cornertime cornertime cornertime cornertime

Someone dropped me a quick line to say they hated cornertime almost as much as getting a spanking, but that both were so good for her. Previously someone had written that they did not know what was worse cornertime when you were the centre of attention of standing int the corner and being completely ignored.

On the same theme I cobbled this off FemFirst:

When I tol;d my boyfriend I was still getting cornertime well into college no matter who was present he laughed. He liked the idea so much that now before and after a spanking I get cornertime. Cornertime is a bitch. Me and my big mouth.

There are many faces of cornertime, apart from the face into the wall or corner that is. The pictures above represent just four.

Firstly we have a misery shared. Has any girl reading this ever had cornertime shared with a friend or two? I wonder if it is more embarrassing or less.

Secondly there is the shame of public cornertime and being completely ignored.

Then there is the cornertime that drags. A common enough complaint. A contributor here once claimed she was put in he corner for eight hours for telling lies.

Finally we have the utter shame of being there at all.

winterPart I

Sofia strained to see down the dark dank tunnels. There was something there, something coming for her. All around there were naked women all smiling foolishly thinking they were saved and none of them would listen as she tried to tell them. Tried and failed, it was all she could do but point at something in the dark getting ever nearer. Then she screamed.

The dark exploded with light and Sofia sat-up with a start. She was bathed in sweat and the dread of the dream clung to her like the sticky sheets next to her flesh. Castle Molotov was altogether more airy than the dungeon and as light poured through the lattice glass the tan-coloured wood panels on the walls of her room glowed like gold and the myriad coloured mural above them seemed to come alive.

In her youth she had loved the hunting scene painted there and the deep green forest facing her four poster bed. To the left in the wall were flowers and the same forest as seen in spring and to the right, framing the heavy dark wood door, it was perpetual autumn, where darker brown and gold trees occluded stags at bay and more mythical creatures like unicorns peeking out from the undergrowth.

She was home she realised with a sigh.

Sofia lay back to stretch out like a cat and gazed up at the green velvet canopy draping her bed, as she did so she saw the fourth forest scene on the wall behind her bed where the window was set. This was a winter scene and fur-clad men trudged through snow or laughed at camp fires.

She thought for a moment of the Cossacks and shuddered, but these hunters were smiling like… Ivan. Sofia sat-up and shook herself fully awake. By the time her feet had touched the cool hard wood of the floor she was naked and shucking off the linen nightdress like another dream.

She would have preferred hunting clothes as she had worn the day she had first encountered him, but the maids had left out only a matron’s gown in black brocade silk with a grim headdress. Why black, she thought idly, did someone die? Her thoughts went to Ivan and then her father. There had been a mighty battle hadn’t there?

But her father had carried her home and although they had not spoken, Ivan too had been at her side with his sword as if daring the world to attack them. Then she remembered. Her husband had been killed right in front of her. She felt ashamed. He was her lawful husband and he had died defending her. She had no right to think of Ivan. I should be whipped, she thought earnestly, but a vision of Ivan and his spanking hand burst into her mind and she blushed.

“I really need to be whipped,” she sighed.

“What was that my lady?” said a maid as she slipped expertly and quietly into the room.

The woman was around 30 with dark blonde hair coiled tightly around her head and she carried herself with the heavy health of good peasant stock. She must have loitered without for hours waiting for Sofia to stir.

Sofia considered repeating herself and accept the shame as a kind of punishment by itself, but instead she stood up straight and raised her arms so that the maid could pull the first layer of her many underclothes over her head.


When Sofia finally made her way downstairs breakfast had long been abandoned, although the maid had insisted that she take something from the tray before she was allowed to make her way to the great hall.

“Your father…” the maid said anxiously.

Sofia had nodded and had quickly dunked a hunk of rye bread into some cabbage soup and eaten it on the hoof. By the time she reached the stairs she was swallowing down the last mouthful and steeling herself for a meeting with her father.

There was a fire in the grate to ward off the cold and her father stood over it rubbing his hands in its glow. He didn’t even turn as she entered and she had to cross the room before he even acknowledged her.

