It’s the usual story — falsely accused, sentenced to caning and a lifetime of slavery by an unjust judiciary, then sold to the highest bidder and sent off to be abused by his servants:
Juliette followed the man across the yard and into one of the stables. As they crossed the yard, she noticed a high thick wooden post, erected in the centre and, nearby, another, about a meter high with a round log fixed along the top. Inside the stable, Quinell pushed the girl towards one of the supporting pillars. He pulled her arms up above her head and hooked her manacles over a hook, the chain from the collar hanging down between her breasts. He parted her hair and draped it forward to hang over her upthrust breasts.
“The introduction for a new slave is ten lashes.” Quinell said in her ear. “This is to teach you that, here, you are a slave and what your fate will be if you fail to please those you serve.”
Juliette shook with fear. Her buttocks were still throbbing from the earlier caning and now, for no reason, she was top be beaten again. That her hair had been pulled forward over her breasts warned her that, this time, it was her back that was to suffer. She watched in alarm as the head groom strode across the stable and picked up a bundle of leather reins. As he shook them loose, the girl trembled with terror. As he approached her, she gritted her teeth and screwed her eyes tight shut.
The force of the blow across her back jerked her up onto her toes as her body was thrown against the pillar, separating her breasts. A sheet of fire exploded in her back and shoulders as the leathers burned a path across her flesh. She heard a loud scream, her scream, echo round the stable. Again she was thrown against the post and again she screamed as the pain raged in her back. Eight more times the head groom lashed the leathers across her back, sending sheets of fire through her body. Such a flogging, which she was to learn later was a mere token, on top of the caning she had received that morning was too much for her young body to bear and, although still conscious, she hung limp from her wrists as the final lashes were laid on. Her wrists were released and she slid slowly down the pillar, sobbing and moaning.
I really like the antique furnishings in this old pulp illustration. The lamps, the basin and pitcher, the narrow brass bed in the tiny bedroom, the whole bit. And, of course, the old-fashioned domestic-discipline style whipping:
The caption in tiny print in the upper left reads: “She was pink and naked, whimpering on the floor.” Brutal!
Do nuns give bare-bottomed spankings to naughty girls?
Well, probably not, these days. But (a) it seems they may have used to, and (b) anything is possible in the movies. Hence, this screen capture from the movie Catholics Corrected:
Odd that I’ve never before run across this stanza from Anactoria, by Algernon Charles Swinburne:
Would I not hurt thee perfectly? not touch
Thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright
Thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light?
Strike pang from pang as note is struck from note,
Catch the sob’s middle music in thy throat,
Take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these
A lyre of many faultless agonies?
From the book The Girl In The Golden Mask by Reece Gabriel, we have Karen spying through a door upon the punishment of a careless housemaid:
Karin watched as Anya lifted her head for the Count to take the cane. Dramatically, he waved it through the air, testing its mettle.
Next he held it up to her face with his white-gloved hand, giving her a chance to kiss it. Her lips went obediently to the bamboo, pressing, making love to it.
“Up,” he ordered, satisfied at her act of obeisance.
She rose to her knees, back straight, breasts thrust out. Her responsiveness was like that of a well-trained dog.
Anya made no attempt to protect herself as he poked her nipple. “Where shall we beat you today?” he asked, as though they were about to embark on a ride in the park.
“My body belongs to Master,” she said in a slightly high-pitched voice.
He lifted her chin with the tip of the cane. “Is that the answer I want?”
“N-no, Master.” Her eyes were wide with fear.
“Where shall we beat you today?” he repeated.
The frail blonde trembled, her full bosom looking so much more vulnerable on her small frame. “On…on my b—breasts,” she stuttered.
“Are you begging me, Anya?”
She nodded. “P—please, Master, beat my breasts?”
The look on Anya’s face told Karin that this was the last thing Anya wanted. Karin could only imagine how badly such a thing would hurt.
The Count smiled sadistically. “Your wish is my command, girl. Hold them up for me.”
Anya cradled her tits, molding them and lifting them. Karin saw the marks, faded but very much real. This would not be first time. Perhaps this was a ritual, being made to plead for what she hated most?
Incredibly, Anya’s nipples were erect, despite the pain they were about to receive—or was it because of the pain?
The Count tapped his slave’s shoulder. “You will count, Anya.”
“Yes, Master.”
The cane sliced the air, landing viciously on Anya’s left tit. “One,” she arched her back, teeth clenched, eyes closed.
A welt rose immediately, just above her delicate areola.
“Two,” she moaned as he delivered a savage blow to the right tit.
“Hold them higher,” he commanded. “Push up your nipples.”
Anya obeyed, setting herself up for even worse torture. Her breasts were like ripe fruit, born to be seized and owned.
She screamed as he lashed out at both nipples at once, a deadly accurate blow sideways against the sensitive pink nubs.
“I’m waiting,” he said coldly.
“T—three,” she sputtered, realizing her error.
“Too late.” The Count struck at her back. Anya doubled over, making a low, groaning noise. The Count continued to deliver thwacks along her spine until she righted herself, once more proffering her young breasts for abuse. Tears streamed down her face.
The cane sliced through the air, no mercy, no respite. Anya was the picture of discipline, her face locked in an expression of acquiescence. “Four,” she proclaimed, her voice belying the terrible horror.
You know your holiday is shaping up well when the packing goes like this:
Also in the suitcase was: the slapper crop, the punishment paddle (and punishment shorts), penis gag, and lube. Oh, and a schoolgirl uniform – don’t leave home without one!
Allow me to link you to “12 of the best” really good tips for people new to playing with the cane, by Abel. Basic stuff (which is what beginners need), carefully chosen and succinctly expressed. Excellent!
One nice thing about The Training Of O is that, apparently, it’s hard to conduct a good slave training without lots and lots of spankings, canings, face slappings, and similar painful BDSM-y business. This recent training session for Adrianna Nicole is a fine example.
First, it’s “Bend over!” time:
There’s also the hottest face-slapping picture I’ve seen in a fair while:
I’m not sure if TV actress Felicity Kendal is or was much known in the US — certainly I’ve never before heard of her, but that’s true of at least ten thousand US TV stars as well, in my case — but I never like to pass up tidbits of celebrity spanking data, knowing as I do that for any known personage with a spanked bottom, there’ll be somebody among my readership who gets a frisson of pleasure from hearing about it. Thanks to The Spanking Writers for pulling this tidbit off their pub shelves:
“I never disobeyed her; no sensible person would dream of questioning her gentle commands. She never raised her voice and there was no hysteria, just quiet control. She rarely lost her temper, and only once did she do so with me, when she took a Mason Pearson hairbrush to my bare bottom. Whatever it was I did, I never did it again.”
I thought I’d try something new in this post, in an effort to show you bigger pictures. Try mousing over the pictures below, and let me know what you think of the new format!
Our story begins, as so many do, on the viciously mobbed-up island of Sicily.
Here we see a pretty blonde housewife giving her porch plants their morning water. Birds are singing, the sun is shining, maybe her cordless vibrator is all charged up on her bedside table. Whatever; the point is, the day is bright with happy possibilities. Until…
“What’s this? Who could be coming up the drive so early in the day? None of our neighbors have a car like that. And what is all the ruckus?”
Oh, dear. It’s Sergio and Giovanni, looking like refugees from a Dukes of Hazzard fan convention. All they need is a coat of orange paint for the Generalissimo Lee, there.
Wifey knows the business her man is in, and she knows the look of the local mafia boys. She knows they aren’t here to fix the plumbing. She bravely decides to try bravado: “Why are you goons here, and what’s with the cowboy whips? Have you been watching the American western movies? Which of you guys is Buffalo, and which is Bill? Are you circus performers, maybe?”
What they ought to say, but do not: “No, Ma’am, we’re musicians.”
What they really say:
“Your husband thought he’d get clever, and stiff our boss for half a million Euros. We’re here to, ah, encourage him to pay up. Nothing personal, but you’re about to get one hell of a whipping.”
“You’re coming with us.”
“Stop struggling! You’ll only make this take longer and hurt worse.”
Soon our whip-happy villains have found a handy whipping tree.
Nothing furtive about this bit of collections work — everybody on the island knows what happens if you don’t pay off the grey old men. But just to make sure: “Yo! Are you watching! This is what happens to the families of men who don’t pay what they owe!”
“…and this is the bullwhip we are going to use to put big painful welts all over your pretty body, so that for the next few days, every time your husband sees you, he’ll remember his business obligations.”
“Of course, you understand, that dress has got to come off. Our employer gave very explicit instructions.”
Her sense of pride, and humor, have not failed her: “Is this going to hurt, very much?”
“Ah, yes. Yes, it is.”
“Quite a lot, actually…”
The men with whips take turns at first.
Then they try a sort of “good loanshark, bad loanshark” maneuver, where one guy whips while the other explains how she should advise her husband to pay his debts.
But, mostly, they just whip, and she suffers.
And do you know what the scariest part of today’s little immorality play is? Simply this: these have been the mild photographs from this photo set. These pictures are from Pain Gate, which as I’ve warned you before, is all about amazingly harsh whippings and livid whip welts. To be honest, they play harder at Pain Gate than I like to show on this blog; if I show too many boobies covered with bright red whip marks, I’ll jeopardize my reputation as a perfectly harmless mild-mannered erotic spanking fetishist. And we can’t have that, can we?
I’m always interested in accounts of stinging nettles, like this one in the book Painful Performances by Richard Garwood. Sadly, it strikes me as both overwritten and underdetailed, if that’s possible:
A tormentor came towards her with some leaves in a gloved hand. Suddenly Sarah felt the fearful prickle of thistles on her bottom and then two slashes across her breasts took away her breath. There was a pause and she felt a thin cord being tied round her waist. From this was hung a small bunch of leaves and the whipping began
again. It took Sarah several seconds to realise that these leaves were stinging nettles and that the pain was excruciating. She tried to move her legs back so that the leaves hung forward only to receive a startling strike across her buttocks with the same plant.
Sarah danced in agony, her breasts jiggling to every movement of her legs and body. She tried twisting only to find more excruciating blows from bunches of leaves. The blows continued but she was beyond feeling them and fell into shock, finally hanging motionless from the frame with her head drawn back and her breathing stertorous.
Also, what place does the phrase “fell into shock” have in ostensibly erotic novel?
Somehow I think this sounds like a doomed strategy:
Fresh in the post this morning arrived a quirt (which looks a little like this). When I purchased said item from Ebay, for a very reasonable £12 including delivery, a couple of weeks ago, I thought it looked rather harmless.
Wrong. Wronger than a very wrong thing.
It’s rather brutal. So, I’ve decided to hide it. Now, you’d think I’d keep silent about it’s arrival. Oh, noes, not I. Here goes the phone call…
There’s a lot of menace in this picture, especially if you are familiar with the welts that usually decorate Pain Toy models. This is Karmen, and she’s not welted yet:
Despair not, Karmen displays plenty of welts here, and that’s even before the singletail whip comes out…
Although young ladies used to get switched on their calves in the days when modesty prohibited hiking up their skirts, the calf has since fallen out of favor as a punishment zone. And why not? In this more flesh-soaked era, a woman in trouble cannot rely on modesty to save her more tender and private areas from the lash. So the calves generally don’t enter into it.
None of which, obviously, is inhibiting Mark Davis as he whales away with the cane:
Nobody, I think, has ever accused Mark of being a nice man (at least, not when he’s got his game face on, in the Sex and Submission studios. I’m sure he’s a pussycat in real life.)
As every spanker knows, a good brisk hairbrush spanking can make her wiggle and try to escape like nothing else. Which is why the wrist straps in this vintage spanking photo strike me as very handy indeed. Keeping her hands out of the way protects fragile fingers:
I have a strong mind and an even stronger will. While I’d been waiting for years for someone who could subdue me, sometimes I wasn’t all that easy to subdue. Even if I wanted to be. Even if I wanted to reach that place of softness, of opening, of letting someone in, I couldn’t necessarily command it into being.
So he’d whip me.
There was an element of ritual to these whippings. A footstool was placed in the middle of his living room that he’d bend me over. I’d be on all fours, with my ass in the air, expectant. Scared. Sometimes the sweat would drip from my armpits, as I knelt poised on the edge of anything-could-happen. I could not move away or flinch or he’d whip me harder. The only recourse I had was acceptance. I could hear the whoosh of the crop through the air and its subsequent sting, slicing my ass, or my upper thighs, would reverberate through my entire body.
…
There is a gift in someone who dares to be so rough with me. Most men would never dare. I need to know that a man will be so bold, that at least he is capable of this sort of wielding. Then I can trust him. The flimsy men, the ones who would never dare to hurt me, to see me flinch, to bend me over and take me anywhere, anytime; I have no use for. Their trepidation is suffocating to me. And reflective of their behavior outside the bedroom. It always is. You can tell a lot about someone by how they fuck: Timid or decisive. Experimental or staid. Hard-driving and fierce or languid and droopy. My selection criteria is all about this crucial element: Can this man take charge? Does he dare?
If you like to combine your spanking and enema play, you’ll want to click through to see her very bruised bottom presented to receive an enormous enema nozzle.
They say it’s good to be king, or baron, or whatever flavor of nobility you need to be in order to have a fine tunic, a good sword, and a dungeon with fancy whipping ladder. And it’s probably so. But in the days when such things were possible, the after-dark entertainments were sharply limited. What are you gonna do after the candles are lit? Log in to your Myspace and update your profile with the latest list of taxes squeezed out of your peasants? I don’t think so.
Which may explain how yet another bored duke finds himself in the dungeon on yet another Thursday night, horse-whipping the bejabbers out of yet another overworked and underpaid kitchen wench:
