Vintage Sunday


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Cossack spanking

Part I

Ivan sat at a crouch under the lowest branches in a stand of birch trees overlooking the valley. It was close as he dared get to the ruined castle before he made his move. But what move? So far he had counted perhaps 200 Cossacks and the only way in to the castle was across the open ground on which they were camped.

More than that, he didn’t even know for sure if Sofia was inside or what her captors would do in the event of an attempted rescue. A more religious man might hope to God but although the Good Father had brought him thus far, Ivan was at a loss as what to do next.

He thought of tales of Cossacks and heroes jumping outriders and donning clothing to sneak into hideouts. But not only had none of the assembled warriors in the camp conveniently strayed into the undergrowth, Ivan was pretty sure that it would take more than Cossack outfit not be challenged.

The only sensible thing was to find the Prince and come back in force. Ivan didn’t even need to ponder how many days that would take and the lack of guarantees that these men would still be here; he had no intention of turning back now.

What if the Prince were already on his way? After all Ivan had found this place. But again he knew that only a miracle of chance had sent him up this path and not another. There were a dozen valleys all with easier roads that the prince could come by and pass on without ever seeing the ruined fortress below.

As he looked down a large Cossack looked up and appeared to study Ivan’s hiding place. Ivan sighed and backed up to hunker down some more. These men were alert then. The man watching the forest kept up his gaze for some minutes before turning back to a fire he was building.

There were several fires in the camp, all small and professionally made so that only the barest wisp of smoke reached the tree tops. Had they been merchants then perhaps their smoke would give them away and lead the Prince here. In fact the fires were so small that they would barely serve to keep men warm at night and little light would be given off.

Ivan weighed all this without conclusion for some minutes before he winced. He slapped his hand to his head and almost laughed out loud.

“Fool,” he growled, “Damn bloody fool.” Ivan grinned.


Sofia shivered back into the corner and withdrawing deep into the growing dark. The small light that had gained her cell through the high slight windows was growing dim. It was the only clue that night fell; her last here perhaps. For there had been some talk among the other women that tomorrow they would be moved on.

Perhaps these men had enough captives from their raiding? She shivered again. It seemed churlish to feel sorry for herself now; whatever her fate, these women would fare much worse. Even now the food she was given was a little better than theirs. Then Sofia frowned. The food was late. The men had been bringing it a good hour before the sun went down. Probably because then they could easily see. But it was now close to full dark and yet no one had come.

She cocked her ear to listen for any sounds of approach but strangely it was quiet. Or at least the passage that led from her cage was. From the windows she heard another sound. A commotion of some sort, very faint but definitely men’s voices conveying some urgency.

“What is it?” Anya called over.

The peasant woman was on her feet now and came close to the bars to listen.

“I don’t know,” Sofia whispered, “But the food is late and…”

“Shush,” Anya hissed, “I can’t make it out, but look.”

Sofia suppressed her annoyance at being shushed by a peasant and looked where Anya pointed.

Beyond the high cell windows was an orange flicker. Camp fires maybe, but none had been seen before.

“Is the castle on fire? Anya asked anxiously.

Sofia answered her in a slow uncertain voice, “No, I don’t think so.” But all the same Sofia kept her eyes fixed on the windows.

Both women stared at the high walls nervously for some minutes until a clank up the passage startled them. No doubt it was the guard with their food.

Sure enough on looking they could see a large bear of a man, a Cossack still dressed for the outside lumbering up the hall. He was certainly carrying something although it looked too big for just a tray of food.

The man walked slowly and it wasn’t until he stepped into the faint light from the windows did they see he held not a tray but a man. Not dead Sofia thought, but from the way the large man dropped him carelessly onto the floor she did not think he cared overmuch.

“Are all the prisoners here?” the man demanded.

Sofia’s heart lurched and she strained to see what her ears did not believe.

“Ivan?” she ventured, and then more excitedly, “Ivan is that you?”

The man lunged forward only stopped by the bars and grinned. For a moment it looked as if even the bars would not stop him and then it did.

“Sofia,” Ivan gasped and then he laughed.


It was an act of sheer faith. There had been no way for Ivan to prise the bars. Instead, much to Sofia’s distress, he had run back down the passage and stood guard with his sword drawn to await reinforcements. Of course there was not the slightest reason to assume he would get any. Once the Cossacks worked out he was there he might just stand here in a fight to the death.

His plan, such that it was, was to light a great big fire and hope it spread to the forest. Then whilst the Cossacks were investigating he had seized one from the shadows of growing night to don his hat and coat and had merely strolled into the castle.

Now he hoped that the Prince and his men were close enough behind to see first the smoke and then as night fell the great glow in the sky marking out the edge of the camp.

Luckily the fire had put the Cossacks on guard, but instead of looking for one infiltrator who had already slipped in they grabbed their weapons and prepared to defend against what they believed was an attack; a belief that kept them busy for almost an hour.

Even then when someone did come to check on the prisoners he was alone and distracted.

“Someone’s idea of a joke,” he was muttering, “and why do I have to check on these bloody bitches?”

“What’s happening out there?” Ivan asked as the man approached.

“Buggered if I know,” the man yawned and shot a look back over his shoulder.

Maybe it was Ivan’s accent or the way he had donned the Cossack coat or hat. Or maybe it was just that the man quickly realised that he was a stranger, but for an instant the man froze. A hesitation that was a beat too long and as he drew his sword Ivan raised his and cut the man from should to crotch.

“Hey, what goes on down there?” came a shout and a moment later two more Cossacks came along the passage at a run.

Ivan chopped down the first but the second was too quick and the clash of steel rang through the old ruins. The desperate melee that followed was quick and well matched with slash meeting parry and thrust turned aside.

No more than eight or nine such blows had been traded when another voice piped up. “Oh Madonna, they are already here.”

With that another Cossack who had come to investigate the noise went stumbling back up the passage yelling out his lungs.

Oh well Ivan thought, at least I die for Sofia.

This resignation gave him fresh impetus and in two strokes he overwhelmed his fellow duellist and chopped him down. But now he had only 197 Cossacks to beat.

The men outside were slow to rouse it seemed. Maybe they still looked for an attack. But little by little men came in threes and fours to investigate the intruder.

The first of these fell easily but by then the Cossacks were fully alert and only the narrowness of the stone walls on either side enabled Ivan to stand them off. But swords fell upon him like rain and with each slash he fell back a step or two towards the chamber where the women were kept.

Worst still with each parry and counter blow Ivan’s arm began to tire and here and there he came close to losing an ear or even his head.

The Cossacks were furious and did not even think of accepting a surrender. Instead there were bilious screams of “Get him,” “Bastard,” and “I want his head on a pole.”

Ivan had no breath for an answer or bravado. His head ached, his arm was weak and every step back was one nearer his doom.


When at last the men fell back Ivan wondered if he had won or… but then he saw that the Cossacks were grinning and among them was an officer who was a head taller than all the rest. He was even taller than Ivan, an elevation only challenged by the breadth of his smile.

The man had two swords, one in either hand, which he now spun in eccentric patterns as danced forward with a martial confidence.

The only hope now was that the brief halt to the attack had let Ivan gain his second wind. But he did not think he could best this warrior.

“Who are you eh? One of the Molotov’s men?” the man leered. He had a Muscovite accent and carried himself with unusual assurance. “You have come for the Molotov bitch neh?”

“And what of you your honour, you are a long way from Moscow, have you come to die?” Ivan at last found the breath for some bravado.

“The Kern pay well,” he shrugged, “And the Molotov girl is her father’s only weakness.”

So that was it, Ivan thought, not that the knowledge would profit him much. But at least he did not rise to this aristocrat’s taunts and every delay allowed Ivan to get his breath.

It was a false hope for even as Ivan relaxed the man scissored forward in whirlwind of blades and Ivan was forced back yet again. This time only his sure feet as he tottered backwards saved him from evisceration. Oh to be sure here and there he expertly parried one or other of the blades but the nobleman always cut across with his second like a prince of swords.

Ivan doubted that had he two swords and the gift to use them that he could best this man.

“Do you like to ride my friend?” the Muscovite asked innocently without missing an expert beat. “I like to ride. I can ride like a Cossack. Perhaps tonight I will ride you little Molotov girl neh?”

Ivan roared at this and hacked at the man like the woodsman he was. If it was what the swordsman had hoped for he misjudged for in his rage Ivan threw the man back until he had gained almost all the ground he had lost.

“I sense a nerve to touch,” the man tut-tutted with a grin.

But something had changed. Behind him men were peeling off and running back up the tunnel. Ivan didn’t hear what they shouted and just then it made no difference for this was a fight between just two.

“Your honour, your honour,” someone yelled. “We are attacked.”

But nothing more was heard except the sound of battle from the field beyond the ruined walls. Steel clashing upon steel and the death screams of a dozen men all falling at once.


Prince Molotov had been the first to see the smoke rising. Not a campfire or a charcoal man, he adjudged. This was too much for that. Even so he might have just sent scouts but as night was falling he knew he had one chance.

“That way,” he ordered as 300 men wheeled at his word and waded into the forest.

The smoke was gone from view almost at once in the thick undergrowth, but as night fell the glow persisted giving a lie to any that said it was hunters.

“It is too big my Prince,” said his captain, “And nothing lays that way to explain it.”

But one of the men remembered the ruined castle and rumours from the past that it had been used by Cossacks.

“Cossacks?” the Prince hissed; his voice redolent with disgust.

He didn’t wait for further words and without a pause he pressed on deeper into the trees.

It had taken an hour to reach the Cossack camp and by then the once alert reception had fallen back inside to confront their interloper.

“There seems to be a fight,” the captain reported, “Perhaps some of our other men have attacked first.”

Prince Molotov stood up on his stirrups and studied the scene. He thought of his daughter and… he sucked in air through his nose.

“My lord, shall we attack?” the captain pressed him.

The Prince tightened his grip on his reins until they showed white. Courage do not forsake me now, he muttered. Then he nodded.


Even outnumbered Cossacks never flee. On open ground or without having the numbers one never fights Cossacks. But these men were afoot and in some disarray when the prince struck. He had more to lose than even they, so in the event the battle was a short one.

The first to die did not even see the horsemen charge. One minute there was all glow and smoke on the forest side and then there were horses and men dripping red in the firelight. The more superstitious of them took the attackers as devils and stood to gape and by the time the rest sensed the danger the Molotov’s were upon them.

Prince Molotov did not wait to see to the killing. With one great leap from his horse he dashed sword in had into the castle and the gaping maw of the dungeons.

“Sofia,” he screamed, running on like a man possessed smashing aside anyone in his way.

The tunnels were a maze and dark holes fell this way and that as he stumbled screaming through the dark passages. But finally he found his way and rushed on.

There was only one when he reached the cage room. He stood like a giant hefting a sword like an axe over another large man on the ground.

“If you have harmed her…” the Prince rasped; his breath now ragged and raw.

“My lord,” Ivan whispered. “Do you not recognise me?”

The Prince’s eyes shot back and forth as he tried to comprehend.

“Your daughter is safe,” Ivan said simply. “I have her.”

To be continued.



yvonne canedYvonne practiced her pout, making little sucking noises and clicking with her tongue. It was a habit she had when she was bored or as in this case nervous. The pixie-haired blonde had been sitting outside the headmaster’s office for 20 minutes now and as break was nearly over Yvonne was getting rather concerned that someone might come by and see her there. She certainly didn’t need any questions right then.

To distract herself she looked around at the dark dingy corridor that led to the Headmaster’s study. Even here there was no carpet, just a dark-stained parquet wooden floor that went right to the edge of the wall and the hideous extra high skirting. On top of that the whole building stank of waxy polish with an undertone of stale sweat and creosote. It smelled like school.

Yvonne clasped her hands on her tummy to supress the nervous ache there, bending double so that she was folded over her knees and could see up the corridor for any embarrassing witnesses. The noises from break were getting louder if anything and maybe they were all coming back.

“Come on, come on Parkie, you said break time,” she muttered and then flushed with a start and sat-up with a glance to the door.

Mr Parks had very big ears and missed nothing. Yvonne gulped and haled her breath for an age before she relaxed again.

That morning two girls in her class had been discussing the cane and why only boys got it. They shouldn’t have been talking at all but had kept their voices low. But Yvonne had listened in all the same.

“It isn’t only boys,” Mary Mulligan hissed, “Pamela Dolby got it and that tall redhead in the upper sixth, it is just that girls don’t talk about it.”

Tell me about it, Yvonne had thought bitterly. Then there had been a kerfuffle about Slade and if they were better than the Who and a fight had broken out.

Yvonne always thought that boys in high-waisters and brass shoe caps looked silly, but the plucked parrot-headed mullets, if anything, were even worse. They were all short spikey hair on top and long straggly bits down the back; on girls as well as boys yet. What happened to the 60s cool, she sighed. Why did all the boys have long hair and dress like pansies? Then she considered the Slade fan and his skinhead. At least he looked manly, or would do if he wasn’t such a boy.

Yvonne ran a slow hand through her own short hair. She would have loved long hair but hers was way too thin and anyway long hair was getting to be big hair and it wasn’t a look that suited her.

So it happened that when the headmaster’s door suddenly opened Yvonne was taken by surprise.

“Yvonne,” he said darkly. The word on his lips as good as a summons.

His face carried a scowl and he moved with the deliberation of a busy man in a hurry. He was a large powerful man who always wore suits and at the best of times he had a permanent look of anger on his face. Today he looked positively apoplectic.

Yvonne drew upon a long slow breath as if savouring a ciggie and then let it go in a deliberate exhale. Then dragging herself to her feet she rolled her eyes like a sullen teen and stomped into the room.

Parks was looking at her disapprovingly as she entered and without prompting she straightened up with her hands at her sides.

“You know why you are here,” he said sharply.

Yvonne looked off to her right and blushed even as she tried to look bored.

“Sss-er,” she mumbled.

“What was that?” Parks barked out.

“Yes… Sir,” she said belligerently.

“Still have an attitude haven’t you Yvonne?” Parks sighed.

“It’s not fair Sir and anyway you said…” Yvonne tried to sound sneering but it came out with a slight whine.

Her accent sounded as if she was a college girl in the making with a pseudo London East End veneer. Most of the girls spoke even more City Street than that these days, he quietly observed; why did so many middle class girls ape their working class inferiors? And, he thought, what was wrong with the county accent? These days it seemed to be driven out by TV and he missed it.

“Yvonne,” he said sharply, “Do shut up. I am not interested.”

Yvonne rolled up her eyes and let herself slouch.

“Stand up straight when I am talking to you,” Parks snapped.

“You weren’t saying anything Sir,” Yvonne said in a superior voice, but she straightened up all the same.

Parks fixed her with a stare until she averted her gaze.

“That will cost you,” he said at last and this time Yvonne bit her lip.

As she watched her crossed the room and opened a tall cupboard next to the window. From inside there was a familiar scraping of wood and Yvonne felt her tummy tingle. She didn’t need to look to know that the headmaster had removed a cane from a hook inside.

“Please Sir… I…” Yvonne tried to supress the panicked begging that threatened to burst from her mouth and took half a step backwards as she bounced at the knees in a gesture of supplication.

Parks sighed and levelled the cane over his right shoulder like a guard outside Buckingham Palace.

“You know the drill Yvonne,” he said wearily as he advanced on now cowed girl. “Bend over the desk.”

Yvonne nodded and half turned to face the heavy wooden furniture with its green leather top. This time it was harder to obey and she leaned over it awkwardly as she stuck her bum out behind her. It was a stupid and embarrassing posture but she knew from previous experience that she had to do what he expected.

“Yvonne,” Parks said in a tone of significant impatience.

Yvonne swallowed and then with a blush she reached back and raised her skirt. Her small white knickers did nothing to hide the small tight domes of her bottom and for a moment Parks marvelled at the prominence of such a backside on so slight a girl.

“You are already going to get three extra for your impertinence on top of the six you already had coming,” Parks said wearily. “Any more dumb insolence from you and I’ll make it a dozen.”

“Sir I wasn’t…” Yvonne wailed.

“We’ll make that a baker’s dozen, shall we?” Parks snapped, “Care for any more?”

Yvonne gasped but her hands were already tugging at the waist of her knickers and she slid them readily enough down to her knees. Now two pools of heat boiled under her eyes and threatened to spread to her ears.

Behind her Parks viewed her hasty compliance and bottom up stance with approval but he was suddenly disconcerted by the tight lightly plumed purse that peeked out at him from between the top of her thighs.

“Legs together,” he coughed and in some discomfort averted his eyes.

Yvonne shot back a look with some horror and snapped her heels closed at once. This more or less covered her personal area but served to push her bottom up and out a bit more; now a fitting target for the cane.

Now satisfied Parks stepped forward and stretched his neck as he worked his shoulders in tight circles by way of preparation. The target was well-presented and it was easy to tap the long narrow stick across the firm tight flesh.

Yvonne let out a faint gasp as the cane touched her across the behind and she flinched as it tapped her twice. After a beat the third touch came down hard full across the crowns of her bottom. In response she inhaled sharply, lifting one foot from the floor as her grip tightened on the desktop.

Parks waited for a moment and then struck her again hard just below the first dark pink line that crossed her skin.

“Mmm,” Yvonne grunted as she squeezed her eyes shut.

As she did so her bottom arched up a little more and Parks took the opportunity to cane her again with a stroke that crossed below the first two so that she wagged her behind back and forth like a wagging dog.

There were now three sharp lines of pain crossing her bottom and Yvonne reached back and traced the first with her fingers. She could feel where the flesh had risen in a long ridge and her finger recoiled as it stung with the contact that hung across the dull biting ache where it throbbed.

“Get your hands away,” Parks barked at her.

She hastily obeyed.

Parks lay another stroke and then two more, each descending below the others until there were six risen weals marking out a plum-coloured bar pattern across her pale white flesh. By now Yvonne made a crawling motion over the desk as if swimming away from the assault on her bottom; even panting as if she had swum a race. These short ragged breaths moved her shoulders and even Parks could see she was close to tears.

The cane strokes had reached to just above the sitting area on her bottom now and although the points of impact had swollen into long bumps, the redness had begun to ‘bleed out’ into the spaces between the welts.

Yvonne’s breathing suddenly became shorter and the movement of her shoulders faster so that she trembled to into herself. Parks realised that she was already crying and paused to let her recover somewhat.

“Are you ready?” he asked gently.

After a pause Yvonne nodded and seemed to steel herself. Her ankles pressing together as she straightened her legs to once more elevate her bottom to the utmost.

“It would be over now had you not come here with an attitude young lady,” Parks remarked.

Yvonne nodded. It was a tiny movement of her head and she whispered, “Yes Sir, I’m sorry Sir.”

Her words were moist and as she stole a glance over her shoulder Parks could see pearls of tears gathered at her eyes and rolling down her cheek. Still there was a task to do and he was ready.

Three slow strokes cut into the under curves of her bottom in slow measured swipes. Each one landing like a blade at four or five second intervals and each continuing to saw into her where her bottom turned under to meet her thighs; a prime siting area before her punishment. Now sitting would be a privilege denied her for a few hours at least.

At each cracking stroke she screamed now, all pride and resistance scattered as recklessly as her cries. Yvonne was so lost in her pain that she didn’t register the wrapping sound until the door suddenly opened.

“Ah… headmaster… you’re… eh… busy with eh… a student…” the male voice said uneasily.

“A student… yes… Yvonne,” Parks hated being interrupted and for a moment he wondered if Yvonne had opened her legs again but was too self-conscious to glance in that direction.

“I’ll come back,” and the man was gone.

Yvonne’s eyes were wide in horror over the desk and she strained to remember who it might be. The headmaster didn’t have to name her did he?

Parks was thinking much the same, but he hadn’t expected anyone to enter unannounced. Well there was nothing for it now. So with a renewed resolve he turned back to Yvonne’s bottom.

He placed three more strokes down hard. Returning once again to the top part of her bottom he casually filled in the spaces he had left until he reached lower curves.

“One more,” he said firmly.

Yvonne went ridgid and pushed her bottom right to brace herself. The stroke fell hard and she screamed.


“Did you see the headmaster?” Janice Merry, the school secretary asked as David Stanmore came back down the corridor.

“Eh… no, he was busy with a student,” Stanmore said uncomfortably.

As he spoke Yvonne’s last scream echoed down the passage and Janice rolled her eyes and shrugged as she smiled lightly at the punitive drama.

“So I hear,” she chuckled.

“Yes well quite,” Stanmore said tartly. “Some girl called Yvonne, one of the six formers by the look of it.”

He blushed as he realised the implication of what he was saying and hid his discomfort with a mutter. “Don’t remember a student called Yvonne, not a sixth former anyway.”

Janice gaped for a moment and shot a quizzical glance back up the corridor.

“Yvonne you say? Oh she is definitely a student,” Janice said quickly, “A very naughty girl by the sound of it. Anyway I’ll make an appointment for you.”

Stanmore didn’t care that she seemed to be hurrying him away. He was only too happy to leave.

“Yes thank you,” he replied with a wave.

Yvonne reached the corner at the end of the corridor where the general office was and stopped. She had made heroic efforts to pull herself together, but any fool could see she had been crying. And from the slow careful steps she took, her hand clamped firmly to her bottom, any fool could have seen why.

Break was long over and now Yvonne was confronted with the admin staff coming back from tea. Although at the moment all she could see was Janice and she was studiously studying some papers and not looking up.

Yvonne took a deep breath and supressing a wince tried to walk casually past the desk.

She almost made it to the outer door when Janice must have looked up.

“Oh Miss Baker,” she called.

Yvonne froze, not daring to turn around.

“Miss Baker your training assignments are ready,” Janice pressed. “How is it all going anyway? Must be strange being the teacher so soon after completing your own studies?” There was no hint of mockery or edge to the secretary’s voice, although anyone watching her face might have seen a hint of tongue tickling the inside of her cheek.

Yvonne took a deep breath and carefully turned around, her best smile forced onto her lips.

“Oh thank you Mrs Merry… eh… can I… can I pick them up later?” Yvonne said in a strained voice.

“Of course,” Janice smiled encouragingly. “I’ll put them in your pigeonhole. Oh, did you just see the head? Only I thought he was with a student.”

“N-noo,” Yvonne squeaked, hoping her blush wasn’t too obvious. Nor was it clear if she were denying seeing the head or not.

“But then you are a student teacher aren’t you? Much the same thing isn’t Yvonne?” Janice smiled pleasantly.

Yvonne’s blush couldn’t be contained now.

“Ah… did… did Mr…? Did he say anything?” Yvonne could barely supress her panic and unconsciously her hands had strayed to her bottom again.

It was a motion that Janice didn’t miss.

“Mr Stanmore? He was just here yes. He told me the head was with a student as a matter of fact. A six former he thought. Must have been I expect… don’t you think… Yvonne?” Janice didn’t actually wink but the set of her face suggested it.

“I expect,” Yvonne squeaked and hastily turned away to flee as fast as her ‘wounds’ would allow.

spanking therapyOkay so this might not be a coffee morning, more like some kind of sex therapy party. But two women demonstrate how a woman can be spanked to orgasm. No idea what is going on but everyone seems to be having a great time.

Not for everyone; some girls need to cry.

Weekly Round-Up


1wr About16 1wr police women spanked 1wr spanking1 1wr Their-Double-Spanking 1wr tumblr_n7amsjjnh31s1gcxio1_500 1wr window-lineup-3-impsBeen trying to stay abreast of things this week; for one thing I finally added Dom With Pen’s new blog to my blogroll among others, so do check them out. Thanks to Scarlet for the heads up.

I noticed that All Things Spanking has been having Google trouble. They really don’t like spanking.

Bonnie has just passed the 17 million mark at her old blog. Now that’s popular; she hasn’t updated it for some time now. Her new blog is here.

The Spank Statement continues to update regularly with some really good inside gen from the movies and theatreland.

Here are this week’s pictures taken from: About Spanking, Blossom and Thorn, Cutiepie, The Dominant World, Ronnie Soul, Scarlet’s Real Magic and Spanking Starlets.

Vintage Sunday


embarassment spanking2 embarassment spanking1970s spanking

Nun such thing


nuns spanking nuns spankingI saw the pictures above and remembered a girl I went to night school with. There was an article in the newspapers about the local convent school six form college and the fact that they still bought canes.

The chief nun was quoted as saying something like: “We don’t really use corporal punishment anymore, we only buy new ones because they tend to wear out.” Eh…?

The girl in class who had been to a similar school just snorted and said, “yeah right.”

She shared an anecdote about a deputy head who used a feather duster across the bum of any girl who crossed her. She swore blind she didn’t cane, and of course that was strictly true.

emb cornertime alone embarassment spanking embarassment spankingco-ed spankingWhen Siobhan was 18, by her own admission she rather immaturely teased a young man at her college. It was all she could think of to get his attention. This was back in the 1980s but she still remembers it vividly. He was a big rugby sort and not one of the intellectuals and politicos she normally hung out with.

He responded to her bratty attitude by threaten her with a spanking. Of course she was embarrassed, so much so that she redoubled her efforts at provoking him to cover this embarrassment. She doesn’t recall what she said exactly, but one might imagine that she told him that he wouldn’t dare.

He then proceeded to put her across his knee and spank her in front of everyone on the seat of her jeans. It hurt she says and she was utterly mortified especially when she couldn’t pretend that it didn’t and had to plead and apologise to make him stop.

She fled the scene red-faced and confused with everyone laughing at her.

But the strange thing was that the whole episode was sexually arousing for her, even the humiliation; something that completely confused her given the climate of that time. She remembers standing in front of the mirror and looking at the redness on her bottom.

It began a lifelong interest or even obsession in being spanked and spanking scenes, but even at the time she got a thrill form being teased about it and even loved to tell people who hadn’t been there as she feigned horror.

A similar confusion, although less openly admitted, beset a good friend of my girlfriend in college, also during the 1980s. The rumours about this girl were that she was terrified of her mother and the more creative speculation was that she was still spanked. My girlfriend even hinted as much but wouldn’t be drawn on the issue.

Both girls went to France for a few months to study and whilst there this girl in question got a spanking similar to the one above after teasing a French boy.

My GF and her gang were impressed at the way she became utterly submissive and apologetic during and after this event. Whilst being asked by the more sympathetic girls if she was alright apparently the girl let slip that she ‘always felt shy afterwards.’

Always; were the rumours true then?

Who knows if she retained any spanking interest but she, like Siobhan, remained good friends with her spanker. But her alleged use of the word ‘shy’ chimes with this account pulled from Collarme:

We weren’t really punished growing up but when I went to live with my older sister in my first year of college she sometimes spanked me in a kind of semi-serious jokey way. I even got it on the bare bum a couple of times coming out of the bath and stuff. I always felt a kind of thrill but it certainly worked on me because instead of giving my sister a hard time I always became sort of shy.

There was this one time this happened with some friends there. I teased my sister a bit too much and she chased me around the house and ended up spanking me on my knickers in the back room where the others could see. This was the worst spanking I ever got from her and she really made it count. She actually spanked me long and hard enough so that even when she made me face the wall I did as I was told.

It was so embarrassing and I was teased mercilessly afterwards, but all the while it was happening and long afterwards I felt squirmy, shy, comfortably meek and a whole mix of emotions. I don’t think I was made a spanko from this, but I think I began to find out that I found out I was.

These accounts are all very compelling and lived in the imagination with every hint of such things when growing up. Such ideas are the building blocks and fuel for some of the stories here and to understand them is to understand the nature of the submissive.

spankingBristol 1896

Dear Mr Bradshaw,

I am sure that you think me a silly little thing and of no account at all, and who is to blame you? My behaviour at our last meeting could only have confirmed any low opinion you may have formed of me. But the truth is I hold you in a very high regard.

I hope I can disassociate myself from what Mrs Bateman and her daughter said, although I realise that on Sunday after tea my courage failed me and for form’s sake I said some harsh things. I very much admire your stance on the common failings of our society and whole heartedly support your remedy for them.

Far from shocking me, your tales of how you tamed the wilful and disrupted young women in Indian thrilled me and engendered in me such admiration that I can hardly tell you. I hope you realise how difficult this admission is and accept my sincere apologies that I expressed any other view at our last meeting.

I hope you understand that your radical views are very much frowned on in some circles and it is difficult for a young woman in my position to be associated with them. Reading this last sentence back I am appalled at my feeble excuses for my behaviour. I hope you see now what a dreadful little coward I am and how I would benefit from your severest attentions.

This brings me to the point of my missive.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive me I would submit wholly and totally to any punishment you can devise. I am quite certain that any treatment of me, no matter how humiliating, would do me the power of good.

Yours obediently,

Miss Amelia Johnson,
Hartcliffe, Bristol, 3rd March 1896

These were Amelia’s words of as sent to one Major John Bradshaw after a certain tea party at Clifton. This was his reply.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I am heartened that you have seen the error of your ways although I cannot think that you truly understand what you are saying and still less what you are asking.

When I spoke of young giddy girls comporting themselves like hoydens even though they were above the age of 21, I very much had young women such as you and that dreadful Hortensia Bateman in my mind.

Perhaps you think that I spoke figuratively when I talk of birch rods and the application of the cane to a naked posterior. I suppose you imagine that I am some dashing no-nonsense sort who makes girls go weak at the knees from a scolding. The truth is, what you and more especially Mrs Bateman and her daughter need is a damn good thrashing where it would do the most good in the most public place possible.

I do commend you however for at least trying to make amends and if it will salve your conscience then consider yourself forgiven.

Yours sincerely,

Major John Bradshaw.


On receiving this letter Amelia was giddy with shame and it was all she could do not to faint. But nonetheless she steeled herself and gathered up her courage to make a reply.

Dear Mr Bradshaw,

I will not consider myself forgiven, how can I? When you speak of sanctions and consequences I have earned but have not suffered. Indeed, far from assuming you spoke figuratively, I hope and pray you were in earnest.

I do indeed deserve to be soundly thrashed upon my bare posterior and before the Batemans as an example to them, although I doubt if they would benefit from it. I know however that I would, if you I were to be thrashed before them or anyone else you deemed necessary.

I am a giddy girl and very much in need of a firm hand, but I cannot blame you for dismissing my suit in this matter. I suppose I am hardly worth the effort after my behaviour.

Yours obediently,

Amelia Johnson.


That might have been the end of it but after a week the good major sent this reply.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I may have spoken harshly to you and see now that you are neither giddy nor insincere. Judging from your behaviour on the previous Sunday I am sure you are right about needing a firm hand. However, I am not sure that a young woman of your sensibilities quite understands the reality and gravity of what you ask. Few young women in this land really do.

If I were to thrash you upon your naked behind you would cry out most dreadfully and not be able to sit down for many days afterwards. Furthermore if I were to take you in charge I could not in all conscience allow you to lapse back to bad behaviour and would consider it my duty to take you in hand more definitely.

I am quite sure after one encounter with me you would not like that.

Yours sincerely,

John Bradshaw


Amelia could scarce wait to reply.

Dear Mr Bradshaw or should I call you Sir?

Nothing you wrote could have pleased me more. But be assured I could expect no less than to be thrashed until I cried out and more. For no doubt you would hardly consider my punishment begun until I did cry out.

As for not sitting down for many days could anything be more apt? If I could sit down after a week I would know that you stinted in my pains.

Let us be clear, if I may make bold, we allude to posterior and my naked behind, but I know you would say without shame that I would be whipped upon my bare bottom and soundly.

Yours very obediently,


The Major kept Amelia waiting three days for his reply and then it was to suggest a meeting.


London 2006

Modern Miss looking for a firm hand. You are an educated professional over 40 and in good shape, but with a youthful outlook. I am a 26-year-old solicitor who is presentable and of middling build and height with short dark brown hair. I am looking for an old-fashioned gentleman with a hand and a resolve that are equally hard.

You will take no lip or cheek from me and if I should test you then I require a very sound spanking on the bare bottom and an extended corner time both before and after my punishment as you decide.

If this doesn’t teach me, or even if it does, then additional punishments with whips, canes and other equipment of your devising can be utilised as you decide.

Please contact Anna Bradshaw at email provided.

Sean Joseph read the post twice before clicking the mail link. There wasn’t much to go on and these uppity wannabe women were often more trouble than they worth. At best they had read 50 Shades and dived into the deep end without a clue what they were getting into; as if that book had a clue about his world.

Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and there had to be some genuine girls out there. He decided on a layered approach by way of a test, the first requirement being a rather more fleshed-out response to his email which he crafted with all the care of a routine business note.

Dear Anna,

You will get more responses to your post than you can possibly handle. So many in fact that it is unlikely that you will get to mine. Nevertheless, if you should persist in your quest long enough not to be daunted by all the clueless losers then let’s do lunch.

I am a 42-year-old barrister with ample experience in dealing with curious brats wanting to test their limits and mine. I direct you to a brief summary on my contacts page and as it says there, photographs are available on request.

Sean couldn’t be bothered to dwell on the reply any more than that, experience told him that even if this Anna wasn’t a time waster then she would undoubtedly indeed get swamped.

Bristol 1896

Amelia was surprised at John Bradshaw’s polite and easy manner this time. He had been most generous at lunchtime and despite her bone-shaking nerves he had discussed India and some mutual acquaintances as carelessly as he might have done the weather.

Then he said, “Miss Johnston, are you sure it wise not to invite a companion, after all I do have something of a reputation?”

“Mr Bradshaw, Sir,” Amelia blushed, “It is your reputation that has enticed me to meet you. I doubt I have a friend in all of Bristol that would understand that.”

“Very well then if you are determined to make your amends we will retire to my house a short walk from here,” Bradshaw replied with an inclination of his head. “There we will test your mettle.”

As he had promised the walk had been indeed short and with every step Amelia’s steps had felt as heavy as her head light. In fact now that she considered the matter she wondered if she wasn’t some kind of trollop. But of course that was foolish. John Bradshaw was a gentleman and experienced in judicial and educational matters and this was no romantic dalliance.

This image of him was confirmed when they reached his house on the edge of Clifton. It was large and well-appointed, with a heavy discreet door in the middle of a quite charming Georgian brick façade.

“Now Miss Johnson, are you sure you wish to enter?” Bradshaw intoned in his best severe manner.

Amelia caught her breath and tried to supress the cloud of butterflies that had taken flight in her lower belly. Both these actions quite took all her attention and instead of being bold she could only return a small nod.

“Very well Miss, come with me,” Bradshaw said sharply, his earlier solicitude evaporating.

A few moments later they swept into an airy tan-coloured hallway and on into his study. In the grate was a grand raging fire that threw up a furious flickering light onto the mantle where carved faces of Pan with an army of imps seemed to dance and laugh at her.

“I don’t suppose you will come here again after today whatever you decide, but I suggest you take a moment to compose yourself,” Bradshaw said with a cough.

“Decide?” Amelia said, now puzzled, how many more delays would there be? She began to doubt that her nerve would hold out.

“I am duty bound to give you every opportunity to reconsider,” Bradshaw said airily as he studied his pocket watch.

Of course a man such as he must be very busy. Amelia worked her throat to a gulp but held her tongue.

“I am going to leave you now and when I return you will be standing sans culottes in that corner like the naughty minx you are. If not, you will be so good as to have departed,” he said imperiously.

“Sans… sans culottes?” she said breathily.

“Don’t be coy,” he sighed, “Your dress, your drawers, everything in your attire between the air and your… lower person.”

Amelia blushed. She had expected as much but even so… but after a pause she nodded.

With that Bradshaw departed.


London 2006

Sean had completely forgotten Ann by the time she got around to replying to his note.

“I am not surprised,” she said sheepishly, “I feel a bit of a fool now. You were right about being swamped. I wasted the last few weeks replying to utter wankers and the few that seemed okay… well they weren’t.”

They were sitting in a coffee bar in a narrow alley in Soho. The café specialised in Lebanese coffee and sweetmeats but although it did a steady trade for a wet Wednesday afternoon it was quiet enough.

“I don’t appreciate you calling people wankers, even if they are,” Sean said sharply so that Ann blushed. “Anyway, what makes you think I am any different?”

Ann shrugged and looked uncomfortable. She was as she had promised, of average height with an athletic build and very presentable. She wore her short dark hair straight and cut to a low fringe that served to obscure her eyes.

Although he claimed to be 42 he appeared of indeterminate age, both looking older on account of an abundance of grey hair and younger owing to his solid build and modern tight fit business suit.

“Don’t mumble,” he scolded causing her to blush again.

“I wasn’t, I didn’t even say anything,” she replied in a slightly whiney voice.

“And don’t answer me back, especially in that tone,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” she muttered and then more brightly, “I mean, I am sorry.”

Someone at the corner table looked over and Ann noticed the counter maid smirking at her too. This was a cue for more blushing, but it also made her feel squirmy.

“Listen, I want you to think about this, you don’t need to impress me, you turned up and that takes guts. Although I am not sure I believe you about telling a friend you were meeting me,” he said seriously and carefully gauged her reaction.

“I have thought about it,” she replied in a tight voice that suggested uncertainty. “I think…” she shrugged, “You know.”

Sean gave her a thoughtful pout in a kind of parody of Ann’s own demeanour as he stirred his coffee.

“No, I don’t,” he growled, “Say it.”

“I think we could work out, I mean, you know, I think you could take me in hand,” she said shyly, “I have a good vibe about it.”

Sean considered this for a moment and then nodded.

“How do I know you’re not pissing me about? You took a month to reply to me,” he said sternly. He was actually pleased with her but he needed to keep her off balance, she was too casual and cocksure of herself.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Alright then,” he whispered back. “Take your knickers off and give them to me.”

Ann’s eyes widened and she really blushed this time. She even took a moment to scan all points of the room before she could gather herself.

“I am wearing trousers,” she hissed at him.

The world stood on its edge and she felt herself falling.

Sean smiled gently and shrugged.

“We can do this another time when you’re ready,” he said.

Ann swallowed and shot a glance around her. The counter maid had gone out back and only one customer remained across from them. He was oldish and absorbed in a book with is back half turned from them.

“N-no, alright,” she said quickly.

She lifted her bum off the bench seat and unhooked the clasp. Luckily she was wearing no belt and the zip was an easy one. But suddenly she realised that she would have to get her trousers all the way off under the table before she could remove her knickers.

It took some doing and halfway through the manoeuvre the counter maid came back and then to Ann’s horror came over.

“Is everything alright?” she said, “Do you need anything?”

Ann blanched and shook her head. What could the woman see?

“I’ll have another coffee,” Sean said evenly, adding a belated “Please,” on account of the distraction of Ann.

Ann gaped in horror in Sean’s direction as she blanched.

“You have something to do,” Sean said by way of a reply.

The waitress was about to ask before realising she wasn’t being spoken to and turned away to fetch coffee.

Working her mouth Ann shot a glance at the remaining customer engrossed in his book and then at the retreating back of the waitress. Then quickly and smoothly she stepped out her trousers and with the bob her tugged down her knickers to slide them all the way down her legs. If the man or the waitress turned now they would see a good side view of her naked thighs. But Ann didn’t wait she openly ducked down and hauled on her trousers and was doing them up by the time the waitress reached the counter.

It was with an embarrassed grin of triumph that she handed Sean her knickers.

“You really are a naughty girl aren’t you,” Sean said as he took them, “What with your laxity of reply and your attitude, and now this so readily surrendered. Tell me, have you ever been spanked?”

Ann was all wide eyes and open mouth as her head swung wildly to take in the room. There was no doubt both the customer and the waitress had heard him.

“Well you are going to be,” Sean assured her.


Bristol 1896

John Bradshaw entered the room at his leisure. He was only vaguely aware that Amelia was still there but instead of looking directly at her he savoured the moment. For one thing her gown was draped carefully over the back of a chair and upon it was a cloud of lacy cotton comprised of a lady’s undergarments. For another… oh to hell with it, he turned.

Amelia was standing at attention to face the very corner of the room with her hands neatly tucked into the small of her back. She wore only a blouse and stockings so that the fulsome curves of her deep-cleft bottom were well displayed and totally nude.  A veritable goddess that took away his breath and something even stirred within his trousers.

He eyed both her and her clothes for any sign that she had disobeyed him in the slightest regard and noted that among the clothing was a corset. No doubt better off but not strictly what he had ordered.

“You are not accustomed to obedience then?” he scolded her. “I said only remove that which comes between the rod and your bottom.”

Amelia wanted to protest, but upon opening her mouth she found she had nothing to say. She was his and he could thrash her for the crime of having a bottom if he so desired.

“Miss Johnson, come here,” he sighed impatiently as if she had displeased him.

Amelia felt her face surge with hot blood and jerked where she stood. She was certain now that she was nothing but a trollop and deserved all that happened to her. Nonetheless she slowly obeyed after backing from the wall as far as she dared she meekly turned around; an operation that was only accomplished after bowing her head and cupping her hands as her shield before the dark thick triangle of her sex.

“For the corset and to put you in your place I am going to place you across my knee and soundly spank you,” John told her. “Afterwards you will be caned.”

Amelia swallowed and ducked her head respectfully as she muttered, “Yes Sir.”

Then as she watched her removed his coat and sat as if on a throne upon a large padded armless chair as he beckoned to her.

It took an eon for Amelia to totter to him and as she reached him she almost fled. But like a man with a skittish horse handled her firmly and taking her arm tumbled her down across his lap. This so elevated her big bare bottom that she felt that it filled the whole of the room behind her.

Oh why do women have such big bottoms, she wondered? Although it was a truth she was certain was about to be revealed to her.

John dug deep for a sense of genuine outrage, suppressing all prurient thoughts engendered by the proximity of Amelia’s fulsome nudity. Or at least, he decided, that he did so as much as was necessary. There was no sense or honour in hypocrisy here and why shouldn’t a man enjoy his work?

His hand struck her sharply across both cheeks and she squeaked in surprise.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, “It was a shock.”

John answered her with another firm sharp smack, which he followed with two more.

There was a satisfying handprint on Amelia’s alabaster skin and the red of it had begun to flow like a blush into the dark cleft and across both domes.

Amelia herself was gasping a little as she squirmed, but otherwise strove to be ladylike; an act of bravado even she felt was absurd and unworthy even. After all she was here to be tamed and made to surrender. Her dignity was to be spent cruelly as was deserved and if Mr Bradshaw chose to spank her until she bawled like a hungry brat before a host of his friends then she could never complain. Well she certainly could and probably would, but for such a sin she should be further punished and sent to the corner for an hour or two for humbling.

The spanking was sharp and steady, imparting a sting that set Amelia hissing and kicking her feet like a theatrical heroine. Her bottom soon had the hue of a coal in the grate and burned almost a hot.

“Mr Bradshaw Sir, oh… ooh I shall… please,” she gasped.

