'I still haven't found...'

What I'm looking for. Sometimes the search terms that bring people to this site are puzzling, some make me smile, but one of today's search phrases struck a real chord with me: "I want to be spanked so hard I can't sit down."

How I relate to that... I get spanked. When I'm geting spanked it smarts and I want it to be over. But afterwards I feel like I want to be spanked a lot more.

Spanked so hard that I can't sit down, in fact. Totally, completely and utterly spanked (like the girl in the picure seems to be). Which is something I, sadly, never quite manage to communicate to SO

Undercover investigation

Socks or stockings? Under a school uniform, that is. When I'm trawling through vintage spank-related images I've always assumed that stockings under school uniforms were a re-imagination of reality to make the image a little sexier.

Now I'm not so sure. The past is another country, as they say, and it's never easy to pick apart fact and fiction. The history element of historical fiction is rarely more than minimal.

But it's nice to at least try for a bit of authenticity, isn't it? I'm working at the moment on a 1940s story that has quite a bit of action set in a girls' boarding school, which means uniform has been an issue.

Knowing exactly what a 1940s boarding school girl wore is quite difficult to establish. Yes, there are old school photos that give an impression of outer-wear - but what about the all-important detail of underwear?

Perhaps I should approach ex-pupils on the pretence that I'm doing genuine historical research. The problem is by my calculation a member of 1940's Upper Sixth would now be in her late 80s...

So, I'm really grateful to Mr Tawse for giving us this great picture and for his thoughts on 1960s school skirts and stocking tops. Clearly the older schoolgirl back then had stockings when she was in class.
I'd imagined Beryl and her chums in gymslips or pleated skirts and knee-length socks, but now I cna see I'm probably wrong. Stockings would probably been the order of the day then too. It looks like I need to go back and re-write the chapters I've completed so far to put my naughty girls in the right undies.

Home time 5

At last Jo-Jo hung limp over her mother's lap, all fight finally slippered out of her. Her cheeks were a deep, glowing red and there were splashes of pink and purple on her thighs.

“There. I think you'll agree that Joanna has learned a very good lesson, Miss McDuff. Annabel. Haven't you, Joanna?” Jo-Jo struggled to control her breathing and to respond correctly, but couldn't find the words.

Just as she finally opened her mouth to speak she had to squeal instead as the slipper struck full-force for one last time on her right cheek, and one last time on her left. “Come along, my girl! Speak up!”

“Sorry, I'm really sorry,” she babbled. “I honestly, truly won't ever miss doing my homework ever again. Ever.”

She repeated the word ever three times over as her mother pushed her off her lap and pulled her into a standing position.  Jo-Jo's hands went to her burning bottom, but her Mum grabbed her wrists and held them in front of her.

“I'm glad you've learned your lesson, young lady,” she said, a note of tenderness entering her voice for the first time since Miss McDuff's arrival. “This is how it will be from now on, so you'd better buck your ideas up. Now go to Miss McDuff and show her your naughty bottom, and tell her how sorry you are too…”

Jo-Jo shuffled across the room, her progress slowed by the navy knicks around her ankles and by stretched, swollen bumcheeks that burned like fire. When she got to her, the teacher gave her a searching look with her cool blue eyes before signalling that she wanted her pupil to turn around.

“Lift your skirt up then,” her Mum directed and, reluctantly, she did as she was told. Showing her well-spanked bare bottom to her teacher was deeply, deeply humiliating, but it was good to know her suffering was over and done with.

How she longed for the peace of the Guest Room. She felt Miss McDuff's fingers lightly brush across the lower curve of her left bumcheek and it made her quiver. “Couldn't have done a better job myself, Joyce,” the teacher said.

 “Now, there was something else,” she began, and Jo-Jo looked over her shoulder to see Miss McDuff opening her handbag. She took out the piece of green card, folded but still recognisable, and what looked like some sort of belt that was part rolled-up.

A rather thick and well-worn brown belt that had two splits at one end and a sort-of eye at the other. As it dawned on Jo-Jo what the belt might be for she offered up a simple prayer - a prayer that she might be back in that Guest Room. The nice, quiet, boring - but very safe - Guest Room.

The End

 

Home time 4

Jo-Jo had been watching the two women out of the corner of her eye and was horrified at how they seemed to be getting along so well. A cake! This woman is offering to come into my home and beat me on the bottom and you're going to bake her a cake, she thought.

As she became aware of the two of women looking at her, Jo-Jo snapped her eyes back to face forward and began to study the corner in front of her with great care. She wished she could be anywhere else but there, even the Guest Room.

“Joanna, come here young lady,” her Mum said. “I think Miss McDuff is speaking a lot of sense. We have some catching up to do, so come here.” Jo-Jo chose to delay, but was stung into action by a bellowed: “NOW!”

As she turned round she saw that her Mum had moved to sit on the edge of her chair and had taken off one of her slippers. Or to be more precise, house shoes; the pumps were well-worn, but sturdy with a good leather sole that would, she was certain, deliver more of a sting than any slipper.

Mrs Unwin patted her lap and said: “Over you go…”

Jo-Jo moved so slowly that it took a tug to pull her off balance and over her mother's knee. She was a tall girl, taller than her mother, and it took a minute or two for her to be wrestled into position -head well down and her big, round bottom well presented.

She squawked a protest as her skirt was pulled up and out of the way to reveal tight, navy blue school knickers. “Down or not, Miss McDuff?”

“Has to be down, Mrs Unwin. Best to see what you're about. Let me do the honours,” she said, and Jo-Jo wriggled and fought as the teacher crossed the room.

Her struggling intensified as she felt fingers at her waistband. “Noooo,” she pleaded. “It's not fair….” But her Mum kept her clamped in place and with effort Miss McDuff bared Jo-Jo's broad, white buttocks.

“I should have done this ages ago,” said Mrs Unwin, hefting her slipper. As the sole connected with Jo-Jo's bottom it sent of bolt of pain jangling around her nervous system and forced a squeal from her that could have shattered lead crystal.

Katy was wrong. Horribly wrong. A year in the Guest Room would be better than have to endure a single spank, she thought in the moment between smack one and smack two.

Two became a dozen and then 20 and Jo-Jo bucked and struggled. She moved so much that it was hard for Mrs Unwin to get her aim just right, so the slipper connected with the two plump cushions that were her intended targets but also went off track too catching Jo-Jo's thighs.

Mrs Unwin dealt in dozens and paused after each had been applied. After two she took a moment to admire how many red sole prints were decorating her daughter's pale, tight-clenched bumcheeks and to ask: “Will your homework be done in future, Joanna?”  

“Yes, oh yes. I promise,” Jo-Jo screeched, her voice edged with approaching tears.

“Good. What do you think, Miss McDuff, a little more?”

“I think so, Mrs Unwin…” And Jo-Jo was blubbing like a baby as the next dozen peppered the lower slopes of her behind, where bum and thigh meet.

By four dozen Mrs Unwin was amazed to see how the red shoe-shaped blotches had all blended together to be part of an unbroken scarlet. As Jo-Jo cheeks clenched and unclenched she could see that the slipper had even taken its pink blush down into the tender cleft between.

“Had enough, young lady?”

“Uuhhhh, yeff,” gulped Jo-Jo, sobbing and gasping and all spanked out. “Plea, plea dun do it anymore…”

“She's learned her lesson, don't you think?” Mrs Unwin asked Miss McDuff.

The history teacher smiled, delighted to see her most troublesome pupil tamed and - to a degree - sorry for her too. But only to a degree.

“I think it never does any harm to be safe rather than sorry. Personally I add a last dozen…”

Jo-Jo reacted with a great outpouring of sobs and a bucking and wriggling that Mrs Unwin took a moment to quell. But once she had Jo-Jo in place once again she lashed the slipper down on buttocks and thighs with real intent.
(Still some to come)

Home time 3

“JOANNA MARGARET UNWIN,” her Mum's voiced echoed through the house. “Get down here now!”
Jo-Jo toyed with the idea of staying put and rolling herself into a protective ball. She anticipated many, many hours in the Detention Cell to come and felt that it was probably well-deserved, but she couldn't face the telling-off that would have to come first.
“JOANNA, GET DOWN HERE THIS MINUTE.” She had to face the music, but felt as though all energy had drained from her body. Slowly, painfully, she got to her feet and moved to the door.
“IF I HAVE TO COME UP THERE…” Her Mum left the threat unspoken, but Jo-Jo knew that there was no avoiding what was going to happen next.
She went out onto the landing and looked down into the hall. Her Mum was at the bottom of the stairs looking furious while Miss Hamilton stood behind her. Her expression seemed to be an attempt at stern, strict and forbidding but the slightest ghost of a smile suggested underlying amusement.
Maybe she does have a sense of humour, Jo-Jo caught herself thinking. “Miss McDuff,” she said, trying for something that sounded like surprise and pleasure.
“Don't waste my time, young lady,” her Mum said. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Good question. For a moment she struggled for a plausible excuse. 'Just a little joke' wouldn't cut much ice, but 'they made me do it' would be a breach of the Unwritten Code - never, ever tell tales.
Before she could decide one way or another her Mum spoke again. “Miss Hamilton has shown me your history homework. Or lack of history homework. What do you have to say for yourself?”
What a relief. “I find it really hard and I've tried to keep up and I do try to understand…” she began.
“Shut up and get down here,” Mrs Unwin said, and Jo-Jo trudged down the carpeted stairs until she was within arm's reach of her Mum. She was she was grabbed by the arm and shaken like a rag doll, before being marched into the Living Room and shoved into the corner next to the television.
Mrs Unwin sat on a straight-backed chair and ushered the teacher to the sofa across the room. “I'm so disappointed, Miss McDuff…”
“Annabel, please.”
“Annabel. I'm Joyce, by the way. Tea?”
“Thank you, no.”
Mrs Unwin leafed through her daughter's exercise book with an air of defeat. The girl would never learn. Finally she looked up at the younger woman and asked: “What am I to do?”
“In my day a girl of promise who did so poorly in tests would have soon had to face the music. No nonsense, just a good dose of the tawse and a warning of another if she didn't pull her socks up.”
“Tawse?”
“The punishment strap, Mrs Unwin. Very effective and as Scots as bagpipes and shortbread. It was that sort of school. Sadly, the tinkering bureaucrats have forbidden that sort of thing in this county's schools,” Miss McDuff continued. “But there's nothing to stop a concerned parent or indeed a well-meaning friend of the family…”
Joanna's mother had never made use of corporal punishment. Others did, she knew, but it wasn't for her. But as she thought about what Miss McDuff had said it dawned on her that she had been wrong - that her failure had cost her dear.
“Joanna has a great deal of aptitude - if it can be channelled in the right direction. I'd happily pop round from time to time to 'discuss' matter with her,” Miss McDuff said.
Mrs Unwin smiled, her mind made up. “That would be lovely. I could bake a cake, we could make a little occasion of it,” she said.
To be continued again (sorry, it goes on a bit, but the end is in sight...)

The people's choice

I asked, you answered - and told me I was mistaken. What is your favourite 'treat' position when playing was the question and the poll result was a punishing 60 per cent in favour of OTK - and against my choice. diaper.

What's worse, I'd tried to pervert the democratic process by nailing my panties to the mast and saying OTK was the missionary position of the spanking world. Apologies for this, which I now see was a mistaken point of view on at least point points: 1. OTK is a fine and noble thing, beloved of all right-thinking spankos and 2. missionary is OK too really.

So, I was wrong, you were right and I'm off to give myself 60 crisp strokes of the senior cane. That will learn me!

Home time 2

Since when did teachers make home visits? Doctors made home visits, rent collectors made home visits, even the truant officers. But not teachers.

Joanna found herself saying 'please, please, please' under her breath as Miss McDuff looked up and down the road, trying to wish her to go to another house.

Perhaps she had a boyfriend living somewhere in Rectory Road, although Joanna couldn't think of any man eligible enough to be Miss McDuff's other half. She was easily pretty enough to be one of 'Pan's People' or a model or someone on television.

People said she looked like that Joan Collins, but Jo-Jo reckoned she was actually prettier. Whoever she looked like she was coming straight for No. 12…

Jo-Jo watched her teacher open the garden gate and start walking up the path to the front door. It suddenly occurred to her she might be able to hide and she dropped out of sight below the windowsill, squeezing in under her David Cassidy poster.

The doorbell rang and she heard her Mum go to the door . Pinning the card onto the back of Miss McDuff's jacket hadn't been easy. It had been hanging on the back of the Changing Room door when they were all getting showered and sorted out after hockey.

Jo-Jo had to get the card out of her bag and get it onto the jacket in the few seconds that Miss McDuff was looking the other way. Karen had created a diversion by shouting in the shower and throwing shampoo suds at Natalie Hopcroft.

She hadn't expected Miss McDuff to actually put her jacket on without seeing the card. Who fails to see a pale green card pinned to the back of a burgundy velvet jacket?

But she did. She put the jacket on and went to open the door, but paused at the sound of stifled giggling. “What is it?” she asked looking directly at Jo-Jo, who had been making a point of being completely engrossing in doing her ponytail.

“Miss?” She said as innocently as she could manage.

“I hear laughter…”

“We're just happy, miss. Honest,” said Jo-Jo, without a hint of cheek.

Miss McDuff stared at her for a long ten seconds and then turned and went out into the corridor. The card was placed just so, its arrow pointing right at the history teacher's rather pear-shaped behind.

Jo-Jo would have loved to have watched her teacher stride off along the corridor, but that would have been too risky. Instead, she enjoyed giggling along with her friends and agreeing with the general consensus that the stuck-up, humourless cow deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

To be continued, again... (because I can't figure out how to use page breaks)

Friday fiction: Home time

It had to be the most boring view in the whole wide world. Or universe. Even the galaxy. Was the galaxy bigger than the universe? Or was it the other way round? Anyway, it was boring.

From her cell, also known as the Guest Bedroom, you could see houses, lamp posts, gardens and parked cars. That's it. So there was a danger that she'd die of boredom. Jo-Jo was sure of it. A real genuine, medical, factual chance. People really could die of boredom and it could happen to her, she knew it.
“Go to your room, and stay there” was one thing. That hadn't been so bad because in her room she had her little radio, she had books and there were old copies of 'Jackie' to look at.
Then the Wicked Witch of West Corley (otherwise answering to Mum) had come up with the Guest Room. It made her the cruellest mother in the entire world. Universe. Galaxy. Ever.
The whole point of the Guest Room was that it was deadly boring. Like a cell. Tiny, with a couple of singles bed and a wardrobe and nothing else. Nothing. Just a pair of Grannie's old shoes in the wardrobe. It had been straight in from school at 4pm and she was stuck there until teatime at 7pm.
Three hours of nothing to do but look out the window. 'You can have a good hard think about your behaviour, my girl,' she'd been told. But how much thinking is there to do about swearing at your little brother? He is an irritating little reptile and 'sod' isn't such a bad word.
Three hours for one three-letter word. It was a good thing she hadn't said: “Shit, bum, bugger, bastard, bloody bollocks.” She'd never get out.
It made her sort of jealous of Katy. In Katy's house things were straightforward. Cut and dried when it came to 'discipline'. If Katy swore her Dad would whack her bum really hard with a hairbrush, simple as that.
Bad words, sore bum. Which was barbaric and Medieval and Victorian and downright awful, but it was also quick. Katy said half an hour later your bum was back to normal and that was that, slate wiped clean. Not hours of endless boring boringness,
Then a car drove slowly down the street. When you live in a cul-de-sac cars are usually ones you know, but this one didn't belong. It went slowly, in that way they do when someone is looking at house numbers.
Jo-Jo didn't know much about cars, but this one was dark red like Ribena. And it looked sort of familiar, but not in the right place.
It came to a stop in the only gap to be seen, four or five doors away. A woman got out. Or to be more precise, Miss McDuff got out.
Jo-Jo didn't breathe for as long as it took for Miss McDuff to get out of the car, lock the driver's door and put the keys into her large handbag. For more than a minute she held her breath and felt her heart race.
When she finally remembered respiration, she exhaled at the same time as saying 'sod it' to herself three times over. Miss Annabel McDuff, history and games. The youngest teacher at Bradenhall High School for Girls and easily the best-looking. Tall, slim, Scottish, high cheekbones and absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever.
The notice was only a joke. It hadn't been Jo-Jo's idea, but she went along with it all the same. They found a sheet of card and a safety pin then Karen Burley had borrowed Stacey May's felt tip marker pens.
Karen had written 'SMACK ME PLEASE' on the card in big capital letters along with an arrow pointing downwards. Then they'd dared Jo-Jo to pin it in place. And Jo-Jo couldn't ever resist a dare.
(Too many words for one post, so to be continued...)

Kardashian, Form 6b

An uncertain knock at the door. This was the bit of the job Dr Helen Wright enjoyed the most - dealing with troublesome pupils. And she felt it was very much her forte, afterall she was the most senior of headmistresses in all of England's private girls' schools.

"Come," she said, her voice sharp and commanding. The girl came in, a pretty girl (in a rather slutty sort of way), but in an ill-fitting uniform. It seemed as though she was wearing the clothes of a girl a year her junior.

"Yes?"

"Kardashian, miss," the girl answered nervously. She stood in front of the imposing walnut desk with her hands folded under her bottom and her gaze lowered.

"Ah yes, I've reports here that we need to discuss." Dr Wright moved papers around on the desk in front of her until she came upon a buff-coloured folder.

"Miss Honeybun, domestic science. She tells me that 'the descent of Western civilisation can practically be read into your every curve'. Mr Chips, woodwork,  appears to blame you for 'almost everything that is wrong with Western society today'. And Miss Bormann, modern history, suggests you're to blame for your peers 'soaking up a diet of empty celebrity and superficiality'."

Dr Wright paused, looked up and gave the girl her best penetrating look. "Anything to say?"

Kardashian seemded too abashed to say a single word in her defence, but after a moment she did manage to mumble: "Sorry, miss."

"Indeed," said Dr Wright, and she turned to the heavy leather tome to the right of her desk - the one marked 'Punishment Book'. For all that she pretended not to know the girl in front of her, she was actually all too aware of her notable qualities.

Possibly the complaints about her were rather exaggerated, but it would be a delight to deal with her firmly. I expect she has to slave in the gym to keep that posterior in shape, the Head thought to herself. What a pleasure to cane that rather ample backside.

 

Meat and potatoes

Does this look good to you? You may yearn to be the one doing the toe-touching or your palms may itch for a good whippy cane... If the answer is yes on either score then now's the time to  express that preference.

OK, I should probably be impartial, but really. I wanted to know what position you hankered for as a little treat (see the poll on the right), not the everyday norm. 

Not meat and potatoes, but the order you place when you've something to celebrate. If you see what I mean. The big firework display, not a single sparkler.

So, I'm a tiny bit disappointed that in my poll OTK is the runaway winner. Yes, I love it. It has plenty going for it. I could happily spend a day over that knee and still come back for an extra helping.

But isn't it like the missionary position of the spanking world? So, if you're out there fans of 'touching toes' and 'diaper' please get clicking before it's too late - your country needs you.

Pipe and slippers

People say 'he's a 'pipe and slippers sort of man', or at least they did in the days when I was at school and men actually did smoke pipes. Pipe-and-slippers-man is a little over the hill, he's stay-at-home and happier to be reading the paper in his favourite chair than doing anything more taxing.

But don't be fooled - he's still got in him to turn when crossed. And when he does those slippers can be put to use in the blinking of an eye.

Monday Moment: Fabulous Fifi

"Couldn't we loosen it just a bit? Please." The feeling of constriction was becoming close to unbearable.

"You're to stay tight-laced until lunchtime. That's what I said and that's what I meant."

How long was it until lunchtime? The Nursery had no clock, so she had no sense of how much time had passed since breakfast. "Please..."

"Don't take that tone with me, young lady." There was an edge to Nanny's voice that told her she'd gone too far. "One more word, young lady. Just one more and you'll be taking a quick trip to Lapland. Is that what you want?"

She certainly didn't. Corset training was uncomfortable enough, but corset training and a well-spanked bottom would be too much to bear.

"No, Nanny," she answered.

"Good, well stop your fidgeting and sit up straight. You've another hour and that's that."

The little vault of treasure that this image comes from is called Fifi Feeling is First, which I love. It's an interesting mix, all frills and fantastic lingerie. Not a great deal of spanking stuff, but searching for it has kept me happy for hours - and making up stories to match pictures is great fun.

Vacant position

'Have you applied for the position?' Such an archaic turn of phrase, but I rather like it. I heard someone say it a friend yesterday while they were talking about her search for a new job and it made me smile.

Partly because it seems such a 1950s way of putting it, but also because it gave me just a little frisson of startle. What does the word 'position' mean to any regular visitor to Spankoland?  

So, which position would I apply for? I suppose I like OTK, but my favourite 'treat' is diaper. Not that I really feel comfortable calling it diaper, any more than I'd call a pavement a sidewalk.

But the 'nappy position' sounds very weird to me, so for the purposes of this post we'll stick with diaper.  I'm sure you've been there as spanker or spankee. 

But just in case you're unfamiliar with the technical details you can't do better than act out the excellent diagram above, which I've 'borrowed' from the brilliant Underling's Humblings (anything new for us fans yet Underling...?) Trapping one of the spankee's arm between your legs isn't standard practice, but it could well add an interesting extra dimension for both parties.

Why is it a favourite? Well, you tend to get your brush-butt impact zone low down around the sit spot, which works best for me.

But there's also the embarrassment factor that comes from having your bits and bobs in full view once underwear is out of the way. That makes it all feel very naughty and taboo, which helps for me.

Not that I'd want diaper to be the default setting. It would be like eating lemon drizzle cake every day of the week. The point of lemon drizzle is that it's a thrill once in a while for the very reason that you only eating it once in a while.

So, in the interest of scientific discovery I've added a little poll over on the right in the effort establish what the Another Country 'family' think. What's your favourite 'treat' position? Mine's diaper, what's yours?

What's that noise?

Is there such a thing as aural camouflage? You can trick the eye, but can you trick the ear?

I'm a bit concerned about some of the noises that are generated in our bedroom. The bed is wooden, old and I love it - but it squeaks and, given enough encouragement, rattles.

Then there's the usual human squeaks and squeals, of course. And, last but not least, there are the spanko-related sounds.

When the house is kid-free the first two sound types aren't a problem. The bed isn't that noisy and a bit of self-control deals with anything coming out of me or SO, but I do worry about neighbours' ears tuning in to the noise that comes with spanko-related activity.

We do keep things under some control when they're likely to be in their gardens or have windows open, which means that the spank stuff happens more on rainy days and/or in winter. Also, the impact of some implements on a bare bottom are noisier than others, aren't they?

In my experience a wire coathanger can be applied to a butt and produce almost no sound, but a lot of sting. A switch or a cane is again pretty quiet, while a brush or a paddle makes much more of a din.

The problem is, my personal preference is for the noisy end of the scale. My fave is a rubber-soled sandal of SO's that has a mighty sting and can spank a bottom to all-over scarlet in no time - but it makes one hell of a noise.

So, I'm thinking is the way to go to create distraction noise in your house that your spanking activity can hide behind? Could you play loud recordings of live gigs and then squeeze a quick, noisy whacking into the audience applause between numbers? Or record yourself doing DIY work in the house and then play it back - power drills and hammers would create a good aural screen to stuff happening elsewhere in the house.

Or perhaps leave your lawnmower running in the garden while you're busy indoors. I suppose there is a danger that your sound camouflage is so noisy that they come round to complain - and catch you with your pants down.

Surprise, surprise

All nicely lined up, Mars, Venus - the Planet Spanko... Who'd have thought it? When I was moaning the other day about the impossibility of having a 'personal' life when you share a house with older children TFD commented that 'all the planets must align, and then what chance it can feel spontaneous?'

Well they did align, and there was spontaneity. It's a Friday morning and after the schoolbus there are no kids,  SO is not grumpy or at work, it's pouring down with rain (neighbours indoors) and nobody is likely to just drop in.

I'd forgotten what SO had said about my bad language last weekend. We were due a 'little chat' apparently. 
As a result I'm now in my office starting my day's work and the little chat has been had (hot butt in contact with hard computer chair). I have to say that even my all-too responsible life can occasionally be surprisingly - surprising.

Reaching that top shelf

There was the one about the bratty girl who goaded guys until they spanked her good and hard. There was the women who daydreamed about being a governess in Wild West days and whipping her charges. And, if I'm remembering it right, there was the girl who got turned on watching her mother punish her older sister with a cane.

Reading Hermoine's post 'From the top shelf' set me to thinking about the thrill that I felt when I first got my hands on Nancy Friday's first big hit, 'The Secret Garden'. It was published in the early 1970s, but mine was old, dog-eared and was handed to me by a friend a few years later.

When she gave it to me she reckoned it would blow my mind, and she wasn't wrong. I don't know where that book is now. It may be in a box in the attic, or I might have thrown it away. But if it's gone, it's not forgotten.

In those days - when I first read Secret Garden - magazines like Janus were pretty much the only thing that let on that there was such a thing as a spanko, and they were out of my reach. Literally. Janus was stocked by my local newsagent, but safely out of reach of anyone other than tall men.

I could see the covers and was pretty sure what they were about. I had to fight not to look that way when I went into the shop and from the moment I walked through the door I'd be blushing at the thought of being in that space with the shopkeeper - and that magazine.

From Secret Garden I learned that girls heads were filled with all sorts of 'bad' thoughts about sex. Stuff I hadn't even dreamt of, and some that I had (and in a book that was written by a woman who was the same age as my Mum...).

And some of the the book's interviewees, like me, had feelings that were all tangled up and confused with ideas about guilt, sin and punishment - especially corporal punishment. Must find that book and re-read it.  

PS This little collection of 1970s imagery is borrowed from Richard Windsor's Vintage Spanking, which is absolutely fab. He deserves a medal for his work preserving the history of Spankoland.

Monday Moment: Hobbies

Mine's blogging about spankoland, but I do like a bit of dressing-up too. A maid's uniform can bring hours of pleasure. So, what's your hobby?

Today's Monday Moment is a quickie, just a few words about an image blog that you might like that's called Hobby Pics. I saw a link to it a couple of days ago and thought that maybe it was pictures of scrapbooks or knitting. But it turns out to be some very different sorts of 'hobbies' (see above) altogether.

Now, there's not much spanking to be found on Hobby Pics, but there are lots and lots of really interesting pictures - so many that it makes me feel a little hot and bothered just to look at. The sort of naughty things to do with your spare time that a girl should get a spanking just for thinking about.

Another shade of pink

There's something about a Sunday morning that says 'spanking' to me. I don't know why, maybe it's all those years of Sunday school and church - now I spend that time in bed and, as a result, can't help feeling just a little guilty/bad/naughty...

Anyway, I wake up in the zone, dying for SO to deal with me very firmly indeed. But, of course, it doesn't happen. Or very rarely.

