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Sunday, 31 May 2020

Tamasin’s Positions #2

Photo feature from Janus 91. More sexy poses from the athletic Tamasin.

The New World Order — Episode 1

An original piece from Hilarys Guardian, a reader of this blog. This is the first of four episodes.
A Young Lady’s Constant Companion, she stifled a groan and wriggled her shapely rear on the unforgiving wooden bench. She risked a glance out of the corner of one eye at the tall, lean, magisterial figure of her Guardian reclined in his arm chair reading that morning’s newspaper. Additional legislation passed, called the headline, Corporal punishment for females under forty in the workplace enshrined in the law. Did it never end, Hilary contemplated, the ‘constant companion’ referred to on the title page of the book in front of her was a 3’ rattan cane and constant was an apt description.  She could see one dangling its flexible, sting inducing malice on a hook over the fireplace, another swung threateningly from the back of her bedroom door looking almost alive in its desire to scorched blistering white heat into her pert posterior. A third was in the dining room ready to be applied in response to any breaches in her ‘table manners’ and a fourth and final one was kept in the bathroom. As Hilary was more than aware a cane applied to a still wet backside softened by hot water was a particularly agonising fate.
The book was a record, a dismal reminder of all the times she had been upended, her navy blue schoolgirl knickers yanked down and a dozen — sometimes two — cane strokes applied while she whinged and twisted her hips, shapely legs kicking and parting, all her innermost secrets exposed to his cool appraising glance. Then her ‘aftercare,’ her blushing face hidden in the sofa cushions as he seized her and slid his stiff member into her moist, waiting maw. ‘You need it Hilary, you know you do,’ he groaned in moments like these
The first of her ‘constant companions’ had been put to her less than an hour since, reducing her, as was its wont, to a blubbering, snot-nosed, pleading child despite the fact she was nearly twenty five years old. Her ‘crime,’ as recorded in her neat copperplate hand in the book, was ‘cheek’ in that she had forgotten to curtsey to their dreadful, yobbish postman when she had answered the door to him earlier. Worse he had been invited in to witness her humiliation both with her Guardian’s whippy cane and then the enforced period of ‘corner time’ afterwards. She saw, through her tears, the discrete adjustments to his trousers the postman made indicative of his delight in her predicament. Her bedroom cane was certain to be called into use at her ridiculously juvenile seven thirty ‘beddy byes’. Hilary was ‘under the cane’ on an almost nightly basis, it was ‘good for her’ she was told, squirming on her belly as the blazing stripes were branded across her peachy backside.  Rearing up, pleading as he implacably scorched her, smirking at her jerking hips and winking bush. ‘Settle down young lady,’ he ground as she was rolled over onto her back and the sheets wrapped tightly around her trembling form. Unable to sleep as she tossed and wriggled on her bed the heat spreading its long, insidious fingers into her every crevice.
The dining room cane she especially loathed. When guests had been invited for dinner Hilary’s regime was particularly onerous. White knee high socks, sparkling clean, black flatties polished to a perfect shine Hilary answered the door to each guest with a smart curtsey and a welcoming kiss. Trying not to jerk away she suffered the groping of hands, male and female, the laughing raising of her skirt and the not infrequent firm spanking to her bottom. She was expected to sit up ram rod straight, elbows tucked in, her food cut in dainty, ladylike morsels all to be chewed the required number of times. She was not to speak unless spoken to and had to raise her hand to gain attention. No matter how hard she tried fault was inevitably found and she was sent to the corner while the ‘grown ups’ enjoyed coffee and elected a volunteer for the onerous task of delivering the required public caning.
The running commentary was enough to reduce Hilary to floods of tears on its own. ‘Legs apart young lady, no, wider. My what a pretty puss, you should have her shaved.’ ‘Well done Gabby, that fetched her, give her another just as hard.’ ‘Stop whinging Hilary, you’re not sixteen.’  Tearful and snottily nosed Hilary was then usually asked to ‘thank’ her caner up in her little bedroom.
The bathroom canings were more ritualised and often involved others. Hilary’s ‘official’ bath nights were Wednesday and Sunday and guests could always be guaranteed on these evenings. Dependent on her Guardian’s mood the young woman could often find herself hauled upstairs on other nights and ‘dunked’ sometimes in ice cold water if it was felt she needed ‘livening up’. Recently on Wednesday another Guardian, a Mr Miggins, had taken to bringing around his ward Natalie and it amused the two gentlemen to bath the girls together. There was much encouragement to both young women to ensure that the soap was well rubbed into all those out of the way places to their huge embarrassment. Finally, when both girls had towelled each other dry a razor was produced, to her horror a desperately wriggling Hilary was plonked on Mr Miggins tweed worsted lap, her arms held behind her and Natalie was told to shave Hilary’s blond bush. The young lady’s agitated jerking caused quite the reaction in Mr Miggins trouser department as she could clearly feel.
