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Why do we spank?
Well, there’s an old joke that goes like this:
God promised men that good obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world.
Then He went and made the world round.
If you can’t find an obedient wife, you gotta make one, right?
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This over-the-top whipping scene comes from The Blue Train by Richard Manton, who is notorious for his faux-Victorian tales of underground dealings in mistreated young women. At the time of this story our unhappy heroine is in the clutches of the flesh trade somewhere in rural Greece:
The overseer inflicts whippings in the yard. There are high walls and complete privacy, there being no windows on that side of the building. At the centre of the yard lay a large cartwheel. It was on its side and firmly fixed in position, the hub rising at its centre. The girl to be beaten was secured over it face down, wrists strapped to the wheel rim on one side and ankles on the other, the hub lifting and broadening her backside for punishment.
I joined Shavez and the others to watch Monnelia whipped. The overseer curbed the disdain of this graceful nineteen-year-old negress. His calm sadistic eyes studied her supple figure, the self-possessed beauty of a tribal princess in her face, the primitive warrior-girl appearance of her upward brushed hair and ribboned coiffure at her nape. Her brief-cut panties and bra, her white high-heeled shoes, made Monnelia agonisingly conscious of showing off her beautiful legs and hips, and her seductive dark-tanned bum-cheeks.
We watched the demure rhythm of her haunches and their natural elegance as she approached the wheel.
Her long and graceful legs, bare and swarthy, moved with practised delicacy in tall-heeled white shoes. Her long thighs brushed together with maidenly restraint and her downcast eyes avoided the gaze of the men who would determine her punishment. The overseer licked his lips at this view of the proud young negress-skinned swell of Monnelia’s arse-cheeks and the supple curves of her bare thighs. His eyes were fixed on that area where the white cotton of her tight briefs emerged between the rear of her legs, the seat cut to arch up high and tight so that the dark oval smoothness of Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks was suggestively half naked.
She walked with controlled steps. She must have known that the white shoes with their tall heels made her hips more mobile and made her seem to flaunt her shapely bottom at her chastiser. Seeing the whip lying ready on a little table, Monnelia was fearful of making matters worse by such voluptuous roundings of her backside as she walked. Yet the glamorous white high-heeled shoes made the supple-figured warrior-maiden seem to flirt her hips and arse at the very man who was going to thrash her.
The satin-smooth brown cheeks of Monnelia’s behind swelled out temptingly as two masked overseer’s assistants made her kneel at the iron-bound rim and then lie forward over the padded hub. They pulled off Monnelia’s knickers and strapped her down in this lasciviously inviting pose. The overseer himself took the elastic waist of Monnelia’s panties, drew them down her legs and pulled them off.
He used intimate fingers to free them where they caught under her legs or in her rear cleavage. Her wrists were strapped wide apart to one side of the rim, her dusky bare arms at full stretch, and her ankles to the other.
The swell of her hips as she lay over the hub pulled open the slave-girl’s rear cleavage a little more, so that her warm-toned buttocks were quite bare and temptingly offered. She was obliged to hear the laughter of the onlookers behind her and the suggestions of what they would like to see done to her.
The overseer took a length of stout cord, tightening a loop round her bare brown waist and the padded wheel-hub to hold her down. The remaining length he drew tight down her lower belly, straining it back under her legs and up deep and taut between Monnelia’s swarthy buttocks to knot it firmly again in the rear of her waist. Bound tight like this, all surging or twisting of her hips and backside was checked. By tying her in this intimate manner, he ensured that the double-cheeked ebony swell of Monnelia’s arse-target remained properly presented for the whip. It was more suggestive than complete nudity. As she lay over the wheel, the stout cord was visible, straight and tight between the African-tan gloss of Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks. Its thickness kept her cheeks apart a little and exposed her to more searching discipline.
With a figure that the Three Graces might envy, Monnelia displayed the most delectable rear-cheek target to the overseer. He spent a good while measuring the cane this way and that across Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks. She tensed those bare elegant ovals and, long before the caning began, he had her squirming with a fearful apprehension.
