The Master and the Governess
LSF have published another short story collection of mine. This one based on the adventure the Master and the Governess.
The headstrong Amelia urges Lucy to follow her lead and run naked into the woods … two wood nymphs scampering through damp grass in the sunset. But when their little adventure is over and they flee back to Weighbridge Hall, it is to find the back door locked. They find another way in but are caught by Amelia’s father, Sir Richard Weighbridge, and, given his daughter’s wilful nature, he employs a governess for her. Despite Amelia’s protests, Miss Caroline Cambridge is tasked with turning her into a lady and is also charged with disciplining the young woman. However, it takes one particular incident, where Caroline feels her master’s anger herself, before she understands that she needs to be stricter on her young charge…
This volume also includes the following short stories: An Edwardian Establishment; The Governess; An Interlude in the Drawing Room; Letter to a Friend and Miss Andersen.
It is available from Amazon and LSF Publications. There are more details in the book shop.
Filed under: DJB stories, F/F, M/F, spanking stories | 6 Comments
Tags: corner time, Edwardian, spanking, spanking stories, Victorian
Weekly Round-Up
Well Halloween has been and gone and tomorrow is Guy Fawkes or Bonfire Night, depending on where in the UK (and parts of North America) you live. Most of us did the whole fireworks thing on Saturday night so if you are non-British and were in the UK at the weekend rest assured war hasn’t been declared. It is just the day that British people pretend to celebrate the execution of a lot of 17th century terrorists who tried to assassinate King James VI (First of England) and the entire political nation. It is as mad as it sounds; both then and now.
They do say that Guy Fawkes was the last man to enter Parliament with honest intentions. The truth is that the pagan roots of this dark feats go back to ancient times and may be linked to Halloween.
Currently slated for Wednesday and Thursday is a two part anecdote snippet purporting to be real life accounts. You know the kind of thing. But if an opportunity to link the Gunpowder Plot and spanking arises, I will be sure to take it and the schedule will shunt back a day.
Also coming up this week is the start of a multi-part story set on a very unusual American college campus. It is an M/F tale in the tradition of Abraham Heights. The very final part of Spankmanship is hopefully in the works sometime this month and of course we will be continuing with Magic as it draws to its ultimate close.
Halloween produced a few posts last week, too many to feature here. Let’s hope you enjoyed them.
Rollin Hand had a spanking story and the school picture above was also taken from his blog. Kia also wrote a story about a driving lesson, another scary subject.
Coming up on the 12th November is Love Our Lurkers Day. This, as ever is being organised by Bonnie over at My Bottom Smarts and the details are here. If you run a blog you can join in or even use a special logo. A Voice in the Corner will be taking part as usual.
The other pictures above are from Cutiepie, Plector, the Spanking Blog and a Dreams of Spanking picture via Spanking Starlets.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 2 Comments
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
Or in some cases the maid spanks back. Just a bit of filler fun for Sunday.
Filed under: history, retro, web round-up | 1 Comment
Tags: 1800s, 1900s, corner time, Edwardian, OTK, spanking, Victorian, vinatge erotica
The Prize (a conclusion)
Our story started here.
Quail took Sara firmly under her wing after that. She supposed that she saw in the girl someone like her who was on the wrong path in life. Maybe if she could save Sara then in a small way she could save herself.
“Is it true you were a pirate?” Sara asked her one day.
They were in the small shed on the far side of the commune sorting out tools. There was a big pile of broken hoes and spades, some of which could be repaired and others that would have to be recycled for scrap.
Sara was stooped over letting her eye scan the pile for any that could still be used and pulling them out. She had spoken idly and without looking up as if the question was either trivial or the most important question of her life and she couldn’t bear to be disappointed.
“Who told you that?” Quail shot back at her angrily.
Sara looked up.
“I heard two of the deputies talking. They say you were real hard case and commanded a ship and everything.” Sara’s eyes were brimming with excitement. “One day I am going to get out of this dumb system and be just like you.”
Quail felt strangely sick, like she was falling and would never stop. Was she really ever as stupid as this kid?
“You get out of here clear and free in two years. You are doing great in your studies and not only will you have some qualifications, but you will have a recognised agricultural apprenticeship. It is more than you could ever have hoped for.” Quail was conscious of the desperation in her voice. “What about being a journalist? You sounded keen before. You could be an agricultural correspondent. It must be all they read about on this planet and then in a few years you could back to the city on your own terms.”
“But I could hook up with some of my own gang and steal a ship maybe…” Sara said excitedly.
Quail wanted to shake her. To tell her that she would be dead in a year if she were lucky and if not she would spend her life as a fugitive. But what was the point? Then she saw the short broken end of plank on the floor. It was tapered down one side as if to form a crude paddle.
Quail snatched it up and then grabbed Sara.
“You little brat, have you really learned nothing,” Quail raged, “If someone had caught me sooner and put me in one of these places…”
Quail was speechless now and tumbled Sara face down over her lap. The skirt was easy to hike up and in a moment Sara’s bottom was bare.
“What did I do?” Sara wailed.
Quail answered with a serious blast of the paddle which landed with a sharp crack across Sara’s exposed bottom. Sara’s legs shot out straight and she bucked her head back with a yowl.
“You are going to go to college,” Quail yelled as she spanked the girl again, “You are going to be a journalist,” and again, “You are going to make something of yourself.”
Quail blasted down her arm three more times drawing mewling squeals from Sara as she bucked up down on the older woman’s lap. There was a mess of hard red rectangles on Sara’s white flesh where the paddle had landed and they looked sore too. But Quail was too angry to care, too angry even to get any satisfaction form spanking her young protégé.
“If you ever, I mean ever, think about a life a crime,” Quail slammed the broken plank-paddle down as hard as she could, “If you… ever…”
Quail was speechless and brought the paddle down again and again.
“I am telling you girl, you won’t ever sit down again,” Quail spat. “If I have to spank you every day for the rest of your sentence, if I have to get us a public caning and loss of remission to keep you here until you see sense…”
“Alright, alright,” Sara wailed.
But Quail was far from done. She was set to spank the girl until someone came and dragged her off the girl, right then Quail would welcome a full paddle-strapping and caning just to clear her head.
Sara began to cry as she kicked her legs in futile protest as she felt her blistered bottom melt. But her only thoughts were of a home she never had and the only friend who ever cared.
Deputy Leader Andros stood at the door of the shed watching. He had come to break up what he had assumed was a fight, but had got there just in time to hear everything. He was the new kid on the block and was still finding his way around.
Andros was a tall and in his mid-50s with steel grey hair that was now thinning on top. He had switched careers after 30 years as a businessman in an effort to put something back. He was motivated in part after his own daughter went through a rough patch and did a short spell in correction.
Well that was what he believed for as an entity he was as fully formed as any and been born, grown-up, lived and loved in his world just like any other. Perhaps he was a copy of someone who had been on a similar journey to Quail’s at some time. Or maybe he was a construct from many such experiences or drawn from something deep in the lost pirate-woman’s consciousness. To the Sphere it was all the same. It dealt in myriad realities all complete within its matrix as it shaped and learned about the universe.
Andros himself would have been fascinated. He loved reading about alternative universes and the philosophical nature of reality. He often spoke on the subject over dinner.
“I think, therefore I am,” he might say with a grin.
“I eat therefore I am,” was the teasing reply his friends usually answered him with.
Andros didn’t care.
He had been watching these two and had assumed that there relationship was an unhealthy one. He had seen enough bull-dykes and their gimps to know. But then he had seen Quail’s eyes checking out the men in the yard and something else. He saw hope. Andros considered for a moment and then he quietly slipped away. He got 80 meters away before he could no longer hear the spanking.
But Sara heard it and the message it imparted. The shed rang with thunderclap spanks that went on and on for a good portion of the hour before Quail was spent. By that time the girl was a sobbing wreck and hugged into Quail with all her strength.
The next day Quail was made a trustee and assigned some admin work and a hip- switch.
*
The years passed in real time for Quail until she forgot that there ever was another world. From time to time she would get into some trouble and Andros would haul her off to the woodshed for a workout that left her standing for supper for days to come. But Quail needed and welcomed these moments of clarity and responded to Andros’s guidance much as Sara had.
Sara herself left the commune after only 18 months on account of diploma she had got in journalism. Initially she had gone to work for the justice system writing a newsletter on judicial communes for the profession, but after a year Sara had written to Quail and told she had been offered a job as a crime reporter in the city.
By then there were other Sara’s to help. Hard cases, some of them, but Quail spanked a measure of respect out of most of them and if that failed she went to Andros and arranged for a healthy portion of birch.
“What will you do when you get out of here?” Andros asked her one day.
“Out of here?” Quail mouthed back at him.
“Your sentence must be up soon, less than I year I make it,” Andros said happily. “You have been with us 10 years now, your remission has really piled up, and in a way we will be sorry to lose you.”
“Ten years,” Quail said absently.
A single tear rolled down her cheek.
*
Quail did not so much as wake but more came back to herself.
She was standing on a whirlpool of molten steel that spun beneath her feet as if it would swallow her, but never quite did. The room around and beyond her was made of opaque glass or so it appeared and it was this that lit the room, a hall really, with cool blue light.
Somewhere inside she knew she had full access. But she was calm. She no longer needed it.
“You have your prize now,” said a gentle female voice, “Don’t you?”
The woman was standing about 10 meters from her and directly ahead. Quail couldn’t think how she had not noticed her at once and she smiled. The woman was almost Jane from home-world and the house with the garden so, so many years ago.
“I am not sure what I have,” Quail whispered then she thought of something. “How… how long have I been…?”
She looked around and then back at the woman.
“Here?”
“Time is of no relevance to us,” Jane said, for Quail was sure it was a ‘Jane’ now. “Subjectively from your point of view you have been here 56 days.”
Quail opened her mouth to reply but found she had nothing to say to that.
“The Wayward Girl has docked and from here you can get a liner home,” Jane told her.
“Home?” Quail was puzzled, she didn’t even bother to ask who or what The Wayward Girl was.
“The ship you tried to rob,” Jane said in answer to her thoughts.
Quail nodded. She remembered now.
“There is a residential commune-college on home-world where you born,” Jane said casually, “You are enrolled there. They are expecting you in 43 days by your reckoning.”
“Redemption,” Quail whispered, she wondered how she could not think on home-world’s name for so many years, not even in her deepest thoughts.
“Yes Redemption,” Jane said brightly, “It is waiting for you.”
“The planet,” Quail looked at the woman sharply.
“All of it,” Jane replied.
“But…” Quail thought about Cutie and all the others she had harmed.
“Sometimes a line must be drawn,” Jane said in answer again. “The one you call cutie, Katherine Harrison, was redeemed by e-cheque 40 days ago and is now on route to her home. The funds were drawn from selling your ship and similar sources.”
“You can do that?” Quail gasped.
“We can access your… forgive me, primitive systems easily,” Jane smiled. “Similar arrangements have made where possible with other victims of yours.”
“But…” there must be some who could not be so easily helped. “I have to pay.”
“You have,” Jane said, “You judged yourself and served an 11 year prison sentence after helping dozens of others.”
“But it wasn’t real, none of it,” Quail insisted.
“Sara has just been made an editor and Andros has just got word, he has a third grandchild,” Jane tilted her head.
Quail opened her mouth again and then closed it.
“I don’t understand. Who are you?”
Jane shrugged.
“Yes you do,” she said.
Quail drew in a long slow breath. Well now she had no ship and… how could she go to college on Redemption, there she thought it. She was assailed with images of Cloudhaven and the cool green forests of Tannamere.
“Okay I am reformed, but…”
“You are now physically 19 again, your DNA altered by just enough to be consistent with being your own daughter. There is just enough from your ill-gotten gains, the lawful interest actually, to provide for your fees and an apartment when you are ready. The money is held in trust for you.”
Quail frowned. On Redemption she could not be a full adult until she was 25; one of the reasons she had left. Now she welcomed the situation.
“Who…?”
“A guardian has been appointed, he will suit you I think,” Jane explained.
“You know me so well,” Quail said sarcastically.
“Yes we do,” Jane stated it as fact.
“You even chose a new name for yourself,” Jane said brightly.
Quail nodded as new information was realised in her head.
“Tell me about this commune-college place I am going to.” Quail allowed herself some hope.
“It is very like the commune you now know in various uncomfortable ways, but you need that, don’t you?” Jane was actually smirking, “But they also have flyers for the crops and to get around the extensive lands they manage.”
Quail blushed.
“Goodbye Quail,” Jane said and then she was gone.
