real corner time real corner time real corner time real corner timeDoesn’t time fly when you are having fun? Of course when one is under sanction it tends to drag.

Now I have heard of spanking being fun (for the recipient I mean) but mostly, for the women I know anyway, it is just a necessary evil and need that must be met when misbehaviour dictates thus.

Corner time for submissives, rarely fun exactly at the best of times (except for moi Lol), definitely falls under that category. Quite literally real corner time can be a real drag.

Now in one of my sorties into Flickr, Facebook, Twitter etc, etc (the real people end of the Internet – well you know what I mean) I have stumbled upon many, many actual spanking relationships of all kinds and I have been surprised at how many young women fess up to the world and put actual ‘I have been a bad girl and sent to the corner’ pictures up.

Of course many of these are girlfriends of toppy boyfriends and one suspects a good many are drawing on BDSM games, but others have been snapped by siblings, buddies and the aforesaid partners for the purposes of shame and the like.

So to this end I have collected a short season of these images which have been added to others sent in by Kate and Sam and will be publishing them over two or three posts. I cannot vouch for them all as being genuine and no doubt some wag will brake cover and suggest some are not genuine or are movie stills and that is fine. Ultimately an evocative image is an end in itself and I only publish them in this spirit and because they have that real feel to them.


vintage spankingbirchingWe knew the Victorians were keen on spanking on the birch, it went hand in hand with keeping young women in their place but just how far did they go? Here we have a true account of a woman offering a discipline service for unruly adult daughters.

I came across this tale in the History of the Rod, but investigation online reveals several sources for this tale including from the contemporary source the Truth magazine.

It seems Mrs Walter operated from Oakfield Road, Clifton, in Bristol England and advertised her respectable chastising service for unruly daughters in the national papers. One advertisement read: ‘Bad temper, hysteria, idleness etc. cured by strict disciple and careful training’.

The Truth sent an undercover woman reporter along to find out. She explained she had an unruly daughter she wanted tamed. For the sum of £100 Mrs Walter offered to take the unruly girl under her wing for a whole year. She even offered references from the Dean of Lincoln, an admiral, a general and several aristocrats.

Mrs Walter was well equipped with a birch table, several birches and evidentially made the girls dress in a gown that was open at the back. She claimed never to birch or punish in anger, but to always punish soundly on the bare bottom when the young woman was ‘needful.’

“Taking the birch, I measure my distance and, standing at the side, I proceed to strike slowly but firmly” Mrs Walter explained. “By moving gently forward, each stroke is differently placed and six strokes may well be enough if given with full force. If the fault has been such as to need severe correction, then I begin on the other side and work back again.”

Mrs Walter did not like the girls to resist or even scream and for such behaviour she would add strokes or even repeat the punishment.

At its height Mrs Walter ran a respectable business advertising her services openly and contracting via the church magazine for a supply of birch rods from a reputable supplier.

Here is the The Truth article in full.

Some months ago I called attention to the advertisements on the part of the women, offering to flog unruly girls of any age on payment of a fee. It struck me that this sort of thing ought to be exposed, and I endeavour to enter into correspondence with the “operator.”

She probably, however, suspected the hook, for she did not rise to the fly. On October 5th the following advertisement appeared in the Daily Telegraph: — Bad temper, hysteria, idleness, &c, cured by strict discipline and careful trainer. Three girls received. — Address G., care of Mrs Clapp, St. John’s Wood, Clifton.

This was followed by this further advertisement in the Times of October 21st:— intractable girls trained and educated. Excellent references, “Hints on Management of Children,” “Training of Children,” and “The Rod,” Is each. Advice by letter, Is.— Address, Mrs Walter, Clifton. Since then several other advertisements of the same nature have appeared.

A friend of mine has thrown a fly, and the fish has risen to the bait. He got a lady of his acquaintance to write to say that she had an intractable daughter, whom she wished to be “broken in,” and requesting the advertiser to send pamphlets, and letter of advice. The books and the letter were sent. Here is the letter, together with a list of persons to whom references are kindly permitted:— Clifton, October 24. Dear madam, —Thank you for your latter of to-day. I am prepared to take another girl at any time, and offer her a comfortable and refined home, with educational advantages.

With much experience I am able to say that those girls who will not work at home, do so when they are taken individually. I have one girl here who had been troublesome for five years, yet who is most amenable to me and my wishes.

Her friends live near London, but I prefer not to refer to them unless I am obliged, because the daughter’s neglected education is a very sore subject with them. You will see from enclosed testimonials and lift of references that I can be recommended. Mr Christopher Heath knows the parents of one of my pupils, and will, I am sure, be happy to answer any questions you may like to ask him. My old friend, Admiral Strode, will be iu Town next week, but a man at, his club is not easily seen by a lady.

Mr proper name is Mrs Walter Smith, “Walter” being my nom-de-plume. My second daughter assists me with the girl and I have professors for music, painting, dancing, &c. I could take your niece for £100 per annum, entering at any time, if she is under twenty years of age. If more, I must have some little extra for holidays. My present arrangement is to be in Town about the 11th of November for a day, but I may be called there on Saturday for a few hours.

You will, perhaps, let me know as soon as you have come to a decision about your niece. My fees are usually paid three months in advance. Enclosed please find the explanation of my system. Believe me, dear madam, yours faithfully, E. Walter, MODUS OPERANDI WITH IXTRACTAULE CURLS.

Unwilling as I may be to say it, very often the fault of the girls is merely the natural result of careless training. Parents do not always realise the fact that unless the girls are well occupied and carefully trained at all times, much mischief will accrue. Some girls are idle constitutionally, this must be cured; others have a superfluous amount of energy, this needs to be well directed.

Whether at lessons or play, real interest should be taken so as to do it thoroughly. It is better if girls have got troublesome to make plans, and then completely change their system, beginning in a new groove. Change of scene is, of course, helpful but if for fresh habits are formed, and on the return improved comfort shows itself.

My first object when a girl is placed with me is to show her kindly, but firmly, that I must be implicitly obeyed It is always a good plan to rule by moral suasion if possible. When that has been fairly tried and fails, then it is positively necessary to use some other means of making the girl obey. First I warn her of the consequences of repeated faults; then, when a direct act of disobedience, a lie, or very serious fault shows itself, I tell her that presently I shall punish.

Never birch when angry. During the interval she thinks over the fault. I make preparations. These consist in having ready a strong narrow table, straps (waist band with sliding strap, anklets and wristlets), cushions, and a good, long, pliable rod, telling her to prepare by removing her dress, knickers, &c, and putting on the dressing-gown (hind part before). Then I talk seriously to her, show her the nature of the fault, and the need of punishment as a cure. Next I put on the waist band, after having told her that if she submits quietly no one need know; if she struggles I must call in help (girls generally prefer to be quiet).

Placing her at the end of the table (on which there are cushions to protect the person) I turn her body over the table and fasten the straps underneath it. Then I fasten the knees together, wrists the same, unless I anticipate a struggle— then I use anklets and wristlets, and fasten the limbs to the legs of the table. This really takes less time to do than to write about. Unfastening the dressing-gown, the orthodox surface is found at the right angle for punishing.

Taking the birch, I measure my distance, and, standing at the side, proceed to strike slowly but firmly. By moving gently forward each stroke is differently placed, and six strokes may be enough if well given with full force. If the fault has been such as to need severe correction, then I begin on the other side and work back again.

For screams increased strokes must be given. If a girl tries very hard indeed to bear it bravely, then, perhaps, I give 10 instead of 12.

Directly it is finished I cover up the part exposed, unfasten the girl, and, finding her probably more subdued, help to resolutions of amendment. If this birching has been judiciously and conscientiously administered, the girl will bear against the operation no resentment, but be ready to “kiss and be friends.”

After allowing the culprit a little time to compose herself and re-dress, I expect her to join the others, and no mention of any kind is made of the punishment unless future misconduct makes it necessary, and this is not often.

Birching is an extraordinary thing, not an every-day work, therefore care must be taken that the operator has the proper nerve and patience for the operation. Mothers are the proper persons to whip girls; but if they have not the necessary nerve, then it is better to appoint a deputy. After this serious business is over, much steady patience is needed, for a birching is no use whatever if a girl is to be petted again and allowed to do just as she likes. She must be under firm, kind discipline.

None of my girls have been more attached to me than those whom I have been obliged to discipline severely. They have a great respect for those who can master them, and who do not taunt them with past misdeeds. One good scolding is worth months of “nagging.” Efforts at amendment must be encouraged, and those having the charge of girls must not expect to reform them all at once. ” Rome vas not built in a day.” The old Adam will sometimes show itself, and for checking his work nothing is so useful as a birch rod judiciously used. E. W. [Here follow the names of gentlemen whose reference? are kindly permitted].

My friend then put himself in communication with the woman, saying that he had an intractable ward, aged sixteen. He had three interviews with her at a boarding-house in Porchester Gardens. Subsequently, as he was passing through Bristol, he called on her.

He describes her as a tall, strong woman, arrayed in the dress of some sort of order, and wearing a medallion with the effigy of a “Good Shepherd” stamped upon it. As an inducement to him to confide his ward to her tender mercies, she said she had girls of twenty in her house, to whom a week or two previous she had administered 15 cuts with a birch rod, and she explained that she had a considerable number of clients in London whose daughters she chastised. This appears probable, for when my friend called on her, it was difficult to get more than a few minutes’ conversation with her, there were so many waiting for an audience. Each interview costs half-a-guinea. She had before her a book, in which her flogging engagements were registered, and they appeared to be numerous.

I append two extracts from the pamphlet entitled “The Rod”: According to some writers and physicians, flagellation is a remedy for torpid condition and lack of muscular energy; it clears the brain, and braces the nerves; in short, there is nothing it will not do, when properly applied _ The rod has been found to cure all feigned diseases. For hypochondriacally cases it is an excellent remedy.

To be effectual the rods should be of the right sort. They can be bought at Clifton of Mrs Clapp, St. John’s road, from 5d upwards, trimmed if required. They can be sent post free for 3d each. They should be made from 2. to 3ft. Gin. long, and very thin and pliable. I get mine from a family who have made them for generations. And here are two extracts from the pamphlet entitled “Hints on the Management of Untractable Girls “Parents who have not the necessary patience or nerve should depute some person for this office, and, having done so, let them not be restricted in any way, for something must be left to the discretion of the operator. Anyone who would be deterred by screams or struggles from carrying out what has been begun should never attempt whipping, because, unless it is thoroughly done, ground is lost, and the girl will rejoice in her triumph.



country switchingJosie sat sucking in air until her cheeks were fit to burst and the face in the mirror opposite appeared to have the mumps. Then with slow deliberation she let the air ‘fart’ from her mouth in a crude raspberry until the last breath ended in a sigh.

So far she had only managed to address one eye of her make-up and she was already wondering what the point was. At 38 she was sure there wasn’t any now, she was too old. Maybe she should grow out her hair, she thought as she tugged at the very short boyish blonde rag-cut. Once upon a time she thought she looked cute and pixie like, but now… she let out another sigh and sunk back into the dressing table stool.

Finishing the other eye she stood up and turned. Her small bust was firm enough but she was way too broad in the beam for her liking.

“If only I were taller,” she muttered, bending forward a little more to scrutinise the literally growing backside issue. “Or prettier,” she added, thinking ‘or younger.’

At least work was fine, she consoled herself, and the next client doesn’t need me for five weeks. What about a holiday? Nowhere far, just… oh what was the point she was never going to do it. Then it hit her, she never ever would.

Why couldn’t she just make a change? Do something? Why wasn’t there a switch she could throw and change everything?

Ten minutes later she had packed a bag, grabbed the car keys and was heading for the coast.

As a child she had gone on holidays along the Dorset coast. It was a fair way from London, but just then she didn’t care. She did however have the presence of mind to phone ahead and grab a room in a small hotel near Weymouth. She cursed herself for the boring sensibleness of the precaution. But old habits die hard.


The sun was shining and in places it reflected off the remaining puddles of the narrow streets here and there turning the town to silver. Everywhere there were silly young girls giggling for England and dancing in and out of boutiques without ever buying.

Jacob put down his pencil and took another sip of tea. Where was the muse?

Looking at his efforts so far he cringed. The client wanted something different and the way Jacob felt he didn’t even have more of the same. The girl in his drawing was a cliché of curves striking a traditional pose over a rail. Although the lower curves of her bottom hinted that she had been spanked, she was smiling. Well it was different from the usual tearful submission he usual imbued such girls with, but he doubted it was what was required.

Jacob sighed and took up the pencil again. There had to be something, something new. He ran his eye along the latest crop of tourists and winced at yet another gaggle of too young girls. He could hire better in London if needed a mere model. Not one of these nascent women had a hint of wonder or mystery going for them. Although he did let his eye linger on a girl in short shorts window shopping at an art shop.

She was short-ish and rounded, but with cute pixie hair. True her upper thighs were a little dimpled, but the natural look made her look more interesting. Then she turned and glanced in his direction. He saw at once that she was older than he first took her for. She might even be in her early middle 30s. He was still looking when she caught his eye and quickly cast her gaze downwards and hurried on.

Jacob was sorry to see her go but he admired the retreating view all the same.


Josie was as out of sorts as ever when awoke that morning and bouncing between coffee and boutiques had not relieved her boredom. Then she had seen the 40-something hunk sketching outside the café. The chunky jumper worn with chinos and espadrilles suggested he had a youthful outlook, but maybe he was just a Bohemian. The sketch book certainly supported that image.

She watched his reflection in the shop window for a while before resolving to grab a coffee from his café. Maybe… but as she turned she saw he was watching her and she blushed. Damn, I am such a fool, she thought as she looked away and hastened off in the other direction.

Damn, damn, damn, she cursed all the way up the street as she hastened out of his sight.

It was 10 minutes before she calmed down and another 15 before she plucked up the courage to nonchalantly swing by the café again. But he was gone. Damn.

She might never have seen him again but shortly after lunch she stopped at one of Weymouth’s many pubs and found a seat in the corner of the snug. The book she had bought lay unopened on the table and instead she occupied herself looking at the ancient prints that adorned the walls.

The pub was an old one, at least 16th century by the looks of it. Despite a garish fruit machine in the corner it looked as if Daniel Defoe might only just have stepped out. The walls were dark brown-black oak panels and here and there held twisted carvings of long dead craftsmen.

“Have you read that yet?” said a voice, “I couldn’t get into it myself.”

Startled Josie swung around and saw him smiling at her. It was the man from the café and now he was actually talking to her.

“Eh…” she gaped, and hastily scanned the walls for a sign or some other writing.

“The book,” he said easily nodding at the tome on the table.

“Oh… eh… um… well no… I…” she babbled.

“Maybe you will get it better than I did,” he dismissed the matter and stood up.

“You going?” she blurted and immediately winced.

“Only to the bar,” he answered. “Let me get you another too.”

“Well I haven’t really finished this one and… well I ought to… that is,” she said hurriedly, appalled even as she spoke at her utter clumsiness, bad by even her standards.

“Let me help,” he grinned, “Just say ‘yes please, it is a large G&T.’”

She snorted a laugh and grabbed her nose with embarrassment.

“Actually can you make that a small one and it was… eh… vodka and bitter lemon.”

“Coming right up,” he winked and crossed the small room to the bar.

By the time he had returned she had casually turned his sketch pad around and was glancing through it.

The themes made her blush and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. But all the same she found them compelling and was so engrossed that she didn’t see him come back.

“Oh you have found my girls,” he chuckled.

“Oh sorry I was…” she pulled a face and hastily pushed the book away.

“No it is okay, so long as they don’t offend you,” he smiled. “I was just working up some ideas for my next commission.”

“Oh you’re professional, I mean, of course you are. They are very good,” she spluttered. “Sorry, I am not used to such stuff.”

“You mean the BDSM scene and spanking or art?” he teased.

She blushed. She always blushed when confronted with the s-word, but strangely she wasn’t as out of her depth as she thought should be.

“Both,” she said crisply, but there was a twinkle in her eye and she smiled.

“Perhaps I can enlighten you then,” he said, his tongue gently nudging the inside of his mouth as he studied her face. “Although perhaps we had better start with the art,” he added after a creative pause. “There is a private gallery nearby, but I know the artist. It’s free wine any rate.”

“Is the art like yours?” she asked.

“No, apart from the odd nude it is mostly vanilla,” he shrugged.

“Pity,” she countered, pretending to be joking.


The art gallery visit led to dinner and three days later it had become their habit to meet for lunch at the café she had first seen him and then spend the afternoon together.

“How did you get into… well you know?” Josie asked more casually than she felt.

He shrugged and gave her an appraising look.

“I have been fascinated in spanking and related matters for as long as I can remember. Of course like so many others I thought I was the only one,” he said.

So far she had not asked much about his work and although he enjoyed her company, he was fast forming a view that she was firmly vanilla.

“But your pictures… aren’t they… well unusual, how did you get into that?” she pressed him with a lick of her lips.

“I went to art school and then got a job in advertising. The drawings were a hobby. But when the Internet really got going I published some of them. It just grew from there really,” he replied, not really sure what she wanted to know.

“Do you ever use models?” she asked, now putting all her attention on her coffee.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug.

“Did you ever… you know sp-spank any of them?” She stumbled over the s-word and but pressed on regardless with the smallest of blushes.

“Of course,” he laughed, “Most of them, If not for the art, then in earnest.”

“You spank girls for real then?” she blurted.

Several people around the street seating perked up and appeared to look around with interest; although as most of them were English no one actually looked in their direction. Josie blushed and lowered her voice as she said, “I mean for real, for real?”

“It is who I am,” he said almost sadly, “Sorry.”

“But do you think that grown women need to be… well, you know, just to make them behave. I mean not just for a game?” Josie was becoming animated despite herself.

“Do you mean do I believe that philosophically in a social political sense?” he chuckled, “You know I have never thought about it. I am not sure I would advocate a change in the law or a restructuring of society at large. After all Queen Victoria is safely dead.” He appeared to enjoying the exchange as well as Josie’s discomfort. “But it seems to work out within my little circle, professionally and personally.”

“So it has to be consensual then?” Josie asked in a hush tone.

Jacob frowned and for a moment appeared to be forcing a thought out through his ears.

“Not exactly,” he said at last, “I mean there is an implied and sometimes explicit agreement that it could happen to any woman within my orbit. But we don’t exactly… ahhh, put it into words, shall we say. And of course everyone involved is a consenting adult over 21. But if you are asking did I ever spank someone who wasn’t protesting in that moment, well… it is hard to explain. In my world there is punishment and there isn’t a girl in their right mind who wouldn’t think twice at the time, if you know what I mean.”

“No, not really,” Josie sighed.

“Well put it this way,” Jacob said suddenly sounding serious and concerned that she might think he was some kind of coercive shit, “There is a kind of club and everyone knows the rules. If they stick around then I assume they consent and we don’t need to trouble ourselves with ongoing micro-details.”

Josie frowned as she considered this point.

“What about me? Am I in your club?” she asked in a neutral tone.

Jacob studied her hard and shifted in his seat. He was suddenly sad and overwhelmed with regret.

“I have no reason to think you are,” he answered.

“How would you know?” Josie murmured, “How would I know, come to that? Is there a badge or an initiation of some kind?”

“If you stick around, sooner or later I will spank you,” he said sternly. “If you let me and don’t piss off afterwards, then we will both know your cute little bottom is on the line.”

Josie blushed. But part of her was thinking; it is not so little.

She was still blushing when he leaned in and asked her, “Do you like my work?”

Blush grew and Josie squirmed.

“Well yes but…” She couldn’t meet his eyes. She had been excited by his drawings from that first day.

“I have a picture I want you to see. It is up in my studio,” he told her, “Will you come?”

Josie shrugged, but still blushing she nodded.


The picture was ordinary enough. A simple coloured depiction of a young adult woman being switched on the bare bottom by an older woman ostensibly for spilling a pail of milk. Despite the all-woman theme there was something evocative about it, but she had seen better pictures by Jacob.

“Actually it isn’t one of mine,” Jacob said, “But the simple theme is compelling and my latest client likes it.”

“Oh,” was all Josie could manage.

“Doesn’t do anything for you then?” Jacob asked.

Josie shrugged. It did she knew, on some level anyway, but what could she say?

“What about these?” Jacob asked as he pulled a large A0 sketch book from the wall.

Josie blushed and began to hug herself. There was an older woman in business clothes being spanked by an older handsome man. A 30-something woman doing a ‘Marilyn Munroe’ with her skirt blowing up; only this woman had an obviously spanked bare bottom and several onlookers were laughing at her. There was another woman over the lap of a man in obvious discomfort as he spanked her ample bare bottom. This one she liked the best.

“Look at them,” Jacob said.

Josie had looked away in embarrassment and now looked back.

“I-I…” she stumbled over herself, thoughts tripping over her tongue.

“Have you ever been spanked?” Jacob asked, “I mean really soundly spanked on your bare bottom for real?”

“N-no,” Josie whispered, not outside her dreams anyway.

“Well I think I am going to spank you now,” Jacob said. “Or else it will hang between us forever and I think we like each other.”

“You wouldn’t… I mean… y-you can’t,” Josie gasped.

“Josie,” he said sharply, “I am. It is really going to happen. I am just going into the other room for a moment. If you are still here when I get back I am going to spank you. If not I’ll see you at dinner where we were last night and we’ll talk about it.”

There he had said it. He had also given her an out. Then he left.

Following him with her eyes, Josie then glanced at the exit and then looked back to the room which he had entered.

“Jacob, come on,” she called after him, “This is silly. You are not going to… sp…” the word caught in her throat.

He gave her five minutes and a life time before he returned. As he entered Josie looked at him with all the demeanour of a bunny stuck in a car headlight.

“Last chance,” he said and she blushed again.

Then gently he took her arm and led her over to the sofa in the corner. Then sitting down he pulled her unresisting across his lap and tugged at her summer shorts.

Josie was breathing firmly and a hand strayed to her mouth where it was gently chewed.

Getting no resistance, Jacob slowly eased down the grey denims, seeing her lift her hips slightly. Her bottom was full and barely contained by her unflattering knickers and after a moment he pulled these down too.

Josie whimpered at this but said nothing.

Nevertheless Jacob waited. Her could smell her arousal and smiled as she tucked her head under her shoulders and hugged into his leg.

His hand hurt more than she thought it would and she moaned softly as it stung her. The following spanks were no gentler but it was a good two or three minutes before she began to squirm. By then of course her bottom was quite red and darker streaks had begun to form in the general redness.

“Jacob,” she gasped, “That’s enough I…” she didn’t know what only that it seemed to be what she should say.

Jacob pulled her tighter to him and spanked her harder. His hand rising rapidly and spanking down hard at a point beyond her bottom so that loud applause rang out it mighty cracking blasts.

“Uh… Jacob,” she moaned.

“This is who I am woman,” he snarled, “Who are you? Who do you want to be?”

“Jacob, please,” she yelped and clawed at him and the sofa as she kicked.

Jacob spanked her for another minute until she began to struggle with a degree of determination. By then she was panting hard and her bottom looked sore and even a little bruised.

“Stop it, stop it,” she wept.

