Romance novels have always tended to be a good source for published spankings, and this excerpt from Diana Ridley’s All My World, published in the 1940s, is a prime example:
She rose to her feet and threw the glass straight at this head. Luckily the glass itself missed him by a mere fraction of an inch, but his face received the full impact of the water, and he recoiled involuntarily, temporarily blinded, whilst the water made havoc of his dress shirt and trickled in cold, unpleasant rivulets down his neck. Betsy stared at him open-mouthed, half alarmed and half triumphant at the result of her action.
Her triumph vanished very quickly, however as, dashing his hand across his eyes, he came towards her. He no longer looked suave and amused: his face was set in lines of grim determination, and there was a look in his eyes that made Betsy feel as if an icy hand was clutching at her heart. She had achieved her original purpose of rousing him. but she was much too scared to feel any satisfaction.
“Very well,” he said, steely purpose in his tones ” you’ve asked for it often enough, and now you’re going to get it!”
Betsy realised his intention, and turned to escape, but he was too quick for her. His hand shot out and grasped her shoulder in a grip of iron, and before she had time to take in what was happening he had sunk on to the seat and she was lying face downwards across his knee.
“Max! Stop it!” she gasped, her voice shrill with fright and humiliation. “Please don’t! I will be good, really I will! Please, Max!”
But Max took no notice of her tearful pleas for mercy, nor of her frantic kicking and struggling, and screams of rage and terror. Holding her as in a vice with his left arm, he used his right hand with stinging effect – not viciously, and certainly not playfully, but as if she were a naughty child. Her frock was very thin, and his hand was very hard, and before long every shred of temper had deserted her, giving place to sobs of mingled pain and shame, whilst in her heart there dawned the beginning of a happiness that was as real as it was mysterious.
This is why it never pays to piss off a good man who wears a sword belt:
He sighed and stood up, slapping the belt lightly against his thigh.
“Well, then,” he said. “Best get on wi’ it. You’ve done considerable damage by crossing my orders, and I’m going to punish you for it, Claire. Ye’ll recall what I told ye when I left ye this morning?” I recalled all right, and I hastily flung myself across the bed so my back was pressed to the wall.
“What do you mean?”
“Ye know quite well what I mean,” he said firmly. “Kneel down by the bed and lift your skirts, lass.”
…”I will not allow you to beat me,” I said firmly, keeping a tight hold of the bedpost.”
“Oh, ye won’t?” He raised a sandy brow. “Well, I’ll tell ye, lass, I doubt you’ve much to say about it…”
“I’ll scream!”
“Likely. If not before, certainly during. I expect they’ll hear ye at the next farm; you’ve got a good set of lungs.” He grinned odiously and came across the bed after me.
This comes from a publication called The Diabolical Quest:
The caption is:
Paul lay her across his dek top, ignoring the fact that he knocked over a bottle of ink, and really went to work on her up-tilted rump with the ruler, able to get all of his power into the blows now.
Apparently as the 19th century gave way to the 20th, there was a move to automate the spanking discipline at reform schools across the nation. This from the New York Times of February 14, 1898:
SPANKING BY ELECTRICITY
Kansas Has Invented a Method Which Colorado May Adopt
Chicago, Ill., Feb. 13 — Warden C.P. Hoyt of Denver has designed a spanking chair for use in the Industrial School for Girls. It consists of a seatless chair on which the girls are placed. It is high enough from the ground to allow four paddles to be operated by electric wires. Straps hold the victim’s wrists to the arm of the chair.
At the Girl’s Industrial School of Kansas, situated at Beloit, they have what is called a spanking chair. Bad girls are strapped in the chair, an attendant presses a button, and the chair does the rest. The Kansas authorities will be asked in a few days to explain this system, and if it is satisfactory to the local authorities a spanking chair will be purchased for the Colorado institution.
It’s not everywhere in the world that a fellow would get away with this:
One night we were out and about and going to the pub. Guess who had a new rape alarm? Guess who thought it was fun to set it off every two minutes?
After a very stern, and perhaps a bit pompous, telling off, a very chastened friend put her rape alarm away. Only to get it out five minutes later and set it off in yours truly’s ear.
Less than a minute later she was over a knee in the street getting a spanking on the seat of her skirt. This was in a busy community where everyone knew everyone. In mid spank a mutual friend, a town councillor, came down the street on his bike, did a double take and said: “good evening.”
Raised arm in mid spank turned into an awkward wave. She looks up with a face that is probably far redder than her bottom and says in a little girl voice; “It’s alright I was naughty.”
“Well that’s alright then,” says the bemused councillor and hurried away.
There’s a pleasing view here of a girl bent over a bar stool showing lots of red welts from a literal ass whipping. And from the way the man is holding that whip, I don’t think she’s done…
Yesterday in its weekly bondage links post Bondage Blog came up with a Betty Page spanking photo that I don’t recollect seeing before, and it is dynamically excellent:
If this man had a thought bubble over his head, it would say something like “Well, I didn’t expect this day to turn out so well when I woke up this morning!”
If you’re like me, you see a photo like that and you just know that in the next one, the skirts will be gone, he’ll be buried balls-deep in one of the girls, and he’ll have a cane in his hand.
Georges Pichard is known (among other things) for his harsh BDSM graphic novels with (I think it’s fair to say) anti-religious themes — his iconography of nuns, in particular, is replete with sexualized whippings and punishments that make the tales of the Inquisition look almost mild by comparison. But in this panel from his graphic novel La Religieuse, our novitiate is, at least, doing unto herself:
Zille Defeu is running a survey of spanking porn consumers, to find out more about what people like to see in their spanking porn. She writes:
I am asking those of you who consume porn to delurk, and say what turns you on.
Of course, there are also questions to stimulate and guide your commentary. I think it’s an interesting exercise, and I hope some of you will answer her questions!
For a while I didn’t realise this, but as a top I’ve also developed a favourite implement, and it worries me somewhat that it tends to be the hairbrush. I seem to feel a particular affinity with brushes, and love to apply them to bottoms squirming over my knee. The reason this worries me is that brushes are quite evil; this is well known. Am I therefore evil?
Be that as it may, I’m not about to reject the brush. I need to reflect upon why it attracts me so much. Perhaps, it’s the feeling of spontaneity: when a punishment is necessary, I grab the first thing my eye falls on, which is my own hairbrush on the nightstand. Maybe it’s that I’m never travelling without a brush, and therefore am never without an implement. There’s also the intimacy of the over-the-knee position, my favourite both as a top and a bottom. Long live the brush, and its evil pleasure
I’m a fairly recent convert, myself, to the pleasures of hairbrush spanking. When I first got together with Bethie, I didn’t have any; and indeed, I’m not sure I’d ever seen the sort of traditional hairbrush that’s good for spanking. (Most of the ones I was familiar with were small plastic affairs with curved backs.)
The first hairbrush spanking fun I had was in 2008, when Bethie got a hairbrush that made her leap and squirm. But it didn’t really fit my hand — the handle was too short.
But then, about a year ago, I got dragged into a department store and was left to my own devices while Bethie shopped for baby clothes, for somebody else’s baby. Woo, the excitement. I went looking for some shaving cream, and happened to notice in the adjacent aisle something called the “ConAir Mega Ceramic Paddle Brush”. It was broad and rectangular, wooden backed and rather heavy, and best of all, had a long enough handle for me to hold onto. Judging by the way it made Bethie leap about when I “tested” it at home, it’s almost as effective as any of our much larger and heavier wooden paddles. It’s fast become a favorite toy of mine. (I can’t say “of ours” though; I get dirty looks when Bethie sees it in my hand.)
The cool of the granite work top contrasts sharply with the warmth of my hands as I place them gently on the edge, behind me you stand, and run the wooden spoon slowly over my jean clad arse. My fingers grip the edge of the work top tighter in anticipation of what is to come, but nothing. There is a pause and then your hands pull roughly at my belt and buttons and you yank my jeans and panties down round my knees exposing my arse.
“Much better” you mutter to yourself
This time I close my eyes as I feel the smooth wooden implement caressing my skin, I know there will be no stopping now.
The spoon stings, the sound of it meeting with my flesh fills the room, a sound similar to that which your hand makes upon my arse but with a slightly more resounded snap to it. My eyes are tightly shut, my forehead wrinkled in concentration as I fight the urge to cry out. I know without looking that the skin on my bare arse is starting to glow, I can feel the heat beginning to burn deep within me, each stroke of the spoon sending shock waves from my arse straight to my throbbing wet pussy.
Here’s a girl posed for a caning in a Russian classroom:
The caning, doubtless, would be bad enough all by itself, but the expression of goonish glee on the fellow who is whaling away at her ass has got to be demoralizing:
Yup, she looks demoralized all right:
Her anguish is 100% real, though — or at least, I think a bottom this sore probably justifies the look on her face!
I think every BDSM artist alive eventually does something that looks like the illustrations for The Story of O. Here’s a double whipping by Dolcett, and if “Club X” isn’t quite Roissy, they have similar taste in piercings there: