A Chance Meeting

Here is a story I found gathering dust on the hard drive. I don’t know who “Professor Steven” is, but I was attracted to the story because it recounts one of those once-in-a-lifetime chance encounters we all dream about. Does stuff like this happen? Yeah, it does, actually. People talk to each other in hotel bars or are thrown together by circumstance. A few drinks, a little flirting, a few more drinks, some hormones kick in. Next thing you know…well, you know.

What would be rare is the chance meeting of two spankophiles. What are the odds?

[Art by Stanton; photos by Punished Brats and Nu-West]


A Chance Meeting by Professor Steven



I am a graphic arts consultant mainly dealing with computer graphics, typesetting etc. for the printing and publishing trades. I have clients mostly based here in Nevada but I also have a few that require my services in So. Cal. and I need to go there about 6 times a year.

Last winter was one of those times. I’ve serviced a client now for about 4 years and they had recently hired part time gal, Grace, to assemble their technical manuals. I spent 2 days with Grace whom I would guess to be in her late forties. She is a school teacher from the Midwest who moved to San Diego after a divorce from her husband. Having to support herself, she went back to school and learned how to set type. Grace was an attractive woman. Her figure was striking and well maintained. Of particular interest to me was her derriere, which was ample but shapely, two rounded globes that quite nicely filled out the rear end of her tight skirts. Though dyed now, her natural hair color was red and she wore it shoulder length.


At the end of the second day of training she invited me to a drink at the lounge of the hotel where I was staying. Though we got to know each other rather well during the training we “really” got to know each other that evening.

We had a few drinks, and although we never got drunk, our conversation became very open with the help of the alcohol. We started talking about her career as a school teacher back in Indiana, particularly during the sixties and seventies.

Our conversation turned to the discipline back then and she told me that in her younger days she could swing a pretty mean paddle. She said she taught at a junior high school at the time and rarely a week would go by without some bad young lady or boy being taken out in the hall for three or four swats of her paddle. School policy allowed up to a dozen swats but rarely did she ever approach that number. She said that sometimes she wished she could apply it on their bare behinds as they often deserved it and the heavy clothing in the winter inhibited her full impact. Though it wasn’t technically against the law to paddle on the bare it wasn’t a condoned practice. The most she could do was to have them change into their gym clothes, consisting of a t-shirt and shorts, and keep them after school to be paddled.

Being the spankophile that I am, her stories held my interest and I provoked the conversation further.

She proceeded to tell me about some of the paddlings she handed out. Her most memorable was when her gradebook came up missing and she proceeded to paddle the entire class of 14 girls and 11 boys. They were sent to the locker rooms to change and to wait in the gym. They were lined up against the wall and she proceeded to go down the line, pulling one forward, bending them over to grab their knees and she gave them two swats. No one would fess up to the misdeed so she began again and went through the line a second time. Her arm tired but she had to see her threat through. She had all the students face the wall and announced that the next series of swats would be on the bare. She paddled the bare butts of all 11 boys and 7 of the girls before the 8th girl spilled the beans on the girl next in line. She said she had gone so far and since everyone chose to keep silent for so long that she finished paddling the rest of them on the bare.


The girl that stole the grade book was then instructed to remain after school. Her parents were called and father came in. Grace said that she detailed to him the day’s events and he, though angry, very calmly took his daughter by the ear and stood her up from her seat. He asked Grace if he could see the paddle she had used on the class. She showed him and he pulled up a chair, sat down and pulled his daughter across his lap. Her skirt went up and her panties went down and the paddle rose and fell at least 2 dozen times.


I asked her if she herself had ever been spanked or paddled and she admitted that a bare bottom spanking was part of her weekly diet up until the time she went off to college. Usually at the mercy of her mother’s hairbrush (she made it a point to tell me she still had her mother’s hairbrush) but a few times at the hand of her brother who was 2 years her senior. (Her father had long since deserted them)

In college she joined a sorority where freshmen and sophomores were frequently subjected to bare bottom paddlings by the members, not only during hell week but anytime a sorority rule was broken. She said that there were a lot of rules and a “court” was held on Sunday afternoons. A charge could only be brought against you by any upper classmate and if the court ruled in her favor you would be paddled in the presence of the entire house by your assigned Senior advisor. Juniors were also subject to the same but the occurrence was infrequent. In the case of a senior being found guilty of an infraction a private paddling was administered by the Sergeant at Arms. What I’d give to have been a fly on the wall of that sorority house on Sunday afternoons back then.


Anyway, the conversation continued to excite me and I could tell it was exciting her also. I pressed further asking if she had ever been spanked as an adult.

Her eyes lit up and she said, “Oh you better believe it!”

She proceeded to tell me how she and her first husband, who was killed in Viet Nam, used to play spanking games as a prelude to sex. She said that at school she ruled the class with a wooden paddle, but at home she liked to take on a submissive role with her husband acting as her father.

I asked about her second husband and she said that they tried it a few times but he just couldn’t find an interest in it.

I then let on that I am very interested in the spanking scene. I told her that I wrote stories and collected pics and such from the internet. I also told her that I had spanked the bottoms, usually bare, of a number of willing women. Her interest in me was changing now and I could see the excitement and prospect growing.

I asked her if she missed it and she blushed and told me that indeed she did. I asked if she now fantasized about it and again with a blush she admitted so. She also offered that she too spent a considerable amount of time surfing the spanking sites on the internet.

Finally, with all the courage I could muster asked her flatly, “Would you like to be spanked now?”

Again she blushed and I could tell I had her.

She said, sort of assuming a submissive attitude, “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I think that if you concentrate for just a moment I’m sure there’s something you’ve done that deserved a spanking but didn’t get one. Think now. It’s been a long time since your last spanking.”

She thought for a minute or two but it seemed like hours. I just stared at her waiting an answer. She fidgeted in her chair and finally said, “Well there was one time…a long time ago. I think I was about 23 or 24. I had just graduated college and was living at home for the summer until my teaching job would start in the fall. Having graduated with honors and 23 years old I became quite big for my britches and literally, by today’s standards, was a high strung bitch. I mouthed off to my mother one day, one time too many, and in lieu of the threat of being kicked out on my own and for the first time in seven years found myself bare-bottomed across her lap.”


She paused, though the story had my interest I interjected, “But you’ve been punished for that… What have you done that you got away with?”

“I’m getting to it,” she said. “She really blistered me with the hairbrush… 15 swats – and that was after an uncountable number with her hand – far worse than any sorority sister had ever done… and then to top it off she grounded me for three weeks.tumblr_mlvkggalOF1qii8jto1_500 I had to be in by nine every night and was promised another spanking if I wasn’t or if I sassed her ever again.” Again she paused but continued, “I had a big 4th of July party to go to that I didn’t want to miss and even though I begged to go and even offered my bottom for another spanking instead, she stood her ground and forbid me to be out past nine. Well the 3rd of July came and my mother got a call from my aunt in Phoenix and had to go there due to some kind of family problems. Before she left she warned me that I had better not be out past nine but she was going to trust me that I would abide by her word. If she found out I wasn’t home on time I could expect twice the spanking I got the other day, and I would be grounded the rest of the summer.”

Her story was getting long but added to the anticipation of the moment so I just listened.

“Well I took my chances. I really wanted to go to the party and I knew the best of the party would be long past nine. I called my two girlfriends and blatantly lied to them telling them I had a reprieve for the party. We went to the party and nine o’clock came and went without a thought. There was beer at the party and I even though I made it through college with never getting drunk I overindulged and spent quite some time in the bathroom that night. My mother didn’t really ever tell us not to drink socially but did say that a woman should never get drunk and should never make a spectacle of herself by being drunk in public. Well, there was two more of her rules I broke because from what my friends told me – I was the life of the party. The next day I had quite a hangover and spent most of the day in bed. My mother called and asked why I sounded like I just woke up and asked where I had been the night before and told me she called at 10:30 and didn’t get an answer. I lied to her and told her that I got very ill last night and went to bed early. She asked me if I was sure I hadn’t been at that party? I told her that I had been too sick to go. She seemed to accept and trust my answer as she’s never mentioned it again.”

Grace sat silent looking at me like a scolded child as she knew the wheels were in motion. I simply stood up and offered her my hand. “I’m very disappointed in you, young lady. I think it’s time to go.”

I led her out of the lounge and to the elevator and then to my suite saying nothing. She followed willingly knowing she was about to have her first spanking in several years. We were silent until we got in the room. I asked her if she wanted to freshen up and she did and went into the bathroom. I sat on the sofa and awaited her return.

When she came out she came up and stood in front of me. I patted my thigh and asked her to sit. Upon my lap, I began to scold her. “Lying! Drinking! Out past curfew! Not the behavior for a proper young lady is it?”

She shook her head in agreement.

“More the actions of a bad little girl. Don’t you think?”

Again she shook her head. “Yes sir.”

I asked her, “And what happens to bad little girls when they misbehave?”

Grace dropped her head and pouted her lips. “I’m sure they get a spanking.”

“So don’t you think you deserve to get a spanking?”

Shaking her head in agreement, she replied. “But it was so long ago.”

“Never-the-less. you earned a spanking then that you never got. You still deserve it now. Don’t you?”

She just shook her head again and said quietly, “I guess so.”

“Do you have your hairbrush with you?” I asked stretching my luck as I hadn’t come prepared to spank anyone.

To my amazement she replied, “Yes, it’s in my purse.”

“Go and bring it to me.”

She scampered off my lap and retrieved the hairbrush from her purse. It was in remarkable condition for its age. I would have to guess it at least fifty or sixty years old. It was solid wood, oval, and had a shiny black lacquer finish. The handle had the “FB” logo gold stamped into the leather wrapped handle. I could only guess it stood for Fuller Brush. She mentioned, as I looked it over, that she had it re-bristled once about ten years ago.

I set the brush aside and patted my thigh. “Across my lap, young lady!”

Obediently, she complied. She was wearing a women’s business suit and she took off her vest and hiked up her skirt to get across my lap. I noticed she had taken off her pantyhose while in the bathroom which indicated to me that she expected (or was hoping) her skirt would be lifted.


Gambling on my hunch, I said, “Lying! Drinking! Curfew! Very naughty, naughty girl.” I lifted her skirt revealing her white cotton panties. Getting no resistance so far I gambled further and began pulling her panties down as I said, “All too serious offenses to let these come between you and a sound spanking.” What luck – not a peep. In fact, she raised her hips to allow me to slide her panties to her knees easily.


I spanked her first with my hand some 10 or 12 minutes until her bottom took on an even pink glow. At that point I made her stand and I removed her skirt but left her panties at her knees. I now knew that she was a true redhead. With her blouse held above her waist I led her to the corner where she stood for 5 minutes while I admired her pink globes. Five minutes isn’t that long but it seemed like it as we both knew the hairbrush was yet to come. She stood perfectly still – face to the corner, hands folded neatly in front and elbows tight to her sides to keep her blouse from falling.


I picked up the hairbrush. “How many did your mother give you?” I asked.

She replied, “Fifteen.”

“And how many did she warn you that you would get if you disobeyed?”

“Twice that – thirty.”

“And that was just for breaking curfew! There’s still the matter of lying and drinking!”

“Yes sir,” she replied.

“Well let’s have you back over here. We’ve a long way to go.”

Grace scampered back over my lap and waited anxiously for the touch of the brush. She shivered slightly when I placed the cool flat surface on her warm pink butt.

“You’ll count these.” I said as I began to spank. I started rather mildly at first but occasionally landing a good swat to test her endurance. As the paddling progressed and her ass grew red she became able to handle quite a hard swat. Grace counted each and every swat accurately and bravely held up the entire 30 swats. Her butt had become very red and I could tell she wasn’t far from her threshold.

“Do you think an additional 15 for lying and 15 more for drinking is fair?” I asked.

“Yes sir,” she replied.

“But first I want you to stand and remove your blouse and bra but leave your panties where they are.

“Yes sir,” she said. She did so and in crawling back across my lap asked, “Should I count again?”

“That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want you to get any more that you deserve.”

The brush began to fly up and down again. Slowly and steadily in rhythm making each swat count. Occasional “yelps” and “oooh’s” emitted her lips between the counts. Again though she braved each swat and even welcomed the next by raising her hips to await it’s sting. Reaching thirty again, making 60 swats in all, Grace was beside herself. She couldn’t hide her excitement.


I let her from my lap and was leading her to the corner again when she stopped, turned and gave me a big heavy hug. She whispered in my ear, “The corner can wait.” Then I felt her hands go to my belt. In a flash, I was naked too except for a condom stretched tight on my manhood. Grace was on her knees at my feet.

The rest is for the imagination but I’ll leave you with this. Grace got one more spanking later (much later) that night. She was late for work the next day and I just barely made my flight out the next morning.





F/M Spanking Sunday – Mrs. Mundinger’s Roses

In the midst of cranking away on the spanking romance novel I’m writing (The Marshal’s Woman), I found time to pen a little domestic F/M drama, my first original short story since Ladies Who Spank. 

This is a stand-alone story, but I’ve deliberately left room for a continuation.

[photos by Nu-west, Pacific Source, art by Franco]


Mrs. Mundinger’s Rose Bushes

©Rollin Hand, 2016

Chad awoke to the sound of pounding on his front door. Someone was banging on it.  He tried to ignore it, but the pounding would not go away. He covered his head with a pillow to blot out the sound. No go. Still the damn pounding. His head hurt, his mouth was dry as a bone, and he felt like death warmed over. The incessant bang—bang–bang finally roused him so he stumbled out of bed and made for the front door. On the way he chanced to see himself in the bedroom mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled hair, pale skin. He was a mess. He’d slept in his clothes, apparently.

The memory of last night was vague, but it involved meeting up with his buddies at a downtown bar, followed by heavy pub crawling the rest of the night. He’d been three sheets to the wind by midnight. Somehow he made it home in his car after closing hour. Lucky for him no cops were about, or he’d have been in the drunk tank and charged with a DUI.

Good God! Stop the pounding! It was all he could think of as he prepared to open the door. When he flung it open he found himself face to face with his next door neighbor, Mrs. Mundinger, and she looked angry. He didn’t know her all that well. Her first name was Gerda or some Germanic sounding name. They had exchanged pleasantries when he moved in three months ago, and that was about it. What he knew was she came from eastern Europe somewhere, and had a thick accent. A large and stout blonde woman, she was the type you see in those German operas, the ones wearing helmets with horns. Big tits, big hips, thick legs. Nearly six feet tall, she towered over Chad by half a foot, and likely outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. She had a daughter, Anna, also big and tall, but considerably shapelier. Anna was hot, in fact.


Chad tried to clear his head and understand what she was going on about. Something about rose bushes.

“Yah, you see,” she said gesturing toward the driveway separating their property. “Your car. You crush my rose bushes, my prize roses.”

Chad peered out the door. What he saw gave him an awful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His car was not in his own driveway. Instead, it was in Mrs. Mundinger’s rose garden. Oh shit. No wonder she was upset. He must have run over the flowers the night before when he came in roaring drunk.

She stopped her tirade long enough to simply say, “I call police.”

“Whoa, whoa, now Mrs.Mundinger. Let’s hold on,” said Chad, raising his hands in supplication.

“No, you hold on, Mr. Chad Beachem. My roses are ruined by your car. You crash through them last night.” She stepped back and folded her arms across her ample chest. “Did you come home drunk, Mr. Chad Beachem?”

“I, uh, well…maybe I had a little,” he admitted.

“Don’t you lie. Don’t you lie to me.” She wagged a finger in his face like an angry schoolmistress.

“Okay, okay, I was a little drunk, I guess.”

“I thought so. I call police.” She turned abruptly and started to walk away.

“Wait. Stop. Don’t do that.” Chad could ill afford a DUI on his record. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it right. Really. No matter what it costs. I’ll see to fixing everything.” Chad was fully awake now, the adrenaline kicking in. This would be big trouble if the cops got involved.

She stopped walking and turned back around.

“So you fix? Get me new rose bushes? Plant them?”

“Yes, yes. Whatever,” said Chad, anxious to close this deal.


She stood with arms folded, frowning at him. She said nothing for a moment. It looked to Chad like she was considering his proposal.

“You will re-plant under my direction.”

A ray of hope. Chad said, “Yes, of course.”

She nodded. A good sign.

“But,” she said, frowning, “you must also be punished.”

What was this? Punished? He did not like the sound of that. He met her steel gray eyes staring intently at his face, looking for a reaction.

“You drive drunk. This calls for severe punishment. If I don’t call police, I must do it.”

Chad was confused. “Do what? What do you mean?”

“You will see. You come to my house at seven tonight. Don’t be late.”


Chad had all day to think about what she meant. He had had time to recuperate now. Some strong coffee, a few aspirin and a shower helped his physical sense of well-being, but could not quell the raging butterflies in his gut. What had he let himself in for? One thing he knew instinctively—he’d better not blow off this 7pm appointment next door. Mrs. Mundinger did not seem like the forgiving sort.

One thing he did know. He did not like the sound of it at all. At least she wasn’t calling the police or suing him or something like that. Still, all day his mind drifted, engaging in wild bouts of speculation as to what she planned to do. Chad didn’t know much about his neighbor, except that she seemed stern, rigid and controlling. Her nearly full grown daughter still lived with her. Chad had spoken her on a few occasions. She was hot, and Chad would have liked to know her better but she was always in the company of her mother, and the few times he saw her alone, it seemed she was almost afraid to talk to him without mother’s permission.


At the appointed hour he rang the next door doorbell. He was dressed casually, but not too much, in Bermuda shorts and a collared shirt. It wouldn’t do to appear ragged. Mrs. Mundinger’s daughter opened the door.

“Please come in. I am Anna. Mother is waiting for you in the parlor.” She smiled, but it was a thin smile, more like a smirk. What did she know that he did not?

Chad let her escort him to the parlor. It was an old fashioned sitting room with antique style furnishings, definitely early grandmother. Mrs. Mundinger was seated on the couch, leaning back comfortably, legs crossed, and eyeing him intently as he stepped through the doorway.

She didn’t greet him or say anything. Instead, she let Chad stand there shifting uncomfortably under her silent scrutiny. He finally broke the silence. “Uh, here I am, Mrs. Mundinger. I don’t know why you wanted me to come, really, so … why am I here? I said I’d fix your rose bushes.”

“Come here, Mr. Beachem,” she said crooking her finger.

Chad shuffled over closer. She sat up on the couch, pushing her solid torso forward until she perched on the edge. Then she commenced lecturing him like he was a schoolboy caught throwing spitballs.

“You are here to be punished,” she said wagging a finger at him. “You destroy my rose bushes like a little boy who does mischief.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. Now she towered over him, and he had to look up to see her face. He gulped. This was intimidating.

“Go get me a chair, Mr. Beachem. Hurry.” She pointed at the dining room where six armless chairs were positioned about a formal dining table.

Chad was confused. What does she want a chair for? He selected one and brought it into the parlor.

“Put it right there,” she said, indicating a spot in the middle of the room.

He did and awaited further instructions, feeling like a complete fool. What in the hell was she going to do?

She sat in the chair and motioned him to her side.

“Now I ask you, Chad Beachem, when you were a little boy and you broke a vase or drew on the wall, what did your mother do?”

What kind of question was that?

“I uh…I guess she’d yell at me.”

“She did not punish you?”

Chad thought for a minute. “No. Not really.” He recalled a lot of scolding, but no real consequences for any childish misbehavior.

“And that,” said Mrs. Mundinger triumphantly, “is the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, she said. “Please to let down your pants, Mr. Beachem.”

“What?” Let down his shorts? Was she crazy?

Then it all became clear.

“You are going over my knee, young man. I give you what you should have been given by your mother, a sound spanking on your bare hinder.”


Had he heard right? A spanking? Chad gasped. He was in shock. No way! “I—I…you can’t do that!” It came out like a croak.

Mrs. Mundinger wasn’t fazed in the least. “Then I call the police. You decide. A spanking or police.”

Chad realized he had no choice. Of all the dumb things. Jeez! This was embarrassing as hell. She wanted to give him a spanking, like some little kid, like in those comics. What was it, the Katzenjammer Kids? They were always getting spanked for something. This was ridiculous, but Chad realized the woman meant it, and he had little choice. He had to play along.

With a sickening feeling Chad fumbled with his belt buckle. He glanced at Anna. She grinned at his humiliation, obviously enjoying it at his expense. He wondered if Anna received the same treatment from this woman, and the thought gave him a hard-on. He instantly regretted that because now his stiff prick would betray him. Blushing ten shades of red, he let his pants drop. He stood next to Mrs. Mundinger in plain white briefs, his dick making the cotton stick out like a tent.

“What is this?” She said, looking daggers at the stiff appendage, her expression indignant that he would dare display sexual arousal at a time like this in front of two ladies.

“I—I can’t help it. Sorry.”


“Let down your underpants, Chad Beachem,” she said icily.

Chad groaned and slipped his underwear down. His dick hung on the elastic briefly then popped up, bobbing up and down.

Gerda Mundinger eyed the erection with disdain making a clucking sound with her tongue to voice her disgust. Then she did not waste any further time. “Get over my knee, young man. I will teach you a good lesson right here and now.”

She adjusted her skirt, pulling it up toward her waist. Chad got a glimpse of legs clad in nylon hose. She reached out and guided Chad over her lap, opening her legs slightly to accommodate his cock. He hissed at the contact with her muscular thighs. It was a fleshy platform, soft but with hardness underneath. He could feel the powerful rippling of her thighs as she adjusted him so he was well over, his bare bottom the highest point, his nose nearly touching the floor.

Chad felt her hand on his bottom. The flesh to flesh contact was electrifying. She patted, testing the surface. “You have a nice round hinder, young man. It will take a sound spanking.”

The pats were not gentle. She had a large roughened hand, maybe from all the gardening. Chad gritted his teeth, waiting. He didn’t wait long.

A sharp flurry of spanks exploded across his bare backside. The sensation of stinging heat was nearly instantaneous. His mouth flew open in disbelief that just her hand could sting so much, but it did. The effect was like he’d sat on a beehive.


“Yow! Ow!” he yelled as Mrs. Mundinger delivered smack after smack to his bare bottom. It lit a fire in his behind.

“This will show you, young man,” she intoned laying one hard spank after another on his bare bottom.

Chad squirmed helplessly. She had him pinned with an arm across his back. He reached back to shield his seat from the onslaught, but she grabbed his wrist and twisted it into a hammer lock high on his back.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said. “I spank hard and I spank long and you going to get a good lesson here today.”

More slaps exploded across his buttocks. He could only buck and squirm.

“Ow! Ow!” This hurt more than he’d imagined. He figured it would be more embarrassing than painful. He was wrong. It was sheer agony! The woman had a hand like a stevedore. She spanked with short sharp strokes that traveled up both cheeks from his thighs to the small of his back until every inch of his prominently presented buttocks was inflamed.

“You will not come home again driving drunk will you, Chad Beachem?” She questioned him and at the same time peppered his bobbing fanny with hard smacks.

“Ow! Ow! No, I promise.” Frantic now, he couldn’t stand much more.

“I make your little fanny nice and red, Chad Beachem. Now you learn.” She changed tactics shifting away from the fast flurries, and spanked him with long sweeping downward strokes of her powerful arm, each one landing dead center on his buttocks and delivering a shock that made his teeth rattle.

“Ow Yow! Please stop!”


Chad was sobbing now, a thoroughly chastened little boy. The intensity of the spanking had been a complete surprise. Her hand was all she had used, and it felt like a wood paddle. He fluttered his legs as he dangled helplessly over her knee. His tears salted the parlor floor. It amounted to such total humiliation for Chad that he had broken down and cried like a child.

“Get up,” she said finally.

Chad managed to rise off her lap. The erection was long since gone. He rubbed his bottom ruefully, choking back more tears. This had been absolutely devastating.

“Anna,” said Mrs. Mundinger, “Go fetch the cane.”


What was that? Fetch the cane?

Anna came back a minute later carrying a thin yellow stick. Chad eyed it with trepidation. In response, Anna smiled and bent it in a semi-circle.

“Now wait a minute,” said Chad, holding out his hand as a stop signal.

“Did you think we were done?” said Gerda Mundinger. “Did you think a little hand spanking was the whole lesson?”

Yes, he had. That spanking had given him a blazing, throbbing behind that was probably glowing bright red.

Anna handed her the cane. She took it a swooshed it. Chad looked on in horror as it vibrated like an evil thing, whippy and vicious looking.

“Bend over the back of the chair,” she said. “Anna, hold his hands.”

“Yes, mother.”

Anna came around and seized Chad’s wrists. She held them down against the chair seat, forcing Chad to bend forward.

“You will take six strokes without moving.”

“Ahh—no,” gasped Chad, panicked as he looked over his shoulder to see Mrs. Mundinger, her cane raised to strike.

It was too late. The rod whipped through the air and landed, striping Chad’s inflamed seat with a blazing line of fire.


The pain was atrocious. Chad tried to raise up but two things prevented him from moving. His feet were tangled in his shorts and underpants, now pooled around his ankles, and Anna had gripped him in a bear hug, her arms locked around his middle, her breasts mashing into his back.

Held in this immobile posture, his bare bottom raised over the chair back, Chad had no choice but to endure the five remaining strokes from Gerda Mundinger’s whippy cane. He howled at each one.

“You will never drive the car after the drinking.” Whirrr…whip!

“Yow! Ow! Okay!”

“You will be careful in future!”

“Yes, yes!” Whirr…whip! The cane flexed as it sped through the arc of her swing. “Yahhh!” Chad wailed anew as the cane bit into his bottom like a hot wire.


The sequence of scolding, a stroke, and Chad’s anguished response continued for the next three agonizing strokes. When Anna released him, Chad shot up and hopped from foot to foot rubbing his striped bottom, oblivious to the almost comical display he presented.

Mother and daughter stood back and watched, Anna observing with her sardonic smile, her mother looking on with approval for a job well done.


“Now,” said Mrs. Mundinger, shaking the cane at Chad, “You will be here on Saturday at eight am sharp to replant my bushes. Anna will instruct you and she has my permission to punish you if you do not do what she commands.”


What was this? Anna would be in charge? Chad’s eyes shifted to Anna. Her face wore a wicked grin, and Chad’s insides churned. Once again he asked himself what had he gotten himself into?







The Island

When your husbands are West Virginia state troopers it pays to heed their warnings about dangerous places. Who knows? In some remote mountainous areas there could be cannibal hillbillies still about. Wait–are you kidding? Cannibal hillbillies?

THE ISLAND  (from The Naughty Wives collection, Vol.1)

Amazon US https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/us/bookshelf.marketplacelink/B0094KFHUK

Amazon UK https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/uk/bookshelf.marketplacelink/B0094KFHUK

NauWives 1.0

The boat sat there all ready to go. It was just a stupid green rowboat, but there was no wind. The lake was as smooth as glass. The island beckoned. But they had been forbidden to go there by their husbands.

“Do you think they’ll know?” said Cath nervously.

“How would they?” sniffed Luanne. “They’re off hunting or fishing-or doing whatever it is with the sheriff’s office.”

“I don’t know,” said Cath. “They told us to stay away from the island and they got really mad when we went anyway. Do you think that there really is a cannibal hillbilly clan on that island?”

The men had told them to stay away from the island. The first time the girls had ignored the warning and had gone exploring. They landed in a few spots just to check it out. Gus had chewed out Luanne up one side and down the other. Jake had given Cath a piece of his mind, too. The second time they went over there, they’d just lied about where they’d been, but Luanne thought maybe Gus had sniffed it out. They’d have to be more careful.

Luanne turned and put her hand on her hip. She gave Cath a look of utter disgust. “Don’t be a little girl. They said that to scare us. That old story has been told in these parts for decades. Nobody’s ever seen a deranged hillbilly over there or anywhere else. Don’t be stupid. Cannibal hillbillies-sure,” she snorted.

“I-I don’t know…” Cath was the more cautious of the two.

“Look, it is private property, but that old ghost story was concocted probably to keep people off the island. What are you, chicken? We do know that pot grows wild there. We also know that there is a cove with a sand beach where we can go swimming. The men go off hunting for snipe or whatever and they expect us to cool our heels doing what? Needlepoint? Look, I’m on this vacation to cut loose and have fun, and that island is fun. So let’s load the rowboat and go.”

“I know that Jake was serious when he said to stay off that island,” said Cath. She looked around nervously, maybe expecting Jake to pop out and take her to task for even thinking about it.

“Or what? What’s he going to do? Honest, Cath, you’d think this was the middle ages.”

“Well, you don’t know Jake when he….”

“When what? When wifey misbehaves? Let me tell you, you need to take charge, tell him what’s what. That’s what I do with Gus.” She folded her arms in a huff, but she knew that last statement was not at all true. Gus, like Jake, had set boundaries for his wife, boundaries that were enforced rather emphatically. There was a short strap that hung on a nail in the closet at their house and it came out when Luanne did something stupid or dangerous. And a willful  hothead like Luanne was always getting herself in trouble. But Luanne would never let Cath in on that little secret.


Luanne was a blond country gal built like the proverbial you-know-what. In short Daisy Dukes and a halter top she could stop traffic—and often did. Cath was a slender redhead and pretty as a picture. She wasn’t as buxom as Luanne, but what she had was perfectly proportioned. Everybody said Gus and Jake had married the prettiest girls in Parkersburg. But being the wives of West Virginia state troopers they found they had to walk a tight line.

It was a working vacation, their husbands said. They got to use the highly sought after state cabins for free if Gus and Jake would help the sheriff of Greenbrier County with some problem. It had to do with watching for some activity of certain persons on the lake. And the best part was, they could do it while fishing. So off they went, leaving the wives behind.

Well, one thing was sure, thought Cath. She wasn’t like her daredevil friend Luanne. She didn’t finish telling her how Jake sometimes expressed his displeasure. But, what the hell, you only live once. And she was bored. The men had gone fishing off in the opposite direction in Gus’s motor boat while all they had was the stupid green rowboat. So why not go back to the island?

It didn’t take that long to row over there. The cove was delightful on a hot day and yes, there certainly was wild pot growing. They found some leaves that had dropped and dried in the sun. They helped themselves to it and whiled away the afternoon getting giggly and feasting on munchies.

“Let’s get nekkid and go swimming, girl,” said Luanne with a gleam in her eye. Cath was too far gone say otherwise. Soon both beauties, one red haired, one blond, were splashing naked in the water.

11696019_10204565358353808_8133205902015510839_n 11750626_141642399502509_5678804100966352986_n

The girls cavorted in the water unawares. They didn’t see the eyes peering through the thicket at the edge of the beach, taking in the whole scene. When they finally emerged from the water, they were in for a surprise.

“Where are our clothes?” said Luanne looking around.

“They were here. Right here.” Cath looked at her friend. “Luanne, this isn’t good. Someone took our clothes. What are we going to do? Ohmigod, even if we row back without being seen-what if our husbands are back? They’ll know.”

They were startled by a voice coming from the woods. “Get your hands up, girlies!”

Cath and Luanne shrieked. A figure emerged from the trees. She was in her fifties and stout-not fat, just solidly built. She wore an old fashioned dress of a type that had been out of style for 60 years. Her hard lined face was framed by gray hair held in a bun. And she held a shotgun. But it was her eyes that were the most scary. They were a piercing vivid blue and wild looking.

“Well, well, we got us a couple o’ plump morsels here, yes, we surely do. Turn around slow, so’s I can see what we got here.” The girls did a slow turn as the woman admired the high set breasts, the well toned legs, the flaring hips and the curvy bottoms on the girls. “Yes, indeed-y,” she cackled.

“Look, don’t hurt us,” said Luanne. “We didn’t mean any harm.”

“Please,” pleaded Cath. “We were just out for…”

“You was out trespassin’ that’s what you was doin'” She pulled the shotgun higher.

“No, no-we didn’t mean to. We’ll just go.”

“What, so you can come back tomorrow? No, that dog won’t hunt. That dog won’t hunt at all. I own this island and nobody comes on lest I say. And trespassers are persecuted.”

“Won’t you please at least let us put some clothes on?” said Luanne.

The old woman smiled grimly. Her eyes shown wildly. At first Cath thought the woman was probably deranged, on some drug or something. Then she realized, no, it was just the eyes. Still it gave the woman a frightening, off kilter appearance.

“Nope,” she said. “Not for what I have in mind. We’re all done with clothes now.” She looked over her shoulder. “Ordell, Jasper, get out here.”

Cath and Luanne shrieked when they beheld the horrific vision that emerged from the woods. Two rough men dressed in dirty overalls and caps strode out of the bush. It was their faces though, that had made the girls scream. Both had either been severely disfigured or—their faces were masks. That had to be it. They wore hideous masks made of skin of some type, like that leatherface character Luanne had once seen in some horrible drive-in movie. Something about a chainsaw massacre.

The woman gestured with the shotgun. “Tie them up, hands and feet,” she said.

“They look tasty, ma. We gonna take ’em to the stew pot?” said one. He spoke with a guttural drawl, the mask making his speech sound almost inhuman.

“No, no,” shrieked Cath and started to run, panicked now. She had barely hit the water when one of the men caught her and dragged her back. The other one grabbed Luanne. She fought but he was too strong. The men produced ropes and tied the girls’ wrists and ankles securely, immobilizing them.

“Naw, boys you aint gonna eat ’em. You still got them hippies that come over here lookin’ for our crop still danglin’ in the smokehouse. Somebody will miss these gals. No we’re just gonna teach ’em to stay offn’ our island.”

“Yes, yes, let us go,” pleaded Luanne. “We won’t tell anyone. We promise.”

“You gals gonna learn a good lesson first. You boys string ’em up from that branch over there.”

“Yes, ma,” said one. They pulled the girls over toward a low tree branch and tossed ropes over it, then tied the ropes to the girls’ bound wrists. They hoisted the girls’ arms up, pulling them until they were standing almost tiptoe. Neither Cath nor Luanne had ever felt so exposed and vulnerable. They were naked and stretched, arms overhead while these hulking men in their horrible masks leered at them.

“Now cut you some switches, make ’em couple feet long, real swishy. These gals are gonna find out what happens to trespassers hereabouts.”

“We gonna whoop ’em, ma?”

“That’s right, Ordell. You and your brother are goin’ take a switch to some sassy behinds. Teach these little misses a lesson.”

“Ma, I still think they’d make awful tasty stew.”

“Now you hush, Jasper, or I’ll take my strap to you in the shed.”

That pronouncement had the girls crying and pleading again. “Don’t whip us. Please no, not that!” Luanne looked in horror as the two brothers took knives and cut and began to peel some switches.

“Humph! A little whippin’. You rather I let my boys put you in the stewpot? Hunhh? Would you?”

That shut them up, but they watched anxiously as each brother readied a switch. The slender withes made a sick whining sound as the two men tested them by swishing them through the air.

“All right little misses, now we’re gonna see you dance. Boys, lay on with  them’ switches. I wanna see some red be-hinds on these two.”

Ordell and Jasper took up positions behind the girls and tapped their bottoms a few times, testing the flex in the switches. The girls recoiled at the touch of the springy switches. Then they drew back their arms. Cath and Luanne heard the whine of the switches before they felt the stinging lines of fire across their bottoms as two switches landed nearly simultaneously driving the girls up on their toes.


“Yeow!” shrieked Luanne.
“Ahhh…ow!” Cath matched her friend in volume.

“Give it to them again,” said the old woman.

The switches whined again.
Swick! “Yowee!” yelled Luanne flinching.
Swish! “Ouch!…Ouch! No!” pleaded Cath.

“All right boys, keep going. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The two hideous sons, Ordell and Jasper, then commenced a stinging switching of the two girl’s bare bottoms. Lashes fell steadily a few seconds apart. The glade echoed with the swish of the withes and the cries of the two girls. Lick after lick found the tender bare cheeks of the girls’ bottoms as the two hillbillies administered a thorough switching, urged on by their deranged mother.

Luanne and Cath yelled as each stinging lick landed. Before long their bottoms were covered with red weals. They were dancing on tiptoe as strokes from the switches seared their bare seats. Neither had ever felt anything like it. The switches’ whip-like strikes felt like hornets stinging. Luanne thought someone had lit a fire on her bottom. She could only imagine what she looked like, dancing on her toes, tits jiggling, her bottom bounding lasciviously. We’ll be lucky if they don’t rape us afterward, she thought.

Swick! Swick! Swick! The switching continued without letup. These men were like automatons, whipping them over and over with those switches. Luanne imagined that her bottom cheeks were quivering as the switch bit, probably inflaming the lusts of these horrible hill clan men. She just hoped the old woman would hold them in check.

“”Oww…oh, oww…”. Both girls were crying freely now and were dancing from foot to foot as much as their bound ankles would permit.

Cath could feel the burning mount with each successive lick. As she  vainly tried to evade the switch, she was aware of the spectacle she must be presenting-dancing like a whipped slave girl, nude fanny jiggling with each lick. Her seat felt like a mass of stinging red welts and each new stroke stung worse than the one before it. She was crying like a baby. This hurt worse than any spanking she’d ever had. If only she had listened to her husband.

After several minutes the woman called a halt to the awful switching. By that time though, tears were streaming down the faces of the girls and their behinds stung atrociously.

When they put the Luanne and Cath back in the boat, they tossed their clothes in after them. The girls could not row fast enough to get away from the island. They never saw the cannibal hillbillies depart. It was as if they had melted back into the woods. It was only after they’d cleared the island completely that they put their clothes back on.

It was agony having to sit in the boat and row but they made it to the dock and the cabins. Their husbands were not back from their trip, they discovered. That gave them time to shower and rub aloe on the welts.

“Somebody has to do something,” said Luanne. “Those hillbillies are dangerous. They were talking about actually eating us!”

“I know, I know,” wailed Cath. “But that means we’ll have to tell the men. They told us to stay away from that island.” Jake would be furious. That little novelty store paddle would make its appearance. A cold shiver ran up her spine.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Luanne, but even as she said it, she rubbed her bottom unconsciously. She’d never admitted to Cath how her state trooper husband kept the worst of her bratty impulses in line.

When the men arrived they were told the harrowing tale.  Naturally they wanted to see the evidence.

“Whooee, Luanne, that was quite a licking you got,” said Gus as he beheld his wife’s welted bottom. Jake confirmed that the state of Cath’s behind was similar as he emerged from their bedroom. “We’re glad you are all right, girls, but damn, why did you have to go there again? We told you, dammit!” Now Gus was furious.

“And it could have been a lot worse,” said Jake.

“Jake,” cried Cath, “they wanted, they wanted to e-eat us. They ate some hippies they said!” And she dissolved in tears.

“They whupped my behind so bad, I can’t sit,” complained Luanne. Even as she said it, though, she realized that it was probably the current state of her lush seat that kept Gus from thinking about tanning it for disobeying him. She gulped when she realized that that might come later.

“Good God,” said Jake. “I knew there were some nasty folk around that island, but this…. Gus we should go over there after them.”

Gus shook his head. “We’re out of our jurisdiction, Jake. Besides it’s too dark. They know that island and we don’t. We’ll talk to the sheriff first thing in the morning.”

Both men assured their wives they would get law enforcement on it right away. They had their guns, but it was too dark now to even think about going back to the island and capturing the cannibal hillbillies or whatever these horrible creatures were.


“Was my deputy a help?” asked the sheriff. He was sitting in his office at the county seat listening to Gus and Jake make their report.

“She certainly was,” said Jake, who smiled and nodded at the solidly built gray haired woman with the piercing blue eyes, now clad in the uniform of a Greenbrier County deputy sheriff.

“Good,” said the sheriff. “I guess she can get back to the stakeout now. We’ve been waiting for those people to show up and harvest that marihuana crop. Our biggest problem is keeping the civilians out.”

“Well,” said Gus, “our wives surely won’t be going back in there again and potentially ruining things.”

Jake and Gus let themselves out. Gus put his hand in his pocket to fetch his keys and felt a slip of paper. He pulled it out. It was a receipt–“Ace Costume Rental-2 ‘Leatherface’ masks, $7.00 ea.” Wouldn’t do to have this turn up in the laundry, mused Gus. No, sir, it wouldn’t.

He crumpled it up and threw it in the gutter.

The Naked Lady, part 2 by Pete

In part 2 Cindy’s friend Antonia gets into the act.


For the next several weeks, it seemed Cindy was trying to help me catch up for all the spankings I had yearned for, and missed, for all those pre-nuptial years. No fault was too trivial to be overlooked, and I was turned over those flawless thighs almost daily, there to howl and wail shamelessly as she warmed my always bared bottom to near incandescent levels. And the aftermaths, quite often, were even warmer. There was no question but that these spankings had an erotic and uninhibiting effect on both of us.


In the beginning the process was invariable and predictable. She’d take my trousers down, haul me over her bare or stockinged thighs, peel down my boxer shorts and blister my behind with her hairbrush . . . always persevering until I was reduced to teary-eyed, rubbery-kneed abjection. But being an ingenious, inventive and innovative woman, and, as I found out later, being coached by the “old pro” Antonia, Cindy began to branch out into a broad diversity of devious ploys and gambits with which to renew our shared interest in the delicious delights of feminine domination.


One Sunday she decided I should skip the football game. She stripped me bare and had me put on a frilly apron. I was then set to scrubbing the kitchen floor on hands and knees. Cindy assisted me in this unfamiliar endeavor via irregular but stinging applications of a particularly vicious little whalebone switch to my upthrust and uncovered buttocks whenever she felt I was slacking off. And she sets high standards! I later determined that the switch had been a present from Antonia, one of a pair of stays taken from her grand’mere’s corset.

Another time she surprised me in the living room, furtively sneaking a drag on a cigarette, a nasty habit of mine she was determined to break. Suspecting I would be taken to our bedroom for a thorough spanking, I was surprised when she ordered me to take off my belt. I had been working in the yard, and the belt I wore with my jeans was both thick and wide. She stood before me sternly, arms akimbo, sturdy legs spread wide. She took the proffered belt, doubled it, and thwacked it against her palm. She nodded toward my jeans and I dutifully shoved them down to my knees. “Bend over,” she commanded, and when I did she grabbed me roughly by my shoulders and yanked me toward her, my head plunged under her skirt. Her strong thighs clamped tightly around my ears and I whimpered, frightened by the swiftness of her assault and the unfamiliar darkness. I felt her rudely push down my shorts and then, thwack! Thwick! Splat!, she began to strap me. I bucked and squealed as my belt leathered my naked bottom, tautly skinned in this jackknifed position. My struggles only served to send us careening around the room in a strange kind of pain-filled polka, my head scrunching against her quickly moistening crotch. She strapped me vertically, and then horizontally, thwack, the crackling leather crisscrossing my shuddering cheeks stingingly, leaving a mass of crimsoned welts in its wake.

My hands clutched the fulsome cheeks of her magnificent buttocks for support as we whirled about the room, the belt falling inexorably and unerringly on my bare bottom, setting the rhythm for our erratic waltz of the whip. When Cindy at last finished, flushed and panting from both her exertions and her excitement, she threw us on the floor and we coupled with an animalistic lust we had never before experienced. Spent and exhausted we fell asleep on the spot, waking hours later to totter off to bed, for some more relaxed and luxuriant love-making.


It was soon thereafter that I met the mentor of my wife’s mischievousness face to face for the first time in more than 10 years. Arriving home from work late one afternoon, I found Cindy had company. They were seated side by side on the sofa . . . Cindy and Antonia. I caught my breath, stunned by this confrontation with the two women who had so completely dominated my soul and my body for the past 10 years. They looked much like sisters, although Antonia had to be at least 10 years older than Cindy, 10 years older than I. She looked marvelous. She wore a translucent silk blouse, the top three buttons undone to provide an entrancing cleavage, the gossamer material caressing and emphasizing the pointed tips of her raspberry-hued nipples. Her full, knee length skirt had ridden up her strong thighs, sheathed in webby black nylon. Cindy looked fresh-faced and virginal in a clinging, cowl-necked cashmere sweater and long, flowing, plaid skirt.

I stood at the door numbly, plainly overwhelmed by this revelation of my dream girl and the girl of my dreams seated together, appraising me frankly. “You do remember Antonia, don’t you Mark?” Cindy asked me slyly.

“Uh, of course,” I stammered, shrugging off my jacket and smiling weakly. “Hi.”

“Come here, Mark,” Antonia told me in a soft and husky voice that nonetheless provided no room for misunderstanding. When I did so she took both my hands in hers and, somehow, I found myself kneeling before her, straddled by her exquisite thighs. Her cool and slender palms framed my flushed cheeks. “We’ve been talking about you, Mark, Cindy and I,” she whispered. “Have your ears been burning? I’ll bet they have. Not nearly as much, though, as another part of your anatomy will be shortly.” My eyes grew wide, my mouth gaped wide. “I’m afraid so, Mark,” she continued throatily, shaking her head in commiseration, “I’m afraid you’ve been naughty, a very naughty boy. Don’t you agree?”

“Uh, well, I’m not sure exactly . . . ” confused, not sure of what was expected of me, I lapsed into a kind of addled silence.

“Well then,” Antonia said brightly, “suppose we give you some time to think about it.” She sprang lightly to her feet, took my hand in hers and led me to the far wall. “This seems like a good place for meditation,” she said, turning me so I faced the bare plaster. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable. Do let down your trousers, and your shorts as well.”

I blushed a bit, perhaps more from excitement than embarrassment, and complied, allowing the specified garments to slither off my hips and down around my ankles. I heard a soft, rustling sound behind me.

“Perhaps this will help shield you from any, um, distractions,” Antonia went on musically, and my vision was quite suddenly veiled by the diaphanous and musk-scented fabric of her lace-trimmed silken panties inverted, as they were, over my head. She deftly folded up my shirt tails, tucking them neatly inside of my tee shirt. Her hand gently explored my now totally defenseless buttocks. “Nothing seems to have changed much,” she said drily, joining Cindy in a fit of irrepressible giggling.


I stood there in a numb and serene daze for perhaps 30 minutes. I could hear them chatting softly, my ears indeed burning as I realized, from what little I could make out, that they were chatting about me . . . Cindy about my domestic discipline . . . Antonia about my only too obvious, long term leering. “What do you think, Mark?” Antonia’s voice rang out suddenly, startling me. “What do you think about someone who goes around undressing women with their eyes? Isn’t that a naughty thing to do?” My stomach knotted in dread, a dread mingled with relief in the knowledge that it would soon be over.

“Uh, yes Ma’am, I guess it is,” I confessed truthfully, for even as I spoke I had visions of her naked body.

“Well then, I guess you had better come over here, so we can do something about it.” I turned, reaching down to haul up the trousers and shorts puddled around my feet. “NO!” Antonia commanded, “Leave them as they are.” Awkwardly then, hobbled by the offending garments, I shuffled across the room, peeking through one leg hole of her panties to make my way. Blushing furiously at my humiliation, stooped over in a vain attempt to conceal a considerable erection. Cindy had moved to a nearby chair, smiling with warm compassion, or was it anticipation? Antonia had hiked her skirt up to her hips, and I could almost make out the golden blondeness between her legs. “Really, Mark,” Antonia remonstrated when I had reached her side, “do take off those ridiculous panties.”

Flushing at Cindy’s barely repressed snicker, I snatched off the dainty garment and let it flutter to the floor. “I can’t believe Cindy allows you to be so sloppy, Mark,” Antonia said sternly, “please fold it neatly and place it on the coffee table.” Grimly I complied, only too aware of the smirking expressions of my twin tormentresses. When I turned back, Antonia was gesturing pointedly toward her waiting lap. Wondering why I had ever conceived of this as exciting or enjoyable, I clumsily clambered over the sleekly stockinged surfaces of her sinewy limbs. The electric thrill that lanced through my loins at first contact answered my unspoken question.


“Remember this?” Antonia said kind of tauntingly as she thrust her ivory-backed hairbrush before my downcast eyes, “It will be very happy to meet you again, after all these years.” I didn’t bother to nod, just grimaced as she rubbed it teasingly over my naked flanks. Thankfully, she didn’t make me wait very long, but started right in, spanking me with a vigor I only dimly remembered. Her technique was quite different from Cindy’s, who spanked me rhythmically, alternating between cheeks and proceeding up and down my bottom in a methodical manner. Antonia was more creative and unpredictable. The spanks landed randomly, some hard and fast, some slow and deliberate.


Not that it mattered much, I bawled and bleated with equal zeal under both regimes. As the tears began to flood out of my screwed shut eyes, I opened them to find Cindy looking at me intently. As our eyes locked together, I could swear she winked! Antonia must have spanked me 50 times, before she paused. I gasped to catch my breath, thankful it was over.

But I was wrong again. Once I had regained control of myself, Antonia began again. I howled and begged, but it wasn’t until I received the full measure of what Antonia considered appropriate punishment did she stop. By then my bottom was on fire.


Released at last, I sprang up off of Antonia’s lap and kicked away my pants and loafers. On stockinged feet I pranced about the room, whooping loudly and rubbing my red hot rear for all I was worth. When my feverish antics had subsided, just a little bit, Antonia got up and came over to me, smiling oddly. She gripped my arms, kissed me warmly on the mouth, then suddenly kicked my legs out from under me. She held me firmly as I toppled, lowering me gently to the floor. I lay there warily, amazed at the strength of her slender arms. She straddled me, facing my feet and kneeling on the floor, her knees alongside my waist. She took my erect cock and yanked it up rudely, my hips arching up off the floor. Taking her hairbrush from the coffee table, she tucked it underneath my bottom bristled side up, and released me. As I settled back, its thorny spikes pricked my tender, aching flesh unmercifully. I tried hard to keep my hips up in the air, screwing my eyes shut from the effort, but fatigue soon set in and, whimpering, I steeled myself to endure this new torment. I opened my eyes and watched in unbelieving horror as she s l o w l y settled backward. She lifted up her skirt to reveal the dimpled cheeks of her truly voluptuous derriere, a derriere that unerringly moved closer and closer toward my face. I was just about to cry out when she settled it firmly upon me, the twin cheeks imprisoning my face. She squirmed and wriggled ecstatically, her silken skin caressing and enveloping me in its musky warmth.


Panic stricken at first, I soon found I could breathe and began to enjoy the womb-like environment. Especially when she began to roughly fondle my genitals. I could hear her chatting with Cindy as she painfully squeezed and pinched my obviously responsive member. Just as I felt I was about to explode, she released it and sat back, her entire weight once again on my face. When my turgidity slackened, she took hold of it again, manipulating it to the brink of ejaculation. She repeated the process several times, teasing me ’til I ached from frustration. The phone rang then, and Cindy sprang up to answer it. It was for Antonia, and somewhat reluctantly she climbed off me to answer it.

As I lay there panting, Cindy loomed over me, smiling down with pursed lips. “All tuckered out? Did all your dreams come true?” I realized then they hadn’t. That while Antonia’s obvious and eccentric eroticism was exciting, it was no substitute for the thrilling and rewarding relationship Cindy and I had built together. Still pained by Antonia’s prickling brush, I tried to smile back. Cindy bent down and, reaching inside her skirt, removed her panties. Stepping around me, she swiftly knelt as Antonia had done, fluffing out her long skirt so that it enveloped me, tent-like, from my knees to my head. Her lovely fundament quivered deliciously above me in the sudden dimness, just inches from my adoring face. She gently tugged at my still stiff prick until I raised up my hips, and removed the agonizing brush. I almost wept with relief and gratitude. Tentatively, as if unsure of the process, she eased her bountiful buttocks upon me. The plump cheeks trembled and twitched around my waiting face uncertainly. I heard Antonia’s high heels clicking on the floor, and then Cindy’s posterior plopped rudely downward, propelled by Antonia’s hard shove.

“Don’t be shy!” I heard her giggle, “he won’t break.” The phone call had been from her husband, who had confessed some unnamed but unpardonable sin that required her immediate attention. Bidding us both the best of luck, she retrieved her hairbrush and, whistling happily, whisked out the door.

Left alone, I felt serenely content, inhaling and glorying in my intimate contact with Cindy. Her bottom seemed fuller and softer than Antonia’s, her musky essence somewhat sweeter. What had been, for Antonia, a gesture intended to demean and debase me, seemed, with Cindy, to be one of intimate bonding. She squirmed and wriggled experimentally, sighing with pleasure as my face caressed her lovingly. I remembered, then, what had been the highest accolade a girl could be awarded when I was in high school . . . “She can sit on my face – anytime!”

As she bent forward to fondle and kiss my engorged genitals, my tongue slipped inside her and we gasped in mutual pleasure. After what seemed an eternity, but was in reality only a minute or two, she slithered around and we came together in a truly inspired coupling. We didn’t talk much about that night, but came to an unspoken agreement that our somewhat bizarre relationship should be a private one.

Cindy still chats with Antonia quite often, and the synergistic reaction of their two arcane imaginations has resulted in some fairly strange experiments. Cindy disciplines me often and hard, always on the “bare,” and most usually in the traditional over-the-knee position. A standard dose is 30-40 with the back of her brush, another dozen or so with the bristled side, and a final 15 or 20 with her hand. She seems to relish the flesh to flesh “feel” only a hand spanking can provide. She “puts me under,” as she calls it, quite often as well, sometimes for hours on end. She has pursued a series of vigorous campaigns to correct all of my bad habits one at a time, each based on ingenious applications of corporeal discipline. I no longer smoke, swear, drink hard whiskey, ingest caffeine . . . or often sit in comfort. I have come to appreciate the care and attention these spankings represent, and the uninhibited and imaginative sex play that often follows. My fantasy, once existing only in my mind, now is an integral part of our everyday reality . . . and we love it!

Rose Red part 3

Well. Jack is beginning to get the idea behind the late Uncle Cy’s method of dealing with his many lady friends, and so far they’ve taught him a thing or two. It remains to be seen if he can solve the mystery, and more importantly, apply it to his own circumstances.

[Photos by Firmhandspanking.com, Nu-Westleda.com, Janus, others unknown]


On the plane back to Seattle Jack contemplated the depth of his dilemma. Either one could be Rose Red. What the hell? Did all of Cyrus’ girlfriends get off on having their behinds spanked to a rosy red? Well, there was one more on the list and for this one he’d have to travel. But not too far.

But, he wanted to see Molly first. Cyrus’ sexpot girlfriends were one thing, but Jack actually had things in common with Molly. And the more he saw of her, the more he liked her. If it wasn’t for that annoying habit of hers of being so damn late for everything. This time she kept him waiting for the theater. He had prime seats to see “Wicked”, which she’d been excited about, and then hadn’t showed up until after the first act was well under way. Her hair, she said. She had to do her hair. Jack did a slow burn. Maybe a little of the Uncle Cy treatment was what this girl needed too, he thought.




But a week later he was headed for Boise, Idaho and Carol Mae Ritter. Carol Mae owned a ranch up toward McCall in the foothills of the mountains. Jack pulled up to the ranch house in a rented Jeep and was greeted by a buxom honey blonde in tight fitting jeans.

“It was so sad about Cyrus,” said Carol Mae as they sat on the porch of the ranch house. It was a Sunday and they were alone. “How I loved that man,” she sighed.

“Well, we are trying to locate someone mentioned in his will, like I said over the phone,” said Jack.

“So how can I help?”

“Well, the person in question was, um, intimate with my Uncle Cy.”

Carol Mae laughed. “Well, honey, you haven’t eliminated much of the female population if that’s your best clue.”

“It has to do with the nature of their intimacy,” said Jack.

“Uh-hunh,” said Carol Mae. “Well, I can tell you this. Ours was stormy. I was a jealous thing. I wanted to marry Cy. Let me tell you, I used to throw fits—after I’d finished throwing the pots and pans, that is. I was a regular she-devil. But Cyrus, he didn’t put up with that, no sir. He put me in my place right quick. In fact the last thing he said was that he owed me a good lesson for a little tantrum I pulled. It was a big charity ball in Seattle. I embarrassed him by throwing a hissy fit. So he said I was down for good session in the woodshed.”

Jack observed that she was wiping tears from her eyes.

“Afterwards I felt so bad about it. I wish he had lived long enough to take me out to the woodshed, I really do.”


“Yes,” said Carol Mae. “A real one. Want to see?”

She led the way. Jack had to admire the sway of her hips and the shapely seat clad in the skin tight jeans.

“Here it is,” she said.

They had entered a small outbuilding set back about forty feet from the rear of the ranch house. Inside was a stacked cord of wood and a broad stump with an ax in it. There was also a sawhorse with a blanket on it. And as he looked around, Jack’s eye fell on a short leather strap hung on a nail on the wall.


“Cyrus believed in ceremony, and when I’d earned a tanning, he’d escort me right out here.” She went over to the wall and unhooked the strap. “This is what he used to light a fire in my butt,” she said. “He knew what I needed, that man did. I sometimes think that it kept me grounded, you know?”

Jack nodded sympathetically. He was beginning to understand his uncle.

“I think sometimes I acted the way I did just so he would whip my behind. I’d cry. We’d make love and it would be all right. No other man treated me like that. No one cared enough to.”

“Will you miss that attention?” asked Jack.

“I’m sure I will,” she said.  And then her face took on a determined look, like she’d made her mind up about something. “But, seeing as how you are Cy’s nephew and his executor, I think you have a final duty to perform for Cy. I told you how bad I felt about that ball in Seattle and Cy’s promise.” She handed him the strap. “Well, I think you know what I need.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up as Carol Mae turned and faced the sawhorse. She unhooked her jeans and, doing a little shimmy, she worked them down over her hips. The voluptuous moons of her bottom, clad in abbreviated panties literally popped into Jack’s view. He whistled silently to himself as she laid across the top of the sawhorse thrusting her buttocks out for Jack’s attention. Jack moved up behind her and grasping the waistband of her panties, tugged them down to mid thigh.

“Oooh,” she said. “You are your uncle’s nephew.” In a soft voice she said, “Are you going to tan me good?”

“I’m giving you twenty-five licks, Carol Mae.” Jack had no idea, but twenty-five seemed reasonable. “Now, you hold still and take this strapping. You know you deserve it.” Jack felt like he must be channeling his uncle.


“Oh, yes sir,” said Carol Mae in a breathless voice.

Jack doubled the strap and stood to her left. Her legs seemed to tremble a bit and she gripped the crossbar on the horse tight. He pulled the strap through his fingers, pulled back it back to his shoulder.

He swung it in a flat arc. The strap whistled then splatted loudly on Carol Mae’s buttocks. A red band appeared.

“Ow!” she cried.

Jack drew back again and delivered another lick. Swish…thwack! “Ow…oh!” Carol Mae whimpered, lifting one leg. Jack saw another red stripe appear on the pale flesh.


Jack found a rhythm, drawing back and applying licks at a rate of about one every five seconds. He was careful to line them up and swing true so as to hit between the crowns of her buttocks or the soft overhang above her thighs. The splats of the strap and Carol Mae’s soft cries reverberated in the confines of the woodshed for the next several minutes. She did not try to avoid her strapping, Jack observed, but she was not quiet or stoic about it either. The strap cracked down, laying stripes across the wobbling globes of her full bottom cheeks. Carol Mae shifted and bobbed, her curvy fanny dancing to the stinging tune of the strap while she yelped in distress.

It was a sexy performance, and Jack was as aroused as he had been by any of the others. He took his time. No need to rush it, he thought. Give her the full measure of what she so obviously needed and wanted.


He counted out twenty-five and then told her to get up. She turned and rubbed her bottom, bending at the knees, her mouth wide open in a big “O”.

“Oooh….oohhh,” she moaned. “Whew! You really lit me up, Jack. Just like your uncle used to do.” She licked her lips. “But I needed that.”

She kicked off her jeans and took Jack by the hand. “Come with me,” she said, leading him into the house. “Now I need something else.”

It was yet another long afternoon for Jack.




“So,” said Molly. “I’m dying to hear. Who is Rose Red?” They were at the law office in a conference room.

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Any of them. All of them. Hell, I don’t know.” Once again, he omitted certain key details of his meetings with the women.

“Just what did they say when you asked?”

“They had no idea,” said Jack. Of course it would not have mattered, it had been a nickname private to Uncle Cy.

“The ninety days runs this week. The scroll will be released from escrow,” said Molly. “Do you want to view it here?”

“No,” said Jack. “Send it to my apartment.”

“Are we going out this weekend?” asked Molly. She was excited to see Jack again. She realized she was falling for this guy and was anxious to move things along. And she had never been shy about expressing her feelings.

“I’ll call you,” he promised.




The scroll arrived exactly ninety days after probate had begun. He slipped the red ribbon off and unrolled it. It appeared to be a codicil as Molly had suspected. The codicil revoked the gift to Rose Red and instead gave $250,000 to each of three women, Mindy Halton, Magda Belinsky, and Carol Mae Ritter. And it gave the “rest and residue of my estate to my nephew, Jackson T. Gordon.”

Jack was now a rich man.

Then he noticed that there was a note rolled up inside. It said:

“Jack—the money from my estate will be welcome I’m sure, but my real gift to you is all the Rose Reds and the lessons that I truly hope they has taught you. As you have by now, surely figured out, they were all Rose Red. Each was grateful, in her own way, for my attention to her needs, once I took the upper hand like I told you. So take those lessons to heart. I have a feeling you are going to need them.

Your favorite uncle,





Jack looked at his watch. Late again. She was late again. He was making dinner for her at his new deluxe condo apartment. Well, he’d warned her. “Do you know what happens to schoolgirls who get four tardy slips in a term?” He’d said it half in jest on their last date— when she’d kept him waiting for over an hour. But she’d said no, wondering where this was going. “They get their little behinds paddled, that’s what.” Her eyes had widened at the implication of that, and she’d sputtered that he wouldn’t dare. At the same time Jack had noticed that she’d blushed and squirmed a bit, and had appeared flustered. Well, here she was, forty-five minutes overdue.

Later tonight, after dinner, he decided, it would be time to take Uncle Cy’s advice to heart.





Molly stared at the corner, her dress held up to her waist and her bare bottom on display. It throbbed with a hot glow. How could this be happening? Dinner had been wonderful – a delicious meal prepared by Jack and shared by candlelight along with a nice wine. Jack was charming. It all seemed perfect. She’d made up her mind—yes, this would be the night. Romance and seduction were in the air and she was more than ready.

Okay, she had been forty-five minutes late, but so what? Okay, he had warned her about that, but so what? The “so what” had come crashing down on her, in the form of a juvenile spanking. A spanking! At her age. She thought he’d been kidding. He smiled as he wagged his finger at her and told her what a naughty girl she’d been. She tried to laugh it off, but then before she knew what was happening, she was over Jack’s knee with her dress hiked up and her panties fluttering around her knees. Outrageous! Jack’s palm rested on her bare bottom as he scolded her for being willfully late. Again.

The worst thing was, she was embarrassed and shocked, but also intensely aroused. Oh, she’d protested with the usual “you wouldn’t dare” type of threats as he led her by the hand to the couch. But a part of her was thrilled by the way he took her in hand. Had she been deliberately provocative? The thrill intensified with the first smack. It landed crisply on her bare fanny sending a shock wave through her core. Then another spank landed, then another. It stung but her nipples got hard and she felt distinctly slippery down below.

morgan otk

Her behind heated up as a flurry of hand spanks peppered her bottom. It tingled and it stung, but it also made her horny. For a minute or two the sound of sharp staccato smacks filled the room, delivering the message that Jack was indeed serious. It lasted just long enough to make her feel like a thoroughly chastened girl, but not so long as to seriously hurt. Afterwards she was led to the corner to await Jack’s further attentions.

Behind her she heard the rustle of clothing. A zipper unzipping. A shucking sound like trousers dropping. What was he doing? She felt arms wrap around her. Lips found her neck. Something hard nestled in the crack of her buttocks as a hard male body pressed against her from behind.

“Are you ready to be a good girl, Molly?” he asked.

She twisted around to face him. Looked down. Oh yeah, she was more than ready. No question that he was.

He led her back to the couch, this time for activities of a much more pleasurable nature for the latest “Rose Red.”





The Naked Lady, an F/M Story by Pete

I’ve featured stories by Pete before and I really like his approach to F/M spanking erotica. This one is no exception. Here is part 1.

The Naked Lady By Pete


One of the most compelling memories of my life occurred when I was about 13. I was at my friend Paul’s house, along with three or four other kids from the neighborhood. It was a dark, rainy fall day. We decided to play Hide ‘n Seek. Paul was “it,” and began to count aloud “1 – 2 – ” I fled from the living room and scampered upstairs.

. I looked frantically about, then burst through a closed door at the end of the upstairs hallway. I was struck dumb when I almost collided with Paul’s stepmother, Antonia! A former ballerina, she had a compact but surprisingly lush body. Her light blonde hair hung straight, gently caressing her soft shoulders. Her eyes were an odd, brown-flecked green. Her breasts were full and firm, pert and snowy mounds topped by saucy, strawberry colored nipples. Her legs were long, with shapely thighs and starkly muscled calves. I should know! She was naked! She’d been sitting at her vanity, brushing her long blonde hair. My prepubescent eyes feasted on those feminine charms the older boys snickered about after Boy Scout meetings.

“Mark!” she said sharply, twisting on her bench to face me. I remember hearing an odd little “squeak” as her bare flesh skidded on the polished wood of the bench. She seemed totally unconcerned over her nudity. “What are you doing here?” She smiled then, at my obvious discomfiture, at my obvious interest. She took my cheeks between her palms and tilted my face so I was staring into the greenish depths of her eyes. “Such a naughty thing to do,” she crooned, “such a naughty boy!” Still fixing me with her enthralling stare, her hands left my face, and I could feel them begin to fumble with my belt. She continued to scold me, but her tone was soft, almost hypnotic. Slack jawed and dumbfounded, I stood rooted on the spot, my eyes guiltily wandering downward from the rosy nipples of her pert, apple-round breasts to the bushy patch of pale blonde hair nestling between her lissome thighs. “I think I had better teach you some things, Mark,” she said as she freed my belt, unzipped my fly and coolly slid down my corduroy knickers. I suspected that she meant to spank me, but vainly hoped she had some other lessons in mind. “I think you need a good, sound spanking!” She continued, hoisting me, too stunned to protest, up and over the flinty lushness of her naked thighs. Even with my worst fears confirmed, there was no place in the world that I, at that moment, would rather have been.


Still tongue-tied, and overcome with the ecstasy of our intimate intertwining, I could only mutter incoherently as she ever so s l o w l y peeled down my briefs. In no hurry, she gently stroked my naked flanks, murmuring comfortingly about how cute and chubby they were, and how hotly she would warm them. She twisted back to retrieve her ornate, ivory-backed, but sturdy looking, hairbrush. I began to wriggle and squirm voluptuously, awed by the unique feel of her bare flesh on my bare flesh. I discovered the whole incredible scene was reflected in the antique pier glass that stood, in its shabbily elegant stand, just a few feet away. I felt myself develop an unfamiliar, albeit puny, erection as her left arm circled my naked waist and she pressed me even more closely to her firm, yet softly warm body. Then, SMACK! WHACK! CRACK! She began to spank me! But even though each and every spank smarted dreadfully, and I was soon howling and wailing in a most appropriate manner, one part of me remained entranced and thrilled by the experience. The harder and longer she spanked me, the longer I could pore over the reflection of her adorable and energetically naked body, the longer I could squirm and wriggle erotically against her “forbidden” flesh! I know I cried like a baby!

Real tears of honest pain streamed down my face, blurring my entranced view of the proceedings. I know that each of my chubby cheeks got as red as an overripe tomato, even blistered, but still I felt aroused, and I still felt excited! When she finally stopped, she twisted around and replaced the hairbrush on her dresser. Her slender hand lightly pinched and patted my blazing bottom as she throatily told me, “I hope I didn’t spank you too hard, Mark, but you were such a naughty boy. I hope this was a good lesson for you.”

Still ogling her lasciviously in the pier glass, I was forced to agree. She stood me between her bare and muscular thighs, and slowly tugged up my underpants and knickers, her fingers brushing erotically against my twitching groin like firebrands. Then she coolly walked over to her bed and shrugged on a long, diaphanous robe – but not before I was treated to a somewhat tear-blurred view of her delectably dimpled and truly magnificent derriere. I hopped about for a while, furiously scrubbing and rubbing my own blazing and blistered bottom, then tearfully stumbled out of the room, pressing one grubby fist against a still teary eye.

Attracted by the unmistakable din — and the sound of a spanking is unique — the rest of the gang was waiting for me. Some smirking, some commiserating, but all somehow involved. Paul was doleful, rightly guessing he was “in for it” later, and needlessly advising me that his stepmom was “a damned good spanker.” That much I knew! I guess I re-lived that scene literally thousands of times, all through adolescence and even into adulthood. It was my most erotic fantasy. Whenever I saw Antonia, even when swaddled in furs, I’d see her strong and muscular, starkly naked body. Whenever I saw a picture of a seated nude woman, these recollections would flood back sensually. But there seemed to be nothing much I could do about it.



On my Wedding Day, the fantasy resurfaced when Paul, who was an usher, remarked at how much my bride-to-be, Cindy, reminded him of his stepmom. I did a double take at that, because I’d never consciously been aware of it. But he was right! The same ash blonde hair, the same sort of compact but nicely rounded figure, the same “dancer’s legs” – with sleekly muscled thigh and the characteristic exaggerated arch of her calf. Only the eyes were different. Cindy’s were smoky blue. The “coincidence” grew even stranger that night. Cindy and I had retired to an old country inn for our honeymoon. I was in the bathroom cleaning up. When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Cindy sitting at the vanity brushing her long, blonde hair! She was naked! I gasped, and when Cindy turned around and called, “Mark!” in a voice sharp with concern, I could hear her bare flesh “squeak” on the polished wood. I stood there, struck dumb and mouth agape for what seemed an eternity. Cindy was, of course, quite curious as well as concerned. To alleviate both, she compelled me to tell her the whole story, probing for every detail. While reluctant at first, for I had felt guilty about my bizarre obsession, she soon had extracted the whole sordid mess. Far from being upset about it, I recall noting that night her expression seemed to resemble that of a hungry cat confronted with a plump, tender canary! In the sometimes frenzied process of becoming acquainted that a honeymoon represents, however, the incident was discarded and forgotten. Or so I thought.

I guess it was about a week or so after we got back, that my personal Armageddon occurred. We’d finally settled into our cozy little nest in the suburbs, and I got home from work one night to discover Cindy was nowhere to be found. Unconcerned, I scampered upstairs, burst into our bedroom and almost collided with Cindy! She was sitting at the vanity, brushing her long, blonde hair. She was naked! “Mark!” She said sharply, swiveling on her bench with that now familiar squeak, “What are you doing here?” She smiled then, and took my face in her hands. Her cool blue eyes bored into mine. “What a naughty thing to do! What a naughty boy!”


“I-I . . .” I stammered, unable to speak.

“It’s all right,” she comforted, her hands sliding off my face and down to my waist. “I know just what you need,” she said as she deftly undid my belt and stripped down my trousers. I was transfixed, babbling incoherent nonsense as my boxer shorts followed and I felt myself being swung almost effortlessly over those long, luscious thighs. My throbbing erection was clamped between them. I looked around and saw that the whole incredible tableau was being captured by the floor-length mirror on our closet door. I saw myself over her knee. Saw her bare breasts bob pertly as she twisted around to fetch her black, wooden hairbrush. I was only peripherally aware of her scolding words . . . “naughty . . . good lesson . . . good spanking.” I felt myself transported back to that memorable rainy Fall game of Hide ‘n Seek, and Antonia, the naked stepmother! Then the fantasy exploded into grim reality! Cindy began to spank me! Soundly spank me! Smacks from the brush impacted my bottom, stinging like crazy.


What I hadn’t remembered is how much it hurt! I squalled, I squirmed, I writhed, I wriggled. I wailed at the pain, I gloried at the erotic stirrings rising in my loins. I stared at the mirror, blinking to clear my tear-filled eyes, relishing the vision of Cindy’s body jiggling merrily as she swung her hairbrush up and down, up and down, up and down … landing sharp loud spanks on my blazing fanny. But it hurt so much, I had to plead, begging her to stop.

“OOWW Stop, Ouch! PLEASE Cindy, Please! No more!”

She paused, “You don’t understand, Mark. It’s not for you to tell me what to do any more.” She scolded. “YOU must learn to obey me. (SMACK!), to do everything I say! (WHACK!), do you understand me?” (WHAP!)

“OUch! Y-yes, I do!”

“Will (CRACK! ) you obey me?” (SMACK!)

“YES,” yes Cindy, I will!

“Will you submit to my discipline? Let me spank you whenever you need it?”

“OWWW! Yes, yes I will Dear. But please, no more.”

“Well,” She said, “perhaps just a few, Darling, just to make sure!” She let loose a barrage of stingers that peppered my bottom, making me squeal. Then this amazing woman turned me around so my thighs rested on her smoothly muscled right thigh and, cuddling my teary face to her breast and gently stroking my crimsoned derriere, crooned softly about how much I needed her discipline and how much she was going to enjoy giving her naughty husband all he deserved, and wasn’t it wonderful that in this big country with 240 million people we had found each other and how much she loved to see my cute buns quiver and quake when she spanked them with her hairbrush and how she was so glad I liked it, too.

“Wait a minute!” I wailed, “How’d you figure all that out?”

She sat up straight, pulled my chin up with her hand and fixed my eyes with her steely blue ones. “Admit it, Mark. Admit that you loved each and every moment you were over my knee having your butter soft, tender little botty paddy-whacked!” She reached down and seized my erect and throbbing penis firmly, squeezing it painfully to emphasize each of her points, “What do you think this is! Don’t go Macho on me all of a sudden. Do you think I was surprised about all that True Confessions nonsense on our Wedding Night? Wrong! Antonia came to my kitchen shower, and we had a long talk afterward. She told me how strongly you had reacted to that spanking, and the funny way you have looked at her for all these years. She confessed that she often has to be quite severe with Paul’s father, and how her discipline has enlivened their marriage. She thought the same sort of thing might be appropriate for us. So it’s fate, Darling. And, whether you choose to like it or not, you will obey me. And you will be spanked every time you fail to do so, every time you misbehave. Is that understood? Answer me!”

Cowed, humiliated, my mind reeling from these undreamed of revelations – and with a sneaking suspicion both she and Antonia were probably right I cast down my eyes and meekly replied, “Yes, Dear.”

She turned my face up again, and warmly kissed me. “Very well, then. That’s better. Now you just come with me!” Still clutching my penis, she used it as a handle to drag me, totally unprotesting, to our bed. Whereupon our compact was consummated and confirmed in an even more delightful manner.

To be continued

Rose Red part 2

Well, that was an eye-opener for our young Jack. But he’s going to have to interview a few others to figure out the identity of Rose Red. Next up, Magda the fashion clothing mogul.


Flying on the estate’s funds was no problem, repeated Molly. It was all the cost of administration. So Jack booked himself into the Beverly Hilton.

Magda apparently owned several high end clothing stores that catered to the Hollywood crowd. He explained who he was and Magda agreed to see him at her home in Westwood. She had said something strange when he called. Something like, “Oh, yes. I knew you would come. Cyrus does not forget.” Then she had laughed, a dry mirthless laugh. So now Jack had another mystery on his hands.

She had a nice house. It was a French provincial style, fairly large. She must do all right, thought Jack. The door was opened by Magda herself, an attractive woman in her mid thirties. She received him dressed in a tight black sheath dress that hugged her slim figure. The black set off beautifully against her dark red hair, swept to one side and falling over her shoulder.

“Come in,” she said. She appraised Jack carefully, looking him up and down. “So he sent you,” said Magda, with a purse of her lips. She had a faint Eastern Euro accent.

“Excuse me?” said Jack. “Like I explained, I’m here on estate business.”

“Of course, darling, I know. Come.” Jack followed, taking in the swaying hips in the tight dress. She looked back over her shoulder. “Come to collect on the bet? Of course you have.”

“I don’t think…” Jack began, but she cut him off.

“Maybe he did not tell you why, so I will,” she said, facing him. “Cyrus originally set me up in my business. But he knew I had a gambling problem. Most recently, he challenges me with a bet. If I stay out of Las Vegas for a month, I win a large sum. If not….he collects his due. So, last month I’m afraid I relapse. Five grand at the tables. Of course Cyrus found out and he called to confront me about it. I confessed to Cyrus. Then I find out Cyrus has died suddenly. So. Now you come here to collect on the bet, yes?”

She sighed. “Even in death he cares about me and wants to set me straight. I should be grateful someone does.”

She turned and opened a wall cabinet. Jack was shocked to see what was hanging in it. It was a collection of various whips and paddles hanging on pegs, neatly arranged. She stood back.

“Well?” she said.

Jack was still clueless. “Well, what?”

“The bet was forty strokes. But you pick the implement.”

Jack came closer. There were leather paddles, short whips with multiple leather strands and a riding crop with a big flat popper on the end. He had no idea which to choose.

“Um, I don’t know.”

She cocked her head. “Come now. You are a nephew of Cyrus Gordon. Surely you know how to handle a woman.”

Jack figured his best chance of finding out something was to play along and act like he knew what he was doing. “The paddle—that one,” he said pointing. “Take it out and hand it to me.”

She gave him a mysterious smile and removed an oblong shaped leather paddle. Taking it by the blade she handed it to him handle end first. Then without asking, she reached behind and unzipped her dress. Jack watched in amazement as she slid out of the dress, allowing it to fall to her feet. Underneath she had on a matching black bra and panty set. Her black stockings were held up by a garter belt. Jack had to put his eyes back in. she was gorgeous.



“How do you want me?” she asked. “Cyrus usually has me bend over the back of the couch.”

Why not, thought Jack? He gestured toward the couch with the paddle. She turned, giving Jack a rear view of her magnificent bottom, rolling sensuously as she walked over to the couch.

She looked at Jack over her shoulder. “Shall I take my panties down?”

Jack cleared his throat. “Of course. My Uncle Cy always applied the paddle to a lady’s bared bottom.” He had no idea if this was the case, but what the hell? He tried to sound authoritative.

She licked her lips seductively and slowly peeled the black panties down, baring her pert bottom cheeks. With a flourish she stretched and bent over the back of the couch, gripping the cushions in front and thrusting her buttocks out in readiness.

Jack moved to her left side. She shivered as he put his hand in the small of her back to hold her. “Forty strokes, you said. Are you ready?” Jack tapped her bottom with the paddle.

Whap! Jack swung the paddle and popped it right on the crowns of her bottom.


Whap! He smacked her again. He thought he heard a little intake of breath.

Whap! A third smack caused her bottom cheeks to flatten, then bounce back. It was a mesmerizing sight.

“You’d better keep count,” said Jack.

“Then that is three,” she said in a muffled voice.

Jack applied the paddle methodically. He alternated sides, working from high to low, right in the crease between her cheeks and upper thighs. He focused on his task, trying to keep the force of the blows constant.

The paddle made her bottom cheeks ripple and as the paddling progressed, she shifted from foot to foot, dancing and wriggling as he delivered smack after smack. In fact, after some strokes he had to wait for her to settle down before he could apply the next paddle spank. At times, after a particularly resounding swat, she would rise up half way and draw air through her teeth, no doubt feeling the sharp sting imparted by the leather blade. By the time he got to forty, her bottom was beet red and she was emitting little yips of distress.


“Forty. That is forty. Please!” she pleaded.

Jack stopped and took his hand off of her back. She rose and looked him in the eyes a minute. The world seemed to stop. Then she flung her arms around Jack’s neck. Pulling him down she kissed him and ground her pelvis against his groin.

“You know what comes next, don’t you? I’ve paid my bet to Cyrus. Now I want that hard thing between your legs.” It was a husky demand. Almost a growl.

She dropped to her knees and unzipped him. Jack’s cock sprang out, in full erection. She fondled and kissed it for a minute then stood and bent back over the couch, thrusting her inflamed buttocks back toward Jack.

“Now,” she said. “Hurry. I need it now.”

Jack entered her from behind. She was fully lubricated and he slid right in up to the hilt. And that was just the beginning of another long afternoon.




On the plane back to Seattle Jack contemplated the depth of his dilemma. Either one could be Rose Red. What the hell? Did all of Cyrus’ girlfriends get off on having their behinds spanked to a rosy red? Well, there was one more on the list and for this one he’d have to travel. But not too far.

But, he wanted to see Molly first. Cyrus’ sexpot girlfriends were one thing, but Jack actually had things in common with Molly. And the more he saw of her, the more he liked her. If it wasn’t for that annoying habit of hers of being so damn late for everything. This time she kept him waiting for the theater. He had prime seats to see “Wicked”, which she’d been excited about, and then hadn’t showed up until after the first act was well under way. Her hair, she said. She had to do her hair. Jack did a slow burn. Maybe a little of the Uncle Cy treatment was what this girl needed too, he thought.

To be continued

Rose Red part 1

A deceased uncle’s will entrusts a delicate task to his favorite nephew — find an old flame of his and deliver a bequest. But who is she?  Uncle Cyrus called her “Rose Red.” Jack, the nephew and executor of Cy’s estate, doesn’t know who she is. He only knows one thing about her. She loves to be spanked. From the collection Anne of Wulfstedt and Other Stories.

        Rose Red

Jack was flattered but for the life of him he did not know why Uncle Cyrus had chosen him to be the executor of his estate. His Uncle Cy, a larger than life, gregarious bear of man was dead at fifty-five, practically in the prime of his life. Jack was aware that Cy had known that he had high blood pressure, and that he had made plans for this possibility, but still, the sudden fatal stroke had been a shock.

Cy never married and had no children. Jack filled part of that void. He’d been Cy’s favorite nephew, almost like a son. He’d spent summers and vacations with Uncle Cy, fishing the Yellowstone, hunting in the Rockies, mountain climbing in the Cascades.

But still, Jack had just graduated from law school, and for Uncle Cy to have entrusted this task to him when he was such a rookie—well, it was unexpected, to say the least, and a bit unnerving as well. He didn’t even know what to do. That’s why he was here at Conroy and Bailey, the law firm who would represent him in all probate matters.

He thought back to all those nights around the campfire. Yeah, Uncle Cy was a character. A rich entrepreneur from Seattle, never married, but quite the ladies man. He’d often seen Uncle Cy in the society pages, in the tabloids even, always photographed with some starlet or other hot young thing on his arm. It was a subject they’d talked about a lot.

Jack was a tall, rangy, good looking guy, but not particularly successful with the ladies. “I just don’t know what they want, Uncle Cy. Girls are a mystery and I’m sort of shy I guess. I try to be accommodating and a gentleman and all, but they seem to get bored with me or something.”

“It’s true, you should always be a gentleman,” Cy had said. “But women also like a man who is forceful, one who’ll take charge. They’ll try and push you around, act like spoiled brats, expect you to cater to their whims. Don’t do it. You’ve got to take a woman in hand.”

Jack especially recalled one night out under the stars on the Snake River. After a day on the river they were sitting around an open fire, passing a whiskey bottle back and forth. The conversation once again turned to the female of the species.

“Deep down, you know what they want?” said Cy. Jack said he didn’t know. “I’ll tell you my secret,” he said with a wink. “Most of them want to be taken in hand. They want you in control, setting limits, not tolerating foolish behavior, bad habits or tantrums. When the little darlings get too full of themselves, do you know what I do? I take them across my knee, pull their little panties down and spank their little derrieres for them. That’s what I do. And you know what? They like it.”38


Then Cy had laughed heartily, tilted the whisky bottle back and had taken another big slug. Jack had been dumbfounded. “There’s even this one,” Cy continued, wistfully. “I call her my Rose Red. Because that’s what her bottom looks like after I’m done with it. And you know what?” Jack had shaken his head. “She can’t get enough. She likes to have her little caboose paddled until it is rose red and shining like a beacon. And then, my boy, she is an absolute wild woman.”

Jack listened in amazement. “Rose Red? Is that her name?”

“No, no. It’s just my secret nickname for her. Not even she knows that I call her that. It’s just the way I think of her.”

Jack had been stunned to hear this from Uncle Cy, but he never forgot it.


Jack came out of his reverie when a young woman approached him as he sat in the waiting room. She was about his age, medium height and pretty, with red hair and nice legs.

“Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Molly Burns. I’m a new associate here and they gave it to me to walk you through being an executor.”

Jack took her hand and shook it. “Thanks, Molly. I’m just out of law school, so I’m a rookie. I’m in your capable hands.”

“Well,” she laughed. “I’m new too, so we’ll learn together.”

She led him down a long hallway. Inside a conference room there was a box from which she took some papers and spread them out.

“This one is a bit strange, Jack,” she said. “There is the will, and then there is another document held by an escrow company with specific instructions. The will contains a number of specific bequests. Some are to people, some to charities and institutions, but there is one which is very odd. Cyrus Gordon gave the sum of $250,000 to someone he called merely, ‘Rose Red’. We don’t know who that is or how to contact them. The will leaves explicit instructions that his executor is charged with personally delivering the bequest to Rose Red. That means you, as executor, have to find this person.”

Holy crap, thought Jack. The woman Cy had talked about. But he’d never said who she was.

“Then there is this other document. It’s a scroll that says “Last Will and Testament” bound in a red ribbon. Very mysterious. It could be a codicil. But it’s held in escrow with instructions to release it to you when the gift to Rose Red is delivered or 90 days after the will is admitted to probate, whichever comes first.”

She went over some other details with him about assets and taxes, and told him that the will was scheduled for a hearing in a few weeks, a mere formality, at which the will would be admitted to probate.

“We also have some of your uncle’s effects that were in his lock box with the will. Um, notably, there is a ‘little black book’.” She handed it over to Jack. “You might find it useful in tracking down this ‘Rose Red’.”

This could be complicated. Still, there was one thing about Rose Red that he, and he alone, knew. But why didn’t Uncle Cy just use her real name?

Back at home Jack examined the black book. There were lots of entries, but many dated back years. He decided that Rose Red had to be one of the women Cyrus been seeing recently. Cy talked about women all the time on their trips, but he hadn’t ever mentioned Rose Red until that rafting trip on the Snake. And he’d spoken about her in the present tense as if she were a current girlfriend.

He poured through the book and did internet searches. He was thus able to eliminate most of the entries as old affairs. But it appeared that there were three current names which could still qualify. The time frame was right and they lived in places where Uncle Cy had been just before his death. There was no help for it. He’d have to interview each one and determine if any were the mysterious Rose Red.



The first was Mindy Halton, an “aspiring actress”. Cy had seen her several times over the past year and had been instrumental in getting parts for her in plays and on TV. Jack had to fly to New York, but Molly assured him the estate covered expenses. He called on her in her Soho apartment.

Mindy turned out to be a cute pixie, a short girl with cropped coppery hair and a ballerina’s figure. They talked for a bit, and in Jack’s estimation she was a little kooky—definitely uninhibited, a free spirit, spontaneous and impulsive, flitting from one thing to another.

“I miss Cy so much,” she said, once Jack had explained who he was. “He was a real prince, you know? He would call someone and get me a part if I was out of work. Like the last one. Only it was waaay off Broadway.” She rolled her eyes. “But it was fun. I had to play a naughty schoolgirl who gets sent to the principal. So why did you come to see me?” They were sitting on her couch. She was dressed in a leotard and sweat shirt, the standard uniform of the Bohemian actress.

That last part got Jack’s attention. “I’m trying to find someone mentioned in the will,” said Jack. “And it had to do with certain, er, intimate activities involving Cyrus. It’s a bit indelicate, but if you could tell me what the two of you did when you….”

She cocked her head and smiled. “Oh, I see.” She held up a finger. “I know.  Maybe if I showed you the part that Cy got me. In the play. He helped me rehearse. That was the last thing we, er, did.”

“Uh, ok, tell me about this part?”

“Well,” she said coyly, “Cyrus rehearsed it with me a few times. Do you want to see?” Jack said ok. “Then wait here,” she said.

Giggling, she jumped up and bounded into the next room. A few minutes later she reemerged. Jack sat up. She was clad in a short plaid skirt and a figure-hugging blouse. White knee socks with loafers and a ribbon in her hair completed the ensemble making her look like an overripe teenage schoolgirl. She carried a sheaf of papers in her hand.

“So, this was ah…experimental theater. So anyway, here are your lines. You read the Principal’s part.”

Jack looked at it. Cleared his throat.

“Um,” Jack read, “This is your fourth tardy slip this month, young lady. Do you know what that means?”

“Oh, Mr. Johnson, I’m sorry. My locker wouldn’t open.” She squeezed her hands together, pleading.

“And that’s the same excuse you used last time, Nicki. Detention doesn’t seem to do you any good, does it?” Jack read his lines with as much dramatic oomph as he could.

“That’s very good,” whispered Mindy. Then she got back into her role.

“But, sir…”

“I’ve heard all the excuses I want, Nicki.” Jack read the script in his best stentorian voice. “This time it calls for sterner measures. Come over here.” It said ‘principal sits in armless chair’. Jack looked around and found one against the wall. He dragged it out and sat down.

Mindy, wearing a downcast look, shuffled reluctantly over next to Jack in the chair.

Jack looked up at Mindy. “Now what?” The page just ended.

“It’s extemp. You make it up. But what you are supposed to do is spank me. Here,” she said and plopped herself across Jack’s lap. “Go ahead,” she said, looking back over her shoulder.b45bd1fe11a564e42867e4d1fed17392

“Spank you?”

“Yes.” She reached back and flipped up her skirt. Underneath she wore wispy black panties. They barely covered a cute and very pert little bottom. Then she astonished Jack by reaching back and slipping them down, exposing her bare bottom to Jack’s gaze. “Spank me for being a tardy schoolgirl,” she said in a husky voice. “Paddle my bare little fanny.”

Jack was astounded, but figured this was one sure way to find out if this was Rose Red. It sure seemed like it. Jack started smacking her bottom lightly, one cheek then the other. Mindy wriggled and pleaded for mercy. Then she looked back at him.

“Oh, go on. You have to do it for real. You’re barely tapping me. Spank me like I’m really a bad girl.”


After that Jack let loose and smacked her wriggling hiney repeatedly for about a minute without holding back.


“Ohh! Ow! Ow! I’m sorry!” she wailed as Jack spanked her bottom to a dusky red.

After another minute or two of steady smacking. Mindy’s cries had become rather shrill and she was doing a flutter kick, so Jack stopped and rested his palm on her bottom.

“How was that?” he said, rubbing his palm around on the inflamed cheeks.

“Ummmm,” she said. It sounded like a near moan of contentment. “Just like Cy. Now let me show you what I’d do for Cy when he spanked me so good.”

She slid to her knees and fumbled with Jack’s zipper. By now he was hard as a steel bar and his cock popped straight out. Jack sucked in his breath as Mindy ran her lips across the length of his penis. Then she gobbled it up, licking and sucking and pumping her head up and down. Jack didn’t last long. He came furiously. After that it was into the bedroom for the rest of the afternoon.

“I can see the family resemblance,” said Mindy when they had dressed and were sitting down again. “You sure are a lot like him. And just as much fun.” Her eyes sparkled.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Well, I’m handling the will because I’m his nephew.”

“Well, I hope you find the girl you’re looking for,” she said. “I’d like to see you again regardless. Maybe we could rehearse some more.” She smiled brightly.

Whew! Thought Jack as he exited Mindy’s place. She was obviously a prime candidate, but he’d decided he couldn’t tell any of them about the money. So he had to just say he was looking for someone without giving that part away.


Back in Seattle he called Molly and told her what he had learned, obviously leaving out a few details. He found he was attracted to her and had the thought that he’d like to see her on a social basis, too. To his delight she agreed to go out with him. So he made a reservation at the best restaurant he knew. But he found himself cooling his heels waiting for her. They ultimately lost the reservation and had to change plans. Her explanation? A girlfriend had called and she had yakked on the phone and lost track of the time. Jack was irritated, but the rest of the evening went well. She was still possible girlfriend material.

Next up was a woman named Magda Belinsky. She lived in LA.

To be continued

The Summer of ’74

It’s mid-summer, so it’s time for a summertime story. I’m on vacation right now so here is a repost from a few years ago. I’ll be back with more graphically illustrated tales next week.This story is from the collection, Strict Ladies and Naughty Boys, Vol. 1 (Amazon US)

It’s ok to reminisce about our misspent youth, but sometimes we never seem to escape it— as this cautionary tale will illustrate.

[Art by Sorenutz (who excels at this), Stanton, Ward, others unknown.]


I reclined on the couch in the doctor’s office. The doctor, seated in a chair with a notebook said, “So. Tell me all about it. Don’t leave anything out.”

Summer vacation, 1974. That’s when it happened, doctor. We were all 16 then; me, Bobby, and Ben, high school hot shots. A big deal. Next year was a new chapter. But for now school was out for good, and we were just three guys hanging out, riding our bikes, chasing girls, looking for excitement in a small rural town.

It was Ben who came up with the scoop. See, his mother was in real estate and he was in her office doing a chore when this woman walks in. She wants a short term rental. Ben overheard the conversation. Then he saw her.

He arrived on his bike at our unofficial hideout in Big Creek Park, all excited and said, “Guys, man, who do you think just rented a house from my mom?” We had no idea. “Sheena,” said Ben, “Sheena Queen of the Jungle, man! That’s who.”

You don’t know who that was, I’m sure, but we did. You see at our age we were all nothing but raging hormones, randy as hell. Females were a mystery, especially the female body, and all we really wanted to do was to see one naked. We had no way to do this, but the next best thing, we discovered, was live female wrestling on late night TV.tumblr_o8gae60Neg1to7cw1o1_540

In their abbreviated outfits we watched rapturously as these hot female wrestlers “fought” each other, breasts jiggling, buttocks bouncing—it was the cause of many nighttime emissions, some involuntary, but most very voluntary.

They all had colorful names and personas and outfits that matched their images. Ben went on to add that Sheena had two friends who she called Sonja and Akira. They had some time off from the wrestling circuit and just wanted to relax. Bobby exploded, “Red Sonja, Viking Warrior and Akira, Indian Princess?” Ben nodded. Sheena wore leopard skin. Sonja had a skimpy Viking tunic, all in red. Akira, Indian Princess wore this buckskin bikini. “And get this, she wanted a house with a pool. And my mom says, ‘I’ll rent you the Anderson house. They’re away this Summer. It has a lovely pool. I hope you brought your swimsuits.’ And Sheena says, ‘who needs swimsuits?’ Then they laugh.”

“Whoa!” I think we all said at once. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” The Anderson house was secluded. The pool was behind a wall, but inside the wall were thick shrubs from which you could see the pool without being seen.

So yeah, we did it. We snuck over the wall a couple of days later, real early. At about 11 am, they all come out and they’re wearing these really little bikinis. We are just drooling. I mean, here they were, the objects of our lust lounging around, not 100 feet away. They were all tall and strong looking, with big tits that were about to pop out of those little tops; they had narrow waists and curvy hips. And the legs—they were long, sleek and muscular. They were all at least 6 feet tall, much taller than us, with lots of muscle in the arms and shoulders. They were just awesome looking goddesses. Sheena had long blonde hair that curled in ringlets. Sonja, Red Sonja, was a redhead of course, and Akira was olive skinned with dark hair cut in bangs. And then, to our utter amazement, they took off their tops—and bottoms. I know my eyes bugged out. At last, a full grown woman, naked before my eyes. I saw the taut nipples on their breasts, the hair between their legs, the firm round rear cheeks, all of it. The sight these three gorgeous women stripping naked was so awe inspiring that Ben made a little choking sound and Bobby moaned. They heard it.

Someone said, “What was that? Who’s back there?” Before we could even react they were on us. They hadn’t even bothered to dress, they just surrounded and grabbed us.

“A bunch of horny snot nosed kids, that’s who we got here.” They had each of us in a wrestling hold, and we just stammered and tried to say we were sorry and just let us go. At the same time we’re all conscious of all this lush naked female flesh. Red Sonja had me and I could feel her tits digging into my arm. Someone said ‘let’s take them inside,’ and into the house we went. They were really mad. Sheena looks at Ben and says, “I know you. You’re the real estate lady’s kid.” Now we were really in trouble. Since they knew who Ben was, they had all they needed for the rest of us. So we pleaded and begged them not to tell, that we were real sorry. You can imagine the pitiful pleas, because the consequences of our parents finding out would have been really bad.

By this time they had put some clothes back on, but the clothes were short shorts and halter tops, so there was still a lot of feminine flesh on display. Then, I think it was Akira, who said, “You know what we ought to do? Make them strip and walk home buck naked. Serve them right.” She turned toward us. “You wanted to see us naked? Well, you did. So now we want to see you naked.”

There was a chorus of agreement and they told us to get to it, to strip down. We had to do it, so we all took our clothes off. They stood around us in a circle as three skinny teenage boys shucked out of their clothes. We were all blushing beet red at the embarrassment of being bare naked in front of three women. And what was really bad was that we all sprouted boners. And they all grinned and somebody said, “Well, well, well—look what we have here. Little boys with woodies.” They stood there smiling and cracking jokes, really to shame us, I’m sure. It worked—we were mortified.