“Father I…”

He nodded and looked faintly embarrassed. For days he had thrown all decorum and prudence to the wind and torn away the forest to find her. But now the old order must be restored and reckless displays of emotion had to be shunned.

“Thank you my lord,” she whispered.

“Pity about that husband of yours,” the prince shrugged, “It will be hard to find another suitable nobleman who will take you.”

“Yes, a great pity,” Sofia said absently.

She could not mourn a man she did not love but all the same he had married her and died for her in good faith, surely he deserved more than… but that was the way of things and not worth dwelling upon.

“I could always marry you to that peasant who saved you,” the Prince chuckled.

“Peasant?” Sofia felt her heart catch in her throat.

“Oh you know that… rystar I promoted, the one that saved you last time.” Her father sounded dismissive but in truth he studied his daughter carefully from the corner of his eye.

“Why not?” she replied sounding equally dismissive, “I mean he is at least a noble now and he deserves some kind of reward.”

The room was still now and Sofia was acutely aware of the breeze from the window and how the morning sun played on the polished black lead of the frames. She could see where the floral detail in the stone around the sill was worn and needed attending to. She couldn’t remember ever even noticing the pattern before.

The fire crackled in sharp cutting sounds as flames danced in coils extending towards her father’s fingers as he warmed his hands. They were hands of a god who held her life more surely than any Cossack slaver.

“The women we captured with you…” the Prince said casually, “Some of them have been offered husbands among my men and a few jobs here at the castle. You see fortunes rise and fall and things can change.”

“That is good father,” Sofia said in a dead voice.

“Oh and that rystar, Ivan Ivanov Illyich, he did put on a good show, saved the day probably,” the Prince shrugged, “I’ll find him some reward for his services as you suggest, but I hardly thinks he rates a dowager countess.”

“No I suppose not,” Sofia said softly, “But…”

“Yes,” the Prince said sharply.

Sofia swallowed and bit back a sob.

“May I not… not marry who I want now?” she whispered.

“No,” her father said sharply. Then to forestall any further debate he held up a hand and bellowed for the concierge.

The man who entered wore a clean smock over loose fitting trousers and beard you could hide a bird’s nest in.

“Bring in Rytar Illyich,” the Prince sighed, and then to Sofia he said, “Let’s get this over with.”

Sofia lost all composure now and clasping both hands she brought them to her face to chew at the back of her thumbs.

Ivan strode into the room like a bear walking upright; his sable coat too adding to the look, although his beard was now trimmed and worn close to his face in courtly style. His face bore no emotion and he looked at neither Sofia, nor really at the Prince to whom he bowed at the prescribed eight paces before him.

“Are Illyich,” the Prince said warmly, “That’s more like it,” he said admiring the man’s new clothes, “All you need now is to learn to read and you could be a courtier.”

“I read well enough lord,” Ivan said with another bow.

Prince Molotov shot a glance at his ashen faced daughter and pursed his lips. “Better than most rystar who serve me then,” he said thoughtfully. “No matter, I owe you some reward I think.”

“I am in your service lord and did no more than my duty,” Ivan bowed again as was the fashion, his eyes fixed firmly staring into space.

“Still… I am minded to make you a baron and double your lands,” the Prince yawned, “especially since you can read. After your current service to me I can use a man like you.”

“I would be honoured my lord,” Ivan said carefully.

This time he didn’t bow.

“But my daughter has another suggestion,” the Prince said in a bored voice and then he laughed as if making a joke. “She thinks you might take her hand instead.”

Ivan slowly swivelled his gaze right as if seeing Sofia for the first time. Her eyes were pooled with tears and she stood as white as fine oriental porcelain and twice as likely to break. He felt sick, like a starving man offered bread who knew it would be snatched away if he reached for it.

“Indeed Lord,” he replied, his throat closing on itself like a collapsing leather bag.

