Vintage Sunday


60s OTK 60s nude Vera Day

bottom3The house was one of those Georgian four-storey affairs. It wasn’t quite a mansion, but it stood in its own grounds 30 or 40 meters from the B road at the end of a short gravel drive. Tamed ivy decorated one corner; a network of dark green leaves ascending to the roof, a rustic detail that softened the over-all look.

I had come to interview Thomas Barrett, an influential city trader who had done very nicely out of the global recession and was well-placed to do even better. But something about the man made me nervous. Not that we had ever met, but in his picture he looked hard and serious; the type of man who wore his suits sharp and left his personal grooming rugged. I also knew he was 48 and tall with trademark eyebrows that gave him an eagle-like look. Intriguingly, the cuttings said little about his personal life.

The front door was black with a brass lion that looked like it would bite my hand off if I knocked. I paused. It was my imagination of course but the metallic face had a hint of a smug smile that seemed to say ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I grabbed the ring that the lion held in his teeth and rapped the heavy door thrice. I thought of Miss Parmenter and a toll of doom; much the same thing in my experience.

After the longest bird-serenaded wait in history the door opened all at once and suddenly. I found myself looking into Thomas Barret’s chest as he towered over me. Well I assumed it was Barrett, because for some reason I declined to raise my head to meet his eyes for several beats.

“Rachel Roux?” he growled.

I paused as if expecting him to scold me and then realised he was seeking confirmation. Get your act together girl, I chided myself, and straightened up.

“Eh… yes Rachel Roux, that’s right,” I gushed, “I am here to…”

“I know why you are here, come this way.” His dark baritone carried authority and I followed him obediently and at a tottering pace as he strode away.

“You are the one who has been pestering my PA,” he accused as he marched down a narrow picture-lined passage towards the rear of the house with this humble reporter scrabbling after him.

I didn’t know how to answer that so I didn’t. Instead I said, “Lovely house you have here.”

He stopped and regarded me like an imbecile. His heavy eyebrow-shrouded gaze scanned me top to bottom and then he grunted and turned to walk on.

“Thank you,” he said as an afterthought. It sounded like the opening rumble of a volcano, I thought.


The interview was conducted in the library at the rear of the house. The large south-facing windows gave the room a delightful aspect and I was better able to read the man who controlled countless billions in global investment.

As ever I plied him with routine questions of the sort that any reference could give answers to and lured him into thinking I was workaday. Of course little-by-little I teased something quote-worthy from him while I angled the interview towards the two or three things I really wanted to know.

At one point he smiled and I assumed his guard was down.

“But what my editor really wants to know is the man behind the legend,” I said artfully. “For instance why have you never married? Is it true you have a penchant for Hollywood screen idols…?”

“What’s my favourite colour?” he cut in with a dry voice.

“No I mean…” Shit, it had all been going so well.

“Miss Roux, it is right and proper, however irritating, that you should show an interest in my investment work, but my private life is my own,” he said crisply.

“Let’s talk about your investments then,” I put in quickly trying to regain the initiative. “Is it true that you have put up £50 million towards Loren Caldor’s latest movie? Rumours are…”

“Miss Roux,” Barrett growled, “My dealings with Ms Caldor are of no concern to you and as for rumours, I never comment on them.”

“No of course but…” I spluttered. “B-but you must admit that there are stories about your rather paternal relationship with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars. I mean she is only 24 and you’re… I mean when asked about you she said ‘Daddy spank.’ Was that a joke? I mean to say… Loren Caldor is well-known for dabbling in BDSM and I mean…” I was losing it and blurting everything I could think of I had read to shake something loose.

“Miss Roux, this interview is at an end.” Barrett stood up and indicated the door.

“But Mr Barrett please, we haven’t…” I sounded whiney and could have kicked myself.

“Miss Roux, since you seem so prurient in your interests, has anyone ever bared your bottom and put you across their knee for a good sound spanking?” As he spoke he crossed his arms and glared at me.

They had of course, but he didn’t know that. Or did he? I thought again of Miss Parmenter’s words and blushed to my ears.

“Now I have to ask you to leave,” he said sharply.


“Charlie is going to kill me,” I wailed once I found myself standing alone on the doorstep.

I played back what I had on the Dictaphone and sighed. It was alright, but it was boring. Barrett hadn’t even given a hint about Caldor, unless you counted the spanking threat. I had to do something drastic.

When I was in the library I had noticed the French windows weren’t locked. If I could only find a tangible link, I thought. If I could confirm the rumour about the £50 million that would be a scoop and any insight into a personal relationship could be used to approach Loren Caldor herself.

By the time my mind had weighed this up I was already on the back lawn staring through the windows. With no sign of Barrett I tried the full-length glass doors. Bingo.

It was almost too easy. The desk draw in the library was unlocked and I quickly found a photo album. There was nothing too incriminating, mostly family shots and several posed with celebrities. The ones featuring Loren Caldor were generic and spoke of nothing intimate and I cursed. I had seen as much in the newspapers.