In truth she wanted to beg and beg hard for sobbing mercy. But what if he acceded? Could she forgive him? A spanking was what she craved and no childish smack-bottom would serve for her needs. But hadn’t he promised that this was but an hors d’oeuvre?

In the event she needn’t have worried. Bradshaw spanked her as hard as he might for a good quarter of the hour, his hand as relentless as an industrial machine and as taut as a man hunting at hounds. By then Amelia’s bottom was a dark blasted red and she kicked and howled like hoyden under a brand.

Amelia herself muttered oaths and cries, but knew not what she said. She only knew the cleansing burn and the mastery of a man as she spilled her tears into the carpet.

Finally the spanking was over and the sobbing woman was set on her feet where she clutched at her sore bottom eschewing all dignity as she hopped around the room.

“Enough of this comedy,” John barked as he pointed to the corner.

Amelia sniffed hard and nodded her head in acknowledgment, not yet trusting her words. But wild horses couldn’t tear her hands from her bottom hinds as she struggled to regain composure. But finally she tamed the sting as she had been tamed, well enough anyway so that she could stumble to the corner and represent her nose to where both panelled walls met.

“I am sure you remember the nursery,” John said sharply.

He didn’t explain and merely watch her as she struggled with her shame. It was satisfying to see the grown woman peel away her soothing fingers and place them humiliatingly on her head.

“Would that I could take a photograph for the newspapers,” John chuckled. “Unless you resign my guidance, one day I will have you so in a room of your peers for their edification and your utter shame.”

Amelia gasped at this news and her heart lurched as if she were falling. She would fall to boot-licking begging to escape that fate, but part of her knew she would never complete her life until she was so humbled for this man. Even the knowledge that such things could really happen was a fulfilment her life had not yet known.


London 2006

The paddle landed relentlessly as Ann bucked and bawled across Sean’s lap. Her trousers had been left at her ankles and now hobbled her as she clawed at the side of his thighs and shins.

They had arrived at his Warwick Square apartment in a taxi and she had been ushered through the grand entrance without ceremony. The moment they had entered she had been given two choices. Drop her trousers or leave. She had even giggled at the challenge and had poked out her tongue as she fumbled at her waist.

But what had followed was no giggle-game for novices. Sean had promised her a sound spanking and sound spanking was what she was getting.

Even when he had been using his hand she had at once known she was out of her depth and only a sense of futility had convinced her not to call the whole thing off. Never had fantasy and reality been so at odds. But the short heavy leather paddle was a revelation. He might just as well have sat her in a fire and left her there.

“I’m sorry, oh God,” she howled, “I’ll do anything, shit, shit, shit…”

Sean stopped abruptly and pressed the paddle like a sizzling grid iron to her cherry seared bottom.

“You made it clear you didn’t do safe words. Do you want to leave?” His voice was calm and lawyer-like.

Ann sniffed and panted like a dog on the moors.

“No but…”

“Too rich for your blood eh?” he pressed her.

She nodded and then immediately shook her head even more emphatically.

“I don’t want any say in this but… it’s hard,” her lip trembled as she sniffed to a small sob.

“Take a minute,” he said gently, patting at her bottom with the paddle.

“Not wimping out on me are you?” she shot back.

The paddled answered her and he even took it to new heights.

Bigmouth, bigmouth, bigmouth, she cursed herself, but it was great to beg.

“I’ll suck your cock,” she pleaded, “You can do my bum… you can do my bum and then I’ll suck your cock.” It was a litany of shameful release, but her voice was steady and challenging rather than entirely sincere. That was an attitude that would come later after she was utterly defeated.

“You little slut, just you wait,” he chuckled.

The paddle cracked down in a volley that set her to classic yelling. It was going to be along afternoon.


Bristol 1896

For the main event Amelia was set to kneeling on the floor and made to bend over a piano stool. The carpet was soft under her knees and there was something satisfying about the way that the padding of the stool pressed into her lower belly. But the posture it placed her in was obscene. Her big red bottom stuck up like a horse’s crupper and heaven knew what charms Mr Bradshaw could gaze upon.

An old school friend had once told her of a device that was used to wash a woman’s intimate parts following a union with a man. It was supposed to prevent issue, she had been told. But she had been quite shocked at the time and why she should have thought of that now was a puzzle.

Instead she considered her bottom and how bare it was before a man. But at least it had cooled down a little and there was no denying that she thoroughly deserved this punishment.

Mr Bradshaw, for his part, had taken up a long thin cane for the next operation and now stood behind her brandishing it as he contemplated the target.

After a long silence he said, “If you call on me again I will birch you soundly as an entrée for the cane. I have quite a collection, some of them quite biting. I once had a whipping-brothel madam sobbing in her gin and quite unseated for a month after a session with a Mandalay Monster. But have no fear this is but a senior girl tickler from a Ladies’ College in Sussex. An old acquaintance of mine gave it to me in remembrance of her school days.”

“You are considerate Sir,” Amelia whispered.

“As it is your first time I will give you… 12,” Bradshaw told her, “and I want you to count them. Miss one and I’ll repeat it.”

“Yes Sir,” Amelia said breathily.

The cane sounded soft and silky as it cut the air. The impact too was sharp and clean and not half so hideous as Amelia had been expecting. But her thought was too previous as the biting stroke cut deep and did not slice properly for a beat or two. Then it was as a sword and Amelia screamed.

“One… nuh,” she choked, then unbidden she added, “Thank you Sir.”

Still it took her half a minute to ride out the pain and compose. It was a luxury she would not have for the next eleven, which came quick and fast at her announcement over the next two minutes. It was an ordeal that caused her to miscount two strokes that had to be repeated. Afterwards the corner had been a heavenly place for a good long cry.

korea spankingI don’t suppose this picture has anything to do with it, but there was a brief story about a mass caning of young women in a secretarial school in Korea. Apparently some teacher lost his rag with a whole class. The story was accompanied by a grainy newspaper photo of genuinely welted bottoms half exposed like those above.

I found the story online  a few weeks back at 2.30 in the morning and didn’t read it properly. I left it open on my desk so I could return to it but the damn PC did an auto update and rebooted overnight. I wasn’t going to bother with it as a post, being so vague, but after seeing this picture I thought I would run it up the flag pole to see if anyone saw the same story.


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