With kids in the house anything that makes too much noise - or even makes the bed squeak a little - will be detected. When you want to attract their attention (eg meal times or clean-your-bedroom times) they can't hear you no matter how loud you shout, but a little parental giggling through a closed door is picked up every single time.

So, most Sunday's we get to talk (in whispers) under the duvet about how bad my attitude has been. And how it should be adjusted. And how it will be adjusted very thoroughly next time the conditions are right.

What are those 'conditions'? They are a) no kids b) SO not grumpy c) weather not so good (it keeps the neighbours out of their garden) and d) SO not working. And perhaps e) there's no chance that my mother might just drop by (which might be a little embarassing.

When all those variables will next come together is a moot point. Could be Tuesday - I'll offer up a prayer that it is. I know the right sort of thing, those mornings at Sunday school weren't entirely wasted.

PS This picture (from the excellent Red Ended Girls) is both Shade of Pink No. 49 and how my bot should have been this morning if the world wasn't such an unfair place for a married spanko with kids. 

Blowing bubbles

I love words, but I particularly like bad words. When things are going badly what's better than a good loud expletive? And in bed I love talking dirty - all those years as a child be told to mind my Ps and Qs mean there's unadulterated pleasure to be had by simply speaking the unspeakable.

I came across a new-to-me blog today and spent some reading it. Fascinating stuff. And I was particularly interested in the post about mouthsoaping. I've never experienced it and think it sounds really horrible, but it sounds just the thing for a potty-mouth like me.

Personally I'd opt for any number of spanks rather than having a bar of soap stuck in my mouth.

It does seem a very apt punishment for bad language and I'm sure that I'd keep my speech squeaky clean if the threat of mouthsoaping was there as a punishment.

The great Dana Specht (above) seems an enthusiastic exponent of soap punishment. My googling has just turned up one of Ms Specht's movies that promises no less than 50 minutes of "sudsy" action. Apparently that's all endured by just one poor victim - a guy called David. He must have used some very, very bad words...

But is it an entirely North American tradition? I've read stories - fiction and non-fiction - that describe mouthsoapings, but can't remember any European examples of soap being used as a form of CP.

Is that right? I'd rather like to put a mouthsoaping scene into my Begsi story, but don't want to stray into historical anachronism. Would a 1940s English 'gel' like Beryl get her mouth soaped for swearing, or would she just get her bum reddened?

Sheer bliss

I love stockings. They make me feel happy and all warm inside. And a bit nostalgic, too. A lot of it is to do with the fact that way back in my single days putting on stockings for a night out (or in) signalled intention.

I can see that there's also an element of imprinting that went on during childhood too. 'Sexy' imagery when I was very young nearly always involved stockings and suspenders.

And one of my earliest memories is of watching my mum in her bedroom getting dressed back in the pre-tights days when stockings were an everyday thing. I thought her the most glamorous being on the planet and seeing her put her stockings on and do her make up were a treat.

But do stockings still have the power to arouse? I don't think they do. Is it a generational thing? Is the magical power of stockings now becoming something of an historical anachronism?

Fifty Shades of Pink

I've tried, but failed. I'm sorry Ms James but I can't quite get Fifty Shades of Grey. It's just that I so don't care about Christian and Anastasia...

I'm wrong, I know. Zillions sold, S&M lite in vogue and copies of Fifty Shades piled up today at the checkouts at my local Tesco. Who'd have thought it?

I do love the title, though. So much so that I've decided on a Fifty Shades of Pink series. Here's today's shade, which I've borrowed (appropriately) from The Pink Papers, a great photoblog.

It looks like this poor girl has been exploring that whole smacked-leg experience that I was describing the other day. When I've been in a similar stripey-thighed situation I've found myself getting a bit desperate and begging: "Please... whip my bum!"

Firm words

I drank too much last night and my head aches. It took me ages to get up and out of bed this morning - I lay there feeling the pain behind my eyes and regretting how much red wine I downed last night.

We went to a friend's house to watch the Jubilee concert and got a bit carried away. I'm no great royalist, but I do love Tom Jones - and the wine was a little too good to resist.

I was, I think, a bit loud and a bit obnoxious. SO was driving, so today has no headache - and occupies the moral high-ground.

I stayed in bed nearly two hours after the rest of the household and it didn't take ESP to read SO's disapproval. I dozed, waited for the painkillers to dull the pain in my head - and fantasised about the severe scolding and brisk walloping my behaviour warranted.
It involved a duvet thrown back, my bare bottom and the sort of strapping that stays with you for a week. A sharp-edged lecture helped to put me firmly in my place.

It also occurred to me that I've missed significant moments with this blog. Not even one year to make a fuss about, but it has passed its half-year without me noticing, and the 100,000th hit went by without comment either.

What was I on about six months ago? Half a year ago I was preoccupied with the fine art of scolding - as I am today. Or being 'told off' as it's called where I spent my formative years.

A good telling off was something to be feared - a stern talking-to that nearly always did the trick. And does the trick; to this day a really good scolding presses my buttons in a very special way. Scolding without spanking works, spanking without scolding does not

If I'm honest, I suppose I'm a 'scoldo' more than a 'spanko'. In the depths of my hang-over this morning I knew I'd behaved poorly - and desperately wanted to be told as much.

Higher math

Just one sharp smack - on my inner thigh - but an hour later I can still feel it burn. We'd been in bed talking about all the chores that need to be done to today and then SO leaned over, said "up you get then" and whack - palm meets thigh.

And I'm not talking sit-spot. No, it was inner thigh and well out of the spank zone. Wow, did it sting. My squeal was louder than the smack itself and would have been heard by our youngest, if she wasn't locked in her bedroom playing europop as loud as she can get it.

So my question is, why does all this not add up? Why does moving the impact about 10-15cm south of the usual target zone multiply smart so much?

I reckon I'd rather take 50 spanks to my behind that a couple to inner thigh. Why is one so much stingier than the other? Is it some fundamental difference of skin structure? Is their a dermatologist out their with spanko leanings who can answer this question?

Friday fiction: Disappointed

"I'm very disappointed. You know that, don't you?" She nodded, but couldn't lift her gaze. In her peripheral vision she could see the tip of the cane and could think of nothing but the ordeal to come.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, young lady... You've let yourself down, you've let your form down - you've let the whole school down..."

Yes, I've had months to work on my project and what have I produced? Almost nothing. It's a shockingly poor effort and, if things were as they should be, I deserve to suffer a severe punishment. 

Months back I started out on my Beryl novel - set in 1940s Britain - full of enthusiasm, but as time has gone on I have run out of steam. Two chapters in I've hit writer's block and just can't seem to get round it.

By way of an excuse ("...I don't want to hear your excuses, my girl...") I must say I've loads of real life writing and editing to do at the moment, so doing more in my free time seems like a chore rather than fun.

Now I'm torn. I feel like I should leave Beryl and her pals on hold and try something different; I rather like the idea of finding out what happened next for the Week in the Country characters (a week in the city, maybe). Perhaps I could come back to Beryl in the future.
Then again, maybe it just needs immersion in all things 1940s for a time and a bit of a push to get through the block. Am I giving up to readily?

Anyway, I thought I'd share a snippet with you so that at least a bit of Beryl's story sees the light of day. In this bit she has an encounter with an old friend from school:

Mrs Jones had been joined by the others by the door and all looked at Cassie and Bee in confusion. Further away, across the yard, Bran came come out of the barn with a wheelbarrow and he stopped too. “Miss Wordsworth, whatever is the matter?” Mrs J asked.

“I suggested that this girl - this very rude girl - might care to help me start the car. It takes a turn or two with the starting handle. She answered me with very bad word,” she said. “I really am quite shocked.”

“I certainly d…” Bee began, before being cut off by Mrs Jones.

“I’m very disappointed, Beryl. The Assistant District Commissioner is our guest, so please say sorry and help her with her bag – jump to it.”

“No, – that won’t do. Given what the DC has said about discipline Mrs Jones I think Miss Daley needs a little lesson, don’t you? Do you have a slipper?”

“Certainly, I’m sure I can find something…,” said Mrs J. As she went to the door Beryl took her chance to screw up her face and stick her tongue out at Cassie.

Cassie’s grin signalled that she was still at least partly the mischievous Sixth Former of days gone by. “Actually Mrs Jones,” she called in through the open door. “A good, solid hairbrush might be more appropriate, if you’ve something suitable for a minx with a big bottom.”

Seconds later Mrs J reappeared carrying a large ebony brush with an aged, well-used look.

“How about this?” she said to Miss Wordsworth, holding it out to be taken.

“No, no. You keep it. I have to fly – other appointments to keep,” said Cassie, opening her car door and slipping in behind the wheel. The door slammed shut, but she wound down the window.

“Well thank you for splendid tea, Mrs J.”

“My pleasure. Have a safe journey.”

Cassie’s reply was lost as the engine spluttered into life – no need for a starting handle it seemed. Cassie engaged the gears and as she released the clutch the car began to pull away, which meant she had to shout at the top of her voice to make herself heard. “And remember Mrs Jones, that girl – lay it on smartly, won’t you? All part of the war effort…”