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In this cute video from VeiledVice, the home invasion burglars threaten a whip interrogation:
But it totally backfires when they find out that their victim rather enjoys that sort of treatment!
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The machine is set on a slow stroke, and it doesn’t spin very hard. But that leather strap is so very supple, and oh my gods, the leverage! Plus, it’s inexorable. It just keeps swatting, and swatting, and swatting…
She’ll be a very sorry girl by the time she’s done with her session on the pussy spanker.
Artwork is by AlexArts and dates to 2020 or before. This is an example (which somebody asked about back in September) of what we used to call “Poser art” — scenes created in any of a whole host of 3D-art creation packages of which Poser was merely one of the early popular ones. People who don’t remember the Poser art scene sometimes confuse it with poorly-made generative AI artwork, but they’re pretty easy to distinguish. 3D art is usually over-specified in its precise details, so much so that textures are mechanical and artificial-looking and there’s too much symmetry everywhere. That’s pretty much the opposite problem from most AI art, which looks pretty good until you start studying details and begin to wonder who fed you mushrooms, took you to an alien planet, and detuned the simulation you live in.
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Vix the virtual fox-demon believes in good communication in her relationship, per this video:
Vix says:
The other day, while I was cleaning in the kitchen, Ruru just comes up to me after I mouth off about something and asked, “What’s with the attitude?”
And I didn’t look at her. I just kept doing what I was doing and replied, “Well, you know, you do keep feeding it attention.”
To which she put her finger under my chin, stopping me from my task and turned me to face her as she spoke very slowly. “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”
I nodded very calmly, eyes locked on hers and said, “I’m so glad that we’re on the same page.”
Who here thinks Ruru is about to give Vix The Brat even more attention for a few intense minutes?
A note, for any of you who are wondering what you’re looking at in this video: Vix appears to be a virtual YouTuber, which is usually shortened to “VTuber”. I know that the Spanking Blog crowd includes a higher-than-usual percentage of us relics who remember the 20th-centery old-web internet before streaming was a thing, and not all of us have been cursed (“may you live in interesting times”) to become chronically-online and keep up with “interesting” forms of new media like virtual streamers whose electronic avatars have faces and ears and tails and fur. For y’alls benefit, I’ll explain that VTubers are people (or sometimes, especially in Japan, corporate-owned characters) who stream (talk and perform), on YouTube or Twitch or other other streaming platforms, without ever exposing a human face. But usually and historically they have not been AI artifacts. Their digital forms traditionally were well-crafted by hand by human artists and carefully programmed to mirror the underlying movements and gestures of a human driver/operator. I know that the best VTuber digital avatars used to be commissioned by their owner/users and would cost at least as much as one of those physical fursuits that furries lavish so much design and craft upon.
Of course, in 2026 the AI wildfires are sweeping through every field of human expression, and there’s nothing but our individual suspicion and discernment to guide us in particular cases, but I’d recommend you not to make knee-jerk assumptions about AI involvement when seeing content from an established VTuber. Also, because accusing human artists of AI use without evidence is a rapidly-emerging form of digital rudeness, it tends to be something I moderate away pretty harshly in Spanking Blog comments. If you know something is AI and you have a polite way to demonstrate that, plus some sort of not-tedious complaint about it, your comment might survive; but if you’re just being nasty about what comes across to the rest of us as an unsupported aesthetic suspicion of yours, and/or if you’re just trying to bully me about a publication decision you disagree with, the comment surely will not survive. Fair warning.
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In Slow Burn by Annabel Joseph, the setup is that she offended the king in an audience, and he commanded her husband to take her home and punish her properly. It was half in jest between the men, but deadly serious for Elizabeth’s ass:
He gestured to a pedestal in the corner, where the far-too-healthy piece of ginger from the royal greenhouse rested on a tray beside one of August’s whittling knives. She noticed too some of the punishment implements hung upon the far wall. Whips, paddles, straps, canes, more rope, and sinister looking cuffs.
The array of items looked suspiciously new for such an old and dusty environment. Almost as if he’d outfitted it recently himself.
“I can’t believe you really mean to punish me on the king’s behalf,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’ll never know if you don’t.”
“He is my sovereign, and yours. If the king should ask me in the future if I kept my word and punished my spirited filly, I would not want to lie.”
“And he probably will ask, that tiresome man.”
“Such disrespect shown to His Majesty, on top of all your hemming and hawing!” He shook his head. “You shall have to be punished severely for these crimes.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, feeling the familiar rush of alarm and excitement that accompanied these sessions with her husband, where his gentle civility was replaced, temporarily, with voracious hungers and carnal needs.
“Remove your clothing,” he commanded in that voice. “All of it.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, meeting his stern tone with exaggerated deference. These sessions were more enjoyable when they properly played their parts. But oh, the ginger… Her part was harder to play.
When she was naked, stripped of gown and petticoats and pantalettes, and he nearly naked, in only low-slung trousers, he laid her clothes out of reach and took her arm.
“Come stand here, my naughty subject. Face the wall.”
She watched, wordless, breathless, as he fixed some leather cuffs to two formidable chains hanging down on either side of her. Then he caught her wrists and buckled them in. She was trapped like a butterfly with her wings spread, and only the stone wall before her to stare at. She could not turn, could not escape.
With her thus secured, her husband began preparing the ginger, using his carving skills to craft the largest, thickest fig he’d yet subjected her to. She watched as he added small gouges to its flesh for maximum stinging potential. Infernal royal ginger. It was indeed heartier than any the Augustine kitchen produced.
“It’s this and a sound strapping for you,” he said, bringing the ginger to hold before her eyes. “Perhaps a few strokes of the cane.”
“Have I been so spirited,” she pleaded, “to deserve this?”
“You have hemmed and hawed to extremity, my spirited filly.”
She swallowed a wild laugh. It turned to a moan as he pressed the fresh, slippery ginger at the entrance to her clenching bottom.
“Let it in,” he said. “It’s going in one way or another.”
“It burns!”
“As it’s meant to.”
She tried to relax enough to let it slide in and was rewarded with immediate discomfort and an uncomfortably full feeling in her bottom. Of course, the ginger’s burn would only grow worse if she clenched upon it. For now, she tried to remain still. She tested the chains, but they were stronger than anything. She was helpless, powerless, in her husband’s hands.
“You’re to manage your behavior as you’re punished,” he said, going for the strap. “No flailing around.”
“That’s easier said than done, my lord.”
“Even so. Stick out your backside for me.”
She complied, regretfully.
“There, just right.” He tapped her lightly with the long, thick strap, pressing the edge of the protruding ginger fig. She could picture his fingers curved about the stout handle. “Hold that position until I inform you that we’re through.”
The first blow came, loud and fiery upon her skin. It hurt but was bearable. At least the servants would not hear, not all the way down here. The second blow was harder. He was warming her up, preparing her for greater torture. Yes, torture. Oww.
The third stroke had her on her toes, squeezing the ginger in her backside. It smarted terribly and made her groan. The fourth was the hardest yet.
“Keep the position,” he ordered.
She tried, oh, she tried, but by the fifth swinging stroke, her bottom felt aflame. The inside burned relentlessly from the ginger, while her cheeks felt raw from the wide strap’s impact. He gave her ten altogether, each one a bit harder, and made her stick her bottom out to receive each indignity, to be totally sure she felt every bit of hurt.
After that, he let her rest a moment. “The king would have spanked you harder, you know.”
“I doubt that.” Her voice trembled as she shifted on her feet. If only she could massage some of the pain from her molten buttocks. “Well, perhaps.”
“But a few strokes of the cane will finish you off nicely. Teach you the dangers of irritating your monarch.”
“Please, not too hard,” she begged as he took up the severe implement. “You shall make me cry.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He paused a moment, placing a breathy kiss at her nape. “Nor the last, unfortunately for you.”
He stood back and she braced for the first cane stroke. It came whistling, landing like a line of horror. She let out a wail.
“Position, darling.”
How could she be expected to offer up her backside for such agony? It was all she could do to keep her feet, so she wasn’t hanging limply from the stone ceiling.
“How many?” she asked. “How many exactly?”
“As many as I like.”
Another stroke, painful and fiery. Another. She jumped and squirmed and begged. “I cannot, I cannot! Please!”
He stopped, tapping the cane upon the stone floor. “You may submit to your caning, darling, or you can submit to a buggering. I’ll allow you to choose.”
“A…a what?”
“My cock in your naughty little arsehole.”
She swallowed hard. She knew they’d been building up to that. It had begun with the occasional insertion of one or two fingers, then graduated to wooden shafts carved expressly to stretch her bottom hole open.
But none of those came close to his actual size.
“You… You might hurt me,” she said in a trembling voice. “You’ll never fit.”
“You said that about your pussy, remember? Now you ride my cock at any opportunity. I concede this might be slightly less comfortable, but you are being punished.” He turned the cane over in his hands, then tapped it against his palm. “Will it be more of the cane, or will you take your chances with a buggering?”
What a choice. The cane was terrible, but his cock in her little, tight bum hole…? It would be humiliating, and he might injure her.
“I don’t think…” She opened and closed her hands, trapped by the tight cuffs. “I’m afraid to be buggered.”
“All right, then.”
The next cane stroke caught her right under her arse cheeks, such searing pain that her breath left in a gasp.
“No, no! All right. I’ve changed my mind. I will take…the other.”
“Say it properly. Use real words. I will take a buggering, sir.”
“I will take a buggering, sir. But please—”
“You’ll survive it,” he said, tracing the cane stripes on her bottom. “You’ve had things up there before.”
“Not things like…” Like your very large thing.
He took the ginger from her bottom gently, carefully, as if he was not planning to plunder her there afterward. She still wasn’t sure it was possible. He put the ginger back on the tray and returned with more things to frighten her. The first was a pair of metal clips that met in a tight grip. He opened and closed them before her gaze.
“If I apply these to your nipples, naughty girl, they will distract you from…other pain. They will help you open to it.”
“Truly?” Her nipples were very sensitive to his pinching and squeezing.
“You must trust me. Hold your breath.”
“Why?”
“So you will not scream.”
He applied the first one as he said it. And she did not scream, only gasped and writhed at the sudden pressure and pain. He attached the other, and as she processed that application with short, huffing breaths, he took up a pot of slippery unguent that was not unfamiliar to her.
“As you know, this makes it easier for things to fit inside you.”
He seemed to hold his own breath as he introduced a finger full of the oily stuff, then two, up her backside. Her husband put his fingers in her bottom with some regularity, and it had shocked her in the beginning, until she’d learned to relax and let him have his way.
But…this…
“Are you going to release me…before you…?”
“Put my cock in your arsehole? No. I think not.”
“Oh.” She gritted her teeth against the pain at her nipples. Pulling at her restraints did nothing to ease it. The metal clips shone at the tips of her breasts, taunting her, for she had no way to yank the hurting things off.
She heard him remove his trousers, knew without looking that his cock would be hard and stiff and scary looking as he sidled up behind her. She moaned as one of his hands gripped her hip. The other pressed his cock’s tip to her arsehole, just as he’d done with the ginger earlier.
He stopped and added more unguent, as if there would ever be enough.
“You must relax if I’m to get in without hurting you,” he said. “You must let it happen. Think of my power, and your pain.”
Those were all she could think of. He tried again to press inside her and this time, she screwed up her courage and pressed back. The tip of him went in, a strange, thick invasion.
“Yes,” he breathed, and flicked each of the clips on her nipples. “Just like that. It will only hurt a moment or two. Relax and let me in.”
The renewed torment from the clips blended with the painful pressure at her arsehole. He could not…it wasn’t possible…but then he was sliding deeper inside, and her body was letting him. He went slowly, so slowly, massaging her hip as he entered her inch by terrifying inch. At last, the acute pain subsided, replaced with a fullness she could never have described. He was so much inside her, so deep inside her, she could hardly bear it.
Yet, suddenly, she wished he would push deeper.
She moved back against him, arching her hips. Her buttocks were sore, inflamed from the strap and cane where they contacted his hardness, but she didn’t care. He let out a hoarse gasp as if he’d been holding his breath, and only now let it go. The hand that held her hips dipped lower, clamped over her pussy, grasped her hard between her legs. A searching finger soon landed upon that spot, that glorious button he’d trained to his skillful touch.
She choked out a cry, shocked by the melding excitement of his deepness and the heat he created between her legs. He withdrew and pressed back in, grasping her so she couldn’t move one iota without his guidance. In, out, slow, deep, hot, hard, sliding with leisurely, masterful strokes until she felt delirious with unexpected pleasure.
This is better than caning, she thought. I chose correctly.
But she pretended to feel punished, because she knew he liked it. She moaned and moved her hips beneath his fingers, squeezing upon him now and again as if she could not bear to have him deeper, but he’d go deeper, and she’d secretly rejoice.
By the end—when he flicked her nipples, her pussy’s button, all of it at once when he drove inside her—she could not pretend to feel punished anymore. She cried out in a reckless climax of sensation, her body squeezing him in delirium as she jerked wildly at the chains, rattling them over the sound of his rasping breath.
“My God,” he said. “Elizabeth.”
He growled and thrust so deeply she was practically lifted from her feet, and she lost her wits again. They reached their pleasure together, her for a second time.
Afterward, August gasped as if he’d just run a long distance, his breath hot on her shoulder. He bit her there, not hard enough to injure her. She made a small, complaining sound, but she didn’t really mind.
“Be still a moment,” he said. “Be still long enough for me to collect myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
She waited obediently, trembling somewhat, until his grip upon her loosened, and he began to soften within her. He pulled out of her, then rested his hands upon her shoulders and massaged her, as if searching for tension.
There was none. She was absolutely spent.
“That’s what happens to spirited young ladies who hem and haw at the king,” he whispered in her ear, as he relieved her nipples of their painful clips.
“Ouch. Oh. If only I’d known.”
He grasped her breasts as the blood rushed back to her sore nipples. She welcomed the discomfort even though it made her shudder.
“Are you ready to be released?” he asked, caressing her neck and shoulders. “Or shall we finish what I started with the cane?”
“No. Please!”
She pretended to be alarmed, but she knew he jested. He pushed her outside her comfort zone more each time as their intimate familiarity progressed, but he had not yet pushed her too far. That was why she trusted him to do such scandalous things.
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This is a pussy-whipping-through-the-bars scene from the 1976 women-in-prison movie Domination Blue:
Although her face isn’t visible enough for me to be entirely certain, I believe it’s the legendary Vanessa Del Rio getting her pussy whipped in this scene.
Update: Whoops, I published a version of this with less detail and information back in 2018.
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When his wife misbehaved in the store, he carried her right out of there, and gave her a swat or two to reinforce the message!
She never even stopped smiling.
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This is the most ludicrous-looking leather impact toy I have ever seen, even in artwork form. It looks like the huge hand of an even-more-enormous 1930s animated cartoon mouse. It would be even funnier if it hadn’t left such a serious welt on the bound submissive’s back:
Apparently getting smacked by a giant Mickey Mouse is no laughing matter!
Artwork is by Carlo.
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