Friday fiction: Farm life

“By rights miss, I should let the District Commissioner deal with this,” she said, maintaining eye contact with her employee in a way that Bee found difficult to return.  “But as you’ve agreed to take your medicine then we can keep it between ourselves. Is that correct?”

“Yes Mrs Jones,” Bee said quietly.

“Ladies?” asked Mrs J, sweeping the other three with a searchlight stare. They all chimed in with a mumbled “yes Mrs Jones”.

“A good dose of strap oil it is then,” said Mrs J, taking a tightly-coiled strap from her cardigan pocket. With a flick of her wrist the strap uncoiled like a snake and Bee watched with alarm noticing how heavy and supple it looked. 

“Now then,” she said, stepping up to Beryl and taking her by the arm.  Bee felt the firmness of the grip and yielded, allowing herself to be propelled to the foot of her bed.

The metal frame formed a half-circle and Bee was positioned at its centre. Then Mrs J’s hand was moved from her arm to the back of her head and she was pushed face down into the quilt.

Bee felt acutely aware of the shape and size of her bum. “Pants down to your knees, please.”

“Really, I don’t think that’s fair...” Bee began.

“Two extras,” said Mrs J in a businesslike way.

Reluctantly Bee tugged her tight knickers down, and over, her out-thrust buttocks. She had to wriggle a little to help them along, which made her bumcheeks quiver in a eye-catching way.

It certainly caught the eye of each of the watching girls, Bunty, Anne and Gladys. Four girls – all new to one another - sharing a room had to be prepared to undress in one another’s presence.

How they dealt with the intimacy differed. Bunty’s background was much like Bee’s and she was used to unselfconscious nudity from years in dormitories.

At Annie’s terraced home in Yorkshire five sisters shared a room, so little room for shyness there. However, for Gladys, a bank manager’s daughter, sharing a room was something of an ordeal; at her comfortable detached home in Hertfordshire she bolted her bedroom door before changing clothes.

Over the week each had got more comfortable with the enforced closeness of arrangements at Bryn Farm. When they dress and undressed they did it hurriedly to avoid baring too much flesh to either cold air or curious glances.

So, each of the three was shocked and fascinated by Bee’s nakedness. With her head down and legs straight her round bumcheeks were opened wide, exposing what she called her bits and bobs to view.

Gladys felt she should look away, but couldn’t. How different Bee’s fanny looked, she thought. Gladys was a little embarrassed at the way that her own “down there” hair was thick and dark, and was intrigued by how Bee’s fine, light ginger curls did little to hide her new friend’s most intimate parts.

All three witnesses held their breath as Mrs J planted her feet wide apart and rolled up the right sleeve of her blouse. “Let this be an example to you all,” she said, swinging the strap through the air so that it whispered like the wings of a bird.

“Beryl, hold onto the sides and don’t let go,” Mrs J told her. “Stay in position.” With the next swing Bee clenched her cheeks up tight hiding her bumhole for a moment.

As she did, Mrs J measured her distance just right and the heavy leather caught Bee’s tensed buttocks low and hard. The girls saw Bee’s bum flatten momentarily before the strap swang back, fast and low. Bee had just enough time to squawk out her shock at the flash of bright pain before Mrs J followed through with stroke number two.

Another three strokes followed up at lightning speed and Bee’s screeches of anguish rang into one another.

The unwritten Bullington code stipulated that a girl took her swishing well, which meant keeping noise to a minimum, staying in position and never, ever begging for mercy. Bee was rather ashamed of how far below the standard she was falling.

That she was making so much of a racket was a shocker, but Mrs J was turning out to be a very proficient disciplinarian. Worse was the struggle she was having maintaining position.

For a start the bed frame was a little too high for her and the cold iron cut into her waist. And she could only just get handholds on the sides to keep in place.

Through watering eyes she could see her left hand locked into place, knuckles white. She had had eleven strokes when her grip was broken and – with a howl - she sprang upright, palms pressing to her tormented cheeks.

She took two handfuls of burning buttock and kneaded away at them like a baker.

“Don’t be a baby, Beryl,” said Mrs J after allowing Bee a moment’s dancing on the spot. “Bear up, there’s a war on. Back into position or I’ll have to double your ration.”

With some difficulty Bee did as she was told. There was, she accepted, a war on and meant having her backside leathered.

Back in place, Bee’s bottom sustained a barrage of strokes at a steady pace. She clung on and howled her way through to the last, which came in rather low across her thighs.

Somewhere between the second dozen and the third Bunty decided she couldn’t watch and covered her eyes.  Gladys, on the other hand, couldn’t tear her gaze away from.

“There, three dozen give and received,” said Mrs J, popping the strap back into her apron pocket. “Let that be a lesson.”

She moved closer to Bee and patted her on the shoulder before sitting on the side of her bed. As Mrs J’s weight settled onto the mattress the bed springs squeaked and Bee lifted her head, her mass of curls a curtain around her face.

Gently Mrs J parted the curls so that Bee could see her. “Can we be friends again?”

Bee was a little puzzled by the remark. Mrs J smiled at her in a way that was almost shy and said: “Come along stand up then.”

Bee straightened up with one hand on her smarting, striped bottom and the other trying to tidy her hair. Watching her, Mrs J sat very upright and with her knees pressed together.

She smiled again, patted her lap and nodded. Bee understood and went to her employer and, a little awkwardly, sat on her knee.

She allowed herself to be pulled into the older woman’s arms. For a moment she stiffened, but then relaxed into the hug, burying her face into the older woman’s shoulder.

It felt so good, so comforting. But at the same time she could feel how in that position she was making an exhibition of herself, with her red-raw bum sticking out.

I’m certainly giving the girls something to goggle at, she thought. Her behind felt all round and hot. It made her feel ashamed of how big her bottom was and that it deserved to be swished hard and often.

It also made Aunty start to get wet and tingly, which made Bee worry that Mrs J would notice her inappropriate reaction to the situation she found herself in. As that thought was crossing her confused mind she felt Mrs J’s hand drop from her waist and her cool palm settled gently on one of Bee’s jutting buttocks.

Bee shivered with the thrill of the contact and she lifted her face out of Mrs J’s hair. She found herself looking into warm, smiling eyes.

“I don’t want to have to do this to you again Beryl,” she said. “So you’ll try to be a good girl, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs Jones. I promise,” she said.

“Good,” said Mrs J, then she looked to the other three. “All of you, do keep my rules in mind, that way we’ll get along very nicely. Let me down, and there’s plenty more of the medicine Beryl’s just taken. Understand?”

“Yes, Mrs Jones,” they answered nervously.

“Now then,” said Mrs J, patting Beryl smartly on the bottom. “Beryl get into your pyjamas and into bed. You’ve all got an early morning tomorrow.”

A while back I was in the habit of posting snippets of writing on Fridays as 'Friday fiction', but it hasn't happened for a while. I thought I'd put things right with this chunk of 'Beryl gets Stuck In'  which sits on my computer a third written - it's about the adventures of a Land Army volunteer called Beryl, or Bee for short.

It isn't going anywhere at the moment - it just seemed to run out of road. So, I thought at least a little of it probably deserves an audience.

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.

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?

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…”

Promises, promises

If it were a school project it would have 'SEE ME' scribbled on it in red. I'd be in some serious trouble... Some sweaty-palms, waiting-outside-the-study sort of trouble.

There'd be garbled excuses, promises to do better, maybe even tears. And then I'd wait for the verdict, knowing that whatever was coming was totally deserved.

But as it happens the excuses do hold water, honest. The fact is real world me is snowed under with work and other commitments, so the me that exists in the spankosphere is struggling to deliver on promises (that I make to myself).

So, A Week in the Country was written in a rush last autumn when 'real' work was slow. But I'm sad to say that the follow-up is stalled at about a quarter of the way written and that doesn't look like changing any time soon; poor Beryl is trapped in limbo somewhere around chapter 4 (ploughing fields, chasing nasty Nazis - and getting spanked). 

And I'd said to myself that I'd make fiction a regular Friday feature of this blog too, but again I've not found the time. Another black mark.
What can I do to make amends? Promise to be better at keeping promises, I suppose. In the meantime feel free to suggest suitable chastisement - it might help me keep my promise (to keep my promises...)

Redhead redux

I think the redhead issue is settled and that this is now Beryl. Thank you for the various suggestions. I was directed by an anonymous well-wisher to this image and was immediately convinced - add the Land Girl uniform and its a done deal.

I'm not sure if she's a good Christina H lookalike or if this is this a first-class example of what you can do with an hour to kill and a bootleg copy of Photoshop. But this is the picture I need, my picture wall is complete. Just what I needed.

Redhead, red bottom

Wanted: Smart, pretty redhead (natural, no dyes). Irregular hours, punishing conditions. She must be prepared to take a bare bottom spanking at any time day or night.

I'm having a bit of trouble with my on-going spanko novel. It's that I can't get the pictures right in my head and that's slowing up the writing process. 

The problem is that my picture wall doesn't include my central character, Beryl. A while ago a vanilla writer friend recommended that I stick pictures on the wall next to my work station of people and places to help the imagination to fire on all cylinders (it does help, although I don't have my 'picture wall'on a wall - some are not the sort of pictures you want your granny to see).

The problem at the moment is that for the new novel I've got something for all the characters, except Beryl. She's definitely a redhead, with that sort of pale complexion that offers a perfect canvas for spanking marks, but I can't visualise her other features in detail.

So, today I've been googling for redheads. Some of the information is less than useful. According to Global Spin the world's pre-eminent gingers are Rebekah Brooks and Prince Harry. Both could probably do with a good smacked bottom, but neither is what I'm looking for.

Then I discovered a site that helpfully lists world-class reds. Interesting stuff. I didn't know that the lovely Julianne Moore had written children's books about growing up as a redhead. 

Julianne is a marvel, but she's not Beryl. Nor is the elegant Marcia Cross - Bree from 'Desperate Housewives' -  who does look to me as though she'd make a Olympic gold medal spanker (when the sport gets its rightful recognition).

Christina Hendricks has lots of what I'm looking for. But she's not the real McCoy, just a blonde with a good hairdresser. The best bet seems to be Karen Gillan, but I loathe the whole Dr Who thing so she's tainted by that connection.

So, I'm stuck. Any ideas?