Guest Post–Honeymoon Spanking

Here is a bit of classic spanking fantasy storytelling from the early days of the internet. This came from the old soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup via Deja News. The author is “rdbut” who some may remember as “Chuck” or sometimes “Chuck Wilson.”



Greg Warner smiled lovingly as the nude bottom halves of his
bride, 24-year-old Monica Warner (formerly Carver), bowed
in a graceful arc and settled softly over his lap in a manner much
like an old-time gladiator surrendering his sword.
It was the wedding night for the pair, an event when most
couples would be entwined in the connubial bed to consummate
their marriage. And that, of course, was on the agenda, but first
would come the matter that they agreed upon when the marriage
proposal was made and accepted three months earlier.
Ever since that night, Monica had looked on this moment with
a combination of dread and excitement. Born into a conservative
family, she had held firm against any type of sexual play during dates
except kissing and a little fondling of her breasts. But, on this night,
she was not at all shy about stripping down to her birthday suit in
front of her equally nude 30-year-old husband.
Nevertheless, when the moment of truth arrived, Both Monica
and Greg were surprised by the ease with which she submissively
presented her naked buttocks over the lap of correction. And it was
clear in both of their minds that this would be more than a sex play
type of spanking for they agreed that it was something that was long

As Greg began applying a skin conditioner to the threatened areas,
Monica had time to reconstruct in her mind the events that led up to
this night that would combine pain with pleasure.
She had a job as sales clerk in Carver Electronics, which was
owned by her widowed father, who had earned considerable wealth
from it. Trouble was, he spent so much time in the early years seeing
that it ran smoothly that he was unable to properly discipline his daughter
when he felt it was necessary while she was a teenager. In fact, he found
it was easier to give her what she wanted rather than argue with her. She
thought nothing of taking a day off now and then and leaving the other
sales clerks overburdened.
As a result, she had everything a young woman could want in life —
everything, that is, except peace of mind, which was often hampered
by a guilty conscience.
Monica’s irresponsible attitude did not escape the notice of Greg,
who had been employed by her father for six years and had quickly
risen to the title of manager.  But, he found it uncomfortable to verbally
chastise the owner’s daughter for failure to pull her weight with the
Although she was also aware of that fact, she felt helpless to correct
her errant ways.
Then one day she overheard a conversation in which her father asked
Greg how Monica was doing? When told candidly of her taking a lot of
time off, thereby causing extra work for the remainder of the staff, Mr.
Carver sighed. “I know I haven’t been strict enough with her, but this
company has taken so much of my time.”
“I understand, sir,” Greg replied. “But, if you don’t mind my saying so,
children need discipline in their lives.”
“What would you suggest, Greg?” she heard her father ask.
“Well, since Monica is a rather capricious young lady, she might
benefit from an old-fashioned spanking.” He laughed when he said it, but
there was a certain seriousness in his voice.0jizpgtvup37
She had always respected Greg, so, instead of being angry, his
overheard statement gave her pause to think back over her young life.
She realized that she was not happy despite her comfortable means and
that, perhaps, Greg was right. Still, she shook her head. At 24, she was
certainly too old for a spanking and, besides, she couldn’t very well go
home and ask her daddy to suddenly start spanking her.
A few weeks later Greg asked her out for dinner and soon thereafter
they began to date steadily. It was on the fourth date, that Monica finally
worked up the nerve to tell him that she had overheard the conversation
with her father and apologized for her lack of professional behavior.
The subject came up a couple more times before he proposed to her
and that same evening they discussed a wedding night spanking, which
would be both her introduction to corporal punishment and to marital life.
For Greg told her that he also had old-fashioned beliefs that included the
husband being the head of the family. He added that he saw a major
difference between spouse-beating and a good, sound spanking that
would redden the wifely seat. And, to his surprise, she readily agreed.
During the ceremony, no one in the audience would have imagined in
their wildest dreams that such a pact had been made for, as the vows
were being exchanged, so were loving gazes between the principals.
Had one been able to see under the bridal gown, however, a twitching
pair of buttocks would have been in evidence.
– – – – – – – –
Now those buttocks were as bare as the moment they were
introduced into the world, stretched over the husbandly lap as he sat
on the edge of the bed. Monica’s legs lay outstretched, toes digging
into the bedspread, while her head rested on a pillow and her pretty
face looking into a dressing table mirror a few feet away.
She felt strangely content under the circumstances and watched
with an expression of resignation while Greg’s palm massaged and
patted the skin conditioning lotion into soft, white, silky soft globes.
Behind him on the bed was a 12-inch ruler and a long-handled,
rectangular wooden hairbrush that was given to him by Mr. Carver.
“I failed in part of my duty as a father, Greg,” he said, “so it will be
up to you to see that Monica gets the bottom discipline she needs.”
“I won’t fail either you or her, sir,” he had replied.
Greg’s first look at the gorgeous gluteal muscles of his wife would
not be the last, but it was an experience that would never be equaled.
It was a bottom to be admired and caressed, but it was also one that
had gone too long without feeling the effects of an angry hand. It
would not be with anger, but with love, that he would be administering
the first ever spanking to the well-padded and deeply cleft behind.
Monica felt the pats growing lighter until suddenly the first spank
came down on the highest summit, bridging the gap between the moons.
A divided pink imprint of Greg’s hand showed the point of impact.
“Oww!” she moaned and the cheeks began to tighter.
“Relax your buttocks, honey,” Greg declared and, slowly but
obediently, she complied.
He brought his hand down with methodical smacks, stinging each
cheek in turn and soon causing Monica to turn her head back and forth
on the pillow and her legs to begin kicking in response. She then looked
back over her shoulder to see her husband’s palm changing her bottom’s
color to an ever brighter shade of red.6i2bkrel5h12
“Ohhh, that hurts …  Owww … Honey, that really hurts …”
“A spanking is supposed to hurt,” he replied without missing a beat.
“You know you need this, don’t you?”
“Yes … Ouch … Ouch … Yes, but please … Owwooo … Not so
hard …”
“You might as well get used to this now, baby,” he declared,
“because you agreed that you would be getting spanked whenever you
misbehaved after we were married. Well, we’re married, so this pretty
bottom of yours will be getting many more of these, I’m sure.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The young beauty’s bare
behind became increasingly red and warm as the husbandly palm
delivered a stern wedding night message. Her buttocks had again
clenched in self protection but that did not cause Greg to ease up on the
force of the smacks until the skin glowed brightly.
When that goal had been attained, he reached back for the ruler
and immediately resumed the punishment, even spreading Monica’s
buttocks with his left hand while smacking along the inner edges of the
crack with the other. He stopped after about a dozen hard smacks
and picked up the hairbrush.
“Now we’ll see what your daddy’s present can do to adjust a
naughty girl’s attitude,” Greg said, wrapping his left arm around her
waist and tapping the glowing, red moons.
“Please, honey … Oh, please … I’ll be good … Don’t spank me with
the hairbrush … PleaOOOWWWW!” The shout of surprise and pain
came from the girl’s mouth as the brush made its presence known for
the first time on the bare, girlish flesh.
With that, her legs began kicking wildly, once again opening the groove
in the behind enough to allow the brush to visit the especially tender area.
Greg delivered some 30 blows to buttocks and thighs before deciding to
end the punishment.
Monica lay sobbing over his knees for about a minute before she felt a
cooling lotion being applied all over the spanked surfaces. Then she was
helped to her feet, turned around and sat on her husband’s lap.
“Oh, please, sweetheart,” she moaned. “Let me up. My bottom’s so sore.”
“It will feel better soon,” he said with a smile of understanding, “but,
remember, this is the least of what you can expect for misbehavior. Then
he raised her head with a finger under her chin and gave her a passionate
kiss while, at the same time, gently rubbing her thoroughly warmed behind.
Finally, Greg laid Monica down on the bed, and, with his rampant penis
looking for a cozy nest, dropped down beside her.

To be continued….

My F/M series ebooks available on KU

For those of you with Kindle Unlimited this will be a welcome announcement. Santa is coming early and under the tree you will now find all of my F/M series books available at Kindle Unlimited. This means if you are a member, you can read these for free. The titles are:

Ladies Who Spank

Ladies in Charge Vol. 2

Ladies in Charge

Strict Ladies and Naughty Boys Vol 3

Strict Ladies and Naughty Boys Vol 2

Strict Ladies and Naughty Boys Vol 1

It may take a few days for all of these volumes to become active in KU, so keep checking back.

In the meantime here is the conclusion of last weeks story, “Greta Van Camp.”

 (For Part 1, see previous Sunday’s post)
Greta froze, apparently speechless, and I was able to take in the woman Greta had called Aunt Trudy. It must be her apartment, I figured. She stood there, hands on hips, glaring at Greta. A tall, rangy woman, she must have been in her mid thirties. With her light hair and fair skin she resembled Greta in a way. Her build was similar too. She had the broad shoulders of a body builder and powerful looking legs. She wore workout shorts and a tank top. An athletic coach of some type?
“I—I didn’t know you would be back,” Greta sputtered.
“No, you did not, I see.” The woman’s eyes narrowed and she tapped her foot.
It was the same type of accent, that vaguely Northern European sound.
“And who is your friend?” she demanded.
As she spoke I eased myself up off Greta’s lap. I didn’t know what to say. It was embarrassing to say the least. My cock was still hard and it bobbed up and down as I started to pick up my clothes.
“Stop!” she said, pointing at me. I don’t know why, but I did. I stood there naked, my hands absently rubbing my inflamed ass.
“We were playing a game, Aunt Trudy. Just a game,” said Greta.
“So. While I am gone you play spanky games with a male friend?”
Greta didn’t say anything.
“Get up,” said the woman, gesturing with her hands. “You want to play at spankings? Perhaps it is you who needs a spanking, Greta.”
Greta put her hands together, imploring this older woman who had taken complete control of the situation. But “Aunt Trudy” forged ahead. She sat down on the bench and grabbed Greta by the arm, pulling her over to her right. “Take off your skirt,” she ordered. She put her hands on her hips and waited for Greta to comply.
Hesitantly Greta unzipped the tiny miniskirt and let it drop, and I was treated to the sight of Greta’s magnificent buttocks clad in tiny French cut panties. Trudy immediately toppled Greta over her lap, bottoms up, Greta’s fulsome fanny pointed at the ceiling. She slid the tiny panties down to Greta’s knees. The perky rounded cheeks of her bare bottom were quite a sight.
“Oh, no, please Aunt Trudy,” wailed Greta.
Aunt Trudy was unmoved. “You are going to get a good spanking, Greta, and your friend can watch. This will teach you to play games when I am away.”
With that Aunt Trudy raised her arm to shoulder height and brought her palm down with a loud crack that resounded in the confines of the bedroom. She smacked Greta’s bottom dead center, then added smacks to her left and right cheeks in rapid succession.
“Owww!” yelped Greta, kicking her legs up behind her.
The determined woman proceeded to apply a stinging barrage of spanks, spacing them out all over Greta’s wobbling fanny. She struck in a seemingly random pattern, spanking left, then right, up high, down low. It didn’t matter. Greta’s bottom quickly took on a reddish hue. I was mesmerized. My eyes were probably as wide as saucers as I gaped at the lurid spectacle of Greta’s round fleshy bottom cheeks being spanked to a bright scarlet. Greta wriggled and bobbed, flutter kicked and flailed her arms. All to no avail. Aunt Trudy was a big powerful woman, taller than Greta, and she held the girl over her lap with a left arm that encircled Greta’s waist like a steel band.
“Ohh! Ow! Ow! Please Aunt Trudy!” Greta was beginning to sound frantic. It must be stinging like crazy I figured. These were not love pats but hard whacks doled out at full strength.  I now know what they mean by “sound” spanking. The spanks echoed off the walls like firecrackers But as it progressed I noticed that Greta began to hump her mons veneris against Aunt Trudy’s knee. Then she started moaning. Trudy slowed down and began rubbing each spank in. Greta writhed and made little guttural noises. They were moans of pleasure. Then Trudy’s hand began to stray between Greta’s labial lips. Greta stiffened as Trudy’s fingers slid in and out of Greta’s sex, manipulating her.
Now it was ‘yes, oh, yes, Trudy my love’ that Greta uttered.
Aunt Trudy looked at me and smiled. “You see? The little slut likes to have her hiney spanked.” Greta just moaned, lost in a lust fog.
It was then I realized that something else was going on here. Even my naïve, immature college boy self finally understood Greta and “Aunt Trudy,” whoever she was, were lovers. But I was to get an even bigger shock.
Aunt Trudy stopped and stood Greta up. The she stood up and started to strip off her own clothes. Trudy hastily took off her top and slipped her shorts off. Now clad in just a bra and thong panties, she was an Amazon goddess. She addressed the two of us.
“Now you have both had a spanking, like naughty children, but before your games are finished, you must both be punished for using my house without my permission.”
What now? I thought.
She sauntered over to the closet door and opened it. Neatly arranged on hooks on the back of the door was an assortment of paddles, straps, multi-thonged whips and slender canes. She fingered a few of her toys and finally selected a strap that was attached to a handle.
She turned back to us and said, “Over the bed, both of you. Twelve strokes of the strap.”
Greta obeyed immediately, prostrating herself over the end of the bed, her bright red rump offered up for more. I don’t know why, but I reluctantly followed suit. I think by then I was in this space mentally where I was an obedient object, obeying any and all commands issued by any beautiful and dominant female.
We both got a dozen solid licks with the strap that stung like bees. She alternated, one for Greta, one for me. But then when all twelve strokes had been doled out, she had us rise and stand facing her. To my slack-jawed amazement she stripped off her bra and panties. I was in awe. Then she grabbed us both by an arm and together the three of us tumbled into bed.
The two of them attacked like they intended to devour me. I lay on my back while Aunt Trudy planted kisses all over my chest. Greta took me in her mouth reviving my prick, getting it ready. When I was ready, Trudy straddled me and lowered herself onto it. She pumped me until I climaxed so intensely I saw stars. There was a brief respite after that, but then Trudy had Greta renew me again. When I was ready it was Greta’s turn. She knelt on the edge of the bed, her spank-reddened ass cocked up in the air. I stood behind her and slid into her cleft, all the way to the hilt. This time I was able to go slower and make it last. I stroked in and out of her deliciously tight sheath for what seemed like forever. I think Greta came more than once before I did.
After that, and for the rest of the night, I was instructed in the fine art of cunnilingus by Aunt Trudy. I lay on my stomach, my head between her legs while she instructed me. Part of the instruction included not so gentle taps from a riding switch poised over my ass. Greta got her share too, and by the end of the night I thought my tongue and jaw would cramp up. In the early morning hours I finally took my leave, exhausted, my ass sore, but otherwise feeling like a million bucks.
Later, I came to understand that the whole thing had been a setup. Greta wanted to be “caught,” and knew exactly what would happen when her lesbian lover walked in on her with a boy. As I thought about it, I questioned why I had thought that surprising. Greta said from the beginning she liked spanking, and had mentioned receiving them too. Another surprise was Aunt Trudy. In reality she was Gertrude Klassen, Phd, a professor of languages in the School of Arts and Sciences. I sometimes saw her, walking across the quadrangle. We did not acknowledge each other by mutual agreement. She and Greta had met at the university gym and had hit it off. I turned out to be a bonus. I was sometimes invited to come to Professor Klassen’s apartment, but I had to understand who was in charge. She loved role play, and her favorite was “Aunt Trudy and her naughty niece and nephew,” so a summons from Greta for a night of fun and games also meant not sitting comfortably for a while.

