Credit due

In times of austerity it's really important to exercise budgetary discipline, isn't it? Or at least that's what SO tells me when our monthly credit card bill arrives.
I'm busy working this morning and have had the radio on as usual. Music radio doesn't work for me, so it's talk all the time - although I only hear half of what's being said.
But I did tune brain and ears in a moment ago. The programme is a financial help thing - people phone in with their moans and the experts in the studio offer answers.
One of the callers phoned in to say she had messed up on her mortgage payment and it didn't go out of her bank account. She realised what she had done and sent a payment as quickly as she could, but it meant that the money turned up two days late.
When she checked her credit reference it turned out there was a now a note about the late payment. What could she do?
The financial suit told her that as she had been late with a payment the note on her ref has to stand, but he told her she does have the right to put something on her reference to explain what had happened.
And he said that that something goes by a "rather old-fashioned name" - it's called a Note of Correction...

For a moment she wasn't thinking at all. She had stopped being her altogether and had become no more or less than the burning white heat of her poor, poor bottom. Her poor caned bottom.
How long she remained in position over that desk she didn't know. The sensation of her cool , soothing palms pressed to her striped bum was all that she knew and time stood still.
The spell was only broken when he carefully placed the cane on the desk in front of her and discreetly cleared his throat. "Miss Wood...you may rise now," he said, his voice as measured and calm as it had been since their meeting had begun.
She straightened up a little, gasping at the new discomfort the movement brought with it. Her skirt slipped off her back and fell back into place. 
Looking down through tear-misted eyes she saw that her panties had gathered around her ankles. The kicking and stamping that had come with each of the 12 strokes that she'd suffered had helped them on their way down.
As she bent down to pull them up she saw out of the corner of her eye that he was busy with a sheet of bank headed notepaper, which he slipped into an evelope. She eased her underwear back into place over swollen cheeks then, looking up, their eyes met.
Throughout the process he had maintained a serious demeanour, but now she detected just a hint of a smile. "There we are Miss Wood, all done," he said, handing her the envelope. "Your Note of Correction." 

Just smile

Yes, so there's a lot of play acting around spanking imagery. Whatever their true feelings spankees are expected to howl, scowl and pout their way through the 'ordeal'. But isn't it nice to see a bit of enjoyment coming through now and again?

I think it is and on a fairly crappy day (dead car, bills, too little money, too much rain) I really got a connection with Secret Spanko's thoughts on the subject. For some reason it made me think of how my mum used to sing 'Smile', the Nat King Cole song, when she was working around the house. 

You know the song, it's the one that starts "smile though your heart is breaking..." At the time it drove me mad, but now it makes me feel all fuzzy and nostalgic and I've been humming it to myself all morning.

I've also been trying to subvert the lyrics. Not that I can get very far - the best I've come up with yet is to turn 'Smile though your heart is aching, smile even though it's breaking' into 'Smile though your bottom's aching, smile even though it's baking...'

Don't give up the day job. Anyway I'm thinking Secret Spanko is right, let's have less of the pouting. In dark and difficult times it pays to keep cheerful, doesn't it? And surely having someone in your life who'll give you the spanking you deserve now andf again is worth more than money (unless you have to pay for it I suppose, but that's another story...)   

Big John

I think I'm part of a interesting generation, in spanko terms. I grew up in a world where for the most part British society had turned against corporal punishment, but we were surrounded by references to spanking in films, books, even music.

As I child I was fascinated by the CP scenes that turned up in old films on TV, in comic strips and in novels. Earlier generations grew up with spanking, later ones have grown up with the internet - we had stuff like McLintock!

My thanks to the excellent Blossom and Thorn for reminding me of McLintock! Of all the 'innocent' Hollywood spanking scenes it has to be the one that made the biggest impression on all of us young spankos-in-the-making.

As Michael Thorn says: "What adds to the lore of McLintock! is for many young spankos it was a formative moment which ignited a lifelong passion." He's probably got a point, though for this young (then) spanko the fire was already there, but stuff like McLintock! fanned the flames.

If you haven't seen it you really should. In the film's big climax John Wayne hunts down Maureen O'Hara and gives her what for with a metal coal shovel.