Sheena then said, “You know we can’t really make them walk home naked. We don’t want grief from the parents.” Akira said, “I know, but they need to be punished.” Sheena said, “How can we punish them without their parents knowing?” Then Sonja sealed our doom.

“I know a way.” Everyone looked at Sonja. “I know a way to punish these little boys and I guarantee that they won’t tell anybody we did it,” she said with a knowing smirk. “In fact they’ll be too embarrassed to admit it ever happened.”

“What?” said Sheena and Akira.

“Simple,” said Sonja. “We spank them. We each put one of these naughty boys across our knee and spank his hiney until it’s beet red. Then we switch, so we get our licks in on each one. We give them good hard lickings. That will teach them not to spy on us.They won’t tell. No teenage boy would ever tell anyone that he got a bare butt spanking from a woman, especially not his folks. What do you say?”tumblr_nyt3blJKof1sa8sudo1_540

To our horror, Akira and Sheena nodded in agreement. “Yeah, good idea— let’s do it,” said Sheena, and she and Akira started dragging chairs out from the dining room, arranging them in a circle. We are pleading, ‘no, no, please not that’ but they each grabbed one of us and put us across their knees. Sonja grabbed me. I squirmed but she was so big and strong, I had no chance. She just laughed and said “Come, on, little boy. Over mama’s knee you go. You’ve got a good hard spanking coming.”

I was scared. These were big powerful women. Sonja held me over her knee in a hammer lock and pinned me down. Imagine how I felt. I’m naked as a jaybird and I’m over the knee of this Amazon woman who is determined to spank my bare butt red. My butt is in the air, completely vulnerable. Then the spankings started. I felt this powerful smack and my ass exploded with a ferocious sting. Then the smacks started falling fast and furious. I forgot about everything but the awful stinging pain from Sonja’s hard spanks. She just kept spanking my butt with these hard meaty smacks and my bottom just got hotter and hotter. It hurt so bad I knew I was going to cry. The others were getting it too. I looked up and saw Bobby squealing and wriggling as Sheena laid smack after smack on his naked rear. Ben was kicking and screaming like a girl, begging Akira to stop.

And there was another problem. It started really before they even put us over their laps to spank us, but I had this boner and it wouldn’t quit. When Sonja put me over her knee, she sort of parted her legs and let my dick slide between them. And now, during the spanking, bad as it was, I was rubbing on her thighs. I was afraid I was going to cum all over her legs and that that would really make her mad. But it would not go down.

I guess after a few minutes they decided to change boys, so I was handed to Sheena and plopped facedown over her lap. The spanking began again, only worse. By the third round we were all crying. No one could hold back the tears. Sonja was sure right about one thing—we’d never tell anyone about being spanked naked by women until we cried like babies. I mean, they were so strong, they could really spank hard.

When they finally finished and let us up, our butts were all red as a fire engine and we hopped around rubbing. The women handed us our clothes and told us to get the hell out of there. We needed no second urging. My butt hurt for days after that, but here’s the weird thing— I got a boner every time I played it back in my mind. And well, often I’d, you know, relieve myself. Ben and Bobby admitted to the same thing.

So, now, here’s the thing. It’s been years since the Summer of ’74, but I still have these thoughts about women, strong women. I want them to dominate me. I get, you know, hard just thinking about it. The erection won’t go away. I want them to strip me, spank me and then make me cum. It’s awful, I know, but I can’t help myself.

So, doctor, do you think after what I’ve told you, you can help me with this problem?

The doctor thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I’m quite sure that I can.” The doctor had been seated in a straight backed chair making notes in a notebook while I reclined on the adjacent couch. She put the notebook down, stood up, and pulled the horn rimmed glasses from her face. Pulling out a pin from her hair, she tossed her head allowing her long blonde hair to cascade about her shoulders. She stood and removed her white lab coat, revealing a tight black mini skirt and a white blouse. Rolling up her right sleeve, she bade me stand up and come over next to the chair.

“Take down your pants, you naughty boy and get across my knee this instant. I’m going to spank your naughty bare bottom very soundly, and if you dare get an erection your punishment will be longer and harder!”

In a state of nervous excitement I undid my pants and slid down my boxer shorts. A stiff erection sprang up. The doctor glared at it, then looked up at me and hissed, “Get over my knee.”

Ben and Bobby were right. Miss Christine was an excellent role- play dominatrix. This session was going to be worth every penny.

The Prom Pt 3

And now for the conclusion of our little three part drama….


Three girls were lined up against the wall, all holding their skirts up. Three sets of bright red bare bottoms were on display. The girls were sniffling, trying to stem the tears that threatened to come.



“Now girls,” said Aunt Martha. “We have to stay there in that position for a little while. I’ve found that it always helps if a girl can have some quiet time and reflect on the reason why her bottom is burning hot, so no rubbing just yet.”

The girls’ mothers began to ask Aunt Martha some questions about the disciplinary spanking they had just witnessed.

“It didn’t look like you had to use much strength to deliver a pretty good spanking, Mrs. Grenly,” said Mary.

“No dear, not really. A short stroke from shoulder height and a little snap of the wrist is all it takes. As you can see, about thirty good stingers like that with my little smacker here and the young lady is regretting her earlier naughtiness.” The moms all nodded.

The mothers chatted for a time with Martha Grenly about the efficacy of spanking as a means of correction. “In my opinion,” said Aunt Martha, “young women today could use a trip across mother’s knee from time to time. It is not only a powerful corrective tool but it provides much needed cathartic release. Girls can be so wound up emotionally. Sometimes a good spanking just lets all that emotion come out. A brisk spanking, a good cry and they feel better.” Martha spoke with assurance.

Martha glanced at the girls. “Well, girls, you can lower your skirts—oh and you may rub now.” The three put their hands behind them and amid gasps of “ooh” and “ahhh”, rubbed a bit before pulling panties back up and lowering skirts. “Now girls, I know you feel quite sore, but there is another item of business. Believe it or not the spanking I just gave you was light. And I did that on purpose. The cane actually hurts worse on a posterior that has not been, shall we say, properly warmed.”

Martha stood up and smoothed her skirt. She went in to the study and returned with a thin yellow wand about thirty inches long. “Girls, this is a junior school cane. As you can see,” She bent it in a near circle, “it is very flexible. You have each agreed to accept six strokes with this instrument.”

The girls watched in anxious dread as she released the tip. It quivered back and forth indicating that this was one whippy little stick. “I will take you one at a time into the study. There is a chair in the center of the room. When I tell you, you will raise your skirts, lower your panties to mid thigh, and bend over the back of the chair. You will grasp the front of the chair seat and don’t let go. I will apply six strokes. You will keep wriggling to a minimum and remain still. There will be no swearing. If you get out of position, the stroke will have to be repeated. Do you understand?” All during this speech Aunt Martha had stood in front of the three girls flexing the cane between her hands. The girls could not keep their eyes off of it.

“So, one at a time, each you will enter the study, accompanied by your mother. Are we ready?” There were murmurs of assent. “Miss Terril, you are first I believe?” Lisa nodded meekly and went into the study.


Boy oh boy! Lisa was going to go first again. I turned my attention to the study cameras. The only ones in there were Lisa, Lisa’s mom and Aunt Martha. Lisa stepped over to the chair back. Aunt Martha told her to lift her skirt and bend right across it. All the time she is whooshing the cane through the air, limbering up, I suppose. Lisa got her dress up and then bent over the back of the chair. Aunt Martha told her to slip her panties down. I got to see that perfect little ass again, this time though it was blushing pink.


On the face shot Lisa was gritting her teeth. Martha tapped Lisa’s bottom then took her arm back and whipped that cane down right on the fat part of her bottom. Lisa let out a yelp. Martha told her to keep still. Then she let fly with another one. Lisa’s knees sagged and a red stripe appeared. Aunt Martha let her have four more just like that. She was yeowching and shifting from foot to foot, and her bottom gave a little jiggle each time the cane hit. Whew! What a show!


Lynne could hear the dry thwack of the cane and Lisa’s anguished yelps coming from inside the study. She was next. She looked over at her mother and mom shook her head sympathetically, but folded her arms, and whispered to her that she was going to go through with it-no begging off.
Lisa emerged from the study, wiping tears out of her eyes.

“Miss Crane, I believe you are next.” Aunt Martha was standing there flexing that cane.

With a cold knot in her stomach, Lynne meekly entered the study. She was told to stand at the chair. “Raise your skirts, please, Miss Crane.”

Lynne grimaced, but complied. “Now slip your panties down and bend over the back of the chair. That’s it,” she said as Lynne slipped her panties down, baring her bottom once again. “Grip the chair seat and do not let go.” Lynne felt the cold wood tapping her bottom. She clenched up. “It’s better, child if you relax and don’t clench.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lynne muttered and tried to relax. She heard a whine and next felt a hot line of fire explode across her buttocks. “Ahh…ah…” she squeaked and stood halfway up. Good grief, that had hurt! Jane had said it wasn’t too bad.11403352_1495438320678620_4161107185761738522_n

“Back down, Miss Crane. Do that again and the stroke won’t count.”

Lynne bent back over, trembling. She heard that thin whine again then crack! Another searing stripe fell. Oh, this was awful.

Swish….thwack!  A third stroke scored her buttocks. “Owww…oh….oh!” yelped Lynne. How does anybody stand this?


The fourth stroke made her yelp in pain. Her eyes started to tear up.
Stroke number five was the worst yet. It hit right in the fold above her thighs. Lynne shifted from foot to foot, barely hanging on. “One more Miss Crane,” announced Aunt Martha.

Swishh…..thwack! It was a sizzler. Lynne threw her head back and let out a wail.

Did you see that? My God, that wasn’t half a flogging Martha laid on Lynne Crane’s sexy butt. Those luscious cheeks just quivered and flexed with every stroke and that little dance of hers between strokes just made it even sexier. She’s got six distinct lines across that pert ass of hers now and I’ll bet she feels every one of them for a few days.

Now she’s leaving and here comes Terri Boswell.

Standing over against the wall once more, Lynne tried to stop sobbing. The lines painted across her bottom by that wicked cane still stung like crazy. Whose idea had this been? Well it had sort been a seed planted by Jane. No matter, it was over now and she was going to the prom—with Nick. She winced as she heard the dry sharp cracks of the cane. Terri was getting it and from the muffled wails, it was as bad as her caning.


Whew! That last one was a real topper. There is nothing like a tall lanky girl who has to bend way over, and one with such a peach of a bottom. I’ll have to say though she took her six without flinching, but I could tell it hurt like billyhoo. Her legs were trembling and from the front you could see the face scrunched up and the big tears rolling. She ended up with six livid stripes across her bum, just like the rest. Our Aunt Martha knows her business. I would not want to be on the receiving end of that, let me tell you.


Well, we’re done. Time to roll this up and get out of Dodge as the locals say. They are standing against the wall, skirts up again. One more shot of three pairs of gorgeous bottoms lined up—zoom in and get those red lines across those cheeks before they fade and…fade to black. That’s a wrap.


What a dreamy night. Nick looked great in the tuxedo and Lynne was floating. And they had plans for later. Oooh la la! An announcer stopped the band for a moment to say that they had a special treat—-a multimedia presentation of the highlights of the high school careers of the class of 2011.
The lights dimmed and the presentation started. It was all spliced together-sports highlights, shots of campus life, drama, chorus, all of it.

Lynne had just turned to Lisa to say something when she saw a look of absolute horror appear on her friend’s face. Lynne looked up to see what? A spanking in progress—it shifted very fast but yes… it was her and then Lisa and Terri. It had been spliced together in a rapidly shifting collage, but there was no doubt as to their identities. That awful day. Then it cut to the caning. There she was getting her butt striped. She put her hand over her mouth. Who? How? This was the ultimate in humiliation. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. Her classmates were all looking at her and Lisa and Terri.


People watched, too mesmerized to move. Finally everyone broke out yammering and looking around. Some started to laugh. The laughter grew. Lynne looked at Nick. At first he’d appeared stunned. Then he started to chuckle too. “What is this Lynne? You got your botty smacked? Wow, girl, you’ve got one cute….”

Lynne didn’t wait to hear the rest. She hauled off and slapped Nick as hard as she could. How dare he laugh at her abject humiliation. She ran out leaving Nick rubbing his jaw ruefully.

Meanwhile the scene had disappeared and it was back to football and such. Had it really been there? “What happened to your date, Nick?” It was Jane. She sidled up to Nick.

“I guess she got pissed and took off,” he said. “Did I really see what I thought I saw?”

“What did you think you saw?” asked Jane with mysterious smile.

“I think I saw Lynne and Lisa and Terri getting spanked. On their bare butts. Then bent over taking licks with a stick. I was about to say how sexy it was—was that some sort of experimental theater or something? A prank video they put together? But she slapped me and just ran out.”

“Hmmm. You thought it was sexy, huh?”

“You bet,” said Nick. “That spanking stuff-what a turn on.”

“Well, me too. I’m English you know. It’s quite popular where I come from.” Jane slipped her arm inside Nick’s. “I just never got around to telling you.”

“It is? You like it?” Nick now seemed very interested.

“Yeah. Maybe I could, like, show you,” she said leading Nick off. “Do you have a car? We could go to my place. Mother and father are away for the weekend.”

And that is how later that evening Jane found herself face down across her former ex-boyfriend’s lap with her dress pulled up and panties pulled down as she instructed him on the finer points of administering an erotic spanking.



Hullo, Reggie here again. Um, this time I’m afraid I’m in a bit of bother. You see they found out who made the video-not too tough really. But it was a good prank, I thought. And, I’d do anything for my twin sister. The powers that be didn’t see it that way, though. I’m in all kinds of trouble, not the least of which is the punishment demanded by the girls and their parents.

Sooo…..in a few short minutes they’ll call for me. Waiting down in the study is Aunt Martha and her cane. She’s limbering up her arm I’m sure. I’m in the dock for twelve sizzlers and let me tell you, I’m not looking forward to this, not one little bit. Ooops….I think I hear my name being called. See you on the other side.