Viciously Strapped For Loitering

The fictional school for young noblewomen detailed in The Prefect by P. N. Dedeaux has harsh punishments for many different trivial offenses, to include the dire crime of loitering in hallways:

‘As this is a first offence I shall not strip you of your rank, Else. But you will do Duty Prefect for a week, write me out five hundred times, “I must not loiter in passages”, and the next time you are found in the slightest fault I will see to it that you get three dozen, slowly, with the whalebone birch. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Frau Direktrice. Thank you.’

‘Four strokes with the Sole.’

Maria had seen this implement, and saw it again now, reposing on a table to one side. She was surprised, however, at the sudden accession of wild, and most definite fear to the eyes of the girl as she went forward to where the Duty Mistress now pointed. Surely four was not too bad.

‘Lie down on your back.’

On her back? What was this?

Her lips – yes – quite distinctly trembling, Else Gundling lifted her legs into an L of her body. Her ankles were subjected to stout straps, which were then shackled to a pulley Wedell had lowered from the ceiling. There was a squeak of a wheel and she was hoisted until she rested but on her shoulders; the pulleys were parted, as were her legs. By now she was looking ashen with fear. Her cunt was richly bushed with swarthy hair which streamed up her belly in a flat broad bar. The tackles were adjusted, the Duty Mistress pressing on the girl’s hams to see that she was thoroughly held; then in a sudden athletic swing Wedell, grasping her victim’s wrists, swung the girl’s torso forward till her back arched. These wretched wrists were then likewise cuffed in leather and to the middle of a set of bars, evidently for the purpose. Maria breathed in deeply.

She faced the offender from the back. Else Gundling hung clear with widely parted legs, her upper body a bow attached to the bar in front. The oval purse of her pussy pouched downmost, its fat lips close. But the hair ran up the squeeze of bunched buttocks behind, the turgid flesh of whose inner sides were fully exposed, below, which was to say just above the closure of cunt.

A cold sweat started on Maria Daunitz’s brow. Undulations in the tender flesh where thigh met hip showed her that Else was not indifferent to the enormity of her situation, either. Her slabby cheeks were ripe for whipping, were going to be whipped. Wedell pressed down on them again, creaking her pulleys, then went to get her instrument. This was the Sole.

It consisted in a wooden handle and a broad leather strap of some three feet in length. Not an implement to make an experienced student pant and stretch in fear like this, surely. Maria’s tongue ran over her lips as Fräulein Wedell positioned herself with an attitude of relish some six feet back from the exact centre of her victim’s person.

‘Slowly, Wedell.’

The Prefect began to tremor, her breath coming fast.

The mistress raised the tawse above her head with both hands and with both brought it down in a slapping crack that rang through the room like a pistol shot. She had chosen as target the inside of the left buttock and the pulpy flesh under and inside the thigh there. Else jerked like a fish. Then she twisted and panted with pain.

Clearly this had been considerable. The red weal that had been ripped into her was going dark at its rim. It had cut close to her cunt but no more, yet such was her position, terror of intimate violation arched her back, clenching. The second swiped across the right, and produced a collected cry –

‘Ooooh … nicht … bitte, bitte …’

The mistress had but four and meant to extract the fullest extent of learning from them. This she effected so well at the third, again on the sturdy left cheek, that the Headmistress was moved to remark, ‘Good, very good, Wedell.’

The puce blotch now extended into the buttock cheeks, at their juncture. The girl strove to clench these maddened surfaces with all her strength, gave up in a slackened pant – as the mistress struck. The strap thucked home athwart the right side, producing a positive frenzy on the pulleys. And let down, her lower limbs released before her wrists, Else Gundling writhed amain like some stranded shark, doubling up her knees, bicycling in agony as wave after wave of pain seemed to get to and engulf her.

By a miracle of control she rested as if exhausted on hands and knees a moment, head dropped, lost, freed. She kissed the tail the mistress held out and pulled up her knickers over her raw weltings. She prostrated herself on the floor, in slowly heaving motions.

‘All right, Gundling, you won’t be let off so lightly next time.’

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Ten With The Cane

This harsh caning scene comes from The Prefect (also published as The Prussian Girls) by P. N. Dedeaux. Maria is a new mistress at an extremely strict Prussian school for young ladies, and she is in trouble for having been excessively lenient:

“You will receive ten strokes of the cane across your buttocks.”

Heavens, worse than she had thought. Maria tried to keep her face as expressionless as that of the hefty Wedell, as the latter took up the penal cane. Maria gulped. It was an aching, soulless length of round yellow willow, or ash, that the mistress was now rubbing with rosin at its gripping end, obviously capable of lashing agony. It was a thing of drill squares rather than girls” dormitories; its thumping whip would make a Westphalian plough pony dance. Ten strokes with… that?