Then I noticed the lap-top on the desk. It was half open and switched on. It was too much to expect that it wouldn’t be password protected but maybe it hadn’t… I winced as tentatively I eased it fully upright. There was glorious background image dotted with icons and Barrett’s world open to me.


The recent images were labelled in a folder marked Loren and I couldn’t resist. One click and screen of images came to life.

“Oh my God,” I gasped.

My head was spinning and lightheaded. The intimate shots were tame enough, although a few had Loren Caldor in a bikini, some quite revealing. Holiday shots perhaps, but that wasn’t what leapt out at me.

In one shot Loren was standing with her jeans at her ankles facing the corner. Her knickers too were below her knees and it was obvious she had been soundly spanked. I looked up. No doubt about it, the corner she was standing in was the one I was looking at here in the library. This was dynamite.

It was one of those moral dilemmas in life. If I downloaded the pictures or better yet emailed them to myself using Barrett’s own account I could make Charlie a very happy man. But as thrilling as the idea of a Hollywood idol getting spanked and sent to the corner was, it was none of my business. I mused, maybe if I just sent some copies to my mail and didn’t tell Charlie? Surely Barrett would open up enough in return for my continued discretion?

“Loren is learning how to behave,” said a voice that sent my nerves jangling. I must have leapt 10 feet in the air.

My face boiled and I stared at Barrett in the doorway with horror.

“I was just…” I began.

Barrett stood appraising me as if he might a steak and I quailed. I shot a glance at the open French windows and made a dash.

Barrett caught me easily and hauled me back towards the desk and his chair.

“You want to know more about Loren and I?” he asked sharply.

I nodded dumbly and went even redder than before.

“So you have a choice,” Barrett said darkly, “I can call the police and your editor… or you can have a private lesson and if you are a good girl… perhaps another interview.”

“What do you mean?” I gulped.

“Oh I think you know,” he growled.

I swallowed and thought of Charlie. If I failed or Barrett phoned him, my tail was a write-off and that was a cert. As for the police… he was bluffing, but could I risk it?

“Yes,” I said. There was no dignity in my blushing.

Barrett tumbled me across his lap and patted my bottom.

“You’ve done this before,” Barrett chuckled.

I nodded.

My business trousers slid down easily and with them my delicates until both garments were hugging my knees. My bare bottom was heroically posed and pointing up at him and I could have died.

Barrett took something from a draw and then patted my naked behind with it. Some sort of brush and I gulped.

“My hand for a while and then this,” he said.

I nodded again. What else could I say?

The spanking began slowly. His hand was crisp and stingy and the burn built up slowly until I was struggling to breathe evenly and began to squirm. He was obviously an expert and without rushing he spanked me hard for about 15 minutes.

By then I had a very hot bottom, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, but as I found out later, it sure was red.

“I am going to put you in the corner for about an hour,” he said, “I want you to learn some manners. Then I am going to spank you again properly.”

I wriggled and kicked my legs.

“Come on Mr Barrett, I’m sorry, I know I should have…” I wailed. Standing in the corner was just too embarrassing.

“Then you can go to the corner for another hour or two while you think about what you did,” the man told me in a voice fierce with justice.

“Can’t we just get it over with?” I squeaked.

“No,” he barked.


Cornertime is a bitch, especially when you know you have another spanking coming. But at least I was in good company. The Loren Caldor had stood in the very same spot. How often, I wondered, and how long? I wondered to about how many others.

“You are not the first reporter to stand in my corner,” Barrett chuckled as if reading my thoughts, “I even once had a 40-something lady national newspaper editor standing where you are.”

My face was hot, a stark contrast to the chill on my recently spanked bottom as I stood meekly in the corner. Barrett was sitting at the desk behind me, no doubt watching. There hadn’t been that many women editors in Britain and two or three names popped into my head. I couldn’t even think of any others and managed a smile. No way, I almost giggled.

“It’s true,” Barrett said. His voice was lighter now and almost friendly. “On two occasions I have had a women MP or two stood there, one of them a minister.”

“And actresses?” I blurted, my voice muffled by the wall, “Apart from Loren I mean.”

“Oh…” he laughed, “Countless. Some big names too, you would be surprised.”

“And they all submitted quietly,” I tried for some scorn I didn’t really feel.

“Not all, not quietly, but none were coerced. Many didn’t even need the level of persuasion applied to you.” He coughed and I could feel his powerful presence behind me.

I blushed again as I thought about him watching my bum.

“So you are saying…” I supplied the name of a prominent editor, a reasonable guess on my part, and added, “…and ministers of the state let you spank them and make them stand in this corner?”

He didn’t contradict my choice of editor and only laughed. “You are,” he chuckled.

I blushed again and blurted, “But I am only…”

“You’re not only anything,” he cut me off. “You are no different to them, not when it comes down to it. Girls like you and all the others have certain needs. It suits them to think they have no choice.”

“What choice did you give me?” I shifted my weight and made to scratch my bottom.

“Stop fidgeting,” he barked. “You had a choice. You are not stupid. Even if I had called the police you would only have been escorted from the house. As for your editor… what would have been the big deal?”

I didn’t tell him that Charlie would have spanked me too, but he was right. Why did I always end up in these scrapes?

“I think it is time for your proper spanking,” he said, “Come here.”

When I turned he was holding a large dark wood brush. It was smaller than a bath brush, but it certainly wasn’t for his hair. Or mine.

“Please I…” my voice was thick and I felt some tears pricking at my eyes.

Mercifully he didn’t let me dwell on my fate and in a moment I was back across his knee with my bare bottom jutting upwards.

“You nasty little sneak,” he growled, “You self-serving brat…” he spanked me suddenly and robbed me of breath.

“Sorry,” I gasped.

“I’ll teach you what it means to cross me,” he snarled, spanking me three or four times.

I hissed and groaned. Actually within a minute I had no idea what I did. My world was bottom, pain and his firm steady voice scolding me and soothing me by turns as he continued to spank.

A good spanking has a tangy effect. Tangy is what I call it. A sort burn and sting together. Overtime it grows and builds until I can’t cope and under this it begins to ache. Muscles ache and the skin covering them burns and stings, it’s an effective combination.

Somewhere about halfway through I began to yell and then cry. It didn’t deter him. Barrett spanked me for ever and without a pause.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good,” I sobbed.

“No you won’t,” Barrett chuckled, “But I am going to make you wish you knew how to be.”

I have to give it to the man. This spanking was among my top 10 worse spankings of all time. I don’t think I have ever been so thoroughly surrendered. Cornertime afterwards was a celebration of sobbing and I felt cleansed. Not that I had slightest idea how long he had me standing there. Quite frankly after a spanking like that, it was none of my business.

At least I got my second interview.

dames_spankingFor those who like a e-books, LSF have published another novella of mine entitled Spanking the Dames. It comprises of all six of the Justice Adjustment Stories in one volume.

Here is the publishers blurb:

It’s very much business as usual at the somewhat dilapidated New York offices of William Wendell Wentworth’s Private Justice Adjustment Incorporated, an outfit set up with the sole purpose of handing out well-deserved spankings to dames who have it coming to them.

First client of the day is Ophelia Open, sent there by her ex-husband after he discovered that she and her sister, Sophie, had swindled him out of some money. Ophelia soon finds herself stripped and her bare bottom on the receiving end of William Wentworth’s leather belt. Later, once her punishment is concluded, she learns that her ex- might be prepared to give their marriage another go. Sophie, however, has opted to skip town and make a run for it, but Wentworth dispatches his employee, George Benedict, to track her down. Once George has caught up with her, she is taken to a woodshed and, bending over a trestle, is subject to an initial spanking with a razor strop followed by a vigorous switching. It seems, however, despite her chastisement at his hands, that Sophie might be falling for George.

Meanwhile, back in New York, 30-year-old blonde Carolyn Brady has arrived at Wentworth’s offices with an interesting proposition…

Cherry Blossom


I was a little girl once.

I was an awkward little girl. Everything would confuse me. I would sit on my father’s lap and know I made him sad. I would ask why and he would deny it. I would see my mother cry and ask her why she was sad and she would deny it too.

1indigo6I only knew it was my fault. I knew that I was ignorant, that I said the wrong thing and everything I did was silly. I was stupid, ugly and it was my fault that people wanted to give up on me.

I can’t remember a time without the strain of denied unhappiness. Denied unhappiness is the worst kind. I felt a dread, a deep ocean dread that makes everything hazy and heavy. We could not speak of it or even acknowledge it and when I tried to I made it all worse. I was the cause of all the pain and I wished I could disappear to make it all better for people again.

I grew up slowly and I grew up fast. There was no time for childhood in my childhood. I mocked girls who were loved. I laughed at their weak, foolish delusions and at how spoiled they were. My mother encouraged me in this and my father looked at me sadly and I knew that if I were a better girl that I could have been like those girls; sweet smelling and innocent. They were cherry blossom. I knew they were loved. Those stupid girls, those sun kissed girls, those cherry blossom girls.

I was all grown up by ten. I had learned deceit and denial. I had learned to bitterly fold in on myself and accept my lot in life. I would still dream and when I woke up I would find I had scratched my face or my chest. There would be skin under my nails and blood on my pillow. We all ignored this and waited for me to accept myself and descend without a fight to where I was supposed to be.

1indigo4I accepted myself for years. I accepted that I should be hurt and ignored. I accepted that the cherry blossom girls were to be pitied for their lack of understanding of how cold the world was. I envied them too but I knew that was a stupid, laughable feeling. I was forever out of their pack. I was resin, a dark, sticky, irritating substance sticking to the bark of the tree of life.

I was struck dumb when I met you. Struck dumb by the choices I had made, caught still in the amber of my life.  I knew that my parents had old hurts passed on to them before and that their sadness was not my fault.  I knew they gave me their sadness only to keep me safe, to keep me from hoping for anything more. I ached still. I was in pain when I thought too hard. I had tried to build a life and lost so many times. I lost only the invisible things. I seemed to be doing so well stuck in the respectable choices I had made, I had chosen a respectable path and a good life. I sat still in it with my back ramrod straight.

It hurt to meet you. It hurt to see your eyes. It hurt to hear your breath in my ear and to feel your hand over mine. It wasn’t like being born, birth is soft and new, birth has pliable skin and wide eyes. Instead it was forcing my way from some dark cave, though rubble and thorns. I was dirty and bruised, ravenous for sustenance and grabbing at anything I could get.

There was nothing delicate about it.

1indigo5Except the love, except the whispers and the kisses, they were delicate. They were a hint at the love that waited for me.

I remember leaving you in those first months, as I drove away from our visits I would sob and retch as I took myself home. Blinded by tears and pain I could not understand why I wept. Now it is obvious, it was my rebirth and entering the world is always painful, the light is a shock even when loving arms reach out to hold you tight.

I could have hated you at first for the hope. The hope was like a bruise. Every time I thought I could be loved I hurt more than I could ever have dreamed possible. I had loved before, felt was I thought was love before and each time had been hurt, often by good men but they were the wrong men and I hurt. I did not want to try to live, to try to come alive. You knew this and you stayed still as I told you I wanted you to go, as I told you it was too hard to try to live again, as I tried to push myself back into the hold of my old life.

I came to you knowing everything about myself and my life. Within weeks I knew nothing at all. I could have torn at you. I could have ripped you apart for bringing uncertainty to me. I ran for miles and miles through the woods. Each step was a question and I never ran far enough for the answer. I wore myself out hunting for truth and for what I really am.

The true horror was at night. I would lie awake and dream of you. I would search myself out, arch my back and from hundreds of miles away you would whisper in my ear all those sweet forbidden words that I was never meant to hear. But worse, when I came I would call back to you. I would say that words that were forbidden to girls like me. My eyes would fly open and I would sit up in the dark. I would hate myself for that hope. I would stare at the dark trying to will myself to unsay the words I had set free. I would mock myself for being so stupid, for being deluded.

You did not stop loving me. You still do not stop loving me.

You do not stop loving me when I am angry, awkward, when I test you and when I push you as hard as I ever could push anyone. I lie with half truths. I lied to myself. I shove us both. In truth I find a life of pain easier than I life where I am safe and loved.

You never stop loving me.

1indigo3Now, you pick words from my head like flowers from a field and present them to me. This is a gift you have.  I do not say these words to you. I don’t hint but you find them and you say them out loud. I have no idea how you do this. I have asked you many times and you tell me that you know because you love me.

And then, you let me say the words that a girl like I was has no right to say. I stammered them at first. I clutched tightly to your neck and whispered them in your ear. I remember how it took me hours. Really, it had taken me years.

And now, I speak these words freely. Forbidden words that should be out of my reach, I pluck them eagerly each day. I throw them around me like cherry blossom and sit amongst the petals and laugh.

You recreated me. You show me how I can tell the truth and still be loved. You show me how I can be loved. You love me like I did not dare to dream of being loved.

When I leave you or you leave me, I cry. I think you cry too. I think we both remember a life before we found each other. I think we remember a colder, darker life where we lived with determination and resolve, like tired ill trained soldiers marching in the rain.

We found each other though. We found each other despite us being neatly ensconced in the wrong lives, despite having the approval of society, despite everything.

You have made me a better person. You make me a better person. When I met you I did not think I believed in love. I certainly did not think I was capable of loving or of being loved.

You love me. I love you. We have stronger hearts now.

I don’t have the words for all this. But I keep on trying, don’t I? My writing meanders, I should stop but I don’t want to.

You gave me back my faith, faith I never had in my whole life. I know what the old films are about now. I understand those grandiose statements in airports and train stations. I understand the softly spoken words and music that nudges at your heart.

I love you. You love me.

You made me a little girl again. I am a happy, loved, cherry blossom little girl whose life is an adventure. I look at you and I know what faith is and what it is for.

I love you. You love me.

I will keep writing that in a million ways my whole life long.1indigo7


vin argentinaI was surfing one reference from another and ended up on Google reader reading about wife spanking in the 1930s. The dateline put me in mind of a post on Slapper-At’s published here about the seeming craze of young women seeking out spanking fun during the roaring twenties, 1930s and into the 1940s.

The OTK illustration below was used in a magazine article of this time but then I remembered a book I had with anecdotes about spanking in this era, which had similar illustrations.

There was too much on this in the end to do this subject justice, especially when my concentration for research isn’t all that it might be. But here is a taster for a subject to which we might return.

Ray Visconte of Lousiville was acquitted on all charges last week after spanking his wife. The wife, 29-year-old wife Velma Visconte, testified that she was in no way put out by her husband’s treatment of her and in her own words, “she probably deserved it anyway.”

Police had been earlier called to the house in the Albemarle District following a disturbance. On arriving police found 38-year-old Ray Visconte spanking his wife across his knees on the steps of their apartment house.

Despite assurances from Mrs Visconte that she was no worse for wear from the experience her husband was arrested for disturbing the peace.

She was later quoted as saying, “Ray sure has a heavy hand and knows how to apply it when he needs to.”

1-1930s OTK

Weekly Round-up


1wr catmen_parody_800 1wr dare-you-ass-500x733 1wr fifty-shadesof-grey 1wr pearls 1wr redoor21wr 301I seem to have been afflicted by Indigo’s ill-health and outside of work struggle to concentrate for more than 10 minutes on any piece writing. Notwithstanding that, I have had a chance to check out Spankville this week.

I understand that Blogspot has back-pedalled on its no-erotica stance, so fingers crossed. But the original deadline hasn’t passed yet so let’s see what is left standing after next week.

Speaking of non-erotica stances, Madonna was on TV the other night and indulged in a bit of tongue-in-cheek face-sitting. The face being her own and in the form of a photograph, but it isn’t the first bit of mainstream mickey-taking of the new laws I have seen.

Also on the subject of media the Spank Statement has had another illustrated critique of a spanking play. This time the German 19th century play Spring Awakening that features a young woman’s growing obsession with spanking and sex, which includes a caning/switching scene.

Elsewhere Less Than Three carried a nice article on caning from the subbie’s perspective. Essential reading for tops and Doms.

The pictures this week are from: Scarlet’s Real Magic, Nik Zula, CutiePie, Au Fils Des Jours, All Things Spanking and Acknowledging Imperfection.

Vintage Sunday


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desert caningPart 1 can be found here.

The Landrover hit a bump and the whole vehicle lurched sideways as it gripped the desert road.

“Ah,” Megan groaned as she jerked back to make contact with the seat for a moment. Her expression when she eased herself back onto her knees was a pained one.

“I told you should have knelt up facing backwards,” Ahmed chuckled.

Megan gave him a daggered look and made a pout with her lips. There was no way she would have left the police station and driven through the town in such an undignified posture and she wasn’t much in the mood to give Ahmed the satisfaction now.

“I’m alright,” she said sullenly, giving even more emphasis to her pout.

“Sure you are,” Ahmed chuckled again, “No one would even suspect that you were a woman who wasn’t going to sit down for a week.”

Megan blushed and dipped her head. It was true and there was no point hiding it.

“Make that a month,” she said ruefully, finally finding a smile.

He laughed.

Megan cast her eyes to take in the desert night and gasped at the million-billion stars. In other circumstances…

“I’m sorry,” she said at last.

His face became serious and he shrugged. He knew she had had a hard time for a western woman or any girl for that matter, but he had told her the rules on that first day and she had been warned. It was hardly his fault if he hadn’t been able to explain every possible way in which she could have run into trouble. That was why he had told her not to wander off.

Furthermore he had given her a choice of leaving or taking her punishment. She had chosen the latter, so be it. His heart fluttered and he supressed a smile at this. Apart from the unfamiliar unsettled feeling in his stomach he was glad.

“Why exactly are you sorry?” he asked without looking at her.

The road ahead was dark and winding. Below the stars he could see only grey on grey amid a world of black. The Landrover lurched again and Megan gave another little squeak.

“Did you hear what I said?” His voice was sharp and authoritative. It made her a little scared.

“Yes I… I was thinking,” she said quickly.

He glanced sideways at her with a frown. Not that she could see it in the dark, but his body language was a shout of impatience. Megan’s buttocks clenched.

“I know I caused you a lot of trouble,” she said quietly, “I think you went out on a limb to get me out of that mess didn’t you?”

Ahmed shrugged and pretended to only interested in the road ahead.

“I mean I don’t know why a silly mistake like that would cause all that…” she started indignantly. But then she paused. “Sorry,” she added quickly, “I know you warned me. I just forgot…” then she sighed, “No I didn’t, I… I’m just used to getting my own way I guess.”

“Then it is just as well that there can be nothing between us because I too am used to getting my own way,” he said sharply, his fists gripping the steering wheel hard. Then he added, “And I usually get it.”

The confidence arrogance of his statement might once have appalled her, but he was only saying what she had believed of herself. Now it thrilled her somehow, but not so much because of that. ‘Something between us,’ he had said it. Everything else receded now, it tumbled into the void or was outshone by his light… she babbled in her head for a moment before becoming embarrassed at her unexpressed romantic tosh.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“I am a prince and I don’t think you understand…” he sounded a little pompous and she almost laughed. God she loved him.

That thought startled her. Was that true? Her heart raced as if she were falling and she grabbed at the interior door handle to steady herself.

“Not that,” she said lightly, “You said there might be something between us?”

His jaw clamped shut and his mouth became a defiant line.

“In London or LA perhaps,” he sighed, “Or even here if I didn’t… for a while anyway. But the magistrate and those… men like my grandfather… to them you are… you would be if I… if we…” He stopped the car with a jolt and turned to face.

“I understand,” she said.

Her hand reached out then and gently touched his face. It was a forbidden act she knew. Under his law he could have her soundly whipped and perhaps worse. She didn’t regret it.

Ahmed closed his eyes as if picturing another world and then gently took her fingers and caressed them. Then leaning forward his eyes hard and open he kissed her on the mouth.

The embrace lasted an age.


Neither had spoken for an hour. There was nothing to say. Ahmed knew that what once might have been a harmless dalliance for him was forever beyond his reach. If his grandfather even suspected that he had feelings for her then she might even be in danger. He was even beginning to think that their small adventure together might be a mistake.

He told himself that he had promised that he would see to her punishment and anyway duty demanded . He had given his word to the magistrate and Megan herself that he would give her lashes. Now 988 remained and he would give her them all. He grinned until beside him in the Landrover she noticed and gave him a puzzled frown.

A sound spanking might consist of 200 or more spanks if given at speed over a few minutes. It might be fun to give her three or four spankings across his knee in the coming days. It was no more than she would get regularly if she was to become his wife.

He slapped at the wheel between his hands in frustration. Where had that thought come from? It was impossible.

“What’s wrong?” Megan asked him.

He shook his head and forced a smile.

“It is nothing,” he said dismissively.

In a pig’s ear, she thought irritably, why couldn’t he just tell her?

“I have something to show you,” he said to change the subject.

Megan who had been lost in thoughts of her own until his angry gesture found an odd hope in the statement. She was about to ask what he meant when the vehicle slowed.

“There,” Ahmed said nodding forward.

The moon was low and was as big as a house where it hovered above the horizon. It burned red like the desert sands by day and Megan gaped. The great round Luna disc framed an ancient building that rose from the sand like the fingers of God reaching to catch it.

She could see at once that it was a roofless ruin of some Greek or Roman temple sandblasted by the ages.

“Oh my god,” Megan gasped.

“They say it was built by Alexander the Great,” Ahmed said proudly. “Beyond it is an oasis with silver blue water bordered by palms.”


The fire crackled, sending tongues of red-yellow flames to lick the sky. Ahmed had insisted on setting a blaze before they turned in so that he could heat some water for tea and a little tinned soup.

“Can’t I just look around the temple before we go to bed?” Megan said excitedly.

Ahmed glared at her.

“Do you never learn?” he growled, “there will be time enough tomorrow, but for now you will get some sleep.”

“But…” she protested.

Ahmed cocked one eyebrow, his face picked out by the firelight and ghostly. For a moment it gave him a terrifying aspect.

“Sit down and eat,” he barked.

Megan fell back, but as her tender tail touched the hard ground she winced. The heat in her bottom switched to her face and embarrassed and without meeting his eyes she shifted her weight onto her knees. When she finally braved a glance at the prince he was holding a heated bowl of soup to her. She made to speak again but he silenced her with his eyes and she took the bowl with a sullen glower.

They sat in silence for a while and then she caught him looking at her. There was an unmistakable amusement in his eyes and she fixed her attention on her dwindling soup for a full minute before her face cracked.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Oh I was wondering how often you need to be spanked before you learn,” he chuckled.

She supressed a giggled and shot her tongue out at him. This time he laughed.

“It has been a long day and the night is half gone,” he said, still smiling, “So it’s bedtime.”

Being sent to bed gave her an odd thrill but she hid it from him with a pout.

“Bed,” he pressed her with mock severity.

Yes Sir, she thought and moved to obey him.


The temple was a magical place. Megan could indeed believe that once Alexander himself trod its floors and gazed upon its wall. Later empires too had left their mark and faded exotic patterns decorated many of the surviving stones.

But best of all was the cool shade that sheltered them even in the heat of the day as they strolled through the ruins. Here and there were portals and marble windows through which they could glimpse the golden desert beyond before a twist in the time worn stone led down another byway into the labyrinth of walls.

Better yet was the oasis. Unlike the previous pond she had seen this one was straight out of an old Valentino movie with high dense green palms shading a clear blue pool bordered by glistening rocks. It was glorious to have unfettered access to water and as she swam she felt all the aches and stings of her recent misadventures flow away.

“I have made dinner,” Ahmed called to her when at last the sun had turned to red fire in the eastern sky.

Megan screwed up her face at the thought of yet more canned fare and slunk deeper into the water. She was naked now, having slipped free of her costume as soon as he had returned to their camp.

As if reading her mind he cast a thumb at the sunset and said, “It will soon be too cold to swim and with it our supper. It will get cold I mean.”

“We can always reheat a can,” she said with a show or reluctance.

For form’s sake she wrapped her arms across her breasts, but she knew he wouldn’t look however much she wished he would. Not that he hadn’t seen her at least partially naked before. Her spankings, never far from her mind danced to front of her thoughts.

“Oh tonight we can do better than tinned food,” he said enigmatically, “Now come out of there and get dressed,” he ordered.

Dinner was two small birds cooked on a spit while Ahmed made a brown spicy sauce in a small pan. There was also rice cooked with pieces of fruit and some fresh vegetables and unleaded bread.

“Make the most of it, the cooler couldn’t accommodate anymore and tomorrow we are back to tinned food,” he said with a grin.

