The Romance of Chastisement

The Romance of Chastisement

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

A Bet is a Bet

Since football season is now in full swing, I thought this little tale might amuse. I found it on my hard drive, no author, but I rewrote it nearly completely, so I guess it's just as much mine as the original anonymous author's.
Update: a reader has informed me that the author is named Kree, or perhaps Kree8tion, so my thanks to Kree and I hope he/she does not mind how I changed the story all around.



A Bet is a Bet

She couldn't believe the game last night. New York lost. And they
lost badly! She'd received a phone call as the game was ending
reminding her of their bet. She'd been in a mood at the party
last night, a regular bitch. She'd practically ruined the evening
in front of all his friends. He'd been put out with her, but then had come
THE BET. She bit on it. It was another way to jerk his chain.

 Yeah, yeah, she'd told him. Yeah, yeah when he reminded her.
He was enjoying this far too much for her liking. It was a tease bet,
one made in jest, (at least she thought so) but he was taking it seriously. So ok.
Probably payback for
her bitchiness last night.  She was so sure New
York would win that when he suggested they bet on it, she agreed ...

"So what are we betting?" she had asked him. Her mood had been replaced by
 visions of sexual positions that
floated through her mind. They'd been seeing each other for months
and besides his good looks, he was very good in bed!

"A spanking." he told her. She stared at him. What had he said? A
spanking?


"A spanking" he repeated. "The loser goes over the knee of the
winner, and the loser receives three whacks
for every point difference. Well? I don't hear you bragging now."

"I'm thinking,” she told him. Hmmm. How cute his butt would look
over her knees. She may even enjoy turning his bottom red. The idea
of getting spanked always made her heart flutter, but giving one? It
was a new concept to her, but it was worth a try.

"All right" she agreed. And just as their hands were touching in a
handshake to seal the bargain, when he added, "and of course, it's bare butt."
Say what?
She tried to jerk her hand out of his, but he wouldn't let go. It was
done.

She arrived at work and tried to pretend nothing was different. The
final score kept running through her mind. 34 - 7 and her team was
the 7. That's a 27-point difference! Multiply that by 3 and that's a
total of 81 whacks? Oh god. He met her as she walked in the crowded
office and whispered "Stay after work and meet me in my office. We'll
get this over with quickly."

She'd shivered at his words. Quickly?
How do you administer 81 whacks quickly?

She ignored him and tried to pretend she'd never made the bet. But he
would find her everywhere. At the copy machine, at her desk, near the
storage cabinet, everywhere! Even in the cafeteria, he sat at the
table in front of her and told her that if she didn't appear in his
office after work on her own, he would find her and the number would
be five times per point instead of three.

God, she wished he would just stop reminding her. She couldn't eat
her lunch. Her stomach kept churning in a way she'd never known was
possible. She watched the clock all afternoon. It moved so slowly at
times and moved too fast for her liking at others. She couldn't do
it. She couldn't go through with it. She knew it as sure as she was
sitting there worrying. She couldn't do it. She waited for the
clock's minute hand to reach the top and she bolted.

Her hands were shaking when she reached her car parked in the garage
under the building. She had trouble inserting the key, they were
shaking so bad. She looked around quickly to make sure he hadn't
followed her when she felt a hand cover hers and silently remove the
keys from her fingers.

"Going somewhere?" he asked in a smooth voice.

"Yyyyes" she stuttered. "I'd just remembered. We can't do this
tonight. I have a very important m -- meeting in the morning and I
have so much work to do to prepare. We'll have to make plans for
another night. Now may I have my keys?"

"Well now" he told her. "If I didn't know better, I would have
thought you were trying to renege on our bet." His voice was too
sickeningly sweet for her liking when he continued. "I'll tell you
what. I'll give you a choice. You can walk with me back to my office
and take your spanking in private like a good girl, or we can proceed
right here. Either way, we made a bet, we shook hands on it, you lost
and you WILL be spanked." He stood, patiently waiting for her
decision.

She looked around. People were beginning to enter the garage and
start heading for their cars. It was Monday. No one was in a hurry to
leave. She looked back at him then, and started to tell him that he
wouldn't dare. He raised his left eyebrow at her as if to reinforce
that he could and would! Her choice he'd said. Some choice.
"Dammit" she muttered as she slowly headed out of the garage.

They arrived at his office and she stood at the door, waiting. He
didn't speak to her but she could still hear shuffling from the main
room that told her not everyone had left. He was kindly waiting for
them to be alone but the waiting was driving her nuts. FINALLY, at 20
minutes after 5, he stood and grabbed a straight back chair and
placed it in the middle of his office.

He didn't speak to her, he just moved in silence. She watched him as
 he rolled up his sleeves,
her knees beginning to shake a little. He sat in the chair and
crooked his index finger at her and patted his knees with his other
hand. She couldn't move. She froze where she was and she couldn't
move.

"Don't make me come and get you,” he warned her.
She believed him and headed to him. He kissed her then. Kissed her
right on the lips as if to make up for what he was about to do. "I'm
going to enjoy this. I've wanted to do this for a long time,
and I'm going to enjoy this. Let's get started."


That said, he yanked her over his knees and she remained there, her hands touching the
floor on one side of his lap, her legs dangling on the other.
God, how embarrassing. She almost jumped up off his knees when he
began to raise her skirt but one hand at the bottom of her back held
her firm. He rubbed her panty-clad bottom.

"So soft. So smooth. I am
so glad the Ravens spanked New York. Now it's my turn to do some
spanking. Ready?"

Ready? Hell no, she wasn't ready! She would never be! She was about
to be spanked! Her humiliation continued as he put his finger in the
waistband of her panties and yanked!

"Nooooo! Nooooo!" she yelled at him.

"A bet is a bet,” he reminded her. "Bare bottom spanking. Do you remember
 how many whacks per point difference?"

"Yeah, yeah" she answered. "Three whacks per point difference."
He rested his palm on her naked cheeks as he
continued. She squirmed at his touch. He patted and rubbed,
testing the resilience of her fanny.

 "And what is the point difference?"

"27" she answered him.

"And how many whacks are you going to receive on your naked bottom?"
he asked.

"81" she answered, smiling to herself.
WHACK!
Yow! She thought. That stung!

 "Wrong" he told her. "We have the issue of your running away
to deal with, now don't we? Now. One more time. How many whacks are
you going to receive on your naked bottom?"

She swallowed hard. "135" she whispered.

"Much better" he told her and rubbed her bottom with his hand.

He waited. She wiggled. He waited. She could feel his hand
 resting against her cheeks and she wiggled again. Will
he please get this over with? I can't stand the waiting!
Still he waited. Ohhhhh he was enjoying her position way too much for
her liking. She tried once more to push herself off his lap ready to
admonish him when WHACK! She slumped back down at the pain!

Then it started. He spanked her six times in rapid succession.

"Owwwwww" she cried. He wasn't spanking her hard, she knew that. But
he was spanking her and she WAS feeling everything. Each spank landed
where one had landed previous and the pain on her naked cheeks was
getting worse.

Another half dozen rapid spanks fell, scorching her bottom cheeks.

She tried stopping him. That only succeeded in him grabbing her wrist
and holding it fast at the bottom of her back.

His hot hand continued to fall, a steady tempo now, each whack sending
hot waves of sting pulsing through her core.
She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes but she refused to
cry. She refused to say a word.

The sensation was unbelievable, a hot searing, wave upon wave
as he smacked and whacked, the sound like pistol shots
in the enclosed room.

She couldn't take this, she couldn't. He was spanking her as if she
was a little girl and she couldn't take it. The "ow's" and "no's"
she kept saying didn't even penetrate her brain. They were automatic
as he continued spanking her.

 She squirmed uncontrollably, shifting across his lap, fluttering her legs, flailing her arms.
She had to be a sight, wriggling her fanny at him like a tavern doxy while it paddled it,
making it judder and wobble.
She tried not to cry. She tried to stop the tears but they wouldn't stay. They
flowed down her face while she kept wiggling her butt at him and flailing around.

He paused then. He once more rested his hand against her now
burning cheeks. She slumped on his lap. It was over. And she didn't
cry. She rested there, glad it was over.
WHACK! 

"STOP THAT" she screamed at him. "That's really hurting now!"

"Good" he said through a smile. "A bet is a bet, and you shook on it
and your team lost. Pick a better team next time."

Another volley of spanks fell.
He continued spanking her until he heard her sobs. She cried like a
little baby. Sobs and hiccups and ... and .... she almost wanted to
tell him that she was sorry ......and then it happened. A quickening in her sex.
The spanking was making her sex respond. The pain had morphed into....
....something else.
She humped up and down shamelessly. Ground her sex against his knee.
He did not seem to notice.
He paused. "I've lost count" he told her, but she was beyond caring.

Surprised by her odd moaning and writhing, he raised her from her position and seated her on his lap.
He kissed the top of her head and spoke. "Now. About the party last night....."
 She swiveled around abruptly, straddling his thighs and tore at his clothes. "I'm sorry about that. Now just shut up and take me."






Thursday, September 25, 2014

Captives of the Leather Lashers Pt 2



Well, after all that somebody gets the idea that a neighborhood spanking club might be a lot of fun. Why not? It sure beats stuffy old dinner parties or boring canasta nights.


 After refreshments, Carl Donegan had extinguished all the lights in the big room, set up a daylight screen and then turned on his movie projector to show them all a “blue” film. A friend of his in San Francisco had bought it for him, and it showed two lovely housewives, both neglected by their husbands, consoling each other in Lesbian style. One was a big-tittied, golden-haired young woman who slightly resembled Georgia, and this circumstance drew admiring and obscene comments which made even mature Georgia Donegan blush like a schoolgirl. The other was a tall, stately young woman, and when the latter knelt down between the blonde's sprawled thighs and began to gamahuch her knees, there were gasps from all the women in the audience, and moans of torment from the aroused men. The movie had got them all into the proper erotic mood, so Carl Donegan, taking over at the first meeting as emcee and president by acclamation of the “Wifespankers Club of Northbrook,” declared the rules laid down for membership.

They had begun this evening by having Carl and Georgia hand out numbered slips to every comer, and now it was time to examine the slips. Carl Donegan had a big roulette wheel and he spun it. He kept on spinning it until he'd turned up some of the numbers of the guests, and the first one drawn was Lorraine Demby, who was wearing a strapless black satin evening gown that made her look especially sexy, most of ail to her own rather “square” husband Ed. The next number turned out to be that of Peter Coleman. Both rose amid rather lascivious bantering, and Carl Donegan now declared, “Well now, you're sort of going to be guinea pigs for our little club, Lorraine and Peter. Now remember, we're not going to do anything. The idea is that Lorraine is going to take a spanking from Peter—unless he'd rather do it the other way around.” “Oh no, Mr. President,” Lorraine Demby giggled, looking at Ed with a kind of scornful expression on her face, “I think it's the right way to start. I don't mind being a martyr to progress, anyway, and maybe my hubby will get some ideas.”

As all eyes turned on Ed Demby, while that worthy growled, puffed at his cigar, and stirred uneasily. He was also getting rather red in the face. Just before they had come, Lorraine had told Ed that she wasn't at all happy about the way things were working out in their marriage, and he had better start thinking very seriously about spending more time with her and less at his business if he wanted the marriage to last.

 Peter Coleman himself was a little self-conscious, because although he regarded himself as a Casanova, he had never performed before an audience. But the sight of luscious Lorraine blushing and looking rather sheepishly downcast, just as a little girl might when summoned to the parental bedroom for a spanking, made his prick begin to ache and determined him to put on a show that would be worthy of the initiatory ceremonies of this new underground group. Lorraine Demby had purposely put on white linen playshorts, and under them a very filmy pair of white nylon pantybriefs, sandals, a pullover red silk blouse with puffed short sleeves, and a strapless bra. This left her magnificent legs bare, and although Ed Demby had remonstrated with her about going to a party in such summary attire, she had told him pointedly, “Look, Buster, we're going for the purpose of playing around and having fun and games, see? Now what's the sense of going in an elaborate evening gown and lots of undies when we know we're going to undress. And don't forget, Ed, since you're going to let me play around, the same goes for you and I won't ever criticize you for it.”

 “You really mean that, honey?” he had gasped. Already his mind was forming images of such delectable pieces of pussy as Janice Coleman and Brenda Fairborn, whose charms, even in a neighborly way had already excited him. Now the actual prospect, soon to be realized, of having them undress, lie on the bed and let him fuck them, overcame his scruples about Lorraine's attire as much as it did about her giving herself to another man. “How are we going to do it?” Georgia Donegan wanted to know for future reference. “Any way both partners agree to,” her husband decreed. And then, giving her a mocking little glance, he added,

“Which means, baby, if you misbehave, I can even string you up by the heels and do it to you upside down.”

“Do what to me, lover? Spank or screw?” was Georgia's answer, which brought about a wave of hilarity in which even Lorraine Demby joined.

The sumptuous blonde matron glanced over now at Madge Warren, and Madge blushed furiously, remembering how she and Lorraine had had a stolen hour of pussyrubbing and gamming together, and how she had been induced to spank Lorraine's opulent bottom in a way that served to stimulate the older woman and served to release her own pent-up feelings. Then Madge glanced at her husband, hoping he would catch the idea through ESP. But he was much too intent watching Lorraine now ascend a deep leather-padded armchair and, kneeling solidly, lean herself over the back of the chair and hold the sides to offer up her bottom in total submission.


Peter Coleman now advanced, and it was evident that he had a hard-on, judging from the bulge in his trousers-fly. “What's the matter, Pete? Can't you wait?” Pat Wilbur quipped.

 “Of course I can, you idiot!” Peter Coleman testily retorted: “But I'm certainly happy the roulette wheel picked my partner for me. Lorraine has a superb figure, and I'm going to pay plenty of attention to it.”

 “Oh my, that sounds ominous!” Lorraine Demby giggled as she gave Peter Coleman a quick glance over her shoulder. He had now put his hands to the fasteners of her playshorts and was opening them and drawing them down, as she accommodatingly arched herself out to show her total submission. The little panties were next, and a concerted gasp of “Oooohhh!” and “Ahhhhh!” came from the intently watching audience at the sight of so magnificent an ass. Lorraine bent over the chair back to thrust it out for Peter, who decided to begin with a simple handspanking.
His left palm bearing down on her chinkbone, his right first lingeringly caressing the satiny contours of her bare behind, to test and appraise the resilience, he at last began to spank. These were smarting, noisy slaps that he began with, and Lorraine sucked in her breath, closed her eyes and waited. She knew perfectly well what she was showing, not only to Peter Coleman but to all the other witnesses: her gaping pink cunt. She was hoping this would work Ed up so much that when they got home, he might even have some spunk left for her own burning and yearning cunt. But at the moment, she wasn't even thinking about Ed.
She was thinking only about getting her kicks and getting worked up so that when Peter Coleman took her into a guest bedroom, she could really cast away all her inhibitions and indulge in the hot bout she had been dreaming about for so long. She had heard something of Peter's reputation, and suspected he was quite a lover. She couldn't have been happier if she had picked him herself. His hand stung, and he continued to slap her bottom noisily, but in a capricious pattern. Sometimes he would do it in a rapid flurry of spanks all over her big firm ass, then again he would pause for at least a minute, causing her untold suspense, then suddenly give her two or three hard spanks all on a certain spot.

She couldn't anticipate, and so her nerves began to be keyed up. By the time he had given her forty slaps, her bottom was flaming and she was squirming, while tears coursed down her flushed cheeks. “I think that will do for a starter. All right, come along, Lorraine. And you needn't put your panties and shorts back on again, you won't need them,” Peter Coleman decided, a remark which again caused general merriment. He and Lorraine went down the hall, amid cheers of encouragement from their friends and neighbors, Lorraine feeling extremely sheepish and almost very embarrassed by having to hobble with her shorts and panties still twisted around her knees, and her red ass receding from the amused and excited view of all in the living room. When they reached the bedroom, which was the last one on the right, Peter Colemen closed the door and drew the bolt. Then he kissed her hard on the mouth and muttered, “I don't know how it happened, baby, but of all the broads at the party, I had you marked out from the first.”


 “You did?” “Mmmmmm—hmmmm.” His right hand began to stroke her flaming naked ass, then his left hand slyly slipped between their bodies, his forefinger creeping down to find the soft pink pussy-lips, while Lorraine groaned and threw her arms around him, pressing tightly to him. Peter Coleman's left forefinger grew bolder. Advancing inside the fleshy portals, he found the dainty and hardening bud of her clit, and began very delicately to rub and stroke it. Her breath now came in passionate snorts, and she tottered against him as she pressed with all her might up against his weapon.

“You're a very immodest young woman,” he chuckled. “If Ed could only see you now, I'll bet he'd want to give you a spanking. Which reminds me, I haven't finished what I started out there. And I think I'm going to do just that, young woman.”


 “Oh no—not more—oh my goodness, my bottom's already hot, Pete darling,” Lorraine gasped, backing up against the wall. But he had already seized her, hauled her over his lap before she could resist, pulled her shorts and panties completely off, then, mastering her ineffectual and not really very strenuous attempts at revolt, removed her blouse. To his amusement, she wore a garter-belt.


 “No stockings, and a garterbelt? I've got an even better idea,” he chuckled. “But first, a little more fantailing to even up some of the red places on that big sweet ass of yours, Lorraine honey.”

“No—don't you dare—I've been spanked enough! Oh Pete, please fuck me!”

 “Everything in good time, baby. No sense rushing things,” masterfully he tucked his left arm around her waist, raised his hand and resumed spanking even more energetically. Lorraine Demby squealed and her legs kicked the air frantically as, for about five minutes, his hand rose and fell. When he paused, Lorraine was sobbing wildly and her bottom was twisting and squirming uncontrollably. Peter Coleman now deftly—from the experience of long practice, to be sure—unhooked her garter-belt and began to use it as a kind of whip, flicking her swollen ass and applying a few stinging cuts to the tops of her plump thighs.

Lorraine frantically bucked and jerked every which-way, desperately trying to cover with her hands the vulnerable expanse of her posterior, and begging off. Savagely excited, Peter Coleman flung the garterbelt away, yanked down his zipper to liberate his prick, and turned her over, then with a single deep thrust, hilted himself inside her. A long mewling cry tore from the buxom blonde matron, and she clamped her legs frenziedly around his, her fingernails scrabbling at his neck, and she kissed him so hard that their gums bumped together bruisingly, her tongue foraging between his lips and meeting his en route. The bed creaked its protest as they struggled in a kind of gloriously hostile coupling in which each tried to be the victor by venting his or her most embattled lust-fantasies.

And thus it was that the “Wifespankers Club of Northbrook” got really and torridly under way!


Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Writing the Spanking Scene -- Captives of The Leather Lashers Pt 1

This is spanking story literature the way it was in the '60's. This particular excerpt is from a novel by Jack Warren, one of Paul Little's pseudonyms. When writing as Warren, Little's setting was frequently the ordinary American suburban neighborhood, all wholesome and squeaky clean on the outside, but harboring dark secrets behind closed doors. This particular book is about a wife spanking/wife swapping club, sort of a spanking version of "Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice." Notice how dated the dialog, the clothes and the attitudes are. As is typical with Little, the catalyst is a rather ordinary episode of familial domestic discipline.



Two blocks north of the Fairborn house, a teenage coppery-red-haired Cissie MacDonald was getting her first spanking since the day before her fifteenth birthday. Her father was administering it, and he was in a towering rage, not without some justifiable reason. Cissie's mother had told her that she was still too young to expect to have dates with boys, but just the same Cissie had gone ahead and defied both her parents on that score. It was Saturday morning, the July sun was already oppressive, but it was doubtful whether Cissie was too greatly concerned with the heat of the sun. What was bothering her right now was the heat which her father was infusing into her creamy skinned naked, saucily contoured young ass with the sole of a worn-out leather bedroom slipper. Yesterday afternoon, Cissie had innocently asked her mother if she might go over to Betsy Donnegan's house and play out in the Donnegan yard, and of course her mother had said yes. But what Agatha MacDonald hadn't known was that Betsy, a black haired hoyden, had taken advantage of her parents' quick weekend trip (to Freeport, Illinois to visit a sick relative) to invite two boys of her own age over to play softball with her. One of the boys she intended for Cissie, a towheaded, freckle faced youth by the name of Jimmy Pollock. Her own boyfriend was Mack Servy, stocky, with unruly light-brown hair, and he and Betsy had already done a lot of petting out on the gazebo, a white wooden-frame summer house in the middle of the beautifully tended Donnegan garden. Cissie and Jimmy got along just fine, and Cissie had even let Jimmy kiss her and slyly put his hand on one of her budding young titties which thrust invitingly against the pullover blue sweater which she wore over her sleeveless blouse, together with a pair of playshorts of white linen. Her legs were bare to the bobby socks which garbed her slim ankles, and she wore loafers, though she would have infinitely preferred to have worn high heels. Unfortunately for the red-haired culprit, a motherly old widow who lived across the street had observed Cissie kissing Jimmy Pollock, and had chatted with Agatha MacDonald that evening after dinner. In the course of that conversation, since she and Mrs. MacDonald were old friends, she mentioned that she had seen Cissie and Jimmy kissing.

 The redhead had put on her most innocent look, her eyes very wide, and had asked, “What's the matter, Mom?”

 “Since when do you go around kissing boys in Betsy Donnegan's yard?” had been the shattering answer. And Cissie's face had gone as red as her hair, she had gulped, and then looked down at her plate and had had hardly a word to say for the rest of her breakfast.
It was about an hour and a half after breakfast, and Mark had put away his suitcases, kissed his wife and told of her of his success on the trip, and now he was in Cissie's bedroom, seated on a straight-backed chair near the window, with Cissie across his lap, her playshorts and her little cotton panties yanked down to her knees, her legs crossed for about the twentieth time since the spanking had started, and her milky-sheened, saucily rounded naked seat already just as red as her hair and a good deal hotter.
The slipper sole was a very embarrassing weapon to be used by a young lady who thought herself more than grownup enough to kiss boys. But the noise wasn't bothering Cissie so much any longer, it was the ferocious heat which was permeating her squirming bare ass each time the slipper came down to make crisp impact with her tender virgin flesh. Her hands were gripping the rung of the chair, and her face was upturned, her eyes tightly closed, her teeth ground together, as she tried desperately not to yell for mercy. But he had already given her about fifteen spanks, and she couldn't control the squirmings and wrigglings of her bare behind, and besides it was getting so painful that she just couldn't stand it anymore. Her cheeks were already wet with tears, and once again as she waited for another spank, she uncrossed and then recrossed her lovely legs. Whackk! The slipper described an arc in the air, then landed right down the widening shadowy crease between Cissie's virgin asscheeks.

 “Oww ohhh, oh, Daddy, oh do please stop, you're killing me, I won't ever do it again, oh please let me off anymore, please, Daddy!” the culprit squealed. Now one leg kicked up in the air, and the loafer fell off with a thud onto the floor. She turned her contorted and tearstained face back to her father, who was a tall, stern-faced man of forty-one, with thinning dark-brown hair, and who was assistant regional sales manager for a variety of housewares which their Rochester plant manufactured.

 Mark and Agatha had been married sixteen years, and when the marriage had started, Mark was working back in Rochester on the assembly line of the plant itself. But he had shown such a keen administrative mind and an ability to get along with people that his company had soon promoted him, and now for the last four years he had been out in Northbrook in his present executive capacity. They had tried to have more children, but the doctor had told Agatha that it wouldn't be possible. They both loved Cissie very dearly, and she was probably spoiled because she was an only child. One might say that when one realizes that the spanking she was now undergoing was her first in three years, though certainly over that span, she had committed enough mistakes and impertinences to have earned her at least a dozen thrashings from less indulgent parents.

 “I don't like doing this any more than you like getting it, young lady,” Mark MacDonald growled at her as he adjusted his left arm around her slim waist, pulled her back to him and tapped her flaming naked ass with the slipper sole. “But what I really don't like is the deceitfulness you showed yesterday by telling your mother that you were going over to play with Betsy when all the time there was a boy there who was going to take a fancy to you,” he went on sternly.

“But, Daddy,” the red-haired teenager wailed, daring to rush one hand back towards her reddened bottom in a naive attempt to cover up her further spanks, “I didn't know Jimmy was there, honest I didn't! Betsy had her guy over, and he had brought along his best friend, and Betsy said he was for me.”

“And you ought to have gone right straight home, young lady. Actually, maybe I won't hold you responsible for arranging to meet the boy over there—or you would certainly get a worse licking then I'm going to give you now. But you didn't show very good judgment in staying over there, and still less in kissing that boy. So our neighbor has to call your mother and tell her what you've been doing—how do you think I feel about that, young lady?”

The sole rose in the air and then fell angrily, once on the base of Cissie's left buttock, and then on the outer edge of the left hip. She squealed and jerked forward, trying pathetically to get her hand back over her bottom. Her father caught it in midair with his left hand and pressed it down hard against the small of her back, and then he clamped his right leg over her calves to make sure that she would stay in place throughout the rest of her spanking. Now the sole came down rapidly, spanking all over the tossing, jerking, weaving naked globes, and Cissie began to cry and to plead for mercy.

“Oww—oh stop, let up a minute, Daddy, oh please! Eeeowwwouuu!! You're killing me, Daddy! Oh please, Daddy, I'll be good!”

 When he paused, Cissie's naked bottom and even the tops of her delightfully rounded thighs were a bright crimson, and the lovely red-haired teenager was crying frantically, the fingers of her free hand twisting nervously against the rung of the chair.

 “You had better not try that again, young lady, or you'll be back here for a good deal more. Now get off my lap and go put on your pajamas!” “My pajamas, Daddy?” Cissie wailed uncomprehendingly as she slowly and grimacingly clambered off her father's lap.



NEXT --- A unique club is formed









Saturday, September 20, 2014

F/M Spanking Sunday -- When a Young Man Needs a Spanking

Here is a story I found some years ago. It was a story on a site that featured an F/M -- M/M mix. I was about to toss it because M/M is not my thing, but as I got into it, I realized it was a unique piece of writing. The style is different and very evocative of feelings and emotions experienced by the spankee, even though it's 3rd person POV. So I did some editing to make it an F/m tale, sexier, and more readable. Actually, I did a LOT of editing. That said here is:

When a Young Man Needs a Spanking
by Apples1946



Who has not said to himself that what some misbehaving young man needs is a good sound spanking? Although older children are usually thought to have outgrown the need for physical punishment, there are many teenagers and even some young men who remain woefully undisciplined. In such a case, the youth may sometimes show surprising self-comprehension, recognizing that he still needs corporal discipline, almost craving it.

Consider a young man of 18 or 19 years, home from University for Xmas vacation, flaunting his new-found independence. His mother has become increasingly exasperated. She will have to have him punished. The chore will fall to Aunt Mary, who is the one who handles the discipline in this family. Finally, there occurs some incident of flagrant disobedience, such as failing to get the required permission before driving off in the family car.

This brings matters to a head. In the TV room, perhaps during a commercial break on the TV, his mother suddenly points to the young man and announces for all to hear: "That boy is out of control. What he needs is a good sound spanking!" If a sister happens to be present, she may chime in maliciously: "Yes, mom, he's been itching for a spanking ever since he came home from college." This tells us that the young lady relishes the thought of assaults from a disciplining hand--as long as it's not her on the receiving end! The discreet silence of a brother in these circumstances testifies to his own, still vulnerable status.

And how does the young man himself feel in such circumstances? Surprisingly, a spanking from Aunt Mary may be just what he has secretly desired. He knows his mother is right, but is profoundly embarrassed to have his need for a spanking asserted so openly.  Aunt Mary has been an object of desire for the young man for many years. In her mid-forties Aunt Mary is a no nonsense disciplinarian, but she is also a voluptuous and desirable woman. The young man finds himself conflicted. Shame, fear and arousal battle within his mind for supremacy.

