perhaps you would care for a turn of the garden Mr Barton?” Ruth said more sharply than she meant as she glared at the others.

“What without a chaperon?” James said in mock horror, “Isn’t that rather daring for Hampshire?”

“Oh I think we might risk it,” Ruth said cuttingly, “This is after all the 20th century.”

She didn’t mind his disdain of society or his cutting wit. But she did hate the idea that he included her in notions of society and her aunt’s stilted world.

“Very well then, on your head be it,” James said in an amused voice as he offered Ruth his arm.

“You spoke of marriage,” Ruth said lightly as she took it. “I am scarce 21, not quite the old maid yet. And anyway I would have thought a man such as you would have no care for such things.”

They had reached the corner of the house where the gravel path cut left out of sight of the others and James glanced back at them as if considering.

“A man such as I? Why what have you heard?” James asked, but his casual smile had faded.

“Only that… well you must admit that you are bit of a scandal around here,” Ruth said, but she sensed that she had touched a nerve.

“I do as I please and do not give a fig for so-called reputation,” he said, still holding them at a pause within sight of the others. “Aren’t you afraid for yours?”

“No,” Ruth said defiantly and she smiled at him warmly.

James nodded and patted her arm and then boldly led her around the corner and into the shadow aspect of the house and onto the gravel path that led to the far side of the garden.

“Perhaps you can tell me what you have heard,” James said as they moved out of sight of Tommy and Maud.


James listened indulgently while a wide-eyed Ruth gushed about the whispered scandal, half-truths and gossip she had heard concerning the Barton family’s black sheep of a son. It seemed to him that his life to date had been far more interesting than even he had suspected. The faux horrified Ruth seemed to have drunk in every detail and now recounted her version of events like a tale in a penny dreadful.

So earnest was Ruth’s recounting that it was almost as if she had forgotten that the subject of her story was also her listener. He let his eye take in her gentle beauty and the feminine curves that belied her somewhat strident tomboyish demeanour.

They had strayed beyond the house by now and onto the sunny openness of the back lawn. Ahead was the white painted summer house and away to their left the old orangery and the shaded love-seat under the arbour. Beyond the summer house were the woods and the edge of the grounds that led to the pond.

James had intended to take the girl onwards to that spot, but if Ruth had such a dire picture of him then what would the villagers think? No to be seen with him in public would do the girl no favours. Instead he guided her gently towards the orangery to where he guessed the path led around the house and back to where his brother and the giddy Maud still frolicked.

“Tell me,” he chuckled, “Did you also hear of my visits to courtesans and worldly ladies in Paris?”

Ruth paused in mid-flow and sized the man up for a hint of mockery. Surely he was joking, she thought, but the very idea of sexual scandal atop of all else thrilled her deeply. She shook her head dumbly and blushed.

“Just as well,” he laughed.

Ruth frowned, she felt patronised now.

“No, not that, but is it true that you swindled the Sultan of Timbuctoo out of…?” she said archly, hoping to impress him with the extent of her worldliness.

James stiffened and made a half turn to face her.

“You think me a thief?” he growled.

Ruth became puzzled, how could he…? Surely the other things were worse than defrauding some ignorant native somewhere? She was still pondering his changed mood when his grip tightened on her arm and he led her more swiftly to the love seat by the orangery wall.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” she gasped as she tottered along in his train.

“Young lady I think you need a sound and prolonged lesson in manners,” he said sternly.

“What did I say?” she wailed, still not clear about what was happening.

“You casually and brazenly announced that I was a liar, a cheat and a thief,” he said incredulously, “And for your information there is no Sultan of Timbuctoo, although I have been there, for heaven’s sake, you people…”

“Mr Barton, please, what are you doing?” Ruth spluttered.

As she spoke they reached the stone seat and she found herself tumbled without ceremony across James’s lap.

“I am going to give you a good sound spanking on your very bare little bottom,” he snarled.

The threat thrilled her but that did not help her with the consternation or panic. James Barton was proving very dangerous indeed and not at all polite. Luckily she did not quite believe him, or didn’t until she felt her skirts and underskirts rucked up behind.

“Mr Barton,” she squealed.

The man was an expert it seemed, for what had taken her several minutes with help to achieve, he undid in a moment and a beat later she felt a tug on her draws.

Ruth clamped her hands to her face as if to hide from the shameful exposure. Only the spring chill on her nether parts challenged the idea that the ruse was in any way a success.

“So I am a thief am I?” James snapped at her.

The twin domes of her pale bottom were revealed to him now and he was surprised at the sizable pert prominence adorning such a slight girl. This was a dangerous sport and for a moment he felt sorry for her. Honour demanded that he pay her out thoroughly and end their budding friendship. For her sake he hoped she would leave it at that and not set up a hue a cry after, but that was her choice, this was his.

“You little brat,” he spat as his hand landed sharply with a tight crack.

“Ooh,” Ruth squealed and made futile little kicks with her feet.

The first spank sang a song of nippy little tingles in her seat and she would have clenched had she not be held over half bent. The second stung her more sharply as did the third and then things rapidly became difficult.

“Mr Barton please,” she gasped, “I am sorry for what I said, truly I am.”

But James had just begun and in rapid slaps he delivered half a hundred spanks in barely a minute. Nor did he spare his arm and twice that time Ruth’s bare bottom was quite red and mottled over with tight buds of gooseflesh and purple swirls.

“Ow-oooh-ooh-oooh-eeee,” she shrieked or something near. Her diary entry later that day was even more expressive. “I’m… I’m sorry….”

“I bet you are,” James barked and began another minutes worth of spanking.

“Ruth, Ruth what’s that noise?” said an imperious voice.

Aunt Edwina sounded close by.

“Is that applause I hear?” the puzzled woman continued.

Satisfied, James set Ruth quickly on her feet where she hastily smoothed down her dress and petticoats. Her draws were half tangled in her ankles and there was no doubt that her face was at least as red as her bottom.

“Oh Ruth, there you are,” Aunt Edwina sighed disapprovingly as she rounded the corner, “What’s wrong with your face? Have you been crying?”

Ruth managed a smile and her posture positively enthused with innocence. Taking a step forwards she quickly kicked her fallen under garment under the bench and wiped her eyes.

“Oh, I eh… a little hay fever I think,” she said quickly. “I was showing Mr Barton the orangery.”

“So I see, well perhaps you had better join us for more tea,” Aunt Edwina said suspiciously and eyed James with a daggered gaze.

Unseen Ruth winced and clawed at her behind and then forced another smile.

“We were just resolving a small matter of dispute,” James said pleasantly.

“Eh yes… Mr Barton has been most instructive… I eh… I feel quite corrected,” Ruth said ruefully, offering James a pout once her aunt’s back was turned.

“Yes well… this way,” her aunt said doubtfully as she led the way back to the respectable tea on the terrace.


Despite serious reservations Aunt Edwina had consented to permit Ruth to visit the Barton’s for afternoon tea. After all there was no serious reason not to accept the polite reciprocation James and his brother offered her.

Her fears were assuaged by assurances from Maud’s mother that it was Tommy’s interest in her daughter that was the main incentive for the invitation and that James and Ruth were only required as chaperones.

For her part Ruth had sworn that she never wanted to set eyes on James Barton again and had told him so in a harsh whisper as he had departed on the day of the tea party at her home. But her resolve had not lasted beyond bedtime and even a prolonged inspection of her naked posterior in the mirror had not sustained her anger. After all she had called the man a thief and had probably deserved it. Such men were not to be trifled with. Naked before the glass she shivered, although it wasn’t cold.