Megan grinned back. It was certainly the best she had eaten since coming to his country.

“Quite the cook aren’t you?” she said with a wink.

“The army teaches you many things,” he shrugged.

They talked then for an hour or two, until the moon was well up and the low night breeze was singing over the sands.

“Time to turn in,” he said at last, “Tomorrow there is something I must attend to and for that we will both need our sleep.”

Megan frowned as if trying to remember something and then she did.

“You um… you don’t mean…?” she muttered.

“You’ll find out,” he replied in a serious tone, “Now no more talk.”


“How are your marks?” Ahmed asked Megan after breakfast.

The sun was fully up and the heat was already fast approaching baking.

“Are we staying here another day or do you want to move on?” Megan asked, avoiding his question.

All the same her hands had strayed to her bottom. There was some faint residual ache and as far as she could tell using only a compact mirror there were only a few yellowing stripes extant on her posterior.

“I noticed you sat well enough for your meal,” the prince pressed her.

Megan blushed and made a pout.

“I wouldn’t mind staying another day. I am not sure we saw all the ruins yesterday and the pool is something else. Did you say that…” she continued her prevarication until he cut her off.

“I promised to continue your correction and I can see now that it is overdue,” Ahmed said sharply.

“Come on, don’t you think I learned my lesson?” she said in a somewhat whiney voice. It wasn’t the tone she had been going for. “I said I was sorry.”

“I believe you,” he said in a voice heavy with true regret, “But I gave my word of honour to the magistrate.”

“But it’s a thousand lashes, I couldn’t possibly… please Ahmed,” she wailed, frantically looking around suddenly wondering if she might flee.

“I never promised to use a cane or whip,” Ahmed said in a voice like steel, “I think a good sound spanking will suffice and take us a good way through to that number.”

“You’re kidding,” Megan gasped and clutched at her tail.

“I am not kidding, as you put it,” Ahmed growled, “I am sure any half decent spanking could account for half of that number over several minutes. It is no more than a girl can handle.”

“Look if you think… I mean just because… A-Ahmed…” as broken nervous words tumbled from her mouth she slowly backed away from him.

The desert prince took a positive step forward and caught the hapless journalist easily as he pitched her headlong over one shoulder. She weighed nothing as he carried her into the shade of the nearest temple wall and even her feeble struggled could not trouble him.

As he lowered the woman to his lap he resolved not to count the slaps too closely as he spanked her. He was letting her off lightly and so long as the spirit of his honour was satisfied an exact count would have been undignified as well as tedious.

He fixed on an average assumed spank-rate of 50 per minute and resolved to give her 10 minutes worth. But first he had to bare her bottom, after all it was only just.

“N-nooo please,” Megan protested as she tried to hang on to her safari pants, but it was a futile task.

In a trice he had dragged down her pants and panties and now sat staring at the firm dome of her tight lightly bruised bottom.

“I have to confess that although honour demands it this is no chore,” he chuckled and brought his hand down for the first spank.

“Ahh,” Megan hissed and made a grimace with her face.

She was still tender there but the embarrassment was worse.

“This is so… so undignified,” she blurted in a pained voice.

But the coming pain was even more of a trial. True to his promise Ahmed belaboured her with a strong steady arm for spank after spank. Her bottom quickly became dark pink and then full red as she bucked and gasped across his knee.

“Okay, alright, I’m… I’m s-sorry,” she wailed.

This after only five minutes when the sting was already beyond something she could laugh off. But amid it all she thought how very much worse a cane or whip would have been if carried to this extent and despite her caterwauling she was truly sorry.

“I will make sure of that,” Ahmed barked at her as he let his arm swing in hard and fast.

“Oooh,” Megan shrieked, “This is… this is… oh ahhhh…”

So long as he bested his promise to the magistrate Ahmed saw no harm in spanking her a little more on his own account besides the beauteous woman looked all the more beautiful with a scarlet sheen on her nether curves.

“You are enjoying this you bastard,” Megan blurted painful the first true tear rolling down the side of her nose.

“Bastard is it?” Ahmed growled, “You Americans are so free with your insults.”

Megan squealed as the prince’s hand stung her with some bite and she began babbling her apologies.

To be continued…

biding my time


indigo-signature-bannerA letter written to a friend on tumblr.

Dear Scarlet,

You are such a comfort, in the way that only a true friend can be. You offer me just enough vision of hope and of magic that each time you write I feel all at once peace and the tremulous possibility of a universe whose every star is held aloft by meaning.

I struggle to know what it is we do, to describe how we live, this life of spankings, scoldings, secrets and love. I want to know what its name is, I want to define it and tie it down so I may study it. But I cannot find the name for what we do.

I suspect you will tell me that the word does not matter and then, you will tell me in a whisper like incantation that it is words that we use to make the world around us real, that every syllable is a spell.

Growing up I dreamed of this life. I would find a strong, dominant, spanky kind of man whose arms were thick and whose mind was nimble. We would fall in love, we would struggle and fight but then find our feet and a rhythm that allowed us to waltz.

cave5It is not like that.

My God, it is like a battle zone but we love one another. Sometimes there are limbs every where and we lie panting and staring at each other on the floor- and not in a good way. Other times we do the same and it is wonderful, we find ourselves in the midst of destruction, we rebuild using what remains standing in the ruins.

But still, I have decided I want to find a word for what we do. I want to start there, to start again. Grown ups falling in love should define some terms (and maybe sign a treaty sealed with wax.)

So here are the words we could use …

This thing we do- too vague and cutsie. It is what we say in (kinky) company when we do not want to exclude anyone. It is so keen not to offend that it offers no parameters, and no declaration of intent. It is a weak, lily-livered word when used by two people to describe what they do. It also takes too long to say, and when you use its initials it takes even longer. It is the set menu at the Chinese restaurant, no one gets what they like but at least you avoid interminable conversations about the meal. Well, I like talking about it, I like clarity and if I can’t have some pak choi just what is the point? cave6

A traditional life style- well, I like the way this sounds because it makes me think one day I will know what a hydrangea is, that I will whip up dinner at twenty minutes notice for his work colleagues and that maybe I will turn into Doris Day. And then I realise that I can look up a hydrangea on google, he is just as likely to cook for my wok colleagues as I am for his and that I only really want to be Doris Day in the song with the lesbian overtones in Calamity Jane which I think misses the point somewhat.  I am not traditional, I think I’d like to be but I am writing this in a coffee shop on a lap top I bought with my own money and I like that. I like my job, I like my freedom. I like traditional as long as it fits into my modern lifestyle and sods off when I need to get my car sorted out and don’t want to be patronised or cheated  by some bloke who thinks it is 1955 and the little lady won’t mind an extra £150 on the bill.

cave4Taken in Hand- I do love this site and the people on it are often as kind and thoughtful as anyone anywhere. It is just I don’t always want to be taken in hand. I want to be challenged, set free and mentored to be my very best self. And also I think this life style requires a lot of the dominant partner. It asks him (or her) to have tremendous capacity for personal growth and self control. We both alter and that is why this name does not fit well with me.

Domestic Discipline- I can clean a ruddy sink and so can DJ. I don’t want this to live a small life or to be domesticated and I think it is so much more than discipline. It is mentoring, it is love, it is confidence (on both sides) to challenge ourselves and each other to be our very best selves. I can keep a house tidy but I am really, really good at paying someone else to keep a house tidy- almost like I was born to do it.  I am very often not in the house. I am very often in the big outside world and I like it there.

cave2I have been reading recently (about twenty minutes before I started writing this) about the history of magic in England- it is a much better book than it sounds. In the early chapters caves are referred to as the earliest places felt to be magical, they were the natural cathedrals, mosques and temples of our ancestors. Writing this I am thinking again of caves but of Plato (who is popping up with vigorous regularity in the various books I am reading at the moment- clearly I should invest in a copy of Cosmopolitan in order to challenge my brain less.)  It is only now that I can see what Plato and these talks of caves are whispering to me for.

I know you know all about Plato’s cave but I am going over it again for my own edification.

The allegory of the cave describes people who have lived all their lives chained to the wall of a  cave facing the blank wall within. Behind them is a large fire (they do not burn, all health and safety concerns are taken into consideration) and in front of the fire but behind the people, various objects pass. These objects cast shadows on the wall and the chained people watch these shadows and discuss them. These shadows are all they know of reality. They never see a dog, they see the shadow of a dog and so their description of a dog is that of a shadow but they never know this.

I watch the TV and I see these shadows. I see the shadows in culture and in every part of media that envelops me. I see the shadows of women in political forums, I see the shadows of men fumbling through adverts and through news articles. I am subsumed by knowledge of shadows of reality. Women are not what we are told they are. I am not the woman I read about in the words of people trying to create the world around me. DJ is not the man I see in magazines or on television – he is more complex than any of them.

I think, the way DJ and I live is turning from the cave and trying, like the old philosophers did, to see reality. We have to ignore all the lies of society and of the adverts and think hard about who we are and what we want.

That is why it is so hard. The reality of me is part Doris Day, part worker, part thinker, part child, part woman and so on and so on. I have so many layers of values given to me by society that they are hard to spot let alone to rid myself of. These words,  ‘TTWD’, ‘Domestic Discipline’, ‘Taken in Hand’, are all useful and wonderful but keep me entrapped in my cave visions. They offer me someone else’s visions of what I should be or could be. They do the same to DJ.

My submission is to DJ and to truth. My femininity and his masculinity are for us to discover and unveil. The stories I read in books about how to discover my inner woman, how to be a good submissive, how to care for my man- they are all illusion. I wish they were not. I wish I could go to a book shop and find the answers to how to do this incredibly hard and infinitely rewarding life.

No books can help me, they are not canon. But I am lucky enough to have friends like Scarlet and a lover like DJ and a brain of my very own. You have the your own resources, people you trust and a brain of your own.  We are all very lucky.


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