Then, with the veins standing out dangerously on his forehead, he thrashed the sleek ebony beauty of Monnelia’s backside and the rear of her thighs at their tops. He made it like a prison whipping, though he still did it with mounting excitement. The smarting willow-pattern of the bamboo weals across her lithe and dusky rear cheeks and the cuts here and there seemed like a vengeance upon her for his own inability to have her as his bed-slave.
Monnelia began to twist her head and plead with wild cries. Much of the time her face and the upward brushed warrior-maiden coiffure were twisted to her chastiser. The calm dignity of her African beauty was transformed to a wide-mouthed and wild-eyed frenzy. Because she was free from waist to ankles, the long athletic grace of her thighs squirmed as if making love. The cheeks of Monnelia’s bottom rounded and writhed as if in an erotic dance. A less impassioned master would have strapped her down more tightly when she deserved punishment. But Captain Shavez liked to see the sinuous native writhings of Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks, as if she was riding on an invisible lover beneath her and therefore randy for chastisement.
Monnelia was not one to scream easily. But the overseer intended, as he promised her, to whip Monnelia’s hot-chocolate bottom very hard indeed. It was prudent that she should not be overheard and for that reason the yard was isolated from the rest of the property. Monnelia screamed with the naked agony of the whip after the third stroke and the overseer kept her screaming for the rest of the session.
Presently he picked up the whip with its stout handle and its thin tail of woven leather that dangled about eighteen inches. He cracked it sharply in the air and the onlookers saw Monnelia’s buttocks and thighs flinch at the report. Then he trailed the cold menace of the leather lightly over the swelling dusky ovals of Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks and round her thighs. The murmuring among the spectators fell silent in expectation.
The thin leather snake caught the light as it came whistling down and landed with a pistol-crack sharpness across the sleek ebony swell of Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks. Her legs went tense with the anguish so that the muscles appeared in contour. From the onlookers there was a sharp intake of breath in admiration and excitement of what he had done to the shapely young negress. The whip had marked Monnelia’s buttocks with a fine curlicue and a red-hot kiss of leather. Monnelia screamed with all her strength, tensing her bum-cheeks desperately as a plum coloured weal began to appear. He caught her again, the whip curling so that it just touched where one cheek began to curve in towards the other. A wild shriek was heard and the knee of one shapely negress-skinned leg tried to press against the other as if to contain the torment. But her legs were strapped apart to prevent this! The spread cheeks of Monnelia’s African-tan bottom bucked and thrust as if seated on woven fire.
The onlookers watched the measured rhythm of the overseer’s arm and the desperate constricted cheek-creasing of Monnelia’s bare backside. Tight-lipped and keen-eyed, he stooped a little and looked closely at the native-tan ovals of Monnelia’s nineteen-year-old bottom, as if to see where she would feel it worst. With the suggestive length of cord drawn tight and deep in her dusky anus-valley, she could not clench her rear cheeks together, which made it possible to catch her more intimately than would otherwise have happened.
The prison whip printed the next of its fifty curling red-hot kisses, leaving another searing loop of fire across Monnelia’s young backside. These loops and curlicues remained, printed in raised weals across her ebony-sleek bottom-cheeks. The whipping began in earnest. Though only her buttocks and the rear of her thighs made up the target, Monnelia was flogged like a hardened criminal.
When the fifty had been given, the overseer turned to Captain Shavez to ask if he was now satisfied with the state of his recalcitrant slave-girl. The captain walked forward and looked at the swarthy whip-tapestried cheeks of Monnelia’s behind. He went and sat down again.
I should like to see the randy-arsed young bitch receive twenty more, he said, without the cord between Monnelia’s bottom-cheeks.
The overseer smiled and understood. His boys hurried to undo and draw clear the cord between Monnelia’s nineteen-year-old bottom-cheeks. The overseer made the whip-tail describe a hissing S-shape in the air. This caused it to cut in a curling agony over the first of Monnelia’s lithe native bottom-cheeks, down into her anus cleavage and up over the second cheek. This curling welt was repeated a dozen times, searching out the most vulnerable areas of Monnelia’s native-girl arse! There was no mistaking the excitement among the other onlookers at the torment to which he had condemned the shapely dark-skinned beauty. When her blackamoor bottom was under his orders, he would explore and pursue the possibilities it offered for punishing her until the afternoon waned and dusk turned into night.
As the helpless bare-bottomed jungle Venus twisted her upward brushed hair and ribboned tresses, turning her face frantically, she screamed abuse at her chastiser, calling him a bastard! He paused and took another whip from the case. It was a short snakeskin lash. He wedged a rubber cushion under her loins so that Monnelia’s ebony-sleek bottom-cheeks were a little more voluptuously and vulgarly presented.
He taught the young negress-skinned bitch a lesson in manners! The whip was one known for its exceptional cruelty and he now tortured Monnelia’s bare bottom and thighs with it. Six savage curling strokes high up across the backs of Monnelia’s native-girl thighs. Monnelia’s bottom next, the satin-sheen swarthiness of its rounding cheeks. Eighteen strokes! The ebony-tan swell of Monnelia’s bottom writhing and cheek creasing. When it was over, the African Venus of nineteen lay drooping and limp over the wheel.
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I don’t have the linguistic context for this switching battle, but some things transcend language. Two men, perhaps Chinese, strip the leaves from fresh branches and take their best shots. One cooperative Asian woman with a generous ass sticks it well out for both strokes:
I think we all must agree, she’s a very good sport about the whole thing!
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In Deuce’s Dancer by Patricia Green, his quirt across her bottom is much more reward than punishment:
As she put her clothes aside, he held up a hand, feeling a little playful. “No. Put the apron back on. Wear just the apron and shoes.”
“Oh my…” she said. “Feeling like spanking June Cleaver, are you?”
He laughed, but followed it with what he hoped was a stern frown. “Go stand in the corner.”
A dark eyebrow arched a little higher. “The corner? Why?”
“I’m irritated with you for being so prideful about that bill.”
“That again? Okay. I accept your offer. It’ll make life easier for my family.” She put both hands on her nude hips, framing the incongruous apron. Her breasts jiggled as she moved. “Now will you spank me?”
Although his cock was becoming painful, Deuce wanted to make a point, and he was having fun baiting her. It wasn’t noble of him, he knew, but it was harmless and might teach her a thing or two. “No. Go stand in the corner.” He tilted his head toward the corner where the refrigerator met the wall.
She stomped a foot. “No!”
“Okay, sugar. Dinner smelled good. Too bad I can’t stay to eat… it.”
“Don’t you dare leave!”
My, my, she was in a mood to get quite a comeuppance. “Are you ordering me again?”
Her gaze went to the bulge in his pants and then back to his face. Her tongue snuck out and slid across her lower lip, but it was obvious she didn’t realize what she was doing. “No… I… ”
Deuce’s erection was killing him, but he went on. “Stop being such a bad girl, Pilar. Go stand in the corner or I’ll leave.”
Sighing with resignation, she moved to the corner and stood facing it. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that. But put your hands on the back of your head and spread your legs wider.”
A flush stole over her body, adding a pink tone to her café au lait skin. “You’re trying to humiliate me, aren’t you?”
“Embarrass you, yeah. Punish you a bit, yeah. Humiliate you? I like you the way you are. I’m not interested in a doormat.”
She wove her fingers together at the back of her head. It was amusing seeing her there with the apron lace framing her hips and its strings hanging down over the crack of her ass. As she slid her legs apart, the shiny lips of her pussy peeked out. Their moisture glinted at him like a wink. He nearly groaned.
“How long do I have to stand here? The enchiladas will be done pretty soon.”
Deuce might have some trouble keeping his hands off her, but he looked at his watch and noted the time. “Five minutes. And be quiet. No more talking.”
She huffed, but didn’t say another word.
By the time the five minutes was up, Deuce thought he might be dying from too much blood to the penis.
“Time’s up,” he told her. “Go put your hands back on the counter.”
She did as he told her, but tried to wheedle. “Deuce… ”
“You want somethin’, sugar?”
“Come on, Deuce. Spank me. Hard.”
He slid his hand over her rump then down between her cheeks and against her soaked pussy. “No.”
She groaned and wriggled more. “You’re teasing me-ah!” He thrust a finger in her and her body grasped and held tight. He used a second finger. She was tight and hot inside. He wanted his cock in there badly, and her panting was like a seductive siren’s song. “Come on, spank-man, do your thing. I’m ready for you!”
He chuckled. She was definitely ready. “Be good, sugar, or there’ll be no spankin’ or fuckin’ tonight.”
Her shoulders sagged and her head dropped to the counter. “Okay. I’ll be good.”
“Spread your legs a li’l more.” He said it more to make the point that she was to submit to his will than because he wanted to stare at her pussy more, though the sight made him even harder–a thing he wouldn’t have thought could be possible.
She obeyed, and he pulled his surprise from his pocket, shaking the short whip out to its full length, about as long as his forearm.
“A whip?” she said with some combination of surprise and wonder as she peered over her shoulder.
“A quirt. Braided leather with a rope core. Two short tails.” He stepped back a pace. “My father made it for me for casual horse races in high school.”
“For horses?”
The quirt made a little snapping sound against his pant leg and she flinched. “You want me to ride you like a filly, don’t you?”
Once more, that sweet flush crept up her back. “Yes… yes.”
Deuce didn’t say another word, he pulled back his arm and flicked the tails over her gorgeous ass. They snapped sharply on her flesh and she made a surprised noise. Twice more he flicked it, each stroke getting a little harder.
Pilar cursed in Spanish, but wiggled her butt, asking for more.
“Watch your tongue, woman,” he scolded in that same language.
“I’d like to watch my tongue on you, hombre,” she said on a moan as the whip struck her again several times.
She was humming with pleasure, and the blows were making her gasp.
“Oh yes,” she coaxed.
It didn’t take much to encourage him. The whip made raised crescent-shaped welts on her smooth behind. Every mark inflamed her further and she began to cry out, getting louder as he continued to strike her wiggling rear.
When she had a score of perfectly-placed wheals on her butt, Deuce threw the quirt aside and unfastened his belt and pants, letting them hang from his hips as he freed his aching cock.
The cool air on his tortured flesh felt fantastic, but it was something much warmer that he really wanted. Her pussy was so wet it was nearly dripping down her legs. He touched her gently and pushed two fingers deep into her body. Tight muscles welcomed him and Pilar groaned and pressed back against the penetration.
Her voice was thick, her Spanish colloquial. “Fuck me.”
“That’s what I’m fixin’ to do, sugar.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a foil wrapper, opened it and fitted the condom on himself. There was no hesitation between the act and the forceful slide of his cock into her pussy.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“I hear you,” he growled, rocking his pelvis to slam himself deeper and harder.
The feeling was intense, and her squirming against him only made it more so.
“Dios,” she cried, her little screams of pleasure getting louder. “I’m going to come!”
“Do it, sugar.”
Crying out sharply, she arched her rear up and slammed back into his groin. He took the hit, planting his feet more firmly, as all her internal muscles contracted around him rhythmically, calling for his release.
She was gasping and moaning, but he continued to pummel her until she rose on a second wave. Pilar screamed his name and spasmed in pleasure and he finally let himself go, shooting hard into the latex receptacle with a harsh growl.
“Deuce, Deuce, Deuce,” she gasped, her voice low and growing softer.
He reached for her hair and gave it a playful little tug, catching his breath. There was a sound from the living room.
“Chica, I think there’s someone at your door.”
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It looks as if they went for a casual stroll in the park, but at some point she overwhelmed the gentleman’s patience with her impertinence and cheek:
Artwork is by N. Carman.
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In A Very Personal Trainer, by Justine Elyot, our heroine’s life was so out of control she hired a life coach whose stern methods, although most unconventional, won’t shock anyone who frequents these pages. What started with a few simple spankings soon got a whole lot more complicated:
“I can’t help noticing,” he said, placing a palm against a very damp inner thigh, “that you can’t seem to control your response to discipline.”
“I…don’t mean to…”
“I know. You mean well, don’t you? But your body betrays you. Let’s have a little lesson in the art of self-control. A little practice. Shall we?”
“May I ask what sort of practice, Sir?” I asked, the sub-speak coming easily to me in this over-the-knee, hot-bottomed position.
“Yes, you may ask. I’m going to touch you, Lara, in a way that will give you pleasure. But you are not permitted to come. As soon as you feel that orgasm is inevitable, you are to do your very best to head it off.”
“I…won’t be able to do that!” I squeaked.
“Maybe not straight away. But you will learn. You don’t come now without my permission, my dear, and I think we should extend that even to times when I’m not here. No sneaky masturbating in the shower. I’ll ask you at each meeting, and don’t forget, I know when you are lying. I think this will teach you to achieve a level of focus that has been sadly lacking thus far.”
I gasped. A level of focus? This was going to be torture. Ever since Dexter had come into my life, my fingers had seemed connected to my pussy as if by a force of gigantic magnetism. I had to wrench them away sometimes. He knew it! He must!
“Spread your legs for me now,” he commanded quietly.
Pouting, although he couldn’t see it, I let them scissor apart, feeling him jolt my pelvis up with a knee, so that my bottom and sex were high, wide and open to him. The side of his hand brushed my lips and clit. I almost combusted on the spot. I was dripping, hot, sweaty, squirmy, and milliseconds from coming.
“You need a good seeing-to,” was his assessment. “Perhaps one day I can give you that. Perhaps.”
In the fug of lust and humiliation, my heart found space to leap. He was thinking of a future, however vaguely.
“Of all the greedy little quims I’ve ever known,” he said, gently, hypnotically, rubbing the sweet spot into a fat bloom of need, “I think this must be the greediest. What kind of girl gets wet from being punished? Eh? The kind of girl that needs more punishment, I think. The kind of girl that needs to be taken in hand.”
He pushed a finger up inside me and rotated it. It was useless to deny it, I was going to come soon, and hard.
I screwed my eyes shut and tried hysterically to think of boring and disgusting things. Nothing occurred. My consciousness was as full as my pussy, now with three probing fingers inside, full of him and his diabolical workings on my sex. I jiggled my bum frantically, trying to push him away, but there was no chance of that. He had me in a strong and capable grasp, one hand on the small of my back, massaging me into helpless compliance while the other finger-fucked me with exquisite finesse.
Mustn’t come, mustn’t come, mustn’t come.
“If you come, I’ll have to use my belt on you, you know.”
I came.
He used his belt on me. It left a sharp, sweet, hot sting and neat, red lines on my backside, lines that I would touch and gaze at in my bedroom mirror for a long time that night. But I wouldn’t follow my urges and masturbate over it. Oh no. I wouldn’t dare.
“You’re doing well, Lara,” he said gravely, once I had sat my aching behind down on the chair next to his, hands folded demurely in lap, flaming face pointing down. “Don’t think that you aren’t. I’m delighted to see how much you’ve achieved in this relatively brief space of time. But there is always room for improvement—and sustaining this level of improvement is very hard. I will expect a few falls from grace along the road. Just remember to be honest with me about them, or it will certainly go worse with you. Let’s say that I know of things that are a lot worse than the palm of my hand, or even my belt.”
I yipped and looked up at his face, so placid in its sternness, so relaxed in its authority. He meant it.
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It was a severe punishment, and now she’s being left to wonder whether it’s actually over:
From a 2012 shoot at Assume The Position.
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