Sir SpanksALot asked about the other punishments I get.
There are several and I will pick one now and write about another in a few weeks.
Sir S wondered if this was a bit forward asking about punishments and I do not think so. After all this being the kind of blog it is I don’t suppose I can pretend that nothing out of the ordinary ever happens. It happens.
I get shy talking about it though. That shyness is the point though, the fact I can’t talk about these things without tucking my chin down as I type, the fact that my fingers rest in the air above the keyboard before I dare commit to describing what I do, I think tells you two things.
Firstly, it tells you that I am a certain type of girl. DJ knows this, he knows what type of girl I am. He knows what will make an impact on me, what will make me shy, then sorry, and finally what will make me scuttle into him for comfort and sanctuary. He knows how far to take things with me, when to slow, when to push and when to allow me free again.
Secondly it tells you that the punishment works. The memory of it stays with me, it loiters in my mind like frost on glass on a winter’s morning. If you were to talk to me, in real life, I would never mention these things, but if you knew and you asked I would not say one word about what happened. I would look at DJ and ask him not to find the words. Even after the punishment I still look to him for protection from it, for his guidance and reassurance that I am his.
That may sound harsh and when you read this punishment you may think it not harsh enough. All I can say is – it is right for me. It helps me to feel safe, loved, forgiven and free.
My greatest and most persistent flaw is being fretful. That may not sound so bad but it tears me down and would tear us apart if DJ allowed it to do so. I get tired from work, uptight with how much there is to do and finally overwhelmed with the belief that I am incapable of doing what is expected of me.
DJ does a lot to take the pressure from me in practical ways but sometimes I fight him so hard that there is nothing he can do besides wrestle control back from me.
So this punishment is designed to calm me, silence me, and make me still. It is punishment for hurting myself, and for hurting us.
I want to stop writing now. I want not to tell you anymore. We could have a cup of tea and you could tell me what jobs you must do before the holidays. DJ doesn’t like it when I try to divert him in this manner but I think you would understand.
But I said I would tell you so here goes.
We are in our bedroom. The curtains are drawn and the room is warm. I come from the shower and he has laid things on the bed. He often lays things on the bed and I respond by hiding under the covers and hoping for a cuddle.
I am lying there on my tummy when I hear him come in. He doesn’t speak, just moves around the room. I don’t know what he is doing. He may or may not tie my legs down at this point. I don’t like being spanked when I am not over his knee. I like to feel him close to me and to hold on to him when the pain builds but some implements are not for his lap. I prefer him to tie my legs- he has soft buckles for them on the bed- so that I am safe, held down by him. He prefers me to submit willingly and to stay as he places me.
As I am writing this I will tell you that this time my legs are bound. Too far apart for my liking or for modesty is how he ties them but I don’t say a word. I hope for a change of heart from him and I know that arguing will only make this worse and so I stay still and quiet, only moving in response to his quiet, short, simple instructions.
He then places a blindfold over my eyes, like the buckles it is soft. It is another element of control that I have lost, all of a sudden I have not just a lack of choice but also a lack of knowledge about what will happen. Still, all is silence. I have talked myself into this silence as we both know.
The final preparation is something he has only recently started to do. He places a collar around my neck. We never spoke about this. I do not know how he sees this or why he chose it but I know what it symbolises. I am being transformed, from a wildling into something tamed, something owned, someone whose existence is linked to another. I like this only because he does it. I may come to like it for other reasons later, I may not but this time is not about what I want.
It is so quiet.
If you were not a clever man you may think the transformation complete. You may think that the shrill, difficult woman from the early evening has gone away and you may lie with me and start to kiss me. My eyes would fly open under my mask and I would bristle at your stupidity.
This is when it starts.
A spanking at first, gentle by our standards and building to a steady warmth and deep tissue pain. The immediate caning or whipping is for books and professionals. DJ wants me to take a lot tonight and I can only take what he wants me to, I can only allow it into me if he prepares me. I know this and react less to this spanking that to the others he gives me even though by the end of this my entire bottom feels as though it is burned.
And then something else, maybe a taws, maybe a martinet or a strap as he goes from one implement to another and back again. I can’t tell you what he uses; I ask sometimes but forget the moment it returns for a second bite. I can tell you each of them hurts. The one with all the slips of leather rushes at me, not just my bottom but in between my legs, it curls and snaps into me finding the corners or me I had hoped to hide.