Much to her shame it had been necessary to sleep on her tummy, but as she relived the events of the afternoon she had become unaccountably restless. As a precaution against any shameful misunderstandings when the maid changed the bed sheets, she placed a towel under her hips to reduce any stains from excess intimate perspiration. This was a happenstance that often plagued her when she was distracted so by unusual thoughts of the kind she dare not share with even Maud, let alone her aunt.

That night the sheets had so chafed her naked bottom that it had been all that she could do not to fidget and massage herself for some girlish relief. At such times she often thought of boys and handsome men, but never had she dwelt so on such a direct experience. Damn the man if she didn’t sit down again. But why did even that thought…?

“More tea Miss Ruth,” James offered breaking into her thoughts, but it was the maid who stepped forward as if playing mother was beneath him.

Tommy and Maud had already moved onto the tennis courts and were pretending at a competitive game while giggling excessive. For some reason one or the other of them would frequently hit the ball so far from court that they had to scurry away together to retrieve it.

“No thank you Mr Barton,” Ruth said icily, addressing James with a scowl. “I think I need to…” she coughed.

“The powder room for young ladies is at the top of the stairs Miss,” the maid informed her.

Ruth blushed and shot an angry glare at James, but deigned not to notice.


The house was grand, much grander than Hedley Hall, and Ruth ascended the ornate gothic staircase in awe. On the walls were huge paintings with the look of the Barton’s about them, some of them wearing wigs dating back to the 17th century by their style. Ruth felt her family were newcomers by comparison.

But it was not to the powder room she went but along the hall to nose about. After all if Maud was to marry Tommy, as looked likely, then it was her duty as a friend to sniff out any skeletons.

She hadn’t gone far when she spied an open door and seeing a number of books on shelves within she became curious. The library was downstairs, so what was all this?

The bed was mannish, too manly for Tommy, and in any case the style of clothing laid out on the bed was too conservative. So James was a bookish man on the quiet, she pondered.

“I wonder what he is reading?” she muttered as she cast her gaze over the desk under the window.

There were several tomes, both open and closed and they looked like a set. Some research no doubt and she tip-toed over to peek.

The legend Karma Sutra meant nothing to her, nor did the Collected Works of Swinburne, but one of the open books had pictures and she adjusted its angle with her smallest finger.

“Oh gosh,” she exclaimed when she saw the subject.

A naked woman was bending artfully over a divan with a wistful expression. The pose only revealed her bare bottom, but thoughts of her spanking rushed with hot blood to Ruth’s face.

Feverishly she turned over a page to look at another such image. Amid engravings and short passages of text were photographs of naked women. The best ones were of flagellation themes and page after page carried them. The words too were evocative, but Ruth felt too self-conscious to linger.

In a moment of madness she seized up the volume and tucked it into her skirts.

“What are you doing there?” said a stern voice and Ruth froze.

James stood guarding the door to fix her with the gaze of a schoolmaster or magistrate.

“I… I eh…” As she bumbled the book fell from its unsecure seclusion onto the floor with a thud.

“So,” James growled, “Not only a sneak, but a scandalous sneak and a hypocritical one at that,” he said. “On top of that what do we have but a thief?”

“Please I was…” Ruth’s face was peony and her hands wrung as if of the own volition.

“Am I wrong?” James bellowed.

Ruth let her boiling red hot head answer in the positive and knew for certain she would die of shame.

“Are you so determined to wreck your reputation?” he sighed.

She swallowed and dipped her head. What could she say?

“I see,” James said wearily and strode towards her. “You know what happens now.”

Ruth started and with a look of wide-eyed horror she backed away.

“Look you can’t just…”

“Just what? Spank you? We both know that I can,” James growled.

It was more casual than before. This time Ruth was stunned with her shame and she was unresisting. Not that she could. The slight girl was draped easily across James’s firm lap and as before she was quickly unveiled behind until only her draws shielded her modesty.

Then these too went south as James quickly bared her bottom to address it with his palm.