‘STOP bouncing about sweetheart,’ Mr Miggins ground in her ear grasping a generous handful of Hilary’s right tit and squeezing the nipple tight, ‘or I’ll give you something that’ll make you bounce properly.’  After the awful ordeal was complete both girls were put over the side of the bath for a salutary caning, Hilary for lack of discipline in not keeping still for her shave and Natalie for clumsiness in getting shaving foam on Mr  Miggins best trousers. Post the rigorously delivered dozens both young women were put to bed by the other’s Guardian. Sleep needless to say was not on the agenda and there was much squeaking of bedspreads and tapping of headboards from both rooms.
But it wasn’t just the canes.  Her Guardian’s house was littered with reminders of Hilary’s new status as a ward of the state. Beneath each cane hung a wicked two-tongued leather tawse inscribed with her name at the local saddlers. Next to her bedroom was a Nursery, complete with desk and a formidable array of disciplinary instruments. Her wardrobe was entirely filled with uniforms, gingham dresses and party frocks. Neatly embroidered catechisms hung in every room — neatly embroidered by Hilary. Spare the cane and spoil the girl, A good girl is an obedient girl, Bottoms are not just to sit upon, A girl learns best under the cane. Everywhere the reminders of Hilary’s new life. Some days when she sat miserably at her cramped desk composing yet another essay describing the vast benefit she had received from yet another caning, big fat tears of self pity would drip like a metronome ticking from her nose and chin.
To be continued…

Saturday, 30 May 2020

Payment Overdue

From Blushes 34
The bright sunlight slanting in the window produced shimmering highlights in the blonde hair of the girl sitting on the bed with a slight frown on her forehead and the full pink lips pursed in the expression of one who has a problem. Sandra Jenkins did have a problem. It tended to come round at the end of the month. Not every month, she did her very best to stop it coming round and at times succeeded. But sometimes…
This time…
Where did the money go?
The frown deepened. Sandra bit her lip. She glanced at her purse. She could have another look but it wouldn’t do any good. She knew what was in her cheque book, or rather what wasn’t in it. And in her wallet was one five pound note. And the rent…
Mr Runcorn. She would have to go down and see him. Sandra took a deep breath, to calm the rising agitation. Down there in his little room. He hardly ever seemed to go out. Always there and always ready to see one of his tenants if she had rent problems. Girls did have financial problems from time to time and Mr Runcorn was very understanding. If you wanted to call it that.
Sandra Jenkins, the pretty blonde in the top bedsit, got to her feet. There was no point putting it off; if she had to do it she had to. Bare feet stepping in the pool of sunlight as she crossed over to the chest of drawers. The top drawer. Lingerie. If you were going to Mr Runcorn with rent problems there were certain niceties to be observed. Sandra made a face. Number One nicety was stockings. Nylons. And of course a suspender belt. She controlled a shiver. It was nothing to be really scared of. Once you’d had to see Mr Runcorn a couple of times and you knew what was coming it wasn’t anything to be really scared of. All right, it wasn’t nice. But…
Sandra drew the stockings on. Flipped up her skirt and fastened the white suspender belt. She had a full skirt on, otherwise she’d have to change. Mr Runcorn needed a full skirt.
And anyway the interview in his room wasn’t the worst part. It might make you sweat a bit but it certainly wasn’t the worst part; that would be back up here in her room, and she didn’t have to worry about that yet.
Fastening the stockings to the suspender straps. Then her black high-heeled courts. That was it. She glanced in the mirror. Yes that was it. All she had to do… was to be nice and meek and submissive. While Mr Runcorn…
Down the two gloomy flights of stairs, no sun on this side of Mr Runcorn’s house, and along the short passage at the bottom. Mr Runcorn’s sitting room was to the side of the front door and its door was always partially open. So that he could see who was going in and out. His tenants — all girls of course — and their visitors. Their boyfriends. Mr Runcorn didn’t object to boyfriends coming in, as some landlords might, but he wanted to know. Knowledge is power. Knowledge can be used. So his door was always open. And if it wasn’t open you could assume Mr Runcorn had a visitor. A girl… very likely having cash-flow problems.
The door was open.
Sandra in her high heels and stockings and full flowered skirt had hoped it wouldn’t be. In spite of knowing that you had no option it was always easier to think it could be postponed. Tomorrow say. She could see him tomorrow. But tomorrow would be just as bad. Worse in fact. The rent was due yesterday. And the door was open. A panicky urge to turn tail and run, but it was controlled.
She knocked. Not a very brave knock. He was there. In his chair. As usual. Looking up from his newspaper, he had clearly been alerted by her high heels on the bare passageway floor. A smile. She forced a smile in return. Or tried to. Entering.
‘Hello… Mr Runcorn… Ah…
‘Hello my dear. How nice to see you. A chat? Why don’t you close the door.’
And then go round and stand next to him. Sandra knew the routine. Every girl in Mr Runcorn’s house who had had problems with the rent — needing to delay payment or actually couldn’t pay — they all knew the routine. Stand close by the side of his chair.
‘Well, my dear…?’
‘I… uh… I’m having…’
‘Financial problems?’ Mr Runcorn knew the answer.
A nod of assent. Forcing down the panic. It wasn’t anything. Mr Runcorn’s hand up your skirt wasn’t anything. And that was all he wanted. At this stage.
The hand was there. On the back of her nyloned knee. Coming in as light as a feather but at the same time with the feeling that it couldn’t be shaken off. Not that you could try and shake it off. You had to stand still and submissive. As the hand slid up.
‘Tell me exactly. It was due yesterday. I believe.’
Up to her stocking top. The warm thigh in the taut, sheer nylon and then the warm thigh in only the live silky skin. Fingers exploring the stocking rim. Then round to the side to examine the intricacies of the suspender clasp — though they were intricacies that Mr Runcorn was minutely acquainted with.
Trying to stammer out that she thought she might be able to give him it in a week or two. Well, most of it. As the hand enjoyed to the full the soft, warm upper thighs spanned by the satin suspender straps. Mr Runcorn questioning, querying, wanting details, in his low voice; drawing the whole business out. The hand reaching in due course Sandra’s bottom, trim and firm in its brief, whisper-thin nylon knickers. Squeezing, jiggling those fascinating globes. It’s not anything really, she tried to tell herself. Just a little while longer and then Mr Runcorn would be finished. She was trembling, though, and her mouth was dry.
‘Turn round,’ Mr Runcorn said. ‘Let me see you.’
He had said this last time. For the first time. He didn’t want to see her, or maybe he did but that wasn’t the only or the main reason he wanted her to turn round. Mr Runcorn kept his hand in more or less the same position as Sandra turned to face him. So that his hand now was at the front.
‘What happens to your money, Sandra? What do you do with it?’
His soft, low voice, not at all hard or aggressive. The voice of a reasonable man prepared to be helpful. As the knuckle of Mr Runcorn’s first finger rubbed gently up and down… up and down… on the adult young female body’s most sensitive, most excitable spot.
In the little room again at the top of the house. No shaft of sunlight now, the sun has moved round. Sandra turns the light on. Sits down. Stands up again. Sits again on the bed. She could write a letter, she owed one to her mother and that would pass the time, but she can’t settle to it. The clock says 7.10. Mr Runcorn said ‘about eight?’ Sandra had nodded. In his room standing trembling-kneed at his side as he did that to her she had nodded, eager to agree to anything that would call a halt to what was happening. Anyway she had to agree to it, at ‘about eight’ or some other time. Otherwise he would want his money.
It’s nothing really, Sandra tells herself, as she had told herself about going down to see him. But the second part, here in her room, will be more, she knows that. There is no getting away from that fact. Yes, but not impossible. She has had it before, as other girls have had it. It is awful, sickening, and it also hurts. But it is not impossible. In a way, like going to the dentist, the waiting and thinking about it are worse. Once it starts, the dentist’s drill or Mr Runcorn, you can grit your teeth and think: It won’t be long now. Seconds, minutes passing, and then…
Another glance at the clock. Seconds and minutes are now passing rapidly. Oh God. She had better… Mr Runcorn wanted a girl ready when he came up. And in any case if you weren’t ready it would mean changing in front of him. That was bound to be worse. Sandra gets up. It is in the closet. That single garment that Mr Runcorn wants her in. The nightie. Quite long with that silly nonsense on the front. He gave it to her, what, the time before last? No, the time before that. ‘Wear this, Sandra. Just this. OK? Nothing else. Nothing underneath. Knickers or anything.’
The clock… Oh Christ! Action. Undressing. Everything. The high heels and nylons and suspender belt that Mr Runcorn so loves and all the rest as well. He doesn’t want nylons and suspender belt now, he wants bare flesh. Under the nightie. So he can…
‘A girl has to pay a little price, Sandra dear. Nothing’s for free in this world, that’s the lesson we all have to learn. Yes?’
The price. What happened downstairs in his room didn’t count as a price. Feeling you up, rubbing you up, those active, knowing, experienced fingers. No, that wasn’t the price. The price would be now. Here. The nightie with its silly design yanked up. Right up. So that…
Try not to panic. It’s nothing really.
Pulling on the nightie. Over her naked body. In a way you can feel more naked with it on. The feeling of all the airiness underneath. The time…? Oh. It is eight. But he’s not here yet… she won’t hear him come. Outside the landing is carpeted and anyway Mr Runcorn is adept at moving silently about; when he’s not sitting downstairs, waiting, watching, listening. No, for a big man he can move as lightly as a cat. The door will suddenly… burst open.
There is a lock on the door but you can’t use it. Not approved of. Not at all approved of. ‘No need to lock your door. Sandra. We don’t lock doors here. You girls are quite safe with me around.’ Jesus Christ.
Sandra sits on the bed. Hunched up. Shivering. He might as well come if he’s coming. Although… what if something has happened? An urgent call. Or even… a heart attack? Well he’s that age. The excitement of what he was doing earlier and the anticipation of what was to come. Too much for him. Mr Runcorn slumped in his chair.
The door opens abruptly. Sandra yelps, a hand to her mouth. For the moment she was half-convinced that Mr Runcorn was… No. He is very much alive. Face eager. Eyes shining. Closing the door behind him. And then…
Sandra standing up. blood thudding in her ears. A whimpering little squeak as Mr Runcorn takes hold of her.