There is the strap split into two – what is that called? I won’t ask him, I don’t want to talk to him about it. This is more solid and it places itself hard on me, covering the width of my bottom every time as he lays it across me.
The rounder piece of leather feels at first like a light relief until he works it over and over up and down my bottom repeating itself until I thoroughly understand what it has to say.
I hear him walk from me and I shudder into the bed having arched my back to endure what he gave me.
At this point I used to think it was over. I used to think he had done what he needed and would stop. I used to think he had done a fairly good job at sorting me out.
I know better now.
He tells me to stick my bottom up. I do.
He says to stick it up more. I do this too.
I feel him touch my bottom, his warm hands feel cool against the heat he has made on my skin. He pushes my cheeks apart and I invariably pull away from him.
He instructs me to push myself up again and this time I obey and hold still.
You would think the ginger, all cool from the fridge would not be so bad compared to the stinging and aching of my bottom, or, at least, you would only think this if you have not felt it.
The pain is different to the others. Slow at first and then waves of it mounting in me and returning, rebuilding, crashing in to me. I hate him pushing it in place. I hate the way he holds it steady as I squirm. I hate the way I hold still not only to listen to him now that he has started to talk but also because I need to feel his hand on my bottom.
He talks. I listen. I respond when he requires it. I call him Sir and, due to the intense punishment from before, I do not falter when I use the word. It feels right to call him Sir – it would feel foolish to use his name.
He tells me what I need to know. He tells me what will and what will not be tolerated. He tells me that he loves me without once using the word ‘love’ but instead uses all the words that encase love for a girl like me.
Finally he stands again. He pushes the ginger in to make sure it is snug and this time I am sure I cry out. I think, this time, he uses the leather thing with all the tails. He uses it hard, he uses it thoroughly, covering me entirely with it and not allowing me to escape with any part of me. I would like to tell you I embrace the pain but I can’t lie about this. It pushes me further than I thought I could go. The nasty, insistent snapping of it, coupled with the humiliating pain and presence of the ginger underline all his words from before.
It finishes when he says it finishes. He may just use this implement, he may use others. I accept his choice, not because he is stronger than me, not because I am restrained but because I accept his authority.
I don’t know how he knows when I am complete. I do not know how he knows when I accept who we are again. I do not know anything other than when he releases me.
How does he release me?
However he chooses of course. But that is for another time. I have kept you long enough for now.
Filed under: domestic, Indigo Sigh | 6 Comments
LSF have published two more of my novellas, this time in a single volume. This contains two adult reformatory style spanking stories.
In the first of these stories entitled Choices, three very different women choose to attend the alternative punishment centre at the Cornwall Institute instead of receiving prison sentences for their crimes. Here they soon find that any transgression of the rules, including poor attitude, will earn them a bare bottom spanking – sometimes by hand while over the knee but more often than not with a pliable cane or clothes brush. However, as the days go by, each of the women find they’re beginning to develop a fixation with the men who punish them.
In the second story, Cane and Consequence, an intrigued privileged new girl, Catherine, an inmate at Hardham House, makes tentative approaches towards the tearful, recently caned Melanie…
Filed under: DJB stories, education, F/F, judicial, M/F, spanking stories | Leave a Comment
Tags: college, corner time, spanking, the cane
The season is spinning up on us fast and it seems I will not only be out of town, but out of several towns at different ends of the country. This means that next week and probably the week after there will be no Weekly Round-Up and this site’s content will be based on pre-written stuff.
Indigo fans need not worry as she had been very busy in advance.
This brings me to an interesting point and this week’s perhaps most relevant news. A Voice in the Corner has been nominated in The Spanking Blogg awards, thanks to whoever nominated it. But it has been nominated as best News Blog, which is the interesting point. With exception of the Weekly Round-Up and the odd article, I wouldn’t have thought A Voice was a news blog. It makes one wonder how one is perceived.
When I began here over five years ago I my initial aim was to reach out and find an outlet for my creativity. In particular I had just completed the Russell Corner and wanted to promote it. My main aim was a short story blog combined with a snippet-based features magazine of the kind provided by Spank Statement.
Anyway if you want to see who else is nominated or heaven forfend, wanted to vote for someone, you can go here.
Further to last week’s news, the UK censorship law, apparently some sources say spanking was banned despite a politician being quoted to the contrary. Did anyone read the bill before the passed it? But I can confirm that at the moment the Act pertains to the moving image and not written or illustrate publications.
