Vintage Sunday


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wolf21Part I here

Marsha MacLeod took a deep breath and screwed up her face. It was so unfair, how was she to know that the Stone twins were running a scam; and how come she had to be on duty when they did? What about Danson, he was supposed to be in charge when Adam and John pulled their little stunt? Then out of the corner of her eye she spotted a movement and her heart leapt. It was nothing, just someone passing by. The gods she hated the open-sided barn, anyone passing could see her. Not that there was anyone to see, she thanked small mercies, not yet anyway.

When Garrick had asked her to meet him in the barn she knew she was in for it. She had hardly slept a wink and at breakfast her usual healthy appetite had deserted her.

She tried to console herself with the idea that it could be worse. She could be outside the barn with her strides and panties around her ankles facing the barn wall for the edification of everyone. It had happened and more than once, although that indignity was usually reserved for the younger girls. Just girls, she thought, the men got a bull whip or a fist, if it ever came to that. Worse she supposed, but damn sexist. Some traditions died hard. Even in the privacy of her head she convinced herself that she would have preferred that option. A spanking was so… so embarrassing. She blushed as she remembered her last run in with Augusta. That hadn’t been so very long ago, but at least it had been in private. It had been years since she had earned Garrick’s wrath.

More footfalls outside made her jump and she edged over to the open side of the barn and peeked around at the compound. Times Square had less people in it. Her heart sank. Even if they didn’t wander round to the shed area to watch everyone would hear everything. Marsha groaned and ran nervous fingers through her thick wayward blonde hair. I am damn well 30-years-old, she cursed the world. It is so unfair, what did I do?

No one ever listened to her, not even when she pointed out what other people were doing wrong. No one ever took her seriously. She got blamed for everything, those damn twins, why didn’t they… she kicked the side of the barn and snarled through her teeth in frustration.

Maybe she should go and do some chores. Obviously Garrick was a no-show, too busy maybe. Maybe he forgot? She had been there hadn’t she? Marsha seriously wondered if such a move could work. She had tried it on with grandma many times, especially as she had gotten older. Her heart sank at the memory. It had never worked then.

Grandma was long gone but in Marsha’s memory the lines of the switch on her bare bottom lived on.

“I am darn near 21 Grandma, Grandma, you can’t do this,” she remembered the last time, or one the last times. Her denims and panties had already be forfeited, as she remembered, a battle already lost. I was such a dumb kid; Marsha smiled, lost in time for a merciful second.

A switching back home meant stripping down first and then fetching a two or three long springy apple switches from the back yard. Hell to pay if the neighbours’ kids were about: especially at 20. Then there was Cousin Lou who still helped Grandma with the farm. He usually got see everything as did any other family, friend or casual visitor.

Two minutes into a session with Grandma Marsha had no longer cared. By then her butt was so welted and blistered that she was hollering for divine intervention. How Grandma kept it up so very long without breaking skin the gods only knew.

The real shame had come later: nose to the porch wall, sobbing fit to burst and with a fire-sore bare bottom cooling in the breeze. Mockery was not allowed, but Marsha had still had to suffer insincere sympathy describing her humiliation and comments like, ‘she has a bottom like a relief map of the Blue Ridge Mountains.’ All while Grandma, Lou and anyone else around sat on the porch nearby drinking coffee to talk over the wickedness of the young and just punishments. That is if they did not ignore her entirely.

Feeling strangely nostalgic, Marsha shook her head and smiled.

“Is something funny?” Garrick asked as he strolled into the barn.

“No Sir,” Marsha gasped, taking hold of her heart as she startled.


Stacy had watched Garrick cross the yard with purpose and nudged Alice. “I wonder where he is going,” she said to her friend, “maybe it has something to do with us.”

Alice levelled her gaze and then shrugged.

“Come on let’s follow him,” Stacy said eagerly.

“We’ll be seen,” Alice protested.

Stacy made a face as if Alice was being wet and took her arm. “We will make a wide turn of the yard and come out behind the sheds over by the barn. We won’t make it obvious and we might learn something. Besides, what if we are seen? No one said we couldn’t.”

Alice frowned and not having anything better to do she complied. Arm in arm two ladies went for a stroll.

