Full marks

No short shorts for me this week. Last night was such a surprise - by chance both kids were somewhere else - so guess who got a major catch-up spanking?

We went out to see live music in a local pub and came back a bit tipsy. It was great to have the house to ourselves for once and all was going well until SO decided to do a month's worth of attitude adjustment in one prolonged session... ouch.

It meant a new outing for what is now named 'The Spanking Stick'. We've just had the bathroom redecorated and the carpenter left a few offcuts of wood behind, one of which looks like a ruler but is much thicker and heavier.

I'd seen it and it made me think of spanking and it turns out that SO had too. And wow, did it sting - it took my breath away. 
I'm left with lots of marks too, on my poor bot and, because of aiming issues, my thighs. So I write this post sitting on a marvellously uncomfortable behind and with stripey legs that will have to stay hidden for quite a while. 

Sexy? I don't think so...

All this Olympic stuff going on at the moment and, for the most part, it leaves me cold. Sport just isn't me, and never really has been.

If I do find myself watching it on TV it is really only the bottom-watching I'm there for. I don't care a great deal for who wins, or who doesn't, but I do like to see bottoms that have been scuplted to perfection by a lifetime of training. Who doesn't?

And I think that's what I spent most of my time doing during sports lessons at school. Bottom-watching. Navy blue gym knickers were the rule at our school, which seems strange now; they were so intent on not allowing mini-skirts, but then insisted on us wearing big knickers for games. Not logical.

And it caused trouble given that it was a co-ed school. The boys found the idea of girls in knickers playing netball irresistable - and got into serious trouble when they were caught peeping...

Looking back now though there doesn't seem anything that 'sexy' about school gym knickers. Except in the realm of spanko fantasy, of course. Take a rather unflattering garment and add in a frisson of spankoness and suddenly they're transformed into something quite different.

Long day

It's nearly bedtime at the end of a long and exhausting day, but there's just time for a few minutes tumblr-ing. Wicked Knickers always makes me smile, it's a fantastic collection.

And this is the image that caught my eye today. Why is she naked? It's been a hot day, of course, and she thought she'd cool down a little while she fixed a light evening meal.

He's been out in the heat, working hard collecting butterflies and will be home soon. But things may take an ugly turn because that's his Stradivarius she's left on the floor - and the bow makes the perfect stick to stripe a naughty bottom with.

Horse play

When is a horse not a horse? That is the question. Or the question that comes out of the book I’ve just been reading.
Let me explain. Our family visit has ended and one of our visitors left a book behind, which I’ve been reading it. It’s detective fiction, which I don’t usually go for, but I’ve really got into this one.
It’s called ‘Shadow of the Serpent’ by David Ashton. What I like best is that it’s set in Victorian Edinburgh, which is making me want to go back to writing about my ‘A Month in the Country’ characters.
Anyway, here’s the thing. All of the sudden the action moves to an upmarket brothel run by a woman called Jean. Among the ‘menu’ of experiences  on offer is a dominatrix in the cellar.
David Ashton writes: "Jean had spent a fortune on that cellar, the high point of which had been the purchase of the Berkley Horse. The apparatus had been shipped from London and arrived shrouded in thick white canvas like apiece of sculpture…"
The cellar was also kitted out with a range of flogging implements including "an array of canes which ranged from thin and pliant to thick and thunderous". Jean is called to deal with a customer who has a complaint about the thoroughness of the treatment he is getting from the house dominatrix, Francine.
Jean puts her straight. ‘"The client’s desires are paramount. Give him what he wants. Here I’ll make a start for ye.’ So saying, she took a thin birch rod from where it had been soaking in water to keep it green and pliant, then brought it down with considerable force on the man’s buttocks. There was a indrawn breath in response, and a thin smear of blood showed where the blow had landed.’
So, a little startle and then the story moves on. But it left me wondering what a Berkley Horse could be...
A bit of searching online sort of answers the question. But also poses another others. I’d imagined something like the vaulting horse we used to have in school and that’s how it looks here.
But then elsewhere it’s more like an A-frame shape, like an artist’s easel. Some confusion, but I did like reading about Mrs Theresa Berkley, who sounds a great character; I’m thinking that a sequel to ‘A Month’ needs to have its own Mrs Berkley and her horse, too.

So, was there a real Berkley Horse? Apparently there was and it was named after it's creator. Or I guess she didn't actually get handy with the saw, but she had it created to her spec.

One article I came across says Mrs.Berkley became famous for her invention "a multi-functional device which combined the delights of being a spanking bench with several other erotic functions". Apparently she made a fortune estimated at £15,000 during the eight years running her Establishment in central London.

Personally, being tied to furniture isn't my thing so I'm quite happy to be left wondering about the horse's shape and form. But I'm rather fascinated by Mrs B herself.

There's an interesting essay on women like Theresa at a site called the Flagellation Sourcesheet. It quotes Henry Ashbee's 'Index of Forbidden Books', which was written in the late Nineteenth Century, saying: "Mrs Theresa Berkley, of No 28 Charlotte Street, Portland Place; she was a perfect mistress of her art, understood how to satisfy her clients, and was, moreover, a thorough woman of business, for she amassed during her career a considerable sum of money."

I find myself wanting to know much more about Mrs Berkley. How did she get into such a specialised line of business? What sort of background did she come from? Was flagellation purely business, or was she mixing business with pleasure?

The Sourcesheet essay throws up one intriguing detail. It says that after Theresa's death her brother, who had been a missionary in Australia, arrived in England. He was in a position to inherit his wealthy sister's estate, but "when he learned the source from which the property she had left him had been derived, he renounced all claim".

Apparently, in his absene her estate went to her doctor, including old letters. They including some "from the highest personages, male and female, in the land". Clearly, Theresa wasn'#t a girl from the slums (given that her brother was a clergyman) and she provided a service to a nicer class of bottom. 

Last, but not least. I wanted to find an image to post as a parting though so I googled for 'victorian' and 'dominatrix'. It offers up a very wide and varied selection of images, but given issues of copyright I didn't feel comfortable posting any - instead I'll leave you with a series of links to look at, if you care to.

It seems that those two words conjure up thoughts of vampires,updos, scary ladies, chic ones and dressing-up.

I'm not going to tell you a second time...

And if I do, I'm fetching my hairbrush. If you're feeling in need of a good telling-off there's a really impressive collection of angry aunts here.

Benson, in colour

First there was black and white, then came colour and life was never the same again. Yes, but was it better?

I came across this picture on Morethanithurtsme and love it. The marvellous Roger Benson, but re-invented by a colour magician who goes by the name of Stone Knight.

The junior secretary has messed up yet again - appointments in a tangle, letters full of typos and coffee with no sugar. But the boss has her measure (ruler, measure - get it?) and that bottom is going to have lots and lots of broad, red stripes on it very soon...

But does the colour add to Mr Benson's creation? It's a nice job, but I'm not sure. If you're out there Mr Knight could you wave your colour wand over a few more Bensons to help me decide?

Ready and waiting

A call home from school always meant trouble. I couldn't quite figure out what she'd been told, but as I stood there I tried to come up with excuses, and fast. Something told me that I wasn't going to be sitting down comfortably for a day or two...
That's how my story for this picture would start, but the rest of it will have to be played out in my head. Our visiting relatives are taking up all our time, so there's little chance for any sort of alternative spanko existence.
That said, I have been able to sneak some surfing time and I particularly this picture that I happened upon a moment ago. There's something about the older woman's look and the younger's air of resignation - they've both been in this situation before, and will be again.  

Keep it in the family

Closest near miss? How about full-on spanko play while you have a teenage child a couple of rooms away and don't know it?

Sunday mornings have always been a 'special' time for me and SO, but with kids in the house they're usually have to be special in a muted sort of way.

Anyway, on the morning in question both our kids were away for the night. Youngest was at a sleepover, while the eldest had gone to a music festival 40 miles away.

So, SO got breakfast in bed and when the toast crumbs had been swept away things were just getting interesting. I was being told, in some detail, how I was going to have every last drop of naughtiness spanked out of me - and SO was stressing the point with the occasional sample smack.

The next step was going to be my poor behind meeting up with the table tennis paddle that lives under the bed in a very noisy way. And then I heard the click of a door opening.

We both froze for a second and then scrambled for the cover of the duvet. Our bedroom door was partly open and as eldest daughter wandered by - heading for the bathroom - she gave us a little wave...