There were huge protests in Westminster, which only goes to show how quickly the act was passed and how little consultation there was. As far as I know no erotica outfit has closed down or moderated their output. As I said last week, talk is cheaper than action and often these things wither on the vine. The 1956 Obscene Publications Act was never repealed and most modern porn in the UK would get their purveyors several years inside for their content but no modern jury will convict.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | Leave a Comment
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
I know how this guy feels, but it is usually the brat that does the biting. Never get between a man and the wife he is trying to spank…
Filed under: humour, spanking | 2 Comments
Tags: 1950s, spanking
The day was not as hot as the day before, although out here that meant very little. Somewhere a fly buzzed and the only thing moving on the one road in to Warwick Station was the heat haze that shimmered like water just out of reach.
Manda looked up the road wistfully and wished for once that she could follow it to where ever it led.
“You coming?” Jock called over from the shed.
A big man, he filled the shed doorway like John Wayne; even the hat was the same, although Wayne was never that tanned. But his easy smile set on an impossible square jaw was at odds with the sharpness of his clear blue eyes. Manda sucked in a breath and let it go as a sigh.
“Alright Mr Murdoch, keep your hair on, I’m coming,” she shot back.
Jock stifled a chuckled that reached his shoulders and he shook his head in appreciation. At least the girl had spirit, he thought.
Manda McKenzie was a rare breed on a sheep station; well she was a Sheila for one thing and for another she was at least as good as the men on the strength. She was a looker too, with white even teeth and ash blonde hair that didn’t quit, nor did her legs that rose to meet it around her comely filled cut-off shorts.
From the languid way Manda crossed the yard to the shed Jock could tell she knew the score and he wondered which way she would jump. He continued to watch her until she reached him and stopped. Her head barely reached his chest and she had to look up to squint against the sun.
“We going in or what?” she challenged him.
Jock shrugged and stepped back with faux gallantry to usher her inside.
“What happened to you yesterday anyway?” he asked as he followed her into the slightly less oppressive heat of the shed. The interior was heavy with the scent of creosote and dried wood. And sheep, of course, there was always the sheep.
“Alright, your bloody business, but ditching work and skiving off is my concern,” Jock sighed.
She shrugged again and screwed up her nose.
“We doing this or what?” she said defiantly and folded her arms. She was hanging at one hip in a slouch with her hair streaming to one side like a blonde waterfall where it caught the light from the small window. Her whole posture screamed attitude.
“You sure? I mean I could just dock your pay,” Jock said easily. But as he spoke he crossed the room to the work bench and the heavy leather strap hanging just above it.
“It’s no biggie,” she shook her head, “How do you want me?”
Jock chuckled and reached for the strap.
“Not done this before?” he drawled as he needlessly tested the strap by stretching on it.
“Sure,” she shrugged yet again and screwed up her nose. “Old Man Casper… you know… pants and trousers down at my ankles and bent over the kitchen table while his wife made coffee.”
Jock snorted humourlessly and mopped his brow.
“Sounds like old Casper,” he laughed. “Well it’s pretty much the same here.”
Manda made a sour face as if she had expected something different and her hands went to her hips. She eyed the work bench and he nodded.
As she stooped to a bend her underpants came down with her shorts, slowly drawn taught over her ample tight curved bottom on their way to her knees. Once she let go they fell to a puddle at her ankles and she came erect. At least she had the good grace to blush.
“Enjoying the view,” she snapped at him.
“Oh yeah,” he grinned and made a show of folding his arms and leaning back in open appreciation.
“Figures,” she muttered, but her gaze couldn’t meet his and her blush deepened.
“I can still dock your pay,” he said.
“No way,” she said indignantly and shuffled forward hobbled as she was until she reached the bench. Then she folded herself in half like a pro as if daring him to do his worse with her bare bottom thrust at him.
Her hair wrapped around her face and she had to pick some strands from her mouth as she blew them away with a raspberry.
“Your funeral,” he replied dismissively and doubled the heavy leather strap.
“It’s my arse anyway, it won’t kill me,” she threw back at him as she braced herself.
He watched as she rocked her bottom and arched her back to present the target. Then he brought the leather down with a power stroke.
“Yah,” Manda hissed, and made a lemon face. “I take that back, that’s killing.”
Jock waited until a firm red patch had developed in a swathe across her pale flesh and then he struck again.
“Bugger,” she cursed and dipped at the knees.
“Feel that?” he said.
“Too right,” she exclaimed as she pumped her legs to shake out the sting.
The third swat left the red on red effect and welts began to rise where the path of the leather had crossed.
“Jesus fuck a dag hole,” she gasped and her eyes almost met in the middle as she stamped her feet.
Jock didn’t approve of Shelia’s swearing and shared his disapproval through the medium of leather; three or four times in succession.
“Alright, alright, Jeez,” she hissed, but tears pooled at her eyes and her bum was as raw as redhead with three days sun stain.
He gave her a dozen more, all spaced at intervals so that it took two minutes to sear her backside. By then of course her bravado was a puddle on the bench along with her tears and she shook with gentle sobs.
“Sorry, must be going soft,” she managed in a strained voice, “How many more?”
“You’re about done I reckon,” he said casually.
“Thank Christ,” she sniffed and painfully got to her feet. “You want me arse in the corner like old Man Man Casper?”
“I reckon not,” Jock shrugged as he rehung the strap.
“Good enough,” Manda said and pulled her shorts gingerly over her bottom. “I reckon I won’t sit ‘til payday though.” She was grinning through tears now and even those she wiped away. “Won’t skive off neither I reckon.”
“I reckon you won’t,” Jock laughed and accepted her hand for a business-like shake.
“See you later,” she said as she carefully walked out.
Filed under: DJB stories, M/F, spanking stories, workplace | 2 Comments
Tags: Australia, can't sit down, corporal punishment, spanking, strapping, submission
Melanie Crow eased herself through the door taking small careful steps. She knew there was another girl waiting and studiously avoided any eye contact as she left. It was a cinch that this new student of Roland Archer had heard everything and if Mel’s pain wasn’t written on her face, a blush certainly was.
Charlie had indeed been listening and now sat nervously chewing on her lower lip. She had heard that Roland Archer was a spanker, but her grades were slipping and the sorority took a dim view of such things; a very dim view indeed. Compared to what they might do, what was a spanking or two to perk up her studies or so she had thought? But now she had heard Archer in action she wasn’t so sure. Surely he couldn’t be worse than Catherine Marks et al. She gulped. From what she had heard and the way the way the other girl was walking she imagined Professor Archer had some bite after all.
Melanie Crow made the front door without looking back and every step was followed by a rapt Charlie teasing her teeth in a wince with every step. So absorbed was she in Melanie’s departure that she didn’t hear the professor until he spoke.
“Charlotte Coleman I presume,” he said.
Charlie jerked in her seat and quickly stood up. She turned to confront the rather ordinary looking man in a tweed jacket without tie and a smile reminiscent of a guidance counsellor. Charlie hated such people and made to swallow. Perhaps she should offer to come back another Saturday.
“Just Charlie,” she offered carefully.
She half expected the man to insist on Charlotte, he certainly looked the conservative type and she braced herself.
“Charlie it is,” he smiled more warmly and despite herself Charlie smiled back.
“I… I have come… that is…” she began awkwardly.
“Come and have some tea,” Archer said with a wink and offered her the room beyond the door with an outstretched arm.
Charlie drew her lips into a firm line and managed a nod and then with the merest assault of butterfly wings on the lining of her stomach she ducked her head and squeezed past her new tutor desperate not to make the least physical contact.
Donna felt silly. There was no other word for it. Here she was a 28-year-old college teacher standing in a dormitory housemother’s room in just her white cotton blouse, a bra and a pair of cutie short pink socks. She eyed her denim pants and white silk panties on the chair by the door trying to find the will to snatch them up and leave. There were many better ways to be spending her Saturdays than this.
She was still working up the nerve, or pretending to, when she heard Mrs Main returning and grimacing in panic made a scurry for the corner where she was supposed to be. Donna had only just felt the cool of the plaster at her forehead where she had most exactingly order to place it when the door opened and someone entered the room behind her. Just in time she remembered to clasp her hands neatly into the small of her back.
It could be anyone for all Donna knew, she didn’t dare turn to look. You are so… she winced as she berated herself… so whipped. The heat rose in her face and for the 10,000th time she ran the options through her head.
“Ah, Dr Warren, on time and in place I see,” Mrs Main said cheerfully. “And in position number one, you remembered. Good girl.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Donna said in a voice as close to surly as she dared.