“Tell me you don’t deserve this,” James said sharply, “And I will let you go.”

Ruth’s only answer was a trembled, “Ooh.”

James’s hand stung and the stung her again as he spanked her with gusto. This time she bawled like a pond-dipped kitten as he legs kicked like steam pistons.

“Oh, oh, oh, eeeh, oooh,” she squealed and gasped as her bottom became red.

In short order she was rapidly breathing and then really let rip with some yelling so that it was doubtful that nearby servants or even Tommy and Maud could not hear her.

“This is for playing the sneak,” James told her, “If we are to remain friends we will address the matter of theft another time.”

“What,” Ruth shrieked indignantly.

“Come on, you can’t think that one spanking would attend to your crimes,” James said sternly. His hand hung mid-air as if poised for another strike.

“No… I mean it isn’t that… but friends you say… I thought…” Ruth felt the fool.

“I see, I have spanked your bare bottom and by the rules of polite society now we must be wed?” he said scornfully.

“Polite society go hang, but if you are going to go on spanking me…”

“Oh I’ll do much worse when we’re wed,” he chuckled.

“Wed?” Ruth exclaimed as if she had not first broken cover, “I hardly know you, what do you take me for?”

James gaped in amazement and then angrily restarted the spanking. “Why you…” he barked.

He spanked her for a good 10 or 12 minutes before she began to make choking sounds and began to struggle with it.

“Pax, pax,” she sobbed. “I admit to an understanding then…”

James laughed and gave her sore bottom a pinch. She squealed.

“First you will accept your medicine and then we will talk further,” James told her.

Ruth sniffed and nodded, then allowed herself to be dropped to the floor.

“Meet me in the summer house of Hedley Hall next Sunday morning with a good stout house-brush,” James ordered.

“Yes Sir,” she sniffed ruefully as she made cow eyes at him from the floor while rubbing vigorously at her bottom.

“I warn you, any further misbehaviour on your part and you will become acquainted with a razor strap,” James said manfully as he stood over her with his arms folded.

“Yes Sir,” she gushed.

Oh gosh, she thought, what will become more abused, my sheets or my poor bottom.

submission1indigo-signature-bannerI am telling this because I think maybe some other girls are on a similar path, maybe they will read this and see their own journey and we can keep each other company on the way.


I got told off the other day, not really told off but that is how it feels for a girl like me.

I am learning a new career in which I deal with a lot of people and some of them are very difficult and I find it hard to learn the skills of calm assertiveness.  My boss told me I have started to curl up when I am challenged by some of these people and that I visibly retreat. I am not resolute and unfazed in the face of attack- I used to be in my previous career. I am not now.  I feel like a beginner.

He is right about how I have changed and I loathe that he is. He was very kind and said he would do whatever he can to help me get back my ability to look aggression in the eye. I love the company I work for and feel great loyalty to my boss; I can’t bear to let him down.

That he still trusts me tells me a lot.submission4

But the idea of that trust and what I must do makes me shake. I have to not shake any more. I have to be fearless, not just in front of some people but in front of all the people. I have to understand why some people are so hard to stand up to.

This is what I realised- I submit to the wrong people. I submit to the wrong situations.

For example, when I am attacked I open my heart and focus everything on the person that attacks me. I listen to every word and every possible aspect of the ways I may have failed and let all the guilt and pain soak in to me.

I try to defend myself and explain why they are wrong. I also think very hard about if I have done anything to deserve such criticism. I am not talking about the valid and constructive criticism of my boss, just about the times when someone attacks me for their own reasons and delectation.

Girls like us (maybe all people) should be drawn to people like my boss and people like DJ because they tell us off in a caring, thoughtful and constructive manner. We should be drawn to people who want to build us up and not those who tear us down.

submission3Despite this, when I am told off by DJ I shut my eyes and my ears and I will not yield. I resolve to fight him utterly. I lose the words he says so that he has to repeat himself two minutes later and two days later. I cannot remember what he says.

I compare this to a totally invalid and untrue accusation from a horrid person I received a few months ago and I can remember every word of that.

When my boss gives me a project that is vital for everyone I work with I ignore his trust in me and open my consciousness to the possibility of failure.

When I read some bit of bile on the internet, hatred, unkindness or untruth I let the words echo in my brain like ball bearings in a pin ball machine. It is never about me but about a group I identify with; women, girls that get spanked, and the like.  I take it as much to heart as if my own mother said it.

When I walk in the mountains with DJ so the sun is on our backs and below us the lake stretches out so far that its toes and fingertips reach a hundred little shores.  I let the moment pass me and instead allow my head to fill with worry about where I should be and what tasks I should be doing.

I continue to soak up the views and comments of those ignorant and rude people who neither care for me nor know me, and I cast aside the constructive support of the wise and kind people.

Why do I do this? Do you ever do this? I know am not alone.

How often have you found your attention grasped by unkind people? How many peaceful moments have you sacrificed to abstract worries about your imagined duties or responsibilities?

I think this is something some submissive people are more likely to do. I think we are outwardly motivated and the skill of being selective about our motivators is highly important to us more than most.

The events and people who hurt you are likely to continue to do so.  These situations will not alter. These situations and people are rarely caused by us and cannot be altered by us. They will not change. If you and I wish to protect ourselves the change must be internal rather than external.

Sunflowers turn towards the sun as it offers the nutrients to sustain the plant. We must learn to have at least the same capacity for sensible decisions as this plant. We must turn away from that which does not sustain us and towards that which does.

If we open our hearts and minds to the people who care for us, support us then we shall be transformed and enriched, just as the sunflower is by the sun.

This sounds easy and beautiful – like a greetings card that I might put up on my fridge.

But – how does one actually go about making this change? Because although I can see how logical the idea is of ‘turn towards that which sustains you and away from that which harms you’ is – I don’t think I know how to do it on a daily basis.

I do not know how women like me learn to submit in the right way.

I find myself over his lap with my fists in a tight little ball, my heart clenched even tighter. I ask myself to relax and let this be. I cannot. I love him, I trust him and I know that he has improved every element of my life. But I am stubborn, more thorn than sunflower.

If possible I would like to be as open to DJ, whom I love dearly as I am to the internet stranger or the work colleague who I see once a month.

I think some of us may have the same issue. So I will suggest two ideas here for you to try if you wish.

This is what I am trying.

  • I journal. I answer questions chosen by DJ (from a selection I have written). I answer these by writing the answers as that gives me time to reflect and this makes me more honest. After I have written my answers DJ reads them. We talk about what I have written, sometimes he spanks me but it always ends up with me in his arms feeling wonderful about the world and myself. I will write about journaling – I send all these writings to DJ so I do not know when he will put up my piece about journaling.
  • I speak to DJ about things I have read or people that have spoken to me that made me feel bad. I tell him what my concerns are and I listen to his views. This is simple and it helps us both. He is the kind of person who thrives on guiding others, on mentoring the woman he loves. I listen to his heart beat as he talks. I do this almost every day. It does not take long. It reasserts our roles every day. It clears my mind and my day. It reminds me that DJ’s views are more important to me than anyone else’s.
  • I have key sites that I look at every day. These places are the first and last sites I go to every day. I love to explore all kinds of sites but some of them jar with my view of life and make me feel inadequate or dirty. So I find places that enrich me and reassure me that my choice to be as I am is a good choice. The sites that help you may not be the same as mine. But mine include:  Scarlets Real MagicMiss Harpers World and Sub-girly-girl.


If any of you have ideas that help you please add them in comments. I will read them and other people will read them. We can be like a field of sunflowers, or a group of happy submissive people with happy, fulfilled lives. Either way, I can’t think of a more beautiful way to be.



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