Meanwhile in the barn Garrick was staring down Marsha and chewing her out with his eyes. “So why did you let Adam and John through the gates last night?” he eyed the 30-year-old blonde and tried to see her as anything but an errant teen. She certainly filled her pants out well and was no skinny kid. He looked her over and weighed her up. From the way she carried herself, juxtaposition to her make-up and hair, she was still trying to decide if she was all woman or one of the guys. He knew many in the pack like her.

At a head shorter, Marsha had to look up and racked her brains for a response. “There you’re sons, I thought, I mean… they said…” she mumbled.

“They said, what had I said? If you are too stupid to follow a simple instruction like ‘let no one out,’ then why didn’t you ask Danson?” he growled.

Marsha opened her mouth and closed it again. “He wasn’t around,” she offered lamely.

“He was doing his job,” Garrick said, “Wasn’t he?”

Marsha looked down and felt like a teen. “I guess,” she muttered.

“Look at me when I am talking and don’t mumble,” Garrick snarled.

Marsha jerked to attention and tried to meet his eyes. Instantly she looked away to the side and winced. “I’m sorry,” she offered.

Garrick visibly relaxed and shook his head paternally. “Are you?” He sounded genuinely impressed. “Why?”

“I let your sons out, I know now that I shouldn’t,” she said hopefully.

Garrick’s eyes narrowed incredulously and for a second he couldn’t find the words. Then he said in exasperation, “We’ll obviously, but you should have known that before you let them through.”

“I did,” Marsha protested, “I mean… I thought it would be okay, I know now that it wasn’t and I am sorry.”

“You know now or you knew then, which is it? You keep saying you’re sorry, but why are you sorry?” Garrick pressed her.

Marsha didn’t understand and fell back on chewing her lip as she had when her Grandmother had scolded her. “I guess I am sorry for screwing up,” she suggested.

Garrick looked to heaven and sighed. “What if it happens again?” he said wearily.

“It won’t, honest it won’t,” Marsha blurted.

“And what if they need to get out, as evidently they did last night?” he pressed her.

Marsha gaped and looked up into his face trying to read him. It was a terrifying visage, even though she sensed he was trying to cut her some sort of break. “Eh…” she proffered.

“You screwed up, how?” he asked her again.

Marsha swallowed. “I let them out and you said…” she squeaked before tailing off.

“Why did you let them out? Were you trying to piss me off?” Garrick suggested.

“No,” she blurted, “No Sir, I… I thought I would get into trouble if I didn’t.”

Garrick nodded. “There we have it,” he said. “Scared of whom, certainly not me?”

“I didn’t know what to do?” she whined.

Garrick’s nostrils flared and he turned away to make a small circuit of the barn.

Marsha’s mouth was dry and her heart was pounding. She would rather a spanking from Augusta than this inquisition. She made a dumb mistake, what did he want her to say?

“Marsha, how old are you?” he said almost conversationally.

“I’m 30,” she sounded almost proud.

“Thirty? Going on 13 maybe,” he sighed. God he was getting old, he thought. She looked hardly out of high school to his mind.

Marsha blushed.

“Alright,” Garrick said finally, his hands began to unbuckle his belt and pull it through the loops on his pants. “You think about what you did wrong and let me know. Meanwhile let’s get this over with.”

Marsha’s eyes darted in panic and she felt her palms and her bottom itch.

“Sir?” she played dumb.

“Drop your pants and panties and get your tail end over that rail,” he said, nodding at an old saw horse often used for what he had in mind.

Marsha worked her mouth for some moisture and thought about pointing out she was a woman grown. Not that she felt like it just then.

“I said…” Garrick was losing his patience with this girl-woman.

Marsha started and hastily began scrambling with the button on her pants. Then without any regard to exposing her sex she hauled both denims and panties down together. It took a moment to realise that now she was fully exposed and still 10 feet from the trestle. Garrick folded his now removed belt and turned away shaking his head at her incompetence.

Marsha was mortified and stopped to half pull up her pants as she hobbled over to the vertical on the trestle. With her dignity in shreds she bent over until her bottom was sky high and well rounded.

“Ready Sir,” she said with a gulp. Her face was melting and she squeezed her thighs together in the hope that she was just showing him her bottom.

Garrick turned and hefted his belt. “If it wasn’t for the lock down I would treat you like my own daughter and send you as you are out to the woods to go get a bundle of switches. Nothing like an old finger stick across a belt-reddened tail for an older girl who will not take responsibility.”

Marsha gaped in horror at the suggestion and visibly swallowed. “Yes Sir,” she said feebly, for once giving praise to the gods for the hunters.

“Marsha MacLeod, you got this coming,” he sighed, “While you’re getting it I want you to think on what I said. It may save some tail skin if you can work out what the Sam Hill you have to apologise for.”

Marsha’s apprehension cranked up a gear and her mouth formed a perfect horrified O. She had assumed the punitive philosophy was over and she was just in for a licking. What did he want her to say?

“Marsha, Marsha, Marsha,” Garrick sighed and expertly lashed his belt down.

Outside Stacy and Alice heard a yelp of pain. The heavy leathery thwack that went with it was no mystery to either of them now and they broke into a trot to track down the source. It didn’t take long. Beyond the sheds was an open sided barn and in it was Garrick and one of the women. Only she was bare bottomed and bending over a trestle. Alice gasped.

“Now that is some bottom,” Stacy wolf whistled softly.

“He is spanking her,” Alice whispered in a tone that suggested horrified wonder. She remembered the twins and blushed.

“That’s one way to put it,” Stacy agreed in equally hushed tones.

Inside Marsha yelled out again, this time with feeling.

To be continued…

wolf20Part I here

The wolf trotted up to the inner gates of the compound like a dog back from burying a bone. The last of the moonlight had topped the trees, but it was enough to illuminate the beast, picking out its fine hairs like silver.

Danson sniffed, it was one of theirs, and he knew who and visibly relaxed. He looked around for someone to pass the word, before remembering that Marsha had been relieved and when he looked back he saw Adam naked in the road.

“You okay boss?” Danson called over.

As if without a care in the world Adam strode forward and through the gates as naked as a jaybird. “Never better,” he said.

“Your father wants to see you,” Danson chuckled.

“I bet,” Adam sighed, “But I had better get some clothes on first.”

“You mean you’re naked,” Danson was deadpan and already scanning the forest with his back to Adam, “I hadn’t noticed.”

Adam found John in his room and they both exchanged grins.

“Hell that was fun,” John laughed.

Adam matched his smile and nodded. “How is our girl?”

“Pissed I think,” John snorted, for once he gave out that he didn’t care. He was still buzzing. Then he frowned. “Not as pissed as Dad. I think if he reckoned we would stand for it he would be going for the bull whip about now. Jared is cool though.”

Adam grabbed a towel and headed to the shower. The whole conversation was taken on the move. “And Sundance?” he asked.

John turned up his palms. “Who knows what that old Navajo thinks.”

Adam stopped and regarded his brother carefully. “We got our girl, although who the hell knows how that is going to play out. But it looks like we have found a war too.”

John shook of the comment like a fly and batted it away. “You know I think that was coming as soon as those hunters hit town,” he said. “But I guess we kind of lost initiative, least that’s the way Dad will see it.”

“Oh I don’t know, I think maybe we took it for once. Maybe these guys aren’t so tough,” Adam replied.

“Maybe,” but John was frowning. They were out of their depth and blood drew blood. He had a bad feeling about all of this now.


Alice sat in utter shock. Over and over she replayed the events in her mind. John and Adam had saved her, but there had been a wolf… an actual wolf and right where John had been standing. She had seen him… what? The men had been afraid, all of them… John had… and Adam, just the two by themselves…

The knock at the door barely registered and even when it opened it swung into a dream.

“Alice?” someone asked, “Alice drink this.”

Alice finally registered that it was Stacy. Her friend handed her a drink and she took it without thanks.

“Are you okay?” Stacy asked.

Alice nodded and sipped the warm tea without tasting it. “I saw a wolf,” she said absently.

“Yah,” Stacy drawled and followed it with a very long sigh as she sat on the bed, “I saw it too, out in the woods. Only it wasn’t exactly a wolf was it?”

“I think…” Alice began and then shook her head.

“You know I saw a vampire once,” Stacy whispered in a distant voice, “Damnedest thing, I wrote a whole book about it and still don’t believe it.”

“There are vampires?” Alice asked as if she was enquiring about more tea.

“And werewolves,” Stacy said firmly and turned to watch Alice’s reaction.

Alice looked at her and tried to draw hope from her friend’s eyes. “You knew all along?”

“I… guessed… I suspected… I didn’t know, know, until tonight,” Stacy said excitedly. “Shit, this is all my fault, I should never have come here.”

“But you saw a vampire?” Alice accused.

“I saw ghosts before too, but I still don’t believe that either. Even though I know it is possible I still have to keep it in a box at the back of my brain.” Stacy willed Alice to understand.

She did, kind of. The lawyer nodded.

“We should get some sleep,” Stacy suggested and made a frog face with her lips before letting them go with a pop.

Alice nodded. “I think I can manage that.”


The next day Alice and Stacy took a stroll around the compound. Neither had seen John or Adam, in fact since helping with the dishes no one had stopped to talk to them at all.

“You think they blame us for the trouble?” Alice sighed as she kicked a pebble on the path.

“I think they don’t like outsiders and are way too busy with the coming war,” Stacy answered, but attention, as ever, was on her surroundings. On the comings and goings around them and above all on a chance to escape if she should need one.

“War?” Alice stopped aghast.

“You know, the hunters,” Stacy said.

“They tried to take me last night,” Alice said for the umpteenth time. “John and Adam saved me,” she added wistfully.

Stacy noticed that Alice never referred to the twins without mentioning them both. Further as a writer she was acutely aware that she couldn’t even get the ordering of their names consistent. Sometimes it was John and Adam and another, Adam and John. A small point, she decided, but it definitely meant something. “Which one is your guy anyway?” she asked.

Alice glowered. “Neither,” she said irritably.

“Right,” Stacy said in a tone.

Alice decided to ignore her. “So how long do you think they will keep us here?”

“It all depends on why they are keeping us here,” Stacy replied.

Alice frowned. It occurred to her that one or other of the twins had made a claim on her somehow, but Stacy’s presence here was for different reasons. “Why do you think you are here?”

“Maybe I got too nosey,” Stacy shrugged dismissively. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Again she wondered if all of it wasn’t her fault and her tummy did a flip.

From the other side of the compound Garrick watched his two guests and weighed up his next move. Alice was a distraction. His younger sons were far too interested in her for an outsider and he didn’t like it. Ordinarily he would let it play out, but they no longer had that luxury. As soon as it was safe he would get rid of her. What was it she wanted, some damn legal signature? Easy enough, he supposed.

Stacy was another matter and she was going to take some very careful handling. Luckily so far, no one but Augusta and perhaps Sundance realised her significance and he wanted to keep it that way for now. The question was, what did Coleridge know?

He took a hard look at the gate and the compound fence as far as he could see. All tight now, but things were getting sloppy. Marsha MacLeod has screwed up and he couldn’t let that stand. He sighed. Time to deal with that little problem, he supposed.

To be continued


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Sometime back it was explained to me by a sexual-psychologist that there is virtually no such thing as Gay or straight and that everyone is on the spectrum. Hackles will rise at this suggestion, I know, but people are masters of self-deception and I wonder if there isn’t something in this.

I know that almost every girl I ever got intimate enough for the confessional admitted, to a greater or lesser extent, that they had either had a sexual experience or had fantasised about experiences with other women.

One scale that can be used, according to the aforesaid psychologist, runs minus five to plus five, where zero is a true bisexual. Five is a supposed total heterosexual and minus five a total homosexual.

The average, I was told is about 2.7, which is pretty solidly heterosexual with a bit of bi-curiosity thrown in. How much people act on or explore the homosexual part of their character is largely down to the culture they live in.

This figure of 2.7 (one wonders how it was arrived at) represents the top of the bell curve with just as many people scoring above as below. Between one in five and one in 10 is the typical proportion of people in the UK who identify with being Gay, more than actually claim to be bi-sexual, but boundaries are blurred, aren’t they?

In practice I think people pick a preference and ignore the inconvenient ‘thoughts’ that don’t fit.

I got to wondering about how many people secretly have spanking fantasies but don’t explore them. If we apply the same scale where minus five are people with zero interest and five as total spankos, then where do you stand? What about your boss or your local preacher?

Psychological studies have found that between one in four and one in three have spanking or BDSM-related fantasies, or so it is claimed. Even if taken at face value that means that the spanking scale has more spankos than homosexuals.

Of course one thing is not related to the other; think Venn diagram. It certainly isn’t a competition.

No Psychobabble article such as this would be complete without some ‘case studies.’

Here are some anecdotes about real apparently vanilla people who have revealed to me or someone else some spanking fantasies at some point.

A secretary at a school where I once worked was mildly reprimanded where some of us were having lunch. It wasn’t more than an intoned few words directed at her, no one heard what was said. But she blurted, “God, I wonder what it would be like to go across his knee for a good sound spanking.” She blushed for England once she realised what she had just said aloud.

To a girl friend of mine another 19-year-old girl in college complained that her mother sometimes whipped her bare bottom with a small riding crop when she mouthed off. She complained that it “really hurt and leaves these god awful purple welts on my bum. Sometimes I can’t sit down comfortably for days.” She added, perhaps again without thinking, “It wouldn’t be so bad if my step-dad did it.”

Another twenty-something co-worker lived with her elder half-sister and had had a row with her that morning. She admitted that she had been to blame and had been out partying and had woken the baby one her three am return. “I hate when she goes on about things, particularly when I am defo wrong,” she said gloomily, “Pity I am too old for a spanking.”

She looked up at this point and shrugged. “Yeah well it used it happen and at least I knew where I stood: Kinda of fun sometimes.” Then she added apropos nothing, “More fun if I could spank her sometimes.”

A more blatant conversation was overheard on a train to Brighton in 1980.

Two girls in their early 20s were chatting in the seat in front of me in an otherwise empty carriage. Then one of them said, “It was totally my fault, I was being such a bitch. He said ‘what you need is to have your knickers taken down and having your bare bottom spanked red.’ I totally didn’t take the hint and carried on being a bitch. Next thing I am over his lap with my knickers down getting a spanking.”

“He never,” said her shocked friend.

“No sadly, I made the last bit up. His dad came back and I was saved by the bell.”

Another time I was in a shared house. I was sitting out of sight reading in a big sofa with my back to two girls chatting. Then forgetting I was there they were talking and the conversation got around to sexual fantasies. One of them said her boyfriend liked maid’s outfits. The other was suddenly gripped with enthusiasm and broke into a monologue.

“That would only work for me if I really had to do some house work, you know as a punishment or something. You know, down on my knee with a little outfit and no knickers so that he could see my bare bum as I dusted the skirting board. My bum would be all red from the spanking he had given me and I know he would spank me again if I didn’t clean properly.”

It suddenly went quiet and the indiscreet girl said lamely, “Something like that anyway.”

Her friend just said, “I will make some coffee.”



c aysel_selfie1c fhc otk-spankingc spanked over photocopierc ww_baby_partyc DIGITAL CAMERAThe BDSMLR project is growing fast. To my taste so far there is a little too much emphasis on the hard core BDSM and graphic sex, but that is to be expected and as the content grows we can hope for a greater range of content along the bell-curve.

You can check out my humble contribution at the Annex.

In other news Kia Cera at Acknowledging Imperfection is back from a long hiatus and so is All Things Spanking.

On the other hand Chross, once a giant on the scene hasn’t obviously updated in a while. His last post is a review of the Professor Marston and the Wonder Women, which features a sorority spanking and a lot of BDSM cosplay 1940s style. Nothing graphic; it is not a spanking movie. But it is a movie that we saw recently and is very good.

Incidentally so is the Favourite, about Queen Ann and her menage a trois with Rachel Weiss and Emma Stone. A dark and funny movie about the royal court at the time of Marlborough. There is a birching scene, but the rod is applied to Emma Stone’s back. The atmosphere of her compliant submission as a humiliated noble lady working as a scullion will appeal to some, but this is not what the film is about.

The birching is toned down and in reality would have been applied to her bare bottom, probably while she was being horsed. However, I think the impact of such a scene would have detracted from an excellent movie and might have overshadowed it unfairly.

Ronnie has a new list of spanking sites and other pictures above are from: FHS, AAA, and Devlin O’Neil.

Vintage Sunday


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louis_malteste_petite_dactylo_01The line drawing by Malteste is taken from the Petite Dactylo (the little typist), which was a spanking novella by Pierre Dumarchey, published under the name of Sadie Blackeyes. The heroine of the novel suffers a series of misadventures, most ending with a spanking or a birching.

Whether or not it was grounded in reality is doubtful, yet there does seem to be an age when typists and secretaries were punished.

As reported here before, whilst at college as part of my course I trained in shorthand and typing under a woman of the old school. This was the 1980s and the 50-something woman had mostly taught office workers since the 1950s when she had received her own training.  When confronted with a student who hadn’t put the work in or hadn’t done their homework (we were learning T-Line at the time), then she would often remark that we were lucky it wasn’t like the old days.

She was heard to mutter in her Glaswegian accent, “Back in the day a girl would get a few swipes of the stick across their backsides for less.”

She didn’t elucidate but it seems up until the 1960s it was common for trainee typists and secretaries to experience a good spanking or even the cane. Of course in those days these trainees were invariably women.

I have written about this before and have read various accounts of CP at adult typing schools up until the 1970s. I remember two women, one trained in the late 1950s and the other the early 1970s, comparing notes about getting the cane at secretarial college.

Both thought it was no big deal. The first said it was a formal thing with a formal note. She had to bend over in an office and get about eight strokes on the seat of her skirt, although she had heard that other girls had been caned on the knickers, including one who had worn trousers to class.

The other said it was unofficial and that she was caned a couple of times rather than get a formal warning, but essential she too got eight on the seat of her skirt.

In another discussion one woman who trained in the 1940s ventured that she had been caned twice on the bare bottom for wasting paper and on a separate occasion for getting a typewriter ribbon tangled. This, she said, because of rationing immediately after the War being a very serious problem and that such mistakes would get you sacked in a real office.

Following on from this I found an article (I think from Forum magazine) on Google reader.

This was about ‘blue-stockings’ and flappers in the 1920s and 30s who were trying to break into business and journalism. Well-to-do women of all classes saw typing and business schools as a way of breaking into a man’s world. Being tough and seen to be tough was an important to them and the prevailing attitude was ‘taking it like a man.’

Ironically, it seems unlikely that young business men were ever caned by anyone, yet serious minded independent girls of the interwar era seemed to have shrugged off corporal punishment as a price to pay or a rite of passage.

Caning before the Second World War in these environments seems to have be rather fiercer and tended to applied to the bare bottom.

One Rose Fenton-Barnes reported, “I had been called into the office several times before by Mrs C-J, all rather bothersome, but I can’t say it wasn’t entirely without merit. This time I was told off right royally and then asked to take up my skirts and so forth. I thought it all a bit grisly when she got out the dreadful stick. Then she told me to take down the necessary and bend over the back of her chair. I didn’t count, but I must have received 15 strokes or more. Jolly well hurt and my tail end looked chopped liver after. Of course I didn’t cry until I was in the ladies room, but I couldn’t sit down for a few days. That was the first time and very much not the last. Those things didn’t get any easier.”

Amy JK wrote of her experience back in the 1930s. “We had a dreadful dragon. One word from her and you would be shaking in your boots. There were always girls going in and out of her office: wide-eyed a terrified going in and usually crying and rubbing their bottoms when they came out.”

“I was one of those girls at least a dozen times. After a dressing down it was bottom bare and bend. No set number of strokes, just fast and cutting swipes until I cried. I couldn’t stand still after, but I was told to dress and get out.”

“It was straight back to our desks in that dreadful room with 20 girls clattering away on their exercises. Hard to sit or concentrate, I can tell you, but a good preparation for work.”

bdsmlr-44956-jk3ahclxupI am still exploring BDSLMR, I am not sure about it yet. It seems far less accessible and perhaps rather too raw and explicit in the material there. But as some of you have said it is early days.

To this end I have set-up A Voice in the Corner Annex, in part to allow me access to any new material on BDSLMR and as an experimental overflow.

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Not as far as Maryland, but it will probably involve a Mercedes. I am just on a short business trip and will be back soon. I had hoped to queue up a couple of posts but sadly time got away from me.



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I see several more Tumblrs have been restricted and can only be viewed in a narrow frame in the dashboard. However, a great many have still avoided the cull, in most cases, I suspect, because they have a lot of text and a scattering of ‘vanilla’ images.

The latest victim is spanking toons, which I think can also be found on Deviant Art. I will update my link when I confirm this.

Quite a few people have redeployed to their Twitter accounts or have moved to BDSMLR, which given the set-up, as it is currently deployed, is probably not going to catch on.

CutiePie seems to have vanished, but I found a list of new blogs on Ronnie Soul.

The images this week are from Devlin, Chicago, Nik Zula, ASA Jones, AAA and Vanilla Spanking.


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