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.