Weekly Round-Up


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Well a good week for stuff, but less pictures. I guess people are on their holidays.

Pandora’s Dreams of Spanking is back up and open for business. Kia is plugging a school for adults in Galway (that’s in Ireland). There is a completely unrelated picture above.

I have patched in some old pictures this week from various sources, but some of the above were found at Able, Sensual Drift, About Spanking and CutiePie.

Vintage Sunday


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cornertime14abraham2_200LSF have published the latest installment of Abraham Heights (a spanking soap). In due course this series will include previously unpublished material, but if you wanted your Donna Warren et al in one place then maybe this is for you.

Welcome to Abraham Heights, a town well off the beaten track with an old-fashioned set of family values. The second season of our spanking soap opera features the following eight episodes:

Episode 1: Home with the Heavers: Spanking is very much the norm in the town of Abraham Heights, something that English lecturer, Donna Warren, is only too aware of in her own dealings with housemother, Mrs Main, and the message is further reinforced when she is drawn to the Heavers’ house. Spying through a window, she witnesses two bare-bottomed women standing in a corner of the living room, before ‘Uncle Paul’ does a thorough job of paddling them both. Realizing the late hour, Donna returns back to her Freshman Hall to face her own consequences.

Episode 2: A Day in the Life: It’s business as usual in Abraham Heights as we get a glimpse into a variety of different punishment scenes, including a painful sorority paddling, a tutor disciplining his student, a husband correcting his wife and a resident of the freshman hall submitting to her housemother’s hairbrush once again.

Episode 3: What Comes around Goes Around: When 26-year-old Ainsley Greenberg visits Abraham Heights to carry out an audit, she opts to stay at a small out of town family-run hotel on the edge of town. She is shocked to discover the hotel owner spanking three young women for missing curfew, but when she leaves the bath taps running one morning, causing a flood in the bathroom, it’s her own bottom that pays the price.

Episode 4: Any Other Saturday: It’s Saturday morning and sorority pledge, Charlotte Coleman, seeks out the tutoring services of Roland Archer, despite his reputation for severe discipline. Meanwhile, Donna is on the receiving end of a vigorous maintenance spanking session from her formidable housemother, Mrs Main.

Episode 5: Needs Must: Donna is dreading her punishment session with Mrs. Main and is struggling to understand why someone of her own age and position still submits to the housemother, but at the same time she accepts that’s it’s something that she needs. In another part of town, Mindy Heaver has been punished for breaking curfew and is bare-bottomed doing corner time when her friends, Alice and Grace, pay a visit.

Episode 6: Exit Strategy: Late with her essay, Melanie Crow finds herself kneeling on a leather pouf with her bare bottom in the air as she awaits the first stroke of the cane from her tutor, Roland Archer. Donna reflects on her punishment and ‘cleansing’ at the hands of Mrs Main.

Episode 7: Quis Docet Domina Errans: When Prudence Trencher fails to pay the rent and makes a mess of the kitchen, Paul Heaver decides that discipline is called for. Finding her in the shower, she tries to escape, but ends up naked over his lap for a prolonged spanking with a wooden bath brush. Meanwhile, Roland Archer has disciplined Karen Garland and is waiting for her mother, who is late once again, to collect her. When she finally arrives, she has an unusual request for her daughter’s tutor…

Episode 8: Tender Memories: In the season finale, the customers and an employee of the Horn Street Coffee Shop all have their secrets, but it appears that they all share something in common as they reflect on a parental spanking, a sorority paddling and an extended introduction to a housemother’s punishment enema.

outlander debb5aadoutlander 000aoutlander c29240633f8174b5dedc outlander 00000Outlander__Caitriona_BalfeIndigo and I have been watching series 2 of Outlander. I have to say story-wise this is a woman who is a serial troublemaker and indulges her self-righteous imposition of 20th century values to any situation heedless of the consequences to anyone, especially her husband and family. From a spanking point of view a continued exploration a clash of cultures in light of this theme would have been interesting and valid even from a vanilla point of view. Otherwise what we have is the assumption of cultural superiority of the present over the past.

In case you missed it, after getting a very well-handled spanking (see above) the characters agreed that it would never happen again. So don’t watch this excellent series for spanking scenes. This is a shame as a feminist analysts would have been better served by confronting the reality rather than the credibility stretching newfound liberalism of an 18th century Scottish laird. Otherwise this has been well positioned with regard to the history and has avoided the traps and cliches normally ascribed to ‘Romantic Scotland’ and Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Briefly the Jacobite rebellions were about the Divine Right of the Stuart dynasty and the ‘True Faith’ versus the new style constitutional monarchy and the ascendancy of Parliament.

Interestingly the debate around this among women fans is polarised. Some lament either the lost escapism of a rollicking good spanking tale and largely agree with my analysis above or they see the spanking scene as an aberration in an otherwise female character-led story.

bend_and_bare_trepidationPart I here

The road made a wide sweep through the forest; the indefinite curve so limiting the route ahead that Alice Eden felt as if she was in a true wilderness. The 28-year-old lawyer had been driving for hours and it had been at least 40 minutes since she had even seen another car.

“Where the hell have they sent me,” Alice cursed as she glared at the road as it straightened out. The sign up ahead flagged up the highway to Butte and a side turn to Pulver. “At last,” she muttered.

The highway rolled left in yet another wide curve, leaving a more modest road off to the left. It was none too travelled, she thought. The image of a backwater was reinforced when 10 minutes later she came to a modest sign bearing the legend: Pulver, Pop. 1276.

“Hello Billy-Bob, come and meet my pa,” Alice crooned in an exaggerated TV accent, then she giggled. “Well you have to laugh,” she muttered in a serious tone, adding with a drawl, “No place career ends up in no place.”

The town was a little better than she expected. It had a town square of sorts and boasted at least three streets from looks of it. They even had a supermarket, a diner and something called the Shack, which looked like a bar.

The car slowed at the corner of two streets, neither the one she was looking for. Seeing the paved square was pedestrianised, Alice eased the car around and headed up the third option, the one with its name sign backwards to her.

The house wasn’t hard to find. Modest, but freestanding it was well maintained with white painted boards and ‘sad-eyes’ for its attic windows. It reminded Alice of a horror movie house, only nicer. Even the front lawn had been mowed.

“Looking for something ma’am?” an elderly man in a floppy straw hat asked as she got out of the car.

“Just three signatures,” she sighed.


The man eyed the tall well-dressed auburn beauty like she was an alien. The way her long hair was expertly piled-up atop of a smart green business suit, he figured she was moneyed and had just got lost on the highway.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said pleasantly, her professional smile was almost genuine. “I am looking for…” she paused to remember one of the names. “Dr Anderson…?” she proffered after a moment.

“The doc keeps an office over the way,” the man replied, “Next to the fire house. Are you sick?”

“No, no, I’m… I’m here on business,” Alice told him. “Alice, Alice Eden,” she added.

“I am Bernard Roach, retired. I just keep up the gardens of some of the houses, like the old Stephens place here.” Mr Roach told her, hoping, she guessed, to get her to tell him her business.

“Do you know a Margret Dangerfield too?” Alice deflected him.

“Maggie,” he grinned, “Sure she keeps the store, not the big one, the one next to the Shack.”

“Thank you,” she smiled with a wave to signal their chat was over.

“Your welcome,” the old man shrugged.


Breakfast was lively, although not all 39 were present. The early birds had come and gone, with some of the late arrivals were still in bed. The permanent farm guests had long since out grown the old dining room and a kitchen wall had been knocked through to an extension to the side of the Stone’s house.

As usual Garrick Stone sat at the head of the table next to Jared and Sundance at his right hand, with John and Adam to his left. The other men were mostly absent now and the women, who made up most of the residents of the farm, sat around Augusta at the other end of the long table. Only Clarice and three or four helpers were on their feet serving breakfast.

Jared, who looked like a younger larger version of his father, was his usual taciturn self, seeming to give his whole attention to the meat-heavy meal on his plate. Every now and then he cast a glare at Melanie who was shifting awkwardly in her seat and blushing. He noticed she did not once look his way.

Sundance was near as old as Garrick, older some said. He too had little to say as he chased the remains of his breakfast around the plate. Wearing a native shirt and bandanna that complimented his Navajo heritage, he held his head cocked like an owl and his piercing brown eyes missed nothing.

