Weekly Update


11 a 13106_052-630x350 11a able 11a batman_spanks_catwoman_otto_schmidt 11a Capture_d_e_cran_2015_08_24_a_16.20.53 11a leaf blower1 11a over-truck-hood 11a spanking-video5 11a train 11a wr SpankedSweetiesLast week came and went before I knew it (as did I – having been from one end of the country and back again twice.) I think my blogging time will be cut to three quarters (if not half) for the foreseeable, but at least I will have that much time. But that level of service may not be resumed for a week or so.

In any case there is more from Indigo and I hope at least a short from me coming up this week.

Two events slipped by during the month just gone, one being the sixth anniversary of A Voice in the Corner and the other being the 14th million visit, although I have long since stopped doing special posts for these as it started to sound like boasting. However, it never ceases to amaze me that so many read this blog and in ever increasing numbers (although the rate of growth has slowed this year).

I still haven’t emailed most of you and I have several books to review (when I can get around to reading them) including one by Natasha Knight that she kindly sent me ages ago. Check out her latest offerings by the way.

The pictures this week are from: Able, Spanking Blogg, Scarlet’s Real Magic, Hermione, Chicago Spanking Review, CutiePie, Au Fils Des Jours, All Things Spanking and About Spanking.

Vintage Sunday


vin spank vin shy vin trio

The Room


1ind3 indigo-signature-bannerThe room was dark; it was a magic room so it had to be.
It had a chair in it so she sat down.

The chair was lit but she could see no light source but then she was shaking and she could feel no source of her fear. It all seemed to make sense.

She knew then she had to talk, it was as though something inside popped and she had to say it all.

Her words were little pins in the dark, brittle as old iron, sharp as new pain on old hate.

“I know this is ridiculous and I don’t care anymore. I know what I am supposed to want and not supposed to want. I know what I am supposed to be. I know that what I am feels so totally unacceptable to me and to augh ..”

Her hand went to her head, flat against the side and she hit herself several times with her palm on the temple.

“I just can’t do it. I can’t do it. I miss being spanked. I miss feeling safe. I miss being touched. I miss knowing where the edge of everything is. I don’t want you to be nice to me and I could not give a damn if you understand. I do not need your sympathy.

Do you know what?” she asked the nothingness, “I have an interview in two days. A stupid one that will be ridiculously hard and I know I can do it but I swear, “ and her face broke and tears started, “I swear I am coming apart. I see bits of me floating off, like I have lost my centre of gravity. I am sorry. I am sorry I am not better or stronger or something but I need this. I can’t do it. I can’t.

“Please. Help me because I can’t … I don’t … Please.”


She still cried. The tears were hopeless and she knew that, keeping her head and eyes to the side, to avoid a gaze that was not there. Her face fell into sorrow and her shoulders shook.

Magic is not real. She knew how pointless it was to cry and self expression is so very nineties. She stood up and walked out again, the door finding her hand in the darkness. She walked out of the darkness.

She was back in her own kitchen. There were dog prints on the dark slate and a splash of mud on the paintwork where a dog had done the final flourish of shaking his tail dry. There was a pile of paper by the microwave which she had to go through and a saucepan with two old swollen pieces of pasta by the sink.

“It’s a good life,” she assured herself as she turned to collect the papers. She rested her head against the cupboard above and shut her eyes. Dogs, big kitchen, food to eat and a good job, who should be so lucky? “I am in the richest four per cent of people in the world. I am lucky just to be born where I am and when I am. These cries are the cries of a girl who has time enough to spare.” But she couldn’t stop the tears; concerned, she put her hands on the paper to prevent her tears from running on the ink.

So when she turned and she saw them at her table she thought it was perhaps, hysteria. She wondered if one could book oneself in to a psychiatric ward and if she would be allowed out for the interview.

She waited for them to go or turn into jellyfish or whatever passes for insane hallucinations these days.

It was that she knew them that made her accept it when the first man spoke. Each man she knew, one she had met. It was he that spoke first.

“You need a spanking.” He said, in his familiar deep, calm voice. She watched him sitting in her kitchen chair, one elbow on its arm, his thumb under his chin.

“And you need to go to hell.” She replied. The answer surprised them both. She was mad with him. Mad with him for not being with her and mad at space and time. She was mad that he could sit there and state that. It was like being told to take your jumper off when the house was on fire.

And he was fast, fast as real life and just as sure of himself. With two strides he had reached her and caught her wrist in his hand. She gave into what was magic or insanity or just sheer need like a drowning girl would give in to a pocket of air.

She was over his leg in a moment, his leg that was propped up on the chair he had been sitting in. She was uncomfortable, precarious and more than aware of six eyes upon her as he stripped down her loose trousers and her knickers. The spanking was thorough. She had forgotten how much it hurt and at first thought it must be a mistake. This could not be what she needed. But as his hard leg pushed into her stomach and his harder hand made contact with her ever pinkening skin she started to feel herself again. “Get off” she said, a familiar and ignored request.

“That hurts” He said nothing but rather redoubled his efforts, the loud slapping sound breaking the silence of the room.

“No more.” Her voice was softer for the first time, pleading not demanding. She had stopped the struggle to keep her legs together and her modesty intact. Her bottom was feeling swollen all of it covered with sharp smacks. “Please.”

He took time after that for him to make his point. Faster and harder than before and then slow again, deliberate and solid strikes that made her breath leave her body at every blow. She said nothing at all. She just existed in her body and accepted his discipline.

He placed her gently on the floor and she put her arms around him. The familiar smell of him, the feel of her lips on his neck and as leaned over her the joy of his kiss- all of these meant the moment was real. She cried and held onto him. “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.” she wept in his ear.

He placed her in the corner, knickers a distant memory put in his pocket for safe keeping. She took several minutes of crying before she thought about what was happening. Her pink, swollen bottom stuck out in a most undignified manner under her blue tee shirt. Her kitchen was her room, she owned it and yet here she was, disrobed and on show. She tried to creep further into the corner to hide. She waited for him to call her, waited to be held, waiting for her reprieve but none came. She tried to understand what was happening, tried to understand what it meant, tried more than anything to wish them not there, not seeing her.

When she was called out she realised she had only been there ten minutes. Still, they must have seen everything, everything. She blushed bright red all over again when she was told to turn around and pulled her tee shirt down in the front when she did so.

The second man spoke, his handsome face looked serious and stern. “Go and get me your hairbrush.” She left in a hurry mostly because her hairbrush was upstairs and fetching it gave her respite if only for a moment. She looked at her bum in the dressing table mirror, lifting her tee shirt up and touching her pale hands tenderly to her hot bottom.

She heard a light cough of introduction. He was there, standing there in her bedroom doorway. Tall, dignified, authoritative as ever he leant against her doorway and held out one large paw. She shook her head. It was almost imperceptible and it was not defiance. It was disbelief. He did not move one muscle. Looking at the carpet and with every toe curled in she moved slowly towards him and lifted on betraying arm out with a light wood paddle hairbrush at the end of it with her head looking down, trusting he would take the brush.

He took the brush and they both knew he was going to be hard on her.

He sat on her bed and placed her over his lap. He placed the wood on her hot right cheek, it cooled her for a moment and he spoke to her. He spoke in a gentle voice but his words made her squeeze her eyes shut in shame. He spoke of disobedience and transgressions. He spoke of deeds left undone or of deeds done that should never even have been thought of. He spoke of secrets she thought she had kept. So that when he first lifted the brush she longed for him to strike. But he had one final blow to offer before he struck her. “Part your legs. Every time you close them there will be a consequence.”

“But I can’t do that,” She protested,” I can’t, please don’t make me.”

One strong arm pulled her around so that she was angled partially away from him; the move allowed her legs to split apart as though it were natural.
In this way, so shy, exposed and all ready sore she was undone before he started. The brush was a lethal implement. The back of it was large, solid maple wood and when it struck her it covered her, making her call out in a shriek.

In moments she was scrabbling at the covers trying to get away but her movements were almost comic in their lack of impact. He lifted her waist with ease, pulling her closer as he focussed on her inner thighs, which for all that they had remained untouched so far, burned into her with each strike.
She did all she could to obey him but it was all but impossible with that evil implement biting at her. Over and over he covered her upper thighs and cheeks with a terrifying eye for detail. He felt the moment that she broke in his arms and continued, without a break in rhythm for minutes more.
She found herself on his lap, unsure of how she got there. She cried into his shirt, he kissed the top of her head. Few words were spoken and they were just soothing nonsense. When her tears abated and her breathing was normal he laid her out on the bed and stroked her back while they waited.

The third man came in while she lay, face down on her bed. She felt herself moved to lie across the bed. Pillows were placed underneath her, her bottom stuck up, presented. “But I can’t” she said “I…”

The third man softly and kindly said, “Sshhh” as though she were whispering in the dark.

“How many times?” he asked and she screwed up her face to try to work out the answer.

“Four” she heard the answer given from the far side of the room, “She closed them four times.”
And so that it what he gave her. It does not sound much but her bottom was so hurt, so swollen and sore that the four blows he made her count stayed with her all night, four neat, even stripes of red, the only red on her bottom, deeper than the pink that surrounded it.

She slept. The three men watched. Night fell, creeping across her room like a lover returning to bed and still she slept.

In the interview, when she sat, there was the tiniest wince, a brief indication that something was amiss but the panel dismissed that, it was the only moment in the following hour when she seemed at all put out.



1a wr 07 1a wr able 1a wr jennicakes005-630x350 1a wr LeChevalierFesseur123 1a wr Naked-Wet-Spanking 1a wr panties-down-paddlingOkay this is a a round-up, just a day late. Thank you all for all the congratulations to Indigo and I, much appreciated. Still lots to do here, but Indigo promises to write more soon. On that note, not sure if I can edit her piece for tomorrow yet. However, things will settled down soon. Meanwhile apologies for not emailing people back – you know who you are.

Michael, of Season and Michael, contacted me to say he is on the mend and how much he appreciates this blog while he recovers. No return to his though, not for the foreseeable. I hope too that Paul is getting better.

On a lighter note Magic (you remember that epic) is finally going to press as a stand alone novel. More on that soon.

I haven’t caught up in Spankville yet, but I noticed Cherry Red has a round-up of images.

The Vanilla Spanking has a post on French mainstream theatre and a spanking. The stage picture in red is a glimpse.

Other pictures are from: Able, Spanking Blog, Spanking Starlets and a rather curious one from Stan.

Weekly Round-Up


art deco nude 1950 spanking real spanked otkspankingWe have had to go away for a few days, so guess what? No Round-Up for yet another week. Sorry about that, I didn’t know that being married was so time consuming. I have a few things in the can pending posting and I might do a Thursday Round-Up or something.

Meanwhile here is some random summer fun.

Vintage Sunday


vin mirror vin mirror2 vin shower

1 0wrenFollowing on from yesterday’s story here is another true account of the caning of some wrens, this time from the early 1970s. Shortly after this time women were included within the Royal Navy proper and would have been, in theory at least, protected from such sanctions.

This was sent in by one of our regular readers who wished to remain anonymous.


The revelations of the caning of WRNS on the letters page of the Daily Telegraph In 2006, one former wren decided to share her story.

Our heroine joined the navy directly from school as a cadet and by the time of our story was a 19-year-old Ordinary Wren. Her offence was to be caught in bed with another wren at a time when homosexuality was a court martial offence and could be very serious indeed and could have led to dismissal. She was at an experimental age sexual although she had never regarded herself as a lesbian.

Both women offered an unofficial punishment, which would involve them both receiving a sound caning approved by the Base Commander.

After signing a disclaimer they were both ordered to report to the gymnasium and “prepare themselves for 12 strokes of the cane across their unprotected backsides.”

Much to the women’s horror they discovered that they were to be caned by a male fitness instructor in the presence of their own Senior and First Officers.

The cane was at least 36 inches long and clearly quite whippy, a daunting prospect for their bare bottoms. After being asked to partially undress, they were confronted with a vaulting horse over which they would both be caned in turn.

Both women were required to remain at attention and half naked during the punishment until they had both been dealt with. The whole procedure was to last some 10 minutes, during which they had to make no undue fuss or outcry.

Before the caning began both women were given another opportunity to withdraw and face a conventional inquiry and both declined. They were then required to sign disclaimers to this affect.

Having confessed to ‘conducting in lewd behaviour that could bring the service into disrepute’ they were then told to remove their knickers and prepare to take 12 strokes each across the bare bottom.

On the toss of a coin our heroine’s friend opted to go first and was told to “walk to the vaulting horse and bend right across it and reach right down the other side, keeping her legs together and straight out behind her.
As she took her friend took position, our heroine was struck by how beautiful her bottom was, and although, she did not consider herself a lesbian, she could appreciate just how erotic her bottom bent over in a highly submissive position would be to any male, particularly at this moment, the fitness instructor.”

It didn’t escape her that in a few minutes it would be her bare bottom that would be under the instructor’s cane.

The first caning was given out at 15 second intervals and immediately left its mark. However, as ordered her friend didn’t make a sound and as her caning left evenly spaced red welts which only later became a “mass of redness between the upper and lower points set by the first two strokes.” However from the sixth stroke on the woman made small grunts at the ever harder impacts.

After the first caning the order was given not to rub the woman was returned to attention facing the vaulting horse.

Our heroine felt incredibly self-conscious with everyone looking at when to her horror there was a knock on the door, which the First Officer unlocked and opened to let the base commander into the gym who was clearly going to witness the second caning in person.

She must have wondered if this could get any worse, but without being told she took a few paces to the vaulting horse before bending right across it, taking up the same position as her friend a few moments before. She was torn between embarrassment and terror as the cane touched her bare bottom to commence.

“This was possibly the longest forty-five seconds of her life but she felt the cane tap her bottom two or three times before she received the first stroke, which felt worse than her wildest dreams and made her cry out, and she knew another eleven would be impossible.”

“She managed not to cry out as she received the second stroke, which was lower and she could see the clock out of the corner of her eye and the anticipation as it approached each 15 second point was dreadful, because it signalled another whack was coming. After the sixth stroke, she heard the Base Commander move from standing at an angle to a position immediately behind her where he had a ‘perfect’ view, and to her absolute shame he praised the fitness instructor on a ‘first class’ caning with all six lines across the bottom being perfectly symmetrical.”

The second part was much worse than the first and she understood now why her friend had cried out. The seventh stroke was the first that landed on top of a previous one and was unbelievably painful.

“The caning seemed to be going on forever and she even lost count at one stage. The fitness instructor was clearly an expert because all 12 stokes were within the three inch band across the middle of her bottom. She tried her best to stay still and quiet but there were certainly some of the strokes that made her cry out.”

Both woman had to stay at attention why the room was restored and then the commander spoke to them saying “that they were both very lucky to have been offered an unofficial punishment and whilst they might find sitting down painful for a few days and that they would carry some marks for a week, their service record would remain clean.”

Our heroine was later caned again by the same instructor and whilst she bore no rancour for either punishment, she has remained fascinated by corporal punishment ever since and admits that it formed the basis of many sexual fantasies.

“There are many variants and in her mind that she was actually stripped naked, or that she was caned on the bare in front of the whole unit, or that she was taken from behind after being caned whilst still being over the vaulting horse.” But to be sure at the time she did not enjoy it at all.


Not sure about the source of this anecdote but the rank structures mention were compatible with those still in place up until the 1970s and although the detail suggests that the story was included in a salacious magazine at some point it does have a ring of truth about it.

Ticked Off


1 1 wrns“Elisabeth Anne Whitfield did not join the WRNS to be consigned to the backside of history,” The haughty brunette made a pout and wrinkled up her nose in disgust.

It did not occur to her that speaking aloud in the third person sounded somewhat arrogant, or at least it never had during the first 25 years of her life. After all her father was an admiral and both her brothers had their own ships for the love of God.

Elisabeth eyed the dilapidated buildings and hastily assembled tin huts with disdain. She had completed her basic, hadn’t she? They had made her an officer, albeit only a Third Officer, somewhat lowly in her opinion. She reread the missive left at her last posting.

“Further training required,” it concluded.

There was a lot of double-talk about attitude and lack of team spirit, but she was streets ahead of the other girls, and she knew it.

Just then a Spitfire roared overhead as it made a dash for the airfield. A trail of smoke told its own story and Elisabeth wondered if the young man would make it. They had won the Battle of Britain, but there was still much more to do.

“I would have thought…” she was about to address herself with the observation that ‘Daddy might have swung her an admiralty job’ when a rather nervous young wren paused in her passing dash to salute her.

The girl was still gaping when a raucous woman screamed an unintelligible order and she hurried on to joining a crowd of hapless wrens across the way.

“You should have returned that salute you know,” said an easy male voice from behind her.

Elisabeth made a slow turn and appraised the young lieutenant coolly. The man’s grin evaporated and he straightened his cap. She shrugged and met his sudden disdain with a full measure of her own.

“Just as you should have saluted me,” the lieutenant prompted her.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes impatiently but then reluctantly came to attention and saluted smartly. The man was barely 30 and much too cocky for her liking. He sounded common, like a grammar school boy, and in peace time she wouldn’t have looked at him twice.

The man saluted her back and relaxed.

“Okay, let’s have it,” he said lightly.

“I beg your pardon,” Elisabeth said sharply.

“You have it,” the man agreed nonchalantly as he reached for a cigarette from his top pocket. “Now perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me your name.”

“For your information I am Elisabeth Whitfield,” she said as if expecting a reaction.

“You’re late,” the man yawned, “And the correct response when reporting is to give your service number, your rank and your surname only. Give it a try.”

Elisabeth gave a heavy sigh and sagged where she stood. She had no idea what her service number was and she couldn’t be bothered to make one up.

“Third Officer Whitfield reporting for duty… sir,” she said indolently.

“You’re the one with the attitude problem,” he sighed, “Just my luck, you’re one of mine.”

“One of yours?” Elisabeth frowned.

“I am Lieutenant Carpenter, your training coordinator and service moderator,” the man told her as he lit up.

A cloud of blue smoke billowed and drifted on the breeze.

“I have had my training,” Elisabeth blurted.

“I have had my training… Sir,” Carpenter corrected her. “And no you haven’t. You passed out as an officer… barely, but you didn’t get any skills and the pool didn’t want you… something about not being a team player and some guff about being an admiral’s daughter.”

“It is not guff, I assure you,” Elisabeth said indignantly, “My father is an admiral and…”

“I don’t care,” Carpenter barked, suddenly seeming more than just a grammar school boy. “I suspect that you got an easy ride. Well not here. Here we have two approaches, the easy way for women who try and need a bit of a shove in the right direction. And the hard way for little navy brats like you who should never have passed out in the first place.”

Elisabeth started and this time thought better of answering back. The frustration of having to kowtow to this little man made her blink rapidly. She remembered that at Dartmouth some of the other girls had a few run-ins with their training captains, what was the expression…?

“If you don’t double over to your quarters, stow your gear and report to my office in 15 minutes, we will start the day with a tick,” the Lieutenant snarled.

Tick; that was it, six of the best, she remembered, only it hadn’t happened to her, no one had dared. This man was bluffing too.

“I just got here, I don’t even know where…” Elisabeth sighed.

“I don’t care, find it, at the double,” Carpenter yelled, “Move.”

“Yes Sir,” Elisabeth snapped back before she could stop herself.

There was an exchange of glares and then his eyes swivelled to his right and she took the hint.


Elisabeth’s quarters were apparently shared with another girl, but at least the obvious blonde she found reading on the next bed knew where Carpenter’s office was.

“Dreamy isn’t he and such a pussycat?” the blonde said absently.

Elisabeth harrumphed.

She found the office two minutes late and knocked.

“Come,” Carpenter called form within.

Elisabeth gave a heavy sigh and indolently stumbled inside.

Carpenter was writing rapidly and didn’t look-up.

“Get out,” he snapped, “And try that again.”

Elisabeth made to protest and then she spotted the little tin-pot tyranny and with bad grace wheeled about and went out. This time when he answered she marched in made a salute and rattled off something resembling her service number and gave her name and rank.

Carpenter let his eyes slide up to meet hers and then slowly stood up.

“These are for you,” he motioned to a pile of books on his desk. “I want the naval ranks and establishment branches memorised… after all you should already know them. The others I just want an outline understanding for now.”

Elisabeth nodded and made to grab them.

“Wait for it,” Carpenter said sharply. “First we have to take our tick, don’t we, Third Officer Whitfield?”

Elisabeth became puzzled and shrugged.

“You were late and the manner of your entrance was…” he searched for a word. He settled on “Unacceptable.”

Elisabeth sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Okay, you know the drill,” Carpenter reached over to a hat rack at his left and amid some umbrellas extracted a long thin stick. “As you know a tick is six with one of these, right where it will do you the most good. A second offence is on the unprotected rear, as is a double tick. You can appeal, but wasting the CO’s time will get you a 30 stroke bare bender, so I wouldn’t try it.”

Elisabeth’s eyes were on stalks as she resisted the instinct to back away.

“Hat off and bend over,” Carpenter ordered. “Oh and by the way, three ticks or double ticks in a week and it’s an automatic high jump up before the CO.”

“You can’t be serious,” Elisabeth gasped.

“You going to appeal already?” Carpenter gaped.

“No but…”

“Then bend over,” Carpenter snapped as he moved behind her.

“B-but…” Elisabeth had heard of this, she knew he was within his rights, but she had never thought…

“If you are not going to appeal the sanction then you are disregarding a direct order. The last brat that tried that got twice 30 on successive days,” Carpenter sighed, “Make up your mind which you are doing but don’t do both.”

Elisabeth sucked in a slow breath and then removed her hat. There was no more instruction and she blushed. It was undignified having to bend over in a skirt and the fabric tightened across her behind.

The cane hissed-thwacked and stung her across the bottom. It took a supreme effort not to stand upright or swear at the man. Then as she contended with the cut that didn’t ease in its sting he caned her again.

“Ah,” she gasped and wiggled.

“Stop that,” he ordered and gave her another stripe.

There were three more at 10 second intervals so that after a minute he was done and she was left foot-stamping and decidedly wet around the eyes.

“Attention,” he barked and she rose, her face a picture of woe.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he smiled encouragingly, “Report to me at eight tomorrow and I expect you to have read those books. Oh and remember, a CO’s visit goes on your record. If you play ball and learn to be a good sport I can handle any sanctions myself, but only if you’re sensible. Don’t go getting caught doing something stupid.”

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir,” Elisabeth hissed through her teeth.

Then she was dismissed.


Elisabeth’s mind raced as she made slow awkward steps back to her quarters. How dare he? But he had and he had been fully within his rights. What would Daddy say? Daddy wasn’t going to find out, nobody was. Elisabeth blushed.

Okay so the wretched man had some balls and it looked like she was going to have to smarten herself up a bit with this one. Maybe I have been taking too much for granted, she sighed.

She was still pondering when she found her room.

The blonde was still reading, only by now she had put on some striped pyjamas. The thought of stripes sent Elisabeth’s hand to her bottom. The girl looked up.

“Got a tick did you?” she smiled sympathetically, “I got two last week, four the week before that, two of them double ticks. Adam was kind enough to handle it and we agreed to leave the CO out of it.”

Elisabeth blushed, hating the idea that the situation was so transparent.

“Adam?” she asked to deflect a more embarrassing answer.

“Adam Carpenter, dishy I call him,” the blonde looked wistful. “Oh I’m Clarice, Clarice March,” she offered a hand from her prone position.

“Third Officer Whitfield,” Elisabeth said sourly as she eased her bottom onto the bed. She winced and made to stand again and then heaving a great sigh she added, “Elisabeth.”

“I’ll get a cold flannel,” Clarice said finally moving off the bed.

“It’s not… necessary,” Elisabeth grunted.

But her new friend helped Elisabeth undress. Then once down to her underwear, Clarice led her to lay on her front while she eased Elisabeth’s white undies down over her thighs to reveal six plum ridges marring her tight round white bottom.

“You have had more than… I mean… did he really… you know… cane you on the…?” Elisabeth didn’t know how to ask.

“Bare bum drill, bending right over,” Clarice giggled, “Jolly well hurt too. Goes with the territory I am afraid.” The blonde shrugged.

“I am beginning to get that,” Elisabeth said ruefully.

“Oh you’ll get it alright,” Clarice giggled again.


Elisabeth thought her face would melt. No man had ever seen her naked before, or even half naked as she was. Yet here she was standing in just a tie, blouse and stockings while her precious skirt, knickers and jacket lay neatly folded over a chair in the corner of Adam’s room. She could feel the chill caressing her where it shouldn’t just out of his eye line under the oh-so-short white cotton hem of her service shirt. She couldn’t help tugging down a little in front, even at the cost of an increased rear exposure.

“Late, late to the wrong administration class and then… then you blame the officer in charge,” Carpenter shook his head. “Lucky it was old Stephens or you would be in serious shtick.”

“Sir…does this mean I get a double… you know?” Elisabeth blushed again.

“Damn straight, now bend over,” he growled.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes to heaven and made an about turn. Oh well maybe Adam was kind of a dish, but this was no less embarrassing. She eyed the stuffed leather chair he had placed in the centre of his office. For six on the seat of her skirt she had twice just had to bend over and touch her toes. This offered support was a harbinger of a far stiffer experience

“Bend over I said,” her supervising officer barked, “The chair, get your behind pointing at that ceiling.”

Elisabeth worked her mouth and wondered if it was worth reminding him that she was an admiral’s daughter.

“You don’t have to make it a double you know,” she muttered.

He raised both his eyebrows at once.

“Sir,” she added in a hasty mutter as she again dragged down her shirt in front.

“I’ll make it a double-double in a minute,” he rasped and she balked.

Bending over the chair-back was embarrassing, she was most definitely showing him her bare bottom now; she only hoped that she wasn’t also revealing the rest of the goods.

“Any complaints, appeals or other assorted backchat?” he snarled as he lined up the cane.

“No Sir,” she sighed.

The cane bit her across the lower bared cheek and she hissed. The undignified wiggle was unavoidable and she knew he would add a stroke or two if she persisted. Then the cut really clung on in.

“Nuh,” she grunted.

He caned her again: hard. At 15 second spaces he could make this last six or seven minutes with a few extra cuts. By then of course she would be in a puddle of tears.

“Count them,” he ordered her.

“Two, thank you Sir,” she added cheekily.

He caned her sharply and drew a hiss.

“Was that impudence, make that number one,” he said quietly as he bent low to her ear.

“Yes Sir,” she replied through gritted teeth, “One, thank you Sir.”

“Good girl,” he chuckled, as he caned her again.

He doubted she would keep count so well under the onslaught, but the extras would do her good and she knew it.

“Two thank you Sir,” she squeaked as he lay in the fifth biting stroke.

Elisabeth was gaining a new understanding of navy life, Daddy would be proud yet. She almost smiled as a tear rolled down one cheek. The first of many.

1 indigo1indigo-signature-bannerIt was perfect, better than she could have imagined.

Glancing once more at the door to check it was shut ad holding her breath to check the house was still silent she gave another twirl.

Just as before it swung out behind her, better than a pony tail, she laughed at her own joke, because of course, that is what it really was.

1 indigo2It had taken her an age to find it. Well, the first few months had been spent squeezing her eyes shut whenever she thought of it. What kind of girl should want such a thing? Not her, that was for sure. She had seen girls all dressed up as ponies on the TV and they made her shake her head. Too much, too much- not what she wanted at all. The mouth gag and harness seemed far too much, the suggestion of being a pony made no sense to her but that one item kept returning to sit on her shoulder and whisper in her ear.

She did not know why she wanted one so much. The long tail seemed somehow glamorous and childlike all at once and the way it fitted. She blushed and hid her head in her hands, covering her face as though she were playing peek-a-boo with her own reflection.  It fitted snugly, so snugly in fact that it had taken her many minutes to fit it in.

She had panicked a little. She had had something in her bottom before, several times in fact. But Robert always did it. She would be laid down, or bent over the bed and would hear him opening the little box with those things in it. She would always beg him not to and at best he would tell her to be good and quiet, at worst he would spank her all over again and then carry on just as before.

She would be good after he had done it. She would lie and look at him with wide eyes and her mouth just a little open.  It was one of those feelings she did not understand, on of those feelings she would not try to. She just accepted it because Robert told her to.

Except here she was, all on her own wearing one of those horrid little things, one that she had hunted down and ordered all on her own, and one that did not end in a little square or a fake jewel. No she had chosen one that ended in a tail.

She turned again and watched it swirl behind her like a dress at a ball. It looked so perfect that she forgot to feel guilty and tilted her head over her shoulder all over again to look at her bum and its new adornment.

That was how he found her, as though she was posing for him. Pretty blonde bob facing away from the door so at first he saw her naked front but a moment later he saw the rest of her reflected in the mirror.

She heard him then and saw part of him in the mirror. She jumped and turned to face him, one hand trying to cover her front and the other, woefully inadequate little hand trying to cover her tail. She looked at his face only for a moment and then at his shoes. With a little sigh she looked left and right at the floor trying to think of a way to escape.

She did not see his face then, not the surprise on it followed by raised brows; she did not see his eyes travel the length of her body in appreciation nor did she see the three steps he took to look at her from the back.

She heard him though. She heard his shoes travel the polished wooden floor and she heard his intake of breath as he saw her tail for the first time, fully. She felt him move her hand away, it only touched the top of it anyway it only hid the bit that hid itself inside her, in that shameful place.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” She whispered to herself as Robert stayed just as he was. He must be horrified, disgusted with her. This is like one of those moments where people realise the person they love is being all odd and disgusting behind their backs and then they run away.

She looked at the door. It was too far to get too. And where would she go? She was naked with only a long tail that dangled to her ankles to hide her shame. It would not be the thing to hide her shame, maybe just increase it.

And then she felt him, his hand still cold from being outside as he traced alog her collar bone and rested in front of her neck. She breathed out, her nipples instantly hard from the touch She tried  to tell herself it was from the cold but even she knew that was a lie. His other hand crept around her waist and she found herself pulled into him, as though he wore a cape and this was long ago. Her feet almost left the floor and she knew without looking how striking her pale skin was against his black coat.

She was half carried across the room and laid, face down so her top half rested on the Victorian chest of drawers in the corner. The wood felt solid and foreign against her legs and her arms reached out and held on the edges of the top, just like she was holding onto the edge of part of her.

He whispered then into her ear. Sometimes his chin would scratch her a little, a rasp on her soft earlobe but she did not move. She hardly breathed so keen was she to hear his every word.

He spoke of many things; of how it felt to come home to find his girl dressed like that, or how he had assumed such accoutrements were always a test for her but no more, or how her bottom looked dressed as it was and of how she was so perfectly framed in the mirror it was as though she was waiting for him.

When she objected, just a whimper, she was shushed and he continued to talk. His hands never left her, cupping first the curve of her bottom, then her hips, her breasts, her shoulders and down again. There was not an inch of her that was not his and he touched her knowingly.

When he unbuckled his  belt she did not ask why, just as he did not offer an explanation. She merely arched herself out for him, offering her bottom up so prettily that the tail jutted out as though it had been designed to do just that.

He had to turn it of course, twist it gently inside her so he could drape the tail over one hip to the side. And then he striped her, softly at first but with a building force as he covered her from mid –thigh to the top of her bottom, the leather was poetic, as though all along all she had needed to complete what she was the application of leather below that pretty little tail.

Afterwards, he gently turned it back so that it hung down again and dropped a cushion to the floor to protect her knees as she knelt before him.

1 indigo3



1black0Sorry we missed the Weekly Round-Up yesterday, and I had so much news too, but much of it will keep. Indigo and I have just got back from three weeks away and I am sure it showed in the rather bland story-free posting.

We are still playing catch-up and real life has suddenly got very, very real for this once confirmed bachelor. But more about that in a moment.

Today’s post belongs to Indigo, (as will tomorrow’s as usual) she is dying to tell you the big news so I gave her that pleasure. I hope to have a story for you on Thursday.

A message from Indigo

1blackReader, I married him.

I feel certain that Charlotte Bronte would not mind me borrowing such a line. I have not had quite the trouble Jane had but there are one or two elements of our lives that we share and DJ does have a touch of the Rochester about him.

For the past few weeks we have been busy doing all of those things people do when they marry; the vows, the champagne, the flowers, the kissing, and the fabulous holiday where I was spoiled rotten.

We are back in London now. The city feels cool and fresh after the intense heat of palm tree lined beaches.

I miss the turquoise seas and snorkelling among tiny, rainbow fish. (DJ says the fish are not actually made from rainbows but what does he know?)

I miss our own, private jacuzzi under the stars. I miss sailing boats and I miss nothing to do all day but twirl around him and whisper naughtiness into his ears.

But I am looking forward to this part of our lives.

I am looking forward to keeping my promises and to DJ keeping his.

And, with your forbearance, I am looking forward to telling you all about our adventures.

Indigo Black

1black3PS I did not think about marrying DJ when I chose the name, Indigo. I suppose I am Indigo Black now, which sounds terribly Gothic. But I think there are worse things to be than a deliriously happy, very lucky, in love woman with a Gothic name.


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