Thank the Lord for iPod. It turned out that rain had driven daughter and friends away from the festival and they'd driven home, arriving in the small hours of the night. We were horrified that she may have heard what we were up to, but with her headphones it seems she didn't; a very close near miss.

Anyway, here's my point. I have relatives coming to stay, so things have to go into vanilla lock-down for a week or more. No fun and games for me and, probably, no blogging either.

But it does make me wonder about how well we all keep our secrets from our nearest and dearest. Who knows about your spanko tastes?

I fear my mother probably does. I studied some pages of Nancy Friday's 'The Secret Garden' so closely that if she'd bothered to look when she was cleaning my room the book would have fallen open at exactly those pages.

My sister might have an inkling too. It's just something about the way she talks to me at times.

Not that there's any shame in wanting to have your knicks pulled down and your bottom spanked red raw, is there? OK, I think that yes, there is - a deliciously wriggly, squirmy sort of shame that I for one can't get enough of!

Perfect age?

My most spankable age? The question occured to me this morning on the bathroom scales post-shower. I've put a little weight on over the last six months or so, but I think I like it.

 At 25 I was built like a Japanese racing snake. A good look with your clothes on, but not so good without. Any devoted spanko would have been unimpressed with a puny little bottom like that.

Rather too much time has passed by, I eat well but am also quite active. So I'm heavier, though not too much. As a result I'm  curvier, but then society's ideal is not curvier too - thanks J Lo.

And I reckon my rear end has much more to offer in the sphere of the spanko arts. My at 25 wasn't offering much, but now my rear end is a more generous canvas for brush strokes; there's far more scope for self-expression.

A reader writes

'I was a teenager when I received my first spanking and it was neither my mother nor my aunt spanked me, but a charming neighbor and here's why.'
This is the opening of a story that a visitor to this blog sent me and I thought you'd like to hear it too.

He's apparently French and in his 50s. Here, with just a few light edits, is what he wrote:

'My next-door neighbor was a 25 year-old hairdresser, called Josette. Every time she was on the stairs, I waited to be behind her, because I wanted to look under her short skirts, because Josette did not wear pantyhoses, but only stockings and I wanted to see her thighs, garter belt and pants.
One afternoon I was looking at her stockings. When I arrived on the floor, she was waiting me, arms crossed and she told me : “Do you think I have not seen you behind me every time I am on the stairs?Come with me, I have to speak to you.”

Blushing, I followed her inside and she locked the door behind us, took a chair and put it in the middle of the room and waved to me with her forefinger to come nearer. When I was just in front her, she grabbed my hipsand unbuttoned my pants down to my knees.
She then laid me across her lap, my head down and my bottom up. She said : “Every time I am upstairs, you are looking my thighs, but now you have to show me yours.”
She took off my underpants and I was bare against her nylon stockings. I realized that she was ready to spank me as a child, on my bare bottom ...
“So, you may be 15 and a teenager but I am going to spank you on your bare bottom. And I am sure that this good spanking will teach you that you don't look under the skirts of a young lady!!!”

She began to spank me. She spanked with cadence, several dozen of slaps… I wanted to protect my bum with my hand, but Josette took my wrists and the spanking became faster and harder.
I began to sob. I begged her to stop. I promised her that I never looked under her skirt. At the end I was crying between the slaps and howling with pain. As I struggled, buttocks on fire, I was trying to protect my ass with both hands; Josette grabbed my wrists and with her ​​free hand, pulled my shorts and my pants down my ankles and took them off completely.
I was naked, pressed against the nylon of her stockings. She spanked me faster and stronger, the sound of slaps on my bare butt in the room 
After a very long time and dozens of slaps, Josette stopped and said:“I finished and am happy to see your butt red and burning.”
She stood me up and I was kneeling on her right, crying and rubbing generously with my two hands my poor, painful bare bottom.  Josette took my chin with her fingers, looked me in the eye and, forefinger up, told me:  “Stand in the corner, hands on your head, and if you move I will spank you again immediatly!!!”
I stayed a long time, dishonourored to have been spanked on bare bottom. Twenty minutes later she came and rubbed my bare bottom, happy that it was still red and hot.
“You can put your trousers up now and go, but the next time you look under my skirt I will spank you in front all my colleagues. And maybe several of them will like also to spank you..."
So after this spanking, every time I met her on the stairs she looked at me with a mocking smile and I took stairs first!!!'