God I would… anything great father if… if… Ivan let his gaze fall softly over the small pale girl standing so near. Her white skin shone in contrast to her raven hair making her seem ghostly in her black brocade gown. The only detectable colour was in her eyes, which were sapphire blue and seemed to plead with the universe for something.

“So let me play at Solomon,” Prince Molotov said heartedly. “I can make you a Baron with new lands or you can stay a rystar, little better than a kulak, and marry my daughter.”

Ivan tore his gaze from his love and allowed a smile.

“Suits me my lord,” he said evenly.

He expected a dozen guards to swarm him for his audacity and strived not to flinch. This was a dangerous game he now played.

Sofia didn’t wait. She exploded with joy and rushed the great bear of a man as if storming a castle.

“You understand that if you make this choice you will spend your life scrubbing floors and I could scarcely welcome such a lowborn one’s wife into this castle,” the Prince’s voice sounded dead.

Sofia looked from Ivan to her father and groaned. Not the petulant sound of her childhood or the brat she could be, but the groan of a woman dying, one last breath of her old life.

“I understand father,” she said firmly.

The prince nodded.

“Do you take this woman and leave?” he said to Ivan.

“Now there is nothing that could stop me,” Ivan growled, deliberately omitting the word lord.

“Sofia?” her father whispered. He was as if one grieving.

She nodded and then said “Yes My Lord.”

“Then so be it,” Prince Molotov agreed.

Before the couple could embrace again he snapped his hands twice in a clap and bellowed with a laugh.

“You think I would have my daughter marry a rystar or some lowly baron,” he roared, “Besides, a peasant who can read is no peasant, so you might as well be a Count.”

Sofia gaped and Ivan grasped his sword as if ready for a fight.

“Father…?” Sofia whispered.

The Prince smiled and stepped forward now to embrace her. Then taking her hand he passed it to Ivan.

“I had to be sure,” he said and kissed her forehead.

Now it was Ivan’s turn to gape.

“Well man, kiss her you oaf,” the Prince roared, but Sofia had already been lifted off her feet and into a great bear hug.

Then the two lovers kissed.

To be continued.

Abraham Heights spankingThe car made a slow turn at the bend and began to climb the hill. It was steep enough and the car laboured for a moment before the engine caught. In the rear-view mirror Abraham Heights looked quite pretty nestled on the side of the opposite slope. All white and red brick houses peeking above the treetops, scattered pell-mell around the town square which she knew was somewhere in the trees. Above the scene the sky was ablaze with fire and many of the houses already had lights on against the dark. It was certainly an unusual place and as Ainsley had told her boss, it was the land the time had forgotten.

“Jeez,” she had laughed down the phone to him, “They practically have bobby soxers and soda fountains. I swore I saw some freshman in beanies and no one has cable.”

Ainsley laughed as she remembered. Well she would soon be out of here anyway so it didn’t matter.

She had been sent to the town to give one of the companies there a spot check of the books. Nothing unusually, but the state liked to make random inspections to guard against tax evasion and every once in a while some little mom and pop concern out in the boondocks got a visit. This time it had been Ainsley Greenburg who had pulled the short straw and who had been dispatched.

At 26 she was hardworking and conscientious with little time for distractions. She wore her blonde hair short and usually donned a smart pants suit in a bid to look professional. A bonus when a girl was only five two in stockings. Some clients often resented state intervention and the very implication that they would defraud their taxes, so being told what was what by a short kid didn’t always impress no matter how many assurances there were that it was all just routine.

Well it was done now and in a day or two she would be heading out and home.

Not that she had hated here. There was a solid old world charm about the place and yet she had a sense that something burbled under the surface like a mountain stream. It put her in mind of Brigadoon or one of those towns that were only found by people searching for something. The lack of an interstate or even a major highway certainly fostered such ideas.

Perhaps that was why she had opted for staying at a small out of town family run hotel on the edge of town. From the vantage of distance she could remind herself she was an outsider, where she could avoid the questions and gazes of Main Street and get her head down once she had gone over her work of the day.

