She Was Flogged By Red Sadists

This Matt Baker artwork is part of a two-page interior illustration spread in the April 1957 issue of Rage magazine, for the story “I was Flogged by Red Sadists”:

woman being flogged by a communist torturer

Here’s the full two page spread, which will enlarge if you click it:

two page pulp whipping illustration

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Instructing His Bride, With A Strap

The pleasures of taking a wholly innocent bride to your marital bed are what they are, but the necessity of instructing her cannot be avoided. And sometimes, she’ll require a few whacks with a leather strap before she steadies down to the lesson:

“All right, then. Are you ready to learn more about the ways of pleasing me?”

She nodded obediently, though she was mystified as to what he meant. Had he not already enjoyed her utterly?

“There is a thing that a wife must learn to do for her husband,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes to show that she should heed him, “that will seem to you very strange and even shameful. It is nevertheless a pleasure I will often require of you, Elisabeth, and when I tell you that it is time for you to do it, you will obey me. Do you understand?”

Elisabeth made her face a kind of mummer’s mask of innocent trepidation at the thought that husbands imposed such duties, while her loins were afire beneath the plaid and the wetness had begun to flow anew just at the idea that she would be forced to do something shameful that would please Angus.

“What is it, Angus?” she whispered.

He did not answer, but instead got out of bed as Elisabeth watched in confusion. He unbelted his dark red and green plaid and shrugged it from his shoulders. Then he laid it before him on the swept dirt floor of the croft-house.

“Come kneel here, Elisabeth,” he said. “In front of me.”

Oh, no. She still had no idea what he would do to her once she had knelt before him, but the very thought of being naked, upon her knees, while he was in his long shirt, took hold of her mind. The war inside her flared into battle.

“Oh, Angus,” she said. “I won’t. The Lady of Urquhart does not kneel before anyone but the king.”

She saw wrath darken his brow. “Would you like a chance to think of that again, wife?” he said. “I have told you that this is a duty I shall require. Recall, Elisabeth, in the barn, how I told you that you must learn to serve me in my bed?”

She pretended that she thought he was jesting. “Oh, but that is the floor, husband! Not your bed!”

His quickness again astonished her as he reached out and ripped the plaid off her naked body and tossed it aside. Then he reached out, and with dread, but also with that strange thrill she could not push away, she watched him take the strap—two layers of dark brown leather stitched together and bound to a wooden handle—from its hook next to the bed. He held it in his right hand and slapped its length across his left palm, twice. Then he said, “On your knees before me, Elisabeth. This moment.”

Making her eyes look as frightened as she could, Elisabeth obeyed him, scrambling from the bed to kneel before him upon his plaid.

“Much better, Elisabeth,” Angus said, softly. “Am I not your king, now, as much as the one in Edinburgh?”

She looked up into his eyes and whispered, “Yes, sire.”

With his left hand, then, he lifted his shirt to his waist, and she saw his yard in the light streaming from the eastern window for the first time. It made her think of a sword and of a pestle, the way it hung straight out from him, swollen so that the skin along the shaft seemed to bulge with veins. The sight stirred her beyond anything she might, she thought, ever express, and it stirred her so shamefully that she wished never to be made to try to express it. I shall never be truly tamed, she thought, for he can never make me tell him what the mere sight of his manhood does to me.

“Suck my yard, Elisabeth,” Angus said simply.

He looked down at Elisabeth’s face, mere inches from the tip of his man’s staff. With his shirt in his left hand, exposing himself lewdly before his noble bride, and the family strap in his right, it seemed to him that he had whiskey flowing through his veins, so hot did every part of his skin, and above all his rigid yard, feel at the prospect before him. He once had a lass whom he loved in a barn at Inverness, when he had too much to drink one night at the clan-gathering, take him in her mouth, at her offer, to keep her from getting with child, but this was very different.

He remembered when he had first decided that this duty was one he would require of his wife. Looking by chance through the window of the house of a distant cousin in Achmonie, he had seen a naked wife on her knees before her husband as he cradled her head in his hands, with an expression on his face that indicated that he was feeling a pleasure as great as the sea. His own yard had grown so stiff at the sight, and the masterful side of himself that he was coming to know so well had come to the fore so strongly that he had on the instant resolved that his wife should serve him that way whenever he wished.

That had been before he had known that his wife would be the Lady of Urquhart. He had been at peace with the masterful side of his nature for a good while now, and even at peace with his resolution to drink very little because of it, as he thought about his Da’s drunken, violent rages. When he had told Elisabeth about the kind of wife he would expect her to try to be, he had been sure that would be the end of it; certainly he would have to strap her sometimes so that she knew her behavior must be according to his notions of the part of a Highland bride, but he would do so according to his own responsibility towards her, to help her learn her place and to be content with her new rank and station.

Now, though, the prospect lay before him of strapping those beautiful bottom cheeks red to make her take his yard into her mouth, where he knew a pleasure lay that was greater even than the pleasure of her tight little cunny. The feeling was not as he had thought it would be, for he found that his desire to strap Elisabeth’s bottom was almost as great as his desire to look down upon the Lady of Urquhart with his man’s staff filling her mouth. Suddenly he wanted nothing as much as he wanted to use the strap on her arse while he fucked her prim little mouth, whether she sucked his yard obediently or no.

He looked down into her beautiful blue eyes, and he saw there a resolve that he could not, he suddenly thought, truly fathom.

“I will not,” Elisabeth said, “dishonor my mouth that way, Angus MacGregor.”

Angus lifted the strap and brought it down once and then again upon her backside, scarcely able to believe how greatly it stirred him to punish her that way. Indeed, he felt his yard leap with passion at the sound of each of the slaps and swell as he saw the red marks he had left.

Elisabeth’s eyes watered, and she gave two little gasps when he struck her, but she still looked up at him with the defiance in her eyes that seemed to rob him of his reason.

He dropped the fabric of his shirt from his left hand, letting it fall atop his yard, where his stiffness held it up. With that left hand he took hold of Elisabeth’s long red-gold hair and pulled her face in against his loins while he continued to strap her.

“Look at my yard, wife. You will take it in your pretty little lady’s mouth, or I will strap this arse of yours until nightfall.”

She was crying now and yelping at each stroke of the strap, and Angus felt like he was in a mist of fiery red desire.

“Open your mouth, Elisabeth,” he said, and she opened her mouth. He stopped the motions of the strap. Still holding her by the hair, he pulled her head back, then released it and took his yard upon his fingers, brandishing it, and then moving his hips forward, put it inside her mouth just a little ways. The feeling was beyond belief.

“Good lass,” he said in a voice that sounded strained with pleasure. “Good lass. Just a bit further, now.” With his left hand in her hair again, he held her head still as he pushed further, careful not to go too deep so that she would not take fright. Thus he went back and forth for a little while, groaning with the sensation in his yard and with the sight of his lovely noble bride with a man’s staff in her mouth.

Elisabeth’s eyes were closed; they had been closed since he had begun to strap her backside. Now they opened and she looked up at him. He had been prepared for a look of sheer hatred there, but instead he saw that she was looking questioningly into his eyes, to see if he was pleased with her. It was so unexpected to see her suddenly submit thus with her eyes, that without thinking about it, in a bodily response that sought only to increase his own pleasure in mastering Elisabeth this way, he brought the strap down again upon her little bottom—not hard, in chastisement, but with just the tiniest bit of sting, to remind her that she was his.

Elisabeth’s response was even more astonishing to him than her open eyes had been. At the feeling of the strap upon her backside, she moaned around his yard. He struck her again, harder, and she moaned again, and her body seemed to squirm with pleasure. Overcome with pleasure, he thrust deeper than he intended into her mouth and felt her yield her throat to him. The sensation was so unbearably lovely that he brought the strap down, and it seemed to make her mouth yield even more. She gagged then, though, and he pulled out of her mouth and brought the strap down again. The look upon her face was one of such transport, though her eyes were streaming with tears and her hair was now utterly disheveled, that he could hardly believe she had refused, just a few moments ago, to take him into her mouth.

Was that the secret of her strange behavior? Did she resist only that he might overmaster her and tame her like a wild creature?