The twins looked like Clarice, all dark and jocular. Adam, the eldest by a few minutes wore his hair short; a contrast to the figure hugging motorcycle jacket and blue-jeans. John had a mane of thick hair in a style emulating the other three men at the table, although his white T-shirt and cargo pants gave him a worker’s look.

These five men, along with Augusta made up the elders of the pack, although Clarice too had some claim to a seat at the table.

Most of the women, none of whom looked much over 25, were either helping or sitting in huddles discussing the previous evening in the Shack or wherever else they had crept off too. Some had not made it back until dawn, but had had the wisdom to report in to Clarice to fess up. These were mostly among the helpers eager to mitigate any confrontation with Augusta once she was apprised of their tardiness.

Only Lana and Keri had been caught and their main crime had been to openly fraternise with town boys and bring them home yet. These two sat morosely nibbling on a cardboard breakfast and casting wistful glances at Augusta in some vain hope that she might intervene between them and Garrick.

Garrick himself had said nothing, nor had even looked at them. But any hope that he had forgotten their meeting was a forlorn one. Garrick never forgot anything.


Lana leaned tentatively from the waist as she peered into the two wide open barn doors. It was almost as if she were afraid to rouse a bear in his cave. Behind her Keri tried to make herself as small as possible and even looked as if she might flee. With breakfast over there were far too many people about for either of their likings and with so sign of Garrick they earnestly hoped he had been otherwise detained.

Unseen or heard by either girl, the pack leader strolled up behind them and joined Lana in a mocking stare into the empty barn; almost as if there was a bear.

“I can’t see him,” Lana said with hope in her voice.

Keri startled as she saw their nemesis standing beside her and groaned. “I can.”

A beat later Lana noticed the shadow and straightened up.

“Good morning ladies,” Garrick said brightly, “Shall we begin?”

He strode past them into the barn and walked over to a saw trestle. As he reached it he made one deft move to unhook his broad leather belt and slip it through the hoops of his pants.

The girls exchanged sour glances and at a reluctant pace followed him in.

“Sh-shall I go first?” Lana offered, her hands already moving to the button and zip of her cut-offs.

“Oh I think the crossbeam can hold both of you at once,” Garrick said casually as he doubled his belt. “But before I blister your behinds, perhaps you can tell me why you’re being punished.”

“We were late,” Keri suggested meekly.

“The boys maybe?” Lana said cheekily and shrugged as if it was almost worth it.

“Either one of those might have got Augusta’s goat,” he snorted and then paused for any further suggestions. A good answer would get them a lighter hiding.

The girls exchanged another glance, but both being out of ideas they bowed their heads and squirmed.

“You brought outsiders here and above all you got caught,” Garrick sighed impatiently. “Oh enough of this; get your little butts over the trestle.”

Keri adopted the demeanour of a pre-roadkill bunny, while Lana rolled her ‘whatever’ eyes amid an expression that combined failed bravado and woe. Both stooped to a crouch as they shucked down their denims.

The brevity of Keri’s panties made Garrick cock and eyebrow. He would have done more than that had he seen Lana’s underwear, but wisely she took them down with the shorts, heedless now that she was showing Garrick and any passer-by her smoothly pert uncovered bottom.

Lana flopped over the wooden beam and dared the world to look. However, the obscene up-thrust of her bare bottom made Keri quail, knowing as she did she was about to give a similar show.

Garrick knew there was no place for timidity in the pack, but instead of anger he shot the skittish blonde a stern paternal smile and nodded at the place next to Lana’s properly presented tail.

“This is hardly your first time,” he said.

“No Sir,” Keri whispered and with a deep breath she pushed her shorts and panties all the way to her ankles and folded herself over the beam next to Lana.

The sight of two comely and imperilled bare bottoms drew a small smirking crowd of young women and in moments a couple of men strolled over to see what was happening. Lana could see a random array of upside down legs between her own and the jocular hub-bub left her in no doubt that they watching.

“Just great,” she groaned.

Keri felt her face burn and attempting some Zen she fixed her gaze on a crack in the concrete floor and imagined herself elsewhere. It didn’t work.

Garrick stepped into a measured stroke and swung the leather across Lana’s upturned cheeks. The thwack-crack noise was terrific and the generous sea of needle points on her bottom drew a gasps.

Keri jerked in sympathy and tensed for her own turn.

