The 12 Days of Ouchmas

Rather than repeating all 12 verses, I’m only posting the last one.

On the twelfth day of Ouchmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Bums for Whipping
11 Thighs for striping
10 Boards a Whacking
9 Schoolgirl spankings
8 Blades a Cutting
7 Dawns for Flogging
6 Nieces Sobbing
5 Vicious Swings
4 Naughty Nerds
3 Bad Gwens
2 Studded Gloves
and a Red Bottom for my Knee

[Bums refers to buttocks]

When spanking meets the green-eyed monster

The neighborhood had changed, not gradually, but cataclysmically. Lauren had had to leave. Abandoning her husband, running from the birthday party for her best friend: driving aimlessly, yet urgently she fled. Her cell chirped and vibrated frantically. Lauren had withstood the temptation to fling it out the driver’s window. She was in shock, intellectually she understood her flight was problematic, yet, the primitive woman roared and snarled, demanding satisfaction. Yes it had been Ashleigh’s party, her twenty-fifth birthday. Yes the alcohol had flowed. Yes Lauren knew Ashleigh liked kinky sex. Yes Ashleigh had bent over, her ‘spank me’ panties flashing the guests. OK, Lauren admitted, she’d swatted her best friend more times than she could remember. It was a birthday party, they were all adults and clothes had stayed on. But, stumbling down the hall seeking the bathroom, hearing the smacks, opening the door to see her husband spanking the very naked Ashleigh, other guests patiently waiting their turn at the scarlet ass of her best friend: it was an earthquake. Somehow, she’d left, driving drunk, streets empty and dark, now, out of gas, out of range, red and blue lights quickly bathed her ashen face in pulsing color. When the officer tapped on the glass, Lauren was numb. Following her instructions, Lauren surrendered her identification, her cell and her dignity. At the station, Lauren was booked on charges of DUI and held upon payment of bail and arrival of her husband.

Waking in the morning to the frantic urgings of her bladder, the smell of stale urine and vomit caused Lauren to add her contribution to the detox cell. Dirty, tired and more miserable than she’d ever been in her life, when the matron called her name, Lauren shuffled to the door and was brought to a private room. Cuffed and seated on a steel chair bolted to the floor, Lauren stared at her chipped nails and dirty fingers. Tears fell unhindered. Images flashed untethered. When, finally, her husband and his lawyer arrived, the silence was thunderous. Lauren heard her husband dismiss the lawyer with details of her release, the clang of the heavy lock made her flinch. Unwilling to meet his eyes, she instead stared at his waist. The thick black leather belt, the holster, the chrome handcuffs; how often had they played bad cop and hard hooker. Lauren was terrified. She saw his legs move around the table, his arms yanking her to her feet then throwing her body across the hard surface. Restrained wrists dangling, Lauren murmured a feeble protest. He ignored her, pulling the jail issued pants down, followed by her soiled panties, he made a noise of utter disgust. That sound was quickly eclipsed by the harsh snap of leather meeting flesh. This was between her and him. Some of his brothers and sisters in blue may not have agreed with the actual punishment, but neither did they watch with cameras or eyes. By the time he was done strapping Lauren, her bottom was verging on purple and her throat hoarse from screaming.

Lying on her stomach, in her own bed, the jail lingering no matter the hour spent scrubbing under the hot shower, Lauren cried when she moved, cried when she remembered the silence after the spanking was done, cried when her apologies were ignored, cried and cried and cried until she fell asleep. Slowly waking to calloused hands gently rubbing her deep bruises, Lauren started violently, but a ‘shhhhh, let me take care of you’ allowed her to relax. His thick fingers kneaded, probed and tormented her until the events of the last twenty-four hours burst and Lauren commenced deep, guilty sobs. Heedless of her aching bottom, she squirmed over and fairly leapt into her husband’s embrace. He kissed her softly, but as her hands fumbled with his belt, he stood, quickly shedding his work uniform and entered her in one slamming thrust. Jealously had torn them apart, but thanks to their commitment to discipline, they could find the way back.

How to ask your man for a spanking*

[* Your man not 'A' man. Asking a stranger** for a spanking is a really bad idea.]
[** Stranger as in a random guy rather than someone in the scene***]
[*** Scene includes but not limited to clubs, gatherings, films etc.]

The following is fiction. I do not receive letters from women seeking advice.
They could.
Ask for advice.
But they don’t.
Because…
Well, this blog is a way for me to be creative and more importantly, force myself to keep writing.
Although if anyone does want to contact me they could.
I don’t have any contact on this blog however other than leaving a comment.

Dear Lurvspanking,

I hope it’s all right to leave this comment. I read all your posts and I wanted to ask you a question. How do I ask my husband to spank me? In your stories all the women are confident and the men all immediately understand the need for a good spanking. But I read many blogs written by married women and they all confide their husbands don’t understand them. There seems to be constant conflict over being submissive in today’s modern culture. What I want is what all the other women want: to be treated as someone precious and fragile while acknowledging our intelligence and passion. Is that too much to expect from a spanking?

Thanks

Confused wannabe sub in Middle America

Dear Wannbe,

Thank you for your comment and yes, it is all right to ask me for my advice. Let’s start with spanking shall we? You don’t mention how long you’ve been married or if you have children, but I’ll assume you have two kids and have been married for ten years. Is spanking something you want to spice up your sex life? Is it for punishment? Control? What are your expectations?

LS

Dear LS,

Thanks for replying. We have only one child and we’ve been together for fifteen years all told. I am very submissive, always have been, but with working full-time and my husband having his own interests, I’ve had to be independent. More independent than I’m comfortable being on a daily basis. I want my husband to spank me because I’m unhappy with me, with everything. I’m too fat, too tired, too lazy and have completely lost my way. Sex? What’s that? Maybe if he wanted to go out once in a while instead on lying on the couch watching sports. Sorry. Didn’t mean to vent.