The young man is now instructed, in a firm tone that brooks no opposition, to strip to his underwear while mother sends for Aunt Mary who lives just down the block, and oh yes, to bring the hairbrush when he returns. If spanking has been a favored method of discipline in this household, no further instructions should be necessary; in particular, there need be no reminder that his bottom is to be fully bared. His underpants will come down for his spanking.  His face flushing with embarrassment, the young man bows his head submissively and retreats to his bedroom. Imagine his feelings as he climbs out of his trousers and briefs, leaving his private areas completely naked! He had been thinking of himself as all grown up, and yet he is now to be spanked on his bare bottom like a naughty child! It is hard for him to believe that he is actually readying himself for such a humiliating and painful experience. Hands quivering with agitation, he strips and then obediently fetches the dreaded brush from his mom's bedroom. Testing the brush’s hardness by slapping it against his open palm, he feels weak from the excruciating mixture of fear and shame. At the same time, he feels deliciously alive, almost uncontrollably excited. Noticing in his parent’s full-length mirror that there is a prominent tenting of his underpants, he clutches his hands in front to try to hide his embarrassing condition.

Returning to the TV room, his eyes now brimming with tears, the young man sees that Aunt Mary has arrived. She regards him sternly, shaking her head that she must once again perform this disciplinary task. He meekly hands this familiar instrument of punishment to his aunt who, without comment, takes him by the ear and marches him to whatever place spankings are customarily administered in this home. This might be in the basement from which the sounds attendant to serious punishment are less likely to be heard by neighbors (who might affect to be indignant to learn that spankings are still being applied to grownup offspring...and right next door!). If there is no basement, a separate room, as isolated from neighbors as possible, should be used. The revealing sounds will not be masked by the TV, for the set is likely to be turned off as soon as Aunt Mary has led him away: no one else in the family wants to be deprived of their vicarious participation in a performance so much more dramatic than anything on TV. However, other members of the family should not be permitted to view the spanking directly; overly moved by her sons cries for mercy, the mother might truncate the procedure before its lesson has been fully imparted; a sister might become so aroused by what she is observing that she begins to crave similar attention for herself.

The actual spanking room should afford a solid but armless straight-backed chair on which the spanker can be seated comfortably while administering the needed correction. A low footstool allows a knee to be raised. This helps elevate the young man’s bottom, especially if he is to be positioned directly over either knee. One advantage of using the left knee as the center of support is that the culprits left leg can be pinioned by his aunt’s right leg; this also serves to separate the young man’s thighs and buttocks, exposing the most sensitive area.
However, experience has apparently taught most to favor the over-the-lap position in which the offending bottom can be elevated above the spanker's right thigh or knee with both legs dangling down to the right. What is crucial is that the bottom be as high and as far forward (i. e., to the left) as possible, with maximum accessibility to the target area. This is Aunt Mary’s most favored method. Miscreants know that when a spanking is due, they go across her knee and bottoms are bared. The brush will have been placed close at hand, readily accessible for spanking without Aunt Mary having to loosen her grip around the miscreant’s waist.

Consider what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across his aunt’s knee! He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, no differently than when he was 10. His tight y-briefs stretch taut across his bottom. But he knows that these will be lowered, his bottom will soon be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any naughty child about to be spanked. At this point, there is no thought of resisting: deep down, the lad is overcome by his own sense of utter humiliation. At the same time, his penis rubs against Aunt Mary’s thigh sending surges of pleasure from the delicious friction up his spine. He knows that he needs a spanking and is almost eager for the proceedings to begin. Nevertheless, he begins to whimper at the culminating moment of this gallingly slow preparation, when his briefs are skinned down, fully exposing still-white buttocks. The charmingly impudent firmness of the youthful gluteal muscles, firmly rounded by years of bicycling, provides an aesthetically pleasing surprise. Indeed, this bottom is fairly begging to be smacked. Disregarding habitual norms of privacy, his aunt may insert his spanking hand between the extreme upper thighs, pulling up between the bottom cheeks, positioning them for maximum exposure.
Aunt Mary begins with light spanks delivered by bare hand. Only later will the brush be brought into play. At this early stage of the spanking, the palm of the spanking hand might be landing on the so-called "sweet spot" which separates anus from genitalia. When applied so directly to this area, the bare hand is a more accurate instrument than a strap, which is also sometimes used. If the spanks succeed each other in an even cadence, the buttocks will begin to bounce, rising eagerly to meet each spank as it descends. The target area, densely packed with free nerve endings and in such close proximity to the genitalia, becomes increasingly flushed so that his own rampant hormones take frenzied charge of the young mans will. An erection forms as his penis, now unsheathed slides against the flesh of his aunt’s bare leg.

Although he already may be crying like a child, he is unlikely to be conscious of any real physical pain at this time; sexual release, brought on by the concentrated physical stimulation and by the completely mortifying humiliation, marks a coda to these preliminaries.

And what has the young man learned during this opening act of the drama? The answer is simple: humility! For millennia, novitiates have bared their naked buttocks to birches, straps, even whips—the amazingly effective teachers of humility. The humble monk is the product of a determined course of training designed to strip him of the arrogant pride manifest by so many young men. Now the real spanking must begin! The spanks become much harder.
The young man becomes painfully aware of an awful stinging in his lower buttocks, just above where they meet his thighs. These centers of special attention join the normally inaccessible "sweet spot" in what is fast developing into a boiling cauldron of agony. The pain quickly becomes unbearable, and the buttocks twist and squirm in their futile effort to shift the target. Reflexively, the culprit’s right hand flies back to protect these nether regions. The experienced Aunt Mary will know to grab the wrist of the intruding hand, twisting it up into the small of the young man’s back and thereby establishing complete mastery. Realizing this, the young man bursts into a fresh flow of tears, weeping helplessly, crying like a child. He may protest that the spanks hurt too much to bear, make ridiculous promises to behave, even proffer pitifully sincere assurances that he has truly learned his lesson. These pleas will of course be discounted as transparent attempts to end the pain prematurely, before the lesson has been fully learned. To discourage such unseemly displays, the spanking should actually be intensified at this point. Aunt Mary thus demonstrates to her willful nephew that pain, unbearable pain, will continue to be the unavoidable consequence of disobedience. Indeed, now might be the time to reach for the brush!

The effectiveness of a brush depends as much upon its physical properties as on the forcefulness with which it is applied. This one is wide – it covers a good bit of area. And it is thick, able to send a painful message with each hearty spank. It produces a shocking sting, quite overwhelming even for the bravest of boys even when the spanks are delivered with only a deft flick of the wrist. Tears inevitably flow. The instrument is really only an extensions of the hand, increasing its lever arm and thus giving greater force to the swing. But again, a sound spanking administered with the bare hand can often impart a sufficiently salutary lesson.

As the wood strikes again and again, splatting against the most sensitive parts, with ever increasing force, the young man’s cries will now give expression to raw, panicked fear. He realizes that he has lost all control, and his howling testifies that he is receiving a licking of magisterial proportions. These anguished screams will not be lost on the subdued audience back in the TV room. A brother might grin scornfully while listening to this "infantile bawling," but deep down he knows that he would be howling with just as much abandon if he were getting the hairbrush himself. A sister might be having regrets that she was so quick to endorse her mother’s suggestion that her big brother be spanked, and the mother herself might be regretting her role in instigating the resort to physical chastisement.
When Aunt Mary judges that the lesson has been sufficiently well learned, the spanking stops. The young man continues to sob uncontrollably while still held in spankable position over his aunt’s knee. Now is the time for an affectionately comforting kneading of the painfully swollen buttocks, signaling that the lesson is truly over, that the young man is still loved.

Finally, he is allowed to slide to the floor where he remains kneeling, weeping into his folded arms, his burning bottom still elevated in the classic pose of submission assumed by different mammalian species. He puts his underwear back on, hissing as the pants slide back up over the hot burning cheeks of his well-spanked fanny. The pair will now return to the TV room and the anxious looks of the assembled family. He will spare them the titillating details of the spanking, contenting himself with some offhand understatement from his aunt, such as: "I think he has learned his lesson."

The young man will make his own shameful exit, his eyes red, his tear-stained cheeks puffed from crying.  He will not tarry, instead hurrying abashedly to his room, there to throw himself face down on the bed, his bottom bared in the vain hope of cooling his burning cheeks.

The young man’s night is apt to be feverish, fitful. His hormones might well act up again. As the heat and swelling fade into a soft glow he may feel his penis rise. His hand steals to his now rock hard shaft and he strokes it, recalling the feeling of it sliding across Aunt Mary’s smooth legs. The attractive Aunt Mary who stripped him and shamed him and spanked him to tears is now in his mind, an object of lust.  Her long legs, her generous bust. Had he felt her tits pressing against his back as she positioned him in that ignominious and shameful posture over her knee? The contact of her hand with his bare bottom is perceived as electric, pleasurable now that the pain is forgotten. It causes him to stroke his cock faster. Somehow even the shame and humiliation is remembered as erotically delicious. He feels something welling up, a volcano about to explode. He is now lifting his hips off the bed as he bucks wildly an uncontrollable reaction to his self -pleasuring ministrations. Finally he explodes, sending jutting arcs of cum skyward, shooting all over the bedclothes. He does this more than once before finally drifting into the restorative sleep of the exhausted.

In the morning, he will find a soft cushion on his chair at the breakfast table. Curious eyes will watch for the grimace of pain that he will try to suppress as he gingerly lowers himself onto the cushion. good-natured chuckles will greet his discomfiture, and the somber silence induced by the sheer enormity of the previous night’s drama will be transformed into the sympathetic warmth of a caring family.

For the next two or three days, the tenderness of his lower bottom will remind the young man, each time he sits down or eases onto the protruding tongue of his bicycle seat, that he is still subject to parental discipline, that open disobedience is likely to earn him another spanking.

In this close knit family the attitude is that most boys need to be spanked occasionally. With some boys, spankings continue to be needed, even after they reach young manhood.