Spanking Generations

08Oct14

spankingBristol 1896

Dear Mr Bradshaw,

I am sure that you think me a silly little thing and of no account at all, and who is to blame you? My behaviour at our last meeting could only have confirmed any low opinion you may have formed of me. But the truth is I hold you in a very high regard.

I hope I can disassociate myself from what Mrs Bateman and her daughter said, although I realise that on Sunday after tea my courage failed me and for form’s sake I said some harsh things. I very much admire your stance on the common failings of our society and whole heartedly support your remedy for them.

Far from shocking me, your tales of how you tamed the wilful and disrupted young women in Indian thrilled me and engendered in me such admiration that I can hardly tell you. I hope you realise how difficult this admission is and accept my sincere apologies that I expressed any other view at our last meeting.

I hope you understand that your radical views are very much frowned on in some circles and it is difficult for a young woman in my position to be associated with them. Reading this last sentence back I am appalled at my feeble excuses for my behaviour. I hope you see now what a dreadful little coward I am and how I would benefit from your severest attentions.

This brings me to the point of my missive.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive me I would submit wholly and totally to any punishment you can devise. I am quite certain that any treatment of me, no matter how humiliating, would do me the power of good.

Yours obediently,

Miss Amelia Johnson,
Hartcliffe, Bristol, 3rd March 1896

These were Amelia’s words of as sent to one Major John Bradshaw after a certain tea party at Clifton. This was his reply.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I am heartened that you have seen the error of your ways although I cannot think that you truly understand what you are saying and still less what you are asking.

When I spoke of young giddy girls comporting themselves like hoydens even though they were above the age of 21, I very much had young women such as you and that dreadful Hortensia Bateman in my mind.

Perhaps you think that I spoke figuratively when I talk of birch rods and the application of the cane to a naked posterior. I suppose you imagine that I am some dashing no-nonsense sort who makes girls go weak at the knees from a scolding. The truth is, what you and more especially Mrs Bateman and her daughter need is a damn good thrashing where it would do the most good in the most public place possible.

I do commend you however for at least trying to make amends and if it will salve your conscience then consider yourself forgiven.

Yours sincerely,

Major John Bradshaw.

On receiving this letter Amelia was giddy with shame and it was all she could do not to faint. But nonetheless she steeled herself and gathered up her courage to make a reply.

Dear Mr Bradshaw,

I will not consider myself forgiven, how can I? When you speak of sanctions and consequences I have earned but have not suffered. Indeed, far from assuming you spoke figuratively, I hope and pray you were in earnest.

I do indeed deserve to be soundly thrashed upon my bare posterior and before the Batemans as an example to them, although I doubt if they would benefit from it. I know however that I would, if you I were to be thrashed before them or anyone else you deemed necessary.

I am a giddy girl and very much in need of a firm hand, but I cannot blame you for dismissing my suit in this matter. I suppose I am hardly worth the effort after my behaviour.

Yours obediently,

Amelia Johnson.

That might have been the end of it but after a week the good major sent this reply.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I may have spoken harshly to you and see now that you are neither giddy nor insincere. Judging from your behaviour on the previous Sunday I am sure you are right about needing a firm hand. However, I am not sure that a young woman of your sensibilities quite understands the reality and gravity of what you ask. Few young women in this land really do.

If I were to thrash you upon your naked behind you would cry out most dreadfully and not be able to sit down for many days afterwards. Furthermore if I were to take you in charge I could not in all conscience allow you to lapse back to bad behaviour and would consider it my duty to take you in hand more definitely.

I am quite sure after one encounter with me you would not like that.

Yours sincerely,

John Bradshaw

Amelia could scarce wait to reply.

Dear Mr Bradshaw or should I call you Sir?

Nothing you wrote could have pleased me more. But be assured I could expect no less than to be thrashed until I cried out and more. For no doubt you would hardly consider my punishment begun until I did cry out.

As for not sitting down for many days could anything be more apt? If I could sit down after a week I would know that you stinted in my pains.

Let us be clear, if I may make bold, we allude to posterior and my naked behind, but I know you would say without shame that I would be whipped upon my bare bottom and soundly.

Yours very obediently,

Amelia

The Major kept Amelia waiting three days for his reply and then it was to suggest a meeting.

*

London 2006

Modern Miss looking for a firm hand. You are an educated professional over 40 and in good shape, but with a youthful outlook. I am a 26-year-old solicitor who is presentable and of middling build and height with short dark brown hair. I am looking for an old-fashioned gentleman with a hand and a resolve that are equally hard.

You will take no lip or cheek from me and if I should test you then I require a very sound spanking on the bare bottom and an extended corner time both before and after my punishment as you decide.

If this doesn’t teach me, or even if it does, then additional punishments with whips, canes and other equipment of your devising can be utilised as you decide.

Please contact Anna Bradshaw at email provided.

Sean Joseph read the post twice before clicking the mail link. There wasn’t much to go on and these uppity wannabe women were often more trouble than they worth. At best they had read 50 Shades and dived into the deep end without a clue what they were getting into; as if that book had a clue about his world.

Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and there had to be some genuine girls out there. He decided on a layered approach by way of a test, the first requirement being a rather more fleshed-out response to his email which he crafted with all the care of a routine business note.

Dear Anna,

You will get more responses to your post than you can possibly handle. So many in fact that it is unlikely that you will get to mine. Nevertheless, if you should persist in your quest long enough not to be daunted by all the clueless losers then let’s do lunch.

I am a 42-year-old barrister with ample experience in dealing with curious brats wanting to test their limits and mine. I direct you to a brief summary on my contacts page and as it says there, photographs are available on request.

Sean couldn’t be bothered to dwell on the reply any more than that, experience told him that even if this Anna wasn’t a time waster then she would undoubtedly indeed get swamped.

Bristol 1896

Amelia was surprised at John Bradshaw’s polite and easy manner this time. He had been most generous at lunchtime and despite her bone-shaking nerves he had discussed India and some mutual acquaintances as carelessly as he might have done the weather.

Then he said, “Miss Johnston, are you sure it wise not to invite a companion, after all I do have something of a reputation?”

“Mr Bradshaw, Sir,” Amelia blushed, “It is your reputation that has enticed me to meet you. I doubt I have a friend in all of Bristol that would understand that.”

“Very well then if you are determined to make your amends we will retire to my house a short walk from here,” Bradshaw replied with an inclination of his head. “There we will test your mettle.”

As he had promised the walk had been indeed short and with every step Amelia’s steps had felt as heavy as her head light. In fact now that she considered the matter she wondered if she wasn’t some kind of trollop. But of course that was foolish. John Bradshaw was a gentleman and experienced in judicial and educational matters and this was no romantic dalliance.

This image of him was confirmed when they reached his house on the edge of Clifton. It was large and well-appointed, with a heavy discreet door in the middle of a quite charming Georgian brick façade.

“Now Miss Johnson, are you sure you wish to enter?” Bradshaw intoned in his best severe manner.

Amelia caught her breath and tried to supress the cloud of butterflies that had taken flight in her lower belly. Both these actions quite took all her attention and instead of being bold she could only return a small nod.

“Very well Miss, come with me,” Bradshaw said sharply, his earlier solicitude evaporating.

A few moments later they swept into an airy tan-coloured hallway and on into his study. In the grate was a grand raging fire that threw up a furious flickering light onto the mantle where carved faces of Pan with an army of imps seemed to dance and laugh at her.

“I don’t suppose you will come here again after today whatever you decide, but I suggest you take a moment to compose yourself,” Bradshaw said with a cough.

“Decide?” Amelia said, now puzzled, how many more delays would there be? She began to doubt that her nerve would hold out.

“I am duty bound to give you every opportunity to reconsider,” Bradshaw said airily as he studied his pocket watch.

Of course a man such as he must be very busy. Amelia worked her throat to a gulp but held her tongue.

“I am going to leave you now and when I return you will be standing sans culottes in that corner like the naughty minx you are. If not, you will be so good as to have departed,” he said imperiously.

“Sans… sans culottes?” she said breathily.

“Don’t be coy,” he sighed, “Your dress, your drawers, everything in your attire between the air and your… lower person.”

Amelia blushed. She had expected as much but even so… but after a pause she nodded.

With that Bradshaw departed.

*

London 2006

Sean had completely forgotten Ann by the time she got around to replying to his note.

“I am not surprised,” she said sheepishly, “I feel a bit of a fool now. You were right about being swamped. I wasted the last few weeks replying to utter wankers and the few that seemed okay… well they weren’t.”

They were sitting in a coffee bar in a narrow alley in Soho. The café specialised in Lebanese coffee and sweetmeats but although it did a steady trade for a wet Wednesday afternoon it was quiet enough.

“I don’t appreciate you calling people wankers, even if they are,” Sean said sharply so that Ann blushed. “Anyway, what makes you think I am any different?”

Ann shrugged and looked uncomfortable. She was as she had promised, of average height with an athletic build and very presentable. She wore her short dark hair straight and cut to a low fringe that served to obscure her eyes.

Although he claimed to be 42 he appeared of indeterminate age, both looking older on account of an abundance of grey hair and younger owing to his solid build and modern tight fit business suit.

“Don’t mumble,” he scolded causing her to blush again.

“I wasn’t, I didn’t even say anything,” she replied in a slightly whiney voice.

“And don’t answer me back, especially in that tone,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” she muttered and then more brightly, “I mean, I am sorry.”

Someone at the corner table looked over and Ann noticed the counter maid smirking at her too. This was a cue for more blushing, but it also made her feel squirmy.

“Listen, I want you to think about this, you don’t need to impress me, you turned up and that takes guts. Although I am not sure I believe you about telling a friend you were meeting me,” he said seriously and carefully gauged her reaction.

“I have thought about it,” she replied in a tight voice that suggested uncertainty. “I think…” she shrugged, “You know.”

Sean gave her a thoughtful pout in a kind of parody of Ann’s own demeanour as he stirred his coffee.

“No, I don’t,” he growled, “Say it.”

“I think we could work out, I mean, you know, I think you could take me in hand,” she said shyly, “I have a good vibe about it.”

Sean considered this for a moment and then nodded.

“How do I know you’re not pissing me about? You took a month to reply to me,” he said sternly. He was actually pleased with her but he needed to keep her off balance, she was too casual and cocksure of herself.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Alright then,” he whispered back. “Take your knickers off and give them to me.”

Ann’s eyes widened and she really blushed this time. She even took a moment to scan all points of the room before she could gather herself.

“I am wearing trousers,” she hissed at him.

The world stood on its edge and she felt herself falling.

Sean smiled gently and shrugged.

“We can do this another time when you’re ready,” he said.

Ann swallowed and shot a glance around her. The counter maid had gone out back and only one customer remained across from them. He was oldish and absorbed in a book with is back half turned from them.

“N-no, alright,” she said quickly.

She lifted her bum off the bench seat and unhooked the clasp. Luckily she was wearing no belt and the zip was an easy one. But suddenly she realised that she would have to get her trousers all the way off under the table before she could remove her knickers.

It took some doing and halfway through the manoeuvre the counter maid came back and then to Ann’s horror came over.

“Is everything alright?” she said, “Do you need anything?”

Ann blanched and shook her head. What could the woman see?

“I’ll have another coffee,” Sean said evenly, adding a belated “Please,” on account of the distraction of Ann.

Ann gaped in horror in Sean’s direction as she blanched.

“You have something to do,” Sean said by way of a reply.

The waitress was about to ask before realising she wasn’t being spoken to and turned away to fetch coffee.

Working her mouth Ann shot a glance at the remaining customer engrossed in his book and then at the retreating back of the waitress. Then quickly and smoothly she stepped out her trousers and with the bob her tugged down her knickers to slide them all the way down her legs. If the man or the waitress turned now they would see a good side view of her naked thighs. But Ann didn’t wait she openly ducked down and hauled on her trousers and was doing them up by the time the waitress reached the counter.

It was with an embarrassed grin of triumph that she handed Sean her knickers.

“You really are a naughty girl aren’t you,” Sean said as he took them, “What with your laxity of reply and your attitude, and now this so readily surrendered. Tell me, have you ever been spanked?”

Ann was all wide eyes and open mouth as her head swung wildly to take in the room. There was no doubt both the customer and the waitress had heard him.

“Well you are going to be,” Sean assured her.

*

Bristol 1896

John Bradshaw entered the room at his leisure. He was only vaguely aware that Amelia was still there but instead of looking directly at her he savoured the moment. For one thing her gown was draped carefully over the back of a chair and upon it was a cloud of lacy cotton comprised of a lady’s undergarments. For another… oh to hell with it, he turned.

Amelia was standing at attention to face the very corner of the room with her hands neatly tucked into the small of her back. She wore only a blouse and stockings so that the fulsome curves of her deep-cleft bottom were well displayed and totally nude.  A veritable goddess that took away his breath and something even stirred within his trousers.

He eyed both her and her clothes for any sign that she had disobeyed him in the slightest regard and noted that among the clothing was a corset. No doubt better off but not strictly what he had ordered.

“You are not accustomed to obedience then?” he scolded her. “I said only remove that which comes between the rod and your bottom.”

Amelia wanted to protest, but upon opening her mouth she found she had nothing to say. She was his and he could thrash her for the crime of having a bottom if he so desired.

“Miss Johnson, come here,” he sighed impatiently as if she had displeased him.

Amelia felt her face surge with hot blood and jerked where she stood. She was certain now that she was nothing but a trollop and deserved all that happened to her. Nonetheless she slowly obeyed after backing from the wall as far as she dared she meekly turned around; an operation that was only accomplished after bowing her head and cupping her hands as her shield before the dark thick triangle of her sex.

“For the corset and to put you in your place I am going to place you across my knee and soundly spank you,” John told her. “Afterwards you will be caned.”

Amelia swallowed and ducked her head respectfully as she muttered, “Yes Sir.”

Then as she watched her removed his coat and sat as if on a throne upon a large padded armless chair as he beckoned to her.

It took an eon for Amelia to totter to him and as she reached him she almost fled. But like a man with a skittish horse handled her firmly and taking her arm tumbled her down across his lap. This so elevated her big bare bottom that she felt that it filled the whole of the room behind her.

Oh why do women have such big bottoms, she wondered? Although it was a truth she was certain was about to be revealed to her.

John dug deep for a sense of genuine outrage, suppressing all prurient thoughts engendered by the proximity of Amelia’s fulsome nudity. Or at least, he decided, that he did so as much as was necessary. There was no sense or honour in hypocrisy here and why shouldn’t a man enjoy his work?

His hand struck her sharply across both cheeks and she squeaked in surprise.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, “It was a shock.”

John answered her with another firm sharp smack, which he followed with two more.

There was a satisfying handprint on Amelia’s alabaster skin and the red of it had begun to flow like a blush into the dark cleft and across both domes.

Amelia herself was gasping a little as she squirmed, but otherwise strove to be ladylike; an act of bravado even she felt was absurd and unworthy even. After all she was here to be tamed and made to surrender. Her dignity was to be spent cruelly as was deserved and if Mr Bradshaw chose to spank her until she bawled like a hungry brat before a host of his friends then she could never complain. Well she certainly could and probably would, but for such a sin she should be further punished and sent to the corner for an hour or two for humbling.

The spanking was sharp and steady, imparting a sting that set Amelia hissing and kicking her feet like a theatrical heroine. Her bottom soon had the hue of a coal in the grate and burned almost a hot.

“Mr Bradshaw Sir, oh… ooh I shall… please,” she gasped.

In truth she wanted to beg and beg hard for sobbing mercy. But what if he acceded? Could she forgive him? A spanking was what she craved and no childish smack-bottom would serve for her needs. But hadn’t he promised that this was but an hors d’oeuvre?

In the event she needn’t have worried. Bradshaw spanked her as hard as he might for a good quarter of the hour, his hand as relentless as an industrial machine and as taut as a man hunting at hounds. By then Amelia’s bottom was a dark blasted red and she kicked and howled like hoyden under a brand.

Amelia herself muttered oaths and cries, but knew not what she said. She only knew the cleansing burn and the mastery of a man as she spilled her tears into the carpet.

Finally the spanking was over and the sobbing woman was set on her feet where she clutched at her sore bottom eschewing all dignity as she hopped around the room.

“Enough of this comedy,” John barked as he pointed to the corner.

Amelia sniffed hard and nodded her head in acknowledgment, not yet trusting her words. But wild horses couldn’t tear her hands from her bottom hinds as she struggled to regain composure. But finally she tamed the sting as she had been tamed, well enough anyway so that she could stumble to the corner and represent her nose to where both panelled walls met.

“I am sure you remember the nursery,” John said sharply.

He didn’t explain and merely watch her as she struggled with her shame. It was satisfying to see the grown woman peel away her soothing fingers and place them humiliatingly on her head.

“Would that I could take a photograph for the newspapers,” John chuckled. “Unless you resign my guidance, one day I will have you so in a room of your peers for their edification and your utter shame.”

Amelia gasped at this news and her heart lurched as if she were falling. She would fall to boot-licking begging to escape that fate, but part of her knew she would never complete her life until she was so humbled for this man. Even the knowledge that such things could really happen was a fulfilment her life had not yet known.

*

London 2006

The paddle landed relentlessly as Ann bucked and bawled across Sean’s lap. Her trousers had been left at her ankles and now hobbled her as she clawed at the side of his thighs and shins.

They had arrived at his Warwick Square apartment in a taxi and she had been ushered through the grand entrance without ceremony. The moment they had entered she had been given two choices. Drop her trousers or leave. She had even giggled at the challenge and had poked out her tongue as she fumbled at her waist.

But what had followed was no giggle-game for novices. Sean had promised her a sound spanking and sound spanking was what she was getting.

Even when he had been using his hand she had at once known she was out of her depth and only a sense of futility had convinced her not to call the whole thing off. Never had fantasy and reality been so at odds. But the short heavy leather paddle was a revelation. He might just as well have sat her in a fire and left her there.

“I’m sorry, oh God,” she howled, “I’ll do anything, shit, shit, shit…”

Sean stopped abruptly and pressed the paddle like a sizzling grid iron to her cherry seared bottom.

“You made it clear you didn’t do safe words. Do you want to leave?” His voice was calm and lawyer-like.

Ann sniffed and panted like a dog on the moors.

“No but…”

“Too rich for your blood eh?” he pressed her.

She nodded and then immediately shook her head even more emphatically.

“I don’t want any say in this but… it’s hard,” her lip trembled as she sniffed to a small sob.

“Take a minute,” he said gently, patting at her bottom with the paddle.

“Not wimping out on me are you?” she shot back.

The paddled answered her and he even took it to new heights.

Bigmouth, bigmouth, bigmouth, she cursed herself, but it was great to beg.

“I’ll suck your cock,” she pleaded, “You can do my bum… you can do my bum and then I’ll suck your cock.” It was a litany of shameful release, but her voice was steady and challenging rather than entirely sincere. That was an attitude that would come later after she was utterly defeated.

“You little slut, just you wait,” he chuckled.

The paddle cracked down in a volley that set her to classic yelling. It was going to be along afternoon.

*

Bristol 1896

For the main event Amelia was set to kneeling on the floor and made to bend over a piano stool. The carpet was soft under her knees and there was something satisfying about the way that the padding of the stool pressed into her lower belly. But the posture it placed her in was obscene. Her big red bottom stuck up like a horse’s crupper and heaven knew what charms Mr Bradshaw could gaze upon.

An old school friend had once told her of a device that was used to wash a woman’s intimate parts following a union with a man. It was supposed to prevent issue, she had been told. But she had been quite shocked at the time and why she should have thought of that now was a puzzle.

Instead she considered her bottom and how bare it was before a man. But at least it had cooled down a little and there was no denying that she thoroughly deserved this punishment.

Mr Bradshaw, for his part, had taken up a long thin cane for the next operation and now stood behind her brandishing it as he contemplated the target.

After a long silence he said, “If you call on me again I will birch you soundly as an entrée for the cane. I have quite a collection, some of them quite biting. I once had a whipping-brothel madam sobbing in her gin and quite unseated for a month after a session with a Mandalay Monster. But have no fear this is but a senior girl tickler from a Ladies’ College in Sussex. An old acquaintance of mine gave it to me in remembrance of her school days.”

“You are considerate Sir,” Amelia whispered.

“As it is your first time I will give you… 12,” Bradshaw told her, “and I want you to count them. Miss one and I’ll repeat it.”

“Yes Sir,” Amelia said breathily.

The cane sounded soft and silky as it cut the air. The impact too was sharp and clean and not half so hideous as Amelia had been expecting. But her thought was too previous as the biting stroke cut deep and did not slice properly for a beat or two. Then it was as a sword and Amelia screamed.

“One… nuh,” she choked, then unbidden she added, “Thank you Sir.”

Still it took her half a minute to ride out the pain and compose. It was a luxury she would not have for the next eleven, which came quick and fast at her announcement over the next two minutes. It was an ordeal that caused her to miscount two strokes that had to be repeated. Afterwards the corner had been a heavenly place for a good long cry.



3 Responses to “Spanking Generations”

  1. WOW, that was so excellent. Loved the 2 times frames. So well done. Very top drawer!
    Thanks
    GentBB

  2. Really really magnificent! But somehow, still very promising. 🙂

  3. 3 DJ

    Thanks Guys – glad you liked it 🙂


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