To make trial of the notion, he brought the strap down again upon her bottom and said, “Open that little mouth again, Elisabeth. Open it this instant.”

With the same look of transport, she complied, and he thrust in again and began to fuck in earnest. He realized he was very close to spending. Part of him wanted to debase her utterly and in a way that she would never have imagined by making her swallow his seed, but suddenly he found the prospect of making her watch his yard spend and of befouling her lovely, creamy skin with his seed even more lewdly appealing.

He pulled her face away from his loins and held her there in readiness, as she moaned, and said, “Watch now, wife. You are now to see your husband’s seed.” He dropped the strap and took his yard into his hand and pumped it, slick with his bride’s spittle, until with a grunt he was spending all over her—her cheeks, her shoulders, her chin.

She was blushing furiously as she watched, but the look of humiliated pleasure was still upon her face even as her cheeks grew red as apples. Then he knelt with her and gathered her into his chest, saying, “Good lass, good lass. You were so pleasing.”

This tender scene is from Tamed By The Highlander, by Emily Tilton.

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The Lash For His Captives

He’s got his girls mostly naked, tightly tape gagged, bound hand and foot, and he’s looming over them with a long narrow leather strap. I know I overuse this joke, but nonetheless: date night seems to be going pretty well!

two women in bondage and menaced with a leather strap

From the cover of The Erotic Cinema #1.

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Schoolroom Punishments

These are from a photo series (perhaps originally published in one of the Blushes supplements) starring a blonde and a brunette getting hand spanked and caned in an old-fashioned schoolroom by a very formal British educator.

British schoolgirls spanking and caning photoset

I could not actually find the original scans in full; these pics are all floating around the web individually and generally in very small and degraded condition. These are not the only images in the set but they are a representative sample. Click the pic above to see them in a slightly larger format.

Update: Someone in email rightly points out that at least two of these photos are not from the same photoset as the others. Despite being in the same classroom, the disciplinarian in two cases sports some extravagant facial hair that’s not present in the rest of the photos. Perhaps you remember those old “spot the changed details” puzzles they used to publish in magazines for children? Yeah, I was bad at those.

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Mouthsoaped And Crying

I don’t know if this unhappy young lady was already in tears from a spanking before the mouth soaping part of her punishment began. It’s possible she dislikes the taste of soap even more than most punishees. Or maybe she actually feels bad about her misdeeds? It does happen, sometimes:

mascara running and crying as she is forced to hold a bar of soap in her mouth

From Northern Spanking.

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Her Immigration Is Going Badly

In African Agony by John “JJ” Argus, Sarah has arrived rather informally via rubber boat on an African shore and her informal immigration interview isn’t going very well for her:

Umbwatha stepped over to her, glowering, then looked down at her breasts. He prodded one with his stick, then slipped the stick beneath, lifting the breast up slightly.

“You are very well constructed,” he observed. “You wear little clothing. You are of poor morals. All English girls are, and you come to seduce my soldiers.”

“N-N-No,” she gulped.

“I think yes.”

“Please, w-we just… our boat just…”

He spoke to one of the other men, who hurried behind her, then gripped her long hair and yanked back hard. Sara screamed, her scalp stinging like a thousand small pins were being jammed into it. She did not even see Umbwatha take a half step back and then bring his arm down heavily, the stick slicing down onto her taut right breast.

She felt the impact, which was light, then the stinging pain a moment later. She screamed again.

“Stop! Please! No! Please don’t hurt me!” she shrieked.

Umbwatha’s eyes heated and he swung the stick again, cracking it down on the girl’s left breast. He watched the soft flesh jiggle under the impact, and a thin red line appearing as he drew his arm back.

“You must speak respectfully to me,” Umbwatha said, slashing the stick across her right breast again.

“We do not like your whoring ways here in Shankali. We punish those who violate our borders.”

The stick whipped down again, snapping like an adder, cutting across Sara’s soft breasts repeatedly as she sobbed piteously and begged him to stop.

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Those Same Three Caned Women

Remember the three caned women rubbing their bottoms on a vintage postcard that I posted back in 2017?

Well, here’s another card from the same set, showing the caning that had the ladies self-soothing their burning hemispheres:

caning three women vintage french postcard

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