To her surprise he did. For a moment she felt a sense of loss and in her confusion she tumbled to the floor. She couldn’t look at him and tried to hide her exposed bottom with her hands. The skin was hot and more than tingled, it tanged with an incessant fizzing ache. She felt ashamed that she was so aroused but everything about this felt alien.

After a moment she clambered to her feet and hastily pulled up her shorts.

“I don’t think I am who you think I am,” she said wanly, “Sorry. I thought… I thought…”

Then she left.


The day was warm and clear and Josie could still feel the ache in her bottom where Jacob had spanked her. The night before in her hotel room she had stared narcissistically at her reddened bottom in the mirror before throwing herself face down on the bed. She resisted touching herself as if that would validate what he had done and make him right. But all the same unremembered erotic dreams assailed her sleep and on waking she had looked again at the damage only to be disappointed by its virtual disappearance.

Now as she walked around only the echo of an ache remained with her and when no one was looking she grabbed at her behind and squeezed it as to extract every last drop of his efforts before they left her completely.

She had deliberately taken a path away from town and the café where he might be. This time she had left the streets and entered a park which was somewhat overgrown and deserted by regular tourists.

She should find him, she thought and apologise for her sudden exit. After all he had warned her, and she hadn’t really stopped him and she knew now that she could have. It felt as if she had failed some test or yet again run away from her life. Why couldn’t she have an adventure for once?

As if it were some kind of omen, there on the path was a thin stick not unlike the one in the hand of the woman in drawing Jacob had shown her. She picked it up and swished it meaningfully through the air once or twice.

It would serve her right if Jacob were to punish her properly with one of these. She swallowed. Or even this one, she thought somewhat lightheadedly.

It didn’t take her long to find his studio and although at any moment she had expected to give in to her fear she managed to reach his door without once hesitating. She had even carried the switch openly like a banner, almost daring anyone to know what it was for.

He opened the door with a frown and beckoned her in.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

He nodded.

“Maybe I went too far,” he offered.

But she shook her head and swallowing hard extended her arm and offered him the switch.

“Play time is over isn’t,” she said meekly, “I deserve to be punished properly.”

“Look if it isn’t your thing then… what I mean is, I like you and maybe…” he was uncertain now never having quite felt this way.

“Oh it’s my thing alright, I just didn’t know it,” she said boldly, “I only hope it is not too late to join the club. Is it?”

“What club?” he blurted in confusion before remembering their conversation.

“Punish me Sir, properly and not as if I am a novice,” she insisted offering him the switch again.

“I don’t think you know what you are getting into,” he said. But he took the proffered switch firmly now.

“I think I am about to learn,” she said ruefully.


Her big round bottom curved up at him over the sofa. It was scored near 40 times with pencil thick welts and ridges from a sustained switching that had left her sobbing heartedly.

Jacob had thrashed her for over 10 minutes while he took his time dishing it out in sets and allowing her long moments to breath.

Apart from squeals and girlish yelps she had not once complained and when he paused too long in his chastisement she had wagged her bottom invitingly at him and even bucked up and down.

The smell of sex was pungent and it was a matter of debate who was the most ready for whom, he thought, very much eager to add another 40 swipes at the least excuse.

“Thank you Sir,” she gasped in a small wet voice when it was obvious he was done with her.

“Oh you are welcome,” he chuckled.

“What happens next?” she giggled through her remaining tears.

“Next,” he told her with relish, “I get to draw and I suggest you don’t move.”

She gaped at him and threw a look over her shoulder.

“What?” she gasped.

“Do as you’re told or I’ll start over,” he said sternly.

“Yes Sir,” she sighed.

“Don’t worry I am just going to make some quick preliminary sketches. I have other plans for you,” he said with a wink.

“Well I hope it’s not dinner,” she replied, “I don’t think I am ready to sit down yet.”

“Just be quiet while I work or you won’t sit down for a week,” he scolded her.

“You and whose army?” she challenged him.

“I can easily make that a month,” he snapped sounding serious.

“Okay, okay,” she said hastily, “I was only kidding.”

Weekly Round-Up


2 abel 2 bikini4-300x168 2 its-never-too-late 2 PB-again-500x449 2 SpankingOnline1 2 toonsBack in the attic while the study is revamped; it is round two and I am not holding my breath. Effectively this is the first day back to normal so I am still a little behind. There are no big stories slated, I will just have to see what the muse provides, but over coming weeks I hope to edge forward with old favourites and new shorts.

Meanwhile in Spankville things are moving on.

Ronnie Soul (who thinks I am a woman, which is ironic because I always thought she was a man Lol) celebrates her 1,000th post so congratulations.

Red Bottomed Harlot talks about manners, preferences and being black in the spanking scene.

Bonnie reveals that she has never entirely retired and has been a hidden hand.

The Spank Statement continues to get back to its old form with a nice run of articles. See theatre picture above for a hint.

Despite claims of slowing down Pixie has a new short out (also pictured above.)

Other pictures are from: Abel, About Spanking, All Things Spanking, Scarlett’s Real Magic and Spanking Toons.

Vintage Sunday


vintage spanking vintage spanking vintage spanking

caned WRNS caned WRNS caned WRNSHere is an intriguing subject that has been covered here many times before. But I recently received an email from a reader who while liking my short story the Special Section, said it was somewhat undermined by its far-fetched in-service punishment set-up.

Usually I wouldn’t care so much as one hopes given the nature of some of my stories that really non-consensual scenarios should remain within fiction. However, I chanced upon the cutting above, which rather supports my source and I was reminded that I previously published these true accounts here, here and also here, which originally served as an inspiration for this Special Section story.

Embarassing sneak spanking picBeing taken to the woodshed is another part of spanking Americana that doesn’t cross the Atlantic too well. I first did some digging on this a while back when a reader sent in a selection of short anecdotes and ‘real’ woodshed spanking pictures culled from Facebook et al.

Most of them to be fair seemed to be candid’s taken of women of undetermined age being spanked in garages and the like and so for this post were off-topic. Although the picture above is more like a hay shed and came labelled marital spat.

I remember watching a short-lived US sitcom back in the 1980s where a new step father is remonstrating with his new family about discipline. The late-teen girl protests that she is too old to be included in ‘woodshed issues’ and the father looks significantly at the rather comely wife and mother and replies ‘a girl is never too old for the woodshed.’

The wife blushes and quickly changes the subject.

Later on a remember reading how a young woman lawyer was caught in a minor scandal was quoted as saying ‘this is a little bit more serious than a trip to the woodshed, although knowing my Dad that might not be completely out of the question.’

Beyond the comedy quips a discussion about marital spanking talked about the pros and cons of the being taken to the woodshed.

The main aim (traditionally anyway) was to keep the discipline form disturbing the house. Brenda suggested that with an extended family she was always grateful when her husband ‘handled things’ in the out buildings.

Mary96 disagreed. She claimed that the shed in the yard only increased the chances of the neighbours hearing or seeing something.

It seems that this has always been a point of contention; does the woodshed increase or reduce privacy and is shame of discretion the intentions? It seems intents vary.

I was sent a pic of a college girl having been spanked in garage and being camera-snapped by a cousin. Not sure about the ethics of using it so it is on hold. It is not particularly graphic, but the young woman is clearly in a partial state of undress much like the picture above.

For her anyway, the bedroom would have been a much preferred choice.

1950 spankingOur story began here.

So far it had been an ordeal of fire and water and Alice Bowman had never felt so clean, neither inside nor out. Nevertheless, she strained to be as stoical as she could but it was a futile attitude to take, for the whole point of Muriel Baxter’s chastisement regime was to break Alice down utterly. So the longer she took to surrender the worse her punitive experience would be. But nonetheless it was expected, that was the nature of the Sinclair Method. If she did not strive to endure then she would not fully benefit from her experience and ultimately neither would her girls.

Alice had stood in the corner of the woodshed for longer than she could gauge. With each passing minute she felt herself shrinking even as her tight hot bottom seemed to grow. In fact the searing throb in her behind gave her a sense that the straining ravaged rounds would burst at any minute, a fact that left her as much in respectful awe as cowed. It had been so long since she had been under Muriel’s close supervision and she had forgotten what an expert she was.

“We are not such a big important girl now, are we?” Muriel asked in maternal tones.

As she spoke she ran a gentle fingernail over Alice’s textured welted flesh and drawing a hiss from the woman.

“No Ma’am,” Alice gasped.

“You know that this is for your own good don’t you Alice?” Muriel purred.

Alice gulped and blinked hard into the wall.

“Yes Ma’am,” she said at last, “But… Mrs Stevens…” Her voice was close to cracking and it was all she could do not to cry again when she thought of her humiliation at the hands’ of the cook.

“Mrs Stevens has been invaluable in helping me take you down a peg or two. Just think how very much worse it would have been had I had to employ Katherine to help me,” Muriel said in a vaguely disapproving voice.

“Oh no Ma’am, I mean yes, thank you Ma’am,” Alice said hastily, her eyes bugging at the very thought.

“Hush now,” Muriel soothed. “Now we come to the main event,” she continued. “Next comes a good old fashioned American spanking.”

Alice gaped into the wall and then frowned. She might have expressed her puzzlement at such a relatively mild operation when Muriel picked something up from the bench in the corner of the woodshed.

“For that correction I shall employ a good old fashioned American paddle,” Muriel said crisply as she hefted the object.

Alice worked her throat and wished she could merge with the wall in front of her face.

“This one is of the sturdier punitive sorority paddles,” Muriel added, “Not one of those merely decorative affairs.”

“No Ma’am,” Alice said nervously, “I mean…”

“I know what you mean Alice; I know you are a good girl and wouldn’t argue.”

“No Ma’am,” Alice greed firmly. Heaven forbid; the dread thought came unbidden.

“Now with you heels together and your bottom uppermost I want you to bend over the saw horses there,” Muriel told her charge.

“Ooh, yes Ma’am,” Alice said apprehensively.


It took a while for Muriel to be satisfied that Alice was holding the right posture. To that end she had made Alice bend right over with her knees tucked under the cross plank of the saw horse. This served both to elevate her bare bottom to the highest point and to make it form an almost perfect tight sphere.

The position was both undignified and uncomfortable as the stretched skin was reignited with its earlier sting. But worse still was the waiting. As she held position the only sound in the room was her gentle breathing and the light tickle of the breeze in the trees beyond the woodshed.

“Are you ready Alice?” Muriel asked for the third time.

Alice let out along slow breath and nodded.

“Alice?” Muriel chided.

“Yes Ma’am,” Alice acknowledged.

The blast of the paddle was sudden and breath-stealing. For a moment Alice’s world hung on end and then what had been an unbearable fiery sting really tore into her.

“Yahhh,” Alice hissed and pumped her thighs.

The second swat was loud and Alice realised that she hadn’t even heard the first. It landed like hot iron placing sting upon burn and that too began to cook as it grew worse.

“Ooh-huh-eh-huh-eh-huh,” Alice sang as she tried to control her breathing and regulate the pain.

The third defied logic. Alice was sure it couldn’t get worse and that the sting was at maximum but the paddle was proving her wrong.

“Ooooooooh-mmmmm,” Alice grunted as she blinked hard and squirmed vigorously.

“Good girl,” Muriel said breezily, “You’re taking this well.”

Alice’s bottom, which had already been red beyond red, was momentarily reshaped as edged white welts bordered her curves and a real purplish hue flooded the crowns. Bruising was inevitable, but in skilled hands like Muriel’s no skin would be broken, although in short order the governess’s bottom would look twice its usual size.

The next three were placed over less than a minutes and Alice made a strange croaking sound in her throat. It took a moment, but Muriel realised that she was crying again. As well she might, the older woman thought, I know I would be.

Then two minutes later Alice had taken 12 and from nine she trembled and then broke to real bawling.

“That’s it, let it all out,” Muriel soothed and patted the girl’s shoulder.

Alice nodded miserably, but was grateful for the comfort.

“H-how, how many more Ma’am?” she woefully asked.

Muriel considered this, tapping the flat of the paddle on her hand as she pondered.

“If you were me, what would you give you?” she asked.

Alice swallowed. “I guess I’m just about done,” she said in a thick wet voice, “so if it were one of the girls I’s give at least another dozen.”

It was a true but terrifying admission and Muriel was in awe of Alice’s courage and honesty, a true Sinclair girl through and through. The golden rule was that a spanking didn’t really begin until the girl was finished.

“And what if it was a hardened but wayward governess?” Muriel pressed the spanked woman.

Alice swallowed hard again and steeled herself.

“Please Muriel, Ma’am, please I…” she wailed.

“How many?”

“T-twice that, maybe… maybe more,” Alice sobbed.

“And we have a winner,” Muriel said cheerfully s she landed another swat.

This time Alice did not hold back with her song of pain.

To be continued.

winter spankingPart I

Her close fitting breeches were too rough and scratchy to be bourn against her birch ravaged flesh. So despite his appraising gaze she left them off and tugged her shirt low in back in the hopes of preserving her already fled modesty.

Even released from the corner more than an hour after her punishment it was all she could do not to give in to more tears. Her bottom still throbbed and burned and if breeches could not be sustained against it, then sitting down was quite out of the question.

“Ivan,” she said mournfully, her sorry gaze crimson and downcast as she fixed it on the rough planked floor.

“You wish to speak?” he growled.

Sofia Molotov nodded.

“That was a light punishment I gave, so think yourself lucky. I have no time for brats and nor do you if we are to last this winter,” he barked.

She sobbed a little as she was cowed.

“I know,” she whispered.

He nodded and let his anger fade. The truth was he wondered if he had been hard on her. After all she was a privileged princess and perhaps not used to being thrashed so. He did not want to break her, just make her mind him.

“Ivan, I am sorry, I… I know what you did,” she continued. “I wanted to… to thank you for saving me and for… for whipping me as I deserve.”

The words were a shock to her, but he accepted them with a tight smile and a sigh. She bristled for a moment as the noblewoman in her reasserted itself. She had apologised to him and humbled herself and he acted as if it was his due. Her bottom throbbed in time to the rising blood of her cheeks. It saved her from further folly and she cursed herself inwardly. Of course it was his due. Would she never learn? She deserved another sound thrashing for her pride.

“Come, sit and eat,” he said awkwardly reaching for a bowl.

“Thank you, but I… I would rather stand,” she replied with a wince.

Ivan laughed.


The winter came hard after that. It seemed to Sofia that not a moment passed when the wind did not blow and even on quieter days the gale tore at the roof to sing in the rafters like all the demons of hell.

The image was a salutary one for Sofia. Outside the forest and chill wind represented her sins and folly. While inside with Ivan she was safe and secure. Despite his rough ways she came to think of him as a kind of vengeful angel ready to school her lest she fall back.

Since her narrow escape from the storm and her thrashing she felt like a woman reborn. In the days that followed she rose as early as Ivan and set about cleaning and helping prepare their meagre stores.

She even hauled on her breeches over her tender flesh; rough sandpaper against her grazed bottom that set her to wincing when she moved. It was a week before she could sit down even slightly and another before the marks really faded. Strangely she missed them when they finally went. It was almost as if she had lost something hard earned.

But the memory of the beating and the shame of it lingered to keep her meek at his words and she scurried at his every command. There was even an odd satisfaction in doing so.

“Here,” he said one day holding up a foul looking wooden bowl. “Taste this.”

A few weeks before she would have turned up her nose in disgust at his offering, or even uttered a curse as if she had been insulted, but now she bounded across the room like an eager puppy and smiled at him shyly. In his hand he held up some rich dark sticky gunk on a wooden spoon and invited her again to taste it.

Sofia’s nose wrinkled a little and she closed her eyes as she submitted to the ordeal. But instead of some slimy assault to her throat she found the honey-like treacle malty and bitter-sweet like good beer or well-buttered bread.

“It is malt. Good eh?” Ivan chuckled. “It keeps well and serves to provide extra energy in the long winter months.”

Sofia grinned and eagerly looked for more.

“We don’t have much, but it will go further on bread,” Ivan said as he put a lid back on the bowl.

Sofia pouted watched regretfully as he put the container back on the shelf.

“The wood is getting low,” Ivan said absently, “If the weather eases I may go out and get some more from the outside store in a day or so.”

Sofia frowned and took a doubtful peek out of the small window. There was no glass of course and she had to lift up a corner of grease paper and leather covering. The world outside was a swirl of wild whiteness.


Three days later the wind suddenly dropped and although the snow continued to fall, it was in gentle slow flakes that fell with tiny whispers of sound as they touched down onto the white carpet.

Sofia could see all the way to the trees now and she thought that she had never seen anything so beautiful.

“I am going to fetch some more wood,” Ivan announced as he too looked out. “I am going to be a few hours, but while the weather holds I want to pile as much on the lean-to by the door as I can before the wind gets up again.”

“Can I help?” Sofia asked eagerly. It had been weeks since she had been outside.

Ivan frowned and looked out at the forest for a moment.

“No, I think not,” he said in a serious tone, “the weather can turn on breath and I want to be able to cut and run back to the house as soon as it does and not have to worry about you.”

Sofia pouted until he actually glared at her and made her look down.

“You had better see to the evening meal before nightfall while you can still see,” he said firmly. “I am going to be as hungry as a bear.”

She nodded, pleased to at least be able to contribute something.

It was two hours before Sofia turned to the shelves where Ivan kept his pots and storage jars. She eyed the bean-stew wearily and wondered what else there was to liven the meal up. Then she spied the covered bowl of malt on the shelf.

She grinned and stole a glance over her shoulder at the door. It hadn’t been so long since Ivan had dropped a load onto the lean-to planking outside and she knew he would be at least another half hour.

What harm could it do, she wondered evilly? Then reaching up for the bowl she placed it on the rough plank table top by the hearth. It was easy to open and as soon as she had the pungent malty sweetness assailed her. One spoonful just to test it, she told herself.

First she let a finger steal along the rim and scoop up no more than a forkful. Then crooking the digit like a hook she placed a lick on her tongue. The sweet malty stickiness hung there for a moment and then melted at her throat. After months of scarce fare it was like nectar. In moments she had taken up a spoonful and then another.

She was contemplating one more and then replacing the lid when the door opened.

Ivan stood arms akimbo with a huge bundle of wood in his arms. His face danced with accusations and for a moment he had a killing look that quailed Sofia to her soul.

“We can spare just a scrape each on bread,” he bellowed, “You have more than that just on your lips.”

“I… I…” Sofia blanched as her heart lurched. It had been nothing, back at castle Molotov… but she wasn’t at home now and Ivan was poor.

Ivan took two strides and dropped the wood by the hearth. The sudden charge at her made Sofia jump, but the giant of a man turned as quickly and strode back to get the rest of his hoard.

Nine times he came and went, each time depositing a great load onto the ever growing pile. But not once did he look at Sofia until she began to think she had done no more than a small childish mischief.

Finally Ivan stopped at the door and closed it behind him before removing his coat and hanging it at a peg.

“Are you… are you going to… sp-spank me?” she asked sheepishly.

“Spank you? I ought to blister your backside with a birch rod you little thief,” he roared.

Sofia swallowed but couldn’t meet his eyes as she nodded.

Ivan snorted derisively and seemed to relax.

“In the spring I would have teased you and laughed it off for stealing sweets from a cookie jar, but I was hoping sweeten our Christmas a little and I have no more,” he sighed.

“Ivan, I am so sorry,” Sofia wailed, “here, let me fetch a rod. Beat me, beat me soundly as I deserved and as you would a peasant girl.”

Sofia moved towards the rods in the corner not sure if her courage would support such an assertion.

“My father once ordered that a thieving maid get a thousand lashes,” Sofia said earnestly. “She never stole again, even if she didn’t sit down for a month.”

Ivan laughed brightly and rocked back on the huge kindling box on which he now sat.

“I have a good mind to give you 50 or 60 lashes,” he chuckled, “I’d see you eat standing up for a week for the prank.”

Sofia gulped and remembered her last such chastisement.

“Come here,” Ivan growled in good humour.

In a moment he had grabbed her and tumbled her across is lap.

“Ivan…” Sofia wailed, uncertainty touching her voice.

Then she felt a tug at the draw string of her breeches and with scant resistance felt the soft leather slide over her bare bottom and down her naked thighs. A spanking was suddenly more embarrassingly intimate than being thrashed as a thief. It was a childish correction for a childish prank.

Ivan’s hand fell with an eye-widening blast that stole her breath. It was a spank that was quickly followed by another and yet more.

“Ivan,” Sofia shrieked, kicking out with her legs.

But any comedy fled as the sting and burn sizzled her bare bottom and in a moment she was panting hard as tears pricked at her eyes. God the man’s hand was hard, she thought, it couldn’t have been worse if he had been using a bread paddle.

Ivan spanked her for a good 10 minutes until laboured breathing had long since become wet whimpering and she was not surprised when Ivan set her on her feet and directed her to the corner.

“I have a good mind to send you to bed without your supper for this, but an hour with your breeches down will convince you of your shame just as well.

“Yes Ivan,” Sofia sniffed. Her bottom stung so badly she was infinitely grateful now he hadn’t birched her after all. This spanking was quite enough.


Far from being mad, Ivan teased her for days about stealing malt syrup until she punched him gently on the arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said shyly, “It was…”

Ivan shrugged.

“I know, I know, the food is boring and it is a long winter,” he sighed, “But who knows what the days to come will bring.”

Sofia had almost forgotten his words until one morning she awoke to a strange smell. Sitting up she saw a small package at the end of her bed and beyond the door in the next room an extra-large fire danced in the grate.

Almost as if he had been waiting for her to wake Ivan suddenly broke into song. It was an old traditional Christmas carol and he sang it well.

“Ivan? What the…” she gaped as the truth slowly dawned.

Ivan grinned as he entered the room cradling a small candle in his cupped hand singing as if his life depended upon it. Then finally like some dark St Nicholas he yelled “Merry Christmas.”

The small package turned out to be a small honeyed cake. Where Ivan had got it he would not say. But he did explain about the venison and the malt scarped bread cakes.

“It seems I had another pot of malt hidden away after all,” he winked, “And the stag wandered by while I was brining in the wood.”

“Ivan… oh,” tears sang in her eyes and in a moment she ran at the man and kissed him.

For a moment it was if nothing could ever be wrong in the world and then he stiffened and she blushed.

“Yes well,” he coughed.

“But I didn’t get you anything,” she winced.

Ivan shrugged.

“I know,” Sofia brightened, “My dagger… you can… keep it,” she said tentatively.

It was an assumption that he would have returned it and reminded them both of how they met.

“Thank you,” Ivan grinned with a bow, “I will treasure it.”

“So will I,” Sofia said breathily, but she was thinking of the moment.

Weekly Round-Up


spanking spanking spanking spanking spankingThis blog was down for much of Sunday for reasons the host serve manager could not explain. Oddly though visitor numbers were the highest it has been for weeks. Hopefully that is the end of that hiccough.

Tumblr has had another round of culling and several blogs have disappeared.

The good news is that Bonnie is back with a new blog, A Spanko Garden. This is old news probably, but I have only just got back and found out.

The Spank Statement continues with regular and fresh posts. The French underwear spanking pictured above is from a play it featured.

Dirty Ice Cream the Crimson House has also reblogged a number of articles form here. Worth a look if you want to know what else is going on.

Cherry Red has a round of image galleries.

Other pictures are from Au Fils Des Jours, CutiePie, Scarlet’s Real Magic and the Italian Spanking pages.


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