*
Quail stood at the end of a long blue-grey slate road that wound its way up the broad valley to the distant mountains. The nearer peaks were chiselled from blue stone and still held snow in the crannies sheltered from the sun. Overhead the sky was cobalt and crystal clear, although far across the hills were some great towers of white, like milk in water billowing into the sky. She knew that beyond the hills was another mountain range that led up to Cloudhaven and her heart swelled. Perhaps she would have a holiday there.
On either side of the road were dark-green Goya trees, their twisted grey-brown trunks curving out of the ground like umbrella handles. Here and there were signs of cultivation and there were even some vineyards on the far south-facing slopes.
She was still admiring the view when a tractor-hauler came up behind her and came to a halt. On top in a red bucket seat, which like the rest of the vehicle, was open to the elements, sat a young man of around 30.
He had sandy blonde hair and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to reveal heavily tanned arms. These thick limbs were dotted with dark blonde hair, but not too much, just enough to set off his manly rustic aspect, Quail thought.
“You heading up to the commune?” he called down.
Quail shifted her small pack on her back and grinned at him.
“Yes I am,” she called up.
“The main house is still six kilometres up the road, as for the rest you are looking at it,” he grinned, “The name’s Tony Nichols, come on I’ll give you a ride.”
“Thanks,” Quail beamed, “Quail, Sara Quail.”
She had always wanted a daughter called Sara and maybe now, one day she would have one.
Quail jumped onto a low platform in back of the tractor and shuffled her tail to get comfy.
“Ready when you are,” she called and the tractor pulled away.
Up in the sky a flyer turned circles and seemed to wave at her so she waved back.
The end.
Filed under: DJB stories, F/F, judicial, M/F, sci-fi, spanking stories | 2 Comments
Tags: OTK, spanking
The Prize
Our story started here.
Quail stood meekly in the line while the commune’s leader gave his speech. She had been living this life so long now that she had decided that this was the end game.
The punishment centre had held her for almost a year before her lawyer argued that the psych tests proved she was penitent. He had been a new one this time, a local boy who felt sorry for her and had enough contacts to get her a hearing.
By then she had almost got used to kneeling on the floor to eat off her bunk and sleeping on her belly. But she had never got used to the almost relentless strappings, which after a few weeks had finally broken her.
It had come upon her suddenly. One minute she was grunting angrily and trying to ride out the waves of pain where the sting met the burn and locked themselves in a dance on the curves of her raw-sore bottom. Then all of a sudden she began to sob. Great gasping wails of tears to punctuate her all too earnest begging and please of “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Even the duty punisher noticed her change in attitude.
“Sorry are you, really?” he said sharply during a pause in the relentless strapping.
“Yes Sir, oh yes Sir,” she had gushed earnestly.
“So you admit you do deserve this?” he asked.
She could only nod miserably.
On bad days after that she would sometimes remember where she was and beg for the access codes or the exit codes or plead with her unseen tormentor for another scenario. Then she would yell incoherently as she begged to know, “What do you want from me?” or “I won’t steal it, I won’t, I swear it.”
But usually she just called out in a miserable sobbing voice, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
The commune was better than the detention centre. Well anything was better than that. At least now her sentence had formally started.
It had been explained to her that for every day she behaved herself she would get a day taken from her sentence. If she had a spotless record for five years and learned enough skills then she could become a trustee and have two days taken off her sentence for every day of good behaviour.
The commune wasn’t such a bad place either. It was not a bit like the dread planet that she had marooned Cutie on. Here there were trees and soft beds. Although the women all had to wear dark grey dresses with white aprons and white caps, at least they were clean. And every five days there was a day off so that the girls could study and better themselves. Passing exams was even rewarded with more remission off their sentences.
Most days Quail forgot that none of this was real. But then she no longer even knew that for certain. In her more optimistic moments she thought about a holiday at Cloudhaven and prayed that she could wake up there again. But somehow she knew that that moment had passed for her; slipped from her grasp just as it had in her former life.
On other days she wondered if such places as the commune and the detention centre even existed in the ‘real’ world. Or was it some invention of her own guilty conscience she had dreamt up to punish herself?
It didn’t matter, not any more. If there was some greater purpose they she would have to play it out and wait. Until then all she had was the commune.
The worst thing was the speeches.
Every morning the commune leader or one of his deputies gave a speech about good behaviour and working hard. Quail could swear that each of the men only had three original speeches and kept recycling over and over in oh-so pious monotonous drone.
To say that the speeches were the worst thing was just Quail’s idea, she imagined. The other girls dreaded the punishments more, she knew.
The punishments were severe and varied. They ranged from a sound over-the-knee spanking on the bare bottom with a short paddle, through harder spankings with a large drilled paddle while bent over a chair or rail, to a trip to the woodshed for a sound birching.
Sometimes a girl was bent over a frame like the one at the detention centre and soundly strapped on the bare bottom in front of everyone as a prelude to a caning.
Only these latter punishments counted against a girl’s remission, which was one of the reasons Quail could cope.
For the Quail the lesser punishments added a sense of danger and spice to the monotony of commune life. And even when it was not her being punished, she could enjoy the punishments of others.
Not that she actively courted these punishments. It was just that they added some risk to other activities like apple scrumping, swiping booze and the occasional roll in the hay with another girl.
True Quail would have preferred one of the men, but they were all staffers and too discreet to involve themselves with a new girl.
“Now girls, gather into your assigned teams and listen for your allotted jobs,” the speech finally came to an end.
Quail looked up down the rows of smartly aproned girls, all meekly looking at the ground. She still felt like a tigress in a field of sheep. In eight or nine years she would be a senior trustee with a line to the outside. And in 12 years tops she would be out of there with a stake and… her thinking went no further. It never did except to think about Cutie.
*
Sara was a new girl. She was a young pretty blonde working under a five-year sentence. She had run with some gangs on the outside and hadn’t worked out that not only was she here for the duration, but she wasn’t as tough as she thought she was.
A petty argument over a bread roll had got her hauled out onto the back porch of the refectory
Sara had obviously thought to talk her way out of trouble but no sooner had she reached the porch when the deputy-leader had hauled her across her his lap and turned up her skirts.
“Hey you can’t…” she spluttered, but the man quickly bared her bottom and began spanking her with a small paddle.
The spanking was fast and furious and Sara’s small tight bottom went shiny red in moments as her voice made croaking protests.
Quail busied herself with a broom in the yard nearby so that she could watch the action. On days like these the commune wasn’t so bad.
“Nooo, you can’t noo… ah,” Sara wailed, as dark red doughnuts formed on the crowns of her bottom and tears spilled from her eyes.
Quail imagined the cocky arrogance with which the girl once might have mouthed-off or given attitude to a peacekeeper. Her fellow gang members would fall about laughing if they could see her now. Especially, Quail noted, as the girl had a totally glass-arse and was already bawling like the kid she was.
The spanking lasted for several minutes before Sara was set on her feet and made to stand and face the wall by the refectory door in full view of her fellow inmates as they filed out.
Later Quail found Sara morosely stacking seed pots in one of the out houses.
“Go away,” Sara said sullenly.
“Is your bottom still sore?” Quail asked.
Sara blushed. Close up Quail could see that she was barely 20 and the only thing holding her down was the native cunning that knew a bigger fish when she saw one.
“If you keep stacking those pots like that, then you will have an even sorer one,” Quail observed.
It wasn’t entirely a bluff; she had certainly seen better pot stacking.
“Oh,” Sara’s eyes were suddenly a little wider with panic.
“I have something here that will take some of the sting out of your bottom and then I can show you how to do it properly,” Quail offered.
Sara pursed her lips and blushed a little more. But she put up little resistance as Quail turned her about and bent her over the lower shelf. Lifting up Sara’s dress she found the girl’s bottom still mottled red with welting down the cleft. It was a rare treat to smooth cooling salve from a tube she had pilfered from the infirmary.
Sara gasped and closed her eyes as she allowed Quail full access to the underside of her bottom.
“Good?” Quail asked as she let her fingers wander deeper.
“Uh,” came Sara’s answer as she parted her legs somewhat.
Quail continued to tease the girl, letting her fingers stay on the upper slopes of Sara’s red-stained bottom and only occasionally dipping down low for tighter darker folds.
“See, I know how to…”
“Don’t stop,” Sara gasped
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a voice snapped at them from behind.
There were no closed doors on the commune and Quail had known the risks.
“I was just…” Quail began, she allowed a pout of frustration to show on her face.
“I don’t want to hear it,” the man growled.
He was one of the younger deputies. He was tall with red hair and fierce dancing eyes.
Quail pouted some more as she got to her feet. Sara, she noted looked like a lamb about to be slaughtered.
“Get those dresses off, I want you stripped down to your stockings and bodices,” he snapped.
He didn’t wait to see if he was obeyed, but strode out of the shed, making a determined turn to the left once he was framed by the door.
“What is he going to do?” Sara gasped, her eyes domed and wide on her face.
“I don’t think he likes me undoing all that hard work they put in on your bottom,” Quail said sardonically.
Sara looked as if she might cry.
“Come on, do as he says, I’ll take a punishment but I don’t want to lose any remission,” Quail said hastily.
By the time the deputy had returned both women were huddled together in just a brief breast-supporting bodice top and grey thigh length stockings. The birch in his hand came as no surprise to Quail, but Sara began to whimper a little.
“Come with me,” the man snapped and then strode away again.
Both Quail and Sara followed on reluctantly, the air tickling at their legs and exposed bottom. Sara clamped her hands to her crotch and walked in an utterly cowed posture, while Quail led the way somewhat more stoically. As they went they drew a few glances from the other girls, but most were too busy to dawdle, lest they wanted a share of the birch themselves.
The deputy led them to the woodshed where there in the centre of the room was a low wooden crossbeam wide enough to take three or four bare bottoms in a row. At a nod from the man, Quail stepped forward and flopped right over it and then wriggled until the pressure from the beam on her lower belly was bearable and her bottom was properly elevated.
“Please Sir I didn’t…” Sara squealed in panic.
“No you didn’t, did you? And you were supposed to have done,” he snapped at her, “Besides, you know the rules, comfort from a punishment is not to be sought in working hours outside of the infirmary.”
“But…” Sara persisted.
“Bend over,” the deputy barked at her.
Sara gulped and then cast a glance at Quail’s blossoming behind. With a blush she scurried across the room and dropped face down next to her new friend so that her bottom too was neatly presented for the birch.
The birch fell in a healthy swoosh and landed crisply across Quail’s bare bottom. The pirate-queen displayed no reaction at first, but all too quickly the nibbling bite began to sing in her flesh and then burn. It was a fuzzy tang and she hissed through clench teeth as she rode it out.
The second swipe garnered much the same reaction as did the third, but each stroke that landed after that made Quail give out with a panicked wail as the fire in her behind grew and grew.
After eight searing swipes the deputy switched bottoms and lashed the birch across Sara’s waiting bottom.
“Yeow,” she screamed melodramatically, kicking her legs back as she rocked her bottom in bucking motions.
The second, third and fourth strokes all got the same reaction, but after the fifth Sara set-up a continuous howl and sobbed bitterly into the floor just inches from her nose.
Quail grunted at each stroke during her second set and made clawing motions with her hands as if swimming away from the fire in her bottom. Sometimes a good sound birching transported her back to the detention centre.
If Sara’s first set had been bad, the second was unsupportable and she began to howl like a banshee as she was birched for her second eight.
“No more, please, no more, I didn’t mean it,” she shrieked.
It was the kind of reaction Quail usually enjoyed but she was still holding on to herself and panting hard through waves of flame in her own bottom.
Quail’s third eight had spluttering to sobs every bit as earnestly as Sara after just two more strokes and this time the deputy took her up to 12 before he switched back to Sara. It ought to be enough for them both he decided as he readied Sara’s last set.
But after just one more biting swipe Sara leapt to her feet and began to dance around the woodshed.
“No more, no more please Sir,” she sobbed.
The deputy sighed.
“It looks like we have to start over doesn’t it?”
“Oh no, n-n-no, please Sir,” Sara wailed.
“Bend over,” he said sharply.
It took a minute for Sara to steel herself, but finally she stopping hopping around and woodenly walked forward to bend over.
The repeated first eight felt like someone had taken a blow-torch to her bottom and Sara shrieked so much that several people came running. By the time it was over Sara was a broken heap of tears.
“That would have been enough for you if you hadn’t rebelled,” the deputy said in a tone of disappointment.
“No more, please, please, please no more,” Sara sobbed.
“Too bad,” the deputy sighed.
“Please Sir,” Quail piped up. “It was my fault and she can’t help it. It is her first time.”
Quail found it a strain to speak and as she winced words through an aching jaw her bottom had to contend with a million billion bees drilling and biting into her.
“Your fault eh, so I guess you’re offering to take 20 more in her place,” the deputy scoffed.
But he was impressed with Quail’s courage all the same.
“Yes Sir, if it will spare her,” Quail found herself saying.
There was a mutter from the few people outside and the deputy gave a low whistle. Then he shrugged.
“I gotta see this,” he said, “But if you cry off before I am half-done she gets it just the same. And if you beg me sooner you’re both get it anyway and I tell you now, that is what I am working for.”
It sounded harsh, but Quail realised he could have birch them both twice over for trying to make bargains. He was fair at least.
The next stroke that seared its way across Quail’s red raw bottom made her grunt down a shriek and really dance over the wooden bar. She had now taken 29 and now had about as many to go.
“Oh comets on fire,” she gasped.
They were her last coherent words for 10 minutes as true to his word the deputy birched her to total surrender.
*
Both Quail and Sara were told they would lose their day off, which the heavily sobbing older woman almost protested as unfair. Then they were told to go and stand outside their dorm house and face the wall for the rest of the day.
It was as good a place to stand for a good cry as any, although the public exposure never lost its embarrassing shame-filled piquancy and was positively mortifying for the novice Sara.
After crying non-stop for a derision-filled hour Sara stole a glance over her shoulder and then whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you kidding,” Quail said miserably, “I got us into this mess.”
“But you… but you… but you… took my punishment,” Sara sobbed and then she was crying in earnest again.
Quail flicked an eye down over shoulder at the two heavy swollen domes protruding behind her. Quite an eyeful for the spank fan inmates like her, she thought ruefully and my bottom is about as raw as it could be short of being flayed. Her rounds were so fiercely throbbing she could actually feel a pulse in each cheek. Not the worst I have ever had, she thought, but her mind would not alight on a punishment that was. Then like Sara she started to cry again.
*
“Thank you Letitia, my bottom feels much better now,” Sara gushed shyly.
The two of them had stolen away to a quiet loft that Quail had scoped out. If they were discovered it would mean the paddle and then Quail would probably never sit down again, but that was her life now.
Quail had produced another tube of ointment and laying Sara naked on her front, she had smeared the soothing unguent gently over the girl’s tortured cheeks.
“What about you?” Sara had finally said in a thick voice.
It took all her will to break off from her own little ecstasy.
“I was coming to that,” Quail said huskily.
There was mischief in her eyes and she looked at the girl like she was breakfast.
“Put out your tongue,” Quail ordered the girl.
Sara gaped for a moment and then obeyed. Quail carefully squeezed a long worm of ooze down Sara’s pink digit and smiled.
“Whanth dyath wanth me too doo nowth,” Sara mumbled with a straight tongue as she tried not to laugh.
“You know,” Quail said offering the girl the curve of her bottom. “Your tongue is softer than you fingers.”
Sara giggled and then stooping down gently began to apply the unguent to Quail’s raw flesh.
“Careful now or I will spank you,” she cooed, “And don’t you think I wouldn’t love that.”
Given the intimate location of her tongue, Sara couldn’t reply.
To be concluded.
Filed under: DJB stories, institutional, judicial, M/F, sci-fi, spanking stories | 3 Comments
Tags: birching, can't sit down, corner time, OTK, paddle, spanking, woodshed
The House on Carol Street
“How come only the kids get candy on Halloween,” Stacey moaned.
Caroline rolled her eyes and prepared to repel borders. She knew when Stacey was about to sound off with another of her kooky ideas.
“Why don’t we doll up all sexy like and hit the homesteads around town. I bet if we played it right we might even make some dough off of those folks who didn’t get any candy in,” Stacey said eagerly.
“Come on Stace, you’re talking like a hooker.” Caroline made her ‘it is so gross face.’
At 19 and a month older than Stacey she liked to play the sensible one.
“Besides,” she added, “When we were kids you couldn’t even go up the steps of the old Henson House over on Carol Street.”
“I could too,” Stacey lied.
“Yeah, well I meet you outside at sunset and if you can get anything out of the strange family that are ‘supposed’ to live there then I’ll think about your plan,” Caroline sneered.
Stacey pulled a face. The house still gave her the willies and she could have hoped to start the evening anywhere but there.
“Okay, you’re on,” Stacey said at last, with rather more bravado than she felt.
*
Stacey walked apprehensively towards the house on Carol Street, her long bare legs making dance like side-steps as if she were on roller skates. Her honey-blonde hair was hidden beneath a long gothic black wig with a white stripe running through it. The dress was charcoal and cut short so as to end in a ragged fringe. It was short enough to stand clear of her stocking tops that hung on suspender straps that ran to mid-thigh.
For a moment it looked as if Caroline had stood her up, but then she saw a vampire girl standing at the gate to the Henson House. It wasn’t a sexy costume exactly, as far as Stacey could tell from the distance, but it looked realistic and stylish enough.
“Hey Caroline,” Stacey called over as she picked up her pace.
Vampire Caroline showed no sign of having heard and after a quick look around she strode up the path to the door as if she owned the place.
“Wait for me,” Stacey called and began to run.
The wind picked up in a spooky howl and Stacey had to pause to hold her hem down and by the time she reached the front porch of the house Caroline was nowhere to be seen.
“Darn it,” Stacey said angrily.
The door was as old and battered as she remembered it and in the dark the bronze work demon that formed the knocker took on an even more sinister shade. Stacey shuddered. The house had certainly seen better days, but it was in a good neighbourhood and was just about the largest house around.
Reluctantly Stacey seized the knocker and let it rap. It sounded way too loud to her ears and she felt like running as she had as a kid when the boys had crept up here to play ginger.
“Hey open up, I’m with Caroline,” she called and after a brief hesitation, knocked the knocker again.
For a moment in the dark it looked as if the door had opened by itself. One minute it was hard in her face and the next it swung silently inward leaving a large black oblong in its place.
“Oh shit,” she muttered under breath, and then out of sheer desperation and bravado she offered nervously, “Trick or treat?”
“Who is Caroline?” a dark voice asked.
Stacey nearly fled at the disembodied voice and then she saw the man standing just inside the door; dark grey on grey and black as her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the hall.
He was tall and of indeterminate age. His suit was of heavy weave and like the house had seen better days. But despite his creepy demeanour he had a warm smile like her grandfather’s; charming even.
“Caroline…” Stacey said tentatively, “She just came in here.”
The man frowned and then smiled again.
“Oh her, yes do come in,” he said.
Stacey suddenly wished he hadn’t said that and felt like fleeing again, but that was just foolish so after taking a breath she followed the man into the hall.
*
“Now what was it you wanted again?” the man said in a creaking voice.
Stacey was at once put in mind of Bella Lugosi and stifled down a giggle.
“Trick or treat?” she said brightly with her sunniest smile.
“Aren’t you a little old for that?” the man said with a slight raise of his left eyebrow.
“Can’t I just have what Caroline is having?” Stacey said weakly.
“Caroline? Oh yes, the one you say you saw come in here.” The man’s face took on a distracted look and he looked away at the cellar door.
“Amelia, oh Amelia,” the man called out towards the door.
Stacey frowned and wondered why he would address the cellar. But after a moment there were sounds of footsteps on creaking wood and the door to the basement slowly opened.
The woman who emerged looked a little like Caroline and was dressed as Stacey had seen before. But it was obvious now that she had been mistaken and that this woman was nearer 30 than 19.
“Oh I thought…” Stacey felt totally embarrassed.
But the man was ignoring her.
“Amelia is it true that you have only just returned from your… stroll?” the man asked the woman.
There was some menace in his voice and Stacey backed away from him.
Amelia was pale, almost too pale, and what Stacey had taken for a costume now looked like an expensive Pre Raphaelite gown. Her eyes were dark so that her pupils were lost within the irises so that it appeared as if she had too impossibly deep holes in her face. Her demeanour too was strange; almost as if she was a teenager and she hung back looking somewhat sheepish under the man’s hard gaze.
“Answer me Amelia,” he said sharply.
Amelia and Stacey cringed together at his tone.
“Yes Sir, I was caught by the…” she shot a glance at Stacey and seemed to pause before adding “Rain.”
Stacey frowned. It hadn’t rained for weeks.
“Last night I stayed at that place you showed me,” Amelia said softly as if lost or standing far, far away.
“That is inexcusable,” the man growled at her, “Go into the front parlour and wait for me.”
Amelia’s eyes darted from the man to Stacey and then she bowed her head in nervous assent before walking as if condemned down the hall.
Stacey felt as if she was intruding now and eyed the front door hopefully. The man followed her gaze and appeared to consider something.
“You wanted something didn’t you,” he said slowly, “A trick, a treat or… what Caroline was having you said? Was that Caroline?”
“I thought it was, sorry my mistake,” Stacey gushed nervously.
“It is no matter, you shall have all three,” the man said silkily, the charming smile had now returned to his face and Stacey relaxed a little. “Come with me.”
The man turned away then and with a strange gait, he went down the hall. It was almost as if he were gliding and only moving his legs to simulate the appearance of walking. But Stacey felt an odd compulsion to follow him, although with the prospect of some goodies, she probably would have anyway. Nevertheless, she did feel somewhat apprehensive about his promise of a trick. That was not how it usually worked, didn’t he know that?
As Stacey followed the man down the hall she noticed how dilapidated the house was. But the decay and the mustiness in their air was totally at odds with the quality of the artwork on the walls. Some of the paintings were originals by familiar artists, although she could not quite recall any names.
The parlour, as they called it, was better appointed and more brightly lit. There was a fire in the grate and the decorations were green marble and mother of pearl, suggesting a late Victorian Art Nouveau style.
Stacey might have looked further but then she saw Amelia. The girl had removed her Pre Raphaelite gown and was standing in the corner and was now barely draped in old-fashioned underwear. The silk slip she had worn was wound-up around her exposed hips and formed a frame for her nude polished alabaster bottom, which was completely bare.
Stacey gasped.
“We are somewhat old fashioned around here and my… ward has behaved recklessly and dangerously staying out all day in the… rain,” the man said pleasantly. “Now since you are here you may assist.”
“Perhaps I…” Stacey was blushing and pointed lamely at the door behind her.
“Nonsense,” the man said charmingly, “You simply must stay for Amelia’s spanking; it will be so exquisitely humiliating for her. Now on the table by the door, pass me the hairbrush you see there.”
Amelia turned her head then and looked back over her shoulder at Stacey with an accusatory look of pure hatred. The woman looked far from meek now and Stacey shuddered.
“The hairbrush, if you please.” It was an order and it was the man now who fixed her with his eyes.
Stacey found the brush and hastily passed it to him before she stood back from the unfolding scene. When she looked again the man was already sitting in an armless chair which had appeared in the middle of the room.
“Now Amelia, come here,” the man intoned.
Amelia turned and offered him a pout, but she obeyed him readily enough. In fact there were no further orders from him as if she knew what to do. The strange woman crossed the room from the corner and lowering herself to her knees folded herself neatly over his seated lap.
“Such a broad round target, don’t you think?” he chuckled to Stacey.
Stacey just gaped. Amelia’s bottom was astonishing, preternatural even, and for a moment the two of them looked like some strange statue carved in stone paused in the punitive act.
Then the man’s arm rose slowly like a conductor about to begin a concert and the brush hung in the air. Then it fell sharply with a crack before rising again.
There was a smooth dark pink oval across both curves of Amelia’s perfect bottom, which as Stacey watched, slowly flooded with an ever deepening blood-red blush. Then, after a moment hung on end, the brush fell again with a louder crack that made Amelia gasp.
“Amelia you have been warned many times to get home before sunrise, now you will be soundly spanked as you so richly deserved. Afterwards you will go back to the corner and remain there until midnight. Is that understood?” The man’s voice was dark and commanding now.
Stacey was too dazed to wonder why a grown woman should be forbidden to go out, especially during the day, but she was in no doubt that Amelia would obey him for a while.
The brush rose and fell six or seven times in quick succession until Amelia’s bottom was a hard polished red all over and dark tears streamed down the gasping woman’s face. The streaming mascara must have been the old-fashioned kind, for in the light of the fire it looked almost like blood on Amelia’s cheeks.
“Please Master I’m sorry,” Amelia wailed.
But it was to no avail. The spanking continued for some considerable time until Amelia’s bottom was thoroughly chaffed and extensively welted. Finally the man set down the brush and allowed the now sobbing Amelia to stand.
“Hush now, be a good girl,” the man soothed and then to Stacey he added, “She will be as right as the moon in a night or two, have no fear.”
Stacey nodded in awe. Then as she watched, Amelia shuffled unsteadily back to the corner with her slip held to her hip so as to keep her bare bottom revealed to anyone in the room.
“Now you have had your treat, you shall have what Amelia had as you deserve and indeed as you requested,” the man said invitingly as he beckoned Stacey to him.
“Oh come on you can’t…” Stacey offered uncertainly. If she ran now she could get through the door before the man gained his feet.
But before she could act the man was somehow already between her and her escape. He pointed at the chair and made a gesture with his hand that suggested she should undress.
Stacey’s protests died on her lips and woodenly she began to obey his silent command.
“I will be gentle with you,” he whispered from his place back on the chair.
Stacey self-consciously let her panties fall to her ankles and then nodded. She had no choice.
It wasn’t until she was across his lap with her bottom upturned to the ceiling that it really sunk in what was happening.
“Hey you can’t do this to…” her words were cut short by a blasting sting to her exposed behind that robbed her breath.
The spanking was slow and steady and sounded like thunderclaps on her bottom. But the only rain was that which sprung from her eyes as the burn in her tail built to impossible levels and she could no longer contain her distress.
“Ow, ooh, yah,” she howled, or something like it.
In any case she bore the spanking with much less dignity than Amelia had managed.
“You know I could make you return here every evening for the rest of your life,” the man said absently as he spanked on. “Imagine that, you would look quite fine as an ornament in my corner for the next decade or two; when the corner was vacant of course. But then Amelia would want her share of your misery and she can be quite imaginative. She has an ivory cane somewhere from when I first trained her, don’t you Amelia?”
Amelia may have acknowledged the question but Stacey was too lost in bawling her head off to notice.
“I am sure you are sorry already, but I am going to spank you to your utmost and as you are a strong girl that will take some time I feel,” the man told her in a lilting voice.
As predicted the spanking lasted well into the evening, by which time Stacey was begging incoherently and promising anything for just some respite.
“Very well, go and stand in the corner opposite Amelia,” he said, “I want you calm before I show you that trick I mentioned.”
*
Stacey felt utterly cowed as she got dressed. Her bottom felt like it had road burn and it was throbbing awfully. Amelia had not taken her nose from the corner, although Stacey just knew that somehow the woman was watching every move she made.
“Now let me show you that trick I mentioned,” the man whispered.
As Stacey turned he enveloped her in his arms and she felt herself go limp. The last thing she remembered were the words, “Come again every Halloween my little treat.”
The next thing Stacey knew she was standing outside in Carol Street under a waning moon. There was a hush in the air and she knew the town beyond was asleep. Her bottom throbbed dreadfully as if she had been dragged behind a truck sitting on hard gravel for an hour or two.
Caroline was a no-show eh, she thought wanly and then broke into a run for home. No more trick or treats for me, she promised as she left the turn to Carol Street behind. But later as she offered her bare behind to the bathroom mirror and puzzled over the throbbing purple rash that stained her entire bottom she fancied she heard the words in her head, “See you next year my little treat.”
Happy Halloween.
Filed under: DJB stories, domestic, M/F, magical realism, spanking stories, vampire | 9 Comments
Tags: can't sit down, corner time, horror, mentor, mentoring, OTK, spanking, supernatural
The Prize
Our story started here.
Quail was awoken by someone kicking her in the side.
“Get up, where do you think this is, a hotel?” said a gruff voice.
She was about to say of course it is a hotel when she realised that she was naked and lying on the floor. Quail’s eyes flew open and her old reflexes had her on her feet at once.
Chains bound her hands and restricted the movements of her legs. Also it was dark and the only light was from an opening ahead of her. She could see the outline of a man but little else.
“Alright, we haven’t got all day,” the voice came at her again.
So she had moved on again, she pondered, now unconcerned. The voice cajoling her was familiar and so were the smells of the place; cold and metallic, yet musty like a space dock or… a sick feeling assailed her stomach even as she was pushed into the familiar hall outside.
She was in the slave pens of Xajule Six. She was certain of that because she had been there just a few months before. She had gathered some excellent slaves from a raid on a passenger hauler and had even bought a cute girl from there.
Strangely although she had been quite taken by the girl, she had thought of her since she had sold her…
“Move,” the man bellowed.
Quail staggered forward towards what she knew was the bidding arena. It was hard to look up on account of the strong light, but she had a sense of space.
“Fifty credits,” someone called.
“I’ll bid 80, let’s cut to the chase.” Quail took a moment before she recognised her own voice.
“Too rich for my blood,” the first voice chuckled.
I’ll go 90, Quail remembered.
“I’ll go 90,” said a new voice.
“I am bored now, 200 mega credits or you can keep her,” Quail’s voice sounded cocky like she didn’t want the girl and was just making a point.
A few weeks back the ploy had worked. But how could she be in the arena and bidding?
There was plenty of laughter, but it was pretty obvious that no one would go as high. Quail tried to make out the faces above her. Although her eyes had adjusted they were in silhouette still. Then she saw her own reflection on the far wall; a cruel piece of theatre to humble slaves up for sale.
It was not her own face she saw, but… Cutie was all she had called her; a tall woman with wide hips and sad eyes. Her bottom had taken the whip and paddle well, but there had been no true submission.
Finally Quail had sold the woman on an agrarian world. It had looked like a shit hole, a fate worse than a city bordello, Quail had thought. She had felt bad about it afterwards and had got drunk.
Why can’t I be me this time? Like before. Then I could… I could set her free on a good planet with some money this time. But it hadn’t happened like that and nothing about this virtual replay could change that.
*
The next few weeks played out scene by scene as it had happened. As Cutie, Quail experienced every indignity at her own hands, which was weird enough. But worse still was the hatred she felt for the pirate woman who whipped her just for fun.
How can I hate myself? It was a question that tortured her night after night as the chapter played out. It would serve me right if… Quail felt physically sick as a thought occurred to her. She was going to spend the rest of her life as an agrarian slave, she was certain. None of the other chapters had been this long.
Let me be me, she screamed inwardly at the universe. I can put it right. But such prayers are never answered. The adventure didn’t end until she was ankle deep in excrement and watching herself fly away.
“Work hard and maybe one of these grunts will buy you for a wife,” a scornful voice rasped in her ear.
Quail had heard some such comment on the dock before the transaction. At the time she had laughed.
*
Quail awoke with a start and swung her legs down off the bed. There was a pristine mirror facing her and this time it was her own face that stared back at her. Quail almost wept with relief. Almost and then for the first time since home-world she did.
Hunched over with her head in her lap, she cried for a long time, until finally she was totally spent. The hollow-eyed woman in the mirror was only very slightly older than Quail remembered. Only a tiny fresh scar and a single wisp of grey at her temple had changed. Then she noticed the lack of implants and the bright orange jump-suit. Prison coveralls, she thought.
“Okay, I get it,” Quail said bitterly, “This is Christmas future and I have been a bad girl.”
There was no response. No one cared; she was just one more captive on a backwater somewhere. Well she had been in worse places. She would soon see her chance, Quail promised herself.
Strangely her prevailing thought was that she could go back to the agrarian planet where she sold Cutie and rescue her. If only she could escape, that was.
*
Quail spent a night and another day in her cell before anything other than grey goo and water came to her. But finally the door slid back and a rather dour woman in a grey business suit was standing there.
“Ms Quail,” she said imperiously, adding tentatively, “I have some… good news, yes, I would say so.”
Quail stood up and wondered where the woman would sit. She recognised her of course. They had never met, not in fact, but even Quail had forgotten that. Somehow she had forgotten everything, or could not bring it to mind just then, which was much the same thing. But the woman she knew. She was her lawyer.
“I am not going to stay, my work is done,” the woman said, “I have entered the guilty plea and…”
“What…” Quail gasped.
“We agreed,” the lawyer looked puzzled. “The death penalty, it has been set aside. We got everything we asked for, don’t you understand?”
Quail frowned, she couldn’t… she sighed.
“It has been… could you just run it by me again.”
“The death sentence, personality wipe, indefinite incarceration… we had them all set aside. In return for a guilty plea the judge has recommended the alternative,” the woman was nervously excited now. Maybe Quail had gone mad.
The woman opened a file that she had been holding under her arm and began to read aloud.
“Letitia Quail, 39,” the lawyer glanced up at her once glamorous and youthful client. Not bad for 39, but that won’t last, she thought, “Eh…” she continued, “Unproven charges of murder and grand larceny. But piracy and kidnapping all substantiated. It is recommended…”
“An agrarian world right?” the knowledge came to Quail suddenly and she remembered the deal. “It is appropriate I suppose.”
She was thinking of Cutie again.
“There is just one thing…” the lawyer licked her lips.
Quail shrugged. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered anymore.
“You have to serve 30 years as I told you but…”
Quail shrugged. She knew that part, but with remission she could get out in 15 or even 12 years.
“…the sentence doesn’t start until you have been… well there is an assessment and a period of… strange planet this… it will all work out but… you have to atone first and they have to believe that you have atoned,” woman gabbled.
*
Quail was naked again.
She had been stretched over a frame so that her head was down and her bottom uppermost. It was a classic punishment position, but instead of the floor in front of her nose, there was a platform for an audience and beyond that a large screen that displayed her bottom on a big screen in tri-vid HD.
The whole structure reminded her of a museum rather than a correctional facility. There were certainly enough gawping people passing by to watch.
She knew that she had been wired to some sensors that monitored her brainwaves and every other bio-response she had to her punishment. Three weeks in and she had never felt so meek. The day had only just got started and she would remain in strapped in place for another four hours.
Every other day was an exercise day, but each night she had to fill-out a journal and undergo automatic psych tests.
“How long… I mean…?” Quail had gaped on her first day.
“Oh it is indefinite, I assure you, if you and your smart off-world lawyer have pulled a fast one then you are in for a… well let’s just say, I really do hope you are sorry,” the warden had told her.
The round-faced sweating man looked as if her regrets were the last thing he was hoping.
Nor did it help that she didn’t appear to be alone. From her vantage point she could see other women in various states of undress either undergoing a strapping or facing the wall to await their turn.
Quail wasn’t even the centre of attention. She was just one more woman to be punished. Then even this realisation was robbed from her thoughts.
The prison strap landed with a painful thwack that dragged a grunt from Quail’s lips. On the screen her bottom bucked and then shimmered from side to side. Then before she could shake out the sting another blow landed and she began her dance again as he bottom slowly reddened.
“I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry,” she yelled.
But the only acknowledgement was another blast of prison strap across her bare bottom. This time the fire in her tail started off bad and then got worse. On the platform opposite the glass outside two young couples stood in a grinning group. As the strap seared Quail’s behind for eighth or ninth time they began to applaud.
“I’m sorry,” Quail shouted at them in a pleading tone, but they were no longer paying her any attention and had gone to gawp at another woman being punished.
To be continued.
Filed under: DJB stories, judicial, M/F, sci-fi | 2 Comments
Tags: corner time, paddle, spanking, strapping
Even cowgirls get the blues
Or should that be reds? Here is a rare little Edwardian gem depicting vintage lesbian spanking and close-up of the action.
Filed under: F/F, history, retro, web round-up | 2 Comments
Tags: 1800s, 1900s, birching, Edawardian, spanking, Victorian
Weekly Round-Up
The Indian summer has been blown away like a punk making a LA street cop’s day. Sunday was spent picking apples in the rain to gather them in before they become neighbourhood windfalls. Incidentally the apples were red and shiny with moisture and seem to hang in pairs like so many spanked bottoms in a row. That is the only poetic image that occurs to one when you are not getting rained on, so it was no particular solace. So now I know why I am not a farmer.
Elsewhere the LSF Empire continues to grow and their blog has been added to my blogroll.
In honour of my Roaring 1920s post Rollin has published a short story from this era which has been taken from his collection The Romance of Spanking.
But the big news of the week is that Chross has just passed his seven-year landmark of being a blog. So congratulations Chross.
The Spanking Spot continues to be blocked as Avast, MacAfee and Spybot all continue to report a JS-Hide-Me Trojan within its pages. It may be a false report caused by a hide-me tag in an ad (I won’t write out in full as that may get my pages blocked) but it is impossible to tell, which is a pity.
My Bottom Smarts has another of those lists of new spanking blogs.
Cranky Spanker has the full cartoon set of the Halloween picture above. The other pictures this week are from: About Spanking, All Things Spanking, Cutie Pie and Season and Michael.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | Leave a Comment
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
Vintage realism
It seems to me that realism in vintage spanking erotica is rare.
But the two pictures above are to my mind so realistic that they have the look and feel of a real spanking in action.
Although this is highly unlikely, it does suggest that the photographer, if not the actors, were into their art and not merely going through the motions for a bit of commercial ‘flage.’
Filed under: art, F/F, history, real life, retro | 4 Comments
Tags: 1900s, 1930s, Edwardian, OTK, spanking, Victorian
A Voice in the Corner 