The second crack over laid Lana’s first as did the third, fourth and fifth. Lana discarded any pretence of being too cool for school and howled as if there was a full moon.

Keri gaped sideways at her friend’s contorted face and the red-rimmed eyes so close to open tears. She never knew Lana had it in her.

Then a tongue of fire licked her own bottom and all thoughts of the dark-haired girl were driven from her.

Garrick was mildly amuse to see that Keri had a strawberry bottom next to Lana’s apple red, but both girls were children of the moon and strong. They would heal too fast for half measures and pack discipline must be maintained. So in sets of five and six he swapped back and forth a dozen times or more between bottoms until both girls were sobbing hard and all resistance had long since fled.

“We can do this again any time you like,” he said to the pair of heaving and squirming blistered bottoms.

Kerri’s gasps for breath competed with ragged sobs and Lana gently cried. Neither knew how to answer.

“Alright, stand up and get facing the outside barn wall,” Garrick said wearily, “You know where.”

They did. Barely a week went by before one or three of the girls found themselves in this very humbling vigil. The pack was young and spirited and like Lana and Keri, they were always so certain that wouldn’t get caught.

“Yes Sir,” Lana sniffed as she staggered to her feet.

“But…” Keri sobbed, “Everyone… will,” she heaved another sob, “See,” she finished miserably.

Lana rolled her eyes and then wiped her nose. “Come on kiddo,” she said gently, “Its show time.”

To be continued

Weekly Round-Up


436 daddy-daughtre-spanking-1 IMG_1334 senorita tina057 tumblr_o1um05z5XU1v3e4kqo1_1280 tumblr_o5n89z1n381uomlnuo1_500 xas14On a quick business trip. Ronnie Soul has some blogs to look at.

Pictures are from Richard Windsor, Gingerholic, Devlin, CutiePie, Acknowledging Imperfection, Stan and About Spankings.

Vintage Sunday


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wolf 0Garrick was old, even older than he looked. A head shorter than his three sons, he still drew glances on his rare trips to town. With his straggled mane of grey hair and patched up lumber shirt and denims, strangers to the area would take him for a 60-something hobo, but the citizens of Pulver knew better than to judge the man. For as long as anyone could remember Garrick Stone had been an occasional feature of their lives and there were even old folk in the town who could remember him from their youth; only he hadn’t been young then.

The full moon was still a week away but that didn’t stop Garrick from being restless. In the recessed shadows of the barn he sat brooding and smelling the night. Some of the young folks had yet to return. He wouldn’t have minded if those that could had just been stretching their legs in the woods or hunting. But some of them had gone to town to ‘hang,’ as they called it these days, at the Shack or to slum it on the main drag.

Mostly it was the young women who had yet to master the curse who cavorted themselves in this way and he had yet to approve of what these girls were wearing. In his day the unmated females didn’t go out at all, let alone give a display of casual flesh to outsiders.

He thanked the Old Ones that he didn’t have daughters of his own, but there were many sent from other packs or the near grown offspring of his old brothers in his charge.

That was another thing. He alone of all his brothers and sisters had been blessed with three sons. In the last century nearly two females had been born for every male and still the lesser packs sent their daughters to be trained.

Trained, he snorted, more like fed and housed. He and Augusta couldn’t train them all. The older women were almost as bad as the youths these days and there was no respect for the old ways. At least his sons did their part with the men, but with Sundance there were four of them and fewer young men who needed guidance.

So far he had resisted the pressure to let the unbloodied from mating, not that they didn’t couple off in the woods when it suited them. Garrick tolerated because it kept the pack distracted. It irked him that the twins had yet to take mates even though they had been bloodied for over a decade. But he couldn’t argue that as a distraction for the unmated females they served him well.

He laughed, well aware of his double-standards here. Then he frowned again, knowing that soon they would mate and their previous dalliances would seek mates of their own. Some of the Bloods, both male and female were urging him to allow the men to take more than one mate.

Garrick sighed. In his day only the Alpha and his immediate cadre took more than one mate. But that had been the days when sometimes the sub-Alpha females had more than one male consort. Times had changed.

He didn’t care really and sighed again. Now was now. He just wanted respect. He had only taken a second mate for form’s sake. Augusta had made him, but at least she and her sister-wife Clarice were close.

He was still mulling this over when he caught a scent. Two men not of the pack were near. Very young he guessed and not easy on their feet. The two with them were more subtle, two of his. He could not tell yet which of his errant youngsters they were; their store-bought perfume masked them. Then he heard voices.

“When can we see you again?” the boy’s words were loud in the night.

“Shssssh,” he was girlishly soothed, “They will hear us.”

Lana, Garrick thought, and the other will be Keri. She had kept her voice low and she was a good 100 yards away still, but these youngsters had no idea what an old grey like him was capable of.

There was some kissing and Garrick caught a scent of sex. Damn these kids. They were barely a year out of high school and with outsiders yet. He waited.

It wasn’t until the two boys were gone that he showed himself.

“Garrick,” Lana said breathlessly, an embarrassed smile playing out on her face.

“Hello Sir,” Keri said meekly. Her smile was more nervous.

They were both wearing cut-off denims and store-bought singlets that he believed were known as T-shirts these days. There was a gap between their midriffs and the low slung shorts. Keri, the smaller of the two, was a dark unenhanced blonde with a pony tail. The more Latina heritage Lana had her dark hair to one side and hanging over her ample right breast.

“Didn’t Augusta set you a curfew?” he said with a stern easiness.

Keri looked sideways at Lana who crossed her lips while her brain considered a lie; she ruled it out. “Busted,” Lana said airily.

Keri winced, all hope now gone.

“Well the night is young… oh that’s right, it isn’t,” Garrick said pleasantly as he glanced at a watch-less wrist.

“Can we do this now?” Lana said hesitantly, one finger held aloft as if in school.

“Now and then nose to the barn wall until breakfast… or after breakfast?” Garrick throughout as if it was of no importance to him.

“Barn wall ‘til dawn,” Lana proffered, her wheedling face still held some attitude.

No doubt the public shaming element was what she was striving to avoid. Garrick smiled at the audacity that he was to be bargained with. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

After breakfast some of the night hunters went back to bed and some of them had to rush off to jobs, Lana thought. “Tomorrow then,” she said with a forced pleasantness.

“Tomorrow,” Garrick growled, “Goodnight ladies.”


Jared Stone stretched himself languidly on the bed, allowing his powerful arms to reach up to support his head as he yawned. As the Hunt Master and Garrick’s eldest he set his own agenda, but still it did not do to set a bad example to the others. Besides he was hungry and he could already smell the bacon in the pan.

He was a big man, bigger even than his father. Outwardly he appeared as a well-kept 40-year-old and the mane of dark hair still looked good on him. His piercing eyes had such dark irises that they blended with his pupils, an almost demonic look that was completed by a slightly crooked nose and a ragged scar under his right eye.

Rain eyed her sister-wife’s amusing predicament for a second longer and then rolled over to paw at her husband’s broad hirsute chest, she was happy for once to have him all to herself. Not that Melanie wasn’t fun too sometimes, she was, but one-on-one was a rare pleasure.

Unlike the local girls, Rain was slender and dark, with small breasts and pert high set buttocks that became lost in ill-fitting clothes. Standing up this subtle beauty was covered by the clean sheen of long straight jet-black, an asset that now draped itself like a dark shadow across Jared’s naked form.

He reached now and pawed her smooth bottom as he contemplated one last tryst. Then he looked across to Melanie standing naked and facing the wall. Her well-toned back funnelled down to the flare of her hips and the full circle of her fulsome bottom. This morning it was stained red from a good spanking not 30 minutes before, a top-up correction for an ongoing punishment.

Up until the day before her luscious long blonde hair had hung to the base of her spine, but then she had cut it page boy style. Jared was not best pleased. He eyed Rain as if to say if she ever did such a thing…

Rain smiled and followed his gaze back to Melanie’s tender tail.

“How long are you going to be mad at her?” she said, kissing his chest.

“Until it grows back,” Jared growled.

Even Rain gaped. “And you’ll spank her every day until then?”

“I might,” he growled, directing his remark to a passive Melanie unmoving amid her corner time. “I just might.”


Augusta confronted her morning visage in the mirror and considered changing her war paint. She had never been much one for vanity, but sometimes it was expected. Besides she had time. These days Clarice supervised the work in the kitchen and others would clear away. Sometimes it was nice to be Queen of the May and Alpha bitch supreme. Not that the role suited her. She was Garrick’s and she would have had him even if he had been a humble blood.

She was 30 years his junior, however old that was, certainly not young. Not that it showed much. Most were surprised that she was Jared’s mother, but then all of her kind readily stayed in shape. Only her neck, the hint of crinkle eye and a few strands of grey in her hair aged her.

Clarice was younger of course, much younger, but no kid. She barely looked 30 and around town most figured the twins, John and Adam, were Augusta’s sons, a fiction it served the pack well to maintain. After all they both really were a little over 30 and looked younger.

There had been another, but she was gone now. They didn’t talk about her, although not a day went by that Augusta did not mourn her absence.

The Alpha female shock off the bad memories and returned to her lipstick. Her eyes met those in the mirror. No, she thought, the hint of eye shadow is enough, time for breakfast.

To be continued.


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navy caning02“Eyes right,” the Senior Wren all but screamed, “And stand straight woman.”

Catherine came to attention more or less correctly, this time remembering where to place her thumbs.

“You are not in Tonbridge bloody Wells now,” the Senior Wren continued to berate her, “This is the Royal Navy,” she continued.

Catherine Havers felt every nerve jingle and for a moment she even forgot that this was all for a docudrama. For all intents and purposes she was back in 1941 getting screamed at by a battle-axe of a woman sailor.

“March her in,” said a weary voice. Its owner an over-tall stern looking man with steel grey at his temples beckoned from through the open door from his place at his desk.

Captain Jerome Grey was the commandant in charge of cadets and quite frankly he would rather have been at sea. All the shouting was doing little for his headache.

“Hats off,” the NCO said at last as she herself came to attention.

Grey looked up to confront a terrified looking red-head with deep blue eyes. They hadn’t met before so he had to pause to remember his script. He had no idea she would be so beautiful.

“A red head I see, always trouble in my book,” he said grumpily as he stalled for a second. Then he read the charge sheet. “Two ticks this week already and that was before you caught smoking on duty…”

Catherine froze before blurting out “Yes Sir,” her stock phrase this week. Then she remembered that it might be ‘aye sir, or aye, aye sir or… Also she resisted the urge to rub her bottom at the mention of the ‘ticks.’ Earlier that week she had acted out a tick sanction, namely six of the best from her cadet captain.

The punishment had been carried out with a short thin stick that had been laid across her bare bottom while bending. It had hurt far more than she had expected, but she was proud of the fact that she hadn’t yelled out or cried. Not even afterwards.

The whole thing had been filmed in case that had been all that Catherine could handle. Erin had explained that the footage could be used in the extended DVD if she went ahead with the main event.

“All right, leave this with me,” Grey sighed.

“Aye Sir,” the Senior Wren bellowed and with a bare nod to the guard they smartly wheeled about and marched out.

“You know what happens now don’t you Havers?” Grey sighed.

“Yes Sir, I mean aye sir…”

“A COs 30; have you anything to say before we proceed?”

Catherine opened her mouth breathily and wondered that she had any spit left. Then she drew it into a determined tight line and shook her head.

“You must answer,” Grey growled.

“Oh sorry Sir, yes Sir, I mean No Sir, nothing to say Sir.” She managed.

“Please remove your tunic, your skirt and your slip etc… leave your other underwear on until I tell you,” Grey intoned.

As he spoke he stood up and removed his own jacket before retrieving a stiff black cane from the cupboard.

“Oh God,” Catherine whispered as she carefully and somewhat slowly obeyed him.


Catherine’s dawdling hadn’t gone down well and the usually calm and serious Captain Grey began barking at her like a headmaster. Quicker than she could have believed she soon found herself standing in her period knickers, blouse and tie.

A flush of red at her cheeks spread like a forest fire and twice as hot as filled her face and encompassed her neck.

“My predecessor was a grab the ankles man, but you girls aren’t tough enough,” he said dropping a chair into the middle of the floor. “So you can bend over and grab the base of the seat.”

“Yes Sir,” Catherine said in a thick voice and all of a fluster made an awkward attempt at bending as if the chair might bite.

“Knickers down,” he barked, not acknowledging that he had forgotten the order, “And then bend over.”

There was a shush of cotton on thighs as Catherine’s bare bottom and legs were exposed to the air and she felt her blush reach her ears. This was far worse than before and bending was excruciating especially when he ordered he ‘right over’ so that her bottom stuck right up.

Grey hadn’t counted on the intensity of the view and suddenly became aware of the hidden camera. A life in the real navy had left him curious about the old days, but trying to retain a professional air when confronted with a fulsome a trim bare bottom was a challenge.

He remembered his brief training: 30 strokes at six to eight second intervals. He eyed the clock, it should take around three minutes.

For Catherine herself time slowed to treacle and with her bottom so exposed it felt like days. The touch of the stick to her bottom was electric and she flinched.

“I haven’t touched you yet girl,” he muttered and tapped her twice more.

Catherine’s breathing was audible but even and she tensed.

As per his training Grey waited a beat and then struck.

The hiss preceded the groan and Catherine jerked, clawing the air and then the base of the seat by turns as she rode out the sting. While across her bottom a sharp line emerged like reconnaissance photo in the developing lab.

Grey waited.

The second stroke was worse and this time there was real pain in her tone as she moaned.

Grey focussed on two scarlet lines across very pale flesh before he landed another cut under them both.

“Ah-yah,” Catherine wailed as she bit so hard into her lip she feared drawing blood.

Too slow, Grey thought and quickly added a fourth and then after a slow five-count a fifth and sixth.

Catherine jerked at each, a whine escaping from clamped jaws at each impact. Someone had put razor slashes across her bum and little devils were rubbing in some salt. Her even breaths were louder and faster now and she took a moment to wipe a single tear from her left eye.

Seven was a bitch and eight, nine, 10 only got worse. By her first dozen she chuckled to a sob and tears were falling freely from her blood-rimed eyes.

Grey took the decision to press on to 15, the halfway mark before pausing. By this time Catherine’s bottom, becoming though it was, had become textured with purple lines with red spilling over the welts to form one angry sheen of red from her thigh-tops to a line level with the top of her bottom cleft.

Catherine was no longer stoic and had taken to indulgent sobbing through ragged breaths.

Grey looked around for an intervention, but as Catherine had not made her signal, an opt out he wasn’t aware of, he turned back to the pain ravaged bottom to complete his mission.

The stroke interval grew until by 26 strokes he was waiting more 10 seconds before caning Catherine. The clock told him it had been four minutes now. Her bottom had become an interesting combination of colours and textures to say the least. Grey wondered if he should stop anyway.

Catherine screamed out at each stroke now and her bucking for several seconds afterwards threatened to tip over the chair.

“Please Sir, how many more,” she croaked.

“Just four,” he said gently. Probably broke character there.

Catherine nodded.

Grey caned in hard and then after a slow count to four did so again. He had to wait for the penultimate but when it came he added the last almost at once.

Catherine’s back was arched and her bottom back-jutting and taught as she vocalised the last impact. She had long since stopped caring about any dignity of her posture.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Grey intoned and as if it was perfectly natural turned away to pretend to exam some paperwork.

The caned woman got unsteadily to her feet and repaired her uniform to parade ground duty, or some approximation of it. She was till buttoning her tunic when the Senior Wren returned to march her out.


“How was it?” Erin was grimacing.

Catherine was smiling through tears whilst unrepentantly clawing at her bottom through her 1940s skirt.

“Hard to do actually, by the end,” Grey put in.

The two of them were facing the camera for a brief feedback.

“I’ll say,” Catherine gasped. “That was… oh God… intense.”

“You say you had a great Aunt who experienced this for real during the war?” Erin asked.

“That was real enough for me,” Catherine’s eyes were bloodshot from crying but she was grinning. “But yes, that’s right… I have always been intrigued.”

“I think I held back… I mean it would have been faster during the real… back then,” Grey said sagely, stopping himself from undermining Catherine’s experience.

“Yes, but remember that that is going by the book. What we explored here was the human element. Don’t you think your 1940s counterpart wouldn’t have felt the same?” Erin suggested.

“I suppose,” Grey agreed.

“Catherine, how do you feel about it now?” Erin asked turning to the dishevelled woman.

“Ask me in a few days, oh God,” her hands countered another burning assault as she wonder if the caning would ever stop.

“I’ll do that,” Erin chuckled.