Hotel, well that was a joke, more like a halfway house judging from all the rules.

“Are you sure you want to stay here Ma’am?” she had been asked by Lincoln the proprietor when she had first rolled-up. “City folks usually put up at the Grand.”

He said city folks like they might be an alien species.

When he told her the rules she almost took the hint. The place even had a curfew and rules such as no baths after nine, no men in the room, no smoking anywhere… Ainsley had even taken a copy of these restrictions as a souvenir; the hotel was right out of the ark.

The other guests were seasonal workers and a handful of postgrad students who had yet to find permanent accommodation.

“We treat everyone as part of the family around here,” Lincoln had told her.

The old man winked at her as he spoke like he was keeping a secret and Ainsley thought again of Brigadoon.

“Were you born here?” Ainsley had asked politely.

“Bless you no Ma’am,” he had chuckled, “I came here after Nam looking for some peace. It was just what I needed, peace and order. The wife was from here though, mighty queer place I thought at first. But then I guess I went native. Most folks do I suppose, those that sticks around at any rate.”

Ainsley laughed at the thought and cast a glance over her shoulder at the town as she rounded the bend in the road. ‘A mighty queer place’ she thought, a proper use of that word if ever there was one.

She was still distracted and almost missed the turn. Not that it would have mattered. The roads were empty. A bath and bed she sighed and rolled her neck as she slowed at the drive.

It was full dark as she pulled up but there were more lights on than usual and several people seemed to be standing on the porch.


Ainsley had heard the rumours of course; one day she had met Tracy, one of Lincoln’s daughters on the porch wrestling with the coke machine.

“Darn thing,” a girl in spray-on leggings and long scraggly brown hair under a back-facing baseball cap cursed.

She looked rather out of place in a town where most of the girls were the picture of high school girls right out of the 1950s. The girl had been the first person to look as if she might actually live in the same century as her.

After that Tracy had had taken to hanging around Ainsley whenever she had come back from town and would eagerly question her about city life. She looked no more than 18, although Ainsley knew for a fact that she was no longer in school and worked full-time at the family hotel on reception and as a general dogsbody.

But Tracy was always keen to talk and Ainsley found the slight hero worship kind of cute. In any case it afforded Ainsley the chance to find out more about the town and the strange old-fashioned rules for the usual residents of the hotel.

“What happens if one of the guests breaks the rules? It all seems a bit odd doesn’t it?” Ainsley asked one day.

Tracy had shrugged and quickly became shy, “the usual,” she said, “Well for the girls who help out and the field hands anyway. Dad has an arrangement. You know, he handles things just as he always does, as he handles us girls.”

“The usual?” Ainsley had asked, adding, “And what arrangement?”

“You know,” Tracy had shrugged again, “The usual way things get handled in a family set-up, around here anyways. Dad has an arrangement with the local farm when he takes in girl-hands and pickers. Gets extra for it.”

Ainsley hadn’t pressed the point, but the first night there she had overhead what had definitely been someone getting a spanking. A bit old school where Ainsley came from but she had heard about such things out in the sticks and she vaguely wondered which of Lincoln’s daughter’s was in for it.

It had crossed Ainsley’s mind that Tracy might have meant this regime was extended to the young women from the farm they housed but she couldn’t quite believe it then. But yet here was the evidence.

Ainsley let the car door close with a clunk just to make sure they knew she was there. But no one even glanced at her.

Jeez this place really is out of the Stone Age, she thought as she surveyed the scene.

This particular scene involved Lincoln and his wife, Tracy and what looked like three of the field hands, one of whom looked in her mid-twenties.

All four of the younger women were naked below the waist and three of the four were facing the outside wall near reception with their bare behinds displayed. Two of these behinds had obviously been soundly spanked already and a third was across Lincoln’s knee getting her spanking. Only Tracy was still facing the wall and yet to have a turn.

Ainsley tried to stay cool but for once her confident city ways failed her and she just gaped.

“Don’t mind this Ma’am,” Ainsley called over cheerfully as if he were just watering roses or some such, “Just a general round-up of mischief.”

“What… eh… what did they do?” Ainsley spluttered. It seemed a safe enough question.

“Well we have three little girls who have got to learn that curfew means curfew don’t we girls?” Lincoln chuckled.

Two of the women facing the wall and the one over his knee all chirruped, “Yes Mr Lincoln.”

“Don’t you think…” Ainsley began, a sentence she didn’t really want to finish.

“Oh don’t worry Ma’am, I know a spanking don’t seem much, but it is just to get their attention. They have a long taste of strop coming up, don’t you girls?” Lincoln said brightly.

There was a less than enthusiastic reply from the girls this time and there was a broken mumbling of “Yes Sir.”

“Does that mean me too Dad?” Tracy piped up. She sounded anxious.

“Oh I’m thinking of something else for you,” Lincoln said darkly.

Ainsley hovered for a moment, her eyes locked in horrified fascination on the ever reddening bottom of the Latino girl across Lincoln’s lap. It was a dusky red and Ainsley couldn’t help noticing that her bottom was huge. The hotelier certainly had his work cut out.

The spanking lasted a while and by the end the panting kicking girl seemed quite distressed by the punishment. But from the way she pulled herself together so quickly Ainsley figured she was used to it, for by the time the woman was back facing the wall next to her fellows she had stopped her noise and was doing a little shimmy as if trying to shake out the sting.

Tracy was next and although they were hardly friends, Ainsley felt a little disloyal staying to watch so she bid an uncomfortable goodbye and made to go in.

“Oh Miss Greenburg,” Mrs Lincoln called over to her, “You have some mail. I’ll get it for you.”

“Oh eh… thank you,” Ainsley replied with a blush. She felt a bit of a ghoul and was suddenly embarrassed.

Mrs Lincoln was a matron of a woman with her greying hair piled like a cone on her head and like everyone else around those parts looked like she had stepped out of central casting for a bobby socks movie in the 1950s. A sort of every-mother, Ainsley thought. And where did she get that polka dot dress? It was hideous.

As they entered reception Ainsley asked, “Did Tracy miss curfew too? I mean…” she was suddenly curious.

“Oh no dear, she wouldn’t dare. She was just careless. She had a bath this morning and left it running,” Mrs Lincoln rolled up her eyes, “Oh the mess. Such a careless girl.”

Ainsley stopped in her tracks. The bath, she hadn’t… oh shit, she had run one this morning, correction had been running one and had then realised she was late. Had she shut off the taps? She had a sudden sinking feeling that she hadn’t.

“Oh… ah… eh… Mrs Lincoln, which… which bathroom was it that got flooded exactly?” A somewhat flustered Ainsley blanched and unconsciously grabbed at Mrs Lincoln’s arm.


“Mr Lincoln, Mr Lincoln,” Ainsley cried as she run back out onto the porch.

Tracy’s spanking was well underway by now and the girl’s bottom was really quite red. She was chewing her lip as the spanking got to the part where a girl went from coping with the sting to… well not.

“Lincoln,” Mrs Lincoln said in rather tetchy voice come up behind, “Lincoln I think you had better listen to what Miss Greenburg has to say.”

Lincoln stopped, his arm paused mid-air as he cocked his head like a man who resented the interruption but yet was mildly curious.

“Mr Lincoln, about the bath overrunning this morning… well I…” Ainsley let her mouth hang open before continuing, “Well I think it might have been me.” She winced, her eyes crinkling up and she seemed to stoop as if making herself smaller.

“What was you?” Lincoln frowned. What was this girl talking about?

“The bath, the overrunning bath, well I think I may have been the one who left it running,” Ainsley’s sentence ended with her mouth set to a grimace and her top teeth lightly touching the bottom row.

Lincoln frowned and drew in a small sharp breath and then slowly closed his eyes.

“Tracy,” he said in a slow deliberate questioning voice, “Did you leave the bath running this morning?”

Tracy, who was still draped over his lap with her head near the floor, answered in a somewhat strained muffled voice. “No Dad.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lincoln sighed.

“Eh… well I didn’t think you would believe me and… and… well you didn’t exactly ask…” as her voice tailed off Tracy sounded uncertain, rather like a girl who was convinced that anything she said would get her into yet more trouble.

Lincoln Clamped his eyes shut in frustration and recalled the earlier confrontation. He had yelled first, accusing his daughter, no telling his daughter how mad he was that she had left the bath running again, he amended. He also recalled his anger as he recounted his previous promise of what would happen if she ever did it again.

“B-but Dad… I-I,” she had responded.

“Don’t you dare lie to me girl,” he had snapped back. A punishment for lying would have been worse, not that she was above it. But he should have at least… Lincoln winced.

“Mr Lincoln I am sooo sorry about this,” Ainsley said woefully as she wrung out her hands. About then she would have rather have been just about anywhere on Earth than on that porch.

Lincoln sniffed, not deigning to look anyone in the eye and gently pulled his daughter to a standing position.

“Pull your things up girl,” he barked.

“I’m sorry dad,” Tracy said sheepishly as she tugged up her panties and jeans.

“Why? Apparently you haven’t done anything,” he groaned. Just then he didn’t know where to look.

“I guess if I hadn’t of lied so many times before maybe you would have… listened?” she told him ruefully, the last word ending in a tentative question.

Lincoln nodded and looked at Tracy with a look of pride.

“Well then let that be a lesson to you,” he muttered.

“Yes Dad, sorry,” Tracy squeaked.

“Tracy I am so sorry, oh God,” Ainsley groaned as she clapped her hand to her head.

Lincoln pushed out his lower lip and nodded rapidly. Maybe he was considering something, maybe he didn’t need to. He shot a glance at his wife who glowered back with her arms sternly folded. Then she nodded.

“Miss Greenburg?” Lincoln suddenly looked up at his City slicker guest. “Has anyone ever taken you across their knee and given you a sound spanking on your bare bottom?” he asked.

Ainsley gaped and clutched at her throat.

“Mr Lincoln I know that… but if you think… I mean to say…” she spluttered. Unconsciously she had taken a step or two backwards.

Ainsley looked rapidly around in horror and time seemed to slow down. The surrounding reactions were varied.

The three women facing the porch wall didn’t move. It was as if whatever was happening was absolutely no concern to them. The Latino girl was still snivelling, her magnificent bottom jutting out heroically in profile. While the blonde next to her looked sullen with one hip slouched as she leaned into the wall. The third girl even looked bored and was scratching her bum.

Tracy, who had just escaped their fate, stood rubbing her bottom with both hands as she watched the City girl curiously.

Mrs Lincoln too was glaring at her, her arms folded with determination. It was an emotion Ainsley could have stood a little of herself.

“Mrs Lincoln, please…” she ventured nervously.

She looked at Lincoln pleadingly but he merely crooked his finger at her and extended an arm.

By what means, Ainsley never remembered, but one minute time hung on end and she had wanted to flee, the next to was being pulled gently but firmly towards Lincoln and manoeuvred around his lap before being thrown across his knee.

She felt the two hard logs of his thighs pressing into hers as she tumbled forward with her head dipped towards the floor and her arms brushing the planks.

“Mr Lincoln… you can’t do this to me,” she wailed.

There was a long pause as Lincoln appeared to be flummoxed by the apparently seamless business suit pants and he even scratched his head. Making this uppity city brat stand up again would lose him both face and momentum. Luckily he was saved by the intervention of his wife who stepped forward and reached under Ainsley’s waist.

“Noo-nooo nooo,” she spluttered as Mrs Lincoln deftly unhooked Ainsley’s pants and drew the tight grey material over her ample behind.

Ainsley was mortified that everyone could see her lacy brief panties and began to wail a protest. But Mrs Lincoln didn’t stop there. With a hook of her thumb she tugged the underwear smoothly over Ainsley’s cool white moons to join her pants at her ankles.

“Mrs Lincoln, do we have a hairbrush to hand?” Lincoln said with a mock Victorian-style jollity.

“Mr Lincoln, I do believe we do,” he wife replied in equal measure.

“C-come on now, I’m sorry okay, this has definitely gone far enough,” Ainsley wailed.

She began to squirm now but nothing could shake her lose and she had to watch Mrs Lincoln’s legs go by her downturned face and then return with a hard clack of heels on the wooden deck of the porch.

“Okay, okay, you crazy people spank, I get it, I guess I… well but can’t we do this somewhere else?” Ainsley protested.

“In a word Miss Greenburg, no,” Lincoln said brusquely.

All over debate ended with a mighty whack to Ainsley’s bare bottom and she gasped.

“This is, this is, oh God,” she moaned.

But any idea that the first spank had hurt was dispelled by the second and she yelled out more decisively. It was all downhill from there and as spank followed spank Ainsley kicked and bawled as she came face to face, that is to say bottom to the very hard face of a hairbrush and with Abraham Heights’ principle domestic past time.

Lincoln brought the brush down hard and with rhythm as he strove not to miss a single spot on Ainsley ample bottom. All the while she kicked a wailed with absolutely no thought of her dignity.

“I’m sorry,” she bawled, “So Sorry.”

“Not sorry enough to give a thought to Tracy, not sorry enough to think about anyone else,” Lincoln scolded, “You left a bath running for half an hour, have you any idea of the mess and damage?”

Despite her predicament, Ainsley did feel a definite pang for Tracy getting the blame but no so much that she would have agreed to this. Just wait until… what, she thought, until the boss hears and the guys back home? Who I am I gonna call, the cops?

The sting in her bottom had passed burn and being really quite unbearable to brazier hot and unquestionably the worst experience of her life. This isn’t happening, this isn’t… I’m… I’m…

“Jeeeessusfookingchrist,” she howled and did a rapid kick of her heels in frustration.

“Language,” Lincoln growled and gave her an extra sound spanking volley that hurt even for, an accomplishment that Ainsley would have sworn was impossible.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wailed over and over.

“Sorry enough to agree that you deserve what Tracy got?” Lincoln snapped.

“Y-eess sir,” she bleated and dipped in her knees as her ankles cross in an attempt to mitigate the burn.

“And what she was going to get?” Lincoln pressed.

“Wh-what?” Ainsley sobbed.

Lincoln let in with another rapid volley that stole Ainsley’s, breath, composure and all reason.

“Yessss ssssssssssssssir,” she honked, kicking her knees in unison as she bucked.

“Then when we’re done here and you have calmed down a little in time out then I’ll show you how we really handle things around here,” Lincoln growled as he set to with another volley.

“Lincoln,” his wife muttered softly and gave him a pitying look.

Tracy too looked pensive even as she looked on in awe.

“Aw…” Lincoln sighed, “I guess it is your first isn’t it?”

“Yes Sir,” Ainsley sobbed.

“Go and stand in the corner before I change my mind,” he said gently.

Ainsley could have kissed him. Her bottom throbbed like a torment of hell and she doubted she would ever sit down again but she felt kneeling gratitude to the man who had spanked her. Compared with the spanking the utter mortifying shame of standing to face the wall in front of everyone was a passing ordeal. After all she was just like one of the family wasn’t she?

She got stiffly to her feet and seized her bottom for a vigorous rub. Then she saw Mrs Lincoln disapproving look and blushed. Of course, it figured, and she snatched her hands away. Nor did she need to be told not to restore her clothing. Bare bottom drill was the order of the day judging by the other girls.

As she put her nose to the wall she sniffed and wondered idly how long she would have to stand there. At least for her the spanking was over, for even as she took her place she heard one of the other girls called away from the wall and told to bend over the porch rail.

There was something compelling about the sound of the strap as it landed across the other women’s bare bottom and Ainsley almost wished she could have turned to watch. Still the night air had begun to feel good on her bare bottom and perhaps for the first time in her adult life she felt clean, at ease even, there was a strange simplicity to it all.

Still behind the strap continued to land and the proximity and discipline of facing the wall was relentless. It was going to be a long night.


Weekly Round-Up


243 car1 clare-fonda-friends-otk-500x350 tumblr_ndlp7sWCSo1sy4tc3o1_500 vlcsnap-2014-10-17-12h31m19s74I sometimes wonder what the reader of this blog imagines about how and where it is written. I have spoken about my attic and my castle high on a hill in London, perhaps I have even mentioned the open fire and antique desk, it is hard now to recall.

Today the open fire isn’t lit and in any case it is a long way from the attic, which is not a metaphorical attic, although sadly the castle is.

On a good week I will sit contemplatively on a Sunday afternoon and write what will be the next day’s (today’s post), with great deliberation scanning and reading all the blogs out there. On a bad week I sit at my desk (in the attic until the study is decorated) on a busy Monday waiting for people to call me back and squeezing a line out between appointments.

Today is such a day and I can’t in all honesty say I have given Spankville the attention it deserves, but you already knew that since many of these round-ups are written at such times. So unfortunately this post is more about me than the others, but stay with it.

I have had a lot (and I do mean quite a bit) of interest in Abraham Heights and people variously suggesting, urging, willing, begging, threatening and demanding that I post a new instalment. Most of these people are rather keen on Donna and her adventures, which is both gratifying and challenging.

The original intention of this series was to write loosely connected random stand-alone shorts that would perhaps over time paint a picture of an impossible town somewhere in provincial America. This is still my hope.

The town was originally born in a short story called the Tutor, which does not even mention Abraham Heights and began to take shape in a story called The Abraham Heights Pre-Scool Graduation Barbecue.

Tomorrow there will be another standalone short just to keep the pot boiling, although it will not feature any of the current characters.

Nor is this only story that has been in demand. Ad Astra, Raw and even Angela have been asked after and all will get an airing in the middling future; so too will the Sinclair Method which has stalled a little but still on the desk so to speak, and will be revisited soon.

There is also a huge demand for Magic and many of you want to buy it all again. It is a huge work and edits and rewrites (to sharpen it and shake out plot errors) are halfway through. I may even write a couple of extra chapters.

Anyway, that is enough about all of that, on to the rest of the round-up.

Love Our Lurker’s 9 is coming up on November 12/13 thanks to Hermione who is continuing Bonnie’s work. More about that nearer the time.

Pixie has a post about the height of chairs and the impact it has on spanking.

The Spank Statement continues its theatre features with more pictures and the stories behind all those collectables Richard Windsor unearths.

The pictures this week were found on: About Spanking, All Things Spanking, Acknowledging Imperfection and RollinScarlet’s Real Magic.

In most cases you can track back to the likes of Scarlet Hill, Dreams of Spanking, Stand Corrected, Raven Hill and or Clare Fonda where these images originated.

On that note I am considering adding professional sites to a separate blog roll to show our appreciation of all those people willing to put money and bottoms to make some great images. What do you think?

Vintage Sunday


hairbrush natalie wood - nick adams - burning hills nude with chair

Cossack spanking

Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“What is it?” Anya called over.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is the castle on fire? Anya asked anxiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sofia,” Ivan gasped and then he laughed.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sss-er,” she mumbled.

“What was that?” Parks barked out.

“Yes… Sir,” she said belligerently.

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

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

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

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

Yvonne rolled up her eyes and let herself slouch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir I wasn’t…” Yvonne wailed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hastily obeyed.

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

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

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

“Are you ready?” he asked gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One more,” he said firmly.

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


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

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

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

“So I hear,” she chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Miss Baker,” she called.

Yvonne froze, not daring to turn around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yvonne’s blush couldn’t be contained now.

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

It was a motion that Janice didn’t miss.

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

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

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

Not for everyone; some girls need to cry.

Weekly Round-Up


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

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

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

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

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

Vintage Sunday


embarassment spanking2 embarassment spanking1970s spanking


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