But I didn’t care. Here I was, nineteen years old and getting my ashes hauled by two beautiful women. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Coming Soon — The Marshal’s Woman



My fifth romantic spanking novel for Stormy Night Publications is now in the works. I don’t have a timetable on publication yet, but it could publish this year or early in January. This is an historical Western set in Oregon in 1892 with a parallel story line about travel over the Oregon Trail in 1867. The two timelines do connect up in 1892 when a young US deputy marshal is given the task of transporting an at risk witness to a brutal crime, a young lady, to a ranch in Central Oregon built by the pioneers who traveled there in 1867.


There is considerable chemistry between the young lady and the deputy marshal which both try to deny, of course, but conflict too, since both are polar opposites. Where he is serious, she is flippant; where he insists on rules, she is devil-may-care.

This novel is very much plot-driven. Like all my books it’s not about BDSM or spanking, per se, although there is a lot of it in the book. It springs from the setting, the time,and the characters themselves. It’s about several couples and how they deal with adversity. And there is adversity a-plenty in the form of Indian war parties, an insular church that feels like a cult, outlaw gangs, hired assassins, and crime kingpins.

An interesting side note is when I got home from the hospital, the manuscript was waiting for me, all marked up with comments from the editor. I got on it as soon as I could, but in the meantime I started watching a show I found on Amazon prime, “Deadwood.”mv5bmtqwodi1mzi4of5bml5banbnxkftztcwnjmxmdgznw-_v1_sx1500_cr001500999_al_ It turns out there are parallels between “Deadwood” and the book. It’s mostly the setting and two characters, but I had to admit, my jaw dropped when I saw how perfectly the series had captured these aspects of the book. Any doubt I had that my imaginary outlaw town in the high Cascades was even a little over-the-top was completely dispelled by a few episodes of “Deadwood.” It was good to know my vision wasn’t out in left field.

Here is an excerpt:

Bullivant led his guests into the spacious dining room. Once seated, he called for the serving girls. A trio of stunning girls in their highly abbreviated French maid outfits emerged from the kitchen and lined up along the wall for an inspection. The initial reaction from his guests were stares of pure lust at this lush display of pulchritude.

“Here we have Roxy, Belle and Kate, the three lovelies who will serve you this evening.”

The girls, who fidgeted nervously during the introduction, curtsied and returned to their stations.

“They show promise, but they are still learning domestic service,” explained Sir Nigel. “I’m afraid they make mistakes; a situation I intend to correct.”

The service was clumsy but the guests didn’t care. As the three served the drinks and the meal, Sir Nigel couldn’t help but notice the amused and appreciative looks on the faces of the men as they peered into the generous cleavage displayed by low cut bodices and followed every wiggle and sway of the girls’ lovely backsides. Shortly after service had begun, they were joined by Dolly dressed in a tight-fitting ensemble calculated to show off her splendid figure.

“How nice of you to join us my dear,” said Sir Nigel, pulling out her chair for her.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” she said, seating herself and unfolding a napkin. She’d made a total transformation from the rough cowgirl on horseback of earlier to a refined lady of the manor. The men stared in disbelief at the change. Sir Nigel chuckled inwardly. He’d been lucky to find such a woman with her talents. They made a fine team.

“Now gentlemen,” said Sir Nigel after supper had been cleared. “You are welcome to join me in the library. But first there is a chore that requires my attention. A working man’s day is never done. You no doubt noticed the delightful ladies that served our supper, and no doubt you noticed some nervousness on their part. There is a reason for that. Alas, all three have been lax in their duties the past week and are in the dock tonight. I run a tight ship here and slacking is not tolerated, so I’m afraid these three must pay for the error of their ways. After that we’ll talk business.”

He rang a small bell and his butler appeared. “Horace, please send for Gerta. Tell her I require her presence in the inner room.” Sir Nigel rose. “If you will accompany me, gentlemen.” He led the way to the library, and once there, opened a bottle of whisky. “This is from my own collection,” he said, pouring several glasses and handing them to his guests. “All the way from Scotland by way of San Francisco.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

His guests drank, grateful to be served authentic whisky and not the rotgut served up by the average saloon.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a chore to attend to. It won’t take long. Please feel free to pour yourself some more.” With that, he made his exit. His guests milled around, drinking until Horace the butler appeared.

He spoke in a low conspiratorial whisper. “If you gentlemen would care to observe, there are viewing windows right over here.”

Bullivant had built an enclosed room adjacent the library, the “inner room,” he called it, constructed for the purpose of first correcting, then enjoying, the maids selected for domestic service. It was a rake’s playroom, sporting all manner of frames, stools and posts along with lush padded divans and chairs, suitable for both restraint and pleasure. Slots in the library wall were opened by sliding panels through which one could view the activities there. The men, amused by the offer, slid the panels back to see what this was all about.

As the men looked on, the three serving maids arrived, led by Horace and accompanied by a stout woman in a plain gray dress and a white apron. She carried a package under her arm. It was a cloth wrapped around something long and thin. Bullivant smiled to himself. He would enjoy this. In preparation he’d had his favorite punishment stool placed in the center of the room.

The “stool,” as it was known, was a heavy square platform made of oak, padded on its top with four sturdy legs all cross braced and having floor-engaging extensions to insure its balance. It had buckling straps in the rear for the legs and in the front for the wrists. A strap buckled across the small of the back to prevent excess movement of a penitent.

The unfortunate girls were directed to stand against the wall. The men watched appreciatively with a heightened sense of anticipation as the girls nervously fidgeted, waiting for what was coming. Dolly flounced into the room taking the lead as mistress of ceremonies.

“Well, girls, here we are,” said Dolly, addressing the three who stood along the wall eyeing their mistress fearfully, twitching, wringing their hands and shuffling foot to foot. “You are each guilty of numerous infractions. It seems the efforts of Mr. Digby to teach you the finer points of domestic service have fallen on deaf ears. Accordingly, you ladies are to be punished.”

The frightened eyes of the young maids surveyed the room and its fearsome trappings, unaware the men they’d served that evening had been invited to watch this drama. This was the price of easier living in the manor house, Sir Nigel and Miss Duval’s notions of correction for domestic servants.

Dolly produced a list and read from it. “Roxy, come forward. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Roxy, a favorite of Sir Nigel’s, had been snippy to him once too often lately. He’d warned her but she ignored him, so he put her on Dolly’s list. A voluptuous girl with curly red hair that fell in ringlets, she could incite lust merely by walking across a room. He would have thrashed her himself, but decided to save himself the trouble, instead tapping her for tonight’s tableau where the lurid spectacle would further his agenda.

“Please Miss Duval…” she cast her gaze in Sir Nigel’s direction hoping for reprieve, but the thin-lipped smile and the nearly imperceptible shake of his head dashed any such hope.

“Gerta, if you please.” She gestured to the beefy matron. Gerta grasped Roxy by the arm and marched her over to the stool.

“No, please, no!” Roxy tried to protest but the large woman forced her face down over the heavy platform.

With practiced ease Gerta buckled her in. Roxy struggled, but was no match for the big German frau who finished by buckling the back strap and giving it an extra hard tug. The action caused Roxy’s ample buttocks to thrust out, making them an attractive target for the whip.

Gerta handed Dolly a rod which had been wrapped in the damp cloth she’d carried under her arm. The rod was a three foot long bundle consisting of three slender green switches bound at one end in a red ribbon. Dolly took the rod and gave it a long swish, testing it’s whippiness and suitability for the task at hand. The rod whined as Dolly swished it. Roxy peered over her shoulder and flinched, her face stricken with fear, as she watched Dolly limber up her arm.

“Please, miss Duval. I’ve tried. Really, I have,” she said, making one last plea. “Don’t whip me.”

“How many strokes, darling?” asked Sir Nigel, ignoring the girl’s entreaty.

“Oh, two dozen I think. Prepare her, Gerta.”

Gerta flipped up the short frilly skirt, revealing Roxy’s attractive bottom clad in frilly drawers. Gerta peeled these down to her knees revealing Roxy’s nude derriere in all its succulent glory, much to the appreciation of the men watching.

“Nooo!” wailed Roxy as her bottom was bared.

Dolly took up a stance to Roxy’s left and tapped her with the switches a few times to make sure of her aim. Then she drew back her arm and let fly. With a whrrr…whick! sound the rod struck. Roxy squealed. Her rear cheeks rippled at the impact. Red lines blossomed across the white flesh. Dolly lined up for another stroke. This one produced a gurgling cry.


Twenty two more times Dolly whipped the rod in a long arc, striking Roxy’s bottom with noisy thwacks. Roxy squealed and howled, squirming frantically, but was unable to evade the dreadful lashes that seared her backside. She begged for mercy. Dolly, however was implacable, doling out the punishment in a calm efficient manner that would have been the envy of any king’s royal executioner. It was quite the lascivious performance, which was exactly what Sir Nigel had in mind. Roxy’s bottom jiggled and bobbed in response to the strokes plied upon her wobbling bottom globes. Her frantic wriggling and jiggling fanny were an incitement to lust as red stripes from the rod melded into an overall red hue that covered every inch of her bare bottom. After two dozen lashes had been administered, Gerta unbuckled the weeping girl and led her away. She was made to face the wall and instructed not to move, but to keep her punished bottom on display for all to admire. Belle and Kate were thrashed in turn, writhing over the stools, clenching and unclenching their buttocks in a vain attempt to diminish the maddening sting as the switches fell. Soon all three were standing facing the wall, sobbing and frantically rubbing their wealed buttocks in an attempt to relieve the awful pain. The men watching through the viewing ports chuckled, enjoying the spectacle of the three serving wenches getting a schoolgirl-type licking.


After it was done, Nigel returned to the library, and ushered in the three maids. He selected a cheroot from a humidor, lit it, then passed some out to his guests. “Well, boys, as you can see, I run a disciplined house. But I’m not a cruel man. These girls have been duly punished, and so if I may prevail upon you to tend to their stripes, I have some ointment. I’m sure they’d all like some tender care after what they’ve endured. Wouldn’t you girls?”

Gerta turned them around, and one after another dutifully intoned, “Yes, Sir Nigel.”

“Splendid! Gentlemen, choose a lady and she will escort you to a private room where you may soothe her poor throbbing backside or whatever else you choose to do. Or,” Sir Nigel smiled, “if you would prefer the ministrations of my Dolly or Gerta, you may have that, too. Both are equally skilled with the rod.”

As he said this, the youngest of the three men, Tully, blushed hotly and fingered his collar while the others chose a companion for the evening.

“No, my young friend?” The young man shook his head nervously. “Very well. Horace, send for Lottie. She will entertain Mr. Tully here. I will see you all at breakfast where we will discuss our business. Good evening.”

With that, Sir Nigel took his leave.

F/M Spanking Story — Greta van Camp

Here is a re-post from nearly a year ago. I’m still very much under the weather so this tale is to fill the void until I’m back in the pink. This story is included in Ladies in Charge, Vol. 2. It’s long, so I’ve split it into two parts.



Greta VanCamp and I first met under rather embarrassing circumstances, at least for me. There is no doubt she enjoyed the encounter, as future events were to prove, but at the time I had no idea. All I wanted was for it to be over.
In my freshmen year at a southern university which will go unnamed, let’s call it Southern U, I pledged a fraternity. Being away from home for the first time in my life, away from the strictures of suburban middle class family life, what I wanted was to have a good ‘ol time. Oh, sure, I’d study and all that, but in between classes and on weekends I wanted to cut loose. So the frat I pledged was Delta Epsilon Kappa, “Deke” for short. The Dekes were reputed to be the wildest, most hell raising guys on campus. That wasn’t the half of it, for they would be kicked off campus three years later, their charter revoked, the fraternity disbanded. But I didn’t know that then.
Pledge classes, I found out, were expected to do audacious things, and we quickly set out to make our mark. There was a snooty sorority on campus called KAT, Kappa Alpha Theta. The Kats were aptly named. Only blue-blooded girls, scions of Old South money, were invited to join. These were girls who wouldn’t give a guy in Deke the time of day (or so we were told—actually many of the Dekes came from old money too). So naturally, they were a perfect target.
The plan for the panty raid may have been a good one, but I suspected we were being set up by the actives, thinking it was a great joke. The idea was that several of us would stage a fake brawl in front of the KAT sorority house. When all the girls came out to watch, several of us would slip in a back door, run through the house, hit the bedrooms and steal the required undergarments. The fake brawl started, some girls were attracted by the spectacle and came out to watch, and we slipped around back while they were watching. Unfortunately, as soon as we hit the house and did the snatch and grab, girls who had remained inside sealed off the exits and blocked us. It’s like they were waiting. We’d been had.
Their president was a tall dark haired beauty named Caroline Sanders. She and her sisters herded the five of us who had been the “snatch squad” into the common room. We found ourselves surrounded by thirty angry women. Remember, we were lowly frosh and most of them were seniors and juniors.
“Well, well,” said Caroline Sanders, eyeing us with her arms folded. “Some lowly pledges. Dekes, I’ll bet. What have you got in your hands, boys?”
We’d been caught red-handed, literally. We had been carrying panties, a few garter belts, bras, teddies – anything that looked sexy.
“We’ll put them back, ok?” said Phil, one of my pledge brothers. “Um, just let us go, ok? It was just a joke, see?” We all nodded in agreement. Actually this was a disaster. Failure meant swats when we got back, but at the time, that seemed like all we could do.
“Why that’s our underwear!” she said in what sounded to me like mock surprise. “How dare you boys come in here and steal our things!”
The angry murmuring started up. Some talked about calling the campus cops. Some said we ought to be reported to the dean of students.
Then someone else stepped forward, another officer I think. “At the very least we should call the Deke house and tell them what their pledges did.”
“Please, don’t do that,” said Nick, another brother of mine.
“And why not?” said Caroline, who had a phone in hand and was preparing to dial the Deke house.
“We’ll get in trouble,” said Nick.
“Well, I should think so,” said Caroline who had started to punch the numbers in.
“Wait a minute,” said one of the other girls, holding her hand up. “What kind of trouble, exactly?”
“Um, well,” said Phil. “We’ll get wood for sure…”
“Wood?” said the girl, pretending not to know what he was talking about.
“The paddle,” said Nick. “We’ll get the paddle.”
“Oh, my,” said Caroline with mock concern. “You poor boys.” She looked around and said, “We can’t have that now, can we, girls?” All the girls shook their heads and feigned concern. I could see this was being staged, that they’d planned for this. I felt a cold knot form in my gut. Something bad was coming, I just knew it.
“So, boys, what can you do to avoid getting swats from your pledgemaster?”
You have to remember, this was back in the day when paddling in fraternities (and some sororities) was an accepted fact of life. Hell Week, initiation, pledge training – they all included liberal use of the paddle. We knew that, but actually it was failure more than anything that we wanted to avoid. Nick had brought up the paddle in an attempt to shock the girls and make it seem like we would be brutalized. Little did we know, we had sealed our doom.
“Um,” Nick continued, “we have to show we got in here and stole some underthings.”
“I see,” said Caroline. Then she addressed her sisters. “We can’t allow these boys to return empty handed, can we girls?” There was a chorus of no’s along with giggles and chuckles.
“Well, then, it’s settled. We’ll let you take some underthings of ours back to the Deke house.”
Nick and Phil looked relieved. I knew better.
“We’ll trade our panties for your clothes,” she said evenly. Dead serious.
No one said anything. They studied us intently, watching for our reaction. It slowly dawned on all of us what the implications were.
“So what do you say, boys?” Now there were giggles and guffaws.
“We, ah, what do you mean when you say ‘trade’? If we give you our clothes then…”
Now Caroline broke out into a broad smile. “That’s right, sugar. You walk out of here in our panties and nothing else.”
Nick nearly choked. “Hell, no I’m not doing that – walk back to the Deke house in girl’s panties? No way!”
Caroline shrugged. She picked up the phone and made like she was going to dial. “If that’s the way you want it…”
“No wait,” I said. “We’ll do it.”
She smiled and put down the phone. Then she pointed at us with her index finger like a schoolmarm about to lecture. “All right then, boys – strip!”
I looked at my pledge brothers. Some blushed, some were pale as ghosts.
“Let’s go, take your clothes off. And put on the panties you stole.”
Slowly, we all started to strip down. There were hoots and whistles that accompanied the show. When it came to the very end, when our underwear had to come off, the clapping, catcalls and jeering reached a crescendo. It showed us just how earthy a group of women can get when men strip for their pleasure, not the other way around. I think we all got out of our underpants and slipped on the panties as quickly as we could, but for several seconds we were all stark naked, standing in the middle of a circle formed by thirty jeering women intent on extracting maximum humiliation. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was yet to come.
When we were done, we stood there, naked except for the panties. We looked ridiculous we were all red faced, shuffling around, extremely uncomfortable. Then Phil made the mistake of saying, “Ok, you had your fun. Can we go now?”
The KAT President looked at him sharply and said, “That’s a bit of disrespectful attitude. After all we’ve done for you. Not calling the dean, or the campus police, or even your Deke brothers,” she said, checking these items off on her fingers.
It was at this point that I noticed several sorority sisters had pushed forward through the circle and they were all carrying paddles. One of them was a girl I’d seen in the university gym.
 I didn’t know her name then, but I noticed her in the gym, pumping iron, very unusual for a woman in those days. I had a PE class in gymnastics that day and all through the class I watched her, fascinated. It was the legs that got me at first, I think. She had this build like some Nordic fantasy woman, a Valkyrie warrior with blonde hair in a ponytail and bangs that fell to just above almond shaped blue eyes. At five-eight she was taller than my six-five and that height displayed these perfectly sculpted legs. They were muscled from her hips to her calves, merging into swelling hips and a jutting posterior that defied gravity, an absolutely first class ass in those tight spandex gym shorts. This is typical of girls who are on the edge of what might be called stocky, but who are tall enough to make their body shape a statement of athleticism. Her proud bust filled the halter top that completed the gym outfit. That was the girl I would later find out was named Greta Van Camp. Altogether, a knockout.
When I saw her smirking at me, tapping that paddle against her thigh, the unthinkable happened. I sprouted an erection. I willed it to go down, but it wouldn’t. I had a first class boner, tenting the front of the flimsy nylon panties I’d had to put on. Then I followed Greta’s gaze, staring at it. Then she looked me in the eye and smiled knowingly.
 Meanwhile, Caroline looked around at her sorority sisters, noting her paddle-wielding sisters and said, “What do you say girls, should we let them go?”
 “It is cold out there and they are not wearing much,” offered one of the sisters.
“You are right, Betty. It wouldn’t be right to send them back in cold panties, would it girls? What do say we warm them up a bit for these boys?”
There was gleeful assent at this suggestion, but they all knew it was coming, and we realized this had been the plan all along. They were going to humiliate us further by making us take swats on our panty clad behinds.
“All right boys, line up, right across here.”
Sorority sisters holding paddles came forward and positioned us, making us form a line with plenty of space between each of us.
“Ok, boys. I’m sure you know the drill. Assume the position.”
With a groan we bent over and grabbed our ankles. I was really apprehensive. This was going to hurt. These were girls and maybe they couldn’t hit as hard as guys, but all we had on were these thin panties.
“Ladies, choose a boy and take your positions,” said their president.
 Greta chose me and that made me apprehensive as hell. With those shoulders and arms I had no doubt she could hit hard. Sweat broke out on my forehead. After some discussion it was decided that we’d get fifteen swats each. That was a lot. But it was clear that for all the feigned sweetness, these girls were pissed that Deke pledges would raid their house and they were hell bent on retribution.
Bending over with my butt sticking out, I felt the wood face of Greta’s paddle rubbing little circles on my behind. Then the sorority president gave the command to begin. I tensed when I sensed motion behind me. I could visualize her raising her arm. I gripped my shins hard. Here it comes.
Crack! Fiery sting exploded across my backside. It nearly knocked me off balance.
Whap! The second one was worse. It stung like hell. My knees shook.
Crack! Number three seared my ass. I gritted my teeth and held on.
After that it was a haze of staccato cracks of the paddles and an intense hot sting, blazing across my behind. Smack after smack burned my ass as Greta paddled me like some Midwestern schoolmarm taking a naughty student to task, spacing it out, taking her time between swats. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, but they still watered up. I could hear the impacts of wood on nearly bare flesh as the sisters doled out swats to my friends on either side, so I knew I wasn’t alone in my misery. That fact was little consolation. A paddling is cumulative. The next lick is always worse than the last. It’s a shocking blast of heat that blossoms outwardly from the impact site and overwhelms your defenses. There were grunts and stifled yelps from my frat brothers on either side of me as they did their best to cope with the pain and humiliation of the paddles splatting down on their nearly bare behinds. All we could do was bend over and take it.
 One thing I realized though, and this was later, was that she was not hitting me as hard as she could. On nothing but thin panties, a heavy wooden paddle could do some real damage, and she must have known this. The swats were sizzling hot, but not unbearable. But each swat was dead on, square across the fatty underside of both butt cheeks. She obviously knew how to spank properly for maximum heat and maximum burn, but I did not bruise badly. Still, she administered a real lesson to me that day, a burning, stinging fanny paddling that rattled my teeth, made my eyes water up and made me feel like a little boy caught with his pants down.
 Notwithstanding that, my woody had returned. I don’t know why. Maybe having to strip and humiliate myself did it; maybe offering my bottom to an attractive woman to spank did it. But there it was, long and hard, pushing against the front of the thin panties.
Then mercifully, it ended. We were allowed to rise. Greta saw the tent in the front of the panties and grinned, then gave me a broad wink. I did not know what to make of that.
The girls formed a gauntlet leading to the door and one by one we ran through it, encouraged by some “good bye” swats. Then we had to run the several blocks, through Greek row to the safety of the Deke house. We were quite a sight, I’m sure. In years to come, “streaking” would become a popular form of prank, but right now our humiliating run home was just that.
The active members, the upperclassmen, of course had been in on the scam and were waiting for us, laughing their heads off as we scrambled for the safety of the Deke house. The incident would be fodder for considerable mirth for days to come.
I was in the student union the following week, sitting by myself, eating lunch when who should walk up and plop down opposite me but my Nordic goddess. I was shocked, but she just flashed a broad grin and put her elbows up on the table.
“So, how are you? I don’t think we have been properly introduced. I’m Greta VanCamp.”
It was so sudden and unexpected I snorted my Coke through my nose. But I recovered enough to say, “I’m Will Deering.”
She stuck out her hand and I shook it, wondering where this was going.
“Do you sit comfortably these days?” she said with a giggle.
I noticed something. It was her speech. It sounded foreign, an accent I could not place. I managed a wry grin and said something like ‘you hit hard for a girl.’ And she said, ‘yah, I have experience. I take care of my cousins on holiday and they are all very naughty.’ That’s when it came out. She was from Holland and was here on a JYA exchange. She was staying with Caroline Sanders’ family, she explained, and Caroline had invited her to live at the KAT house as an honorary member for her junior year.
So now it made some sense. But I was not prepared for the next direction the conversation took.
“You know, I saw you, you naughty boy,” she said, her tone equal parts of mocking and teasing. “You were hard,” she whispered, “Even when I spank your hinder with the paddle.”
I blushed but tried to shrug it off, “Yeah, I don’t know where that came from.”
“But I see. It was a nice one. Do you get hard when you have a spanking from a woman?”
This conversation had taken a bizarre turn. I was flattered that a beautiful and exotic girl like her would even deign to talk to a lowly frosh like me, so I hadn’t run away, but at the same time this was getting very strange. She was so direct. I chalked it up to her being a foreigner. No self-respecting KAT member would ever engage in a conversation like this with a Deke pledge. I had to admit, though, I liked the attention and I was intrigued.
 “I, yeah, I guess the whole idea of spanking is a turn-on.” This much was true. I hadn’t thought about it much, but I’d always been aroused by spankings on TV or stories of other people’s spankings. I’d had a girlfriend once who had confided in me that her mom spanked her and her siblings and she’d tell me about them. The petting session that followed these revelations was always heavy.
“I have seen this happen. When I was in charge of my cousins, sometimes I have to spank to make them behave. They get the erections – like you.”
Then she made a stunning statement. I guess the Dutch must be more sexually liberated than us because she said, “Back home in my country my boyfriend and I spank each other. I give good spankings. You will see. You should have one of my special spankings for your naughty erection last week. Tsk-tsk,” she said, wagging a finger.  A mischievous grin accompanied this last statement. Immediately I sprouted a boner. I gasped as she reached under the table and felt it. I looked around nervously. We were right there in the middle of the student union, and she was resting her hand on my cock which was now tenting in my chinos.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I know what you need.” Then she leaned in and said, “I know a vacant house. You come over Friday night to this address and then I show you. Such naughtiness,” She laughed and threw her head back. “Because then I’ll have plans for this naughty thing,” she added, giving my dick a surreptitious pat that almost set it off.
I probably looked like a deer in the headlights, sweat popping out on my brow, but boy was I aroused. I gulped and said, “Ok…uh, when?”
She gave me all the info, then with a broad smile, she got up and sashayed out on those fabulous legs, swinging those hips, flexing that perfect ass as she exited the student union.
I sank back in my seat, shaking like a leaf. This woman was a sexual tour de force, like no one I’d ever met. I had to collect my wits before I could get up and leave. I figured she had fixated on me because of the KATs panty raid and my reaction to the paddling. That realization both aroused and disturbed me. She liked spanking. She said so, completely unabashed about it, and it was clear to me that if I kept this assignation some spanking would be involved. I had heard vaguely about women who liked to dominate men, but my understanding was that that whole thing involved whips and leather boots and such. Was I walking into that? Somehow I didn’t think so. Part of me didn’t care because I knew that whatever happened, sex was on the menu, and there is no greater lure for a 19 year old man. All other considerations be damned.
The week stretched on forever. Always my mind was on the coming assignation with Greta Van Camp. It was hard to concentrate. Several times I had to ask myself just what I was getting into, but was overruled by my libido, that devil on my shoulder who reminded me just what a hot babe Greta VanCamp was, regardless how kinky and strange she might be.
When Friday night rolled around, I made my way to address she had given me. It was an apartment in an older section of town. She hadn’t said who owned it or lived there. I just assumed that some friend had loaned it to her. I knocked softly. From inside I heard footsteps. My heart was beating wildly as the steps approached. The door cracked open and I saw Greta’s face smiling at me. She opened the door to let me in.
I had to suck in my breath. Greta looked hot as hell. She wore high heels and a short tight miniskirt that displayed those stunning legs and a tight blouse that showcased her high set tits. Already a woody was rising.
“Ah, you did come,” she said. “I thought you might not after last week. But here you are. My naughty fraternity pledge.” She turned and said over her shoulder, “Come with me.”
I followed, mesmerized by those swaying hips and that flexing ass. I was apprehensive. What did she have in mind? But being a foreigner, to me she was so exotic that I didn’t care. I was fixated on the prospect of sex. She led me into a large back bedroom dominated by a big four poster bed.  At the foot of the bed was a padded chest and opposite the chest was a free standing full length mirror in a wooden antique frame. A vanity with another large mirror stood to one side, next to a door to a closet. I noticed  a chaise lounge in one corner with some women’s lingerie draped casually across the back.
Greta sat down on the padded chest. “Take off your shirt,” she said. I did, letting it drop to the floor.
 “Come here,” she said, crooking her finger.
I walked over and stood in front of her not knowing what to expect. To my surprise her hands went to the buckle on my belt and she started to undo it. I viewed this as a promising development.
“Let’s see if you are still the naughty boy,” she said in a husky voice with a bit of tease to it. She pulled the belt through its loops and put it on the bed, then unzipped my fly. I stood still, breathless, letting her do it. That done, she yanked my pants down. Naturally I was in a state. It didn’t take much to get me going in those days and my cock was already hard and poking out of my underwear. She put her hands in the waistband and slipped those down too. My engorged cock popped straight out, almost at her eye level.
“Ooh, you ARE the naughty boy, then,” said with a giggle. She made some admiring noises and positioned me to her right side. Then she reached out with her hand, gently stroking my erect penis between her thumb and forefinger. The sudden surge of pleasure made my knees buckle. But that wasn’t anything. She bent down and gently kissed the tip. Her lips felt like velvet and I almost staggered. Her mouth opened wider and she allowed her lips to slide over the crown of my prick which was pulsing with pleasure. I was afraid I was going to lose it when she withdrew, letting her lips slide over the head leaving a glistening film of her saliva.
“I think you need something else now, don’t you think? Or you come too fast.”
Now she had her right hand on my ass, patting it, rubbing little circles on it. I was looking at her lap. Her legs were bare and her skirt, what there was of it, had hiked up nearly to her crotch.
“All naughty boys can use a good spanking on their hinders. That’s what you need. You come. Down — over my knee,” she said, pushing at the small over my back.
She could have said walk across hot coals or swim an icy river. I’d have done it. So I planted myself face down over those wonderful thighs of hers, my dick sliding over the bare flesh as she positioned me so my behind stuck up, offered up like some sacrifice to the goddess to do with as she wished. I hadn’t been in this position since I’d been ten years old, and a wave of panic hit me as an old unpleasant memory intruded. But it passed. I was squirming across her knees trying to get comfortable, but there was nothing comfortable about it. The position felt shameful, but in a delicious way. Somehow being naked and across the lap of this woman with my bottom poised for her attentions was a huge turn-on.
I could hear the glee in her voice. “Now I smack your naughty bottom,” she said, her hand circling around, occasionally patting my exposed cheeks.
Whap! Smack! Crack! She started spanking my behind briskly. At first I felt a prickly sensation, a tingling in my ass cheeks as she spanked from side to side, crisp pops that didn’t really hurt, but just raised the temperature a bit. She kept that up for a while, a rapid tattoo that rained down on my fanny, heating it up. The vigorous warming eventually had me wriggling. From time to time she stopped and rubbed, kneading the flesh. I bucked unconsciously sliding my dick across her thighs. This motion was sending little shoots of pleasure up my spine. She must have sensed this because she started spanking harder.
“Oh, no you don’t (Smack! Crack!). You like this too much (Whap! Spank! Crack!) I show you how I control a bad boy (Splat! Crack! Whack!).”
These spanks were harder and they stung. The stinging sensation was not unbearable, but it was now bordering on uncomfortable and I could feel my bottom heating up as her steady barrage of smacks blasted my bottom.
“This is a good lesson for you (Smack! Crack!). Such a cute hinder, I make it all red. Red as a stoplight (Smack! Crack! Whack!).”
I lost track of what she was saying, but obviously she was enthralled with the task she had set for herself, and that was delivering a very thorough spanking to my stinging behind. I could feel it now, the heat rising quickly . I looked at the full length mirror and saw a determined woman with a broad smile on her face applying spank after spank with gusto.
Meanwhile I was gasping. My feet fluttered. I flopped around my cock sliding over her thighs still generating friction , but the pleasurable sensations were being masked by the sting from the relentless spanking. The woman had a palm like that sorority paddle, and with those strong arms she could really deliver the smacks.
“Ok! Ok!” I said. “I give up! That’s enough!” My ass was blazing.
She just laughed. “Not near enough for your naughty bottom. You are barely pink. So I continue.”
Smack! Crack! Splat!
The spanks echoed off the wall. They were loud like pistol shots. In the mirror I could see my ass cheeks jiggle with each meaty smack. I didn’t know how much longer I could take this, but I gritted my teeth. I figured the prize would be worth it.
Then in mid spank, her arm raised to deliver another blow, she stopped. Why? Then I heard it. Footsteps. The door opened abruptly. I looked up as a woman entered the room. Greta gasped and exclaimed, “Aunt Trudy!”
“What is the meaning of this? Greta, what are you doing?” said the woman, whose face bore a shocked expression.
To be continued…..