‘Haven’t kept you waiting I hope. Mustn’t keep pretty girls waiting, eh Sandra?’
Pulling her to him and his hand reaching behind. ‘Mustn’t keep this waiting. Mmmm?’
Her bottom. Bare under the nightie which anyway Mr Runcorn is now grabbing up. Fingers greedy at the soft flesh. Sandra gives a panicky little cry, but she mustn’t panic. He’s only going to smack her bum. Only. Well, he’ll hit it just as hard as he can. His hard hand slamming in onto her poor bottom with all the power he can muster. But that is all. All? Well, you can take it. In spite of the screams and yelps. The twisting and writhing. Perhaps even rolling off his lap onto the floor, where Mr Runcorn will single-mindedly pursue Sandra’s bottom, his hand not letting up.
But that is all. And after… it will be finished.
But after it is not finished. Not this time.
Mr Runcorn has finished spanking but he is not finished.
‘It’s your sixth time, Sandra. That’s a lot. I have a rule. At six. The price goes up. That’s fair isn’t it? At six you girls get the spanking and then…’
Mr Runcorn is pushing her down on the bed.

Friday, 29 May 2020

Letters from Roué 2

Dear Sir,
Having read in a recent publication an account of a young secretary who was induced by her employer to sign a ‘contract’ which purported to be an agreement between the two parties, the gist of which was that the girl agreed to a ‘reasonable amount’ of corporal punishment as part and parcel of her terms of employment in return no doubt for additional remuneration, I felt it advisable to put the record straight regarding the legality of such a ‘contract’.
It is of course true that in this country any person is free to make a contract with any other person, the terms of which may be negotiated to the satisfaction of both, and, being duly witnessed, the contract then becomes legally binding. Binding, that is, except under certain circumstances.
One such circumstance would obviously be in the case of the subject matter of the contract being in itself illegal, for example an agreement between two people to share the proceeds of a fraudulent crime. Clearly such an agreement could not be regarded as a legally binding one; and would incidentally guarantee a prosecution for conspiracy should the document fall into the hands of the authorities.
Plainly also a contract signed by a person under duress would not stand up, and duress might be construed in many ways. For example, a secretary who was persuaded to agree to be spanked, the spanking being a condition of her employment continuing, would clearly have agreed ‘under duress’. Such a contract could not be considered valid, and in addition the employer might well find himself the subject of criminal proceedings should the matter come to light.
These objections aside, it might still seem that a girl could agree to take her knickers down, provided that she did so willingly, in return for whatever ‘perks’ she thought suitable, and that the contract would then be a valid one. This would not be so however. For one thing, it would not be legally enforceable, from either side. The girl would be most unlikely to win a claim in the Courts for money she had ‘earned’ by allowing her boss to smack her bottom, and one cannot imagine the ludicrous situation arising where the boss would demand that the girl be ordered to take her pants down and render her dues in respect of money already paid to her.
Neither would such a contract render the employer immune from prosecution for assault, though the contract might be produced in his defence and would probably be accepted in mitigation. And the reason for this invalidity of the presumed contract would be that the Law would regard it as being ‘contrary to Public Policy’.
Public Policy isn’t to be found on the Statute Books, at least not as an independent item spelled out and open to perusal and interpretation, but it is nevertheless available for invocation in cases where there is no actual legal prohibition but where there is a clear need for a point of moral reference. Such a contract as we have been discussing would undoubtedly demand that a liberal dose of the Public Politic be administered and in so doing a judge or a magistrate would be on unassailable ground. Condemnation of such an agreement would be inevitable, and perhaps rightly so.
So, to the boss who still wants to smack his secretary’s bottom or to cane his filing clerk’s pretty rear, I can only say this: you’ll have to do what the rest of us do — trust to luck and to the power of the untaxed perk to keep you safe from the Policy of the Public and your secretary / filing clerk face down over your knee where she undoubtedly belongs.
Behind closed doors
Dear Sir,
Reading spanking magazines is a frustrating experience. It leaves one with the feeling that all around, though out of sight and ken, there are droves of eminently smackable girls who are regularly being divested of their knickers and given the treatment which their pretty bottoms have naughtily deserved. It is depressing in the extreme to think that one is missing out on it all.
My delight may perhaps be imagined therefore when I happened upon a situation, quite by accident, which had all the ingredients of stories and accounts I have read about for so long. I shall tell you about it in detail, and relish it as I do so.
In my job it is important to me that I keep abreast of current affairs, for which reason I take three daily newspapers and four on Sundays. It is a considerable inconvenience to me when my papers do not arrive in time for me to take them to the office. During the autumn of last year I began to suffer badly from a sudden irregularity of delivery. I telephoned the shop on several occasions, received apologies, would get newspapers again for a few days, and then they would stop coming once more. At last, in desperation, I called in at the shop on my way home from the office, determined to sort it out once and for all.
I found the shop about to close and staffed only by a middle-aged man whom I had never seen before, not surprisingly as I rarely called at the shop anyway. I explained my grievance, and reiterated that it wasn’t the first time it had happened. The man was most sympathetic, and protesting that he’d tried to ensure that my papers were delivered but obviously hadn’t been very successful, he suggested that I might like to meet the cause of my frustration. The man then closed the shop and asked me to wait. He disappeared into the upper part of the premises and shortly returned with the person whom he said was the culprit.
I was somewhat disarmed to discover that it was a rather pretty girl, whom he introduced as his daughter. Disarmed or not, I then gave this young lady a piece of my mind when she failed to produce a convincing explanation of her failure to deliver my papers on her morning round, which prompted her to reply in a very impudent and scathing way. Her father stood by, clouds passing across his face, until suddenly he said: ‘Right my girl, I’ve had enough of this!’
Grabbing her by a lock of hair he marched her stumblingly out into the back of the shop; and then quite ignoring the fact that I could see perfectly well what was going on through the open door, he sat down on a pile of boxes, hoisted the girl across his lap and proceeded to lecture her vehemently while she wriggled in his grip and wailed apologies. Then, without so much as a glance in my direction, he dragged her skirt up and shoved it as far up her back as it would go, leaving the poor child kicking helplessly across his knees with her faded green school knickers on full display. Keeping her clamped firmly down, he then began to spank her in a deliberate and no-nonsense way, while his daughter squirmed around under his hand and squealed pitifully as those parts of her chubby little bottom unprotected by her knickers turned into two agitated and wobbling crimson patches.
I stared in amazement, fascinated by the spectacle, while he continued to smack her very thoroughly indeed. Never having seen anyone getting such a punishment before, I was astounded that despite her yelling and her frantic struggles he continued to spank her both on her bottom and on her bare thighs for what must have been at least five minutes. Finished with her at last he released his hold on her and she scrambled to her feet, her face contorted and flushed by her extreme tearfulness, and then she fled upstairs. Breathlessly the man returned to the shop. He didn’t think I’d have any more trouble, he said blandly. Lost for words, I said ‘Thank you’, which was probably the wrong thing to say in the circumstances, and went home considerably aroused by the impromptu punishment I had just witnessed.
And that ought to have been that. But, incredibly, it wasn’t. To my amazement, not to say delight, my papers failed to arrive yet again on the Wednesday of the following week. All day I nurtured my glee, knowing that probably I wouldn’t have a chance to see the outcome of my forthcoming complaint, hoping against hope nevertheless, but much excited by the prospect that at least I might be instrumental in earning the unfortunate girl another good spanking. My pleasure in anticipating the poor child’s misfortune was perverse, I know, but very thrilling too.
Timing it almost to the minute I arrived at the shop right on closing time. There was no sign of the man, but the girl was serving in the shop. She recognised me at once — she went very pale and dropped a handful of change which she was extracting from the till. The clatter summoned her father, who appeared as if by magic in the inner doorway.
He was very polite to me. I, in my turn, was also very polite, and having said my piece I realised reluctantly that now I would have to go. The girl sidled warily towards the doorway in which her father was standing, but a steely-eyed glance from him stopped her in her tracks. Unwilling to leave just as things were looking so promising, I mumbled guiltily that I hoped she wouldn’t have to be punished again, which was of course a lie, but I wanted desperately to bring the subject up and could think of no other way to do it. The shopkeeper said nothing, looked at his watch and went to the door and closed it behind the last customer. His daughter didn’t move, but she suddenly burst into tears, obviously knowing what was coming.
With a firm grip on her collar she was once again propelled into the store room behind the shop. It seemed to me that by the way he held the door open a little wider than necessary he was inviting me to follow. With some trepidation I did so, wary of a rebuke though none came.
Catching the girl, who scurried around like a hamster in a cage as she tried to avoid her father’s grasp, the man pushed her face-down over a large crate, again holding her by the collar, and proceeded to slap rapidly at every part of her anatomy that came in range, including her legs, her thighs and both hands and wrists as they fluttered about trying to ward off the smacks. She scampered away momentarily, blubbering and sobbing, while her father kept her from reaching the door, rummaging meanwhile in a series of cardboard boxes from which he eventually produced a thick-looking plastic ruler.
The girl pleaded pathetically as he advanced upon her, and struggled vigorously when she found herself cornered. As an exercise in domestic discipline it was a very undignified and catch-as-catch-can affair, but as a spectacle it was immensely enervating.
Enthralled, I gloated, though guiltily, as the weeping girl was once again captured and pulled kicking and squealing across her father’s lap. I watched in delighted embarrassment as, with her legs securely pinned by one of his thighs, her father dragged her skirt clear of her hips and with one tug yanked down her green knickers. Her bare bottom quivered its cheeks from side to side as she continued to plunge and rear against her captivity, but without any hurry her father began to spank her with the flat of the ruler, the smacks loud and sharp-sounding, and undoubtedly very effective.
I have to say that it was with utter incredulity that I watched the wretched girl’s bottom bounce and quiver under the spanks and most amazing of all was the sheer brilliance with which they began to glow as the spanking went on, and on, and on. Had I not seen it, I would not have believed that a pair of buttocks could assume so rich and vivid a colour, but before my eyes this girl’s bum shone with such a fiery heat that it was almost luminous in its intensity.