Question Time

Louise Mensch MP. Firm, but fair Form Mistress or no-nonsense (and occasionally rather spiteful) Head Girl? I'm sitting watching the BBC's 'Question Time', which this week has Miss Mensch on the panel - and I find her fascinating.

How I'd love to have just a little of her self-confidence and, perhaps, those cheekbones. As Form Mistress I see her in a flowing academic gown stalking the quad on the look out for misbehaving pupils. Bad luck for you if she comes upon you out of class during lessons for Miss Mensch canes first and asks questions next.

Or as Head Girl she leads for the school during the debating competition, before heading back to the dorm to deal with subordinates who have vexed her. There's a well-worn slipper in her desk that she thoroughly enjoys reddening girls' bare bottoms with. 

Is Miss Mensch a good thing? It's a question that has had an airing, but the jury is still out. I don't vote Conservative, but she does bring a bit of colour to our rather grey House of Commons.

And the gold medal goes to...

Which is the world's spankiest nation? Are spankos evenly distributed across the globe or are some countries spankier than others?

With the 2012 Olympics almost with us and Euro 2012 just gone I suppose I've got international competition on my mind. And I reckon that if there were spanko Olympics us Britons would be in with a chance of a medal. 

Anyway, I was a Geography major so I've always had a bit of an obsession with maps, population distributions and all that. So, I thought I'd spend some time on this weighty question. 

First I thought I could base my study on visits to this blog - but then I realised duh, this is an English language blog and that's going to skew things a bit. So I've had to limit it to all time hits from English-speaking nations then - the four that pop up close to the top of the stats are the US, the UK, Canada and Australia. 

Based on population totals courtesy of Wikipedia I can reveal that Brits come out in front with 474 hits for each million people. That's way ahead of the next highest, the US; the good people of the USA have been dropping by at a rate of 139 per million.

Canada comes in third with 114 per million while Australia registers a rather modest 57 per million. What should I conclude from this little exercise? Not much, I think. A UK blog is more attractive to Brits, but that doesn't mean that Brits are more likely to be spankos than people from other countries.

And as far as North America goes, are the people of the US really more inclined to redden bottoms than their neighbours north of the border? An interesting question.

Which probably means that only open competition could settle things. Quite how it could be organised I'll leave with you.

Seaside break

From her deckchair by the beach hut Nanny watched her charges with the help of a pair of rather elderly field glasses, which had once been carried by her late, lamented fiance Captain Smart. Time had passed, but the optics were undimmed and still provided a good, sharp image - she could see the girls perfectly well, but they were quite unaware that they were being observed.

Away from the confines of day-to-day domestic life the young ladies were in very high spirits and their behaviour was becoming anything but ladylike. As she watched she pondered what action she should take when they returned to their guest house.

A severe chastisement was called for, but would her strap deliver the lesson that was required? Perhaps she should ask her landlady to send out for a cane.

(Picture reblogged from the top-notch Wicked Knickers)

A memory jogged

A very early memory, from junior school - so I was less than 10 at the time. The word in the playground was that some older boys were seriously in trouble and - they said - it was because they'd been caught looking up girls' skirts.

They were going to get the cane, or so the playground voices said. It seems very, very unlikely as I'm pretty sure caning was history by then. But we believed what we were told. I didn't find out who the bad boys were, if they really did do the upskirt peeping - or what punishment they suffered for whatever it was that they did.

But the story fascinated me in a really disturbing way at the time, and it sprang to mind when I found Mr Tawse's post today. Funny how things stay tucked away in the memory vaults only to pop up decades later, isn't it?

Marked difference

Usually a switch for us is a long thin thing that tapers to a fine point, but this one was different. Thicker and a bit nobbly, it ended in a fat leaf bud.

And the effect was quite different too. It made me squeal - that little stick wrapped around my bottom and the wicked fat bud made an incredibly painful connection with my bare skin.

It left the side of my left bumcheek peppered with little, puffy round weals that were bruises by the next day. Today, five days later, vague shadow bruises are still there, like little SO fingerprints marking my as owned.