Wannabe

Dear Wannabe,

You really do need a hard spanking! Such an attitude! Men are simple. When a woman is needy, they pull away. But, the one redeeming quality – besides a big cock – is that men love a problem to fix. Instead of coming right out and asking for a spanking, ask your husband for his advice. Be demure, not clingy and dress nice. Glance down as if shy and touch him gently. Tell him you’ve been thinking about stuff and he’s the only one who can solve your problems. He’ll puff right up and get all interested. Take it slow. Start with your weight. He’ll say right away you’re perfect and you’ll pout because he’s not taking you seriously. STOP! Stop right there. In his eyes you are perfect otherwise he wouldn’t be with you! Men are simple. Men need a good woman to take care of them. Stop resenting his needs and start anticipating how you can better serve him. That’s part of being submissive. Not a doormat, submissive. Ask him how you should go about losing some weight. Be prepared for graphs and flowcharts detailing calorie burn and watts/hour. Squeal and gush at his macho display, men love when their woman get all gooey when they flex their muscles. Repeat for all the issues you have. To show your gratitude, unzip his fly.

LS

Dear LS,

Wow! I never thought about any of that! Except the unzipping the fly, I can handle that part. But what about the spanking? I want a spanking!!!!!!!

Wannabe

Wannabe,

Don’t make me come over there! Be patient, you’ve waited fifteen years already what’s a few more weeks? Try to follow his schedule. Report to him every other day on your progress. Get him used to being in charge of you and your body. When you crash and burn, and you will, he will be hurt. Men do that when their women don’t follow their magnificent plan of action. Make it up to him. Bring a hairbrush/paddle/belt with you. Kneel at his feet. Tell him how sorry you are. Tell him you want to follow his wonderful plan, but you are too weak, you need his masculinity in order to stay on track. Tell him you’ve earned punishment, but not the cold shoulder, not his disgust. Tell him you’ve earned a spanking. Don’t let him have time to think. Raise your skirt and lay over his lap. Ask him to start with his hand and then use the hairbrush/paddle/belt on your naughty bottom until he’s satisfied you’ve been punished enough. No matter how little or how much he spanks you, do not COMPLAIN, but simple accept his dominance. There will be plenty of time later to discuss what happened. He’ll be guilty, trust me, especially if he bruises you, but thank him in both words and sex. The next day, discuss in a calm and rational conversation how you need regular spankings in order to maintain his plan. Do not accept any lessening of his plan. Men are simple. As long as he thinks he’s simply helping you follow his advice he’ll keep spanking you. Of course, at some point, you’ll be motivated to succeed instead of fail and then, spanking takes on a completely different tone. Let me know how it turns out.

LS

First try at spanking

There was something so soothing about being cradled in a man’s arms, especially after a nice session of loving. Ellen blushed, even though Franklin had been her husband for eleven months, she still felt constrained by her morals. The lights had to be off. She had to be wearing a nightgown. And she’d never done anything other than simply lying down and letting Franklin enter her with his thing. He was patient with her shyness though. He understood the fractured upbringing she suffered. By taking her away and beginning a new life together Ellen was realizing there was more to a marriage than drinking and yelling.

“Franklin?”
“Hum.”
“Do I please you?”
“In what way?”
“You know… in bed… when you love me.”
“Of course you do darling. You’re a wonderful partner and I love you very much. Now get some sleep.”

Ellen laid silently listening to her husband’s breathing and occasional snoring. She couldn’t sleep. Naïve as she was, the friends she’d made in this town all seemed happier and more satisfied with their marriages when it came to loving. Ellen blushed in the dark even thinking the word ‘sex’. To hear her friends gossip there were many things they did and had done to them that Ellen couldn’t even bring herself to acknowledge ever trying. Yet, in the quiet hours of the early morning, if she was honest with herself, she felt unfulfilled with the physical parts of her marriage. If only Franklin was…

After making breakfast for her husband and seeing him off to work, Ellen busied herself with domestic chores. She took pride in a clean house and good cooking. She’d asked Franklin after they were engaged if she would be required to continue her career. He’d firmly stated then it was his responsibility to support her and their children and her responsibility to keep house and be a mother. The mother part had yet to materialize but the doctor had assured Ellen she was normal ‘down there’. She’d been mortified by the exam, her first, but the doctor had been caring if a bit stern. Even Franklin had never seen her so intimately; Ellen frowned at the notion, it seemed wrong some how to deny her husband. The rest of the day passed in a blur until at a quarter to six Franklin returned home. It was Thursday, meatloaf and potato night. Serving him, refilling his glass and listening intently while he vented, Ellen felt very content.

In his den later Franklin was engrossed in reports when there was a timid knock on the door. Ellen entered his sanctum and stood without speaking in front of his desk. “Yes?”
“Franklin? I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone. It’s nothing.”
“Nonsense Ellen. Whatever is bothering you I would appreciate knowing. I am your husband.”
“I know. You deserve better from a wife.”
“What claptrap are you spouting Ellen? I am quite pleased with your efforts as my wife. You provide a pleasant home and good food, what more could a man want?”
“Maybe… I know you’re a man Franklin… you have needs… I’m not very good at, you know, sex.”

Franklin was stunned. His demure Ellen was apologizing for her lack of skills in the bedroom? It was true he had certain ‘needs’, however, demanding his wife provide them was… gauche. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen never took, only coaxed. The stories of fantastic and exotic sex were just that, stories and fables written by men too timid to seek out a real woman.
“I think you’re doing fine Ellen. I am quite satisfied by your efforts to please me. We’ll not discuss this further.”
“But…”
“Enough Ellen.”

She was clearly being dismissed and she obeyed, at first; then determinedly made up her mind. “No Franklin, it is not enough. I am not enough for you. If I am truly to be your wife then my body must also belong to you to use as you see fit. You need more. I want more. There has to more to sex than what we’ve had for the past eleven months. There has to be more Franklin.”
“Are you disobeying me Ellen? I said I was satisfied.”
“What if I am Franklin? I think you’re lying. I think you want to do all sorts of nasty things to me.”
“And how do you know about ‘nasty’ things Ellen? What have you been reading behind my back?”
“Nothing Franklin! My friends talk about their husbands all the time! I can’t help but overhear.”
“Overhear what precisely?”
Ellen was blushing profusely but Franklin’s scolding was melting some of her natural reserve. His dominance was making her squirm. “Susan said she loved to suck Tom’s ‘thing’ until he spurted in her mouth.”
“His thing?”
“You know… his manroot.”
“Ah. His penis. Go on.”
“Laura explained how Samuel licks her down there…”
“Down there Ellen?”
“Her pussy Franklin. Laura loves to have her pussy licked. How come you’ve never tried that with me?”

Franklin stood up and walked around the desk: Ellen instinctively backed-up against the closed door. He bent down and kissed his wife – hard – while gripping her firmly round the waist. He forced his tongue into her mouth, she responded with a faint moan. Releasing her lips he asked her, “What else wife did you overhear?”
Ellen shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Most of my friends are…”
“Yes?”
“Are spanked.”
“Spanked?”
“Yes Franklin, spanked; hard and often if their tales are to be believed.”
“By their husbands?”
“Evidentially.”
“Because?”
“I don’t know Franklin. I was too embarrassed to inquire.”

There was a wingless armchair in the corner of the den. Franklin led his unresisting wife and bent her over his seated knees. Raising her dress he was struck by the realization it was the first time he’d ever seen her bottom in daylight. “Down or up?”
“Down please Franklin. I’ve been a bad girl. I’ve neglected you so much. Spank me hard… please?”

Over the top

The blue spruces shuddered violently. Lightning danced rapidly from menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about his health. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many an argument. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters.

“Mom! Where’s my yellow shirt?”

“It’s in the wash! I’m trying to write, have Daddy help you!” Corrine Campos grimaced hearing the horde descending upon her unsuspecting husband. Carmelo was warm and loving, except when it came to women’s work. Old-fashioned to the extreme he would never even consider lifting a finger to help around the house. He supported Corrine and their three children by running his own consulting business and that was enough for him and his mother. She’d found his masculinity overwhelming when they were dating but after ten years of marriage the resentments were reaching the breaking point. When her phone rang; well, Corrine snapped out without checking ID.

“What!”
“My, my Corrine. Testy today?”
“Sorry Roxy. Bad day.”
“I understand. Hate to rain on your parade but ‘Over the top’ needs work, lots of work.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’m editing now Roxy, please give me a little more time.”
“I’m sorry Corrine, but the deadline is Wednesday and if you don’t have a publishable draft by tomorrow the magazine is going to cancel. There’s nothing more I can do. Give me something to sell and I’ll go to the mat for you.”
“Okay Roxy. Tomorrow, I promise. Gotta go, hubby is pounding on the door.”

“What are you doing? Your children are driving me crazy!”
“I’m sorry Carmelo. I was talking to a friend. I’ll be right there.”

Corrine put her computer to sleep and wasted two hours caring for her children before foisting them off on her sister for the rest of the day. Carmelo had left, to go and do who knew what, but Corrine was quite happy to see his BMW squealing out of the gate. Finally: Peace and quiet.

The blue spruces shuddered violently as if in the throes of orgasm. Lightning danced rapidly from the menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead intent on rape. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her horny husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about the health of his penis. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many a blowjob. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters. What if she never got a chance to suck on his hard cock ever again?

Josh pulled into the garage amidst hail as large as fists and rain so thick the wipers failed to keep up. He was trembling with fatigue and looked forward to a long, hot soapy shower – by himself. Heather was so needy lately! What was her problem? He was less than pleased to open the door and find Heather on her knees, warm mouth open and blue eyes pleading for his cock. He finally snapped. Grabbing her long blond hair in his calloused fingers he dragged her into the living room and threw her over the back of the couch. Whipping out his belt he proceeded to beat his wife on her rounded quivering bottom while she cried and begged the entire time. When her ass was covered with weals he threw down the belt, stalked to her head, yanked up her head and shoved his cock down her throat.

Heather was in shock. Where was the loving gentle man she’d married? Why was he doing this? Her ass was on fire and while it hurt, the pain was nothing compared to her broken heart. When he pulled out of her mouth she protested again but then he began to pound her pussy each thrust slapping her sore bottom. Heather felt her climax building, the storm continuing unabated, neither one noticing the lights failing or glass shattering. Rain driven by violent winds soaked them as Josh fucked Heather as hard as he could: not caring a whit for her needs. She screamed again, pain was creating pleasure and her soaking wet cunt flooded the cushions. She moaned and writhed until she felt Josh shooting his spunk deep inside.

“What the fuck? What the hell are you doing?”
“Carmelo! Stop that! You have no right! This is private!”
“The hell it is! No wife of mine is going to read this filth!”
“It’s not filth Carmelo! I wrote this for publication, for money!”
“You wrote this perverted trash for money? Money? You whore!”
Corrine slapped her angry husband. “How dare you call me a whore? I am the mother of your children and if I’m a whore then you’re a pimp!”
“You’ve gone too far this time Corrine. I’m the man in this house and I decide what my wife does.”
“Bullshit! I don’t have to take this crap from you! Let me go! I’ll call the police.”
“Fine Corrine, call, but first, I’m going to teach you some long overdue manners!”

Corrine felt herself rapidly thrown over her furious husband’s knees, dress tossed over her head and panties thrown on the floor. Carmelo’s large hand descended in rapid-fire order on her naked bottom punctuated by his stern lecture on proper behavior. Corrine squealed and bucked but her husband had little problems keeping her in her place. “I should have done this on our wedding night! You will obey me Corrine or I’ll spank you every day, twice a day for the rest of your life! Is that clear?”
“Yes sir!” Corrine choked out.

After more than half an hour of spanking, Carmelo threw his weeping wife on their bed and stalked out slamming the door behind him. Corrine reached back and gasped as she felt the heat pouring off her battered ass. Gingerly rolling over she swayed to the bathroom to observe the damage.

“Roxy? It’s Corrine. Don’t bother with ‘Over the top’. I’ve got a new story to write: ‘Disobedient and beaten wife’. Yeah, it’s personal, very personal.”