More from Uncle Henry

I’m just out of the hospital after surgery so this will be short. It’s another excerpt from a work in progress called Uncle Henry and The Willows Academy.


The next morning, they were given different clothing. This time it was a juvenile-looking school uniform that included a top with a broad square collar having ends that tied together in a knot, and a pleated skirt that ended well above the knee, scandalously short for a schoolgirl uniform. Then they were ushered downstairs, through a hallway and into a room decked out as a classroom. It looked like the classrooms Libby recalled from her early childhood with wooden desks, a blackboard, and a big desk for the teacher at the front.

A woman entered. The other girls rose quickly and in unison said, “Good morning, Mrs. Green.” Mrs. Green wore an ankle length skirt fastened at the waist with a broad belt and a white silk blouse with ruffles. Her dark hair was coiled atop her head in a severe bun. Libby put her age at around thirty, not that much older than her pupils.

“Good morning, children. I see we have two new students today. Please stand and introduce yourselves to the class.”

Libby and Amanda stood and identified themselves. Libby didn’t miss Amanda’s wince as she sat down.

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The class was conducted in a ridiculously juvenile fashion as far as Libby was concerned. They were given reading assignments, but the assignments were insipid. They were supposed to memorize nursery rhymes, of all things. Mrs. Green announced that they would be called upon to recite soon, so they had better apply themselves. Libby noticed a distinct tension in the air as soon as she made this announcement, and wondered what that meant. Clearly some of the girls were nervous about it.

Then she found out why they were nervous. In the afternoon they had visitors. Mrs. Willows entered the classroom accompanied by two other gentlemen. Libby could tell they were prosperous men. Their clothing was stylish, impeccable, and most importantly, expensive. Libby had no idea who these men were. Mrs. Willows identified them as members of the school’s Board of Governors. They sat in the back, along the wall, smiling and seemingly eager to witness what was about to transpire.

Then Libby received another surprise. Mrs. Green announced that she would not be conducting the recitation.

“I am merely aiding a new member of our staff today, children. In my stead Mr. Sedwick will teach this class.” She gestured toward the door.

Libby gasped. In walked Thomas Sudbury. Immediately they made eye contact. Sudbury looked at her sharply and gave a subtle shake of his head, an almost imperceptible movement which Libby took to mean “keep quiet.” Amanda turned her head toward Libby, eyebrows raised. She mouthed silently, “what in the world?” Libby shrugged, bewildered by this development.

“Mr. Sedwick is our new substitute teacher for several of our classes. You will see him from time to time, so be on your best behavior. Also,” and here Mrs. Willows’ demeanor turned stern, “he has full authority to dispense discipline including for poor performance in class, so be forewarned.”

Libby observed the reactions of several of the girls in the class. Sudbury clearly looked the part of the serious schoolmaster with his broad shoulders and dark hair and brooding eyes.

Some of the girls appeared fearful while others seemed intrigued, even excited. Keep your mitts off, thought Libby, suddenly jealous that other girls might find Sudbury attractive and worth making a play for his attention.

“Now then,” he said, taking a seat behind the desk, “let’s see how well you have memorized your lessons.”

Sudbury, now Sedwick, called on a girl to recite. She rose and in a quavering voice was able to recite a poem from memory, but just barely. The next girl was not so fortunate. She stumbled and stammered, and it was clear she had not committed the material to memory. Her name was Mamie Farnsworth and she’d been one of the girls Libby noticed who seemed excited by Sudbury’s presence. In her twenties, she was short and voluptuous with dark hair that framed a cute round face in a helmet style typical of flappers. Libby decided she was likely a playgirl who spent an inordinate amount of time in illegal speakeasy’s dancing to jazz, drinking and flirting with men.

“Miss, that is a very poor performance,” said Sedwick, shaking his head.

“Sorry, sir,” said Mamie, staring at the floor.

Mrs. Green jumped in. “I’m afraid it just won’t do, Mamie.” To Sedwick she said, “Mr. Sedwick, we punish poor performance here. We are very strict as you know. You will find the instrument of correction in the top drawer of your desk.”


The room went silent. The girls sat up straighter. Libby thought she heard some shuffling from the back where the visiting board members were seated. It sounded like clothing being readjusted. Suddenly there was considerable tension. Was there to be a public spanking? With these men as witnesses? Now Libby had to wonder if this had been the point all along. Were these men really on the school board of governors?


Thomas slid open the drawer and extracted a slat of wood. It was an eighteen-inch ruler, fairly substantial and hefty. He held it in his right hand and slapped his left palm with it.

“Please come up to the desk, Mamie,” said Mrs. Green.

Mamie came up and stood at the desk.

“For a first incidence of failure we usually give the student six strokes,” said Mrs. Green. “Come around to the front, Mr. Sedwick and I’ll show you how we do it.”

The faux Sedwick rose and came around to the front of the desk, ruler in hand. Mamie shrank back but Mrs. Green would have none of that.

“Bend over the desk, Mamie.”

Mamie bent over. Her skirt rode up in back. Being a little girl’s dress it was scandalously short on a young woman like Mamie. Her drawers came into view. She was shaking. Mrs. Green lifted the hem of the dress out of the way. The full womanly globes of Mamie’s posterior filled the child’s panties to the bursting point. Libby felt for her. I had to be horribly embarrassing to put herself on display like that.

“Stay in position, girl. Don’t flinch or it won’t count.” She turned to Sudbury. “Give her six firm smacks right across her bottom. Use your wrist, not your arm. You’ll find it very effective. Go ahead, sir. Don’t be afraid to put some steam in it. She needs to learn.”

Libby watched Thomas line up the ruler and give her a sharp smack across her seat.


“Ouch! Sir, please!”

“That’s it,” said Mrs. Green. “Five more just like that.”

Sudbury nodded. He placed a hand on the small of her back to steady her and doled out five more, slowly and deliberately. Her body dipped slightly with each one as her knees buckled, but she managed to stay in position. The sound of wood striking flesh through the thin little girl panties was loud in the confines of the classroom.

“Ow! Ow!” She wasn’t silent about it.

Libby saw her grimace as she returned to her desk and sat down slowly. All heard a sharp intake of breath as her bottom came in contact with the wooden seat.

“Now, we continue,” said Mrs. Green, “and I hope the remainder of the recitations are better because the next girl who hasn’t learned her lessons will receive more of the ruler across her posterior.”

“Mr. Sedwick, if you please. Call on the next girl to recite.”

Thomas looked up, straight at Libby. “Libby Hutton,” he said, “please recite Little Boy Blue.”

Libby rose on shaky legs. She gulped. “Um, Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn, the sheep’s in the meadow the cow’s in the corn … no the pig’s in the corn … and the chickens are…”

She stammered around. Tried again, but it was no good. She didn’t know it. Seeing Thomas Sudbury come in and conduct class had unnerved her. What was going on?

“Well, this is unacceptable,” said Mrs. Green. “Libby, please come to the front of the class.”

Libby shuffled up toward the desk, her eyes on Sudbury. He had seated himself again and stared up at her, his eyes boring into hers. His face gave nothing away.

Mrs. Green folded her arms. “I think no less than a dozen well placed spanks on this girl’s pert backside should suffice. You may do it here in full view of the class, or you may use the cloakroom for privacy. Here in class the ruler is given on the exposed drawers, but how you choose to proceed in the cloakroom is entirely up to you.” A knowing smile curled up at the corners of her mouth. She gestured toward a door off to the side of the classroom, evidently the cloakroom.

“I’ll use the cloakroom, if you please, Mrs. Green.”

“Of course. We will wait for you to resume class.”

Sudbury ushered her into the cloakroom and shut the door behind him.


F/M Sunday — Hot Lunch Date

Here is a story I found on USENET way back in the day. It’s by a very talented writer named Case Wintermute. I don’t know if Mr. Wintermute is still around, but he wrote quite a few stories with an F/M orientation that are quite good, and this is one of them. It’s a husband –wife domestic discipline scene with some age play thrown in. The POV here is the little-used 1st person female voice. That is uncommon in F/M stories but here it works very well.



Perhaps it was because it was one of those increasingly rare nights
when I slept really well. Or perhaps it was because it was the week
before my period came and I was feeling really frisky. What ever the
reason, on that Wednesday morning when I looked at my husband John
shaving, I felt a wave of lust that seemed to go all the way down to
my toes.

John was standing with his back to me wearing a pair of sheer bikini
briefs (I buy all his underwear and this is the only kind I buy him,
except for cotton briefs to wear to the gym). I loved the way his
bottom looked through the sheer black fabric, under the muscled curve
of his back. We’ve been married twelve years and I still lust after
him like I did when were were first together.

John was drying his face when I went up behind him, kissing him on the
neck and cupping his right buttock in my hand.

“Do you have any meetings after lunch, my love?”, I asked.

“No, not today. Why?”

“Good”. I slapped his buttock. “I want you to come home and have lunch
with me so I can give you a spanking”, I said softly, my mouth close
to his ear, “A hard spanking”

I could see his cock start to get hard beneath the sheer material of
his briefs.

“Have I done something naughty, Lisa?”

John found the idea of a nice sexy lunchtime spanking exciting, but I
could tell from his voice that he was also a little worried that he
might have a punishment spanking in store instead.

“We’ll discuss that at lunch, young man”, I told him. “I’ll see you at
home at noon.” Cruel woman that I am, I knew John would spend the
morning wondering if he had done something to earn a punishment
spanking and if so, how hard the spanking would be.

John was not the only one thinking about his upcoming spanking. I kept
day dreaming about how I was going to spank John and what I would have
him do to me. It was not the most productive morning I’ve ever had.


At 11:00 I called the Vietnamese sandwich place near work and ordered
two of their chicken sandwiches. I picked up the sandwiches on the way
home and arrived at about ten minutes to twelve. John arrived a few
minutes before twelve. He knew that if you’re getting a spanking it is
not wise to make it worse by being late (I’m strict, but fair with my
boy). He had a bouquet of my favorite flowers, scented red roses and

“What beautiful flowers” I said as John handed me the bouquet. I moved
my face over the flowers and inhaled their scent. I kissed John,
holding the flowers to the side as he took me in his arms, his right
hand cupping my bottom.

“The flowers are wonderful, my love, but they’re not going to get you
out of the spanking you have coming.” I told John

“I was thinking more of leniency”

“We’ll see. Do you want to take your spanking before or after lunch”,
I asked.

“Before lunch please, Ma’am. I’m always too nervous to eat much when I
know I have a spanking coming.”

“All right then mister, march off to the bedroom and undress to your
panties. I want to find you standing in the corner when I come
in. I’ll put the flowers in water and be there in a little while”

“Yes, Ma’am” John said before turning an going to our bedroom.

I unwrapped the bouquet and put the flowers in the sink. I stood at
the sink cutting an inch or so from the bottom of each flower stalk
thinking about John, waiting for me in our bedroom. I put the flowers
in a clear cut glass vase. When I dried my hands I reached under my
skirt. The crotch of my panties was damp.

The door to the bedroom was open. As I entered the room, I saw John
standing in the corner, looking like a 6’1″ version of a naughty
little boy waiting to be spanked by Mommy. He was naked except for the
sheer bikini briefs he had been wearing that morning.

I hung my blouse and skirt in the closet. I had on a pair of black
lace string bikini panties and a matching black lace bra that John
liked. I knew that he wanted to watch me undress, but John knew from
past experience that he would get extra punishment for moving his face
from the corner without my permission.

Looking at John standing in the corner, his tight ass beneath the
sheer material of his bikini briefs, I felt desire burn in me. I was
tempted to lead him out of the corner to the bed and fuck him, riding
his cock hard. But that would mean foregoing the pleasure of spanking
him. I wanted to spank him hard, I wanted him to hurt for me and I
wanted to listen to him cry before I fucked him.


I crossed the room to the night stand, got the ruler paddle from the
drawer and sat down on the side of the bed.

“Come over here, young man, and pull your panties down”, I ordered.

John crossed the room and went to my right side. His cock was hard and
stood out when he pulled his briefs down to the middle of his
thighs. I felt his cock against my leg when he lay over my lap to take
his spanking.


“Have you been a naughty little boy”, I asked John, caressing his
bottom. “Is there something you need tell Mommy?”

“I can’t think of anything, Ma’am.”

“Have you been masturbating without my permission, thinking about
naked girls getting their bottoms spanked?”

“No, Ma’am. Or at least I have not been masturbating without your

“Well, there are a few things on the list”, I reminded him.

We kept a list of little transgressions pinned with a magnet to the
refrigerator door. By the end of the week there were usually at least
one or two items on the list.

“Ah, yes Ma’am. There are a few things on the list”, he admitted.

“Then you have been a naughty boy, haven’t you”, I said running my
index finger down between his buttocks.

“Yes, Ma’am. I guess I should be spanked for the stuff on the list.”

“You guess?”

“I should be spanked, Ma’am”

“Yes, you should. And you will be spanked soundly on Sunday”, I told
John. He spread his legs as I caressed his bottom, moving my fingers
down, rubbing the base of his cock.

“But today is not for punishment. You just looked so sexy this
morning, your tight little ass in those sheer panties, I wanted to
give you a spanking.” His breath was coming a little faster now as I
rubbed the base of his cock with one hand and caressed him between his
buttocks with the other. I could feel his cock, rock hard, against my

“I want to give you a long, hard spanking my love.” I caressed the
base of his cock. “Who do you belong to, young man?”

“I belong to you, Ma’am”

“Yes, you do. You’re my boy. But since I’m not punishing you, I’ll
give you a choice. You can take a light paddling with the ruler paddle
or the spanking I want to give you.”

“Please Ma’am, I’ll take your spanking” John said

“You’re my good boy. Mommy is going to give you a very hard spanking.”

I patted his bottom lightly with the ruler paddle, rubbing him with
the smooth wood, letting him think a bit about what was coming, about
how the paddle would feel. I loved the meaty smack of the paddle as I
used it hard across John’s ass. At first my brave little boy tried to
take his spanking in silence. As I gave the strokes harder, each
stroke was echoed by a soft cry of pain. After I counted out twenty
strokes, I stopped and caressed John’s bottom again. His bottom was
starting to turn a light pink, but his cheeks were not warm yet.


“You know Mommy loves you, don’t you darling” I said as I caressed

“I love you too Mommy.”

“Mommy has to give her boy a spanking to help him be a good boy”, I
crooned to him as I caressed him.

“Yes, Mommy”

“Good boy”, I told him as I started spanking him again with the ruler

I gave John another ten strokes with the ruler paddle. I shifted my
legs slightly under him so my arm had a longer swing and, holding him
tightly, I gave him another ten strokes, very hard. When I was done
his buttocks had taken on a nice pink shade.

“OK, honey, you can get up now and take your panties off. And please
get me the rattan cane”.

When John returned with the cane, I piled two pillows in the middle of
the bed. He handed me the cane and I told him to lie over the pillows.

John’s buttocks flinched in anticipation as I tapped him lightly
across the bottom with the cane. “Get that bottom up for Mommy,
honey”, I told him. I loved the way John looked with his bottom pushed
up, offered for punishment. There is something deeply primal and
blazingly sexy about the submission of the buttocks for spanking.

I gave John the first cane stroke across the underside of his bottom,
the part that is sometimes called the “sit spot”. The cane left a pink
line across his cheeks. I gave several more across his lower bottom,
before giving some strokes across the top curve of his ass.


When you give a caning you don’t want to give the strokes too
fast. The pain follows after the impact of the cane, like hot metal,
seeming to spread out from the line of impact. When I cane John, I
give him a stroke every ten seconds or so. This gives him a chance to
feel each stroke before getting the next one. From the start John
cried out as he took each stroke. I could tell that he was having a
hard time a hard time keeping his bottom up and I had to warn him that
if he does not keep his bottom presented for the cane, he would get
extra strokes.

After taking twenty strokes, John’s bottom was starting to turn
crimson and was lined with cane welts. I stopped spanking him and sat
down next to him on the bed. His skin was warm and I could feel the
cane welts when I ran my hand over his cheeks. After the pain of the
cane, I’m sure that my caresses felt good. Unfortunately for my
naughty boy, the caresses were over soon and it was time for more

I moved to the other side of the bed to give John the rest of his
caning. This would make sure that his buttocks would be evenly
spanked, since the tip of the cane travels faster and always punishes
one side more than the other. I gave the second set of cane strokes
harder, the cane whistling through the air. John took the first ten
strokes like a good boy, his bottom raised, presented for
punishment. After I gave him a stroke across the lower part of his
buttocks, near the top of his thighs, he cried out, clenched his
buttocks and squirmed like he was trying to burrow his hips into the
bed. I reminded him that he has just earned two punishment strokes. He
raised his bottom again, but I could see that he was struggling to
keep still as I spanked him. After a few more strokes, he lost the
struggle again, clenching and squirming in pain.


“That’s another two punishment strokes, honey” I told him.

“I’m sorry, Mommy. It hurts. I tried to be a good boy and stay in

“I know, darling. Spankings are supposed to hurt. Naughty boys learn
to be good boys while they take the cane across their naughty little
bottoms. Now bottom up, and stay still honey”


John managed to take the final six strokes with his bottom raised and still.

“How many punishment strokes do you have coming, honey?”, I asked.

“Four, Ma’am”, John said in a soft voice.

“Put you legs together so I can give you your punishment strokes on
your thighs, honey”, I ordered.

“Please, Mommy, can I take the extras on my bottom? It hurts so much
across the thighs”

“That’s another two strokes for back talk. Now, legs together!”

When John put his legs together, I started caning him across the tops
of his thighs. The strokes I gave him where not as hard as the strokes
I gave him across his ass. Cane strokes on the thighs hurt much more,
which is why I reserved cane strokes on the thighs as punishment
earned for not staying in position. John stayed in position as I caned
his thighs, but I could see that the strokes hurt. His body jerked
after each stroke as if he had been given an electric charge and he
cried out. The cane left red welts across the soft skin on the backs
of this thighs.

When I finished giving John his punishment strokes I took off by bra
and lay down next to him. He moved off the pillows and nuzzled against
my breasts. I petted his hair, comforting my naughty boy. John took my
nipple in his mouth when I offered him my right breast. He sucked and
gently took the nipple between his teeth. My nipple felt like it was
somehow directly connected to my clit and it took a bit of will power
to not roll John over and fuck him right then.

“I’m going to give you a whipping, my love” I told John a little
breathlessly as he sucked on my nipple. “I’m going to bend you over
the end of the bed and whip you. It’s going to hurt, but you’ll take
it for me, won’t you darling?”

“Yes Mommy”, John said, his voice muffled against my chest.

I gently moved away from him, taking my breast from his mouth and
petted his hair. “It’s time for your whipping now, honey”, I told
him. “You can have a choice between being whipped with the punishment
strap or the riding whip. I’ll spank you with the one that you don’t
choose when I punish you on Sunday.”

I sat up and reached behind John, slapping his left flank. “Now
scoot”, I told him. “Get me the strap or the whip”

John got up and went to the closet where the spanking implements hung
on the back wall. I loved making him choose the implement I would whip
him with. I imagined him looking at the strap and the riding whip,
thinking about how each would feel. And since I had told him that he
would be spanked with the implement he did not choose when I punished
him on Sunday, he would wonder if it was better to take a whipping now
with the more painful implement or put it off until Sunday.

I placed a pillow at the end of the bed. John returned with the
punishment strap. He held the strap up in both hands, offering it to

“Good boy. I’ll give you the riding whip on Sunday. Now bend over the
end of the bed please”, I told him.

He lay over the end of the bed, his bottom pushed up by the pillow
under his hips. His arms lay out over his head on the bed.

I went to Johns left side and caressed his bottom. “Ready for your
whipping, darling?”

“Yes, Mommy”

I know that John’s bottom would be tender from the caning he had just
taken and a whipping with the strap over the cane welts would be
especially painful. This was an idea I found very exciting. I wanted
John to hurt for him. I wanted listen to his cries of pain as I
whipped him.

I raised the strap to about shoulder level and brought it down hard
across John’s ass. I whipped him slowly, giving the strokes hard. Like
the cane, the end of the strap punished the far buttock more than the
closer one. After giving John fifteen strokes I gave him a little
break as I caressed him and told him he was a good boy. Some wide
welts from the strap had joined the thin welts left by the cane.


“Fifteen more”, I told him as I ran my fingers between his
buttocks. “Are you ready to take the rest of your whipping?”

He answered “yes”, but he knew that it was a rhetorical question. He
was going to get whipped regardless of what he said.

I moved to John’s right side. “Mommy has to whip you hard to help you
be good”, I told John as I brought the strap down on his bottom. At
first his body bucked a little as he took the strap across his
ass. But after about eight strokes he started to lie still as I
whipped him, as he cried out under the strap.

When I finished whipping him, I had John sit on the edge of the bed. I
straddled his legs and let my well spanked naughty boy bury his face
between my breasts.

I guided his hand between my legs, so he could feel the sheer fabric
of at the crotch of my panties, soaked with my excitement. I petted
his hair as he rubbed me, feeling little waves of pleasure as he
rubbed my pussy.

“Would you like to lick my pussy, my love?”

“Oh yes, Ma’am”

I let him suck my right nipple. “You’ll have to go over my knee and
take a paddling afterward for the privilege, darling”, I told
him. “You’ve had a hard spanking. I can just fuck you now”

He moved away from my breast. “I love to lick your pussy, Mommy”

“I’ll let you lick my pussy until I come, but then I’m going to put
you over my knee and paddle you until you’re sobbing like a naughty
little boy. Are you sure that licking my pussy is worth another hard

“Yes, Ma’am”

I lay on the end of the bed on my back, with the pillow I had spanked
John over under my bottom, my thighs spread. John knelt between my
thighs and began kissing and nuzzling my pussy through the sheer

“May I take your panties off?”

“Yes you may”

I arched up a little so John could slip my panties off my bottom and
then off my legs. I lay back and relaxed as Johns tongue moved between
my lips. After a while he concentrated on my clit, licking it and then
sucking it gently. I started to push against his tongue, moving up and
down as he sucked and licked. I thought about how his ass had looked
as I spanked him, how he cried out as I whipped him, my excitement
built and I came pushing hard against his tongue.

After I caught my breath, I gently pushed his head away and sat up.

“Please get the paddle from the night stand, darling. It’s time to go
over my knee and pay the piper”

The paddle that John brought me was a paddle I often used for
punishment spankings. It was shaped like a ping-pong paddle, but was
much thicker and made from a dark, dense hard wood.

John handed me the paddle and lay across my lap. I caressed his
buttocks, sliding my hand down to the base of his cock.

“Did you enjoy licking my pussy, darling?”

“Yes, Ma’am”

“That’s good, my love” I could feel his cock grow hard under my caresses.

“You’re Mommy’s little boy, aren’t you”

“Yes, Ma’am”

“And licking Mommy’s pussy until she came was very naughty, wasn’t it

“Yes, Mommy”

“Then you should be spanked like the naughty little boy you are. You
should be spanked until you’re sobbing over Mommy’s knee, shouldn’t

“Yes, Mommy”, John answered with some reluctance in his voice.

“I’m not going to count the strokes this time, honey. I’m just going
to spank you until you’re crying hard. I want you to let go for me,
don’t try to resist it. Now I want you to ask for your spanking”

“Please spank me, Mommy”

“I will, darling. I’m going to spank you very hard”, I told him as I
brought the paddle down on this right buttock. I paddled John hard and
fast, alternating buttocks. I scolded him as I spanked him, telling
him what a bad little boy he was as the paddle slapped his buttocks.


At first his legs made little kicks and his buttocks clenched from the
pain of the paddling as I held him firmly over my lap. But after a
while he went limp and I could feel him start to cry as I paddled
him. I spanked harder, giving him the paddle as hard as I could, his
cries turning into sobs. Between his sobs, John repeated in half
formed sentences that he was sorry he had been a bad boy. He promised
to never be a bad boy ever again, he had learned his lesson and he
begged me to stop spanking him. After letting him cry through another
ten or twelve strokes on each cheek, I stopped paddling him.

I helped John up from my lap and lay back with him on the bed, holding
him against my breasts, comforting him as he cried. I petted him and
told him his spanking was over, that he had been brave to take his
punishment like a good boy. When he had stopped crying I gave him
first one breast and then the other as he sucked my nipples. His cock
started to get hard as he nuzzled and sucked. I moved him so he was
lying on his stomach. I caressed his bottom, spreading his cheeks and
caressing between them. His bottom was crimson, lined with welts and
bruised in places. He arched up as I caressed the base of his cock,
moaning slightly with pleasure.

“Move up toward the head of the bed and roll over on your back” I told
John. I straddled his chest, my knees near his armpits.

“You can kiss my pussy now without having to take a spanking”, I told
him as I leaned my arms against the wall, straddling his face and
moving my pussy down to his mouth. He greedily sucked my clit, cupping
my bottom in his hands. When I felt like I was close to orgasm, I
moved away and over his cock, which was hard now, standing up, waiting
for me. I impaled myself and started riding him, moving hard against
his pelvis.

“Ask permission before you come or I’ll whip you again”, I told him.

I could feel his excitement build as I fucked him.

“Please, Ma’am”

“No, not quite yet”, I told him as I fucked him. “Not yet or I’m going
to whip so hard that you will not be able to sit down for a week.”

That comment turned up both on.

“Please… Please, Ma’am”

“OK, darling. Come for me, come hard” I told him as my own orgasm
washed over me and I felt him come inside me.

We lay together afterward and then took a quick shower together. The
bruises on Johns bottom were starting to come out more I saw as he was
drying himself. He would be sitting uncomfortably at work, I was sure.

We dressed and ate the spice Vietnamese chicken sandwiches that I had
brought home. I felt languid and satiated.

When we were done and getting ready to go back to work, I slapped
John’s bottom. “Be a good boy” I told him. “You know what happens to
naughty boys.”

Love Our Lurkers 11



Today is Love Our Lurkers Day. It’s your day to sound off. If you drop by all the time or even just occasionally, let me know what you like, I’d love to hear from you. If you have questions, I’ll answer them.

As always, my aim is to bring you entertaining fiction, articles, and media all centered around disciplinary and erotic spanking and romance.

Here are a few inspirational photos and drawings mostly by the great Paula Russell:

This one could be called “Harry shows Bob how he manages Sylvia’s credit card use.”


This one looks like the Saturday night meeting of the Elm Street Wife Spanking Society


The birch awaits these two


Rough Justice at the local watering hole


For my F/M fans — I haven’t forgotten you.


Uncle Henry and the Willows Academy

I’ll be indisposed a few days, so to fill the void here is an excerpt from a current Work in Progress, the next installment of the Uncle Henry story.  The initial volume is entitled Uncle Henry and his Girls.

It takes place in the the 1920’s: the jazz age, the era of flappers and bathtub gin. Amanda and Libby are two wealthy and somewhat spoiled young ladies from blueblood families and have a tendency to engage in some unladylike hi-jinks. Fortunately there is Uncle Henry to keep them in line. Think of Uncle Henry as a kind of 1920’s Ray Donovan and you have the picture. Amanda is,41krmpo9lul-_uy250_ of course, smitten with Uncle Henry which complicates the relationship.


Uncle Henry and the Willows Academy

A long boring winter to be endured, that was her fate. Amanda reflected on this unhappy truth as she made her way across the Litchfield campus. The excitement of that lovely holiday with her friend Libby and her yummy Uncle Henry had nearly faded from memory. Hmmm. To feel Uncle Henry’s stout palm smacking her creamy ass. To get on all fours so he could ram her from behind. Her pussy throbbed with unmet need. It was almost as if she’d be inclined to get herself in trouble on purpose and earn a half dozen with a swishy cane from the gym mistress, Mrs. Halliwell just to feel something, to get the heart pounding. Or how about the young French teacher, Miss Jenoit? Rumor was, she kept a martinet in a drawer…and used it after hours in private “tutoring” sessions.

The truth was, Amanda never felt more alive than when she was in the dock for some offense or the other that spelled a good thrashing for her shapely derriere. But all she had around here were women. She wanted a man, and his name was Uncle Henry. But after the holiday he had deposited her and Libby right back in this prison cell of a girl’s school. He dismissed her, claiming he had family business to attend to. Well, how about attending to her? She’d think of something, something to poke Uncle Henry into action.


One week later

Amanda and her friend Libby cooled their heels in the women’s wing of the Philadelphia city jail. The idea of blowing off classes at Litchfield to hit several semi-secret speakeasy’s in town had seemed so appealing a day ago, a madcap adventure in the city to escape the boredom of that maddeningly dull women’s school that was Litchfield. Well, it had not turned out very well, reflected Libby. The place had been raided, the paddy wagons had arrived and here they were. Somehow the coppers got a tip that not only was there booze flowing but a number of the patrons were under-age girls.

Somehow Amanda had persuaded someone to contact Uncle Henry, and he was now on his way. Libby shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Uncle Henry was a stickler for decorum and he would not be happy about this little escapade. Libby knew Amanda would surely be in for a hot time, but what about her? Not that the prospect of a good spanking at Uncle Henry’s hands was completely unsettling. After all, it certainly lit up a girl’s libido, but it was embarrassing and just a bit painful. She winced as her mind dredged up a recent memory of the healthy sting in her tail from a recent episode. As for Amanda, Libby knew her friend was both anticipating and dreading the inevitable reckoning, but her pussy was probably soaking wet.

Amanda’s relationship with Uncle Henry was complicated at best. They obviously had feelings for each other, but the family dynamics were very odd. He was her second cousin and acted as some sort of surrogate guardian and she his ward. Something prevented them from being open about their feelings for each other, but it didn’t stop their clandestine desire for each other, even when Henry had to act as disciplinarian for his sometimes wayward “niece.”


As for Libby, her attitude was she was only along for the ride, but Uncle Henry saw her as a co-conspirator and thus just as guilty as Amanda for whatever shenanigans had been perpetrated. And that meant she shared in the punishment, whatever that turned out to be. Her buttocks clenched as her mind cataloged the various possible sanctions Uncle Henry was likely to employ. Would it be the strap? A caning? Maybe they’d get off with a sound spanking by Uncle Henry’s hand. That one didn’t seem so bad. Libby actually flushed, contemplating the stinging glow and how that made her feel afterwards.



The clunk of footsteps echoing down the corridor announced the arrival of what Libby hoped was salvation. Sure enough, Uncle Henry appeared on the other side of the bars. He was accompanied by another man, younger by several years, and by Libby’s observation, quite dashing and attractive. The jailer was with them, and he opened the cell door with a jangling set of keys.

Amanda sat up. “Uncle Henry! You came. Now we can get out of here.”

“Amanda and Libby,” said a frowning Uncle Henry, “come. Let’s go. We are to see Judge Bagwell.” Henry’s manner was brusque, and he scowled as he escorted Libby and Amanda out of the cell. The bailiff led the group up several flights of stairs into the courthouse proper, then down a hallway and into a courtroom. As they stood waiting, Henry gestured with an open hand towards the young man. “This is Thomas Sudbury. He is the family’s lawyer in Philadelphia. He will be representing both of you.”

Libby took in Sudbury, studying him without being too terribly obvious about it. He certainly was good looking. Younger than Henry, he appeared to be in his early thirties. His dark curly hair fell to the nape of his neck, tickling his collar and framing an intelligent face with a high forehead and intense blue eyes. Of medium height with broad shoulders, he moved with the robust grace of an athlete. Libby played mental games with the image and decided he would do nicely.

A moment later, a clerk appeared and motioned for them to follow him through a door behind the bench.


“We are going to see Judge Bagwell in his chambers,” said Henry, leaning towards Amanda’s ear. “Be respectful and don’t spout any of that modern woman emancipation nonsense.”

Amanda sniffed. “It is not nonsense, as you put it.”

Henry glowered. “Behave.”

They were ushered into the Judge’s chambers by the bailiff. The judge was in a suit, having discarded his robes for the meeting in chambers under less formal circumstances. He was seated at his desk conversing with a female in a police-type uniform, and looked up as the entourage entered.

“Ah, Mr. Sudbury and Mr. Pierpont. Please be seated. I assume these are the young ladies in question?”

“Yes, your honor,” said Sudbury. “This is Miss Amanda Pierpont and this is her friend, Miss Elizabeth Hutton.” He gestured toward each as he identified them.

Libby stood mute. She didn’t know if she should say anything. What were you supposed to do, curtsy?

“And, ah, you represent both parties?”

“I do, your honor.”

The judge studied a paper. “Rioting, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. Serious charges, these. You know, of course, the other defendants are being sentenced to thirty days in the women’s wing of the city jail. This is Mrs. Doyle,” said the judge, indicating the rather hefty but solidly built woman in the uniform of a corrections officer standing beside his desk. “She is assisting me in the disposition of these matters.”

Henry acknowledged the woman with a nod. “Mrs. Doyle.” He turned his attention to the judge. “I am aware of that, judge, but that is why we have proposed an alternative. We understand many misguided young women have benefitted from a brief stay at Claire Willows’ Academy in Willow Grove. I am sure after a short stay with Mrs. Willows, the girls will mend their ways.”

“Yes,” said the judge, sitting back in his chair. “I am acquainted with Mrs. Willows. Her methods are, shall we say, unconventional.” 103He pursed his lips and slid his reading glasses down his nose so as to get a better look at Amanda and Libby, then nodded to himself in apparent approval. “These young ladies will no doubt benefit from the experience.” A thin smile spread across his face, hinting at some secret knowledge. Libby suddenly had a bad feeling about all this. “So I’ll sign an order, as we previously agreed, remanding them to your custody, Mr. Pierpont. You will deliver the girls to Mrs. Willows by Wednesday the tenth of this month.”

“I’ve already prepared the order for your signature, your honor,” said Sudbury, handing him a document.

“Thank you, Mr. Sudbury,” said the judge, smiling broadly. “I’ll get it to the court clerk.

“Now that that’s decided,” said the judge, “there is only one more thing. It’s what we discussed, Mr. Pierpont. There is the slight matter of a salutatory punishment for these young ladies before I release them to your custody.”

“What?” said Amanda. “Punishment? Uncle Henry, what is he talking about?”

The judge motioned to Mrs. Doyle who produced a length of leather attached to a handle. It was two feet long and four inches wide with the end cut lengthwise to form two tails.

“They use this in the women’s wing to maintain order. The inmates can, at times, become unruly. Isn’t that so Mrs. Doyle?”

“Yes, your honor,” said the matron. “Sometimes a session with ‘Mrs. Strap’ here is just what they need.”


“Twelve strokes, Mr. Pierpont. Can I trust you to do the honors or shall I have Mrs. Doyle do it?”

Henry took the proffered strap. “I’ll do it.”

Amanda stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the formidable implement. Libby’s heart raced. They were going to be whipped. Here. Now. In the judge’s chambers with the judge, the bailiff, the correctional matron … and Mr. Sudbury … watching. Her heart froze and her knees shook.

“You are not serious,” said Amanda, shocked by this sudden turn of events.

“Indeed, I am serious, Amanda. It’s a condition of your release.”

Amanda folded her arms across her chest and stomped her foot. “This is ridiculous.”

“Young lady. It is either this or the jail for thirty days, and I guarantee you won’t like the jail.”

“You heard the judge,” said Henry. “He requires that some small measure of chastisement be meted out to the both of you before I take you to Mrs. Willows Academy.”

“A small measure? With that?” She pointed at the strap dangling from Uncle Henry’s hand.

Mrs. Doyle chimed in. “You girls are getting off light,” she said to Amanda and Libby. “It won’t be no picnic in that city jail and those young ladies will be getting a dose or two with the birch rod for certain, so count your lucky stars.”

“There is no way around it, girls. You will both receive a sound strapping from me, or, if you prefer, Mrs. Doyle can see to it that justice is done.”

“I’d rather you,” said a sullen Amanda.

“And me too?” said Libby. Then it dawned on her Mr. Sudbury had not moved. “But he’s here as well.” Libby motioned at Sudbury.

“Mr. Sudbury, as a member of the bar, is an officer of the court. He is also your attorney, ladies, so it is quite proper he be present,” said the judge.

“So he is to witness all this?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Henry, taking the strap and slapping it in his palm. “Now come over here, Amanda.” Henry took her arm and guided her toward a sturdy chair which someone had thoughtfully positioned in the center of the room. “Bend over the back of the chair and raise your skirts.”

“Really, this is outrageous,” huffed Amanda. She nevertheless allowed Henry to lead her to the chair, and bent over, pulling her skirt up above her waist and placing her forearms flat on the chair’s seat.

Even as she protested such barbaric treatment, Libby had noticed a tremor of excitement flitting across her friend’s face as she came forward and bent over, offering up her exquisite rear end to be whipped like a recalcitrant prisoner. Libby felt hot flashes of arousal, an uncomfortable thing to acknowledge, but she could not deny it. The handsome Mr. Sudbury would witness this episode and earlier Libby had caught him eyeing her with apparent approval. That subtle smile of his when appraising her charms had not gone unnoticed.

On the other hand, she was repulsed by the lascivious staring of the judge who had no doubt insisted on this barbarism for his own perverted pleasure. His piggy eyes drank in Amanda’s curves while sweat gleamed on his forehead.

Amanda wore silky step-ins and thigh-high stockings under her skirts and petticoats. The lines of her superbly shaped legs and her curvy derriere were on full display once she pulled those layers out of the way and let them fall across her back. Amanda kept her legs straight which served to cause her bottom to thrust out lewdly. It almost seemed as if she positioned herself provocatively, to welcome the kiss of the strap, at least since it was to be wielded by Uncle Henry. Libby could only hope she might present such an appealing picture once it was her turn. Recent experiences had taught her a bottom smacking stung, but brought its own rewards later. As for Amanda, Libby knew her friend made a show of indignant outrage, but secretly loved the disciplinary attention she received from her distant relative, in actuality, her lover.

Now the moment of truth had arrived. Henry placed himself beside Amanda and unfurled the strap, letting it dangle from his hand. He placed a hand on Amanda’s back to steady her and drew his arm back. The leather whooshed through the air and a loud crack resounded as the strap smacked across the crowns of Amanda’s buttocks.


“Ow!” Amanda bucked and lifted a foot. Henry delivered another lick with the strap, slightly lower than the first. Amanda hissed through her teeth.

“That’s two,” said Uncle Henry.

Amanda peered over her shoulder. “And just how many do I get?”

“A dozen if you’re good.”

The third smack echoed in the chamber despite the sound deadening nature of the furnishings. Amanda flexed her knees and bobbed up and down as if it would help shake off the sting.

“Ow! That hurts!”

“All the better to teach you a lesson, Amanda.”

Smack! The leather struck again. Libby could see Amanda’s bottom cheeks wobble on impact. Henry proceeded to apply the strap to Amanda’s bottom and upper thighs in a deliberate fashion, allowing time between strokes for Amanda to settle herself and stick her behind out for the next one. He would not be hurried, and once or twice he had to remind her to keep still. His stroke was firm and sure, impacting the fleshy globes of Amanda’s seat so as to cover the area from the tops of her thighs to the crowns of her buttocks. One sharp crack of the strap followed another in steady succession. Through it all Amanda hissed and gurgled, stifling cries, dipping her body on occasion and shifting from foot to foot. It was a bizarre pas de deux, a dance of discipline between punisher and penitent, and to Libby, the amazing part was both players seemed to relish their roles.18

Libby watched, transfixed. She snuck a look at Sudbury from time to time. He watched intently, taking it all in, his eyebrows raised, arms folded across his chest. One could not deny the allure of Amanda’s charms. Libby let her gaze drift lower on Subury’s torso. There. His crotch. Oh, yes, that telltale bulge was a dead giveaway.

F/M Sunday and a schoolboy caning

Our story today comes courtesy of an author named simply “Robert.” It’s a vivid account of an incident between a young man and his matron, the house tutor at an English boarding school..


William Fraser, a tall fair haired 17 year old, stood outside the wood panelled door which bore the name Miss Rosemary Green, House Tutor. William knew, as any boy at Smeldon Magna would have known, that a summons to the House Tutor’s study meant one thing and only one thing – a caned bottom! William, therefore, had plenty to think about as he waited to be called in. He tried hard not to think about what would happen to him once in the study but to no avail, William could think only of the swish of the cane followed by the vicious THWACK across his bottom guaranteed to pop his eyes out of his head. William knew that, after a brief, merciful numbness, a wicked stinging pain would well up from deep in his buttocks before, swish, WHACK, the next stroke was delivered! Poor William had good reason to believe she would give him six such strokes before his punishment was over. Six strokes taken on a tight bottom as he bent over and clasped his ankles. William was not a happy boy! He went over in his mind the chain of events which had brought him to this lonely contemplative vigil. A chain which had begun four years ago when he stood, desolate and abandoned, outside the Junior House and watched his mother, draped in furs, as she drove the Bentley down the school drive and headed for home.

Smeldon Magna was a minor Public School (i.e. a fee paying private school) of some 500 pupils. All were boarders and aged between 13 and 17 and all were boys. The school governors and senior teachers recognized the civilizing influence which women have on an otherwise exclusively male environment and, while not yet ready to embrace co-education, had taken the radical step of appointing a few woman teachers over the past 4 or 5 years. One of the first to be appointed had been Rosemary who was a year out of college and, after gaining experience in a junior school for girls, had applied to Smeldon Magna to widen her professional skills in the foreign and challenging atmosphere of a boys’ boarding establishment. Rosemary was a fast learner and, indeed, had she not been she might well have failed to survive a year as the only female member of staff. She was a kindly young woman who appreciated the difficulty some young boys encountered during their first few weeks at a strange school and made it her function to look out for and support any lads who seemed to be suffering. The house tutor, Mr. Parkinson, had asked her to take the new boys under her wing and in so doing she and William first met. She found him a nice quiet polite boy and he adored her from the start. Rosemary, in her first couple of terms, had confirmed her view that children were children, whether boys or girls, and generally they sought to please. Of course there were naughty boys, there were lazy boys, there were precocious old beyond their years boys but all in all she found them if anything somewhat easier to control than girls. Mr. Parkinson had made clear to her that, new and inexperienced though she was, she would be expected to maintain discipline in the house and, if necessary award and carry out punishment. He would not expect her to bring boys to him and, provided things were in order, he would not breathe down her neck.

William, standing waiting to be caned, remembered when Rosemary had first had occasion to discipline him! It had been a typical bit of schoolboy mischief but clearly in breach of the rules. William, and more importantly, some other boys were aware that Rosemary knew of his misconduct and therefore turning a Nelsonian blind eye was not an option. He needed punishment and she knew she had to administer it. She gave thought to the nature of his offence and the appropriate punishment and decided that, whilst not the crime of the century, it must be made clear to William and his chums that he had not got away with it. Rosemary decided, calmly and objectively, that she had little choice but to smack his bottom! It would be her first and, apart from nursery spankings, it would be his first too. It would be a significant event for both of them and one they would both remember.

It was the practice in the Junior House for the Tutor or the assistant to take evening prayers at bedtime. All the house were gathered in the Common Room, prayers were said, a hymn or two sung and announcements were made before the lads were sent, chattering like a bunch of boisterous monkeys, off to wash and get ready for bed. There was only one announcement that evening – “I want to see William Fraser in my study after prayers”. A tremor of vicarious anticipation went through the assembled boys and hungry, inquisitive eyes were turned on William who experienced a cold dread in the pit of his stomach. Rosemary, having taken the step of sending for him and knowing she had no way out, went to her study to plan the interview. She was a professional and though she would have given anything to avoid this chore she knew she could not. She looked around her little room, placed a chair in the middle of the room and, where it could not be missed, put her wooden backed Barr’s hairbrush on the seat of the chair. She sat behind her desk and prepared herself for the coming ordeal which she did not relish but which she knew she had to face. There came a timid knock at the door. “One moment, please” said Rosemary!

Young William, at 13, was still somewhat naïve and, unlike his classmates, did not automatically presume that the summons to Rosemary’s study meant a ‘beating’. His chums knew better and William was the object of undisguised interest as the boys left the common room to make their way to the changing rooms. They giggled and rubbed their bottoms theatrically as they watched him creep off towards the study. Rosemary had made the announcement in such neutral tones that he still found it difficult to believe what he now came to dread. ‘Miss’, the adorable ‘Miss’, was about to punish him! As we have seen he had, upon arrival outside the study, been bidden to wait and as he did so he became more and more convinced that it was going to be alright. He had done nothing that could persuade the gentle creature to punish him; at least he didn’t think so. Part of him didn’t think so. But part of him believed the other boys when they had told him no one went to the study at bedtime without returning with a very sore behind! “You’re for it” they had sniggered as he set off to meet his destiny. The more he waited the more of a turmoil he found himself in. That turmoil was resolved, sharply resolved, when eventually the door opened and Rosemary bade him “Come in William”.

As she held the door for him he entered the study with some foreboding. His knees nearly gave way and he noticeably wobbled as he saw, in front of him, the quite unambiguous sight of the chair and the hairbrush. Now, bless him, he knew the lads had been right when they gleefully told him “You’re for it!” William heard the door close behind him and trembled – he was for it – his lovely Miss Green was going to punish him. William stood meekly with his head bowed as Rosemary said, not unkindly, “Well now William you have got yourself into trouble, haven’t you?” “Yes, Miss” his voice was unsteady and his eyes strayed inevitably back to that chair. He was wondering not what was going to happen, that he knew, but when it was going to happen and how it would be done. Rosemary, when planning her first disciplinary spanking, had decided that what was important was that the occasion should have about it a sense of ritual. It should be an event that the culprit did not soon forget. She knew that parents could and did spank in anger, some might be appalled to think that but she knew it was true. Teachers, she felt, certain should do nothing of the sort. She had accepted when she entered the profession that from time to time it would fall to her to punish. There would be occasions of indiscipline for which no other penalty than a sore bottom would suffice. There might be recidivists who seemed unable to keep out of trouble and whose repeated misconduct led inevitably to punishment. There would be, as in the present case, boys who needed a short, sharp shock to bring them, as it were, to their senses. Rosemary liked William but recognised he was in immediate danger of falling in a pattern of naughtiness if he were not brought sharply to account. She scolded him firmly but kindly pointing out to him the error of his ways and the need for him to pull himself together. “Do you understand?” she asked “Yes, Miss” “And do you understand that you must be punished?” This latter question elicited a whispered response “Yes, Miss”. Rosemary took his arm. “Come with me, William” she said and turned towards the chair.

All Rosemary’s nervousness was now gone. She knew what she was going to do and how. She was certain that William was more nervous than she was! She sensed he would submit and take his spanking provided she did not in any way show him she was, or had been, apprehensive. Rosemary led him to the chair and, picking up the brush, seated herself. She was acutely aware of the lad watching her every move. She took a deep breath “Take down your trousers, William” she said and with some relief watched him fumble with his belt. No resistance, no protests, no pleas, William knew in his heart of hearts that this was what he deserved and that there was no one he’d rather be spanked by than Rosemary. He undid his trousers and, with a little wriggle, eased them over his hips. They fell to his ankles. He was totally reconciled to his fate. “William, I want you to place your hands on my lap, here, and bend over!” He did as he was bidden, placing his hands on her left thigh he gently lowered himself onto her soft, feminine lap. It felt, somehow, right to be there. It even seemed right when he felt Rosemary take hold of his underpants and ease them down over his bottom and onto his thighs. William looked at the carpet! Rosemary put her left hand on the bare skin of his right hip and held him there. “I shall give you 12 smacks with my hairbrush across your bottom, William, and I hope never to have to see you in this position again. Are you ready, William?” “Yes, Miss” and, do you know, he was!


Rosemary looked tenderly at the smooth cheeks of the boy’s fine, slim bottom. William rested submissively upon her right thigh, his hands holding her left. She raised her hairbrush. SMACK! With absolute confidence Rosemary delivered the very first smack of her teaching career and felt him twitch endearingly across her lap. She heard a gasp “Aaaah!” as the sting of the hairbrush made itself felt. SMACK!! Another gasp as a red blush began to manifest itself on each cheek of his bare bottom. Rosemary was satisfied she was doing this properly, giving the lad what he needed to bring him to his senses. SMACK !!! Not a brutal thrashing but a modest, controlled smacking, this was what she had decided to give the boy and the sound of the strokes, his gaps and the spreading blush told her she was doing well. SMACK !!!! Now his prostrate body tensed and jerked as he gave a little yelp of pain. SMACK!!!!! “Keep still, William!” “Yes, Miss” he croaked! SMACK !!!!!! Six, and six more to come. Rosemary, a gentle girl, felt sorry for the boy as she surveyed the now mottled cheeks of his bottom. She tried to imagine how he must be feeling and gave a little shiver of empathetic distress as she delivered number seven. SMACK ! she felt his fingers now digging into her thigh as he strained to control himself. He was hurting and so, inside, was she. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!! William’s bottom was now very, very sore and he yelped aloud at the tenth stroke. He, wretched boy, had lost count but she, fortunately had not. SMACK! SMACK !! William lost control now and cried out in pain but it was over! He slumped across the lap of his goddess and she was content to leave him to collect himself as he lay, panting and gasping with little sobs. She could almost feel the throbbing in his bottom. She had given him a good and well deserved spanking! She had nothing to blame herself for. “When you are ready, William, you may get down!”

Later, much later, when William could hide from the prurient interest of his dormitory mates, he lay in the dark and thought about what had happened. He found himself stroking his bottom and almost relishing the warm, tingling throb. He thought back through every stage of his punishment, the scolding, that frightening instruction to take his trousers down, the feel of Miss Green’s lap as he lay there and she took his pants down! That had been deliciously scary! He had been totally hers to do with as she would and, then, those stingingly sharp smacks which had grown in intensity with each stroke. William, to his surprise, found himself fascinated by the whole thing! She had smacked his bare bottom, the sweet, beautiful Miss Green had smacked his bare bottom and he relished the memory. He found himself wondering when he would again find himself over her knee having his bare bottom smacked. . Oh, she was so wonderful, she could spank him when ever she wished! William drifted off to sleep feeling strangely fulfilled.

Rosemary had never had occasion to spank him again until now and this, William knew, was to be a caning!

Shortly after that spanking, William recalled as he stood outside her study, the paths followed by the gorgeous Miss Green and the rapidly maturing young man had diverged. He, at the end of his second term, went up to Senior School and to Brunell House. He had never again been in trouble until today he ruefully recalled. He had never forgotten his spanking over the luscious lap of the oh so nubile Miss Rosemary Green. For her part Rosemary was delighted, upon the appointment of Mr. Parkinson as Deputy Head Master, to be offered the post of Tutor of the Junior House. A well earned promotion at a very early stage in her career. Rosemary admitted to herself that she missed the charming young William, she, of course, taught him from time to time but she found herself yearning for the intimacy of their earlier relationship. She had, of course, had occasion to spank other Junior House boys and had done so with the professionalism the school, and the boys, had come to expect of her. Their spankings, she recognised, had been part of her job, not a chore, perhaps, but a duty that she would have preferred to avoid but could not. She spanked, forgave and forgot them! She did not, however, forget William or the feel of his body across her lap. Rosemary was startled to realise that she yearned for that slim, firm bottom; longed to once more to feel it bounce as his body writhed beneath her chastisement. She thought time and a cold shower might cure her but the image of a penitent William across her knee remained with her. And then, three years later, she was appointed Tutor of Brunell and in loco parentis once more to William Fraser. She was now 28 and he was 17 and nearly, but not quite, too old to have his bottom smacked!

All these memories flooded the fevered mind of Rosemary as she prepared to cane young William and that of William as he waited for her to cane him.

Rosemary got to her feet and opened the door. “Come in, William” and he entered looking around wildly for a sight of the dreaded cane! It was not evident. Rosemary closed the door and once again the sound of the latch clicking shut made him tremble. He clearly remembered the last time and, as then, he wondered feverishly how it would be done. Rosemary stood before him and gave him a considered telling off. She reminded him that he was now a senior boy and that his conduct today – and we do not need to concern ourselves with the details – ill befitted a boy of his seniority. He would be punished! “Yes, Miss” he whispered. “Come along, then” and he allowed himself to be taken to the chair over which he now knew he was to be caned. “Take down your trousers, William, and bend over holding the seat of the chair” “Yes, Miss” and, once again, she watched him prepare for punishment. He groaned, quietly but quite clearly, as his trousers settled once more around his ankles. William bent over and clutched the chair. Rosemary turned away and William watched her as she opened the door of a tall slim cabinet. He heard a strange rattling sound and, with a start, guessed was the sound of canes rattling together. His buttocks clenched!

Rosemary selected a 36″, 8 mm diameter standard school cane. A whippy rattan known to deliver a telling bite. She turned and came to him. Rosemary pulled his shirt up and, the cane brushing against him, she took his under pants in both hands and gently pulled them down off his bottom. William trembled with anticipation. “Six strokes, William” said Rosemary.


Rosemary, as we have seen, was not a dedicated disciplinarian but she firmly believed that some boys, and some girls too, deserved and benefited from a sore behind. As a student teacher she had learned about discipline and punishment, including corporal punishment, and how it should be applied. The school cane and its use had been an important topic not because the college expected its students to over-use it but because, when used, it had to be used effectively. On the bottom, never the hand, and with a maximum of six strokes ordained by law. Rosemary had studied the appropriate positioning of the culprit, she had trembled when it was pointed out that a tight bottom was essential if the sting was to be really appreciated and she learned the differing ideas about clothing. There were those who thought that trousers stretched tightly over the bottom increased the spread of the pain and others who advocated a bare bottom for its psychological impact! Girls were on no account to be caned on a full, loose skirt which would muffle the cane but rather upon their school knickers or, of course, their bare bottoms. Lastly and importantly she had learned how to aim the cane, where to stand in respect to the culprit’s bottom and how to achieve the desired occlusion of the far buttock by the nearer. Rosemary had learned all this and had practised on a dummy bottom watched by her fellow students. She had never before today had to address the cane to a real bottom. She deeply regretted that it should be William upon whose bottom she was to have her debut. Dear girl, she hoped he would forgive her.

Rosemary, desperately aware of her every move being watched by the waiting boy, took her place to his left side and adjusted her position so that his right buttock was just occluded by his left. He uttered a little moan of anticipation as she tapped his tight bottom and took her aim. Rosemary raised her cane and brought it down swish, whack across William’s bare bottom! The sensation was astonishing! First, perfectly placed across both cheeks, a wicked slashing cut which seemed near to cutting his bottom in half, William let out a startled yelp of pain, then, briefly, his bottom felt numbed until the deep penetrating pain welled up along the line of the stroke. Rosemary was astonished, but professionally pleased, at the effect of her cane on this naughty boy. She had to go on but knew that timing was the essential element in ensuring a meaningful and memorable caning.. She waited for the line of her first stroke to blanch and then turn a livid red. William bravely stayed in place but already, after only one, the sensitive girl knew he was in some considerable distress. She swallowed hard and raised the cane again. Two! Her aim, as a comparative ingenue, was nigh on perfect and her second stroke lay only centimetres away from the first, again poor William uttered a yelp and again the stripe blanched then blushed an angry red. William could not believe anything could hurt like this. William, motionless, bent forward offering his poor bottom for the third stroke was desperately aware of Rosemary, his soft and scented goddess, so close by his side. She took her aim again, raised her cane and, swish, whack she delivered her third stroke. This time the wretched boy yelled in genuine distress but bravely retained his penitent’s position. His bottom, now, was blushing red not only along the lines of the three strokes but generally around the caned area. Rosemary, unhappily, knew she was doing a good job. Gentle by nature she might be but she was a born professional determined to do well in all aspects of her chosen profession. William’s breath was now coming in rasping gulps as he struggled against the need to stand and clutch his blazing bottom. He swallowed hard and gripped the chair and waited for the divine Rosemary to deliver the fourth stroke. Swish, whack, she did and, with her new found skill, Rosemary laid it hard and straight alongside the first three. William, despite his every effort, could not stop himself from yelling out “Aaaahhh!” as her cane struck home on the already oh so tender flesh of William’s bare bottom. tumblr_o5a3n10x4r1v9q5b4o1_500He remained in place, despite his aching, stinging, throbbing bottom he remained bending over to allow her to complete the ordained six strokes. Poor Rosemary, every fibre of her being wanted to forgive him and forget the last two strokes but she knew she must not. Six strokes she had promised him and six strokes he must have. Lifting her cane again she gazed at the angry, purply-red weals and she placed the fifth diagonally across the cluster of stripes he already bore. William roared and came very close to standing up and covering his bottom but, once more, he bravely stayed put. He gulped and groaned, took a deep breath and pushed his bottom out once more. Rosemary gazed in wonder and some distaste at the havoc she had wrought on that fine bottom. She did not blame herself, of course not, she was only doing her duty and really believed that William would benefit in the long term from his thrashing. She raised her cane again and brought it down for the sixth and last stroke swish, whack! Again she laid it across the bruised and mottled stripes already discolouring William’s bottom. She turned away immediately she had seen the tortured bottom receive its final stroke but not quickly enough to fail to see the wretched boy’s body jolt with the impact. William groaned – but stayed in place. He had lost count! Rosemary replaced her cane in the cupboard and turned once more to William.

“Come here you silly, silly boy” she whispered. He stood up with some obvious difficulty. “Yes, Miss” he said and bent to recover his pants. He winced. “Come here, I’ll do that” and before they knew it he was in her arms and her gentle fingers, fingers which so recently had held that dreadful cane, were caressing his bottom. “Did I hurt you terribly?” asked Rosemary as she oh so gently eased his pants back over his bottom. The 11 years difference in their ages melted away as William, feeling strangely fulfilled, yet confused by mixed emotions, delighted in the warmth of her embrace as she held him to her. He could not forget the pain and disgrace of the sound beating he had so recently received but knew he had deserved it and somehow he relished the memory that it was she, the lovely Miss Green, who had beaten him. The young man was overwhelmed by a tender love and a deep, yearning desire. He lifted her face and she knew what he was going to do and welcomed his move.

They kissed.

A Princess of Vernonia

This story can be found in my collection, Medieval Spanking Tales.
Here is an excerpt:
Princess Alisha watched from the tower of Southmoor manor as the entourage filtered over the hill. A cold knot of dread formed in her stomach. But she gathered herself. She was a Princess of Vernonia and still mistress here. They would arrive soon. She had to prepare. She sent for William, her chief steward.
“My father’s men and the Earl of Rivermead will arrive soon. See to it that their horses are fed, watered and stabled. Check on space in the barracks for the soldiers. I think there may be a dozen. The captain will get special quarters as will the Earl of Rivermead, his wife and their entourage.”
He could see the strain as she attempted to put on her best face and play her role as the gracious hostess. Protocol demanded it. But William knew why they had come and his heart went out to his brave but forlorn mistress.
Alisha spent her summers at Southmoor, concentrating on her studies. Her father, King Harold disapproved, but her mother the Queen had prevailed upon him. Their daughter would be educated, she’d insisted. Still she had not married, but not for lack of suitors. Alisha was beautiful. She was of medium height and shapely with a narrow waist, flaring hips and a womanly bosom. With her long reddish gold hair, at the age of 23 she was a vision of loveliness. Perhaps a bit too serious, her mother would have said. She had rejected the numerous suitors for her hand. It was good that none of them had pleased her father either, else she’d be wed by now. Not only was she determined to educate herself, she wanted to learn manly arts. She could ride as well as a man, she could handle the rudiments of a short sword, and she had a genuine talent for archery. She could outshoot every man in her father’s guard save Guy Hightower, the man who had taught her.
Guy Hightower, now there was a man. Her heart gave a flutter at the thought. He was everything a woman could want. He was strong, with ruggedly handsome good looks. In addition he was kind and respectful, not a loud boorish dolt like many of her father’s swaggering soldiers. But as Captain of her father’s guard he was only a commoner. She’d had an easy rapport with Guy. He’d been a good teacher and the fact that she was a mere girl had not put him off—and he didn’t patronize her. He’d been hard on her and had challenged her in training when it had been necessary, giving her no special treatment just because she was female and royalty.
And that was one reason her heart caught in her throat when she saw Guy leading the column of men-at-arms. Why had her father sent Guy, of all people, on this errand? She reflected ruefully on how it had all come to pass.
Her father King Harold had for years quarreled with the Scythian nobles whose lands bounded Vernonia near its Southern border. Thus when Rune Vargis, son of Seil Vargis had announced his desire to wed Giselle, daughter to the Earl of Rivermead, Harold saw a way to bind the Scythian nobles in alliance with Vernonia.
Alisha saw it differently. She had studied geography. Rivermead stood at an important river crossing on the boundary with Scythia. The alliance gave Scythia access to the bridges at Rivermead which were normally heavily guarded against southern invasion. You could not get an army across the Lorr River for over 100 miles in either direction. Alisha had studied history too. There was a clan of the Scythians that claimed to be descended from Harold’s house and had grumbled for years that it had a legitimate claim to the throne of Vernonia. That clan was House Vargis.
Harold wouldn’t listen to his eldest daughter. The opinion of a woman was not highly regarded in such matters, and Harold was already put out with his daughter’s interest in matters of state as not being fit for women anyway. She had counseled that a marriage with a Scythian warlord was an invitation to danger for Vernonia. Harold believed instead that the marriage would reduce tensions on the border between Scythia and Vernonia.
The wedding itself was where things had unraveled. It had been held at Oron Keep, a centrally located fortress in the Lorr valley, a day’s ride from Rivermead. Rune of Vargis was a rude boorish bully. Giselle had blanched in horror as he had backhanded a female steward, giving her a bloody lip for splashing a little wine at his feast of welcome. He treated his own servants poorly as well. Rune was a bully. He drank to excess, was loud, and had a decidedly cruel streak that he displayed by insisting that a stable lad be birched raw for failing to properly groom his horse.
Alisha had been commanded by her father to attend the wedding and had witnessed first hand the uncouth behavior of the Scythians. It bothered her especially that Rune believed himself to be superior to all things Vernonian. It appeared to her that he had nothing but contempt for Rivermead and his household. Plus, he had arrived with forty men at arms, not trusting the Vernonians. The problem was, Rivermead didn’t see it. He was too focused on the generous gifts that House Vargis had sent, as was the Scythian custom. The dowry was unfettered crossing at the Lorr bridges. It would line Rivermead’s coffers for years. Nor did Giselle’s mother, Lady Lenore. She was too busy dreaming of the jewelry and Zandian silks that the money would buy.
Giselle was appalled at the behavior of her betrothed. She had never met him prior to his arrival at Oron’s Keep. Giselle was a mere girl of 17 and had come to Princess Alisha in private. She had begged Alisha for help. Alisha could understand the terrified girl’s plight. Her father was in effect selling her to a barbarian warlord. Who knew what ill treatment she might suffer at his hands? Normally Alisha would have counseled her that as a daughter of royalty, an arranged marriage was her fate in life and to make the best of it. But Alisha felt that in this case, Rune Vargis was a danger to the realm. So she decided to help Alisha.
Thus, Alisha secreted her away with a trusted family in a small village not far from the keep. When her absence became apparent, Vargis blamed the Earl. And he practically tore Oron’s Keep apart looking for her, thinking that the Earl had reneged on his promise of her hand while plotting to keep the money and gifts. The Earl denied any such plan. They would find her, they assured him, chastise her properly, and deliver Giselle to him in a more obedient frame of mind. But after a fruitless search for the missing girl, Rune Vargis left, humiliated. He did not believe the protestations of the Earl and Lady Lenore that Giselle had merely run away.
Three days went by. When Alisha had been satisfied that Vargis had truly left she returned in her own coach with Giselle. The Earl, and especially Lady Lenore, were furious—with Giselle, but also with Princess Alisha. How dare she meddle?
It had been painful to watch Giselle’s reckoning, but watch it she did. In the Keep’s great gallery the servants placed a birching stool, a high stool on four thick legs with a concave surface. Giselle was secured across it and her skirts were raised. Then Alisha watched in dismay as Lady Lenore took up a birch rod with which to flog her daughter. She whipped the pale moons of Giselle’s tender buttocks until the pert globes bore vivid red stripes and Giselle was shrieking in agony. At least three dozen strokes of the birch rod were applied to Giselle’s quivering bottom by her mother’s strong right arm.
When it was done and they had led the weeping girl away, Lenore turned to Alisha and coldly informed her that King Harold would be informed of her treachery forthwith. Alisha had listened to the threat in stoic silence, but inside she knew that her father would be very displeased. And she was afraid. Still, she consoled herself, she had helped Giselle avoid a life of misery. It was a good bargain for Giselle, she reflected later. In exchange for a whipping, she had avoided what would have surely been a miserable existence. Rune was not likely to press his suit again. In addition, the realm was safer, in her view, with no Scythian presence north of the Lorr.
That was in the past now, Alisha reflected. The present had been the letter that had arrived three days ago by courier from her father. “Daughter, you will receive my men at arms, Earl and Lady Rivermead, and my chancellor who will deliver to you a warrant for your just punishment for this affair. You will obey the instructions of Chancellor Gregor to the letter.” It bore King Harold’s seal.
So that was it. The Earl of Rivermead and his wife had demanded retribution for Alisha’s aid in hiding Giselle. Even in her distress though, Alisha had understood. Rivermead was a key ally to Harold and Harold had to placate him as best he might to keep his allegiance. He also had to demonstrate that he had had no hand in Alisha’s plot to hide Giselle from Vargis.
Supper that evening in the Castle’s dining hall was restrained at best. Alisha bustled, giving orders for the serving of the meal under the watchful eye of the Earl and his smirking wife. The only look of sympathy that she could see came from Giselle herself who had been forced to come along. It was almost too much. They come to see me humiliated and expect me to serve them as if I’m throwing a feast, she thought.
When the plates had been cleared, Gregor rose, a scroll in his hand. Alisha steeled herself. The warrant. What was to be her fate? She had never liked the chancellor. He was a dour man, and as the realm’s chief judge he had sentenced many to the rope and the headsman’s ax. And she had never liked the way his eyes followed her as she had matured into young womanhood.
Gregor left his place and walked around so that he stood in front of the banquet table. He addressed Princess Alisha. “Please rise, Princess. I have a matter of some import for you and all assembled here. It is the reason for our visit,” he said unrolling the scroll. “This is a warrant signed by your father. It bears his seal. It reads, ‘For the offense of aiding Giselle of Rivermead and for disobeying the lawful commands of your king you have jeopardized the security of Vernonia and have insulted my loyal subjects the Earl of Rivermead and his wife the Lady Lenore. For this offense it my judgment that you be stripped of your clothing and publicly whipped in the courtyard before the assembly. You will be given 40 lashes, administered by my captain of the guard, Captain Hightower, after which you will apologize to all for your insolent behavior. Signed by his seal, Harold, King of Vernonia.”
The blood left Alisha’s face. It was ashen and she was shaking. Stripped naked and publicly whipped! How could her father do such a thing? But it only took her a moment to understand. The king needed Rivermead and if it took publicly humiliating his daughter to appease the man, he would do it for Vernonia’s sake.
Alisha gathered herself as best she could. She held her head high and said, with a tremor she could not suppress, “I will now take my leave of you all, if you don’t mind. My household staff will attend your needs. Under the circumstances I fear I will not be very good company the rest of the evening.” She stole a glance at Guy Hightower. His face bore an expression of pure shock. He had not known, she decided. At least there was that much. Still what lie ahead was humiliating beyond belief. And painful. She’d never been whipped, but she’d seen it done. She shivered at the prospect.
Gregor fixed her with a thin smile. “As you wish, my Princess. We will call for you on the morrow at noon. Please prepare yourself accordingly.”
Alisha gave him a small nod and took her leave with as much dignity as she could muster. She felt like breaking down in tears and running to her room, but she would not give them the satisfaction. She would show them what a princess of Vernonia was made of.
Guy Hightower was in shock. He was very fond of Alisha. Actually, he had to admit, it went beyond that. He could love her. He’d often thought of what a wife she could be. But commoners do not marry royalty. True, they could never wed or be together, but for him to be the one to actually wield the whip? How could King Harold have ordered this?tumblr_m4zwxpgrki1rxxq6to1_500
As captain of the Harold’s personal guard it was sometimes his unfortunate duty to administer discipline to his own troops, especially the young trainees. For that he used a braided whip that ended in a long tail that could leave painful weals on the backs of the men. He was fortunate in that he had not brought it with him. So, he decided, if do this deed he must, he would procure a whip that would be more suitable for the correction of a woman. Perhaps the household steward would know.
He sought out William, the chief steward. “I suppose you heard what is to transpire in the morning,” he said.
“Aye, captain,” said William sadly, shaking his head. “Our lovely mistress. How could her father be so cruel? What a shame.”
“It is not our lot to question, William. I have been given a command by my lord and I must obey. But here is my request to you. I need to procure a whip for the punishment, but I do not wish to leave marks on her skin. Do you understand? I was not ordered to be brutal. Do have a suitable implement?”
William pondered this then said, “On occasion it is necessary to discipline lazy maids or stable lads. The head groomsman has a whip that he made for this purpose. It is nothing like what is used on criminals. Wait here. I’ll procure it.”
William returned a few moments later bearing a coiled brown object. “Here,” said William. The whip William handed him had seven strands of supple leather measuring a bit over a foot and a half in length dangling from a knot at the end of a six inch long thick leather braid. The braid was wrapped around  a foot long handle. “It has, unfortunately, a ferocious sting I am told,” said William, “but it will not cut her skin. It’s the best we can do, sir. I’m afraid forty lashes will hurt a great deal, but the young stable boys and serving maids appear to bear it with no lasting harm.” The last he said with a grim smile.
Guy tested the lash against his palm and on his leg. It had a sharp stinging bite. He grimaced. “It will have to do. Thank you William.”
Neither Alisha nor Guy slept much that night. Both were preoccupied with thoughts of what was to transpire the next day. Guy was torn between his duty to his king and his affection for the Princess Alisha. Alisha was frightened, but determined to meet her fate like a true princess of Vernonia, proud and unashamed. She still felt that she’d done the right thing.
The day dawned bright. At least it promised to be warm, thought Alisha grimly as she prepared. Knowing she was to be stripped she had her ladies array her hair in a plait and chose a simple white shift. As she waited she chanced to peer from her window to the courtyard below. What she saw sent a shiver up her spine. A frame had been constructed, obviously for her, at the center of the courtyard. It was a tall tripod with front legs placed close together. A crossbar spanned the two legs at waist height. Someone had thoughtfully placed burlap padding on the crossbar. The purpose was obvious. She would be bent forward across the cross bar, buttocks thrust out to receive the whip lashes. She tightened and felt behind her with her hands. Soon her rear cheeks would be a throbbing mass of pain.
She heard the heavy footsteps approach her quarters at noon. “Princess Alisha,” she heard a voice intone. She motioned for one her attendants to open the doors. Standing there was Chancellor Gregor and four guards. With him was Guy Hightower. The Chancellor was arrayed in the robes of his office. Guy’s face bore a weary frown and sad eyes. He was dressed simply in a white tunic and black trousers. He carried a whip.
“It is time, Princess. You will follow me.” Gregor’s face displayed a triumphant smile. Her ladies stepped away reluctantly. She saw the concern on their faces. “I will be all right,” she said to them. She stepped into the hallway and was surrounded by the four man escort. Gregor led the way and Guy Hightower followed. They emerged into the courtyard’s bright sunshine. Alisha blanched as she beheld the frame. It was supported on a short raised dais, so all standing could get a good view. The Earl and Lady Rivermead and their entourage lined the balconies surrounding the courtyard. Several other minor members of the nobility had apparently ridden in at their invitation that morning to witness her humiliation.
They arrived at the dais and mounted it. Gregor pulled the warrant from his robe with a flourish and read it once again for the benefit of all. There was an audible gasp when the sentence was announced. There was murmuring in the crowd. “Forty lashes bare—that is most severe,” said an onlooker. “The poor girl,” ventured another. Alisha was popular in the region. Gregor turned to face Alisha. “Princess Alisha, you will now disrobe.”
Alisha looked him squarely in the eyes and without hesitation pulled the plain white shift over her head and allowed it to flutter to the ground. Their was another collective gasp from the crowd. Alisha was beautiful in her nakedness. Her breasts were high and proud, her waist tiny, and her hips flared in womanly perfection.
“Secure her to the frame,” ordered Gregor. Guy nodded to two of his men. They guided Alisha to the frame and placed her hands high along the poles. Her feet were tied to the bottom of the poles and her hands secured to a strap dangling from the apex. This forced her to bend over the bar at a slight angle. The posture pushed her buttocks out and back in stark relief. Guy had to marvel to himself at the sight. The twin cheeks of Alisha’s bottom were full, round and high set. She was gorgeous and Guy would have given anything to be able to caress those two perfectly formed moons instead of  having to administer this cruel whipping her father had ordered.
Once Alisha had been fastened down to Gregor’s satisfaction, he turned to Guy. “Captain Hightower, do your duty. Forty lashes.”
Above the spectators watched in breathless anticipation as the captain uncoiled the whip, letting the strands fall. Alisha turned her head to see. The whip was a cruel looking thing. Her eyes met Guy’s. He whispered, “I am sorry, my princess.” She shook her head and looked him in the eye. She whispered back, “You must do your duty as my father commands, captain.”
On the balcony Lady Lenore whispered to her husband, “I hope he whips her well, the little baggage. She’ll not be so high and noble when her backside burns under the lash.”
Others provided different admonishments. “See that a similar fate awaits you, wife, if you fail to obey me,” said a noble to his horrified wife. She gave him an astonished stare. “You wouldn’t dare.” But fear showed in her eyes. Other wives and daughters shifted uneasily in their seats. They were all disobedient from time to time. They were just glad it was someone else tied to the frame today.
With a sigh Guy stepped to the side and let the strands of the whip unfurl. He measured his distance and carefully lifted the whip. Alisha steeled herself. The captain drew back his arm and in a fluid motion brought it forward. The tails of the whip fanned out and landed with a loud crack! flat against the crowns of the Princess’ buttocks.
“One,” intoned a scribe standing by the frame.
Alisha hissed in pain and pressed her body forward. It hurt worse than she had imagined.
Swissh…crack! The whip fell again. Alisha’s bottom cheeks quivered with the impact of the strands.
Guy drew back again. Whissh….crack! “Three,” said the scribe.
Guy fell into a smooth rhythm, drawing the whip strands through his fingers, cocking his arm and delivering the lash to its target firmly. The strokes fell. The princess’s bottom cheeks quivered in response and she flinched and gasped. Red lines marking the strokes appeared on her skin. Her breathing grew labored. Oh it hurt so! She willed herself not to cry out. The awful stinging pain built and built as each searing lash fell. Guy switched to her upper back to give her poor bottom some relief, but he knew that these strokes were perhaps even more painful. In addition he knew that the fleshy orbs of her rear cheeks could better absorb the whipping, so after ten lashes across her back, he returned to whipping her bottom.
The onlookers watched fixated on the drama before them of the naked princess enduring what looked to be a firmly delivered whipping to her flinching backside. Her rear and back were a flaming red. They noted the whissh…crack! of the steady application of the whip and wondered if they could bear the pain were they strapped to the frame. Indeed a few of the younger maids even felt the stirrings of desire at the sight of the handsome captain doling out discipline to the bare bottom of the princess. And all of the men were mightily aroused at the lurid spectacle. Her bottom cheeks quivered lasciviously each time the lash struck.
By the time the count reached thirty, Alisha could no longer contain herself. She cried out in pain. “Oh…it hurts so!” Guy paused momentarily. The Chancellor saw it. “Continue, Captain. As your king has ordered,” he said sharply. Guy thought grimly to himself that if he had his way, it would be Gregor on this frame and he wouldn’t be using a girl whip. He swore to himself, but resumed, carrying out the sentence as commanded.
Swissh…crack! Alisha sobbed softly as the last strokes fell. Her eyes filled with tears. She knew that her buttocks bounced lewdly as she writhed on the frame but she could not help it.
Guy could not help but ease up slightly as he applied the last of the lashes to the girl’s backside. Her choked sobs tugged at his sensibilities. Still he had to admire her. She had borne her punishment like a true queen. She had not begged or pleaded for mercy. Her upper back and bottom were a livid red but thankfully there had been no scarring or broken skin. William had done well in procuring a whip that obviously stung mightily but would leave no lasting marks.
Guy stood back. It was done. He took it upon himself to instruct his men to release her. She stood shakily and bowed to the Earl and his wife. Even in her humiliation she held her head high. “I apologize to you Earl of Rivermead and Lady Lenore as my king and father commands, for my meddling in your daughter’s wedding. I am sorry and hope that my chastisement has provided you with some satisfaction.” That said, she held out her hand for her shift which Guy now draped over her nakedness. The soldiers led her away.