Thinking about the film really takes me back. It was made in 1963 and so was fairly old when I first saw it as a repeat on television. I've seen it on TV quite a few times over the years, but most remember the time I visited my Mum and Step dad way back.

They had the film on when we go there and turned the volume down, but left the TV on. Sitting drinking tea and making polite conversation as Maureen's spanking got nearer and nearer was, for me, a bizarre experience.

At the time my (then) new other half was just beginning to get used to my kinky little secret. So I found it squirmingly embarassing and as Maureen got her due I was blushing redder than her behind must have been on set. 

Significant Other tuned into my confusion (and was still laughing about it for days later) and I think Mum picked up on some of the tension in the room. I dearly hope my Stepdad didn't because I really wouldn't want him to know that Maureen's predicament meant - and means - so much to me.

Write stuff

Hurrah, I'm writing again. After months getting bogged down with my World War Two novel I've decided to put it to one side and go back to where I'm most comfortable - the Victorian country house.

I've decided to get some of the characters from 'A Week in the Country' out of retirement and let them play again. And it's fun. Here's a paragraph or two of the three or four pages I wrote today on a train (it feels really wicked writing spanko fiction on public transport...)

“I'm so sorry, mam. So very sorry. It won't happen again…”

“Good. Glad to hear it," Flick said."That'll be all…”

“You must be so disappointed…”

“A little, Edna. But these things happen,” Flick replied, distractedly. “You can run along now…”

She turned away from the maid and went to the window. Cook seemed to be preparing some sort of fish dish and the cooking smell had begun to reach the Day Room.

As Flick opened the window she noticed Charles crossing the drive some distance of the house. The dogs were at his heels and he had his gun under his arm.

Turning, she was confronted by Edna's big bottom. While Flick had been at the window the housemaid had turned around, bent over and pulled skirt and petticoats up over her head.

Her drawers could barely contain the generous curves of Edna's bum and her quim and bumhole pushed out shamelessly. It really was getting a bit tiresome, Flick thought to herself.

“I know it's what I deserve, mam…” Edna's voice was muffled, but quite firm. The maid knew what she wanted and, when the mood was on her, was dogged in her pursuit of it.

“The cane's on the table, mam,” she said. "Can you see it... are you there..." Oh dear God, thought Flick, how bored I am of all this Lady of the Manor business. 

PS To mark the moment I've decided to offer downloads of 'A Week in the Country' for the next month at a special price. Follow this link to its Amazon page.

Please sir...

What a face? If you can't do the time, don't do the crime. My philosophy is that when a girl's done wrong she needs to take what's coming as cheerfully as possible.
Or maybe there's some play acting going on and it's more of a Oliver Twist 'please, sir , I want more' situation.

Important little words

Those three little words that mean so much. To me anyway. SO used them last night and  - as ever - I went weak at the knees.

Which three? What else but "up those stairs". And off we went upstairs to discuss the issue of my brattiness. Sadly, it was ONLY a discussion - we're in school holidays vanilla lock-down here.
No insant cure then for my current state of crippling spank horniness. But talking about my attitude, and how it will be thoroughly adjusted in future, was very, very exciting - roll on September.

Flat share...

Means there's always a bottom around when your palm itches. I'm just enjoying a few minutes at Wicked Knickers, my totally fave favourite photo blog. 

Things are very boring here because it has rained all week and the kids are off school. We're all getting a bit ratty and I'm seriously in need of some forbidden fun - roll on September.

Art moment

She's bound and unable to  move. Her bottom is well presented and there's a looked of resignation on her face - appropriate given that her tormentor has four spare switches in hand and looks to be planning to wear out each one.

It's an intriguing image. I want to know why the girl is being punished so soundly and who it is that's doing the thrashing. And is that room an attic?

These drawings are the work of an artist called Eric Galton. I love them - they're so elegant and French. So, I thought I'd see what I could find out about Galton and try to discover more of his art, if it's out there.

But there doesn't seem to be much to be found out about him other than that he was the talent who illustrated a novel called 'The Misfortunes of Colette', which was published in Britain around 1930. Apparently its subtitle was 'The Ironical Fruits of Discipline', which sounds intertesting. 

The story was apparently a translation of a French spanking story called 'Les Malheurs de Colette' by a certain Aimé Van Rod. That was first published n 1914.

I'd love to read Collette's story. Her misfortunes seem to be the sort of thing that I could identify with... If anyone knows where I can find it please do share.

Searching questions

'...across my knee, NOW...'

The most popular search that brings people to this blog is something like 'roger benson home spanking', or some combination of those words. And why not, who wouldn't want to see Mr Benson's incredibly evocative artwork (like the one above)?

There are lots of more puzzling ones too. Looking today I've got 'erotic horse', 'consensual spanking simpsons' and 'angry mum smack'. Sort of makes sense.

But then there are the really rather puzzling ones. Like 'butt dimples from sitting too long'. Does your butt dimple if you sit down for a long time?

I can't say I've noticed. I spend a lot of time sitting, but don't often check out my rear end straight after getting up.

But now I feel as though I need to do some experiments. Not sure of the methodology. A very long movie, no knickers and a close friend would do it, shouldn't it?

Such passion

Just sitting here looking at favourite image blogs and I fell in love with this one at the fabulous Schund & Schmutz. I know the USP of this blog is spanking, but isn't this a beautiful work of erotic art anyway.

And maybe some governess or strict papa will turn up in a minute and inject a little spankoness into the scenario...

Oh, and I've just asked Google Translate what schund & schmutz means. It says 'maltreated and dirt', which if it's right is intriguing.

I just have to...

...do something else. Then I'll get started. Honest. I really will, but before I do perhaps I 'll have a mint tea and take a look at Facebook. Or Youtube. Or even better Spankingtube.

Prevarication. I have a chronic, on-going case and today it's even worse than usual. I have 1,000 words to write on a worthy (but boring) topic and an editor waiting to get his hands on it - but can't write a word.

Other working freelance journos I know share the problem and we often talk about how it feels. How you lose hours, even days, to time-wasting avoidance rather than getting stuck in and doing the job.

But I think I have a slightly worse than average case because, as a spanko, there's an added complication. And that's guilt. 

Do you suffer from the circle of guilt? You feel guilty, that makes you feel like you deserve to be disciplined, which makes you feel a little horny - which gets you back to guilt.

And it all adds up to further procrastination. So, I've never met this editor. He may, or may not, be a nice guy, he probably just wants to clear his desk and catch the train home to see his kids before bedtime.
But in my mind's eye he's about to get angry. And when he discovers how little I've done and how close to deadline I am he's going to be very angry indeed.
And... well you know where I'm going with this. Instead of writing what I should be writing I'm here on Blogger writing about how I'm not writing...

Which has me feeling a little bit squirmy and confused. That gets me trawling the archives at Spankingtube, which only makes matters worse. Boy, do I need straightening out - self-discipline is hard for a discipline addict.

Deterrent effect

If you do that one more time young man I'll put give you a damned good hiding (and strip you naked and hold you still with my thighs...) 

If this is intended to be a deterrent, I'm not sure that it is working.

Can't wait

Anticipation. Don't you just love it! Two posts in one day may seem like I'm getting obsessed, but the kids are both out tonight for the first time in ages. It's a happy co-incidence, but means that SO and I can play...

And that's got to be worthy of comment, hasn't it? It means that something interesting (rather than practical) can be selected from the lingerie drawer, I can dress up a little and we can go out.
Better still, later we can come back in (to an empty house). I haven't been able to concentrate on my work I'm already so excited.
So, I found the link to this little ditty I came across on Youtube and just emailed it to SO. Knowing that it will rate as the sort of naughty, bratty, bad behaviour that just isn't permitted in our house; isn't permitted, and has to be addressed. If I had shoes on I'd be shaking in them.

Fiction Friday: Master of the house

"I'm so very disappointed. I'm sure other guardians don't treat their role so casually. Uncle Harold just doesn't seem to give a fig for what I do or say. He's the least diligent guardian any young lady could possibly have. I am so wayward, so wrong-headed, so in need of rules and regulations, but he sees none of it.

Whatever I do to provoke him, he seems not to notice. Pressed for an opinion it's "whatever you think best, my dear" or "suit yourself, old girl..." He'd rather be off with his fellows at the theatre or the races than giving time to my concerns. It simply will NOT do. 

This time he will notice, I'll make sure of it. This time he will pay attention. I have the key to his private drawer in the library and I'm going to take a look inside..."

I felt I should get back to the Fiction Friday habit (little story-writing exercises to go with found images). Today I've only got time to come up with an idea - I'm sure your imagination can come up with an ending that's better than anything I'd write anyway... Loved this drawing. Not sure of the artist, but it captures a moment beautifully, doesn't it?

Stick to it

The great thing about watching the Olympics in the days of digital broadcasting is that there's so much of it. We've been enjoying hopping from channel to channel watching bits of the sports that didn't used to get much, or any, airtime.
So, now I'm watching hockey. And does it take me back! Girls with muscly legs, the cute little skirts and socks, oh, and the violence. When I was at school I didn't have muscly legs, but I was made to play some hockey - and remember it as a fairly brutal business.
I never enjoyed a moment of it, but after seeing my best friend's teeth being smashed to pieces by a high ball I decided to have nothing more to do with it. That got me into trouble, but less trouble than a hockey ball in the mouth delivers.

Watching tonight's match made me think of our old hockey teacher for the first time in years. She was pretty scary and kind of menacing, so much so that we walk on eggs for fear of her temper. Of course, she wasn't allowed to use CP - it had been banned - but she was very physical otherwise.

She must have started out in the days before the ban and gave every impression that she'd dearly like to be able to bruise our bottoms on a regular basis. Or maybe that was just my reading of the situation.
I seem to remember that she also had the habit of patrolling the changing room after we'd had our showers to encourage anyone she considered a "slow coach" to hurry up. Anyone taking too long over their hair or clothes would be encourage along with a word or two and sometimes a "playful" smack on the behind.

A spanko perhaps? If she was she must have been a very frustrated one.

Further undercover

Would anybody see? The problem with Old Pricey was that she couldn't keep on target. For every four she managed to land on your poor bum, there was another that got you low - on your legs.

They were the ones that stung the worst, but it also meant that the bit of you between bum and stocking top was marked. And there you seemed to take a mark, all purple and red, much worse than on your bottom itself.

With your school skirt on it meant that there was a good chance someone was going to see. Especially boys, who could be relied on to look.

Showing your stocking tops to boys was one thing, but letting them see you'd been given the slipper was just too embarrassing.

Well anyway, that's the little scenario that came to mind when I saw Mr Tawse's great photo today. It's a subject he's posted on before and it's great that he's doing such good work on behalf of the historical fiction writer. Any school story set in the 1960s can now rely on complete accuracy lingerie-wise. 

Times past

What did you get up to in another life? And do you deserve a lifetime of bare-bottom spankings as a result? Over the years I've done a lot of thinking and reading about what makes a spanko a spanko, but have never previously come across the thought that it's all about re-incarnation.

Interesting thought. I was doing a bit of random searching yesterday when I came across this essay about cause and effect from a few years ago. It sets out to challenge the lazy causal thinking that says spanked kids turn into spanko adults.

The writer's overall aim seems to be to argue a case for CP for kids. As far as I'm concerned that's plain wrong, but I am interested in understanding my own wiring so I spent some time reading what he/she had to say.

One of the arguments goes like this:If spanking fetishism was caused by spankings, it should have been a lot more common in past centuries... However, the opposite seems to be the case. Even in the days of Freud (1856-1939), spanking fetishism was little heard of while many other fetishisms are well documented. Spanking fetishism seems to have increased since the last two or three generations while the practice of spanking children has decreased in the same time interval. Interesting? Not sure how true that is - or how it could be established evidentially.

The writer does suggest some interesting alternative theories of his/her own. I suspect that none of them would fit all spankophiles, but that most of us would relate to at least one of them. 

For me it's the idea that the fetish grows from a fear of a traumatic event, not the event itself; I wasn't spanked, but knew people who were and worried it could happen to me too. The essay adds: This theory could also explain why the majority of children who are spanked doesn't develop this fetish. Fear of something unknown tends to be greater than fear of something known. 

But the theory that made me giggle goes like this: People who believe in reincarnation may also believe that mental traits can have their origin in past lives. So a spanking fetish could e.g. be the result of a traumatic corporal punishment in a previous life.

So perhaps that's it, I love Wicked Knickers because I see myself there. Am I the girl on the chair? And is that why I'm usually hankering for the smack of firm discipline?

Ageing gracefully

Keeping residents' minds lively and active was very much the thing at Shady Pines. Mr Bun, the former baker, was encouraged to dabble with dough in the kitchen, while Mrs Green, who'd been a gardener, liked to weed the garden path. And then there was Miss Birch. She so enjoyed having young friends to visit. They'd often spend hours listening to her charming stories about the years she spent as a housemistress at Breeching Hall School for Young Ladies.

Coloured judgment

Do you ever suspect that your spankoness colours your whole life? Or to put it another way, if you took it out of the mix that is you how much would change?

Today I was looking at a to-die-for red dress that I loved, but couldn't afford. Then I thought about how many other items in my wardrobe are red. 

Rather too many really. Why red? Could it be something to do with the fact I like bottoms red too. Maybe if I was deep vanilla I'd like green or blue.

A special delivery

"I thought you would want to open this one for yourself, Mrs Williams." The Deputy Head looked up with a start - she hadn't noticed that Miss Miles had entered her study. The secretary had placed a large parcel on the desk in front of her.

She felt a flare of irritation. There were accounts to balance and opening post was what Alice Miles was employed to do. Then she noticed the postmark.

"Lochgelly," Alice Miles said, with a shy smile. "It's a town in Fife, Headmistress..."

"Thank you, Alice, I'm well aware of where Lochgelly is," said Mrs Williams. "I have no need of a geography lesson."

She took up the parcel and felt its weight. She had been expecting it all summer and  finally it had arrived. As she stood holding the package she found herself thinking about that dark January day.

It had been humiliating. Pupils had run riot, refusing orders and making ridiculous demands - and she had been powerless to do anything about it. 

Certainly, the ringleaders on the boys' side had been properly dealt with. She had made a point of passing the Headmaster's study when those canings had been taking place. But the Education Committee's rules were clear - no corporal punishment for girls.

" Mrs Williams?" 

"Sorry... oh, yes, thank you Alice," she said, taking the offered scissors and bringing them to bear on the parcel's brown wrapping paper. The wrong-headed ban on proper punishment for girls was a relatively recent development.

In fact, Alice Miles was a perfect example of how effective a proper disciplinary regime could be. Now a competent secretary of 23, she had been a pert, disobedient pupil until Mrs Williams had arrived at Park Road. Judicious application of slipper and strap had put Alice onto the right course.

Inside the brown paper was a neat, little wooden box with a hinged lid. She was rather pleased with the box and thought it would look very smart on her desk, although she might have to ask the woodwork department to stain it to match the mahogany.

As she lifted the lid she heard Alice Miles give a little gasp, even though they had both known what was inside. "Brings back fond memories, does it Alice?" She asked. In response Alice Miles smiled and blushed, but decided to keep her thoughts to herself.

The six brand, spanking new tawses inside would revoluntionise life at Park Road, Mrs Williams thought. One for each of the year heads of the girls' side of the school and one to keep in its box in her study.

For most pupils the knowledge that Mrs Williams had that tawse in her study and was prepared to use it would be enough to keep them on the straight and narrow. But there were always some - girls like Alice once was  - who would only take heed after they had been given a sore bottom.

Mrs Williams took one of the straps out of the box and ran it through her fingers. It was heavy and thick and the leather was quite stiff; it would soften up nicely through use, she decided. 

"It would be useful to have a few practice swings," she said. "Alice, care to oblige?"

The secretary squealed, put her hands to the seat of her skirt and took a couple of hasty steps to the door. Her boss' sense of humour was very dry, so she wasn't entirely sure if she was joking or not.

At the door Alice paused. "Would you like the list, Mrs Williams?"

"No, no. You can deal with the details. How many names?"

"I'd have to check, but I think it's about 43," Alice Miles replied. The Deputy Head continued running the strap across her palm before smacking it down smartly on her open hand.

The noise of the impact made Alice Miles jump. Mrs Williams mouthed an "ow" at the smart of it and pondered how much weight and heft she would have to put into a swing to maximise the lesson it would deliver via a Sixth Former's bare behind.

"First five of them today at 4pm then, please," she said. "Three dozen each. And I'll have five a night until there's tick against each and every name on that list."

I came across this amazing newspaper cutting at the fascinating Corpun site yesterday and have been playing with the story ever since. Well worth a read.