Sometimes I doubt my sanity

Listening to Pink is a mistake: when you’re in a bar at closing time. What she can sing about is not what I should say when I’ve been drinking since ten the previous night. Why drink? Hell, it’s not like I like the taste. But the freedom it offers. Haven’t you always wanted to say whatever the fuck you wanted to whomever you wanted whenever you wanted? Like it’s the buzz, the release of that nattering nanny – aka Mommy Dearest – who is always telling you to keep your knees together and your underwear clean. Hey bitch! I don’t wear underwear anymore! So there! I drink because I’m a powerful modern woman who takes no prisoners. Gurls rock! I LOVE YOU PINK! OK. Hangovers suck. Especially since all my BFFs have betrayed the code and gotten married to “He’s so sweet and nice and so romantic.” Fuck you! I don’t need you to hold my hair back. Rubber bands work just fine. I don’t need romance and flowers and hearts carved in trees. If I want sex, I take it. No man has ever turned me down I’ll have you know. I use them and toss them back into that cesspool known as dating. I don’t date. I fuck. I fuck in the day, at night; whenever and wherever I want. I can’t believe they busted me for public indecency! Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve blown over half the cops in this crappy town and now they suddenly get all righteous on my ass? WTF? Hey! I got a great ass if I do say so myself and I do say so myself even if it’s currently parked in the slammer between a hooker and a druggie. Excuse me? Alcohol is legal and so is sex: the last time I checked it was still a free country. Everyone has sex but everyone acts like the biggest frigging prudish hypocrite when they actually see something sexual going down. Did I mention I like going down? Please. Like any guy would turn down a blow job from a smoking hot chick like moi. That’s french for ‘me’ in case you were wondering. I am an international woman of mystery. But I wouldn’t blow Austin Powers on a dare. Five hundred? Maybe. Fine. I’m picky, so sue me. It’s not like I’m desperate or anything. We are way off the beaten path in this podunk excuse for a community, but there are still enough guys, married or otherwise to go around. Believe you me, they get around, I have the pictures to prove it. Did someone say pictures? I meant memories. I would never stoop to shooting a porno flick. I mean I could, I am a dynamic sex goddess even if my name isn’t Crystal Kneepads, but you know, making money off my body doesn’t seem right. Food and drinks are good, jewelry and gift cards are better, but straight cash seems tawdry and cheap. Sorry if that pisses you off honey but I like to choose my partners. Really? Judge Myers? He does what? That pervert! I can’t believe it! What? It beats a couple of years upstate? How many times have you… that many? Why do you keep coming back? You like it? WTF? Why would anyone like to be spanked? Cause it feels good? OK. If you say so. Damn. I have got to get outta here. Stuck in jail with bimbos who like to get spanked by a judge in lieu of prison time. That’s french for ‘you’re fucked so bend over and take what’s coming to you’. Oh well. I guess it’s better than being some dykes bitch. Maybe Judge Myers would accept a blow job instead. Haven’t done him yet. Always thought he was kinda creepy. Who knew?

Too many men want my bottom

You’d think she’d be happy. Men walked into walls as she sashayed by, hips twitching the short skirt tightly bunched around the best ass they’d ever seen. Teasing looks, double entendres and some not so subtle come-hither smiles usually resulted in all the wrong men for all the wrong reasons. Violet loved a good fucking now and then, but being bent over and sodomized lost its thrill after the fiftieth time or so. That’s all men wanted from her. No blowjobs, no cunt fucking, certainly no going down on her, just bend over and spread em. They were obviously watching too much Rocco. Didn’t they know a woman’s bottom was actually made for only one thing? A good hard spanking, preferably with a thick leather belt or paddle until the ass was fire engine red and so hot you could cook eggs on the surface. Then, after setting the stage, a good fucking became a great fucking. Too bad men were such dorks. What did Violet have to do? Wear a skirt saying ‘Spank Me’ across her bottom?

Seeking perfection

The corollary to technological advance is the loss of personal connection.

Lucretia Sinclair was an old maid. At two and thirty, she was a confirmed spinster. Tired of her family’s cruel rejoinders, she’d gone west seeking her manifest destiny. She found instead, the loss of her maidenhead and the serenity of over the knee. The hows make the tale.

She alighted from the 3:45 from Denver. Stark landscape, muted pastels and strong earth shades all pummeled by the soaring turquoise sky. Waiting for her was Mrs. Parker, widowed some twenty years, swathed in black silk befitting her station as matriarch of Juniper Falls. Lucretia had responded to an advert seeking ‘unmarried women of quality desired for tutor to wealthy family’ by post. The correspondence escalated rapidly, more so when the telegraph link was completed to Juniper Falls. Mrs. Parker set a stern example through her terse missives. Lucretia could hear the sniff in her words, the distaste of East Coast debutantes living off stolen largesse and western gold. Still, she came. Dressed in muted poplin, traveling weeks by train across the breadth of a dazzling country, Lucretia left her past behind.

Erect carriage, she stared into the distant future as Mrs. Parker perused her as carefully as any prized range horse. More so, because a horse could be out down, a woman of loose morals more destructive than any locust horde in fall. Passing inspection, Lucretia lifted her satchel, porter behind with the rest of her worldly goods and followed in the tremendous wake of Mrs. Parker. Hats tipped, heads bowed, she parted the dusty and dung smeared street as if brandishing a cannon. Determined not to be cowed, Lucretia was nonetheless impressed by the display of personal power rivaling any DuPont. Juniper Falls may have been small by eastern standards, but it was run not by the sheriff or mine owners, but by a woman of a certain age with unsmiling countenance.

In her letter home that night to her younger sister, Lucretia was hard pressed to explain the atmosphere in the town. The best she could say was: It, the town sweet Margaret, seems placid and serene. Not bustling as New York, yet, an air of smugness all emanating from a short female form. No gentle sex I fear from Mrs. Parker. She wields a stern hand, perhaps, dare I say, even harder than Papa. In closing my beloved, I have chosen to stay. You may write me at this address. Mrs. Parker is providing room and board in her ‘mansion’. Nothing on 5th Avenue I’m afraid, but passable in extremis. I am to commence my position on the morrow so must now retire.

With the sun, the house too rose. Lucretia was prompt for breakfast. The food was welcome after the long journey: the company marginally less so. Not for Mrs. Parker a mixed table. Only the finest ladies were ensconced in her home. The oldest was a dowager visiting from San Francisco with the youngest being her niece barely out of finishing school. A blue stocking would have felt right at home except… there was a sense of mystery, of hidden vices lurking behind the facade of propriety. Lucretia was polite when spoken to and kept her replies and curiosity firmly in check. Finishing her meal, requesting to be excused, she retired above stairs to complete her toilette and met Mrs. Parker in the parlor precisely at eight. She refrained from flinching when the matriarch ran a clothes sweeper over her plain dress. Satisfied at last, she sallied forth, Lucretia bobbing dutifully one step behind.

High collar, purple cravat, and diamond stickpin did not catch her attention so much as the wide leather belt wrapped round his trim waist. She listened closely to his instructions. The children were attending school until noon meal, so Mr. Mallory conducted a brief tour of his abode. The servants introduced, Lucretia was ushered into the room set aside for tutoring. Every day, after school, the children, Robert, Sally, Jenny and Polly would be her charge until five. Saturday she was to conduct exams from nine until one, the rest of the day and Sunday would be free. Services at the Methodist church were at eight, the family pew to the front right. Mr. Mallory gestured to the tallboy near her desk. Inside the doors were a variety of straps and paddles hanging from gleaming brass hooks. Lucretia barely heard him as she fondled the heavy oiled leather ‘objects de correction’.

He left, not before crooking an eyebrow at her mesmerization for the family disciplinary tools. They saw regular use; he’d dismissed the last four tutors for failing to rigorously apply as needed. He felt sure Miss Lucretia would have few qualms in chastising his unruly children. Pausing at the door, he added the caveat her performance would be monitored closely and subjected to discipline should she fail to meet his expectations. Lucretia blushed and demurely replied she’d do her best to please him. When he left, she sat on trembling legs behind the desk, trying in vain to banish the sudden heat rising in her nether regions. Well read, less so in the amorous arts, Lucretia was not completely naive, yet no man had ever so dominated her emotions and mind as Mr. Mallory. She’d been informed in stark terms the fate of the late Mrs. Mallory and whatever gossip existed in Juniper Falls was yet to be revealed.

The town clock chimed the noon hour and soon, the bustle of children scattering to familial dwellings motivated Lucretia to cease her rigorous cleaning and present herself to Mr. Mallory in his study. Nodding, he escorted her to the dining room, the children rising to greet their father and newest tutor. Curtsies and a bow with polite introductions of age and grade were graciously acknowledged. Mr. Mallory queried his brood in turn by rote they recited the day’s lesson. Only little Polly stumbled over a math equation. At her father’s frown, she rose; meal half-eaten and went upstairs to await her fate. When several minutes later he rose as well, Lucretia asked if she was not to provide Polly’s punishment as per the position? Deferring with surprise, Mr. Mallory acquiesced and Lucretia, heart racing and palms damp, opened the door to the schoolroom.

Polly was seated in her chair, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast. If she were late back to school, the teacher would punish her as well. Lucretia stood, one hand resting on the smooth oak surface of the sturdy desk pondering the miscreant. She called Polly forward to the chalkboard and asked her to repeat the math lesson. Again Polly failed in solving the rudimentary equation and Lucretia patiently coaxed her until answering correctly. The one o’clock bell rang, the children all returned to the schoolhouse, except for Polly, now bent forward over the desk. Lucretia, aware of the girl’s tender years, selected a smaller strap and decided on a total of ten spanks. Unsure as to protocol she slowly lifted Polly’s ankle length paisley dress. When the girl silently assisted by raising her hips, Lucretia sighed inwardly realizing she’d ascertained the correct course of action. Carefully folding over the hem, she parted the muslin drawers to reveal a pair of trim buttocks still rounded with baby fat.

Stepping to the side, Lucretia raised the strap and brought the leather down with a firm stroke. The loud slap brought little reaction from Polly so she felt no reticence in lying on the blows with a strong hand. By the tenth, Polly’s white skin was a pleasing shade of delicate pink. Directing her to rise, Polly arranged her clothing and politely thanked Lucretia for her correction and tutoring. Eyes were bright, but privately Lucretia was impressed by Polly’s stoicism, even more so when she retrieved the punishment book and neatly recorded her punishment. She requested dismissal and curtsied before hastening back to school where she knew more spanking was in store. All in all, Polly was feeling quite good. This afternoon’s tutoring session was going to be very interesting.

At 2:30, class was dismissed for the day and all but Polly went home. She went over Miss Dexter’s lap and received a brisk ten-minute hand spanking over her dress for being late after lunch. By the time she’d returned to the schoolroom, Lucretia was into the day’s lessons with Robert, Sally and Jenny. Lucretia merely nodded Polly to her chair and continued the session. She noticed Polly wincing slightly, but refrained from commenting. No need to be cruel. Lucretia full well remembered hard spankings over Papa’s knee and could commiserate with the state of Polly’s bottom. She sternly reminded herself she was the children’s tutor, not friend and certainly not mother. By half past four, Lucretia had a firm grasp of the depth and breadth of the children’s education and interests. Deciding to be forthright, she asked Sally to fetch the punishment book. Reading it for the first time, Lucretia was astounded by the number of times the children had been punished by previous tutors. Mr. Mallory had strongly stated discipline was slack, but according to the book, scarcely a day passed without spanking of at least one child, if not all.

A whipping a day keeps the tears away

An issue that emerges constantly is the need to be spanked frequently, more often than he actually provides. Is it topping from the bottom when she needs daily whipping in order to function? I don’t believe it is. A submissive woman needs regular physical contact in order to validate her decision to submit to her dominant. Withholding spanking from her is perceived to be true punishment not simply because he’s not in the mood to whip.

If she’s not in the mood to be spanked, then is it abuse if he whips her anyway? That depends. What type of relationship do you want? Do you want to be controlled? To be supported? To be pampered? To run the house? To be a mother? To be tied up, gagged, plugged and whipped on a daily basis? It seems simple, spanking, but it’s not on many different levels. Being in charge is more than giving orders and obeying, it’s doing what is best for the relationship first and individuals second.

Not only is every submissive unique, so is every dominant. That fact seems to be lost in the desire to be spanked. What you need, what you may think you need is not always what a dominant needs or wants. Spanking daily can quickly become a chore: A source of discord between partners. Being submissive is not about being spanked, it’s about caring for your dominant and meeting his needs. If he needs you to be calm, then be calm. If he wants you to be bratty, then be bratty. Your needs are met by him being in the proper frame of mind. He can’t whip you if he thinks you are nagging him.

Why not? Because it’s aggravating to be asked to dominate and then be constantly challenged on every little decision. Either you submit within the context of your relationship and the rules created, or you constantly cheat trying to stay in control. If your dominant is worthy of your trust, then you have to trust he will treat you as you need, even if daily whipping doesn’t always happen. Concentrate on growing yourself within the boundaries you’ve both created and soon he will feel comfortable in providing frequent spanking.

Perhaps a spanking wouldn’t be the worst thing…

Not that she really wanted a spanking. They hurt, especially the paddle when swung with purpose from behind by a stern man determined to enforce the rules on her bare bottom. Rules she’d suggested, rules she bent, twisted, spindled and ignored whenever she knew he wasn’t aware. Somehow though, his naughty radar always found out her transgressions and very shortly afterwords, she would be bent over, naked from the waist down and be punished until he decided the redness fit the crime. It wasn’t a crime to smoke, or cuss, or be late, or… any of the hundreds of rules both significant and petty she’d drawn up over a period of weeks in a fit of determination followed by frantic backsliding. Too bad he wouldn’t budge, not an inch, not one single stroke pulled in the name of mercy. She wanted spanking, she demanded spanking: Far be it for him to go back on his word. She knew his word was bond, but did he have to be so perfect? Couldn’t a girl mess up just once without a sore bottom the result? Evidently not. Forgetting the mail was one thing, forgetting to pick up the kids after school was not acceptable. Before dinner, the children doing the normal electronic immersion it was off to the woodshed and a date with the following: A padded sawhorse, leather restraints, rubber bit and a three-tailed tawse due to impact one hundred times. Still… when she’d realized she’d forgotten and rushed off to the school only to find her children gone, her terror and shame were more painful than any spanking he could ever inflict. The look in eyes when he’d brought them home: She wanted to crawl away and hide. Strapped face down, completely nude, nipples clamped and butt plugged, she looked forward to the scorching stripes about to decorate her bottom. Maybe, just maybe, this time ‘it’ would finally kick in and she’d change for good. If not… well, there was always the cane.

The ball drops

The animal pulse rose with the passage of every minute. Nearer to midnight and nearer to the sanctioned unleashing of social passion. The second seating was cleared away and couples filled the parquet, swirling to frenetic mixes and beats. Clutching her champagne, Alli felt completely out of place: A drab hen amongst birds-of-paradise. The very air was charged with attraction as men and women grew ever bolder under the strobing glitter balls draped with mistletoe. Bumped and jostled, Alli gradually was forced against the far wall, strangers taking kisses without consent, eyes undressing her, hands roving her curves. Tears shimmered above her purple shadow, crimson lips trembled, arms defensively crossed and she was on the verge of full-blown panic when the press suddenly eased. Firm hands draped her bare shoulders guiding her numb feet safely away from the frenzied mob chanting down the waning seconds to unbridled licentiousness.

Abruptly the sensual roar was silenced by clanging doors. Alli’s ears rang and her emotions gave way. Turning into her savior, she wept loudly with released fright and relief. Long arms wrapped her close, fingers stroked her hair, then steadily lowered her zipper, the scrap of black fabric falling in a dark puddle at her burgundy stilettos. Shocked, Alli opened her mouth to protest, but words were swallowed by hard lips and probing tongue. Her bare breasts crushed against silk, rough hands kneading exposed buttocks, Alli wanted to run, needed to stay, hoped nothing would happen and prayed everything would. She felt overwhelmed by the sheer masculinity holding her tight and her sex flowed in response to his unspoken demands. He led, she followed. A path never taken, for Alli was innocent in all ways. Her very first New Year’s party and now, half-naked, in a dark room with someone who she didn’t know, hadn’t spoken and was intent on taking his pleasure in her unsullied body.

Alli stared out into the night lit by skyscrapers. On her stomach, her thong lowered to her ankles, thighs forced apart and then, male fingers carefully entered her. She tightened with instinct, he grunted, she gasped, he asked, she answered yes, a virgin. To his disbelieving statement, she grew indignant, a woman should be able to do what she wants without fear of rape. A long pause, the world stilled, the tension rose before the storm broke. When Alli felt him withdraw, she protested, still prone, still offered sacrifice, he declined, she was crushed. Rejection stung worse than ever. She knew she was nothing special if a man, this man refused to take her only gift. Rising, Alli was brusquely shoved back down on the desk, hips locked on the edge, she heard a whisper of cloth, then, his hand firmly holding her small of the back, a streak of fire across her proffered bottom.

Her reaction was delayed, the belt whipping her several times before giving voice to her needs. Guttural moans rose from her swollen throat, fingers gripping, pushing up with each stroke, begging him with primal movements to continue, to hurt her, to make her a real woman. He complied, the leather painting her flesh, his hands fondling the dampness, his desire to punish subsiding and his desire to rupture growing. Alli rotated her hips, both cooling the burn and heating her womb. Brokenly she pleaded, please take me, please take me: A last flurry of blows, sharp smacks with his hand. Too hard to wait, too aroused to care, he eased into the virgin opening and, grabbing her hair, thrust hard through and into her channel. She screamed in pain, back arched, head raised, his stomach slamming her sore bottom, he waited as she rippled in shock. Tentatively he withdrew, clinging, she sucked him back. Her secretions eased his motions, her arousal transmuted pain to passion, his rapid strokes met with timid gyrations turned frantic. Beyond anything Alli had ever imagined, having him inside her brought her out of herself and freed her suffering soul.

Subs think too much

It’s the bane of Masters everywhere: A thinking submissive. Not that most Masters want a robot, they don’t, but many subs struggle with letting go.

To be in a D/s et all relationship requires – demands – the submissive truly submit. To give her/his very responses to the Master in return for… everything.

Masters want – demand – submission not because they desire total control [some do of course] over every aspect of the submissive’s life, but in order to help guide growth.

Why do you want to be a submissive in the first place?

To Top from the Bottom? That’s not submission, that’s a power struggle. If you have to think about your actions vis-à-vis His/Her desires then you’ve lost the charm of real submission. Giving up control in return for support goes beyond the norm for many, but for a thinking sub, the very act of submission causes the very worst of behaviors. Until a sub can stop thinking and simply do what needs to be done, they will be very unhappy.

This all presupposes the Master is worthy of your submission. A subject for another post.

The hand does not make you down*

*A football term

The CLANG reverberated through the house. Charles glanced up with irritation from his magazine. Tsao was still in a snit over his decision to attend the business conference without her. He’d made no promises when they’d gotten married soon after meeting in Singapore. Returning to London with exotic wife in tow had been met with great surprise, but Tsao soon won over his most jaded companions. Compliant and eager, she was also twenty years younger than him and her drive was based on a modern ethos he had grown rich from but had never been a part of before.

After seven months together he smiled whenever he thought of her golden skin flushing as she came with wild shudders. But lately; she’d withdrawn subtly. He tried the usual bribes [furs, jewels, cars] to no avail. Even fronting her fashion line failed to tame the widening schism. Tonight the loud noises from the kitchen drew a scowl on his lined face. Enough was enough.

Entering the kitchen fully prepared for a calm adult conversation, he was stunned to see the carnage. Pots, pans, flour covering the granite countertops: She’d destroyed the ambiance in her fury. “What the fuck is this?”

Tsao stared defiantly at her husband. “THIS! This is your fault Charles! You ignore me and treat me as a piece of furniture! I am woman! Not some cheap whore trotted out for your lecherous associates.”

Charles burned with anger. Tsao went too far. Way too far. He lunged across the slick tile floors, grabbing her arm as she slapped at his hand. Dragging her as she shrilled oaths, he seized a wooden paddle off the damaged counter. Sitting down on a tall bar stool, his petite wife was no match for his dominance: Nor were her designer dress and panties any protection from his righteous rage.

This time, the hard smacking noises in the kitchen caused howls of anguish from the trapped woman. Her silken bottom quickly flared red as Charles pounded out his frustrations on her perfect orbs. “I should have done this on our first date!” he growled.

“I never would have come back if you had!” Tsao yelled back.

Charles’ response was a flurry of sharp pops causing high-pitched squeals and rapid kicking of dainty ankles. He didn’t stop spanking his wife until she was sobbing loudly and her bottom was the color of cardinal. Hanging limply, Tsao didn’t answer Charles when he asked her if she’d learned her lesson. He smacked her twice with his hand.

“Yes sir! I have learned my lesson. Please don’t spank me anymore.”

Charles picked up the paddle off her back and told her she was getting five more hard swats. She moaned, but didn’t resist his final punishing lesson. Charles was quite content with his actions and the grateful blowjob and sex that followed. Perhaps he would have reconsidered had he seen, later that evening, when in the privacy of the master bathroom, Tsao examined her bruised cheeks with pride. Her triumphant smile was schooled into downcast fear when he called.

“Yes Master. I’m coming.” Tsao winked in the mirror and softly clapped her hands in thanks to her ancestors.

Black [and Blue] Friday

Flash Fiction Friday #14 is hosted by Measha this week based on this picture here.

She tried to hide the gifts. It was Christmas after all. She forgot the receipts. He found them. He ordered her into the studio. She waited for him to make music on her bottom. When he was done he would use her bottom in another way for as many seconds as she had charged dollars on her credit card. It was going to be a very long hour of reaming. He hoped she’d learn this time, but honestly, whipping and sodomizing his girlfriend was the best gift she could ever give him. Her tears tickled the ivories.

Spanking a willing woman

There is nothing better. To feel the weight of a willing woman bent over your lap, running your hand over her bare bottom and knowing she wants you to spank her. I could do that all day long.

“Carving the bird”

Laura always looked forward to the annual family holiday gathering at her parent’s house. This also happened to be the very first time she’d be bringing a ‘date’. Josh had agreed to meet the folks and they were giddy their ‘little girl’ was finally seeing someone. Laura knew her mother was probably already planning the wedding, but she and Josh planned to wait until after they both graduated and decided on career paths. They’d both seen too many relationships founder over jobs and kids. There was time.

Josh wasn’t too happy about sleeping apart, but her parents were rather old-fashioned. No ring, no sex in the house. They’d thought about a hotel, but decided a long weekend apart during the night would be good for them. Besides, there was always the backseat if they got desperate. There was one thing though Laura was going to miss: Her nightly spanking. When Josh first mentioned spanking, Laura was thrilled and the reality far exceeded her fantasies. He was firm, no-nonsense and kept her in place until he decided she’d had enough.

It shocked Laura hours after the first night’s dinner, when her parents asked Josh to join them in the den for a friendly chat and they then asked him quite bluntly if he was in charge of their daughter. He coolly replied that he was and said he understood the reasons for sleeping apart, however, he would appreciate some time alone before bed in order to stress to Laura who was in charge in their relationship. Laura blushed bright red when her mother asked curiously how Josh stressed that to her daughter and he casually said ‘I spank her every night’.

Her father cleared his throat and nodded to Josh before agreeing that Laura definitely needed a firm hand at her tiller in order to keep her level. He launched into several tales of misadventures Josh hadn’t heard before and raising an eyebrow, he looked over at Laura in surprise. She refused to look at Josh until he spoke sharply. At that point, her mother suggested they leave them alone in the den to ‘discuss’ the situation. ‘Take your time Josh. Laura can be quite stubborn and it takes an effort to get the lesson across.’

Before Laura could object, Josh patted his thigh and as her parents hugged her and slipped out the door, all Laura thought about was having everyone in the family hear her getting spanked. She wanted to sink through the floor, but she didn’t hesitate to lie over his knees and made no objection when Josh raised her skirt and lowered her panties. Bare bottomed she waited for her lover’s hand to descend on her needy skin. The only thing better – admitted only in the privacy of her mind – would be to be bent over the family couch watched by all her relatives as she was severely thrashed with Josh’s belt.

Holiday feast

Every year was worse than the last, more stress, less fun and harsh words with the in-laws. He wanted her to relax, but nothing worked. Desperate, he finally swallowed his pride and asked his mother for advice. He was shocked when she said, quite frankly, that his wife probably needed a good spanking. He couldn’t believe his own mother would suggest a spanking! When she told him to talk to his father, he did, eventually, afraid of what he’d hear.

In a daze, he hung up the phone and wandered aimlessly until he stumbled into the kitchen. His wife was swearing loudly trying to bake the perfect pie and breads for Thanksgiving dinner. He shook his head, clearing the images of his parents doing it… he shuddered, but decided to take action at long last. He grabbed his wife round the waist and dragged her away from the stove. She shrieked and protested but he paid no heed to her vociferous complaints.

They got much louder when he firmly placed her over his knee and began soundly spanking his now angry wife. By the time he’d finished, she’d threatened everything from sharp knives to calling the police. Letting her up, she stormed off upstairs, slammed the bathroom door and stayed there for nearly an hour. When she carefully walked back downstairs, he was waiting with open arms. She accepted his hug, and asked quietly why he’d spanked her. Because you needed the release.

He wondered what she’d say.

She replied simply, ‘you’re right.’

Spanking turns her on

The Sweltering Celt runs Microfantasy Monday and this week for #54 her prompt is games.

A holiday party:
Thirty guests:
Cheesy music:
Spiked punch:
Mistletoe: with a twist:

She’d invited all her friends – those into spanking that is – with the stipulation they each bring a favorite implement of correction as the price of admission. When everyone finally straggled in she and her husband gathered them in the living room. Hanging from the ceiling fixture was a large bunch of fresh mistletoe. Underneath: a chair and a coffee table covered with a festive cloth. The rules are simple she told her friends. Please place the implements you all brought on this table. For the rest of the party, anyone standing under the mistletoe is to be spanked five times by the first person to grab them. At the nervous giggle from the crowd, she smiled. Of course you may need a round or two of punch first, but I hope by the time dinner is served, everyone will be in the proper holiday spirit. So saying, she slid under the mistletoe and waited for her husband. To her shock, the first person to grab her was her best friend Gale, a fellow submissive. Quickly sitting down, Gale drew her across her lap and picked out a leather crop. Whacking her hard five times, her friends counted and cheered when blushing, she stood up catching her husband’s eye. He shrugged and winked. Soon, all their friends were playing a game of musical chairs, the soundtrack, hard spanks and laughter. When the clock struck ten, she tapped her glass for attention. I forgot to mention. For the next thirty minutes the game has changed. Anyone standing under the mistletoe can select any other sub and spank them ten times.

buy you a drink?

I recently read an article where it stated we decide the compatibility of a potential mate in less than a second. Overall it takes no more than three continuous minutes of interaction to determine if a relationship is possible.

How does this relate to spanking? Are the criteria the same? Or completely different?

She was lonely. Too quick to judge – no, no, no, hell no! – no, no, no… Too impatient for even speed dating, she was leaving when the scent of him stopped her dead. She shook her head, he took her hand, she pulled away, he swatted her bottom, she gasped, he smiled, she swung, he ducked, she swore, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her away. He’d decided in .7 seconds to take her, she’d decided in .3 to run, but he was too strong. She discovered later, patience was a virtue, instilled one spank at a time, one lecture after another. After three minutes, she was no longer lonely, he was no longer solely interested in spanking. Another success for the Tri-Cities SpankoMunch.

Posture lessons

FFF#12 at The Daily Toast is based on this picture here and should be a drabble of exactly 100 250 words this week only.

Vivian shook when she entered the room. Mistress Violet was stern, if fair and her lessons were always hard. Beginning with deportment and ending with vocabulary, Vivian was discovering hidden depths to her desires. When she’d been approached by Mistress in the mall Vivian had been drifting into a lifestyle of petty crime and hooking up with strangers for the thrill. Offered room and board for a year in exchange for complete submission, at first, Vivian had laughed uproariously. Mistress explained it was such a waste for a lovely girl to throw away her life.

Vivian had been surprised to leave with Mistress. Curious perhaps, she spent the week learning about Mistress’ expectations and demands before being asked to commit. Hesitating, Vivian wondered if she’d be harmed in any permanent way. Assured she would not, but would be physically disciplined, emotionally humiliated and stripped to her core before being built up into a proper young lady.

Even after six months of daily punishments, Vivian still feared Mistress. The chair upon which she sat was very familiar. Mistress had immediately bent her fully clothed over the back of the wooden chair and caned her severely. Twenty-five vicious strokes had Vivian screaming. It was the only time she was ever punished while dressed. Her routine was the same: an over-the-knee spanking at breakfast, strapping for lunch and a flogging at dinner. The cane was for whenever she was placed in the chair to contemplate her errors. It was now time to atone.

Armistice Day

The Sweltering Celt runs Microfantasy Monday and this week for #53 her prompt is hot and cold.

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1918 World War I came to an end with an armistice involving nearly all the warring parties. For Mrs. Jensen she felt the deadly chill thawing when she began to hope she’d see her husband again. For two long years she’d lived in dread of the Western Union boy. Refusing to read the papers or the periodicals, she’d even walked out of the cinema to avoid the patriotic newsreels.

Three weeks later, a letter from the Army, her husband had been discharged and would be home in two weeks. For her sanity, Mrs. Jenson did nothing different, not even mark the calendar. She honestly couldn’t remember the feel of his arms around her or even the deep penetration when they made love. The other things, those she recalled with clarity.

The chuff-chuff of the special troop train gradually quieted only to be replaced by loud cheers and the local brass band playing triumphant airs. The orderly crowd quickly broke into a frenzy of yells, tears and ecstatic families finally reunited. Craning her neck, Mrs. Jenson thought she saw her husband, but waited patiently away from the maddened crush. Then, he was holding her, his lips trembling as she wept happy tears of relief.

After dinner, a repast he likened to the finest ambrosia, he took her hand and led her to their bedroom. He poured out two years of horror, despair and brutality on her acquiescent body. She found, to her surprise, responding enthusiastically to his advances. Even trying things she’d refused to do before the war as being unladylike. There was one thing she needed however.

Before they slept from passion temporarily satiated, she retrieved his leather strop, hanging where he had left it and oiled regularly by Mrs. Jenson in his absence. She removed her nightgown, another first, and eagerly bent over the bolsters. Rising once more, her husband took her again as she moaned wantonly. There was no armistice in the Jenson household. The strop rose and fell harshly on her bottom, steadily turning two years of neglect into a flaming red rear.

When he finished, she was so aroused. Needing another go, she dropped to her knees. Only on her wedding night had she allowed him to put his male part in her mouth, but Mrs. Jenson was so hot, so aflame with lust, she had to succor him: taste her essence and draw him close, draining all his nightmares while awake. When he plunged back in, close to spending, she begged for him to use her mouth when he was ready. The cold they both had lived for two years was now hot as the viscous fluid pouring down her throat.