Shattered by the experience, I could only stare dumbfounded as she was reduced to a constant rising wail of protest and anguish, until at last the ruler flew out of the man’s hand and clattered to the floor on the other side of the room, closely followed a moment later by a pair of green knickers which fluttered pathetically to the floor also, propelled there by the vigour of the girl’s kicks as she struggled vainly under the ensuing hail of slaps which her father then delivered with his open hand.
The scene came eventually to its conclusion and to tell the truth I wasn’t sorry to see her allowed up from her father’s lap. I remember feeling distinctly sympathetic as she stood, still wriggling, and bawling tearfully, with her face in her hands.
Politely, though unsure of myself, I took my leave. My papers have not been late since, though I still live in hopes.
M. McL.
Domestic discipline
Dear Sir,
Being a reader of a number of magazines dealing with your subject, I am often struck by the fact that so many naughty girls who end up getting their bottoms smacked apparently put up with their punishments in such a polite and easily manageable way. My experience of girls who have earned themselves a spanking has in general been rather the opposite.
I am no longer married to my first wife, but I well remember my daughter’s violent objection to any suggestion that she ought to be spanked. Perhaps this was due to the fact that she was punished only occasionally and thus never learned to accept a spanking with good grace, but certainly it was a major undertaking to physically chastise her. Given reason to suspect that a spanking was in the offing, she would often lock herself in the bathroom and flatly refuse to re-emerge until the threat to her bottom’s well-being was unconditionally withdrawn. The only way to catch her was to take her by surprise.
Once captured she would struggle vigorously, and to envisage anything so traditional as an over-the-knees spanking was a mere figment of a father’s imagination. The only hope was to pin her down some way and then to smack whatever fleeting glimpses of her knickers presented themselves, and very rapidly before she wormed her way free. Flailing hands would usually intercept half the spanks and attempting to take her knickers down was doomed to failure, especially when she got to fourteen and fifteen. Defending herself with one hand, she would cling on to her pants like grim death with the other, and the only way to overcome this was to yank up one side of her knickers and smack whatever expanse of bare bottom was thus exposed. Unfortunately, having to use two hands in this operation left her free to escape, and attempts to punish her often ended inconclusively.
My daughter now having grown up, and my wife and I divorced, I met another woman to whom I am now married. Having two daughters by her previous marriage, my new wife brought me face to face with the same problem again.
Unexpectedly the elder of the two girls has proved to be considerably more co-operative than her sister, and after an initial bout of embarrassment and complaints that she ‘didn’t see why she should have to let him (me) smack her bottom anyway’, she has now more or less accepted the inevitability of being spanked when she’s disobedient etcetera, and though still reluctant she is sensible enough to realise that when she makes a fuss she gets spanked harder, which encourages her to lie as quietly as she can manage and get it over with more quickly. Told to put herself over mine or her mother’s knee she has even learned the psychological trick of taking her own knickers down before she does so, which usually fools her mother into thinking that her little girl is sorry for whatever it is she’s done, so that she gets off lightly, and even I find myself falling into the same trap if I’m unwary.
Her sister is an entirely different matter. Using the same trick as my own daughter, that of locking herself in the bathroom, she avoided getting spanked at all for quite a long time. It’s all very well to say that she ought to get spanked when she eventually comes out, but I have learnt from experience that a locked-bathroom marathon can go on for days, and I mean that literally. Short of breaking down the door and dragging the girl screaming out of the bathroom there is little to be done about it, and after all it isn’t a penal institution my wife and I are running, it’s supposed to be a home. In the past, and for the sake of domestic harmony, it has always seemed easier to give in, especially as the girl isn’t actually my own child. Too heavy-handed an attitude would only alienate my wife from siding with me, and wouldn’t do a lot for daughter/stepfather relations either. Recently however I have found a more subtle approach to the problem of dealing with Theresa’s recalcitrance.
Theresa is a likeable girl, and friends of hers are always calling at the house or telephoning. It came to me that the one thing a popular girl like her would probably dread more than a spanking would be her friends knowing that she got spanked. So, with Terry locked in the bathroom one Friday evening, the telephone rang. It was for her. I transferred the call to the upstairs extension, which is on the landing quite close to the bathroom, and then proceeded to explain in a clear voice that Terry wouldn’t be able to come to the phone as she was being punished. Yes, I said, I’d get her to call back, only it might be some time because she’d been particularly naughty and was going to get a good smacked bottom. There was a dead silence from the other end of the line, and then a barely suppressed giggle. From the doorway of the bathroom came an indignant shriek, and Theresa emerged and stared at me aghast as I explained that I’d have to go now, as that shriek probably meant her mother was taking Terry’s knickers down right now, and she usually made such a fuss…
I hung up. Terry burst into tears and ran downstairs. I seemed to have gained the upper hand. When she’d calmed down sufficiently we made a deal. I would explain, next time her friend called, that it had been a joke about Terry getting spanked, provided that in return Terry would in future cause no more fuss and would be a good girl and take her punishment. If, on the other hand, she wouldn’t, then she would not be allowed to go out with her friends, and I would make a point of telling everyone who called that she was being kept in because she was to be spanked. This ultimatum produced a flood of tears, but worked very well indeed. That very evening she was told to wait in her room until I came up to administer her first proper punishment.
Up in her bedroom an hour or so later, I found a penitent girl sitting on the edge of her bed in pyjamas. She came across my lap with hardly a word of protest, and then spent the next ten minutes crying lustily as she lost her pyjama pants and her bared bottom got its comeuppance at last.
I hope this letter will give encouragement to anyone with a boisterous daughter who has grown too big to manage. A little subtlety will probably pay dividends.
Dr. S.D.
Dear Sir,
Having read some time ago of an interesting chap who got himself into trouble by claiming to be a psychologist researching into corporal punishment and its effects, it occurred to me that it had been a bright idea that had run away with him. His method apparently was to advertise the nature of his research, though in the vaguest terms, and then to visit those young ladies who had replied under the misapprehension that they were helping in some vitally important research project. Of course, the enterprising fellow was only interested in getting their knickers down. What surprised me was that he apparently succeeded so often, to judge by the number of complainants who realised they had been duped when at last he was taken to court for his pains.
There is no doubt, of course, that a scholarly air, mixed preferably with a smattering of classicism or scientific enquiry, is a great boon to those who would like to dabble in certain areas while retaining a dignified immunity from censure. This aura is particularly useful if, like me, you happen to be surrounded every day of your working life by pretty and gullible young things, and at the same time harbour a fancy for a nicely smacked bottom when occasion arises.
It would obviously be foolish of me to say more than that I hold a responsible post at a‘further education’ establishment, where the students range in age from eighteen upwards, of both sexes naturally, though my interest concerns only those who do their buttons up the ‘opposite’ way.
My position is a teaching one, though if you have either the aptitude or a good enough reason it isn’t difficult to become involved in ‘student administration liaison’ and other spheres which have a ‘welfare’ connotation. Suffice it to say that I make quite sure that students have ready access to my advice, and to my sympathetic ear if they need it.
I have no particular ‘technique’, I simply follow my intuition, but I can more or less guarantee that in the course of an academic year some half-a-dozen different young ladies will leave their panties decorating my carpet while I decorate their bare bottoms, more or less colourfully according to the situation, and naturally I encourage them to come back, with varying success. The pretexts I invent, and the reasons why the girls choose to swallow the bait, may make interesting reading at some later date, but at present I shall confine myself to the actual business of smacking them once I’ve winkled them out of their knickers.
I am a great believer in ritual. Not overdone, but enough to provide a framework. I find that ritual tends to fantasise the situation enough to take the edge off stark reality. An example may make the point.
Linda is one of my ‘regulars’. This is not to say that she actually likes having her bottom smacked, but she has her reasons for coming back and they have to do with the Houdini-like ability of student’s grants to vanish from the bank statement like magic a couple of weeks after the beginning of term. Not that I give her money mind you, but I do have a certain influence with the bursar, which she finds a help. I see her about four times a term.
Linda knows what is expected of her by now. Slightly shamefaced, she will appear at my door about eight o’clock in the evening, having telephoned previously. Once she steps over the threshold our little charade will begin. She knows this, and we play a little game of brinkmanship before eventually, and hesitantly, she comes in.
Linda’s ritual, in itself, is simple enough, but it is the knowing what comes next that saves her having to think about it and possibly changing her mind. We go into my study and while I pour myself a drink and settle comfortably in my armchair she stands in the middle of the small room and waits. Then, when I’m ready, she undresses, one item at a time, according to my instruction. Each article of clothing has to be neatly folded on a chair. Shoes placed under it. I make her take off one thing after another until she is left with only her knickers. I take as much time about this as I choose, it’s her part simply to do as I say.
Then, when she is reduced to just her knickers, I have her come and stand on the hearth rug. In the fireplace is a gas fire, in front of which she is told to kneel, facing towards the centre of the room. She kneels up, her hands on the floor in front of her, her bottom about two feet from the fire, which I turn up onto its fullest setting. About three feet in front of her I place a low stool. Her knickers offer no protection of course, and she knows that if she moves away from the heat even an inch or two she will be spanked. She bears the slow toasting for as long as she can, usually a couple of minutes, then at last the fire gains the upper hand. She has to move.
I order her over the stool. By swinging forward from the knees, her tummy rests just nicely on the stool. Her bottom glows with a healthy-looking though tender fieriness, already a warm and pretty pink. I stand astride her and slip her knickers down, then give her six good spanks with an old leather slipper, three on each flushed cheek. The sting of the slipper is redoubled by the burning sensation in her bottom. Then back she goes. She is not allowed to pull her knickers back up. From now on until the ritual is over, her bottom will stay quite bare.
Her respite from the heat lasts only about half a minute. Again she has to kneel up while her fresh-spanked bottom is slowly scorched by the fire. Within a minute she has to give in. Back across the stool she gets another six that make her buttocks bounce cheerily. Then back up again, her cheeks glowing hot and crimson. The third time she has to give in sooner. I spank her again, watching her begin to wriggle about on the stool. Back in front of the fire she is starting to swerve her hips slowly from side to side within seconds. Another six. Then back again.
It isn’t long before she is unable to stand the fire for more than a few seconds. She spends more time on the stool than off it, and her bottom suffers accordingly. The first part of the ritual goes on until it is obvious that she is near to tears, her bottom an angry red, heated from within and without.
Then she is allowed to stand up. I make her take her knickers right down and step out of them, then she must kneel up on the stool, which is moved into the middle of the room, while her bottom cools off.
Her cooling down time over, and still kneeling on the stool, she has to lean forward and rest her hands on the floor. Her still-reddened bottom is at exactly the right height. I take a thin leather strap, a little more than an inch wide, and she remains bent over with her naked bum elevated for her strapping until she has had about a dozen nice stingers. A dozen is usually enough. On the verge of tears once more, she is at last allowed to get down off the stool and go and sponge her inflamed bottom with cold water. The ritual is over.
Elaine is another fairly frequent visitor. She is presently about nineteen, quite plump though pleasantly so, with lovely bouncy bum-cheeks that just plead to be spanked. And spanked they are. With Elaine I play a different game, because, though she won’t admit it, she enjoys our particular ritual. Elaine always wears a dress or a skirt when she comes, this at my suggestion. She is a much less resilient character than Linda, and has to be treated differently. Hers is inevitably an over-the-knee, old-fashioned bottom smacking, though her plump young bottom would be beautifully suited to a nice swishy six with a cane.
Once in my study Elaine is lured, though not unwillingly, onto my lap, where she sits and chatters as if she’s forgotten what she’s come for, until with my hand creeping up under her skirt and my other hand inching persistently at the back of her knickers, she is slowly persuaded across my lap the right way up, which is to say face down. With slow and carefully weighted spanks I smack her bum, knickerless of course, until she is gasping for breath and whimpering a bit as each spank lands.
Then I let her up and instruct her to stand at my elbow, without pulling her pants up and with her skirt or dress held up high while she counts slowly to two hundred. This she dutifully does, though it is rare indeed that Elaine reaches much more than one hundred and fifty. With my hand sneaking in between her thighs she pretends not to be excited, nor even to have noticed it at first. Then, as her counting becomes more irregular by the moment, she begins to teeter up onto her toes, toppling now and then to one side or the other as the excitement which she pretends isn’t happening takes her inexorably in its grasp. Finally, and still mumbling numbers through her teeth she comes to her climax, her legs stiffening and grinding against my hand as I milk her of her last drop of excitement.
Then, sweetly innocent as though she’d never done such a disgusting thing in her life as let a man tickle her to orgasm, she pulls up her knickers and excuses herself until the next time.
Some girls of course don’t come back, and others don’t even start, so I have to be careful not to damage my reputation beyond repair. And this is where the gentleman I mentioned in my first paragraph comes in. I have borrowed his idea of ‘research’, and whenever a young lady seems promising enough I embark on my usual preamble about my ‘research project’. I watch her closely as I mention the subject matter, and if there seems to be no adverse reaction I suggest an interview in my rooms, ‘for privacy’s sake’.
Naturally, some of the girls haven’t ever been spanked in their lives, and this used to be a stumbling block as the pretext I usually employ is that of an ‘investigation into corporal punishment in adolescence and its relationship to psychological characteristics in later life’. However, I realised that every ‘experiment’ needs a parallel ‘control experiment’, which still gives me an excuse to interview them.
At the interview, and using once again the ‘professional man of science’ ploy, I ask a number of questions, the answers to which I put down on paper, and all the questions lead by circuitous routes to the main point of the exercise — getting the little darlings’ knickers down. The precise nature of my routine and how to achieve the objective would make a substantial paper, which may also be of interest to you. Suffice it to say that eventually, and in the majority of cases, I end up with an embarrassed yet comparatively willing girl across my knees. Denuding her bottom sometimes demands a certain ingenuity, but again my success rate is fairly high. I then give her a gentle smacking while she, under the impression that the sting in her bottom is all in the cause of scientific investigation, gives me a commentary as to the precise nature of her emotional and physical reactions. As you might imagine, this can take quite some time, but it is surprising how much of a spanking a girl will take provided it is administered in easy stages. Eventually, with a bright pink bottom and a sheepish smile on her face, she is allowed to get up off my knees and retrieve her knickers.
Now I wouldn’t claim that this method fools all of the people all of the time, but if, as she stands awkwardly in front of me and tries to wriggle her knickers back up without letting me see any more of what I’ve already seen, she begins to suspect that my motives aren’t all they might appear, there isn’t a lot she can do about it. Even if she suspects she’s been conned she can’t be sure, and certainly won’t want to make a fool of herself by admitting she could have been so silly in the first place. All I have to do is smile sweetly down at her from my scholarly eyrie and all she can do is depart with her tender bottom and with a dent or two in her pride.

Thursday, 28 May 2020

Tamasin’s Positions #1

Photo feature from Janus 86. No narrative, just some amazingly athletic poses.