Thanks to Rachel for this contribution. It has been edited and posted with her permission.

Rachel wrote:

Ever since I can remember I have had spanking fantasies and as the years have gone by they have got more extreme. And so on turning 30, after a few half-hearted experiences with boyfriends, I decided to get involved with the spanking and BDSM scene.

My main fantasy was being taken by a strong man and spanked. I mean really spanked with paddles and maybe followed up with a whipping or the cane. There are always others there, mostly women who are enjoying my submission and in my fantasy I never enjoy it.

I need to be spanked or caned until I am begging and can’t take anymore and then he will whisper, “We have only just got started.”

I realised that this kind of thing probably doesn’t happen for real and even if it did, it would need a level of trust that would be hard to find. At some of the clubs I went to, I saw women spanked until bottoms were red, but it was all pretty tame. I even said so.

Then I met ‘Gloria’ a professional dominatrix and she invited me back to her flat. I didn’t go at first, I was too scared I think, being new to the scene, but after a few times and many months I finally did.

I told her my fantasies and what I thought about the ‘play scene’ and she agreed, but she also said I was very rude.

This led to a genuine scolding and finally I had got a real bare bottom spanking over her knee until I was good and sorry and really crying. I hated it, but here is the thing, I loved hating it.

But it still wasn’t what I was after, but I was too scared or polite to say.

As months went by I saw a couple of session with her (and had a few more spankings) and all the ones with girls were pretty tame.

Then I saw one of her sessions with a man. It was his thing to have another woman watching apparently and I was curious.

It was not really my thing but I did notice that it was a very intense and heavy scene far beyond any I had yet seen. I asked why it was that the male sessions were harder than the female ones.

I was told that was what they asked for.

Finally I got up the courage to point out to Gloria that I had asked for it to, but she had been so tough with me.

“Are you saying I don’t spank you hard enough?” She was offended I think.

It was hard to explain but finally she suggested that we do a really heavy scene, but that I would have to think about it for a couple of weeks first. I can’t tell you how excited I was.

Finally the day came and I went around to her flat.

The first thing she did was spank me harder than I have ever been spanked before. I couldn’t stop crying and by the end I kept saying I was sorry for, well just about everything.

Then she put me in the corner in handcuffs and pretty much left me there.

Later on she had me bend over this padded bench thing with my bum sticking up. I had had the cane before, but not like this. It felt like cuts and after about four or five I was yelling and crying for real.

Not only didn’t she stop, but she made me ask and beg for more. On and on it went until I said I would do anything.

I am not a lesbian, but you can imagine what ‘anything’ consisted of. Well you probably can’t, it was pretty full on and she explored some fairly extreme BDSM stuff with me as well as the obvious. She really loved it, having a submissive hetro girl and she really made the most of it. I really got off on the submission of it, I can’t explain. Not properly.

I stayed the night with her and on Sunday afternoon before I left, she gave me another spanking with a strap thing that really hurt and left me unable to sit easily. The marks lasted ages.

The next time I saw her she asked if that was what I wanted and I said it was.

After that I got more of the same about once a month and she introduced me to a couple of guys, which was more my thing. I even got a serious birching from a man I had to call uncle. I swear it felt like my bum had been sandblasted during and afterwards, and I think I cried for about an hour. I felt so clean. Like my soul had been purged.

This was five years ago and I have my own man now. It is harder to make me cry these days, but about once a month he manages it.

Thanks for your blog and for letting me tell my story.

=

Thank you Rachel.

The discussion forums often throw up little spanking snippets, most of them inappropriate for here or completely off topic. Unsurprisingly, the most interesting are often those with tails of yesteryear.

This short by Cally was taken from Fem First:

My grandmother spent most of the war living in an extended household of women and various strangers. At 19 she had taken up a job with the Red Cross in a major British city, but wasn’t able to get independent digs. So she ended up living with three or different families in a big house along with various single women mucking in together.

The house was run by a middle-aged woman who was something of matriarch figure, whether by acclamation, self-appointed or the householder my Granny never made clear.

But she used to take the law into her own hands when it came to the various occupants. Cat-fights, drunkenness, sneaking in men (especially GIs apparently) could all get you ‘a good hiding,’ as granny put it.

Young wives with husbands on active service and 20-something war workers were all fair game for this treatment, Granny said.

Mostly women were ‘walloped with just what came to hand’ wherever they were confronted. This would be over the knee or a handy bit of furniture and given the absence of men, often on the bare bottom.

Granny said she got into ‘all kinds of scrapes’ with this woman and was often on the receiving end. The worst thing she said was being sent to either her room or the woman’s where she had to ‘drop her kecks’ and wait for the woman to gather a birch from the yard.

Then face down on the bed she was thrashed until it ‘felt like a million beestings,’ Granny said.

This went on from 1940 until 1946 when granny was well into her 20s. Of course granny used to say, ‘it never did me any harm,’ and always laughed about it. I bet she didn’t at the time.

=

Obviously it was a different time and place. There will be another like this from a similar forum soon.

Until that moment Chloe hadn’t known she wanted it. In fact, it was entirely possible that she could have lived the rest of her life without knowing such longing and passion even existed. Even now she wasn’t quite sure what it was she desired or even felt. She only knew that everything that had gone before was irrelevant to her now.

She shifted uneasily in her seat as if the whole world didn’t fit around her. The pub was busy, an old establishment in the City near where she worked. She didn’t often come here at lunch time, but today for some reason she had.

No, not for some reason, she knew it now. She had seen them on the street and determined by an unconscious part of her mind, she had followed them in.

There were four of them, three women and a man. Strangely it had been the women she had noticed first, although now that she could see his eyes drilling into her soul, she did not know why that should be.

The women were all young and beautiful. Impossibly beautiful, with bright larger than life clothes in subtle shades that matched their eyes and hugged their figures making them seem as if they had been photo-shopped by God.

They had walked with such abandoned elegance that they almost seemed to dance around the man who was invisible in plain sight among them. No not invisible, just of the world and its cold hard realities like he owned it, just not seen because he was so much a part of it.

Chloe looked around at the people in the pub all speaking with one burbling voice so that nothing could be heard. It was a world she no longer belonged to since he had spoken to her. She looked back at him sitting in the corner from where he was still watching and waiting for her answer. She shivered.

It had all begun with a few casual overheard remarks at the bar. Having followed them in, she was standing just behind the group. The man had somehow seized instant attention from the barman even in the crowd and while he placed an order the women had spoken among themselves.

“It’ll be Sunday-week before I can sit down again,” the small perfect blonde said in a hushed whisper.

“As soon as that,” the brunette said dismissively. “The way my bottom feels, I won’t be sitting down all summer.”

“He didn’t spank you as long and hard as he spanked me,” the blonde said childishly and pouted.

At that moment the man had turned and had seen Chloe’s face.

“Join us,” his voice a silk smooth baritone with just the right amount of rough edge.

“I have to get back to work,” Chloe blurted.

“Join us and you will never have to worry about your work again,” he promised.

“What do you mean?” she had replied, but the man and his impossibly beautiful entourage had danced away to the table in the corner which miraculously cleared for them.

It had been a ridiculous exchange. How could she take it as anything but a joke? And yet those few words had redefined her world and somehow she knew they were an unbreakable promise.

He watched her now; his dark eyes drinking her in from under heavy well-groomed brows. His face squared off at the jaw with firm honest cheekbones framed by his mid-length dark hair.

She couldn’t just… after all he might be… it was too ridiculous, she undecided as thought upon thought raced through her mind. Who was he?

They sat watching each other throughout lunch, although she did not order any; she barely even touched her drink. Then all at once he stood and with one final hard stare at her, he swept out of the pub, his dancing ladies in his train.

Chloe panicked now. She couldn’t just go with him. Why hadn’t he had asked for a date or offered her his card? Why hadn’t she? It wasn’t too late, she decided. But in her heart she knew that he wanted more than that.

Nevertheless she clambered to her feet, the suddenly inconsequential world tumbling before her in the form of a busy pub. The crowd all one beast, sent by dark sinister forces to call her back. But she was beyond reckless now; she was already lost. Or found?

It took an age to gain the door and stagger into the street like a woman who had had a good lunch. She looked eagerly up and down the road suddenly sick at the thought that the small group was nowhere in sight. She wasted vital minutes running back and forth in indecision over where they could have gone.

The Tube, she decided and broke into a run. The crowd was thick with lunch-time workers all returning to their offices. He would have breezed through them like Moses parting the Red Sea, she thought, her admiration admixed with envy. But what if he went another way?

She didn’t see the car slide up next to her until it stopped.

The door opened to reveal him enthroned in the back between the blonde and the brunette. The third woman must be driving Chloe thought idly. Unconsciously she tugged on her red hair, which next to such beauties, suddenly seemed to her more ginger than auburn. She blushed.

“Join us,” he said.

The blonde nearest the door smiled in genuine friendship before moving opposite from him to sit in a fold-down seat that black cabs had. Chloe noticed now that she tucked one thigh under the other to ease her weight of where one normally sat and she thought of the exchange at the bar.

“I…” she whispered.

“Join us.” This time it sounded like an order.

She formed the words to refuse even as she ducked under the doorframe and dropped into the seat next to him.

“My name is Adrian Bannister,” he said in a firm voice offering her his hand.

“Chloe,” she said shyly, unable to meet his eyes.

“Welcome Chloe.”

*

The drive seemed to take hours and after they left the city, they were very quickly in countryside that Chloe didn’t recognise. Great oaks loomed over them like a shield to make her feel safe and beyond them lay a patchwork of English fields.

When she took out her mobile phone to call the office with an excuse for her absence Adrian gently took the phone and handed it to the brunette who had been introduced as Alice.

“Well take care of all that don’t worry,” he said.

As Chloe surrendered to this she felt another layer of her old world roll back.

Hours passed and all she knew was that they were heading west; a fact confirmed not only by the increasingly red sun low in the sky ahead of them, but by the encroachment of the great carved rolling hills of Wessex, marked here and there with evidence of Neolithic agriculture and the occasional chalk carving tattooed into steep grassy banks.

Finally they turned off the main road and took a rough metalled track that wound its way through a tight forest of silver birch trees that stood like soldiers on parade either side of the lane. Here and there Chloe could see deep into the green-dark undergrowth, spying muntjac and even roe deer hastening away.

Eventually the woodland gave way to more open ground and as they crossed a stream by way of an old stone bridge Chloe could see a hill fort towering above them.

It was an ancient monument with great steep sides that had stood here since before Caesar had come and yet Chloe was surprised to see that it was lightly wooded at the top of the embankment and a more recent house, perhaps less than 200-years-old stood among the copse that fringed its crown.

“Parkway,” Adrian explained as the car slowed onto a gravel area at the foot of track leading up to the house.

“Impressive,” Chloe said.

“I hope so,” Adrian murmured.

Adrian led the way up the steep slope and Alice stepped back and indicated that Chloe should follow while the other three girls brought up the rear.

“I am hardly dressed for a country walk,” Chloe said to Alice, indicating her tight pencil business skirt and her heels.

“Then undress,” Alice said with a shrug.

Chloe blushed, not because she thought Alice was joking, but because she realised she wasn’t.

The climb was steep but easy going and Chloe could see where thousands of years of visitors had cut a path in the turf up to the hill top. Looking to her right she could see over the canopy of the forest now and on to other hills across the valley. Emulating the ancients, the Victorians had carved a chalk horse in the facing hill. It was depicted in full gallop as if about to jump the tumuli of long-dead chiefs and kings that she could now see on the open plain between the hills.

The house was nearer now and where the ground flattened out in front of the gates Chloe could see a woman stooped over at some kind of frame. A moment later she realised the girl was naked with her head and hands encased in a pillory.

“It looks like Jenny has been in trouble again,” Alice sighed.

Chloe flushed, but somehow was neither shocked or particular surprised at the sight. It seemed right somehow as if it were part of what she had been looking for.

Adrian ignored the girl as they passed, although the women in his immediate entourage giggled among themselves. Except Chloe, who was wide-eyed and could not help looking.

Jenny, as she had been named, was almost bent double so that she was facing the house with her bare bottom presented to any and all visitors. Even folded in half, her bottom was well-defined, but what rally drew the eye was the vivid rash of red that stained both her buttocks down to the top of her thighs.

“She has been soundly birched,” Alice explained.

“Birched?” Chloe mouthed.

Something thrilled within her.

“I hope you’ll learn from this Jenny,” Alice called out as the girl’s face came into view.

“Oh yes,” Jenny said earnestly.

Chloe could see that the girl had the good grace to blush, but her elfin face was more rueful that miserable, although her big blue eyes showed signs of recent and copious tears.

Chloe felt as if she wanted to dawdle a while to take in more of the scene. She certainly wanted to know more. But Adrian strolled on, his back demanding her attention, so she hurried after him towards the house.

The building itself was large and of dark red brick with hard white stone at the corners as edging that served to define the old building.

“Welcome to Parkway,” Adrian said, motioning her towards a big black stone-framed door.

“Thank you,” Chloe said breathily, “It is… magnificent.”

*

The ceiling of the entrance hall to the house was studded with carefully crafted stalactite-like details in plaster that accentuated the ornate feel of the house and complimented the heavily carved wood panelling that described the walls and staircase.

A goggle-eyed Chloe traced the elaborate carvings around the wall and up the split-level staircase that dominated the hall when she saw the girl standing on the half-landing facing the wall. Although she was fully clothed, her dress had been turned up behind to expose a well-spanked bottom that sent Chloe into a riot of fresh blushing.

“What is this place?” she said in a strangled whisper.

“It is a house of dark desires and discipline,” Adrian said, his eyes crinkling to a smile at the corners. “A place, I suspect, which you have always sought. Do you wish to leave?”

“No,” Chloe said hastily, hating herself for the admission.

Adrian smiled again, but more warmly than before and indicated that she should follow him.

“Are all these women your girlfriends?” Chloe asked as they passed through an even more ornate study that reminded her of a headmaster’s study.

There was just the two of them now, which both pleased and unsettled her.

“Hardly,” Adrian chuckled. “Do you imagine some sort of harem?”

“I suppose,” Chloe blushed, feeling foolish.

“Here at Parkway we are a… society, a club if you like of… friends. Each brings what they can and takes what they need,” Adrian explained.

“Oh…” Chloe said trying to sound knowing but not really understanding. “It rather sounds like communism.”

“In the sense that we are a kind of commune in the classical sense; then I suppose you are not far off,” Adrian smiled at her as if he were pleased with a particularly able student.

“But I am guessing that not everyone here is equal,” Chloe challenged him.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed and he paused to look her up and down.

“No, not exactly,” he said darkly, “But I suspect that you intended being impertinent with that remark.”

Chloe gulped and looked at her feet.

Giving her the benefit of the doubt Adrian continued, “You see there are three types of people here. Those like me who seek to guide others in a way I think you are beginning to understand. Those who wish to both guide and be guided and those who wish to surrender themselves to…” Adrian opened his arms expansively and indicated their surroundings.

“I… I…” Chloe swallowed, “How did you… how…?”

She tried again and with a firm nod she asked, “Which do you think am I?”

“I think the question is, which do you think you are,” Adrian said pointedly.

“This is crazy… I mean things like this just don’t happen,” Chloe insisted.

“And yet, here we are,” Adrian said gently.

Chloe nodded and thought for a moment.

“Let me guess, all the people doing the guiding are men and the hopeless guided souls are all girls,” Chloe did her best to make it sound like a sneer. She didn’t want to be seen to surrender too easily.

“Now you really are being impertinent aren’t you?” Adrian growled.

“Sorry,” Chloe said girlishly and chewed at her lip in contrition.

“Under the circumstances, that isn’t good enough,” Adrian sounded very stern now and Chloe quailed a little.

“Come here,” he said sharply.

Chloe blushed yet again and felt a little light-headed. Nevertheless she obeyed as far as she was able and took two hesitant steps forward.

“Let me show you what happens to pert little girls here at Parkway.” Adrian took her firmly but gently by the arm and led her over to a stuffed leather ottoman where he sat down. As he did so he pulled her down and unresisting across his lap.

“Ooh,” she squealed squirming over his thighs. “Please I…”

“Your first lesson I think and one you very richly deserve,” Adrian said patting her firmly on the skirt-encased bum.

“Don’t… I mean you can’t… I mean…” Chloe was flustered.

“You wish to leave?” Adrian said quietly as he massaged her ample rear through the material of her skirt.

“No.” It was a sigh on Chloe’s lips.

“Surrender three times and so long as you remain here I will relieve you of the burden of choice,” Adrian told her, his words tickling at her neck like a lover’s fingers.

“But…” Chloe knew she should protest or at least ask some questions, but nothing sensible came to mind.

Adrian moved his hand to her hip and tugged at the zip there. Then after a pause slowly drew the zip-tab down until Chloe’s thigh was exposed at the side. Chloe said nothing. She even lifted herself a little to allow him to draw her skirt down and off her legs.

Again his hand patted her bottom, this time finding flesh at the edges of her briefs.

“Are you…?” Chloe sighed.

In answer Adrian hooked his thumb under the elastic of her underwear and tugged her knickers off her bottom to expose it in a parody of an old sun cream advertisement. Chloe sighed again and then gave an eye-popping gasp as he slid her last defence off and down her thighs.

“You were impertinent weren’t you?” He asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes darting back and forth in her head as she resisted the urge to look around to meet his eyes or the tops of her upturned exposed bottom.

“This will be embarrassing and painful,” he explained, “To stop it just say in a loud clear voice that you wish to leave.”

She nodded, understanding.

“Trust me I will do my best to make you ask to leave so make your mind up to it,” Adrian warned.

Chloe hugged into him enjoying his warmth and the proximity of a man. He wouldn’t get rid of her that easily. Then she heard him ring the bell and she gaped.

It was an old servant’s bell on a pull-cord and sure enough after a moment a girl dressed rather like a maid appeared.

“Mary, please bring me a stout clothes brush from the hall,” Adrian ordered.

“Yes Sir,” unperturbed and rather well-spoken Mary replied before she left.

Chloe’s face melted a little and she couldn’t help squirming and making half-hearted attempts to break free from Adrian’s iron grasp.

*

“Now young lady I think you have needed this for a long time,” Adrian said sternly patting the flat side of the brush against Chloe’s bare bottom.

“Look you can’t just…” Chloe blustered as she peeped from under a cascade of hair at an amused Mary who stood watching having handed Adrian the brush.

“I can do whatever I want,” Adrian scolded. “Alright, you can go.”

The last was addressed to Mary who reluctantly ambled away with a rueful glance back over her shoulder.

“Look please I… ah… umm… yahh!” Chloe’s words were lost in loud yelps as the first impacts of the brush dashed against her bottom.

“You’ll take this and say thank you,” Adrian said sternly, “Or else you will be well and truly punished. You know what to say if you want out.”

Adrian brought his arm up high and well back before letting it fall with a loud spank on Chloe’s bare bottom.

“Jeez…” Chloe gasped as she rocked back over Adrian’s lap.

He answered with another blast and then another immediately after; each drawing a sharp shout from Chloe.

“This is not…” Chloe was panting hard and only now realising the reality of a sound spanking.

At a rate of a swipe every two seconds Adrian set a rapid spanking pace until Chloe was rasping and growling as he head bucked like caged parrot in time to the swats.

“Stop please, let me go,” she wailed.

Adrian paused and pressed the brush into her hard red bottom.

“You wish to leave then?” he challenged.

“No but…”

The spanking resumed with even more vigour than before.

“Aiee-ooh,” Chloe moaned and then spluttered to a sound like a flat raspberry.

The great panting sound that followed heaved into a sob and Chloe collapsed into Adrian lap and surrendered to the tears. Even though she was sobbing hard now and her bottom was rash red and a little swollen, Adrian did no more than pause occasionally as he spanked.

“Please, please I can’t,” Chloe wailed, almost terrified now that she would give in and spit out the ritual phrase that would end it and her adventure.

“You thought this was all rather amusing didn’t you?” Adrian said gently, but there was a hard edge to his voice.

“I…” Chloe sniffed, bracing herself for another onslaught.

“This is not a parlour game or the subject of chat show banter; still less the detritus of a badly written fad novel. I sensed in you some longing to join us,” Adrian continued, his voice soothing.

Chloe lay still and folded over his lap. She felt safer and cleaner than she ever had before. She was grateful for the long pause in the spanking; she knew it would give her the strength to continue. If only he hadn’t empowered her to end it. She didn’t want out. She wanted to be spanked until she could not take one bit more and then spanked again over and over.

“Teach me,” she whispered.

Adrian resumed the spanking for almost as long as he had so far and Chloe quickly returned to bawling her head off. At several points in what followed she gave in and went to yell out the words of escape, but either she could not draw breath to speak them or her memory failed as all but the blaze in her bottom was driven from the world.

Then finally it stopped.

“A hard test for a first time, but necessary; although be warned, it is nothing to what might happen in the future,” Adrian explained.

Chloe didn’t answer. She just lay there both broken and sated.

“Now go and stand in the corner and don’t move unless you intend to leave,” he ordered.

Chloe hated to move. His lap seemed a comfort to her now that the spanking had stopped. But she had never ever wanted to please anyone more in her whole life. It didn’t surprise her that it hurt to move and she dabbed at her bottom with her fingers, her nails feeling like needles.

She felt a little foolish standing to face the wall in the corner. But it also felt oddly cosy. The wall was wood-panelled and smelt of old oak and polish. Although just then only he was watching, Chloe felt as if she was on a stage with her submission on display to the whole world; a feeling that did not pass long after she was alone.

For the first half hour Chloe’s bottom had throbbed so much that she had indulged in another little cry. But they were good satisfying tears that flowed as quickly as the time. Then little by little she became aware of the chill of the room and little sounds around the house. Time might have dragged but her mind meditated with possibilities, so only when she remembered the here and now did reality hold her there. It was as if the needle of a record was skipping off the grooves as she phased in and out.

“Still here then,” a voice broke into her reverie.

Chloe looked over her shoulder and saw Alice grinning at her.

“You shouldn’t take your nose from the wall until you are told to,” Alice scolded.

“Sorry,” Chloe said in a panicky voice and hastily turned back with a blush.

“Adrian said for me to show you your room,” Alice said ignoring her. “If you are still going to stay that is.”

Chloe nodded eagerly.

“Come on then,” Alice laughed.

*

The next day Chloe had risen from bed like a new woman. She felt deliciously decadent knowing she should be at work and for a moment she wondered if this was all some crazy trick. But the idea that her life was in free-fall and she had surrendered everything so thoroughly only made her determined to let the adventure continue.

The room she had been given was nice but she couldn’t help thinking it was by way of a holding cell or something and that she was still on probation. Her bottom ached to its core; two throbbing muscles covered with finger-sore skin and she squeezed at it as she turned about in front of the mirror.

Someone had awoken an hour before with a hot cup of tea and a bundle of clothes before taking what she had worn. Chloe had been too sleepy and dazed then to protest and had fallen back to sleep leaving the tea untouched.

Now she examined the clothes, holding them up to her naked body for size.

There was one perfectly fitting sports bra, an old fashioned white tennis shirt with a collar, a white V-neck jumper, a pair of cream espadrilles and a perilously short wrap-around tennis skirt. The absence of underwear was shocking, but not exactly a surprise and she wouldn’t have minded considering the tender nature of her bottom if the skirt had not been so short.

She half-bent forward in the mirror until her red bottom became exposed behind. She would barely be able to walk around in it let alone play tennis. Then she remembered that she was to be tested twice more before she would be accepted here.

Taking the tea cup she went to find out what was expected of her next. She even vaguely wondered about breakfast, but the truth was she was much too excited.

“Breakfast finished half an hour ago,” she was informed by a beautiful imperious woman who appeared from nowhere when Chloe reached the foot of the staircase.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“If you get up late again I will thrash you soundly,” the woman scolded.

Chloe blushed to her ears, but the threat was a hopeful sign at least. Not that she was too thrilled at the prospect of being punished by a woman. Or was she? She would have little choice, she realised. She thought about Adrian and felt strangely sad somehow.

“I’m sorry Annabelle, she is with me,” Alice said brightly as she appeared from a side door.

“I suggest you take better care of her then,” the woman said huffily before taking the cup from Chloe and airily taking her leave.

Chloe noticed Alice was also dressed for tennis and remembered her lack of knickers.

“What happens now?” Chloe asked to cover her shame.

“We play tennis of course,” Alice said brightly.

“But I don’t play,” Chloe replied in some in consternation. She hoped that tennis wasn’t part of the test.

“That’s a pity, it is a nasty swipe across the BTM for each dropped point,” Alice grinned. “You might be standing up for lunch.”

“I thought I already was,” Chloe said ruefully and rubbed at her behind. “Is this part of the test?”

“No, not really, you can just watch if you want, but should you show willing…” Alice let her mouth hang open a little her tongue poised on the edge of her teeth.

“N-no, I’ll play, but the test…?”

“Oh that comes after lunch. We are going to have a lot of fun doing some really quite unpleasant things to you,” Alice teased.

“Are you going to try and make me want to leave?” Chloe asked nervously.

“No,” Alice said quickly taking Chloe tenderly by the chin. “Trust me. Just grin and bear it. It won’t be so bad. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened to me hundreds of times.”

Chloe nodded. She was sure of that. Well if Alice could handle it…

To be continued.

Our story began here.

Sylvia had no idea what was happening to her. Each morning she would wake up and consider how crazy her whole situation was. She tried to tell herself that she had lost control and had no choice, but it was a lie. She had made a choice the day she had gone to see Mary and knew now she had wanted in. Well, now she was in and it was dangerous, scary and exciting.

The day before had taken her to a whole new level of humiliating submission. Before, if anyone in the household had missed the fact that Sylvia had been submitting to Mary, then they had been well and truly put in the picture by now.

For two hours Sylvia had stood in the corner on the lower staircase in full view of everyone. Then without being permitted to get dressed she had been given a dustpan and brush and sent out onto the back patio to scour and then wash it on her hands and knees with a well-spanked bottom hanging in the breeze. Even the gardener must have seen her predicament for God’s sake, she now realised.

The most curious thing about the situation was that not only did Sylvia not feel resentment; heaven knew she had certainly tried hard enough for that emotion, but that her overwhelming attitude was the desire to please Mary Granger.

That morning after breakfast she had been given another opportunity to go through the accounts. This time the more ludicrous entries leapt out at her and even a cursory check of the figures had revealed that the totals were hopelessly wrong. In fact by 11 o’clock when she stopped for her first coffee, she was reasonably confident that she had a grip on the books.

“I have an hour to recheck the figures,” she said aloud to herself, “So at least if I am still screwing up and get another punishment, at least I know I did my best.”

As it turned out it only took 25 minutes to reread and check the figures and apart from one small mistake where she had added 10p instead of subtracting, she knew they were as good as she was ever going to get them.

For 10 minutes Sylvia sat hoping Mary would return so she could show her, the first time she had ever been eager to see the woman, but for once no one came. So as she sipped only her second coffee of the morning, she began to think about her husband.

Sylvia realised now that she had always liked Gerald, right from that first day at the party when he had made her laugh. In a rare piece of introspection she even concluded that her scorn and cynicism about her marriage was born entirely of her insecurity and the knowledge somewhere inside her that she wasn’t worthy of him. She swallowed hard and felt tears well-up behind her eyes. She suddenly felt a great urge to apologise to Gerald make things right somehow.

Before she knew it the phone was in her hand and she dialled her husband’s office. It wasn’t unusual for Gerald to work away from home all week and often he did not even come home for the weekend if he had business trip.

“Anything wrong Mary?” Gerald’s concerned voice said over the line.

His voice sounded genuine and real, a side to him she had never seen. Sylvia hesitated and resisted the urge to throw down the phone.

“Gerald… it’s me,” she said cautiously.

“Sylvia, how lovely,” Gerald said, instantly reverting to his old supercilious self. “Need another cheque.”

“No,” she whispered, “Please, no more money.”

“Sylvia, Are you alright?” His voice hovered between the jocular and concern.

“I-I just, well I wondered when you would be coming home. I haven’t seen you for days,” Sylvia sounded like a love-struck teen. “It is even longer since we have just talked.”

“Did Mary put you up to this?” Gerald snapped. “I know she had been… guiding you these last few days.”

Sylvia felt her ears burn, but she already knew that Mary would have kept him informed.

“No, I… no, she hasn’t, but well, I think she had helped me to think about things a little more; to think about us.”

“I see,” Gerald said in a neutral voice, “Well, let’s have dinner on Saturday, I’ll be home by then.”

“Yes,” Sylvia gushed.

“Fine, see you then,” Gerald said hanging up.

“See you,” she replied forlornly to the static on the line.

*

Mary ran her eye down the figures and nodded in approval at the items that Sylvia had marked up as spurious.

“What a change from yesterday,” she remarked.

“So I got them right?” Sylvia asked in surprise.

“Looks like it,” Mary beamed.

Sylvia looked around the office, as if looking for someone else who surely was more deserving of Mary’s praise.

“What happens now?” Sylvia suddenly didn’t know what to do with herself.

“Oh, nothing for now, it will be lunch time soon,” Mary was already filing the paperwork and moving on to her next task.

“Oh, alright then,” Sylvia said, feeling at a loss, but Mary wasn’t listening.

“Goodbye,” she said dismissively. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I am busy this afternoon.”

“Bye then,” Sylvia said lamely.

It seemed odd to be released without a punishment and the promise of harsh chores, but suddenly Sylvia was confronted with her old life and the prospect of luncheon and an afternoon shopping. Somehow it had lost its appeal.

Even lunch an avocado salmon salad seemed workaday to her and she nibbled at it as she had been given a chore and not a treat.

Normally she would not have noticed that Tatiana had not returned to clear the plate, nor that the other staff seemed to have disappeared. She dimly remembered that it was the day most of them had off, but that did not altogether explain the quiet that had befallen the house. In fact, she had seen no one since she had sat down for lunch when Tatiana had gone to answer the door and had not returned.

On any other day she would have just gone shopping, but recent events held her thrilled to the house and its secret peril and if she were honest, its thrills.

“Tatiana,” she called, and then after a moment, “Ms Granger.”

Neither appeared and nor had one of the other maids.

Sylvia stood up, wincing at the scrape of the chair legs on the white marble floor and then listened to the silence that followed.

Only birdsong from the garden and the occasional revving of an engine far out on the main road that passed almost a mile from the house was to be heard.

“I could always read,” she sighed.

Then holding that thought, given her husbands and Mary’s tastes, she wondered if there might be some interesting books in house library. It was an intriguing idea and she might even learn something.

The library was in the east wing of the house where her husband kept a study and she rarely had any reason to go there. Normally, the house being sufficiently large, she could easily pass from the main door to the drive, the dining room and the main staircase that led to her room without troubling herself with the east wing. In fact she couldn’t even recall when she had last even been to that end of the house.

The library could be reached by a sunny passage that had the quality of something of an atrium. There were potted plants and marble statues set in alcoves and Sylvia knew that airy window rich corridor mirrored the impressive long gallery on the floor above.

This really is a lovely house, she observed with a flash of guilt after all the time she had taken it for granted. I am going to explore every room of it as I should have done when I first came here. As she thought this, she did a pirouette and something like a dance on the terracotta tiled floor.

Then she heard it. Unmistakeable to her now; the slow rhythm of someone being chastised and her heart skipped a happy beat.

*

Sylvia crept forward to the edge of the Library door, the risk of being seen adding to the excitement. Whoever was on the receiving end was having a tough time of it and her money was on Tatiana. In any case, judging from the pained stifled grunts of the recipient, Mary was certainly on form.

The door had been left ajar so that Sylvia was able to see into the room through the crack of the doorframe without being seen. At once she saw the naked woman bent almost double over some kind of wooden frame that had been set-up in the middle of the room. Her full but tight bottom was thrust uppermost and there was no doubt that it had already suffered a sustained thrashing, although with what, Sylvia could not yet tell.

Then the woman spoke.

“Please master, I mean Sir,” the voice was strained but there was absolutely no doubt it was Mary.

“How many times have I told you not to use that theatrical and amateur title?” It was a man’s voice and as he spoke he came into view and lay on a heavy thwack with a short leather strap.

“I’m sorry Sir,” Mary wailed, but it took her a moment to respond for first her words were robbed from her as she struggled to gain her breath.

“You harbour such pretensions that you are this disciplined player, but yet I come here ever month to give you a straightener and every month you are sloppy,” as he said the word ‘sloppy’ he struck her exposed bottom again.

“Sloppy,” he continued with another swipe.

Mary announced each of these with a strangled groan.

“There really is nothing for it, you need a good sound birching when I am finished with you,” the man sighed as one more disappointed than angry. “I swear you are worse than that Russia maid of yours and it is standing orders that she always gets double.”

“Please Mr Drake, please you know… you know,” Mary was actually sobbing like a novice, “You know I can’t… I can’t…”

“You can, you have and you will,” Drake growled.

The Spankman, Sylvia realised with glee. Then she turned back to view Mary’s punishment and to Sylvia’s mind, her rather surprising cry-baby reaction to it.

*

Sylvia had no idea how long she watched the action hugging herself in delight, but Drake was in no hurry with Mary and little by little as the tyrannical housekeeper’s bottom grew ever more red, she became even more contrite until she was broken in open sobbing. By this time Sylvia was on her knees peering through the crack in the door, not caring if Mary’s punishment never came to an end.

When it finally did, she still could not tear herself away even if it cost her own bottom, so eager was she not to miss the rest of the scene.

She was well rewarded for no sooner had a totally humbled Mary been released when she was sent to the corner while the Spankman appeared to put some of his equipment away. Not the frame over which Mary had been strapped, Sylvia noticed.

“You can have half an hour or so to pull yourself together and then we will prepare for the birch,” Drake said in a gruff voice.

The threat made Sylvia a little lightheaded and she could scarce control her breathing. She was certain that either Drake or Mary would hear her, but if they did neither showed any sign. So feeling secure enough Sylvia put her eye closer to the slot to take a closer look both at Mary’s sore swollen bottom and Drake himself.

He was tallish, but not overly so and well-built. Sylvia adjudged him to be no more than 45, although his hair was halfway to grey, especially at the temples and his face had a handsome craggy appearance as if experience had crawled under his skin and he had lived at least two lives.

“Do you like what you see?” he said in a clear firm voice.

Sylvia gave a start and on the verge of breaking cover nearly blurted out an apology. But it was Mary who meekly answered him.

“My view is somewhat restricted Sir.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded and she felt as if she had fallen from a great height, even though she hadn’t been discovered while inside the conversation continued.

“Mine isn’t,” Drake said in answer to Mary’s reply, “And if I take the long way around to the woods nor will your neighbours’ and most of your staff’s.”

“The woods?” Mary’s voice was edged in panic.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten that you are now to be birched?” The cocking of one eyebrow could almost be heard in Drake’s voice.

“No Sir, but… please Sir couldn’t you just… just cane me?” Mary’s voice was pleading.

“Oh but the prolonged rasping burn of the birch is so good for you and the added humility is excellent don’t you think?” Drake suggested lightly as if offering Mary a treat.

“Yes Sir,” Mary wailed, fresh tears in every syllable.

“Come along then, we can go out through the French windows,” Drake said firmly indicating the glass doors with an outstretched palm although Mary could not see it.

Mary peeled herself from the corner and looked woefully over her shoulder. Sylvia almost felt sorry for her.

To be continued.

Our story began here.

It was harder than she thought to follow the action once it got outside. Mary trudged like a condemned woman naked and exposed to the breeze while Drake followed her at a short distance. Sylvia could only leave the house once they had got clear of the garden and she quickly realised that if she stayed behind the Spankman then she would not see much of the housekeeper.

The route the punitive pair took to the woods behind the house was perilously public, but not so much so that they were bound to be seen. Sylvia could only guess at what was going through Mary’s mind and the fear and embarrassment of exposure must have been great.

It did not escape Sylvia that there was a risk to her husband’s reputation as well as her own if Drake and Mary were caught, but that made it all the more exciting and Sylvia knew that she would have done nothing to intervene even if she could.

Eventually the couple reached the woods and the terrain allowed Sylvia to close the gap without being seen. The path between the trees widened out a little to allow the sunlight to pour like gold onto the scene and Sylvia could see everything.

Mary’s mortified and fiercely blushing face was in marked contrast to her dignified poise so that above the neck she appeared as a lip-biting miscreant teen, while at the same time striking the pose of a goddess. The only thing that marred her pale flawless skin were the red ovals of spanked flesh that dominated her bottom.

“That’s far enough,” Drake said in a severe voice, “Here take this and cut me some good stiff birch lengths.”

The Spankman handed the nervous looking Mary a small pocket knife and then stood back to watch while she stooped to her task.

As the housekeeper bent over to take cuttings she left nothing to the imagination behind and Sylvia blushed, both thrilled and horrified that she too could one day be in the same position.

It took no more than 20 minutes to complete her work and they were soon heading back to the house so that Sylvia had to duck into the undergrowth.

As Mary passed her hiding place, Sylvia could see that had the housekeeper not been naked, she would appear to have merely been collecting a bouquet for the house and even at a distance with the withes gathered to her chest most people would have passed by without a glance.

Also, from her vantage point under a holly bush, Sylvia had a closer look at Mary’s very sore bottom. It was still lightly swollen with a heavy red stain and concealed woman could not help wondering what a birching on such sore skin would feel like. But Mary herself had admitted that she and some of the other women needed such treatment, an admission Sylvia had not first understood but which recent events had led her to open her mind to it.

Once the couple had passed on their return to the house Sylvia quickly realised that there was little chance of following them and she would be better off going around and getting back to her place at the library door ahead of them.

*

It had taken Sylvia longer than she thought to get around the house, even in an unseemly haste. So by the time she reached the library, Mary had already been placed in the corner while Drake set about examining and preparing the withes of birch for a rod.

At first Sylvia thought that she was in for a tedious wait and considered going away and timing a return. She even wondered if she could ‘chance’ upon the scene in her own right and be allowed to watch anyway. But as she looked on she became fascinated by the craft with which Drake assembled the instrument of correction and besides, she had not yet got bored with watching the humble housekeeper in the corner. So although he was in no hurry and it was an hour or so before he was ready, the time fled away from the hidden voyeur.

Sylvia dimly remembered that the Victorians and Edwardians used to soak birch rods before use, but maybe that was just to store them. Certainly, she was sure that the Scandinavians and Northern Germans used ‘green’ or freshly cut lengths of birch or some other wood in saunas. Was it the same here?

All this and other things poured through as she watched but finally he was ready.

Drake cut a couple of swipes through the air which made both the hidden Sylvia and the cornered Mary jump.

“You have provided enough material here for three large governess birch rods,” Drake said, breaking the silence.

“Yes Sir,” Mary said meekly.

“One should probably suffice and I can save the others for your Russian maid,” Drake said approvingly. “Although that one could stand a prolonged taste of a judicial birch if you ask me. Where is she anyway?”

“She is rather… challengingly secured in the basement Sir,” Mary said, sounding for a moment like her usual self. “And for what it is worth, I agree with you about the judicial birch.”

“Today it is not worth much, so keep your opinions to yourself or else you will feel more than one of these.”

“Yes Sir,” Mary said hastily.

Finally satisfied that the birch was ready Drake took off his jacket and then moved to a more favourable position with the birch.

“Are you ready?” he said.

“Yes Sir.” Mary’s voice was tight but Sylvia saw her raise her bare bottom a little as if pointing it at what was to come.

“This,” Drake said as he raised his arm with the birch, “Is going to hurt.”

Sylvia gaped as a bitter rattle-swish sound filled the room and before she knew it the rod descended with a mighty thwack that caused Mary to grunt.

“That’s what I like about you Ms Granger, you can handle a lot,” Drake chuckled.

Before the second stroke landed Sylvia could see a bumpy rash on Mary’s bottom and licked at her lips.

Mary took three more before she truly screamed and by then her bottom was already looking pretty raw.

I am going to love this, Sylvia thought as she hugged herself. Both her head and her heart entered free-fall.

The strokes that followed, and there were many, left Mary’s bottom a ravaged mess. Although true expert that he was and as raw as his handiwork appeared to be, nowhere had he broken the skin. Not that Mary could have cared less. Her bottom was on fire and she had long since given up trying to take it.

“Please Sir, please” she bawled; which was ambiguous at best, Sylvia thought.

“I think my work here is done,” Drake intoned, “Once I release you, you can go to your room. I have other bottoms to fry.”

Sylvia thought of Tatiana and wondered how she might watch.

*

Try as she might, Sylvia could not find a way into the basement and even the door that Drake had taken seemed to lock behind him. Mental note to self, ask Mary about the basement sometime, Sylvia thought in her frustration.

Having failed to spy on Tatiana’s fate Sylvia hung back and waited for Mary to go upstairs, after all this was her house, why shouldn’t she go and see the housekeeper if she wanted?

Sylvia was only dimly aware of where Mary’s rooms were but she knew that it was somewhere upstairs in the same wing as the library. Unfortunately all the doors upstairs were alike and there was no one about to ask.

She was just about to give up when she noticed a door above the half stair had a Russian poster on it. It seemed probable then that if it was Tatiana’s room then all the doors on that floor were staff quarters. Then she saw that the door at the far end was open slightly and judging from its position, the quarters there were a little larger than the rest.

Sylvia swallowed a sudden bout of nerves and ignoring the butterflies in her tummy walked boldly up to the door and gently knocked.

“Ms Granger,” she called out tentatively.

There was a muffled sound and after a pause a strained voice called back “Yes?”

Sylvia doubted she would get a better invitation than that, so she pushed open the door and went inside what turned out to be a well-appointed flat.

“Ms Granger, are you there?” Sylvia called again.

“Mrs Peters,” Mary replied in a thick voice, “I am rather… indisposed at the moment.”

Pressing forward to the source of the voice Sylvia found what was obviously a bedroom door and carefully pushed it open.

“Oh,” Sylvia said in a neutral voice, “Can I help?”

Mary Granger was still naked and lay face down on her bed. The generous hump of her bottom was covered with what looked like a damp cloth and as Sylvia entered the room the housekeeper looked up sheepishly and blushed.

“Please Mrs Peters, maybe you could… I mean to say I am…” Mary blustered seeming as vulnerable as Sylvia had yet seen her.

“I know,” Sylvia admitted, “I… eh, well I peeked.”

This revelation did nothing to ease Mary’s blush, but she nodded and lowered her chin to the bed.

“I told you didn’t I? Mr Drake calls about once a month to attend to certain… needs,” Mary said ruefully.

Sylvia crept nearer, her eyes fixed upon Mary’s sore red bottom.

“May I?” she said and reached out to slowly lift the flannel off of Mary’s behind without waiting for a reply. “Oh gosh, that looks sore.”

“I have had worse, much worse as it happens,” Mary said ruefully. “There is a couple, the Brauns, they live in Berlin… well they can skin a bottom so sore than afterwards a feather’s touch is enough to make you cry and beg for mercy. Before they are halfway through with me I am begging to do anything they want. And I do mean anything. Have you any idea how much freedom and satisfaction there is in such submission?”

Sylvia swallowed and her heart raced at the anecdote. If her husband didn’t come home soon she would have to dust off the rabbit, she thought shamefully.

“I see that you do,” Mary smiled. “You are beginning to find yourself aren’t you?”

Sylvia blushed, “But… that is me. What about you? Don’t you hand it out? I mean I… I couldn’t be like you,” she said, her eyes wide.

“That’s the dilemma isn’t it? For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with spanking and punishment; either my own or another woman’s.  I almost lost myself at the Brauns, I went too far one way. Here with your husband I have… a balance.”

“I don’t understand. Where does my husband fit in and what does he want with me? How did he know that one day I would…?”

Mary shrugged.

“I don’t think Gerald is omniscient. I have no idea what he had in mind for you. But I have come to realise that he loves you. Maybe that is all there is to it,” she said.

“I am sure you are wrong,” Sylvia insisted.

Mary shrugged again and said nothing.

“He is coming home on Saturday. It’s tearing me apart,” Sylvia continued.

“How so?”

“I have never wanted to see him before, not really. But now I do. But somehow I don’t think I… I don’t deserve him or any of this do I?”

“That remains to be seen doesn’t it?” Mary said with a tight smile.

“I am sorry I spied on you but…” Sylvia looked at the floor.

“Trust me, you will be,” Mary said sharply. “Now if you don’t mind, please go.”

To be continued.

The Russell Corner is a 70,000-odd word novel that was first published in 2009. All things considered it has sold rather well for a micro-publication and I know many of you bought and I am gratified by that.

Generally the book was well-received and many of those those used to my narrative style have said some very complimentary things indeed. However the production values were not as high as they might be and it has to be said that it was written at a very early stage in my journey as a creative writer of erotic fiction.

So it was with some surprise that at a time when my original publisher was considering retiring the book, LSF approached me with a view to republishing it.

After some extensive re-edits and adding some 2,000 words, I am happy to announce that this story has now been reissued and it is now available direct from LSF or on Amazon as an e-book in various formats.

The publishers’ description can be read on my bookshop page. However, also back in 2009 and preview copy was reviewed by David Roman and his short article was included as a forward for the book.

He wrote:

The Russell Corner is an exploration of erotic discipline. At its core is love and the unconditional love of various submissive women for their dominants.

Women are very much at the heart of the story. Indeed the only man to be more than cursorily treated is the nominal hero.

Richard Russell is a patriarch who loves his wife and daughters and genuinely values his friend and faithful secretary. While his secretary can only envy the severe punishment he hands out to his two eldest daughters at his office. It is her obsession with the corner in his office that gives the story its name.

But the true narrative of the story is carried by Catherine Raven and her relationship with her stepdaughter Eleanor. Although she secretly yearns for the submission of her former married life, widowhood has forced her into the role of dominant. She is on a mission to complete her late husbands will to mould Eleanor into her father’s worthy successor.

Eleanor herself is an intelligent independent woman who clearly need not submit to her stepmother’s tyranny, but at heart must because it is the only way that she can address her submissive needs. Again it is really love and a desire to gain Catherine’s respect that motivates her scheming.

For most of the women in the story it is necessary to pretend to be reluctant submissives, even to themselves, or else their world will be exposed as a game and come crashing down.

The story is set around Easter 1990. This removes it in time while still allowing it a contemporary feel. This not only serves to provide it with sense of unreality but is a world before mobile phones and the Internet, which could otherwise inhibit the plot.

The plot itself is not a detailed one. It often merely serves as a hook on which to hang various punishment scenarios. But more importantly it allows for characters to be developed through an exploration of their motivations.

The Russell Corner stands as a metaphor for each of the submissives in the story and their quest to be loved and protected for the price of submission.

Hot on the heels of the republishing of the Russell Corner comes another story published by LSF. The Lord and Librarian is a stand-alone novel and was co-written with Lucy Appleby some time ago and is available for the first time in novel form.

Rowan Greenway applies for and is invited to take up a post as Librarian to Lord Merlin Collden at his castle perched on the border between England and Wales. It is a ‘Finding Year’ in Lord Collden’s mysterious domain, and Rowan has found her way to the castle where Lord Collden watches and waits, making allowances for now for her modern attitudes. When Lord Collden reveals an ancient secret, Rowan takes fright and escapes, only to run into new dangers at The Citadel. She is pursued by Lord Collden, who is determined to make her his bride.

This is the first book in The Prophecy Trilogy. It is a tale of romance and self-discovery and submission. It is also a tale of eroticism, passion, magic and mystery, interspersed with such activities as spanking and paddling, caning and flogging, strapping and birching, and whippings in the pillory – for this place and all its secrets is caught between different eras and ways of life.

It is now available from Amazon and LSF.

Picture by Brian Tarsis.

It seems that LSF are determined to publisher a sizeable proportion of my back catalogue. (Is that a double entendre or a pun?) Anyway, hot on the heels of the novella, Lizzie Baines, comes the re-publishing of The Academy (originally published as The Academy: the future of spanking).

There are two original works in the pipeline, but before then there are plans afoot to publish other works, including a collection of short stories to be sold on Amazon.

Getting back to the Academy; it is largely a dystopian sci-fi story that centres on a secret government project to save the world in the guise of some intrigue. Oh and there is quite a bit of spanking.

I had no hand in writing the publishers blurb but I kind of like it. It runs thus:

Founded after ‘The Fall’ when the world was changed forever and women outnumber men three to one, the Academy is a place of training for young women between 19 and 25. In this school, teachers are punished as well as the students! Having escaped prison, five new girls are sent to The Academy as an alternative.

All are nervous and horrified by the idea of corporal punishment. Kate is particularly brash and insolent, and quite determined that no-one will lay a hand on her, let alone a cane or a paddle. But deep down, she is as scared as the rest. It is not long before the girls plus new arrivals experience the disciplinary regime of The Academy.

But who are The Sacred Sisters of Revenge? And is Callie all she appears to be? Deceptions and punishments abound in this erotic tale of adult discipline.

For those who want a copy it is available here.

LSF have published another story of mine. This time it is the novella first published in five parts as the Bannerman Saga and includes the stories The Life and Times of Rachel Kent, The Wise Fools and The Last Days of Eden.

It is an eclectic western adventure about a spoilt girl from ‘back east’ tamed by the strong-willed cowboy and of frontier life at home and at school spanning two generations of cousins.

For those who want it for their kindle or just to keep it is available from Amazon or LSF direct.

These historical themed drawings were sent in by TipTopper.

This article first appeared in Russian in The Siberian Times.

New method for addiction at a clinic in Russia

In the depths of Siberia, scientists claim to have discovered a revolutionary method of recovery from alcohol, dope and other addictions. Even workaholics or sex addict could be helped by the new method.

Most are shocked when they hear that the treatment applied by doctors and German Pilipenko Marina Chukhrova, includes a “wooden” rod. Just like the old masters this duo of experts, are swinging a stick across the bare bottoms of their patients.

“This is for purely medical purposes and is not some sadomasochistic game,” Ms Marina Chukhrova said in an interview.

The method appears to be based on scientific principles. The two scientists claim that the lack of endorphins, also known as the “hormone of happiness” is the main reason why their patients, most of them addicted to drugs, suffer. The two psychologists argue pain causes an increase in endorphin production.

“The controlled exposure to pain, addresses the lack of enthusiasm and interest in life, often hiding behind alcohol or dope. But that’s not all, the increase of endorphins through the pain can change the lives of people who have suicidal tendencies, depression or other psychosomatic disorders,” says Dr German Pilipenko.

This was demonstrated to journalists when young patient Natasha took 60 strokes across her bare bottom, which she does every time she meets with Dr German Pilipenko for treatment. (Pictured above)

“Every beating howl and clench of the bed is acute pain. My body is electrified by the shock and it is a really unpleasant experience. But after each session, I can see beneficial results. The pain helps me to understand the risks they expose myself,” the 22-year old Natasha told reporters.

From an early age she was addicted to drugs and hopes that this treatment will succeed where others have failed.

The revolutionary method of Pilipenko and Chukhrova, has sparked mixed reactions. Whilst some psychologists have accused them of charlatanism, there is answering testimony of the patients themselves, who declare publicly, that their pain saved their life.

The fact remains that thousands of patients from all over Russia, but also from abroad, eager to taste the painful and controversial this treatment modalities.

Now this short article, whilst hopefully being informative, is not intended to be exhaustive and can better be viewed as a bit of fun.

Many of you will either be in a spanking or DD relationship or will have had one at some point. If not then no doubt your turn will come.

As you will know the reality of such experiences differ markedly from spanking fiction. The main reason for this is that on one hand Tops and Doms and on the other Bottoms and Subs have the inconvenient status of being real people.

These terms (Tops, Doms, Bottoms and Subs – not ‘real people’) are used advisably as none quite satisfy true definition, but given the on-going debate here they are a useful shorthand.

But as real people they tend not to behave or respond as you want them too.

This is as real an issue for the submissive half of the relationship as for Mr Dom Top, but we will come back to that. Let us first address the other side for the uninitiated.

Ladies and Gentlemen please pardon the language in advance but it is a dead cert that at this point there is a small selection of readers who are saying “the bitch had better do what I want her to or…” well you know the type of thing. Therefore we must take a moment to remind ourselves of the term relationship. Do you see where we are going with this?

A relationship is and can only be between equal partners built on trust and mutual respect. The rules in DD you see are no different from any other relationship. If you are 20 and into This Thing That We Do (another irritating little phrase that we will employ as a shorthand), then you may be forgiven for struggling with this; if you are over 40 then not so much.

Okay so she has agreed to and wants to get taken in hand, brought into line and to cut a long story short get spanked (in some form or other actual practices differ so see small-print for details). But she isn’t going to make it easy for you. Come on get a life.

She has a job and is probably the manager of two dozen people on a salary that may well exceed yours. Imaginative intelligent women are often much more likely to be submissive than otherwise. And here again for clarity the reverse is not also true – in other words not all intelligent imaginative women want you to take her in hand in any shape of form. So do be aware.

In other words, unless you are just playing at it or having a scene, then an argument is an argument and she is going to give you static until you can get on her wavelength and calmly and psychologically sort her out so to speak.

After all the women who are serious about this want help to be better than they are and not give into certain behaviours. If this was easy then you my dominant friend would be surplus to requirements.

Also it has to be said that she may want you to win but that doesn’t mean she is going to roll over without a fight.

All of this is before her parents just happen to drop in, her boss phones up or infallible you (or sometimes her) have seriously screwed up and it is all hands to the pump in the grown-up world.

On the other hand she has just as many problems with you.

In books the masterful hero always reads the bratty heroine right, always knows what to do and can probably pick her up and throw her into the next county for good measure. I don’t know about you but even though I can still (almost) bench-press my own weight I gave up wench-throwing along with rugby when I turned 40.

It is a challenge always being in charge and manfully being the answer to a maiden’s prayers. Try it sometime. Seriously, it is hard work spanking a wench whenever and wherever she needs it. Shakes head. But somebody has to do it.

Look in the mirror sometime. How do you stack up against Wolverine or James Bond?

Okay let us say that you have trust and mutual respect and that you are both compatible. What next?

Spanking

How long and how hard do you spank?

This can only be deduced from experience and varies from woman to woman.

Start off slow and soft and build up. Even die-hard roughtie-toughtie girls can get in the wrong head space if you start off too hard and fast.

Spanking on the bare bottom is always desirable for more reasons than one. It is as well to monitor ‘damage’ as you go.

Spanking implements

What do you use to spank a woman with?

For beginners and experts alike you cannot beat the hand. It is always there at the end of your arm (well usually – sorry if it is not) and it can only take so much punishment itself so being overzealous is much less likely.

Even after you graduate to other implements the hand is a classic and the intimacy of it cannot be underestimated.

Then we have the trusty hairbrush, clothes brush or bath brush. Apart from the weight and therefore severity, they are all variations of the same things as far as spanking is concerned. The advantage of these common household items is that they are also easily come by and are in no way incriminating when her parents come to call.

If you want something harsher but discretion is important then a man’s belt is a good staple. It is also a good psyche tool as some girls turn to jelly at the sound of leather pulled through trouser hoops.

Specialist items like leather paddles are often preferable as they sting as much but often do not bruise. But do be careful where you leave them. Also do be careful when using wooden or other unyielding paddles or she really won’t sit down for a week and medical help may be required.

Other equipment like canes, crops and the like require some skill and practice and are only for the truly committed. But they are obtainable and can be hung at the back of the wardrobe or secreted in a hat-stand.

One person even bought a Charlie Chaplin outfit ‘for a fancy dress party’ which just happened to come with a cane. See, you can hide things in plain sight. Same goes for riding crops. They can be wall ornaments or a legacy from a horsey youth.

But we are veering into areas that are not strictly spanking.

Canes, crops and birches are whole other level.

Spanking techniques and positions

These are too many and varied but here are few things to keep in mind.

Over the knee (OTK) is a good standard start. Obviously for use of the cane and such this will not work so the girl might need to stand up and bend over.

If bending, beginners should have her use a chair or bed to bend over. You cannot expect most girls to hold position if you mean it.

The other aspect of spanking that cannot be stressed enough is cause and effect.

She has to know why she is being spanked and ideally should agree that she deserves it. Then in a non-confrontational way, she should be scolded and put in the correct submissive frame of mind.

Failure to do this can make the whole experience unpleasant for both parties and instead of clearing the air, it can cause resentment.

As with above, it is a good idea to always begin with a gentle hand-spanking and build up. At the same time one should reiterate the offence and continue with an appropriate level of scolding.

Some women cry. This is usually good. It is an emotional response and it usually means that the spanking is working. A woman who is growling angrily through gritted teeth is probably not in the right head space.

But do not worry if there are no tears. These are a rare gift. Listen for gentle whimpering and laboured breathing as both can mean she is struggling but not resentful. It is a good indicating of how she is doing.

Also don’t be afraid to stop. Use the pauses for scolding and maybe a time out in the corner if you are really making a point.

Corner time

Corner time is the ultimate bondage position. However much she complains, if she goes to the corner she has to contend with the fact that she is submitting and is a under discipline.

You can leave a woman alone in the corner, but unless you are confident she won’t challenge you in absentia, you might consider light bindings around thumbs that can be removed but not replaced coupled with having her press a coin to the wall with her forehead or nose.

Talcum powder on the floor, small objects that can’t easily be put back if disturbed can also be of use. In sororities, they used a trick involving empty bottles crossed with pencils set behind the ankles.

Some women can handle corner time better than others.

For some 20 minutes is hard and others can handle two or three hours, but note this is extreme and presents health issues without practice and know-how.

Start off with short periods, after all 5 minutes is a long time for a girl in the corner.

Also corner time with anticipation is effective beforehand and although it is satisfying for a top to see his handiwork set in the corner, many women want to be forgiven after a spanking and do not respond well to after spanking corner time.

Also it is wise to be aware of any issues such as back pain and the like. A 20-year-old will ruefully pout after an hour in the corner (on the whole) but the more mature miss might struggle both physically and mentally so start off slowly as with spanking.

Figging and other invasives

This is a delicate subject and one that can be left entirely out of the equation if it squicks either partner.

This is effective both as a supplement to a spanking or if for some reason (such as noise) spanking is difficult it can be a substitute in its own right.

Proceed with care.

At one end of the spectrum (so to speak) there is the simple mouth soaping for lying or swearing. It is a juvenile punishment and not for everyone.

More usually we address ourselves to the other end. Here we are in the territory of anal plugs of various sizes. Small ones can be worn as day wear for added submissive discomfort, but more usually the woman will be lying down with the largest she can handle inserted in her bottom.

Figging is a variant of this that involves ginger or some other mild abrasive to really get a girl’s attention. Beware of women with allergies and also of those who do not get much sensation from it.

At the extreme end we have enemas, which is a subject in its own right.

Spanking Regimes

This is an interesting area. Most couples have a spanking regime even if they do not think of it as such. For instance, some couples start the day off with a spanking or if not they will have some spoken or unspoken rules as to when a spanking will be due.

In a more formal setting more elaborate rituals may be temporary punishment sets that can be employed.

At the moderate end we are talking about maintenance spanking. This is where a girl is spanked at regular set intervals for no particular reason other than to let her know her place and to remind her what will happen if she truly steps out of line.

A classic spanking regime may be also be imposed as an elaborate punishment.

For instance for some serious offence a girl may be told that she will be spanked every morning and again every evening for a set number of days. These spankings maybe varied with canes and such or in extreme cases before witnesses for added (spice) humiliation.

These are options not obligations and will be applied according to the nature of the relationship and what has been agreed.

Ultimately the spanking regime is the overarching arrangement that forms the basis of the relationship.

Any one of the headings above could be a book let alone an article in its own right so if you want to know more, proceed with care and research more wildly. But above all be safe and have fun.

Recently an article on birching from this blog was republished over at Well Red Weekly. So in my quest for recovering lost material from my hard drive it seemed possible that some unused original source material was to be found.

This threw up two separate, mysterious and yet interesting snippets. The first was a reference to the birching of maids on the Isle of Wight. Curious, a search revealed the picture above from the Branding Wax Works Museum on that island. The naked maid getting into bed has definitely been thrashed. Now there is an exhibit some of us would want to see.

The other find was this standalone passage in a single text file that may be from one of my aborted stories. It really is impossible to remember. It was on the partially recovered hard drive in a file from 2006.

-

Emily risked a peek over her shoulder at the birch rod waiting for her. It lay long and menacing on the table, the result of many hours of labour on her part. It was well made and stout and if it hadn’t been destined for a prolonged application across her exposed behind, she would have been a little proud of it.

A sound in the hall beyond the door encouraged her to snap her head back around so that her nose was back in the corner. It was mortifying to stand thus with only a thin blouse and bloomers to cover her. And the bloomers were now down at her ankles where cook had put them so that her neat prominent bottom was bared to the gaze of any who would chance by.

At least the Mr Graham the butler had some decorum and usually absented himself to his parlour at such times. But Herbert and Tom the pot boy would take every chance to enter servant hall while she awaited her chastisement. Emily only hoped that Susan the House maid could keep them at bay. A task she undertook not so much out of sympathy, but out of self-preservation as she herself was not immune from such treatment.

It was bad enough to have to fetch the makings dressed only in one’s underwear. She had heard them sniggering in the bushes. She blushed for the shame of it.

Emily sighed. It had been hour since she had completed the rod and had been sent to the corner. Now there was a light chill around her exposed nethers even as her face continued to burn with shame.

Then finally the door opened and Mr Charles entered.

Emily sucked in a breath, knowing s she did that he could see her bare bottom. But it wasn’t the first time.

“Well my girl, what have you to say for yourself?” he chided her.

Emily was tongue-tied.

Mr Charles gave a heavy sigh and took up the birch.

“Very well, let’s get this over with,” he sounded disappointed. “Come on girl, bend over the table.”

Emily clapped her hands to her naked forward parts and with a strawberry red face scampered across the room in a crouch and bent over.

“Get your bottom out a bit more,” he growled.

It was so embarrassing, but she quickly obeyed, parting her thighs a little for a more secure posture. The table was a little shorter than her legs so that her bottom was well elevated for the coming rod.

“You’ll take three dozen this time and you had better not get out of position,” he told her.

“Yes Sir,” she squeaked.

Mr Charles inspected the target for a moment and then gave a little cough of embarrassment at what she had revealed.

“Legs together a little more,” he said gently.

Emily gaped in horror and quickly closed her legs, an action that elevated her bottom even more.

Satisfied Mr Charles tapped the exposed backside thrice and then brought the rod down with a vengeance.

“One thank you Sir,” she shrieked.

The passage of the rod across her arse left a trail of pain like a million bees. The second stroke was no kinder.

“Two thank you Sir,” she grunted.

It took four more strokes for the first of the tears to come and by then her breathing was ragged and she gently shook her bottom as if to throw off the pain.

“When I am done with you here you spend the rest of the day in that corner, do you hear me,” Mr Charles said in a dark voice.

Then he struck in hard again.

“Yes Sir,” she wailed, “Seven thank you Sir… ooh.”

“Feeling it now I’ll be bound, looks like you are,” he observed.

“Yes Sir,” she sniffed, a tear strolling down her face and off the end of her nose.

The eighth, ninth and tenth strokes really hit home and Emily broke to sobbing.

“I trust you are sorry girl,” he scolded her.

“Ooh, yes Sir,” she wept and then as he struck again she announced, “Eleven thank you Sir.”

Just a third of the way through and she was already broken. Emily doubted that she would ever sit down again.

-

It seems more than a little rough in places; I hope I have come on a little since then. I wonder what else I will find.

Lady Jane Larch’s cousins and other young men had left for the hunt and she had been determined to go with them. Legends were made from killing and especially capturing trolls and she wanted part of the glory. Besides, the castle was dull and beyond the forest were magical creatures of all kinds and trolls were the best she could hope for.

There were however a few obstacles to the slender golden haired beauty’s plan. Firstly the hunt was forbidden to women by law. A stupid law made by a faraway king who had no business making laws for the people of the March Lands in the first place, but it was a law nonetheless and one which was strictly enforced; very strictly.

Lady Jane’s second problem was that she had been caught at the first hurdle, a forbidden sword at her hip and dressed in boy’s clothes in the castle courtyard with a horse. The possession of a sword and the wearing of male clothes by a woman were strictly forbidden by other laws that were strictly enforced. It really did not look good at all.

“I was just going for a ride,” she had told her guardian’s chatelaine.

Dame Mary was the keeper of Lord Garand’s house and the young crone had the eyes of the black hawk she resembled.

“That, young lady, is a lie,” Dame Mary had scolded her.

Under Lord Garand’s direction, Dame Mary had a way of dealing with liars. The maids would take a whipping every Sabbath for a season rather than be caught out in a lie by the Chatelaine.

Lady Jane had hastily tried to retract her falsehood but Dame Mary had grabbed her by the ear like the naughty boy she was dressed as and hauled her off to see her guardian.

That had been some hours before and now she stood naked but for her shift in the main hall where Dame Mary had left her. The linen blouse was too coarse for her station and one she wore to ride in. But unlike her more feminine under shirts, this one was short and barely covered her hips. Thank God Lord Garand had dismissed the guard from the hall, she thought with unbridled gratitude.

Jane reached around to the back of her shift and felt the exposed lower curves of her bottom peeking under the hem. It wasn’t that much better in front, she thought ruefully as she tugged it down over the silk golden triangle of hair that was little fingernail’s width from being exposed as well.

At least the damn shirt came up high to cover her large breasts, but that did not stop the nipples from visibly hardening against the linen in front. Thank God, there are no guards, she prayed again silently and please let them not come back.

Her eyes darted to the corner by the high table and a little behind it. She remembered when her young cousin Eloise had stood there dressed much as Jane was now. The 19-year-old miscreant Eloise had faced the wall with scarlet welts displayed on her bottom for the edification of the entire castle. Up to now Jane’s own suffered indignities had been more of a private affair, although a very sore bottom and many corners had played their part in them.

This time it was different she knew. She had not only disobeyed her guardian but was in open breach of the law. She shivered. Please, please, please let him just spank me, she prayed, but she knew that the best she could hope for was being handed over to Dame Mary who would no doubt remember the lie as well.

Her speculations were interrupted by the arrival of four maids carrying a large curved stool. They were led by the chatelaine herself as they half carried and half dragged the great oak and leather throne-like furniture to the middle of the room in front of the great table. Jane’s heart sank, especially when she saw the large governess birch cradled in Dame Mary’s arms.

At least there are still no guards she consoled herself, but the smirking maids marred her hopes somewhat. Then even that consolation was completely crushed.

Lord Jerome, her guardian’s eldest son, swept into the hall accompanied by Jeffrey, his gallowglass and Jane swallowed. She had thought Jerome out on the hunt, one of the principal reasons she had wanted to go. Oh don’t let him see me like this, she quailed inwardly. Jane hugged at her breasts with one hand and tugged the hem of her shift down in front with the other.

Jerome was tall and dark with his hair cut in a military style. He carried himself with broad-shouldered pride and even in just his shirt he looked powerfully broad with unwavering chestnut brown eyes that were almost black. Garand’s son was eight years her senior and she supposed that now he was near 30, he was no longer so well disposed to frolicking with his brothers when his father needed a strong right hand.

“Why are you such a trial to my father?” Jerome said impatiently. “Why couldn’t you have sneaked out side-saddle in a dress like my sisters do on troll hunts? Everyone knows what you intended and this can’t be settled with just a sound spanking.”

Eloise was to be spanked then, Jane thought gleefully, forgetting for a moment her own fate. She glanced at the corner and pictured her cousin standing there with her red bottom on show.

“My father has given your punishment over to me foolish girl,” Jerome sighed, “So come here.”

Jane gulped and blushed to her golden hairline tinting even that a momentary pink.

“Later you will be confined to your room until further notice under the direction of Dame Mary,” Jerome told her, “Frankly I hope she uses your tail end for spanking practice for the rest of the summer.”

Jane gaped and shot a glance at the row of smirking maids. The rest of the season would be much worse than that now that the chatelaine owned her bottom. A semi-public spanking in the upper salon would just be an amuse bouche for some extensive bottom-centric adventures, she thought grimly.

Jerome sat down on the throne-like stool and patted one knee.

“A spanking first,” he said.

Jane’s cheek’s coloured and she looked in horror at Jeffery. Surely he wouldn’t get to watch, he was low born she bridled. But Jerome didn’t wait and in a moment she was hauled over his lap with her bare bottom uppermost.

“Decorum, appearances and respect for the law,” Jerome chided her as he brought his firm paddle-like hand down on her exposed behind.

The sting robbed her of breath and compared favourable, that is to say unfavourably, with Dame’s Mary’s hairbrush.

“Please my lord,” she squealed.

“You don’t please me,” he scolded, “You enjoy all the trappings of this family and bear none of the responsibilities.”

He spanked her again hard with great smooth sweeps, turning her pert white bottom to a peony red in moments.

“I’m sorry,” she wailed. Sorry she was caught, she thought, her teeth clenched tight.

“You will be. When I am done here I am going to birch you raw and be thankful I don’t hand you over to the beadle,” Jerome barked at her.

The young lord spanked her for a goodly while before he was even close to being satisfied.

“You can have a stint in the corner to think about what you have coming next,” he said once he was done with her.

Jane was lost in tears and past caring about her shame. Just then the corner sounded like a welcome respite.

*

At that moment far across the Evergreen Forest another youngster was meeting a similar fate. The elven folk were just as exacting when it came to keeping youth in line and one particular youth was the thirty-sixteen Aerin.

This particular juvenile elf was also keen on the troll hunt, and had sought some magical help in her would-be pursuit. Her obsession with trolls was ingrained deep. Any that knew her would say it was because she held her dignity in high esteem and craved the status that went with being a great troll hunter. But that was only part of her story.

True she had been drawn to tales of heroism from an early age. Also she had a need for status in a world where her elders were often a thousand years or more her senior drove. But that was not the whole story. There were after all many ways to gain status.

Aerin’s obsession with trolls had begun years before when she was still sneaking into taverns to hear hero’s tales. One day two hunters had come in from the wild with stories of their adventures. They claimed to have been captured by trolls and held as prisoners for weeks. They further claimed to have traded their lives for sexual favours. This had drawn great hawking of mirth from the tavern goers. An older wiser elf girl might have suspected some embellishment was the order of the day, but Aerin was neither old nor wise.

“Trolls have male parts like horses,” said one of the hunters holding her hands widely spaced. “And their favourite sexual sport is buggery.”

“And when they want a lick,” said the other with glee, she made a motion with her fist and mouth so that her tongue pulsed her cheek as she spoke; “A girl can scarce get her lips around it.”

The pub drinkers all howled with laughter while a young Aerin had sat wide-eyed and squirmy.

“Do they have you by the mouth ‘fore or after the buggery?” asked one mirth filled customer.

“They have you anyway they want or they tan the skin off your arse worse than my gaffer ever did,” the second hunter girl threw back merrily.

The ribald tales continued until Aerin’s head had spun. Later she had retired to her cot to experiment with various vegetables while contemplating a spanking form a troll.

Now as an older if not wiser elf girl and would-be troll hunter she had hit upon the idea of borrowing a little magic to aid her. The street door to the Sorceress Glandrith’s house had been tantalisingly open and beyond it the library door had been ajar. What harm could taking a little book or two do anyway?

Unfortunately her experiments had gone a little awry. The books that she had chosen had been put under a trivial but inescapable forbidding spell. Some of the tomes had burst to fire with such a sound and fuss that Glandrith had appeared at once. The consequences were embarrassing, painful and immediate.

“Not here, please not here Glandrith,” Aerin pleaded as the Elder plucked a razor switch from the prerequisite tree.

‘Here’ was an upper concourse outside Glandrith’s house near one of the main bridges leading to the main thoroughfare.

The Elder ignored Aerin’s pleadings and easily bested her with a light justice spell that enabled Glandrith to put the reluctant elf across her knee without a struggle. For good measure and to thoroughly make her point, Aerin had been hastily half-stripped the girl until she was almost naked with her small but prominent bare bottom made even more prominent over Glandrith’s knee.

The sorceress then tapped Aerin’s bottom with the switch and considered her next move. This was going to be a lesson the girl would remember for a thousand years she decided. Theft and illicit magic dabbling were not to be tolerated.

Both being Forest Elves, they both had yellow-white hair and crystal blue eyes. But where Glandrith was pale in complexion, Aerin was sandy red from an outdoor tan. Her bottom, although small, was a good one and the Elder was determined that it would be well-serviced.

“Now my little one, do you want a chafing spell for your relish or a compulsion?” Glandrith grinned mischievously.

Aerin had suffered both as a student of her master, neither was to be envied or ever forgotten.

“Oh please, please, please,” Aerin wailed, “Not here, please don’t.”

Already one or two villagers had gathered on account of the commotion and one of Aerin’s companions gaped in wonder at the scene. I’ll never live this down, she thought bitterly.

“Chafing or a compulsion?” Glandrith pressed the bare-bottomed girl over her knee. She was in no hurry. “Ask me nicely for one or I will employ both.”

A chafing would ensure that Aerin’s bottom would be too sore to cover let alone sit on for at least a month and a compulsion would compel the hapless younger elf to seek Glandrith out for a top up as soon as her flesh was half healed. The elves were a hardy long-lived race who could recover from almost anything non-fatal. Such sanctions were both commonplace and necessary.

Linking the two spells would put Aerin’s bottom at Glandrith’s pleasure almost indefinitely.

How to choose, Aerin wailed inwardly.

“Is it to be both then?” Glandrith teased.

Permanent exposure and standing up for meals at the communal table would be a shame beyond measure. A switching every three or four days until the spell wore off was marginally preferable even if some of her punishments were public like this one.

“Consider your next words very carefully,” Glandrith warned Aerin.

“Please Elder Glandrith, I was wrong to take your books and I am sorry. Please punish me very severely and lay a compulsion on me to return for further correction for as long as you decide is just,” Aerin said miserably.

“Are you sure young Aerin? I usually like to ply my switch to a bottom well-seasoned with stinger oil and bite crystals. My students find it most instructive,” Glandrith explained.

She hadn’t resolved yet to be quite so cruel, but she would definitely employ the technique once or twice if Aerin was contrite. More often if she was not.

Aerin’s eyes went wide and she considered pleading again. Damn this do-gooder sorceress. School, bah, it was strictly for goody-two shoes and nasty swats.

“Might I ask if my punishments will be in private?” she whispered.

She hated that there was a small audience and that they could hear her beg. Some were already laughing at her.

“Most of them I expect, so long as you call on me before the compulsion is upon you and you bring your own switch, stinger oil and bite crystals. I will teach you how to blend them if you are good,” Glandrith teased.

“Ooh,” Aerin wailed, hastily adding, “Yes of course lady, I am so grateful.”

She tried to sound respectful and earnest as any hint of sarcasm or bitterness would be punished. It was the elven way.

Aerin had been spanked once or twice using bite crystals or stinger oil. But her mentor had never used them together. Oh well, her tight doeskin breeks would be in her wardrobe for a while and as for sitting down… well at least she could keep her tail covered in public if she were careful. If she wore very light short skirts, she pondered. At least she hoped that would be the case or else her surrender was for naught. As it was her switching would be the talk of the village for days.

The switch sliced across the crowns of her bottom and Aerin knew she was in the hands of an expert. The fiery gift was one that went on giving and as the pain built. The line of searing fire continued to saw into her until Glandrith laid another stroke neatly below the first so that the two stinging welts could sing together.

Aerin was a tough girl, but by the time the duet of pain had become a choir she was drowning out the chorus with an unseemly song of her own and one that could be heard across the elven village.

“Oh please my lady, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she wailed, little pearls of moisture tumbling down her shame-red cheeks.

For the watching audience the sight of a bawling mewling elf-girl had them cackling with glee.

Glandrith took no notice of any of them as she set in to administer a long, long sound switching on behalf of her books; a switching that could take up much of the afternoon if she crafted it just right.

*

The coming and going in the hall for the evening meal was almost disconcerting in its normality. There was the usual hubbub of chatting and the clink of pottery jugs brim-full of ale. And yet for Lady Jane it was possibly the worst night of her life.

She was standing in the corner of the hall still dressed only in her short shift. Only this time it had been tucked-up well clear of her bottom exposing the red rash of birch rod spore that expansively stained the curve of both cheeks. The relentless throbbing fire that mercilessly pulsed there showed not least the hint of abating, so much so that it had taken most of the afternoon for her to bring her rather copious tears under control. Even now her bottom felt twice its normal size with a million hornets all crawling and stinging as they made a home under martyred skin.

Earlier after the spanking and a long and embarrassing enough time in the corner, Jerome had summoned her again and bent her across the stool in a crudely obscene arse up posture as if she were nothing more than a maid servant. Then he had thrashed her slowly and hard for a time beyond counting until all her defiance had fled and she cried like a baby and promised to be good.

Even compared to the first time, her return to the corner had been a blessed relief and she could have kissed Jerome’s boots in gratitude for his small mercy. But that had been hours ago. Now she was acutely aware that she was shamefully exposed to the mirth of the court and unrelenting rasp pain in her bottom promised to make sure she never sat down again.

Once, after the evening meal in the hall when none seemed to have any further regard for her, she stole a glance over shoulder. The gruff guards were bad enough as they stood as silent witnesses to her shame and the idle yet admiring glances of her male cousins was mortification admixed with an unnamed thrill. But worst of all were the women who huddled together giggling in loud whispers as they made no effort to disguise their mockery of her. Lady Jane wanted to melt into the floor.

Nor did it get better as the evening wore on. For as the hall emptied Jane became ever more conscious that she was again the centre of attention. So much so that once the cousins had retired for the night she had another little cry.

Finally Dame Mary came to remove her to bed.

“My lady, you are in such trouble,” Mary chided her as she led the way with a single candle. “Your tomboy days are over my girl. By the time I am finished with you, you won’t dream of trolls or troll hunts.”

But that was the trouble, she did dream of them and she was more determined than ever to hunt one.

*

The Evergreen Forest was a haven for all her kind and the night sounds and music of the trees soothed her. The gentle throb in her bottom even seemed to match that of the elf song that rang through the forest. And perhaps because she was still under the influence of Glandrith’s justice spell, Aerin felt cleansed and could not find it in her heart to resent the Elder or her harsh punishment.

The sore-bottomed elf shifted on the bed where she lay face down naked and pondered her next move. She could not possibly stay around the village until her punishment was over. She had trolls to hunt. Even her mentor Paris, an ancient elder from the distant sea, had said as much.

Well he hadn’t exactly said she should evade punishment or that she should actually hunt trolls. But he had said, “When will you amount to anything girl? Why are you always so late?”

He had said this while she was bent over the mushroom stone in the yard while he belaboured her bare welted bottom with his belt for being late home.

He didn’t ask where she had been. The whole village was talking about her punishment and even if he hadn’t heard, the welts on her behind told their own story. Paris took no notice of these as he beat her with his belt to the full measure. She didn’t mind much, not beyond the shaming pain anyway. He was entirely within his rights and she deserved it. Damn that justice spell, she cursed. How was a girl ever going to get up to mischief?

“Whatever you do or don’t do in this life,” he always told her, “Don’t get caught.”

It was sage advice and in this at least she had failed him.

Now she had the same problem as before. How did she escape Glandrith’s compulsion? She could try stealing a book again, but that hadn’t worked out too well for her so far. Maybe she could work out some sort of deal with the elder, she pondered as she listened to the sound of the music of the forest.

In a day or two, three or four at most, she would have to gather a switch and the other ingredients for her torment and report to Glandrith for another prolonged tail blistering. There was no getting around that. But she had to come up with some sort of deal by then.

*

Four days later Lady Jane knelt at the prie dieu with a bottom that felt like it had been kitchen roasted. Only it was not only the surface of her hinds that gentle throbbed with a soreness that rasped even against the air of the room. The small bud between her cheeks glowed like a hot pepper stone with an intensity that burrowed deep. The chatelaine was nothing but thorough in her cleaning as the soapy taste of loam testified. Both were a fraction of the consequence for her lies.

She had been counselled, no commanded, by Dame Mary to kneel there with her bottom exposed and read the advanced encyclopaedia of etiquette for noble ladies. It was an almost impossible task as she had to memorise the long boring passages she had been set, but failure to do so would result in another spanking and some lengthy corner time contemplating a gruel supper. That’s if she got any.

She remembered when Eloise had been so treated. She had been as meek as a kitten for months. Jane had found it highly amusing to see the immaculately turned out Eloise routinely made to ask for spanking just to teach Eloise her place. It wasn’t so funny now.

“If I could only escape and capture a troll,” she said aloud, “Then even Lord Garand would listen then. That would wipe the smile of their faces.”

Beyond the Evergreen Forest another young woman harboured similar thoughts of escape.

Earlier that day Aerin had stood at the back of one of Glandrith’s classes. It had been a dull complex lesson right up until the time a 22-teener girl had been called out for her inattentiveness. Aerin had joined the class in laughing as the young woman was turned over Glandrith’s knee for a prolonged bare-bottom spanking as a prelude to being sent to the corner still exposed for the rest of the lesson.

“Ah, young Aerin,” Glandrith said brightly after the young elf woman was dismissed.

“I have come for my appointment,” Aerin said ruefully as she held up the razor switch, a bag of bite crystal and a bottle of stinger oil. “I traded for the best and the merchant assured me that the young lady I had in mind to punish wouldn’t sit down for a year once she had experienced his goods. I suspect he was exaggerating a mite, but…”

“Only a little,” Glandrith said evenly. “I must say your attitude has improved.”

Aerin blushed.

“I am sorry about before, really I am. I deserve all I got,” she said sheepishly.

“And all you are going to get,” Glandrith smiled humorously.

“Yes my lady,” Aerin chewed at her lip, “I agree.”

Damn the woman, Aerin thought.

“Had you come tomorrow and dragged this out I would have punished you in front of my class,” Glandrith said casually, “They are a cruel lot, as am I. We would all have enjoyed that tremendously.”

Aerin blanched.

“It is very useful in my studies you see,” Glandrith explained, “I seldom get the chance to so thoroughly test my methods.”

“Why not capture a human, aren’t they fair game?” Aerin suggested conversationally.

“Human women are so hard to come by and few ever venture into the forest,” Glandrith said with regret.

“You could trade a half share in a troll for a dozen human girls,” Aerin suggested gently.

“Is that so?” the Elder smiled, she sensed an offer in the making.

*

Aerin’s bottom had been polished for long minutes with a paste made from bite crystal and stinger oil. The acid gunk had felt both abrasively sticky and harshly dry by turns as it had been applied, but that unpleasantness was nothing to the slowly growing rasping pain as the intense itching first prickled and the began to burn. The concoction lived up to its name and the hapless elf-girl felt as if her bottom had been peeled back with flaying clout and birched for a year.

Then she had been required to kneel on a bench at the back of the open class and bend over with her elbows on the floor and her bottom uppermost. The undignified semi-public position would have been enough by itself to cause the tears that sprang to her eyes, but the paste liberally applied to her bottom made her feel as if she had already been switched.

“Feeling tender?” Glandrith asked as she tapped Aerin’s bottom with a razor switch.

Aerin gritted her teeth and struggled with her breathing as she replied, “yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.”

“Now let me see if I have this right,” the elder elf said in a considered tone.

The switch cut the air and landed with a satisfying thwick. Aerin’s eyes flew open and she hissed with pain.

“You wish to be temporarily released from your debt to me in order to hunt a troll. In exchange for sharing half your stake in this creature, you wish to be released form my thrall altogether,” Glandrith pondered aloud. “What if you don’t capture or kill this troll?”

The switch plied its trade vigorously for several strokes actually making Aerin yell out and squeal. It took several moments for her to compose herself. Then in a tight voice she managed, “Well… then I will return to face the music, as it were.”

Yeah and snow don’t melt in summer, she vowed quietly.

Glandrith nodded imperiously and then studiously and firmly resumed the switching.

“Nyah,” Aerin groaned and then even more incomprehensibly began a litany of pleading like yelps.

“So if you don’t get this troll, then what is in it for me?” Glandrith said in a pause.

Aerin was trembling now and she struggled with great heaving gasps. The elder elf waited patiently. She understood.

“The combination with the paste is rather effective isn’t it?” she murmured idly.

“Oh yes ma’am,” Aerin’s voice strained.

“And so, you were saying?” the Elder urged her switch hovering menacingly over Aerin’s raw behind.

“Y-you get the chance to gain the troll,” Aerin was struggling now.

“How confident are you of besting a troll?”

“Oh I can do it ma’am, really I can,” Aerin sniffed.

Glandrith pursed her lips and then focussing carefully on Aerin’s bottom she began a long and thorough series of swipes that sent the elf maid to wild gyrating and bucking.

“You’re a thief and therefore untrustworthy,” Glandrith decided.

The switch continued its work.

“Nooo ma’am, please…” Aerin tore at her lower lip with her teeth and swallowed back a banshee wail in her distress.

“On the other hand,” Glandrith momentarily suspended the punishment, “You are under my thrall and I can always summon you.”

“Yes ma’am, yes,” Aerin said eagerly through her tears.

“If you fail then you agree you will come and serve me in any way I see fit for… seven years say,” Glandrith decided.

“Agreed,” Aerin shrieked.

“Good,” Glandrith nodded in satisfaction.

Aerin sagged in relief and was ready for a thoroughly good cry.

Behind her Glandrith had turned away and picked up a small bowl.

“Oh look there is some unguent left. Pity to waste it,” she said cheerfully.

Then carefully she applied a fresh smear of the mixture on Aerin raw and blistered behind, making a determined effort to smooth it into every crack and crevice of her bottom before taking up a fresh switch.

“I will free you tomorrow,” she chuckled.

“Yes ma’am ,” Aerin groaned.

*

To be concluded on Tuesday.

Years ago while watching an old black and white movie set in some kind of senior girls’ school there was a chance reference to Abelard and Heloise. It meant nothing to me at the time and if I ever knew it the name of the movies escapes me.

It was an odd set-up with ‘schoolgirls’ all being women (or at least played by women) and the scene in question revolved around a senior girl ambiguously ‘seducing’ a master in a classroom as an elaborate way of embarrassing him.

“If you don’t cut along Miss…” whatever, he says, “I shall spank you.”

This is the moment the teacher’s colleague choses to enter and overhear and she quips, “Not exactly Abelard and Heloise is it.”

The girl scurries away while the male teacher stutters his explanations to a woman who is dismissive and has the naughty girl sussed.

The movie, which was made circa 1950, was otherwise unremarkable and was of the sort that was often shown on UK TV up to the 1980s and never seen again. But it did set me on a short quest to find out more about Abelard and Heloise.

This story has featured on this blog before, but not in any detail. One of the books dealing with the story was a biography by Enid McLeod, which was published in 1938. At the time a copy wasn’t be had but tantalisingly a reference at the library to the book said it “was over endowed with spanking other romantic nonsense.”

As you can imagine it was with regret that a copy couldn’t be found.

If you are wondering and didn’t know Peter Abelard and Héloïse d’Argenteuil were real lovers in the 12^th century and he was indeed her tutor and empowered to thrash the girl as he saw fit; this at the orders of her uncle Fulbert.

Heloise was unusually talented and although her age at the outset of this arrangement isn’t known, it has been put between 17 and 27 by scholars.

The point of interest for us is that some of these scholars have speculated as to whether Heloise’s chastisements were a cover, a duty or something more erotic.

The tale is a tragic one as the picture above, which may be an engraving depicting the couple, suggests.

The country was rugged and wild; the last great wilderness south of the Thames some called it. Bagshot Heath was just a small corner of the English county of Surrey and as such lay hard on the south-western edge of London. But despite its proximity to the Capital, few suspected it existed.

There were few great trees here; the sandy soil did not support them. But the scrub was thick enough and tended to gather in harsh copses in the hollows between low sandy hills. And for mile after mile the only structure she had seen had been a gibbet set atop a rise to the left of the road.

In former years, not so long ago they said, highwaymen had plied their trade here and looking from the carriage window Amy could certainly believe it. She shuddered; the dangerous landscape suited her mood as she leaned out and scanned the road ahead.

The road itself wound on towards Reading and the more hospital parts of Berkshire, but it would not be long before they made the turn south and into rich lush land that more typified the county and on to their destination.

Amy Richmond was 21 and free. She was pretty enough, but no great beauty, which in her view was a blessing. Her family had set aside just enough money to provide for her independence, but not so much that she would be over troubled by the marriage market. In fact as her age of majority had approached she had pleaded poverty to all who would listen so that few would question her choice to seek employment at the Surrey and Hampshire Finishing Academy for Young Ladies. After all, pursuing a career in teaching was the path followed by many distressed gentlewomen.

She looked down at her plain grey dress and tugged on the respectable bonnet that struggled to contain her wild red hair. She would do, she decided.

“Whatever are you thinking?” her former governess had asked on hearing of Amy’s intent. “That school has no academic value and is merely a dumping ground for failed noblewoman and hapless girls regarded as a social embarrassment to their families.”

Exactly, thought Amy, I have no desire to trouble myself with sums or geography.

“You do realise that most of the girls will be your age or a little younger and that you will only be a teacher-in-training for at least a year and very probably two or three,” Charlotte had continued.

“Surely I must be polished before I can shine,” Amy countered.

“I have a good mind to polish your bottom for you, you foolish girl,” Charlotte snapped, “I remember well how it used to shine in that very corner following a good spanking.”

Amy had flushed peony and clutched at her throat. But inside she had thrilled at the memory as she thrilled now.

The carriage lurched and the hard leather seat slapped her hard on the rump. That would have been unsupportable at times, she smiled, and not so very long ago. Amy remembered how she had sometimes been accustomed to kneeling on the floor following ‘a good spanking’ as Charlotte had put it. Sitting down for a visit to Grand-Mama had been quite impossible at such times. She had spent many an afternoon at her grandmother’s taking tea off the mantle to a chorus of tsk-tsk.

Only what Charlotte cared to call a spanking, had oft consisted of a full session of the birch rod applied to her naked bottom in the hearing and sometimes full view of the maid. Amy blushed and squirmed on the seat.

Charlotte had never understood why she had so often had to punish the girl and why a spanking had never seemed to take. Amy allowed a little smile to dance on her lips. She had been mortified of course and at the time her begging for forgiveness had been in earnest. But that only added to the quiet fulfilment she had later felt.

Cousin Constance had understood.

Constance was half a decade the elder and had married at 24. Before that she had briefly and dramatically been subject to Charlotte’s vigorous ministrations. She too had never seemed to learn until her father had sent her to a Ladies College in Prussia for some harsher lessons.

On Constance’s return she had regaled her with tales of such cruelty and painful purgatory that Amy had been enthralled. Constance had spared her none of the lurid details.

Amy squirmed again on her seat as she recalled the tales.

“One is put in the charge of an older girl who may spank you for the merest thing,” a wide-eyed Constance had informed her, “On the bare bottom in the most dreadful way.”

Amy had licked her lips.

“And that is not the worst of it,” Constance had continued, “The tutoresses cane the girls in class right there in front of everyone. It happened daily I tell you. Then there was the Directress and her birch rods…”

Amy had hung on every word.

“You don’t think I will get sent there too do you?” she had asked.

Constance had smiled knowingly.

It had been Constance who had heard about the finishing school in Surrey.

“It is run on something like Prussian lines I hear, so if you did take up a post you would be required to thrash some tails I am afraid,” she had said.

Girl beatings by proxy, Amy had mused, not ideal but…

“And I hear they cane the student teachers too and one cannot teach there until one is at least 21,” Constance had continued, “Imagine that.”

Amy had. The letter of introduction from Lady Constance had gone a long way to securing her the post.

*

The carriage arrived a little before sunset, which at this time of year was just after six. Already the warm orange glow complimented the brickwork buildings and seemed to welcome her. Looking around she could see a small manicured lawn to the side of the main building and on it stood a white marble sun dial next to a good sized monkey puzzle tree.

Not that she had time to take it all in as the coachman had no sooner set down her bags when he again mounted the carriage and set off down the drive. It was left to a diminutive woman Amy took to be the maid to gather up the luggage and lead her into the house.

“The master will see you at once Miss,” were her only words as she struggled on with the bags.

Amy gaped after her quizzically, hovering harrier style on the chessboard tiles of the hall.

“In there Miss, just knock and wait,” the departing maid said nodding at a heavy oaken door set amid dark panels.

As it turned out the man within must have heard her expected arrival for even as the maid went from sight a clear baritone voice called out “Come,” and Amy availed herself of the door and entered.

George Faversham was of an indeterminate age between 30 and 40. His thick hair was curly to a point, but styled with some gravitas; an effect aided by the merest hint of silver among the dark chestnut brown. Although he was tall and slender, his shoulders had a heavy set with a suggestion of one used to pugilism, Amy thought.

Mr Faversham was styled the Dean of College and it was explained that he acted as business manager to the school and mentor to the junior staff during their training. The sign at the gates had lead on Dr Margaret Winchester as headmistress, but Faversham’s name had figured prominently alongside hers with the letters MA emblazoned in its train.

“Academia is of no concern to us here Miss Richmond,” George Faversham explained, “We address ourselves to etiquette and decorum through unrelenting and uncompromising discipline.”

“I am much encouraged by that Sir,” Amy replied, “In truth it is all I hoped for.”

“So I understand from Lady Constance’s letter,” Faversham agreed and letting his eye scan the paper on his desk he added, “Your cousin I believe.”

“Yes, it was she who…”

“There is no need to explain, Lady Constance was most informative as to your… interests,” he said with a light stern touch.

“I had no idea you were acquainted, Constance was rather vague I am afraid,” Amy put in.

“Discretion is an important aspect to our society here,” Faversham said significantly.

“Ah, quite so,” Amy replied.

She suspected that there was very much more to the Academy here, but trusted that Constance did indeed know the truth of it and had her interests at heart.

“A maid will see you to your room where you will find some books, including the rules,” he said, extending an arm towards the door. “You will be required to have an examinable grasp of them all before we let you assist in teaching a class and tomorrow you will return here at 10 o’clock sharp for the start of your induction. Meanwhile, I suggest you read the rules.”

“Very good Sir,” Amy smiled.

*

Amy never knew why, she certainly hadn’t consciously set out to test the man, but it was almost 10 minutes past the hour when she knocked upon George Faversham’s door.

“Come in Miss Richmond,” came his rather weary and somewhat exasperated voice from within.

Amy breezed in cheerfully eager to learn more about her new home and employment.

“May I…” Amy said indicating a chair.

“No Miss, you may not.” Faversham sounded cross.

Amy stood up straight and tried to cover her consternation. She was not accustomed to rude men, but then she had never met one in her small social circle.

“Tell me Miss Richmond, did you read the small and very concise rule book that was supplied to you?” he asked her pointedly.

“I am afraid after my cold supper and long journey I did not find the time,” Amy told him.

“I see,” Faversham said sharply. “If you had done so you would know that tardiness is a grave sin here at our school.”

Amy shot a glance at the clock on the mantle and flushed.

“My apologies Sir, I…”

“That is two sins to your name on your very first morning,” Faversham scolded her.

“Sorry Sir,” Amy mumbled, affecting a modern style of truncated speech for brevity.

“Pardon,” Faversham growled at her.

“I said I am sorry Sir,” Amy offered meekly.

“Well that is as maybe, but as a member of the teaching staff, albeit a junior one, you are expected to set an example,” he said with a hint of kindness. A hint, but he did not go overboard and his manner remained stern.

“Yes Sir,” Amy agreed.

“That makes what is to come all the more difficult for you,” Faversham told her.

Amy frowned.

“Tell me Miss Richmond, until you reached your majority you were often soundly thrashed were you not?”

Amy blushed for the Empire and did not know where to put herself.

“You must answer me Miss,” Faversham scolded.

Amy dipped her head and returned the merest of nods.

“You will speak your answer Miss Richmond,” Faversham barked.

Amy swallowed and offered a small “Yes Sir.”

“Yes Sir, what?” Faversham pressed her.

“Yes Sir, I was thrashed Sir,” Amy managed.

“You see here at the Academy young ladies are thrashed and on occasion you will thrash them. By this I mean, and to be clear, you will spank them, cane them, birch them as and when required,” Faversham told her. “But before you can do such duty you must accept such treatment.”

Amy nodded. That seemed fair, if embarrassing to admit.

“Tell me then, how were you punished?”

“I was sp-spanked quite harshly on my… my behind and sometimes I have been… b-birched,” Amy whispered.

“On your bare bottom?”

Amy forced down a breath and mumbled, “Yes Sir.”

“Good, for all such punishments are always on the bare here,” he said, “Shame is an important part of discipline.”

Amy thought of Prussia and thrilled; oh to hear a man speak so openly about her own personal obsessions.

“And so and to that end on every day of your induction you will experience a punishment as you are expected to give it,” Faversham explained, studying her carefully for a reaction.

Many a prospective student teacher had quailed at this point and tendered their resignation. That was why he had no interest in those desperate women who had no other recourse. Women like Amy had choices and if she was to choose this life then it would be all to the good for all concerned.

“I see…” Amy blushed.

“You must understand that here at this school we train young ladies for marriage and all that entails. If you accept this proposition then it is I who will discipline you,” Faversham told her.

Amy’s blush melted her down to the floor.

“Further, with two sins to your name already, I will augment this to the utmost extent with such in mind,” he continued.

“Wh-what will you do Sir?” Amy asked shyly.

“With most young ladies in this day and age I would begin with a smack-bottom and go from there,” he said sharply, “It is most instructive. But since you are in error and have previous… history, I will attend to you firmly, very firmly.”

“Yes Sir,” Amy agreed.

Her heart punched at the inside of her chest and she felt quite giddy.

“I will leave you for 15 minutes,” Faversham explained, “You may ring for the maid if you require assistance, but when I return I will find your skirts and so-forth pinned to the small of your back and your bloomers left off.”

Amy gulped, her pale complexion lost in a shade her hair had never known. She could only nod now as no word would breech her throat.

“When I return I will find you in that corner,” Faversham said, pointing to a vacant space beside an aspidistra towards the French windows, “Facing the wall.”

Amy dipped her head and wondered if she could accomplish such a thing without the maids help.

“Occasionally such ladies as you absent themselves at this point and I return to find them gone. If that is your intent then I understand and I bid you farewell.” Then with a curt nod he left.

Amy’s mind raced with thoughts drawn from the penny-dreadfuls and other such stories. This was an adventure beyond scandal and her heart continued to hammer at her chest. The bloomers would be easy enough to remove, but how to pin her skirts and underskirts to her waist was a challenge. She would have been mortified to call on the maid and yet what was she to do?

Just then the door opened and the woman she had seen with her bags on the previous day appeared.

“It is alright Miss,” she said cheerfully, “I know how it is the first time, leave it to me.”

The woman was homely with sharp features and Amy would have put her at around 30 years of age. In a small way she reminded her of Constance and despite her violent shame she nodded gratefully for the assistance.

*

Amy had never felt as exposed as she did standing in the corner of Faversham’s study with her bare bottom revealed to the room. The fact that she was otherwise fully clothed only served to emphasise her vulnerability. It was an entirely new experience for her though. Charlotte had often had her stand so, but on those occasions she had been at once stripped to her shift only and that within the confines of her own room or the schoolroom and never with the prospect of being seen thus by a man.

Nor had she any idea what to expect from this man on his return. What she hadn’t counted on was his brusque matter-of-factness at her shame.

“I see you have decided to accept our customs here,” he said as he came through the door. “Very well since we have much to get through I want you to bend across the desk please.”

Amy froze, unable to pull away from the wall where she would have to confront him.

“Miss Richmond, please, if you will,” he said in a commanding voice.

She nodded tersely and with her chin pressed hard into her chest she meekly turned and tentatively crossed the room.

“Bend over so that your behind is presented up and backwards,” he said somewhat casually, but she fancied she could hear a tight edge to his voice.

Nevertheless she obeyed reluctantly, but not before noting the short leather strap he held in his hands.  As she did so it seemed to her that she had taken up a somewhat extreme and obscene posture, but she realised it was only regarded by her as such on account of being under a man’s eyes.

“Legs together please,” he intoned, tapping the leather against his thigh as he spoke.

Amy pressed her heels in tight, which served to elevate her bottom still further.

“Now keep position,” he said firmly.

“Yes Sir,” she managed; her voice thick in her throat.

Her bottom, now that he studied it, was a firm round dome of astonishing whiteness. She was certainly a healthy girl and he couldn’t help noting the tinge of red hair peeking through her thighs that told of a heavy growth in front.

His strap fell with a sharp crack that made her bob at the knees before setting her legs straight.

“Ah,” she gasped.

He nodded; she had indeed taken punishment before. Then he watched as the red band of his strap’s passing grew and developed on her fine pale skin.

For Amy the bar across her bottom stung like a lemon on a tender spot in the mouth, but unlike the sweetness that usually followed, this had bite.

The second swipe robbed her of thought and she dipped a solitary knee as she rode out a wave of pain. This time Faversham did not wait, but struck her hard again across the bottom so that she squealed a little.

It took some moments for Amy to draw a breath and then she could do nothing but gasp like a drowning fish. Across her dark pink bottom now were deeper mottles of true red that even burned purplish at the edges of burning doughnut welts.

“I generally take a girl to between eight and 12 on this first test and so as you have much more to come I will do the same for you,” Faversham told Amy.

Amy, who was breathing vocally now, took a moment and then gasped, “Thank you Sir.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, noting her acceptance without protest. Then true to his word he added the last few strokes while she grunted in discomfort.

“Now Miss Richmond, if you would kindly take up a pose in the corner while I summon Alice to escort you to where you will acquire the necessary,” he said.

Amy’s bottom blazed as she stood up and it was all she could do not to indulge in unseemly rubbing of her behind. So she was back in the corner before she began to wonder who Alice was.

“Sir…? Mr Faversham… who is Alice?” Amy asked meekly, her voice muffled by the walls of corner that held her nose.

“She is a colleague, another new girl who will show you the ropes,” Faversham replied.

It was sometime before Alice arrived, by which time the realisation that Faversham could see her bare bottom and that it was really happening took hold of Amy’s imagination.

*

Alice was a girl not more than a year or two Amy’s senior. A pretty blonde, she was on the petite side and in George Faversham’s presence, was as meek as you like.

“Isn’t he just a brick,” Alice gushed once they had left his study.

Amy, who felt decidedly uncomfortable at her still exposed state, did not know how to reply.

“Oh… yes,” Alice offered sympathetically as she eyed Amy’s bare bottom. “It is rather trying isn’t it? We all go through it you know. Or going through it I should say. I expect I’ll join you ‘ere long.”

“Join me in what exactly?” Amy asked as she eyed the door to the outside nervously.

“We have to go and get the makings I am afraid,” Alice told her.

“The makings for what?” Amy held back as Alice held open the door. “Not out there surely, not like this… I’m, I’m…”

“Only girls on the grounds and I doubt we’ll see any of those at this time of day. Mr Faversham is the only man here and he has already seen you hasn’t he?” Alice giggled. “Oh the makings… eh… well for a birch rod of course. You’re ever so silly.”

“A birch? But I have already been…”

“You are to be birched and then caned I think,” Alice shrugged, “It can’t be helped. Like I said, I expect I’ll be in on the bill within a day or two. I don’t mind so much,” she was tentative as she said ‘so much,’ “Not with Mr Faversham dishing it out. Quite an adventure eh?”

Amy realised it was. Not that it made her feel any better about standing in the grounds with no bloomers and her skirts pinned up in the small of her back. To cover her embarrassment she asked, “Is he really going to birch me?”

Alice offered a tight smile and nodded.

*

It took over half an hour to reach a spot in the woods near the edge of the estate. The place Alice brought them too was right under the wall.

“Sometimes the local boys climb up and look over the wall,” Alice giggled.

Amy gaped.

“The danger is more fun don’t you think? Anyway, this is the place,” Alice shrugged.

Amy regarded the wall in horror and kept her back turned to the woods.

“You’re supposed to trim them yourself,” Alice told her as she extended some secateurs.

Amy nodded. All a part of the adventure, she told herself. Then somewhere inside she thrilled again. So with a final glance at the wall she turned and reached for the first length of birch twig.

“Not too long, not too short,” Alice muttered, “You have it. Done it before eh?”

Amy blushed. She had, and fully clothed it had been embarrassing enough.

*

Shamefully Alice was not dismissed for Amy’s birching. Instead the older girl looked on with awed pleasure as Amy again bent over the desk and pushed out her bare bottom. The birch was not the one which Amy had made. That one had been steeped in brine to replace the rod that Faversham now held. It was a sound enough procedure, but Amy realised that all her efforts under the threat of exposure to choose lighter withes for her rod had been in vain and some other girl would reap the benefit.

Amy shot a glance at Alice who was smirking. You might have told me that part, she thought. But then strangely she felt an odd thrill at the justice of her position. She deserved a good thrashing for attempted cheating. She rocked her still red mottled behind back and forth in expectation.

“Just a quick two dozen I think,” Faversham told her, “That should make you tender enough for the cane.”

“Yes Sir,” Amy replied meekly.

Two dozen was the most she had ever felt and this birch looked enormous.

“The cane hurts in small doses doesn’t it Sir,” Alice piped up eagerly, “The birch is worse though, over the distance. You wait until you get three or even four dozen juicy swipes, I couldn’t sit down for a week.”

“It will do you good Miss Richmond,” Faversham soothed, now addressing Amy, “I am afraid Alice gets carried away, don’t you Alice?”

“Yes Sir,” Alice said shyly.

Amy swallowed hard then tucked her head down. Then after a pause she shot a glance back and said, “Sir, under the circumstances, can’t you call me Amy?”

“Not while I chastise you, no, but afterwards no doubt Miss Richmond, afterwards,” Faversham said as he sliced in the first cut.

The biting burn felt like nothing she had ever felt. And this is better than the cane, she thought incredulously. But then as the sting overwhelmed her Faversham birched her again and all thought was lost in a sea of wet wailing.

*

Amy had stood sobbing in the corner for the best part of an hour. She was infinitely grateful that Alice had been dismissed, but it was with some apprehension that she considered her bottom under the cane. She already doubted her ability to sit down and the cane sounded horrendous.

“Coming back to us eh?” Faversham asked as Amy finally got her crying under control.

“Yes Sir,” Amy said miserably.

“Don’t worry, you are a sport and I shall hold at six of the best today,” he chuckled, “But I do advise you to read the rules and don’t be late tomorrow.”

Amy gulped and stealing a glance over her shoulder she contemplated the nilgiri in Faversham’s hands.

“Will I… will you… I mean to say… will I be punished again tomorrow?” Amy asked nervously.

“Not punished, not if you are good, but we must continue with your induction must we not? But tomorrow a good sound spanking over my knee should suffice,” Faversham told her.

Amy gulped as he summoned her from the wall and had bend over to touch her toes.

“This is going to hurt,” he said.

And it did. A deep sawing pain that went on and on until she felt her bottom was cut in half. It took all she had not to stand up and grab her behind and tears sprang afresh from her eyes. But Constance was right, this was where she needed to be. Here she would be fulfilled.

Given the ‘vintage’ fiction this week, I thought we might close the theme for now with these. One of the above is an old favourite but the others I had not seen before they ended up in my archive. You can decide which is which, you may have seen them all anyway.

If you look closely the older woman in the first, third and last photograph looks remarkably similar.

Incidentally, I also stumbled across a very realistic dawn of photography classroom set, but the quality was appalling.

Our story began here.

War of the Wizards
It had been a long swim out to the ship in the dark and on several occasions Stephen didn’t think he would make it. For one thing the water was cold. Not the sharp cold of late night swim, but the soul chilling burn that bit so hard it felt as if your bones been turned to ice and would at any moment shatter like glass.

The ship, large enough from the shore, was now huge in the water beside him. Like a castle of wood looming out of the half-light, which was made all the worse because Stephen knew that it was full to the gunwales with death.

The Challis patriot had already reason enough to hate the invader and this proximity did nothing to ease his soul. But he had a mission and one that might end the war for his nation.

As he finally came in touching distance of the hard planked sides he considered what damage he might to. Had his brother not died in a ship destroyed by this very Precips fleet? He cursed the darkness and the chill and hoped that one day the captain of this vessel would know such loss.

But then he sighed. This was not his mission. Not today.

“Hello the ship,” he called, “Ahoy.”

The lantern picked him out instantly in the water and it was rapidly followed by shouts and frantic activity on the ship’s decks above.

“Ahoy there,” Stephen called, “I want to talk to your captain. I have a message from the Challis resistance.”

*

“I am your wife,” Miriam Stand told her husband, “I am entitled to more food surely.”

“You get as much as I do and strictly speaking that is more than you are entitled to. You eat better than Princess Shula does,” Euan groaned.

Miriam looked with disdain at the already stale loaf, the paltry chunk of cheese and half an apple on the fine polished table in their quarters. The table had been a wedding present from her family, and when Euan had made Captain of the Guard, she had demanded some quarters equal to their rank. Equal indeed to her furniture. The scraps on her table were an insult.

“Well she gets to make the rules and if she wants to play politics then that is her affair,” Miriam whined, “I have been to the stores during your inspection, we have tons and tons of food. Surely…”

Miriam made an acid face and clutched at her belly. She was accustomed to making a fuss over nothing; that was how she kept her man on his toes. Even her brief affair with the sergeant-at-arms had been to get his attention. But this was beyond a joke. She was hungry; this wasn’t ‘nothing.’

Oh why didn’t I flee the castle to my family in the north when I had the chance? It was the first thing she thought on waking and the last thing at night. She knew the answer of course. She couldn’t leave her husband, she loved him. Her only fear when the war had come was that he would send her away from her.

“There is little enough food as it is,” Euan snapped, banging his hand on the table in anger, “Accept that woman. We might lose this siege, hell, we might lose the war. Have you considered what will happen then?”

“Lose the war… don’t be an idiot, that is just too silly. Any day now the King will return and see off these ghastly Westerners at our gates.” Miriam’s laughter tinkled like her best crystal.

“An idiot, an idiot,” Euan spluttered, “I have two men in the infirmary after yesterday’s food riots. One man is dead after taking a stray arrow and those damn Westerners are up to something over the river… an idiot you say? Where… what… where have you been?”

No one but his wife could ever make Euan Stand lose his temper.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” Miriam said defensively, “I am entitled my opinion. The King will return mark my words he will. Then you will all look jolly silly hoarding all that food when everyone is starving to death.”

Euan let out a horrified gasp. He even felt his fist ball up and that sickened him. Lunging at his wife he ignored her cringing as he grabbed her by the back of the neck and propelled her to the window.

“Look, look out there,” he barked.

“Alright, you don’t have to be so rough,” Miriam said irritably.

She shrugged his hand from her neck and made a pout. If he was going to hit her it would be at the other end she knew. Then composed she looked out at the ranks of Western troops arrayed around the castle. She generally didn’t look because when she did it was all too much. On a bad day she might even believe that Euan was right.

“They are just a lot of silly soldiers,” she muttered, straining not to look too hard.

“Ah,” Euan growled angrily, “One hell of a lot,” he groaned in exasperation, “And you won’t think it silly when they pour through our gates. Get it through your head, the King is not coming. The King is in Timber defending Timon. If Timon falls then the war is lost. We are expendable.”

Miriam pouted again.

“But this is Peron’s castle. His family are here. He won’t sacrifice them for an ally’s capital, not even Timbre’s,” she sniffed snootily.

Euan whirled on her and stuck his face in hers. Then with chopping motions with his hand for emphasis at each word he spat out, “He-has-no-choice.”

The captain thought he saw an inkling of understanding grow in her eyes, but she quelled it with a sneer and pulled away from him.

“You don’t have to be shouty about it,” she pouted yet again.

Euan sighed and made to get his helm and sword to leave. But as he watched Miriam crossed the room snatched up the half of apple and carelessly bit into it. In moments she had consumed it all.

“That was to be shared between us for today and tomorrow. All of that food is,” Euan said in disbelief. “Did you hear nothing I said?”

Miriam stared him down for a moment and then with a mischievous grin she broke off slightly more than half the cheese and began to eat it.

“I will not fetch more for either of us,” Euan said quietly.

Miriam took another bite and then glanced at the bread.

Euan offered a brief warning look and then as if making up his mind he strode towards her and dragged her over to their bed. Sitting down he hauled her across his lap and began fighting with a mass of over-elaborate red silk skirts.

“Get off me you oaf,” she spat.

But Euan shoved her down and finally pulled her clothing up into her back. Most soldier’s wives disdained underwear as impractical, but Miriam always did have ideas above her position, so Euan’s eyes were greeted by the sight of a tailored pair of silk pantaloons of a kind that he doubted even Princess Shula would wear.

“How much did they cost?” he snapped.

Miriam’s eyes widened and she took a moment to swallow some of her righteous indignation. Not too much yet, but she had waited weeks for some attention and now she was getting altogether too much.

Euan didn’t wait for an explanation but seized the waistband of her undergarment and half tore and half pulled them down.

“Careful,” she wailed.

He wasn’t, not in the least, but once her bottom was bare he began spanking her in hard fast swats until she became shrill and kicked up her legs in dismay. It took only moments for her bottom to become a vivid red, which given that the volley of thwacks was louder than her yelling he was not surprised.

“Euan, alright, I’m sorry,” Miriam howled, “The Westerners are bad people, they will win. Does that satisfy you?”

Her husband paused in horror and then really put his back into it.

“Euan,” she screeched, “Oh the gods.”

He prayed that no one had heard her outburst and misunderstood. The damn woman was a fool.

“What did you say?” he bellowed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was just mad at you,” she wailed.

“And now I am mad at you,” he barked.

The spanking took a while yet and even using his hand Miriam’s bottom took on some quite startling hues.

“You will not eat one more thing without my permission. Is that understood?”

“Yes Euan,” his wife sniffed.

“I ought to make you stand in the corner until I get back,” he told her as he brought the spanking to a close.

“Yes Euan,” she agreed.

“Oh you little idiot,” he sighed as he pulled her onto his lap.

They kissed for the longest moment and then she pulled away.

“Do you really think we will lose?” she asked.

He couldn’t help smiling as she rubbed at her bottom. She was still more concerned with herself he realised.

“Not if I have anything to do with it, but we must be vigilant,” he reassured her.

Miriam nodded. Then she sighed and got to her feet. As he watched she crossed the room to her hope chest and opened it. Now what? He frowned. Retrieving something, she closed the box and walked slowly and ruefully back towards him.

“I have been bad again haven’t I?” she was using her small nervous pout now, instead of her defiant one.

Before he could answer she handed him the half-length rod of well-oiled lime-hazel. It was a traditional wedding gift, but Euan had scarce used it in their marriage, preferring his hand or when warranted his belt.

“I just wish…” but she closed his mouth with a kiss delivered with a bend at her waist like a humble bow.

Then she rolled up her skirts again and went to the table and bent over it to offer him a full view of her red round bottom.

Euan was still too cross with her to be entirely pleased at this submission. If it is a lesson you want, then you will have one, he decided.

“When I have finished with you, you won’t sit down for… well as long as I can arrange it,” he told her.

“I know,” she replied in her smallest voice, “Not least because I expect I will be standing in the corner.”

“Yes you will,” he told her firmly, “And to make sure of that I will have Mistress Kent sit with you until I return.”

Miriam gasped at his words and considered a protest, but she knew it was hopeless. After all he was in charge here and she had asked for it. But he didn’t have been quite so amenable. In any case the first swipe of the rod burned beyond all expectation and gave a hearty shout at every subsequent impact for a long, long time that hour.

“Oh Euan, my bottom is on fire,” she sobbed.

“As it damn well should be,” Euan told her.

*

The dawn had yet to break but already the darkness had thinned to a heavy grey as the ships of the assault flotilla neared the shore. Captain Timorous had ordered all the chains to be wrapped with old rags and grease, but that did not stop the occasional dull clank on wood nor the almost continuous creak of rigging as the lightest of breezes strained at the sails.

The flotilla could not land by night and would be seen by day; an invasion upon an open town was absolute madness and yet here they were.

The captain now stood on the prow of the lead ship willing the foe not to see them. But how could they not? The damn shoreline was wide open here and even on the edge of the small Challis port there were high enough cliffs with a thousand of places for spies to lurk.

Prince Jason had worked closely with the grumpy old wizard and the scar-faced one, Vosper, on the plan and he had been assured that when the time came there would be magic enough to aid them.

Captain Timorous glanced at his lieutenant and swallowed down the nasty taste that assaulted his mouth. The man merely shrugged and went back to scanning the looming murky shore ahead of them in the gloom.

Well, Timorous thought, the time has pretty much damn well come, so what happens now? He peered into the pale light of the pre-dawn and tried to pick out the nearest ship that held the wizards.

“Come on, come on,” he heard the lieutenant mutter.

Well quite, my sentiments exactly, Timorous thought, but all the same he hissed for the man to be quiet.

Not 200 yards from the captain’s ship Dniester stood next to Vosper amid a dozen grey, red and yellow adepts on the quarter deck of their ship. Most of them wore swords or at least daggers and one or two had donned light mail in readiness for the attack. None of them looked particularly convincing as warriors and to the studied eye of the accompanying marines it didn’t look as if they would be much help at all.

“Remember, this is a coordinated attack,” Dniester rasped in a harsh whisper. “Our task is to give cover to the marines as they go ashore to support the Challis patriots who will be rising against the Western occupying forces. Remember the patterns and use your sight to see through the fog before launching a fire ball or some such magical assault. We don’t want to kill our own side so if in doubt… well you get the general idea.”

“Eh… Sir, what fog?” whispered a young mustard-clad adept.

Dniester grinned like a dragon. It was a dreadful to behold and the young wizard shuddered.

“Mr Vosper, shall we?” the old man said brusquely to the scar-faced weather-shaper.

All around them, though no mortal eyes could see, the air was resplendent with moisture from the sea. But for one gifted with the sight of the patterns especially an adept of air and water from Pandoria the breeze around them was a textured weave of both elements.

Even a fire adept could sense the change and if he was to look harder, he could see the beginnings of a blend. Moments later a thick white mist appeared out of the air all around them like autumn smoke.

Captain Timorous, who had been just making out the outline of the near ships and beginning to despair, shuddered. One minute the shape of the vessel had been dark grey on the gloom and then nothing. It was as if a veil had been dropped in the air between them. But this was no ordinary fog, for behind him and out to sea the tops of the flotilla’s sails were catching the incoming rays of the rising sun, while ahead of them a huge grey wall of vapour rolled inland.

“How the hell will we land now?” the lieutenant hissed.

Timorous didn’t know, but he was beginning to suspect that the cranky old wizard in the next ship had everything in hand.

*

The guard at the end of the outer harbour wall could scarce see the stones beneath his feet let alone the waves beyond the port’s entrance. He had never seen anything like it. By the gods if this is what coastal life was like then take me back to the plains, he cursed.

It had not been his only cause for cursing since coming to Challis. The girls were unfriendly, the food was disgusting and he dared not slip away to an inn at night in case one of the locals stuck a shiv in his ribs. I thought bloody Challis was on our side? He cursed again.

He was broken from his thoughts by a hard sound that he rather felt than heard. Sometimes a heavy wave slammed into the stonework of the harbour wall bellow him, but this sounded different. Almost as if… something hard a heavy wrapped around his neck and pulled him backwards. If he had lived another second he would have recognised a mailed arm at his throat, but the unfelt thin blade through his ear was quicker than thought.

The marine lowered the dead guard to the stone floor and then on fleet sued-booted feet jogged on down the harbour wall to where no doubt another member of the dawn patrol was waiting to die.

By the time Dniester and Vosper reached the inner harbour two dozen marines had gathered there to secure the fortifications.

“Open the veil and guide the assault ships in,” the old man snapped at Vosper.

“What about the signal?” the weather crafter asked.

The marine sergeant turned a quizzical head as if he had the same question.

“The enemy will know we are here soon enough, but I’d rather Timorous was ashore with at least some of the main force before that. Work quickly,” Dniester snapped as if making an easy point to a class in a lecture hall.

“What if they come against us before the captain arrives?” the sergeant asked.

“Then we will have to deal with the situation won’t we young man.” Dniester didn’t sound as if he was asking a question.

Vosper shot one more glance at the mist-shrouded town and then dashed back to the end of the harbour wall where they had docked.

*

The whispered shouts of the docking ships were loud enough to wake the dead. But in any case, unattended, the magical fog had begun to clear and already patches of blue could be seen above them. While ahead dark brown shadows of the town’s roofs began to break through the mist.

Much to the marine sergeant’s frustration the remaining 11 wizards had formed a line between the warriors and the direction of any attack.

“Please Sir, it is not safe,” he said anxiously.

As if to confirm his fears a bell sounded from somewhere in the town and the angry shouts that followed were accompanied by heavy boots on cobbles and the ring of steel being pulled from leather.

A flurry of arrows came out of the dying mist, but no more than two or three buzzed past their ears before a curious thing happened. The deadly darts seemed to pause in the air just short of the line of wizards before dropping harmlessly to the ground like so many dead sparrows felled in flight.

“I can see the archers,” a budding war mage said excitedly.

“Are you certain they are the foe?” Dniester asked, but he could see through what remained of the fog as if it wasn’t there and knew that the boy was right.

The mustard-robed adept did not answer, but extending his hands hurled two blue-green spheres at the shades in the mist. Their exact effect wasn’t clear, as two burst of fire just glowed in the milky grey, but no more arrows came their way.

“Here they come,” the sergeant drew his sword.

Suddenly the mist dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. Like a conjurer in a stage magic show the veil was lifted to reveal the large town wrapped around a great stone port. In the middle of the harbour sat two-score ships disgorging marines onto jetty walls and the shingle beach below the wall.

Facing them were a thousand sleep-clogged Western warriors in various degrees of disarray pulling on armour and donning shields as they formed ranks. Only one company of men was in good order and this group now charged the small contingent of marines on the inner harbour wall.

There were too many to be stopped by random the fire balls the few mustard and red adepts threw at them and for a moment it looked as if the counter attack would be effective.

But then Dniester calmly extended a hand and held up his dragon’s tooth cane. He made an ostentatious twist with his arm and a spiral of water ascending from the water’s edge and formed a sea-spout on the ground in front of him. Then with a flick of his stick it shot away from him and into the charging men ahead.

Whilst it wasn’t enough to engulf them, the men staggered back as a dozen of them were dashed sideways to be broken on the ground. Then as they floundered, two similar attacks swept into them followed by seven or eight fire balls.

It was enough, for even as the counterattack failed the men of Timber and Precips began to pour ashore in great numbers and the first of them reached the edge of the town.

“You boasted you could send an over-large green fireball a mile into the sky,” Dniester said in a sharp voice to one of the red adepts. “Please do so now.”

Far out to sea Prince Jason, commanding admiral of the fleet saw a second sun rise high into the sky above the port. Only this sun was bright green and hung motionless for several long minutes as every Challis loyalist broke from dark corners and fell upon the occupying force from the West.

To be continued.

Or should that be reds? Here is a rare little Edwardian gem depicting vintage lesbian spanking and close-up of the action.

Our story started here.

Quail stood meekly in the line while the commune’s leader gave his speech. She had been living this life so long now that she had decided that this was the end game.

The punishment centre had held her for almost a year before her lawyer argued that the psych tests proved she was penitent. He had been a new one this time, a local boy who felt sorry for her and had enough contacts to get her a hearing.

By then she had almost got used to kneeling on the floor to eat off her bunk and sleeping on her belly. But she had never got used to the almost relentless strappings, which after a few weeks had finally broken her.

It had come upon her suddenly. One minute she was grunting angrily and trying to ride out the waves of pain where the sting met the burn and locked themselves in a dance on the curves of her raw-sore bottom. Then all of a sudden she began to sob. Great gasping wails of tears to punctuate her all too earnest begging and please of “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Even the duty punisher noticed her change in attitude.

“Sorry are you, really?” he said sharply during a pause in the relentless strapping.

“Yes Sir, oh yes Sir,” she had gushed earnestly.

“So you admit you do deserve this?” he asked.

She could only nod miserably.

On bad days after that she would sometimes remember where she was and beg for the access codes or the exit codes or plead with her unseen tormentor for another scenario. Then she would yell incoherently as she begged to know, “What do you want from me?” or “I won’t steal it, I won’t, I swear it.”

But usually she just called out in a miserable sobbing voice, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

The commune was better than the detention centre. Well anything was better than that. At least now her sentence had formally started.

It had been explained to her that for every day she behaved herself she would get a day taken from her sentence. If she had a spotless record for five years and learned enough skills then she could become a trustee and have two days taken off her sentence for every day of good behaviour.

The commune wasn’t such a bad place either. It was not a bit like the dread planet that she had marooned Cutie on. Here there were trees and soft beds. Although the women all had to wear dark grey dresses with white aprons and white caps, at least they were clean. And every five days there was a day off so that the girls could study and better themselves. Passing exams was even rewarded with more remission off their sentences.

Most days Quail forgot that none of this was real. But then she no longer even knew that for certain. In her more optimistic moments she thought about a holiday at Cloudhaven and prayed that she could wake up there again. But somehow she knew that that moment had passed for her; slipped from her grasp just as it had in her former life.

On other days she wondered if such places as the commune and the detention centre even existed in the ‘real’ world. Or was it some invention of her own guilty conscience she had dreamt up to punish herself?

It didn’t matter, not any more. If there was some greater purpose they she would have to play it out and wait. Until then all she had was the commune.

The worst thing was the speeches.

Every morning the commune leader or one of his deputies gave a speech about good behaviour and working hard. Quail could swear that each of the men only had three original speeches and kept recycling over and over in oh-so pious monotonous drone.

To say that the speeches were the worst thing was just Quail’s idea, she imagined. The other girls dreaded the punishments more, she knew.

The punishments were severe and varied. They ranged from a sound over-the-knee spanking on the bare bottom with a short paddle, through harder spankings with a large drilled paddle while bent over a chair or rail, to a trip to the woodshed for a sound birching.

Sometimes a girl was bent over a frame like the one at the detention centre and soundly strapped on the bare bottom in front of everyone as a prelude to a caning.

Only these latter punishments counted against a girl’s remission, which was one of the reasons Quail could cope.

For the Quail the lesser punishments added a sense of danger and spice to the monotony of commune life. And even when it was not her being punished, she could enjoy the punishments of others.

Not that she actively courted these punishments. It was just that they added some risk to other activities like apple scrumping, swiping booze and the occasional roll in the hay with another girl.

True Quail would have preferred one of the men, but they were all staffers and too discreet to involve themselves with a new girl.

“Now girls, gather into your assigned teams and listen for your allotted jobs,” the speech finally came to an end.

Quail looked up down the rows of smartly aproned girls, all meekly looking at the ground. She still felt like a tigress in a field of sheep. In eight or nine years she would be a senior trustee with a line to the outside. And in 12 years tops she would be out of there with a stake and… her thinking went no further. It never did except to think about Cutie.

*

Sara was a new girl. She was a young pretty blonde working under a five-year sentence. She had run with some gangs on the outside and hadn’t worked out that not only was she here for the duration, but she wasn’t as tough as she thought she was.

A petty argument over a bread roll had got her hauled out onto the back porch of the refectory

Sara had obviously thought to talk her way out of trouble but no sooner had she reached the porch when the deputy-leader had hauled her across her his lap and turned up her skirts.

“Hey you can’t…” she spluttered, but the man quickly bared her bottom and began spanking her with a small paddle.

The spanking was fast and furious and Sara’s small tight bottom went shiny red in moments as her voice made croaking protests.

Quail busied herself with a broom in the yard nearby so that she could watch the action. On days like these the commune wasn’t so bad.

“Nooo, you can’t noo… ah,” Sara wailed, as dark red doughnuts formed on the crowns of her bottom and tears spilled from her eyes.

Quail imagined the cocky arrogance with which the girl once might have mouthed-off or given attitude to a peacekeeper. Her fellow gang members would fall about laughing if they could see her now. Especially, Quail noted, as the girl had a totally glass-arse and was already bawling like the kid she was.

The spanking lasted for several minutes before Sara was set on her feet and made to stand and face the wall by the refectory door in full view of her fellow inmates as they filed out.

Later Quail found Sara morosely stacking seed pots in one of the out houses.

“Go away,” Sara said sullenly.

“Is your bottom still sore?” Quail asked.

Sara blushed. Close up Quail could see that she was barely 20 and the only thing holding her down was the native cunning that knew a bigger fish when she saw one.

“If you keep stacking those pots like that, then you will have an even sorer one,” Quail observed.

It wasn’t entirely a bluff; she had certainly seen better pot stacking.

“Oh,” Sara’s eyes were suddenly a little wider with panic.

“I have something here that will take some of the sting out of your bottom and then I can show you how to do it properly,” Quail offered.

Sara pursed her lips and blushed a little more. But she put up little resistance as Quail turned her about and bent her over the lower shelf. Lifting up Sara’s dress she found the girl’s bottom still mottled red with welting down the cleft. It was a rare treat to smooth cooling salve from a tube she had pilfered from the infirmary.

Sara gasped and closed her eyes as she allowed Quail full access to the underside of her bottom.

“Good?” Quail asked as she let her fingers wander deeper.

“Uh,” came Sara’s answer as she parted her legs somewhat.

Quail continued to tease the girl, letting her fingers stay on the upper slopes of Sara’s red-stained bottom and only occasionally dipping down low for tighter darker folds.

“See, I know how to…”

“Don’t stop,” Sara gasped

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a voice snapped at them from behind.

There were no closed doors on the commune and Quail had known the risks.

“I was just…” Quail began, she allowed a pout of frustration to show on her face.

“I don’t want to hear it,” the man growled.

He was one of the younger deputies. He was tall with red hair and fierce dancing eyes.

Quail pouted some more as she got to her feet. Sara, she noted looked like a lamb about to be slaughtered.

“Get those dresses off, I want you stripped down to your stockings and bodices,” he snapped.

He didn’t wait to see if he was obeyed, but strode out of the shed, making a determined turn to the left once he was framed by the door.

“What is he going to do?” Sara gasped, her eyes domed and wide on her face.

“I don’t think he likes me undoing all that hard work they put in on your bottom,” Quail said sardonically.

Sara looked as if she might cry.

“Come on, do as he says, I’ll take a punishment but I don’t want to lose any remission,” Quail said hastily.

By the time the deputy had returned both women were huddled together in just a brief breast-supporting bodice top and grey thigh length stockings. The birch in his hand came as no surprise to Quail, but Sara began to whimper a little.

“Come with me,” the man snapped and then strode away again.

Both Quail and Sara followed on reluctantly, the air tickling at their legs and exposed bottom. Sara clamped her hands to her crotch and walked in an utterly cowed posture, while Quail led the way somewhat more stoically. As they went they drew a few glances from the other girls, but most were too busy to dawdle, lest they wanted a share of the birch themselves.

The deputy led them to the woodshed where there in the centre of the room was a low wooden crossbeam wide enough to take three or four bare bottoms in a row. At a nod from the man, Quail stepped forward and flopped right over it and then wriggled until the pressure from the beam on her lower belly was bearable and her bottom was properly elevated.

“Please Sir I didn’t…” Sara squealed in panic.

“No you didn’t, did you? And you were supposed to have done,” he snapped at her, “Besides, you know the rules, comfort from a punishment is not to be sought in working hours outside of the infirmary.”

“But…” Sara persisted.

“Bend over,” the deputy barked at her.

Sara gulped and then cast a glance at Quail’s blossoming behind. With a blush she scurried across the room and dropped face down next to her new friend so that her bottom too was neatly presented for the birch.

The birch fell in a healthy swoosh and landed crisply across Quail’s bare bottom. The pirate-queen displayed no reaction at first, but all too quickly the nibbling bite began to sing in her flesh and then burn. It was a fuzzy tang and she hissed through clench teeth as she rode it out.

The second swipe garnered much the same reaction as did the third, but each stroke that landed after that made Quail give out with a panicked wail as the fire in her behind grew and grew.

After eight searing swipes the deputy switched bottoms and lashed the birch across Sara’s waiting bottom.

“Yeow,” she screamed melodramatically, kicking her legs back as she rocked her bottom in bucking motions.

The second, third and fourth strokes all got the same reaction, but after the fifth Sara set-up a continuous howl and sobbed bitterly into the floor just inches from her nose.

Quail grunted at each stroke during her second set and made clawing motions with her hands as if swimming away from the fire in her bottom. Sometimes a good sound birching transported her back to the detention centre.

If Sara’s first set had been bad, the second was unsupportable and she began to howl like a banshee as she was birched for her second eight.

“No more, please, no more, I didn’t mean it,” she shrieked.

It was the kind of reaction Quail usually enjoyed but she was still holding on to herself and panting hard through waves of flame in her own bottom.

Quail’s third eight had spluttering to sobs every bit as earnestly as Sara after just two more strokes and this time the deputy took her up to 12 before he switched back to Sara. It ought to be enough for them both he decided as he readied Sara’s last set.

But after just one more biting swipe Sara leapt to her feet and began to dance around the woodshed.

“No more, no more please Sir,” she sobbed.

The deputy sighed.

“It looks like we have to start over doesn’t it?”

“Oh no, n-n-no, please Sir,” Sara wailed.

“Bend over,” he said sharply.

It took a minute for Sara to steel herself, but finally she stopping hopping around and woodenly walked forward to bend over.

The repeated first eight felt like someone had taken a blow-torch to her bottom and Sara shrieked so much that several people came running. By the time it was over Sara was a broken heap of tears.

“That would have been enough for you if you hadn’t rebelled,” the deputy said in a tone of disappointment.

“No more, please, please, please no more,” Sara sobbed.

“Too bad,” the deputy sighed.

“Please Sir,” Quail piped up. “It was my fault and she can’t help it. It is her first time.”

Quail found it a strain to speak and as she winced words through an aching jaw her bottom had to contend with a million billion bees drilling and biting into her.

“Your fault eh, so I guess you’re offering to take 20 more in her place,” the deputy scoffed.

But he was impressed with Quail’s courage all the same.

“Yes Sir, if it will spare her,” Quail found herself saying.

There was a mutter from the few people outside and the deputy gave a low whistle. Then he shrugged.

“I gotta see this,” he said, “But if you cry off before I am half-done she gets it just the same. And if you beg me sooner you’re both get it anyway and I tell you now, that is what I am working for.”

It sounded harsh, but Quail realised he could have birch them both twice over for trying to make bargains. He was fair at least.

The next stroke that seared its way across Quail’s red raw bottom made her grunt down a shriek and really dance over the wooden bar. She had now taken 29 and now had about as many to go.

“Oh comets on fire,” she gasped.

They were her last coherent words for 10 minutes as true to his word the deputy birched her to total surrender.

*

Both Quail and Sara were told they would lose their day off, which the heavily sobbing older woman almost protested as unfair. Then they were told to go and stand outside their dorm house and face the wall for the rest of the day.

It was as good a place to stand for a good cry as any, although the public exposure never lost its embarrassing shame-filled piquancy and was positively mortifying for the novice Sara.

After crying non-stop for a derision-filled hour Sara stole a glance over her shoulder and then whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you kidding,” Quail said miserably, “I got us into this mess.”

“But you… but you… but you… took my punishment,” Sara sobbed and then she was crying in earnest again.

Quail flicked an eye down over shoulder at the two heavy swollen domes protruding behind her. Quite an eyeful for the spank fan inmates like her, she thought ruefully and my bottom is about as raw as it could be short of being flayed. Her rounds were so fiercely throbbing she could actually feel a pulse in each cheek. Not the worst I have ever had, she thought, but her mind would not alight on a punishment that was. Then like Sara she started to cry again.

*

“Thank you Letitia, my bottom feels much better now,” Sara gushed shyly.

The two of them had stolen away to a quiet loft that Quail had scoped out. If they were discovered it would mean the paddle and then Quail would probably never sit down again, but that was her life now.

Quail had produced another tube of ointment and laying Sara naked on her front, she had smeared the soothing unguent gently over the girl’s tortured cheeks.

“What about you?” Sara had finally said in a thick voice.

It took all her will to break off from her own little ecstasy.

“I was coming to that,” Quail said huskily.

There was mischief in her eyes and she looked at the girl like she was breakfast.

“Put out your tongue,” Quail ordered the girl.

Sara gaped for a moment and then obeyed. Quail carefully squeezed a long worm of ooze down Sara’s pink digit and smiled.

“Whanth dyath wanth me too doo nowth,” Sara mumbled with a straight tongue as she tried not to laugh.

“You know,” Quail said offering the girl the curve of her bottom. “Your tongue is softer than you fingers.”

Sara giggled and then stooping down gently began to apply the unguent to Quail’s raw flesh.

“Careful now or I will spank you,” she cooed, “And don’t you think I wouldn’t love that.”

Given the intimate location of her tongue, Sara couldn’t reply.

To be concluded.