Mrs Main frowned and her eyes narrowed.
“I think we will have your hands behind your head, with the elbows touching both walls,” Mrs Main said sharply.
Donna gulped and quickly complied.
“Yes Ma’am,” she agreed in a rather more respectful tone this time.
The act of lifting her arms also raised the hem of her blouse in back and her pert dusky bottom was revealed to the housemother’s gaze. It was a satisfying enough sight, but one she had seen often. To her it only signified one more of her charges learning her place.
As for Donna, she was wondering if after a week of not putting a foot wrong she had fallen at the last hurdle. What was wrong with her, she knew Mrs Main wouldn’t tolerate the slightest rebellion. The woman had her beat; literally. She felt rather lightheaded at the prospect of a harder session with the housemother and icy finger of dread clawed at her belly at the thought of the row of enema bags and other such accoutrements she had been shown on that first Saturday. She had been told then that she would endure extra suffering once a month or so or whenever she crossed the line. Otherwise she merely faced a spanking. God let this not be one of those Saturdays, please, please, please God, she silently prayed.
Mrs Main paused for long effect and then brusquely told Donna: “As you have been in on time every night this week and have so far complied with my instructions… I think… yes, just a maintenance spanking this morning.” Although Donna did not see it the woman nodded decisively and crossed the room to her writing desk adding, “Next week or the week after we will have a more serious session to keep you on your toes. I trust you will continue to behave and not add to that. It seems to have been working so far doesn’t it? Funny what you can do with the right incentive isn’t it?”
“Yes Ma’am.” Donna’s relief was palpable and she visibly loosened in the corner.
There was a long silence then and Donna could feel the pulse hammering in her head and the hush of quiet in her ears. The sounds beyond the room were faint and surreal now, belonging as they did to another world.
Then there was a rattle and a clunk followed by the sound of a draw or cupboard being opened.
“Alright Dr Warren, please come here,” Mrs Main said sharply.
Donna stole a rueful glance over her shoulder to see the housemother sitting in her favourite armless chair, her gingham draped thighs like two unyielding logs and the English teacher gulped. Mrs Main was holding a large black wooden hairbrush and as Donna watched, the formidable woman patted her lap and sadly beckoned to her diminutive tenant.
“What made you seek out my tutoring services?” Archer asked politely as he poured some tea.
Charlie set her mouth ready to answer and then swallowed back the words. It was a tricky question.
“I am well-known for getting results, but I am rather strict. Not many girls seek me out voluntarily. Most are sponsored by their families or their sorority,” Archer smiled pleasantly while Charlie composed herself.
The girl put all her apparent attention into the tea cup and blushed.
“It is like this Professor Archer,” she began. “I mean you have it really, my sorority… well you know… I wanted to address my grades before they really got on my case.”
“That is very commendable, but it doesn’t really answer my question does it?” Archer said kindly.
“No Sir, that is… well you see I am a bit of a coward and well… with a real incentive I wouldn’t want…” Charlie sighed and hunched over into herself as she wrung her hands before continuing, “That is I thought given your reputation that… well you really have no idea how rough the girls can get,” Charlie finished in all of a rush.
“Oh I think I do, but tell me, what is my reputation exactly?” Archer ended his question with a hard stare.
“You spank girls don’t you?” Charlie mumbled.
“As does your sorority,” Archer countered, “You think I will go easier do you?”
“No Sir but…” Charlie sighed, “Why don’t you explain how this works please Sir.”
Roland Archer smiled and slowly poured more tea into his cup for dramatic effect.
“It is really quite simple. You show me your work and I point out where you are going wrong and suggest better approaches. In some cases I will set work of my own and I warn at such times I am very demanding,” he said, his voice firm and paternal now. “But there are rules and consequences. Firstly, you will never ever be late, the penalties for tardiness are cumulative I am afraid and ultimately quite effective. Secondly, you will not answer me back or argue. I won’t dwell on that; suffice to say most young women run into trouble with me on this score sooner or later. It is a sign of the times I fear.”
He watched Charlie carefully for a response but she remained dutifully silent.
“Generally girls are punished for repeat mistakes and not listening to what they are told. This is the crux of my method… that is… zero tolerance. Make a mistake and you are punished. Make the same mistake and that goes double and so on,” he explained.
Charlie let her mouth form an O as she let out a slow breath. All the while her eyes were fixed on the middle distance as if seeing something he couldn’t see.
“The sorority’s punishments are all a bit arbitrary, designed to break a girl down I suppose. I need that too but… there is a consistency in your approach,” she said ruefully. “How do you punish exactly… I mean…?” she blushed.
“That all depends on the girl. No bottom left un-reddened I am afraid,” he chuckled, “But some girls respond to a sound spanking across my knee and others need a touch of the cane or a paddle or… well we will work that out as we go on,” he said reassuringly.
“Assuming it is necessary of course,” Charlie chipped in.
“Oh it will be necessary Miss Coleman,” Archer said sharply.
“But maybe just the prospect of…” Charlie put in hopefully, but she couldn’t say the words.
“Are you arguing with me Charlie?” Archer asked, his voice as arched as his eyebrows.
“Oh no Sir,” Charlie gasped.
Archer smiled, but the steel didn’t leave his eyes. “You see how easy it is to go astray?” he said.
Charlie firmly closed her mouth and nodded.
They sat in silence for a moment with Archer noisily stirring his tea as he waited for something. He hated these gaps in the conversation but one had to give a girl time to think.
“So Charlie, do you think you want to take this forward?” he said at last.
Charlie sighed and then very shyly said, “Yes Sir.”
Donna wondered if she had ever been spanked so hard. It was almost as if every encounter with Mrs Main so far had been a practice for this. The woman had the strength of 10 men or so it seemed then, for Donna had been bucking with all her might under the onslaught but so far her bottom had not dodged one spank.
Mrs Main had opted to hold Donna’s right wrist in the small of her back while the teacher steadied herself with the left against the leg of the chair. In any case Donna’s bare bottom was elevated to good effect and only her legs were semi-free to kick and cross ankles under the relentless blast of the spanking.
The biting sting of the brush where it struck her behind had begun harsh and quickly ascended to the heights of unbearable. Not that Donna was ready to submit. Instead she clamped her jaw and hissed out intermittent groans as she tried to ride the pain.
From Mrs Main’s point of view Donna’s failure to announce the landing spanks was a show of defiance; the girl must be getting used to it, she decided. All the same there were already two dark red ovals staining the woman’s pert bottom cheeks and as the punishment progressed the tender pads of soreness spread outward to encompass ever more of Donna’s bottom.
The housemother put the brush to the woman ever harder, biting both under her curves and then along the summits before returning to undermine the sitting area. The crack of the impacts came fast and loud so that even after just five minutes Mrs Main reckoned she must have landed four or five hundred spanks.
Finally Donna broke and let go with a “uhh-oooh” before settling on a rapid pained repeat of “Christ, oh Christ.”
“I am going to give you two spankings today,” Mrs Main said angrily, “Why are you being so stubborn?”
Bitch, Donna thought, but for some reason the unspoken sentiment made her feel ashamed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Donna tearfully admitted the unspoken insult.
“Good girl, but you’re still having the extra spanking and we are not yet done with this one,” Mrs Main said firmly.
Maybe it was this promise or maybe it was just the kind word, but Donna spluttered out a sob and the floodgates opened. After that she could no more stop bawling than get off of the housemother’s lap. Not that the spanking was done. If Mrs Main had bothered to time it she would have known that the rest of the spanking lasted another eight minutes.
The sorority house was as lively as ever when Charlie arrived back from her meeting with Professor Archer. Davina Davis was talking animatedly on the phone in the hall and didn’t even give her glance, although Charlie’s bottom clenched all the same.
This went double when she saw what was happening in the lounge.
Her friends Anna Lee and Tammy Jacob were draped over the back of a couch with their tennis skirts turned up and their panties somewhere south of their knees. Their bottoms were already a healthy shade of red but Catherine Marks standing by them with a paddle looked far from finished admonishing them.
“How dare you enter the lounge in sports attire,” Catherine berated them.
“But we are playing tennis this afternoon,” Anna wailed.
Although Charlie couldn’t see her face, she could recognise that edge of tears voice. But the familiar small domed bottom was the real give away.
“Oh I don’t think so,” Catherine countered.
By way of punctuation she swatted first Anna and then Tammy with three paddle-strokes apiece. Both girls yelped their appreciation.
“What you are going to do when I am done with you is get your noses in the corner of this room and stay there for the rest of the afternoon as an example. Don’t you girls ever read the handbook?” she brought down another mighty swat to Anna’s vulnerable bare bottom, “No,” she swatted again, “Sportswear,” and again, “in the,” once more, “Lounge.”
This process was repeated with Tammy who really gave the impacts voice.
Charlie had seen enough and wincing in sympathy carefully slipped away and made her way upstairs. When a pledge mistress was in a spanking mood one never knew what would get picked up on. Besides, she had a handbook to read.
Donna cried long and hard in Mrs Main’s arms while the older woman soothed her.
“You don’t understand any of this, do you?” the housemother cooed.
“No Ma’am,” Donna sobbed and it was true.
She knew now she could leave and tell this woman where to get off but yet… the elusive thought slipped away and Donna began bawling more heartedly for a while.
“I meant it about that other spanking,” Mrs Main sighed.
“I know,” Donna said wistfully and sniffed as she brought her tears under control.
“But that comes later,” the housemother said, resolve returning to her voice. “Now I know a young lady who has corner time to do.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Donna sniffed and got achingly to her feet.
The long walk to her angular bar-less prison was unbelievably sore-making and her still exposed bottom flared with every step. Even without another spanking Donna knew she would be lucky to sit easily all week. Just in time for another Saturday with Mrs Main. Oh joy, she thought ruefully, this town is crazy.
*Sorority picture courtesy of TipTopper
Filed under: Abraham Heights, DJB stories, F/F, M/F, sorority, spanking stories, Tip Top | 7 Comments
Tags: can't sit down, college, corner time, cornertime, mentor, mentoring, OTK, paddle, spanking
Someone, for reasons best known to themselves, decided to give me a pair of knickers with the words, “Spoilt brat” emblazoned on the back. They are most attractive, navy blue and covered all over in silver stars and clingy in just the right way for a girl that owns a bottom that likes to be noticed. (The bottom likes to be noticed, not me. I am both shy and retiring almost all the time.)
I can only think these knickers were an ironic gift, like giving a runner some slippers or presenting the Queen with a washing up bowl. I had not realised the giver overwhelmed with a sense of irony but I am not so arrogant as to think I know everyone perfectly.
Either way, here I am, me with some rather stylish knickers with the words, “Spoilt brat” glaring out from them.
What was I to do?
It would have been ungrateful not to wear them, indeed only a spoilt brat would decline a gift and so by refusing to wear them I would have become deserving of wearing them. These knickers are not any normal knickers- they are a paradoxical knickers.
I would not like to suggest to the giver that I was unable to detect irony or reluctant to be the butt of a joke. I think it is a vital skill to be able to take a joke which is why I encourage DJ to develop this skill himself. He seems reluctant to learn this for some reason. I think he spends too much time with a cane in his hands to embrace the role of pupil. Actually, I think he spends too much time with a cane in his hands full stop.
When I considered wearing the knickers I did feel a little hint at something that I could only imagine was mischief tugging at my brain. (Obviously, I rarely feel mischievous so I am not good at detecting the sensation.) It seemed to me that, were I to put them on, it would cause a ruckus, the kind of ruckus that would be fun to run away from. This is the kind of ruckus that makes me giggle and later squirm and sometimes insist on being left alone to catch my breath. I like ruckuses and besides, they can be terribly warming in this cold weather.
I also had to consider that by wearing them I would be placing temptation squarely (roundly?) in front of the man I love. It may surprise you to know that DJ is something of an aficionado of the spanking arts. He seldom needs an excuse to pull me over his lap and brighten my bottom beyond all reason. I do not think the man even knows what “Stop” or “Get off me or I shall bite you*” means. So if I were to wear them would it be tempting him or would it showing faith in him not to react in a predictable manner?
Confusion abounded. (Maybe this is how Tops feel every day.)
Reader, I wore the knickers.
I would like to be able to tell you that Mr Black managed to control himself and not go for the obvious action. I would like to tell you that when he saw the wording he did not leer at me in what can only be described as a rakish manner. I would like even more to be able to tell you that afterwards I thought that I made the right decision to wear the knickers.
All I can tell you is that knickers that are snug and comfortable pre-DJ-spanking become horribly uncomfortable afterwards. My bottom was swollen, sore and hot so much so that I had to dispense with the knickers entirely.
But it was all good in the end. DJ knew just what to do. And he did it very well indeed.
I do not think I am a spoilt brat, rather I am a lucky girl who finds it a bit sore to sit down.
*That is another story for another day.
**That is also another story for another day.
PS Sir SpanksALot (who asked me about “punishments that go beyond spanking and corner time into realms off the beaten path, so to speak. Are these fancies of his or do you, as his girl, suffer these sorts of punishments in real life? (If so I would be very keen to get your perspective on such practices”)
It would be entirely my pleasure to write about the travesty of injustice that is my life with DJ. I am sure I will find you sympathetic.
PPS Thank you so much for all the comments. I am sorry I cannot reply but I do sit often DJ’s lap when he responds and I am grateful and humbled that people take the time to speak to a girl who must remain silent for a whole week.
Filed under: domestic, Indigo Sigh, M/F, real life | 10 Comments
Tags: brat, bratting, knickers, spanking
It was an odd kind of conversation. Some yahoo said he would take a bullet for Jesus. Why is it always guns and why would anyone need to? Then of course everyone chipped in until the one perky 22-year-old young woman said something about birthday spankings. Go figure. Where did that come from?
“So you are saying that you would take a birthday spanking for the great man?” the yahoo said.
The woman, a dizzy blonde called Mary Beth, perhaps hadn’t meant to say anything aloud or perhaps she was thinking about something else, was now on the spot.
“I didn’t mean that,” she says hastily.
“So you saying that you won’t?” the yahoo accuses her.
“No I am not saying that but…” the girl splutters.
Now it might have all ended well but for two things. One it was Christmas and two the preacher was standing nearby.
“This is an outrageous conversation,” he bellows.
At this point the yahoo makes himself scarce but there are enough folks around to chuckle at the girl’s discomfort.
“But I… I didn’t start it,” the girl whines.
“No but you should know better Mary Beth,” the preacher snarls.
“To cap it all you tell such lies,” the preacher rages.
“No I didn’t I…” Mary Beth is all a fluster now and wishes the ground would open up wide.
“Well since it is our Lord’s birthday we will put that to the test shall we?” the preacher growls, now somewhat placated.
“B-but, but I…” Mary Beth gasps.
“It wouldn’t be the first time now would it,” the preacher mutters.
“No Sir,” Mary Beth says ruefully.
Unfortunately for Mary Beth she is only wearing those thong panties she got online and she just knows the preacher will take up her skirts, which as he takes her over his knee he does. Mary Beth’s predicament draws angry gasps and laughter in equal measure. But now the preacher is certain he has the right of it.
“Can someone tell me the year?” the preacher says sharply.
“Why it’s…” begins someone until truth dawns and a groin breaks out on his face, “2014 parson.”
“Sir, come one now Sir, you can’t…” Mary Beth wails, but it is way too late for that as the first spank lands.
“Yeow,” Mary Beth squeaks.
“One,” says the small crowd.
Mary Beth still wasn’t sitting down at New Year’s and for quite some time afterwards. But she did learn to watch her mouth and not to disrespect the Lord.
Filed under: DJB stories, humour, M/F, Religion, spanking stories | 2 Comments
Tags: christmas, OTK, spanking
I suppose the big news is the new law in the UK banning some pornography or moderating it or… well here is a link that sets some of it out. I am not sure what motivated this or why it wasn’t debated over much. I thought that they had all but dropped this rather ignorant piece of legislation. But as usual the only people in politics who care are the ones with a stick up their arse about what people do in bed. Oh hang on… I think a stick up the arse is illegal now…
There is a nanny state element to all of this as it seems in many cases to be based upon what people might copy at home. But there have been attempts before to do this kind of law and most fall at the first court test with recent obscenity trials descending into ridicule and laughter.
One university vice-chancellor (dean if you are in some countries) was asked by the police to remove some quite strong gay art from his library. His response is un-postable but in short he told them to arrest him or get lost. They did the latter.
How does all this affect spanking and this blog? Actually I have no idea. But for what it is worth, firstly I do not deal in porn, so presumably until a court says I do then I am unaffected. Secondly I am not publishing in the UK as such nor do I deal in the moving image, which seems to be the main target of this. I will of course comply with any lawful requests (assuming anyone makes one and does not just take down this blog and kick my door in at three in the morning.)
The government have said (as if it is any of their business – and they talk about reducing government: the hypocrites) that they are not concerned about spanking per se, but are concerned with some BDSM. But they do have a bigger gang than I have so what they say goes rather. But in short, it is business as usual until I get anything concrete to the contrary.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 7 Comments
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs