The Romance of Chastisement

The Romance of Chastisement

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Miss Martin's Academy

It's that time of year again. And yes, I am jumping on the bandwagon with my own "Halloween Spooktacular." This year for your reading pleasure, in between bouts of jumping up to answer the damn doorbell, is a cozy little ghost story I call Miss Martin's Academy.


This story is from my book,
                                               The Schoolgirl Collection


No one seemed to know what I was talking about. The ad had been vague about exactly where it was, so I was asking.

 I'd stepped into this bar on the outskirts of Lelo, Mississippi. It was late August. August 29. Hot. Unbelievably hot. I had just about run out of funds. I'm ex-sergeant first class Sam Barlow. I'd mustered out of the Army three months ago and had been wandering aimlessly. All over. Midwest, Northeast, Appalachian states, but I was gravitating towards New Orleans. In Tupelo I'd seen this ad posted in the help wanted section of the paper--a private school was looking for a handyman. Miss Martin's Academy. I figured I'd pick up some work for a while then hit the road again.

I was on foot going in the direction I thought was right, when I ran across an old black fellow. He looked strange in a way--thin, white hair--I almost didn't see him there, but I sensed movement and looked. No one had been there before, but there he was--just standing by the side of the road.

"There is a school," he said with a faraway look. "Miss Martin's Academy. For the young ladies," he added. "Go that way. Go on out Lost Mill Road about 5 miles-- there's a big pin oak an' a all weather county road off to the left. Follow that."

Weird. I hadn't asked him anything, but he knew I was looking for a school. I did follow his directions and found, to my surprise, a large antebellum home with a wide veranda, white colonnades---the works-- at the end of a long gravel drive. All it needed was Rhett and Scarlett sipping mint julips on the porch. It looked deserted. All was silent, except for some muffled banging coming from an old shed on one side of the house. Maybe a loose board flapping in the wind. What the hell? I pushed open the door and went in. I called out a "hello", hoping to attract someone's attention.

I was about to turn around and leave when a very attractive woman appeared the hallway. And I do mean "appeared"-- like one minute the hall was deserted, and then, there she was. She had dark hair and a pretty face with small features and high cheekbones. She wore a white blouse that was tight across her full breasts, and a long grey skirt that flared out from a narrow waist. Very old fashioned I thought, but what did I know? Maybe it's the latest thing. I put her at about 30, but she could have been younger. She was very attractive.

"Ah, I understand you need a handyman?"

She smiled and looked me over for a moment. "Yes, we do. I'm...Miss Martin. Please come with me."

She looked kind of young to be a headmistress. I thought headmistresses were all stout, in their 50's, had their hair wrapped in a tight bun, wore wire rimmed glasses and glared at you like you just threw a spitball. Not this time. So I followed her to a small office. She sat primly behind a desk and explained their needs. Yes, there were a number of small repair projects that were required before the next school year began. She had a few boarders attending summer classes--otherwise she was the only staff except for one other teacher and her cook.

She hired me on the spot. There was an outbuilding on the other side of the house from the shed with the banging board, a barn really, but the upstairs had a room that had been used as quarters for the former janitor. I moved in and got to work on a list of things to do.

The next day while I was repairing some back steps on the main house I had to stop to allow some girls, the few Summer students, I guessed, get by me to go outside. They were dressed in a sort of uniform I had seen only in old photos--long skirts, white blouses and straw boater hats. A nineteenth century throwback, I thought. There were five of them, all between 18 and 21 I guessed, and all very pretty. I couldn't help but admire the maturing figures of these girls in the full bloom of youth. Such beauty could not be concealed, even under the antiquated clothing. For their part the girls blushed and giggled and appeared to give me the once-over.

Toward late afternoon I received a summons from Miss Martin. A pretty redhead in a long lacy kind of frock asked me to please come to the office. Miss Martin was there with a girl seated in a chair in front of her desk. She looked like a student. I picked up on the conversation as I entered.

"...and as I told you, Celine, we do not tolerate such behavior here. You will have to be punished."

Miss Martin looked suitably stern and Celine merely hung her head. Then she noticed me.

"Ah, there you are, Sam. I need your help in a matter."

"Sure," I said.

"This student has committed an infraction of our code of behavior that, unfortunately, calls for punishment."

I looked at her quizzically, like, 'what has that got to do with me?'

"I have sprained my wrist in...a fall, ah, and it hurts to move my right arm. I would like for you to administer the punishment in my stead."

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Punishment? What was she talking about? She must guessed from the look on my face that I was still confused.

"We have a strict code here and corporal punishment is regularly employed," she said primly. She let that sink in for a moment. "Celine has earned herself a good spanking, haven't you Celine?" Celine blushed and lowered her head.

"A spanking? You want, uh, spank this girl here?"

"That is correct, Sam. She needs to be properly chastised and I cannot do it myself. That is why I need your help."

"But, she's a grown woman almost and I..."

Miss Martin just put her hand up and interrupted my protest. "Mr. Barlow, our students here understand and accept the consequences of bad behavior. Don't you, Celine?" she said turning to the still blushing schoolgirl.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. And you know the penalty."

Celine peeked at me and blushed. I was watching her reaction. She was petite with long chestnut colored hair, dainty features, but big green eyes. A real knockout. "Yes, Miss Martin."

"Very well. We shall commence. Celine, prepare yourself."
Then she addressed me.

"Mr. Barlow, please pull that chair out from the wall and be seated."

I did, not really knowing what to expect, but I was guessing that I was expected to put her across my knee, like a naughty child. That seemed odd for a girl of her age, and I was about to protest again when Celine rose quickly and before I could open my mouth, plopped herself face down over my lap. The skirt was thin and the feel of warm girl flesh nestling over my lap was instantly arousing. I was about to ask again if this was really proper, but Miss Martin spoke first.

"Now Mr. Barlow, Celine has misbehaved and you must spank her soundly. You will continue until I tell you to stop. Are you ready?"

This was all happening so fast, I could hardly absorb it all, so I just dumbly nodded in agreement.

"Now, first raise her skirt in back."

I finally found my tongue. "Now wait a minute, Miss Martin, isn't this a little..."

She cut me off and said sharply, "You are in my employ, Mr. Barlow. Celine knows what she deserves and this is the way we do things here. Do not question. Now, if you please, raise her skirt. A spanking would hardly be effective over a skirt," she added.

Before I could react Celine herself grasped the hem of her skirt and lifted it displaying a very pert bottom clad in tight silk bloomers-- I guessed they were called that--that clung to and outlined a behind that was definitely more womanly than I had expected.

"Proceed, Mr Barlow. Spank her naughty behind soundly."

I mumbled something about being sorry I had to do this, but after all, a job is a job and you do what they tell you. I raised my hand and gave the girl what I thought was a firm smack. The sound was shockingly loud and it stung my palm so it must have stung little Celine who yelped. I looked at Miss Martin and she nodded. So I proceeded to administer the spanking in a steady rhythmic pattern, placing the swats alternately on the right then left cheeks and then some squarely across both cheeks to even it out. Celine cried and drummed her toes on the floor but did not otherwise attempt to evade punishment. I must have spanked steadily for about two minutes when Miss Martin said, "Wait. Pull down her drawers and give her twenty more good stingers, Mr. Barlow."

I gave Miss Martin a quizzical look, but she just nodded, so with a sigh I slid down the pantaloons or bloomers or whatever. Celine really did have a cute little fanny, pert and round-- and it was getting very red. I then readjusted Celine to get a good grip on her and laid on twenty more good solid swats making these a bit harder. Celine let out a "yeowch!" at each one. Clearly those hurt. The rounded globes wobbled when my palm struck so they must have been absorbing a lot of sting. She drummed her toes on the carpet and squirmed, wiggling her bare bottom in a very unladylike manner. Then Miss Martin told me to let her up and I did, gently lifting her to her feet. She regarded me with tearful eyes and rubbed her swollen rear end while Miss Martin said,

"You will now thank Mr Barlow for correcting you."

In a halting voice Celine stammered, "Thank you for correcting me so thoroughly, sir. I did deserve it."

Miss Martin dismissed the chastened schoolgirl and addressed me.

"Thank you Mr Barlow. I may have need of you assistance in the future. You may return to your duties."

I stood up and turned abruptly, not wanting Miss Martin to see the rock hard erection that threatened to split my pants. Good God! I knew I shouldn't feel this way, but paddling that little miss had resulted in total arousal. I was going to need a cold shower.

But later that evening, before I could even do that, I was surprised in my room out back by none other than little Celine herself. Was she even supposed to be here? I said, "Now look, er, Celine--I'm sorry about giving you that spanking, but I just work here and that was what your Miss Martin asked me to do."

She didn't say anything. She just started taking off her clothes. My jaw dropped. What the hell? When she was down to her drawers, she started removing mine. I was so flustered I didn't even try and stop her. Instead I was looking out the window hoping no one could see in. But while I was doing that, she had dropped to her knees and had taken my swollen cock into her mouth. All I could do was moan. She got up, pushed me onto my bed and straddled me, inserting my prick into her slit which was so slippery I slid all the way in with no resistance. She rode me that way to one climax. But did she leave? No, she wanted it again, this time from the rear. Then on her back. We went on for hours, it seemed. After what seemed like forever she was finally spent. I nervously hustled her out. Good God, what if we'd been caught? And why had she practically raped me after I'd spanked her so hard?

A day or two later I was summoned again. This time I arrived at Miss Martin's office to find a scolding in progress. She was addressing someone named Amelia, a tall blonde. Amelia was standing before her desk, hands clasped behind her while Miss Martin berated her.

"We do not permit the reading of books such as this...this trash! It is wholly unacceptable for young ladies."

The book in question appeared to be laying on the desk. I could read the title upside down. It was "Lady Chatterly's Lover." Sort of old school for hot pornographic reading, but I guessed that they were kind of strict here. Still, I wondered, why so uptight about a book that by now was considered pretty tame?

This time I was asked to go outside and prepare a "rod". I said I had no idea what she was talking about.

"It is a bundle of switches, Mr. Barlow, about three feet long---6 or 7 supple switches, peeled of buds and shoots, of course. The willow by the barn will do." She handed me a long ribbon. "Wrap the switches at the thick end in this and bring it back here. We will need it for Miss Amelia."

As I left, the girl Amelia began pleading with Miss Martin who was having none of it. The last thing I heard was "face the wall with your nose in the corner and we will wait for Mr. Barlow to return."

I cut 6 green switches, about only a quarter inch thick. I mean I didn't want to hurt the poor girl so I figured this would mollify Miss Martin. I peeled them smooth and tied the whole thing together with the ribbon. I see why they called it a rod. It was swishy and looked like it would sting pretty damn good.

When I got back Miss Martin commanded Amelia to come out of the corner, and to bend across her desk, face down. She drew up Amelia's long skirts revealing an attractive bottom clad in the same type of white bloomers worn by Celine. I awaited her command thinking she would have me apply the switches to the seat of Amelia's bloomers but she surprised me by ordering Amelia to take them right down. Amelia protested but Miss Martin said, "Nonsense, Amelia, the birch rod, as you know is always applied to the bared posterior."

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was well aroused by the sight of Amelia loosening her bloomers and dragging them down to reveal her luscious bare bottom. It was fuller than Celine's, but very shapely and stuck out prominently when she bent over.

"Mr Barlow, you are to give Amelia 12 hard strokes. Amelia, you are not to raise up or get out of position while Mr Barlow chastises you. You will then thank him for doing so. Do you understand me?"

Amelia managed to squeak "Yes, Miss Martin." Miss Martin nodded to me and said, "You may begin."

The birch made whooshing noise and contacted Amelia's bottom with a sharp sound like 'whick!'. I could see her rear cheeks ripple as it struck and she let out a cry. Red weals sprang up immediately. I guessed it was hard enough, although I could have swung harder. Miss Martin nodded to me and I delivered stroke two. Amelia gave out a little yelp and wriggled her bottom. By the eighth or ninth stroke Amelia was whimpering and begging to be let off. Her bottom was bright red and her feet were drumming on the floor as she shifted from one foot rapidly to the other. I don't know if that helped her, but it made her bottom jiggle which was giving me such a hard on that I was worried that Miss Martin might see. I gave her strokes ten, eleven and twelve more quickly and this had her almost standing up and coming off the desk. Miss Martin let her up and she readjusted her bloomers and turned to face me. Tears were running down her pretty cheeks as she faced me and said, "Thank you for correcting me, Mr. Barlow."

That night as I tried to sleep there was a tap at my door. It was none other than Amelia who barged in, and like Celine before her, had her way with me before I could even react. I guess it sounds like I'm making excuses here, but both of these ladies were so determined and so brazen that I was unable to resist. Amelia at least explained that the spanking with the switches had made her hot, so hot that she was willing to risk another one just to be "rodded vigorously by a man to quench the burning desire in her loins". Not my words. That was how she put it.

And she wasn't the last. Over the next several days I think I had them all. Penelope, a petite redhead got a spanking over my knee. Kate, a tall dark haired beauty got two dozen licks from me with a kind of split tailed strap. Elspeth, a honey haired busty blonde girl with a prominent derriere got the birch rod. And every time, that same night, I was ambushed by the same said girl and required to perform into the wee hours until she went away, satiated.

I was getting tired. This was wearing me out. Between the work and the disciplinary activities and being sexually jumped every night, my energy was being drained. And when I tried to fall asleep there was this infernal muffled mewling coming from that shed on the other side of the house. I decided to put a halt to it. One of these times I was going to get caught and there'd be hell to pay. I went to call on Miss Martin. I'd tell her, really, she had to handle this discipline thing herself.

She was seated at her desk in her office when I entered. I started to say, "Miss Martin, there is something we have to talk about, I can't go on..." But she stopped me and said, "Will you close the door, Sam?" I said ok and shut the door.

She got up from her desk and walked around it. "Please sit down, Sam. I have something to say to you." Oh, no, I was thinking. She knows. I'm getting fired. Their fathers are on the way. I'm done for. Cooked like a Christmas goose.

But she said, "Sam, I've been thinking. You have been a big help to me with the discipline of the students." And I said, "Yeah, and that's what I need to talk to you about. You see,.."

But she stopped me again. "It's partially my fault. I have failed to provide them with the proper guidance. So I resort to spankings and switchings to keep them on their behavior. I feel responsible." She lowered her head, looking guilty.

I wondered where all this was going until she said, "I have to confess. I should have a spanking too. For failing them so wretchedly. It's only right." Before I could do anything she said, "Here. I want you to use your strong right arm. You must spank me very soundly so I will learn to be a better headmistress." And as she said it she came around the desk, lowered herself across my lap and pulled up her skirt. Underneath she was bare. No panties of any kind. She said, "Spank me Sam. Spank my naughty bottom until it is as red as a sunset. Go on."

Well, what could I do? I smacked her hard. I guess I was frustrated. She'd put me in this position and so maybe she did need a good tanning. So I smacked her behind pretty briskly while she gasped and wriggled. For several minutes smacks rang out in the otherwise silent office. Her bottom rippled as my palm struck it. And a very nice bottom it was---full, well rounded in shape, and now very red from absorbing quite a bit of steady spanking. I was getting to be pretty good at this. I worked from the top of her hips to the bottom underside of those luscious cheeks where her bottom joined her thighs, laying on smack after smack. She gasped and wriggled. The wobble of her bottom as my palm struck was sexy as hell. But, after several minutes her bottom  was really getting to be an angry red and I figured I'd stop. I let her up. She slumped to her knees and faced me, a look of pure lust in her eyes. She grabbed me and pulled my head down until our lips met, then she kissed me passionately. By now I was in full arousal, all my good intentions out the window. She tore off her clothes, then yanked down my pants to expose my throbbing cock which was now standing straight up.

Then she laid herself across the desk and said, "Now, Sam, now! Oh, put it in me." I did and we copulated furiously until neither of us could stand it any more and were both driven to climax. But close to the end, my consciousness began to pick up sounds. They were coming from outside the office. Footsteps. Heavy thumps growing louder.

I was in the process of hastily arranging my pants when the door burst open and a woman, stout, in her 50's, hair pulled back in a tight bun, barged into the room and glared at me like I'd just thrown a spitball.

"What is going on around here?" She thundered. "Abigail Whitlow," she screamed, pointing at the girl I'd just soundly fucked, "Explain yourself, miss." At this point I felt I should interrupt and I said, "Ah, you see this is actually Miss Martin, who..."

"I'M MISS MARTIN, YOU DOLT!" She bellowed. Then she began to berate the girl who I now guessed was this Abigail person. "And where is Mrs. Fenstermacker?" And I thought, who? It took a few seconds, but I'm really no dummy. So it was no surprise when Abigail pointed weakly toward the shed I'd seen. The one the thumping and mewling had come from. Good God. They'd locked her in the shed, and taken over the school. Holy crap.

Right about now seemed a good time to leave. So while Miss Martin was fully engaged in reaming out Abigail, I slipped out the door and hightailed it down the road. Then I got off the road and bushwacked it for a while, hoping my bearings would get me eventually to civilization again. I finally came out on a state road and managed to thumb a ride to Lelo.

Now I was still broke, but before I started hitching again, I had to satisfy my curiosity. So I went to the town library and asked to see the newspaper archive, thinking I might find something about Miss Martin's Academy. The librarian, a kindly grandmother type asked me what I was looking for, so I told her.

"Well, there once was a finishing school for young ladies nearby by that name," she said. Now it's just a vacant field on power company land. Not many around here are old enough to remember it, though. It came to a tragic end. It was 1926, I think. It had been blisteringly hot that Summer and there was a fire. The students had played some sort of awful prank, the story goes. They had locked up an assistant administrator to the headmistress while she was away so they could have themselves a dandy time. But she came back and surprised them. There was a terrible row and a fire started in the main office and spread very quickly. No one survived except the handyman. A terrible tragedy." She shook her head.

My head was swimming. It couldn't be. I had not dreamt this. Then I chanced to see a newspaper. "Is this today's?" I asked. She nodded. I looked at the date.

 It was still August 29.

Monday, October 21, 2013

mel b owen and the Nine-Fold Path

I've shared a mel b owen story before and here's another one. This was posted to USENET as my memory serves (or doesn't) somewhere around 1999. To recap, "mel b owen" wrote F/M stories, mostly pseudo-autobiographical tales about his DD relationship with his psychologist wife, Abby. The tone is light. This couple has chosen this lifestyle and Abby doles out the discipline with a firm but loving hand. Mel has appointed Abby to be his disciplinarian and she fulfills that role with an attitude that is both serious and whimsical. I find these stories charming.

The Nine Fold Path

This is the sixth anniversary of the most memorable spanking Abbey has given me so far in our marriage. I thought that, in honor of the occasion, those who visit this site might enjoy an account of it.
I recall every detail with poignant precision. I remember the damp, lavender soap smell on Abbey's right hand when I kissed her palm, for example. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I suppose the easiest way to explain how the incident began is to say that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Ken, Miles, Frank and I had been reasonably good buddies with Phil. Then Phil was transferred to California from here in Omaha. The transfer only lasted six months, but when he came back, Phil thought he was the coolest thing on earth -- calling everyone "baby" and talking about "crazy" this and that, like it was 1958. It got to the point where the four of us decided to do something about it.

To make a long story short, Miles waited until Phil was in one of his most obnoxiously Orange County moods and then asked him, very confidentially, if he'd like to score some really primo weed. We all knew Phil had no experience with maryjane, but of course he couldn't admit that, so he let himself be suckered into it. Around midnight that Friday night Phil drove Miles to a seedy little roadhouse about sixty miles out of town. I got to be the freak in disguise -- aided mightily by a school-play wig and beard and the dark, smoky atmosphere. I sold Phil a baggie of oregano and a pack of rolling papers for $25. Phil got to work and sat there for half-an-hour like a horse's ass, smoking oregano and thinking he was stoned out of his mind. The others had been sitting around drinking. When we figured Phil had learned his lesson, they came out of the darkness, I took off my lame disguise, and we started laughing our heads off.

Let's just say Phil didn't quite get it. Instead of being properly abashed about his own inanity, he got furious with us. He stormed out and drove off, leaving Miles there with us.

This shouldn't have been a problem, because Ken had driven the rest of us out, and his car was still there. Unfortunately, Ken by this point was too blitzed to drive, and he said his wife Janet absolutely would not let him give the keys to anyone else -- new car, insurance restrictions, etc.

It was now after one in the morning. The best solution was for me to call Abbey and ask her if she could drive Janet out here so that Janet could take Ken home and the rest of us could go home with Abbey. Ninety minutes later, Abbey and Janet were at the roadhouse, with Janet madder than a wet hen and Abbey wearning that tolerant, what-can-you-expect-from-men expression of hers. Janet was chewing Ken up one side and down the other, berating him mercilessly. Finally, Abbey said to her, quite calmly, "It's up to you, Janet, but you might want to try for a little perspective. Boys will be boys, after all. Besides, nobody died and it was a pretty good joke when you think about it. Janet was still spitting and cussing as she piled Ken into their car, but the other guys all looked enviously at me.

With a tolerant sigh, Abbey climbed into our Jeep Cherokee and started the long drive back into the city. The conversation on the way back was mostly about what a great wife she was and how lucky I was. After she'd dropped the other two off and the door had closed behind Miles, though, the conversation changed -- and not subtly.

She turned around in the driver's seat to face me, her neck-length chestnut hair swinging. A devilish glint sparkled in her chocolate brown eyes, and a mordant grin split her lips.

"All right, cowboy," she said. "Paddle or strap?"

"What about 'boys will be boys'?" I asked.

"Boys will be boys, but there's a time for hijinks and there's a time for spankings. When a grown man pulls a stunt like the one tonight, he needs some heat for his seat. Now, one more chance: paddle or strap?"

This wasn't a trivial choice. The paddle is a substantial piece of polished lumber that I made myself. It's eighteen inches long, three-and-a-half inches wide, and a quarter-inch thick. It stings like hell, burns like a clothes iron, and leaves me with a throbbing, pulsing, nettlesome ache for days. The strap is a strip of leather sixteen inches long, four inches wide, and an eighth of an inch thick, with a braided leather handle and a hanging thong. It stings like hell cubed and burns like a blast furnace, but it only leaves me sore for a day or so. The choice Abbey was offering me was a classic trade-off of present pain versus future pain. I opted for present.

"Strap," I said. "I guess I'll sleep on my stomach tonight."

"We're not going to do it tonight," Abbey said as she started the car and pulled away. "It's way too late. You'll get your spanking after you've had a good night's sleep and a chance to think about what's in store for you."

I'd just about had time to digest that when we got home a few minutes later. As we walked from the garage into the kitchen, Abbey said casually, "Make a note on the calendar to be sure I don't forget."

There wasn't any chance of Abbey forgetting, but I obeyed. On the calendar under the phone in the kitchen, I found the square for Saturday. Underneath "Dry Cleaners", "Post Office" and "Groceries" I wrote, "Hard spanking for Mel -- strap." That was the final thought in my head as I climbed into bed.

I got up just before eleven a.m. As I showered and shaved, I could smell and hear breakfast cooking. I couldn't wait to get downstairs to eat it, but my eagerness was diluted by the thought of what was going to happen as soon as the meal was finished.

I groomed myself carefully and put on nice clothes -- khaki slacks and a pullover with a collar. Then I went down to the dining room. At my place I found a feast waiting for me: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fresh melon, hot coffee and orange juice. And as I sat down to enjoy it, I saw hanging by its thong from the back of Abbey's chair a reminder of what else was waiting for me: the strap.

I was hugry and, despite my anxiety, I ate the sumptuous repast with delight. When I'd finished, I told Abbey how delicious it was, and thanked her for fixing it.

"You're my husband and I treat my husband right," she said, smiling. "Now, have you had all you want to eat?"

"Yes, I sure have."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good." She stood up, took the strap off the back of the chair, and started rolling up her right sleeve. "In that case, please go into the den for your spanking."

Even though I was psychologically prepared to take my punishment, I was jelly-legged and hollow-bellied as I stood up. My first steps toward the den were halting, and I must have paled. Abbey came over and laid a sympathetic hand on my arm.

"Don't get too down on yourself, Mel," she said. "I feel that you need to be taught a sharp lesson, but I'm not angry with you or terribly upset. This isn't going to be a ferocious flogging -- just a good, hard, old-fashioned, no-nonsense country whipping."

Taking what comfort I could from that, I shuffled into the den. I saw that one footstool had been pushed against the end of the couch. Abbey marched me over to it, gave me our customary pre-punishment hug, then stepped back.

"As you know, Mel," she said, "I believe that adult spankings should be administered on the bare bottom. Pull down your pants."

I did as I was told. I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the clasp on my pants, and lowered my trousers and underpants. They fell quickly to my ankles. I took a deep breath. I was just about ready to handle this. Then, the phone rang. I grimaced in impatience, and muttered an expletive under my breath. With a meaningful glance at me, Abbey went over to answer the phone.

"Oh, hi, Melissa," she said. "Yes, we're planning on coming to the party tonight. Our plans haven't changed. Listen, I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. I've promised Mel toasted buns for lunch, and I have to go warm them up. I'll call you back in a few minutes."

She hung up the phone and strode back over to me.

"This isn't about getting something over with, Mel," she said. "It's about learning an important lesson. Are you in the right frame of mind for a constructive disciplinary experience? Or should we put this off for a couple of hours while you reflect on things in the corner?"

"No," I said contritely. "I'm ready."

"We'll see." Abbey shifted the strap to her left hand. She held her right hand out to me, palm up. I bent down and kissed it tenderly, drinking in the perfume of the lavender soap I mentioned earlier. Then I straightened and braced myself.

Then Abbey brought her right hand back and slapped me sharply across the face. I blinked in pain and my ears rang.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome." She held her right hand out again, this time with the back upward. Again I leaned forward, kissed the back of her hand, and straightened up. She took the kissed hand across her body and administered a back-hand slap across my other cheek.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome. Now: acknowledge your fault, and ask for your punishment."

"My behavior was foolish and childish, and I deserve to be soundly whipped. Please give me a hard spanking on my bare bottom."

"That's exactly what I have in mind," she said. "Kneel down on the footstool, bend over the end of the couch, and present your bottom for the srap."

I did as she said, easing myself into position and offering my soon-to-be-abused posterior for chastisement.

"Scrunch forward a bit, and raise your bottom a little higher in the air. I want to be sure to get plenty of licks on the part you sit down on."

With considerable trepidation, I obeyed the instruction.

"All right, honey," she said almost tenderly. "Hang on. This isn't foreplay, this is discipline."

There was a brief HISS, and emphatic SMACK!, and a gasp of pain from me. A sharp, emphatic sting blitzed through both cheeks of my bottom. I could already feel the scorching, red heat begin to build in them.

Abbey had promised me a good, hard, old-fashioned, no-nonsense country whipping, and that's what she delivered. HISS-SMACK! HISS-SMACK! HISS-SMACK! Three seconds or so apart, each one searing my tender bottom. Her reproaches rained down on me along with the strap: " . . . juvenile . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . . irresponsible . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . thoughtless . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . . inconsiderate . . . (HISS-SMACK!) . . . nonsense . . . (HISS-SMACK!)."

As the strap bit again and again relentlessly into my bottom, my gasps turned to grunts, then my grunts turned to groans, then my groans turned to yelps, then my yelps turned to squeals, and I knew I was on the verge of tears. What finally brought the sobs that eventually shook my body, though, wasn't only the scorching sting of the strap but my realization of what lesson Abbey had wanted to teach me: I had let my buddies down; I was the mature one in that group; they might be ninnies, but I should have had the sense to see what the consequences could be. I knew she was right, and I wept with remorse even as my heart warmed with gratitude.

Finally, after four-dozen strokes, she paused. My bottom was throbbing, and I was panting in an effort to get my crying under control.

"Wait here a moment," she said.

I heard her walking across the room and picking up the phone.

"Melissa? Your affair tonight -- is that buffet or a sit-down dinner? Buffet? Great, thanks. We'll see you there."

She came back over to me.

"It's a buffet tonight, with munchies on paper plates, so you won't have to sit down. We can review the nine-fold path to marital harmony."

"Yes ma'am."

"First," she said.

"Pain induces reflection."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Second."

"Reflection induces remorse."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Third."

"Ahhgh! Uh, remorse induces contrition."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Fourth."

"YEEOWW! Fourth. Let's see. Fourth: Contrition implies a firm commitment to do better."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Fifth."

"OWWWWW! Fifth. A firm commitment to do better produces improved behavior."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Sixth."

"OHHH! IT HURRRTS! Sixth: Improved behavior leads to a more constructive attitude."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Seventh."

"YEEEEEOWWWW! PLEASE HONEY! Seventh: A more constructive attitude increases self-knowledge."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Eighth."

"YIIII! Eight: Increased self-knowledge leads to enlightenment."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "And ninth."

"OHWOWOHWOWOHWOW! OH MY POOR BOTTOM! Ninth: Enlightenment leads to marital harmony."

"Correct." HISS-SMACK! "Now, do you think you'll remember?"

"UMFFF! Yes, yes, I'm sure I will. I deserved that spanking, and I know you gave it to me for my own good and because you love me. Thank you for disciplining me."

"You're welcome. Now go stand in the corner while I check this spanking off of our to-do list for today and have a cigarette. Then you can clean the kitchen, and it will be time to start getting ready for Melissa's party."

"Yes ma'am."

At Melissa's party that night, I walked a little stiffly, but I was happy, contented, warm and -- and what? There was something else. I was . . . SMUG! That was it! I was smug! I looked around at my buddies and their wives and the tension subtly abrading their evening, and I thought, "I got my bottom spanked, and it's the best thing that ever happened to me." Abbey and I had achieved catharsis and closure -- and I had DEFINITELY learned a sharp lesson.

Friday, October 18, 2013

A Birching Scene

I've been on a Paul Little jag lately. Here's another example. Little wrote (as A. deGranamour) a lurid piece of 60's flagellant pulp called "The Peculiar Passions of Lady Meg." In it three ladies in waiting to Queen Charlotte, wife of George III play a prank on the queen. She is not amused. 

As punishment they are to be sent to the colonies as indentured servants to one Lady Meg--a real piece of work. You read about her in part 2. But first they are to be publicly birched in the courtyard of the royal palace. 

The scene goes on for over 100 pages. Whew! It's almost a blow-by-blow description. Really for the hard core flagellation aficionado. But I'm going to publish a little of it to give you a flavor of how Little does the scene.

Tom lowered the rod to the floor of the scaffolding, measuring his distance, appraising the firm, ample ivory ovals of that luscious naked bottom given up to his flagellatory skill. Aware that Charlotte Sophia herself was watching, he determined to acquit himself with valor, for this might be an opportunity to win royal favor and rank as high as the man to whom he had been apprenticed these four years. He watched the young woman's buttocks tighten and shudder, as all her muscles came to her defense, and he waited his time, to prove he was no novice at this art. When he saw the cheeks of Gloria's bottom relax their contraction, he suddenly drew back his strong young right arm and swung the birch out horizontally, taking a step forward, so the withes fell fantail across the upper summits of both naked bottomglobes.
The shock and the surprise of the first cut overcame what remained of the brunette's already dispersed courage. With a convulsive jerk at her bound wrists, her head fell back and her mouth gaped in a raucous scream: "AAHHRR! ! ! OH DEAR LORD, SPARE ME, IT HURTS, IT HURTS ME DREADFULLY, OH SPARE ME, I'LL XEVER DO IT AGAIN!"
"One!" Master Dickon imperturbably counted. He had risen, standing at the victim's right, his muscular, hairy arms folded across his chest, and his eyes glistened through the slits in the hood. He was a burly rogue in his late forties, heavily set and stolid, and it was his boast that he had broken some of the most distinguished criminals in all England on the wheel and made them linger longer than his predecessor, who had been a valorous dispatcher of criminals for the greater glory of the Crown.
He watched critically now, for his own skill was indirectly tested. It was he who had taught Tom how to apply the birch as well as the cat, and it must be done slowly and dramatically, spinning out each possible nuance of torment and terrified anticipation of the next stroke, until the victim's nerves were completely attenuated. The cries and the bodily movements of the culprit during chastisement would be the best clue to the efficacy of the flogging.
This first stroke was well placed, he silently approved, as he eyed his young assistant Bright pink stripes formed vivid parallel upon the ivory escutcheon of Gloria's naked behind. Now that she had had a taste of the lash, she would be the more vociferous and mobile under the following cuts. Squinting at his aide, he waited to observe how Tom administered this first of three whippings before the eyes of the Queen herself.
The birch was lowered to the floor of the scaffold now, as Tom again gauged his distance. Moving slightly more to the left and a step back, he now drew back his right arm, hovered the rod in the air, then lunged forward. There was an angry Swishuish as the withes sang through the air and curled with an angry and crisp impact against the very middle of both nether hemispheres. Gloria Talmadge stiffened, her head twisted back and her eyes dilated and filled with tears, then she jerked frenziedly at her bonds and arched forward, grinding her furry cunt against the whipping post as she shrieked "EEEYEEOWWW!!! DEAR GOD, I'M ONLY A GIRL, YOU'LL KILL ME! OH THE PAIN, THE PAIN, FORGIVE ME, OH HAVE PITY!"
'Two," Master Dickon remarked and, catching his aide's eve, gave the youth a brisk nod of approval. The vivid tracery of the switches against that tender nacreous flesh dramatically and lasciviously accentuated all the immaculate ivory beauty of Gloria's nakedness. Arabella slightly turned her head, and she saw that those seated in the pavilion were craning their necks to absorb the spectacle before them. She did not lift her eyes to the second floor of the palace where Charlotte Sophia broodingly watched the carrying out of her heartless decree.
Hirishhhh! The second cut was placed perhaps twenty-five seconds later and again without warning, as the executioner's aide whirled the rod overhead and then stepped forward to send it slashing across the base of Gloria's naked posterior. Once again the young body jerked convulsively at the whipping post. The knees bent, the loins ground feverishly, with a kind of salacious suggestiveness of self-masturbation, against the chafing rough wood of the whipping post. Then that agonized and lovely face was turned back over Gloria's bare white shoulder, bathed in tears and contorted in indescribable suffering as her mouth gaped to emit the piercing scream of "AIIII!! OH, MERCIFUL HEAVEN, I CANNOT STAND SUCH PAIN, IT'S CUTTING ME TO PIECES' OH, HAVE MERCY ON A POOR HELPLESS GIRL!!"
"Three," the executioner proclaimed. Now, content with his apprentice, he directed his contemplative gaze at the two remaining victims, both of whom he personally would birch. The Lord Chamberlain had this morning personal informed him that the red-haired baggage was the guiltiest of all and must have more than her share of the switching. By the Rood, she would without fail. The haughtiness of her attitude, coupled with her vivid and sensitive beauty, stirred in the cruel heart of the royal executioner a satanic resolve to break her spirit, to humble her more than her companions. He would save the full strength of his arm for that saucy backside of hers. He would shame her and make her beg for mercy. That was Master Dickon's resolve.
By now the count had reached six, with fourteen lashes left. But already, distributed as they had been from the tops of Gloria's ivory hips to her thighs, her bottom was furiously inflamed with the horrible striata which Tom had inflicted on her tender flesh. Her reactions delighted the spectators. There is always a sort of lustful enjoyment of such scenes, and from the dawn of time man has lusted to see his fellow man agonized by torment and by execution. The morbid festival of lust is always in vogue, regardless of the era of the setting. And the delicacy of savoring the lovely nakedness of this unfortunate beauty at the whipping post served to inflame the male spectators the more.

Nine cuts remained. Slowly, seeming to prolong the interval between lashes, Tom inflicted the next six to back and shoulders; till at last, the sixteenth lash fell on the prisoner's naked bottomcheeks. But this time he applied the lashes diagonally, first attacking the right hemisphere, leaping the switches over the tightening, shadowy furrow which led to her virgin bottomhole, dealing thus two strokes from right to left.
Again he paused, and moved to the right. He inflicted the last two lashes from left to right, leaping the rod across the huddling, inflamed hemispheres. Each of the strokes drew piercing screams, incoherent pleas for mercy.
Despite the severity with which he had flogged the naked brunette, Tom glanced at his master to call the latter's attention to the fact that nowhere had he broken the skin. It was purplish and inflamed at many points where the twigs had nipped and where the long, slender withes had crisscrossed the previous marks. As he lowered the rod, Tom considered his handiwork and was secretly pleased with himself. This young bitch would have a difficulty in sitting down for quite some days. And she would need plenty of ungents and soothing salves before the skin of her back and bottom would lose the fiery heat he had engendered.

Again, he would lay two or three quick lashes on without pausing, but each attacking her at a different vulnerable and tender area of her pink-sheened body. One blow bit against the middle of her back, the tips of the switches whisking round to sting her waist and tender side. The very next, with scarcely any pause, slashed diagonally from left to right over the huddling hillocks of her bare bottom. A third, with hardly a pause, attacked the upper curves of her shuddering thighs. She began to caper from foot to foot, desperately trying to escape the burning lashes of the birch.
By the tenth lash, her cries were louder and shriller than poor, weeping Gloria's. Out of the first ten strokes, Master Dickon had laid six over the jutting roundities of her velvety smooth bottom-globes. Their contractions, their yawning and shrinking uncontrollably, provided a salacious treat for the rusty males in the eager audience. And for the executioner himself, as well for though Master Dickon was a bachelor and shunned by women who knew his occupation, there were times when he would journey to some remote village in the provinces to carry out the execution of some notable culprit, and then he would act the gallant with some none-too-discerning tavern wench or farmer's daughter.
His eyes blazed with lust through the slits of the hood and he resumed Beatrice's flogging. The last ten cuts were mercilessly prolonged to almost a full minute between stripes. Nine of them fell on that shuddering, welted, squirming, jerking bare bottom, and the last slashed across the tops of Beatrice's straining and flexing thighs, tearing from her a veritable yell of frantic, intolerable suffering.
Sweat glistened on her welted body as she sagged from the whipping post, head bowed, knees bending. Her buttocks were bid now, the stripes turning from crimson almost to purple. Here and there a drop of blood pearled at the interstice of some of the striata. The bulky rod was frayed and a profusion of twigs lay scattered on the floor beneath the writhing, inflamed burning bottom.

"I'm sorry, my lady, my heart's not in this work. You and those two there are quality, and shouldn't have to be treated like—well—low hussies." Tom muttered back. He made fast work of affixing her wrists to the metal rings set at each end of the crossarm of the whipping post. Then, with an apologetic. "Forgive me, my lady," he set his hands to the neck of her gown and ripped it down with a brutal tug. Arabella closed her eyes and took a long deep breath to fortify herself. She gasped again because the young assistant once again seized the tattered gown at the hips and tore it down to her ankles, then tugged it off her body.
In order to shorten the atrocious ritual of "preparation" for the birching. Arabella had left off her stays and petticoats, as, indeed, had Gloria, and Beatrice before her. She, like they, wore just a chemise, and a thin camisole under it — a kind of jacket with straps which covered the bosom and the back down to about the midriff — her drawers, hose, garters and shoes. Now it was the time for the chemise to be ripped off; and a gasp of admiration, loud enough to attract the attention of the beautiful red-haired prisoner at the post, rose at the sight of this voluptuous, lithe, graceful body so tautly presented with extended arms, on tiptoe, all her fine, agile muscles quivering and in play, in this scanty and provocative dishabille.
Charlotte Sophia leaned forward over the windowsill to follow the stripping of this proud vixen who, in her opinion, was the worst of the lot, the one who had instigated this ridiculous trick which had so insulted her regal person. She wished she had made it the cat-of-nine-tails instead of the birch, and doubted the number of lashes instead of only twenty-three, one for each of Arabella's age. But at least, she-thought grimly to herself, the little Dime would receive many more lashes under the hot South Carolina sun, toiling on one of those cotton or tobacco plantations. She had given orders to the Lord Chamberlain to see to it that Arabella's indenture, even more that the lot of the other girls, be directed towards one of the harshest task masters, so that Arabella might well expiate her sin.
The young assistant now ripped away the camisole, and an even louder gasp rose at the sight of Arabella's magnificent titties, their dainty coral points stiffening with the cool air of this cloudy May morning. What magnificent, erect and arrogant globes they were, hard pears of pale creamy flesh flecked delicately with myriad rosy nuances, that exquisite speckling of epidermis which attested to the natural tint of Arabella's hair and the pigmentation which supplemented it!
Her sweet belly was flat, and the dainty niche of her navel was exposed, an adorable eye which seemed to wink at the avid spectators, very narrow and deep, so furtive that My Lord Bruce Warrington, the first comptroller of the Royal Treasury, who had a penchant for thrusting his turgid penis into the bellybutton of his concubines and there achieving orgasmic fulfillment, seriously doubted that the sweet circumference of Arabella's navel would allow such introduction.
Master Dickon, who was examining the remaining birch rods soaking in the two brine-filled buckets in order to select a proper instrument for the fustigation of Arabella Clarisson's behind, now called out in a low voice to Tom. "Don't rush things so, man! Let 'em enjoy the baggage's bare skin! Let her wriggle about a bit before you take down her drawers. You'll have a better tip for your work, take it from an old hand at the trade!"
Arabella's lovely creamy cheeks turned scarlet with mortification as she overheard this obscene suggestion. She steeled her muscles as she pressed herself against the rough upright post, finding that she had been bound so tightly at the wrists and in such a pose that she had to exert all her muscular strength to stand on tiptoe if she did not wish the tight cords about her sensitive wrists to chafe and dig cruelly into the tender skin.
The spectators could see through the tightly molding white batiste sheath of Arabella's drawers the magnificent choreography of her buttocks, those solid and enticingly contoured ovals with which her long, supple and beautifully sculptured thighs merged in such harmonious juncture and it promised a highly entertaining spectacle when the drawers should be removed and those pale white, rosy-flecked bottomglobes should quake and contract and jiggle and dance under the stinging switches of the executioner's birch.
Arabella Clarisson waited in a growing agony of suspense, praying that it would be over. Half a dozen times she was on the point of crying out to the executioner to begin the punishmenby the mental torment which always augmented the physical.
The cool air laved her titties, flinting the coral buds in those dark-coral aurolae. As she pressed herself, the sides of her titties rubbed against the rough wood, reminding her of where she was and what awaited her. and she shuddered violently at this foretaste of pain to come.
"Oh. God. let it start, let it start before I cry out and shame myself before that vicious sow! Arabella thought as she prayed to retain her sanity in this awful moment of degradation. And as if in answer to her prayer, she suddenly felt the strong fingers of the young executioner's assistant on the waistband of her drawers. He pulled the waistband open, grabbed the tops and then slowly peeled the garment down from the glories of her jutting bottom ovals. Slowly, like a connoisseur delectating over that Callyphygian regalia. Tom drew the sheath down inch by inch so that those who watched might rhapsodize over the gradual unveiling of the firm, quivering, satiny oval hillocks! Arabella tensed herself, and arched her loins forward in an instinctive virginal attempt to hide the dark-red curls of her maiden bush from those besmirching eyes. Now she felt her drawers slither to her ankles, where they remained out of a refinement which the executioner himself designated with a gesture of his hand.
And she stood ready for the birch, naked to the stocking tops, the lovely, deeply hollowed spinal column making her back a wonderful canvas of soft creamy flesh, which culminated in those two temptingly ripe and firm, succulent bottom ovals with their gradually broadening furrow hiding its mystery in the ambery-shadowy groove which separated them.
All was in readiness now, and the spectators were agog with libidinous excitement. For Arabella Clarisson was the most beautiful of the trio, the oldest, the most courageous, and. it was well known, the ringleader of all these merry pranks which had finally boomeranged to bring her to this demeaning scaffold before the members of the court and the royal household.
Master Dickon rose, having selected the birch. It was a long and supple sheaf of switches, about seven of them carefully selected and profusely twigged so that the green buds would add additional sting to the tender quivering flesh of the naked prisoner. He brandished it in the air. whistled it over his head, as he slowly approached, with a heavy and ponderous dignity befitting his royal service. Here, in his opinion, was a magnificent bottom on which to work, one on which he could show the full gamut of his mastery. The girl's skin was delicate and delightfully sensitive, he was certain. And now he took his place at Arabella's left, his eyes feasted on the tensing ovals consigned to his punitive arm. observing with a silence view the resilience of the flesh, the contortions and the twitchings and palpitations which pervaded Arabella's naked flesh and which, in his role of torturer and executioner, told him much about the victim's temperament and her ability to withstand the flogging.
"You will count twenty-three, Tom," he announced in his gruff voice. Arabella again drew a long breath and tremblingly tightened her muscles, arching on tiptoe, her calves and thighs quivering with the tension of her muscular resistance to the rod. She bowed her head, as in meditation, her eyes tightly closed. But she could hear the murmur of voices, unintelligible and yet, she knew, commenting on her naked charms, speculating on her ability to endure the flogging without crying out or pleading for mercy. And she knew that Charlotte Sophia was surely still watching at that window, waiting to gloat on her torture. She would bite her tongue off before she would utter a single supplication for leniency.
Master Dickon was in no hurry. He had already demonstrated excellent skill with Arabella's predecessor, and a glance at the still whimpering naked girl lying to one side on the scaffold beyond the post told him that she, at any rate, had no reason for complaining over her due. But this girl, the Lord Chamberlain had informed him, deserved the full brunt of the rod, a chastisement that would be unforgettable and recall to her, during her years of servitude in the colonies, the crime of lese-majeste which she had dared against her sovereign to whom she owed all fealty and respect.
He lowered the birch to the floor of the scaffold taking careful aim, while Arabella waited, setting her teeth against her underlip, her delicate nostrils dilating with the afflux of quickened breathing, the understandable sign of this atrocious and frightening, suspense.
As the naked red-haired beauty waited, she heard a chorused gasp of "Aahhh!" and with a shuddering anguish knew what it betokened: the rod had risen in the air and was en route to deliver its first biting kiss. And then she felt the scalding-hot dash of the supple switches curl across both buttocks, just below the hips, and the shock of it forced a convulsive jerk of her naked body against the whipping post and drew a stifled "Ohh!" from her compressed lips.
"One!" the executioner's assistant called out in a ringing voice.
Master Dickon lowered the rod and studied the tensing creamy bottom before him. The first cut had left thin parallel bright pink streaks over both cheeks of Arabella's bare behind, and they were deepening now and darkening as the cool air caressed the palpitating flesh. He could see how the muscles of her sinuous calves flexed and shifted as she prepared herself for the next cut. and he smiled dourly to himself. She was a proud upstart, a fancy, pampered vixen who doubtless had never known such castigation. He would have her howling before a baker's dozen, or his name was not Reuben Dickon. Nor had he been called by his Christian name since his mother's death; as an apprentice in his teens, he had served as an undertaker's assistant and thus learned his first crude lessons in human anatomy which were to stand him in such good stead when, a dozen years later, he was appointed as assistant executioner at Sheffield. And then, five years thereafter, when the chief executioner had fallen ill from too much wine, he had topped off five highwaymen one after the other in chains from the gibbet, and then tied them to remain as grim warnings for those who would lurk in ambush upon the King's highway to rob a coach. He had put many women to the torture before hanging or burning them, and only the month before he had racked a handsome matron in her mid-thirties condemned for the crime of poisoning her husband with arsenic. He had prolonged her ordeal for more than two hours until she had died shrieking in torment. He did not doubt that this proud baggage would be shrieking ere long.
Grinding his teeth together, he stepped forward and sent the birch whistling across the base of Arabella's naked behind. Again she jerked convulsively against the whipping post, grinding her furry snatch against the chafing wood, her head lifting a little, and her eyes opening under the ferocious stinging impact of the switches on her soft sensitive skin. But this time she had been prepared for it and she had-ground her teeth too to hold back any outcry. Nonetheless, the uncontrollable shivering along her thighs and calves and into the cheeks of her tightening buttocks told the executioner that she had not been impervious to the stroke.
"Two!" Tom announced.
There was a long pause until the next stroke, and Arabella nervously shifted from foot to foot, harassed by the stricture of her tender wrists against the cold heavy iron rings at the cross-arm. She bowed her head, she drew several deep breaths and prepared herself for the onslaught of that wicked, swishing rod. Out of maiden modesty, she continued to contract the muscles of her bottom to hide the shameful intimacy of the mysterious, shadowy crease between the oval globes. Master Dickon smiled again. She was an obdurate piece, this one! And judging from the way she squirmed and jerked that sweet arse of hers, he would wager his entire fee for this morning's work that she'd never been so much as bare-bottom smacked by her folks when she was a child. Else she would know that the stiffening of the muscles only makes the rod bite the more greedily and cause the more pain.
Then suddenly he lofted the rod, waved it in the air, and brought it down with a direct vertical sweep over the left buttock, the tips of the switches biting against the tender side and the edge of the hipbone, the full impact of the withes harshly stinging the plump firm curve of the summit. Once again taken by surprise. Arabella Clarisson jerked convulsively, and turned her face slightly to the left, as a stifled moan rose in her throat. Her nostrils flared and shrank as she fought for breath, and she was forced to shift from foot to foot to ease the now aching bite of the cords around her slender wrists.
"Three!" Tom announced.
Instantly, with hardly a moment of respite. Master Dickon whirled the birch above his head, and then drove it down on the right buttock, in exact counterpart to the previous blow. Arabella writhed and twisted violently from side to side, the firm mounds of her bottom jiggling and quaking in this peroration, and again her head rose, her eyes very wide now and blurred with tears, while a strangled "Ohh!" was finally wrested from her as Tom called out the fourth stroke.
Gloria and Beatrice watched from where they lay, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they perceived the stoic courage of their dearest friend. And they, like the spectators, gasped aloud as they saw the hooded executioner step back, the birch extended horizontally in the air and then step forward to deliver a sweeping slash over the base of both huddling naked creamy globes.
"Oh—ahh!" Arabella Clarisson gasped aloud, and for the first time she glanced nervously back over her shoulder to see the dread figure of the executioner.
Master Dickon smiled with satisfaction. The little baggage felt that one, there was no doubt about it. And the striata left by the switches had now created a lascivious pattern on the pale creamy, rosey-speckled bare flesh of that voluptuously provocative posterior. She had eighteen cuts left, and he meant to give her three or four on the back and shoulders and perhaps one or two across the thighs before concentrating all the rest on that saucy arse.
In the pavillion of spectators, one of the foot-soldiers was whispering to a lace-capped chambermaid. "Poor wench, and all because of a spiteful Hanoverian who doesn't know how to take a good English joke! 'Tis a pity to see such a lovely backside ruined by the rod."
"If you are so sympathetic towards backsides. Master Brendon." the sparkling-eyed black-haired maid impishly retorted, "you may see mine tonight in my chamber when all the rest have gone to sleep. But only if you use another rod. more merciful and less blemishing to my soft flesh, hark you!"
Talk about purple prose. At times this seems to border on parody. Sort a text version of Mystery Science Theater. But back in those days...well these books sold well in the local Adult Bookstore by all accounts.


Tuesday, October 15, 2013

50 Shades of Downton Abbey

The volume of twin novelettes, The Ladies of Heatherton Hall and The Countess and the Magician has just been released, both in the Amazon and Barnes and Noble ebook stores.
The Amazon link is HERE. The B&N link is HERE.

Disciplinary Tales and Rollin Hand present two novelettes which, in combination, exceed 28,000 words and feature steamy romance and hot spanking.

The Ladies of Heatherton Hall

Joshua Fairchild is a struggling American student, until he discovers that he is heir to an estate on an obscure English island. Oakton Island is both remote and unusual. Old traditions hold sway there, and as Josh finds out, he has duties as the Earl of Carlisle that he would have never dreamed existed, including the administration of corporal punishment to his own household. And what a household it is. From the naughty maids in service, to the cute but mischievous cousins, to the nubile granddaughter, all the ladies at Heatherton Hall should be on their best behavior if they are to avoid a summons to the library—where the traditional birch rod, the modern paddle, or perhaps just the flat of the hand, is the sure cure for misbehavior.  

The Countess and the Magician

It is the spring of 1944 and in occupied France the English agent, code name LaFleur, plots to extract information from the German high command, information that may be vital to the success of the invasion. In reality, Lafleur is the Countess Angelique Dubois, purveyor of entertainment of a carnal nature and madam to a high class clientele. This is a clientele that includes highly placed German officers who have very particular interests, interests that include the pleasures of flagellation and spanking, especially when the subjects are nubile French farm girls. But to carry off the mission, the Countess needs The Magician, a mysterious American agent trained in the orient. The magician, one Marc Merlin, must go under cover with his assistant Caroline Grey, a pretty English data analyst, as players in The Countess entertainment tableaux. But the play’s the thing, and in order to maintain cover, Marc and Caroline must convince all that they are true devotees of the rod.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Happy Tears--the conclusion

Hester's initiation into the joys of domestic discipline bring about big changes in the household of Arthur and Eleanor. Eleanor tells Arthur that she has taken Hester to task and has given her a proper spanking. Arthur wants details, but Eleanor puts him off. Here is the result:

“Let's do something about our own emotional life. I made her a promise and I'm going to keep it and that's all I'm going to tell you. If you feel like spanking me because of that, go right ahead.”   
   “You know, you've just given me a wonderful idea,” Arthur Hadley murmured thickly as his hands began to squeeze and massage Eleanor's voluptuous buttocks. “Come here, young lady!”   
   He took her by the hand and led her to a armchair. Eleanor began to be very frightened, her eyes very wide, her mouth open. But the agitated rise and fall of her juicy breasts indicated that she was far from being as apprehensive as she feigned. Over his lap she went, and with his own trembling hands he lifted her nightie over her hips, disclosing the temptingly upthrust hillocks of her milky bottom. He put his left palm on the small of her back, and his right palm hesitantly glided over the warm, quivering naked flesh.   
   “I can see I'm in the hands of a novice,” Eleanor giggled.  
    “I like that! Just for that, young lady, I'm going to make you beg for mercy!” Lifting his hand, he brought it down with a hard smack on her right buttock, and quickly followed with another on the left cheek which fairly made Eleanor's plump buttocks bounce and jiggle. Her eyes widened with surprise. She could feel his stiff cock prodding her belly as she lay across his lap. Decidedly, she told herself, voluptuous chastisement was going to intensify and ramify her love life in a most delightful way.   
   His hand rose and fell methodically for about five minutes, until at last, Eleanor gasped out, and there were real tears in her eyes when she did so, “Oh darling, that's enough! You've got me so hot I've just got to be fucked now! I'll be a good girl! Please, Arthur darling!”   
   He lifted her up, and she put her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth to his while his hands again pulled up her nightie and fondled her flaming bottom.   
   Then he lifted her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed, and she herself pulled off the nightie and was waiting for him, squirming and frantically pulling at him as the sheets rubbed her posterior and created between her thighs another kind of heat which is even more erotic and inviting.   
   The moment his cockhead slipped between the pulsing, twitching lips of her cleft, Eleanor let out a cry of ecstasy, forcing her arms and legs around him, and pulled him down upon her, biting his ear-lobes, clawing the back of his neck with her sharp nails, and panting, “Oh darling, give it to me hard, I'm so hot I'm dying for it!”    
  And that was one of the most furiously satisfying fucks the two of them had known, even since their honeymoon night.

So Eleanor finally gets a spanking from Arthur. You wonder why, with Eleanor being such a died-in-the-wool spanko, it took all the way to the end of the second volume for them to get around to it. But now it's Katy-bar-the-door for the continuing spankfest, now that the cat's out of the bag. Betty and Hester, mischievous girls that they are, get into trouble together.

 But when Hester came home that Friday afternoon from college, she had the misfortune to be smitten with another impulse at horseplay with her younger stepsister by way of betokening their friendship. Upstairs in Betty's room, that golden-haired miss was straightening her bed when Hester slipped up behind her and smacked her soundly on her bottom. Whirling around with a cry, Betty pushed Hester and Hester pushed her back, and the next thing they knew they were swinging at each other with pillows.   
   They grew so vehement and enthusiastic over this new sport, that the pillowslips were torn and the stuffings flying all over the room when suddenly the cold voice of reason and retribution broke in upon their game: “Well, now, is this the way a college student and a senior high-school girl behave?”   
   Hester and Betty gulped, turned and stared at Eleanor Hadley. It was all the latter could do to keep from showing them a twinkle in her eyes, as she pursued: “I see that both of you are to blame this time. Both of you will come to my room at once.”    
  “Yes, Mother,” Hester stammered, and then, taking a deep breath, she added, “It was really my fault—I started it, Mother—I came in here and slapped her. I think I'm the one that ought to be punished not Betty.”      Eleanor Hadley really did smile then and her eyes twinkled. “Good for you, dear,” she said gently. “I'll take full consideration of that. But just the same, Betty is big enough and old enough by now to know that those pillow slips are very expensive and they weren't made to be ripped apart like that. Come along now, Betty, just because Hester is big enough to forgive you doesn't mean that I shall.”
     And so, a few moments later, both Hester and Betty lay on Eleanor's bed, side by side holding hands, clad only in their bras, their panties drawn to their knees, with the door thoughtfully closed, while Eleanor Hadley applied the strap first to Hester's tawny-skinned bottom then to Betty's pink-sheened plumper one.             She gave each of them twenty-five strokes, and both girls were crying softly by the time the last lash fell over their quivering naked reddened posteriors.   
   “Now, my dears, my own daughters,” she said tenderly, “come over to me, each of you, and give me the kiss of peace.”   
   They scrambled down from the bed, and, still holding hands as they had done during their punishment, walked towards Eleanor in the straight-backed chair. And it was Hester who, forgetting entirely she was a college student and all of eighteen, first plumped herself down on Eleanor's lap and without the least self-consciousness over her almost nakedness flung her arms around the dominatress's neck and kissed her and hugged her passionately.   
   And these were truly happy tears!

Aww... isn't that sweet? It should have ended there, but oh, no. There's more. We're just getting warmed up.

     It was Friday evening, and Arthur Hadley was in the living room with a stack of typed pages on the table beside him, going over the reports he had dictated to his secretary. Next week, he'd told Eleanor at the dinner table, he was going to be in Ventura to work out an efficiency program for a marine building firm, the first really lucrative contract that had come his way since he had opened his own office when moving to Claremont. Eleanor was on the couch, knitting a sweater for Hester, glancing at her handsome husband every so often with love and pride. Hester and Betty were out in the kitchen, having insisted on helping Jennie with the dishes.   
   All of a sudden there was a crash, followed by a girlish giggle, and then a second crash, followed by Jennie's excited cry: “Now I tol' you two gals not to play games with dem dere dishes, now you jist see wut you's done, you two!”   
   “What in the world?' Eleanor exclaimed as she laid down the sweater and rose. “Arthur, did you hear that?”    
  “I certainly did!” He took off his reading glasses, laid down the report he'd been reading, and got up from his comfortable armchair. “We better investigate, I'd say.”   
   When the two reached the kitchen, Jennie was wringing her hands and shaking her head in dismay while Hester and Betty stood side by side, serenely composed. On the floor lay the shattered remains of two dinner plates and a cup and saucer.    
  “What happened?” Eleanor demanded. “Oh my—my best plates, too! How could you girls have been so careless?”    
  “They wuz playing wut dey called a jugglin' game, Miz Hadley,” Jennie indignantly spoke up, wanting to assure her employers that she had had no hand in this disaster.   
   “I broke the plates, Daddy,” Betty turned to face her stepfather, wide-eyed innocence and a sweet smile registered on her lovely heartshaped face.

Of course you know what's coming next, right? Betty has a daddy complex or something. Big surprise there.

“Daddy, I—I think you ought to give me my spanking this time instead of Mother. After all, those plates were part of the set you had shipped here, weren't they?”   
   “Come to think of it, you're right, young lady,” he exclaimed. “So you want me to spank you, do you, Betty?”   
   “Y—yes, D—Daddy.”   
   “I may as well tell you in advance, Betty, that I agree with your mother's methods, and you needn't expect leniency from me. Is that understood?”   
   “Uh—huh, D—Daddy,” Betty stammered, her cheeks a becoming crimson with blushes of emotion.      “Very well then, come with me, Betty,” Arthur Hadley sternly decided, and grasped Betty by the wrist and led her back into the living room. Hester faced her stepmother bravely: “You'll be the one to punish me then, won't you, Mother?” she asked.  
    “Correct! Jennie, get me the martinet from the pantry. Since you're expected to set your sister a good example, Hester, a simple handspanking will hardly suffice. Thank you, Jennie,” this as the colored maid handed Eleanor the multiple-thonged little whip with its short wooden handle. “All right, Hester, into the living room with you at once, young lady!”  
    Hester, head bravely held high, preceded her stepmother into the living room. There she saw Arthur Hadley already seated on the couch, golden-haired Betty draped across his lap, pillowing her head in her folded arms, her skirt and nylon petticoat trussed well above her waist, and her filmy white panties trussed down to her nylon-sheathed calves, in the act of tucking in her waist with his left arm.    
  “Wait a bit, Arthur,” Eleanor smilingly interposed, “let's spank the girls together, so they'll feel they're sharing the penalty for their simultaneous misdeeds. Hester, kneel down on that armchair, pull up your skirt and slip, bend well over the back of the chair!”   
   “Y—yes, Mother!” The auburn-haired girl did not hesitate as she moved to the armchair, pulling up her clothes as she approached; she dutifully knelt down, leaned over the back as Eleanor, the martinet tucked under her left arm, approached and ordered, “You hold up your clothes during the spanking, Hester! And take care not to let them fall back down over your naughty bottom unless you want ten extra spanks!”      “I—I will, Mother,” Hester sighed, a little uneasy now that the moment of truth was at hand, for the martinet was ominously new to her.   
   Deftly Eleanor tugged down Hester's panties to the girl's knees, exposing the plump, twitching and contracting tawnysheened ovals of that well developed, voluptuous naked behind; then, taking the martinet in her right hand, she stationed herself to the penitent's left, and, glancing over at her husband, exclaimed, “Now, then, Arthur!”
     Instantly, Arthur Hadley's right palm fell with a sonorous smack on the upturned right bottomsummit of his young golden-haired stepdaughter's naked behind. Betty raised her head, her blue eyes widening with surprise at the emphatic sting of this very first spank. And she began to tell herself that from now on this was the very last spanking from him she was going to go out of her way to get.   
   At the same moment, Eleanor Hadley swept the leather thongs of the martinet solidly across the plumpest, most temptingly jutting curves of Hester's naked posterior, and the whistling smack drew a startled gasp from the auburn-haired culprit, who squirmed on her knees, and glanced apprehensively round at her beautiful executioner.   
   Smack! Arthur Hadley's castigating palm flattened over the jouncy summit of Betty's left bottomcheek. “Oooohh, Daddy!” Betty gasped, surprised at her own lack of stoicism this early in the chastisement. Two bright pink outlines of his hand had at once risen, superimposing over the smooth soft babypink tint of the blonde culprit's naked seat.   
   Hisss-thuckkk! The martinet's thongs serpentined through the air, clinging avidly to the lower summits of Hester's shivering naked behind. The auburn-haired girl gasped, “Ohh, M—Mother!”, looked round nervously, then squirmed feverishly on her knees, her fingers clutching her uptrussed garments still higher. The vivid streaks left by the thongs stood out lasciviously on the pale tawny sheen of her twitching naked hindquarters.   
   And thus in the Hadley living room, Betty and Hester shared a sisterly spanking as part of the secret, warmhearted pact the two girls had made; for when Betty had whispered out in the kitchen that she meant to break a dish or two and get Hester's father to inflict her first spanking as his new daughter, Hester, not to be outdone, purposely smashed the cup and saucer to offer herself up as a willing martyr to her new mother's loving chastisement.  
    When it was over, Betty was kicking and sobbing, begging her father to stop, avowing with a fervent sincerity that could not be questioned that she would never be careless again. Fifty good spanks had left her tender round bottomglobes a blazing scarlet, and as he drew her panties up over her inflamed posterior and slowly righted her on her feet and kissed her, he murmured, “I'm sorry I spanked so hard, honey.” But Betty flung her arms round his neck and in an outburst of love and furiously roused, subtle girlish passion, sobbingly declared, “I deserved it, Daddy, I was awfully naughty! Th—thank you for—for spanking me so good, and I won't ever do it again, honest!”   
   A similar tender scene of reconciliation was taking place as Hester, her bottom and thighs striped by fifty expertly applied strokes of the little martinet, gingerly eased herself down from the chair, to have her panties pulled up by her smiling, misty eyed stepmother—who had divined Hester's heroic act of self-sacrifice—and to be tenderly hugged and kissed and gently scolded over being so careless...     
 Not long afterwards, Arthur and Eleanor lay entwined, his cock buried to the hilt inside her pulsating quim, their tongues flicking in the sweet duel of carnal conclave, and he panted, “You know, Ellie, I've a hunch your daughter broiled those plates on purpose.”  
    “Umm hmmm—and you know something else, lover? Your daughter did the same with that cup and saucer.”    
  “Well, well,” Arthur Hadley mused, “if anyone would have told me six months ago that Hester would willingly go out of her way to get a bare-bottom tanning, I'd have considered him a candidate for the looney bin.”    
  “And if anyone had told me that my sobersides of a husband would have got such a kick out of spanking my poor little darling Betty's bare seat, I'd have laughed in his face.” 

You're kidding, right? Oh well, no time like the present. Strike while the iron is hot, so to speak.

Eleanor slyly whispered as she insistently squirmed under him. “Ohh, honey, I know it made you randy—take it out on me—give it all to me—oh, Arthur lover—don't spare me, fuck me good and hard—ohh darling!”      

And in Hester's room, the door locked as a precaution, Betty and Hester lay in bed together in the darkness, kissing and cuddling, having each soothed the other's burning, inflamed seat with cold compresses and cold cream. And out of that unison which was brought about by happy tears, perhaps it was not at all surprising that the golden-haired and the auburn-haired “sacrificial spank-ees” should seek an even more intimate solace with questing fingers and soon, the shivering, frictioning warm satin of their eager naked bodies.      But that, of course, is another story!
This is a pretty typical example of flagellant porn in the 60's. A ridiculous story line. Lots of action, most of which doesn't make logical sense, but it keeps on coming and that was what the publishers wanted. But comparatively, Paul Little was a regular Faulkner compared to some of his contemporaries who could not write at all.

Next time---the real Claire Willows.