But Wedell was walking, marching, and Maria knew she had to follow her, bottoms in apprehensive joggle, to one end of the room where sprawled a wooden trestle. The stretched trestle leaked straps like hungry tongues. Broadly spread, her legs were fastened to it at ankle and knee. There was a leather pad at the centre against whose slightly-stained side she rested her pubis, her arms being pulled forward to the lower struts and at the wrists; as the front section, or headpiece, was lower, she found herself bent positively forward, and very much on display behind.

This sensation of utter vulnerability was intensified as a wide belt was drawn tight and buckled over her own. And when a thin tough strap dangling from the pad between her legs was drawn up her furrow and the bisection of her buttocks, to be hauled tight to the back of that same belt behind her, Maria winced with an admixture of both pain and shame. She was beginning to feel utterly trussed and strapped, out of breath and red of face; it hardly helped her general sense of shame that, in this state, the involuntary tremblings of her body all seemed to communicate themselves to her lower person, now her highest! But Wedell had by no means finished. Things were not done by halves at Schloss Rutenberg. Maria had asked to be secured, and would be. From under her armpits two thin black straps bit into the cream of her shoulders, straining forward. Finally, a chain — a common curb or snaffle perhaps — was brought from behind her head through her mouth, and was fastened, after some oil had been smeared on the sides of her lips. She was bitted, no less! And in this process Maria heard a quick sympathetic whisper in her ear as Wedell leaned over her, fastening the chain — “Breathe deeply.” It was surely all she could do. Why, she could hardly twitch. She felt… all bottom.

“Proceed”, said the headmistress. “Begin with four a minute.”

A metronome was set going.

“Ja, Frau Direktrice.”

“Hau, was Du hauen kannst”, came the irrevocable order then.

Fräulein Wedell stood behind Maria, waving the long, heavy Rohrstock in her right hand. She laid its cold wood on the parted, plummy posteriors a second, drew back, and swung.

It was a long sweeping stroke that cut upwards into the fat and Maria had known nothing like its bite before. Allmächtiger Gott! It drove her slack cheeks upwards, branding a band of burning agony athwart them. Then suddenly the true flame of pain drove through her, taking the breath from her half-uttered gasp.

“One”, said the Frau Direktrice. “Schon gut.

After three every pore of her person seemed possessed of pain and she bit feverishly on the chain between her teeth.

Hhuittt!

“Four!”

Not even halfway through.

“Oh … oh … auuuh.”

She stretched out, twisting up the trestle, her posteriors cringing like those of some well-whipped dog. The long penal cane was unspeakably painful, its tip digging into her right side unbearably. Five… six… seven… dear Christ in HEAVEN.

“Aaaah…”

Then something happened. In a cold tone the Headmistress was speaking.

“You”re letting her off too lightly, Wedell. If you don’t hit harder than this, I’ll have you put to the triangle. It’ll be twenty, in public.”

Ja, Frau Direktrice. Entschuld.

“These last cuts over two minutes.”

Maria listened to the metronome ticking. Her whipped seat was afire. No more, no more…

But the next belted into her with a shock that shook the trestle and a drenching streak of agony seemed to pass right through her. Her vision fogged.

“Much better. They should all have been like that.”

“Haaa-uuuuu…”

H-H-HWHTTT!

“Nine. That was too high. Take her at the top of the legs for the last.”

Shivering as if with the ague Maria Daunitz awaited the stroke, stretching forward and, in doing so, pulling up just that part the mistress had been told to flog. The big woman took a prancy pace and wrapped the length of the rod around the base of the wealed surfaces. Maria lunged with a grunting moan, her body spasmed in a cramp, then sheer pain seemed to flood through her from insteps to eyeballs. The last three stripes had been worse than the whole of the first seven.

Her legs were released first, and she jacked them back together, writhing. Ingeborg had instructed her in protocol. She was somehow or other supposed now to kneel and kiss the… the… and thank for punishment… with her hands by her sides… with her… but her hands had been released, her mouth, and her waist, and herself, and a voice was saying sternly, “Stand up at once. This is extremely poor comportment, Daunitz.”

Alas, it was. Pain suffused her from tip to toe, and she realized she was rolling on her back on the floor, with her knees drawn up to her chin, and her hands grabbing and rubbing the twin coals of her arse cheeks. Wedell was looking at her with some interest, from the distance of that endless cane, while the Head’s gaze had been converted to a winking glare by the insertion, in her right eye, of a monocle.

“Get up.”

“Yes … ohoooooaaaah … Frau Direktrice.”

“Pull yourself together and get up and thank for punishment. Cease this unnecessary exhibition at once.”

Maria forced herself to obey. She had to drag herself to her knees. Half-blind with pain she kissed the tip of the outstretched cane, mumbled the ritual words of thanks, resumed her discarded skirt, curtseyed stiffly to the Headmistress, then stood up to attention, trembling like a jelly all over.

“I had hoped you would do better than this, Daunitz. Do you feel well punished?”

“Th-th-thoroughly, Headmistress.” It was something she could gasp out with complete conviction. Her buttocks felt at this moment like so much molten lead. “Thank you”, she managed to get herself to add.

“You will not be let off so lightly next time. In fact, I shall recommend some training correction for you so that you do not behave like this again. Meanwhile, you bear Fräulein Wedell no grudge, I hope; she was merely doing her duty.”

“None”, she breathed in reply.

“Return to your quarters.”

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Mind Blown: A Kink SciFi Connection

My mind is blown.

When I was a dirty-minded adolescent, I read pretty much every volume of science fiction and fantasy that fell under my hand. I soon noticed that books by Andrew J. Offutt could with great reliability be counted on to contain one or more wank-worthy kinky scenes: spanking, dungeon interrogation, bondage peril, or amusing combinations of all three. It’s actually been on my Spanking Blog to-do list for a long time to dig up some of those spanking scenes to republish on the blog.

Well, today I learned that Offutt was a prolific writer of erotica under numerous pen names:

Offutt wrote at least 420 pornographic/erotic works under seventeen different pen-names and house-names, including Opal Andrews, “Anonymous,” Joe Brown, John Cleve, Camille Colben, Jack Cory, Jeremy Crebb, P. N. Dedeaux, John Denis, Jeff Douglas, Farrah Fawkes, Baxter Giles, Alan Marshall, Jeff Morehead, J. (John) X. Williams, Turk Winter, and Jeff Woodson. The first was Bondage Babes, published under the name Alan Marshall by Greenleaf in 1968; the first appearance of his principal pen name, John Cleve, was on Slave of the Sudan in 1969.

According to his son Chris Offutt he came to regard Cleve as more a separate persona than a pen name, and his other aliases as Cleve’s pen names, not his own. As “Cleve” he published more than 130 works of erotica before the market for erotica dried up about 1985; afterwards, turning to self-publishing, he issued 260 more as Turk Winter (an early “Cleve” pen name) over the next twenty-five years. Thirty more remained unpublished at the time of his death. So prolific was Offutt in this area that in summing up his writing career his son Chris wrote that he “came to understand that my father had passed as a science-fiction writer while actually pursuing a 50-year career as a pornographer.”

Spanking fans will probably recognize the P. N. Dedeaux name, but the pen name that made me completely lose my shit was Turk Winter. Turk Winter is the writer of the Blunder Broad comic strip drawn by Eric Stanton in his Stantoons magazine. The long-running Blunder Broad strip is incredibly raunchy, though you haven’t seen much of it here since spanking is just one dish on a very large menu of kinks that sometimes appear therein. (It’s also more violent and scatalogical than most of what appears here.) It’s no wonder that, as a very young kinky boy, I recognized Offutt as a reliable source of kink in a world that didn’t have much kink to offer. The man was so kinky, it oozed into everything he did!

Blunder Broad paddles the ass of one of her adversaries

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Caning For A Beta Rho Pledge

This is from the book Sorority of Submissive Girls, variously attributed to P.N. Dedeaux or Carl Buono:

‘We’ll start now.’

‘Please. You’re not going to …’ Rowena was alarmed as much at the fear she felt as anything.

‘I use a cane. Fetch me the one in the bottom rack above your bed.’

‘But I’ve just been …’

‘I don’t want to have to order you a Demerit as well.’

Sick inside, Rowena turned. In the bedroom beyond, three slender exclamation marks stood over her bed. She chose the lowest and, it seemed, the leanest, a long thin yellow rod which wiggled like a live thing as she carried it back to her senior. There was a knob at one end for grip.

Alison Riley accepted it and flexed it expertly, almost in two. ‘This is a light correction cane but I think you’ll find it stings. The ones we use in the House are less bendy, and hurt more. One of your duties is to keep these sticks polished, gleaming. Now move those chairs out of the way and come and bend over here.’

Here was in front of the empty fireplace, ranked with logs. Rowena cleared the space with averted eyes, her pulpy features a picture of anxiety.

‘Grip this.’

The cane-tip tapped the polished bar of the grate.

Rowena stood on the end of the bearskin rug and doubled to do so. The brass felt cold in her fingers. Almost at once she again felt her skirt lifted onto her back. Two thumbs hooked in the waistband of her tights and eased them down her hips to her knees. She felt utterly exposed and irrationally humiliated. After all, it was only a girl behind her. Resentment mounted in her, turning into resolve – she’d show this Senior she could take it, with the best.

‘I’m, glad to see you have a good full fanny, Rowena. I shall enjoy caning you a lot. Brace back your knees and tuck your head right down. I’m going to hit you here.’ The cane end touched the rectangular red of the paddle’s deepest weals. ‘Four for four. I’m a fairly good golfer, so all in all I think you’ll know you’re beaten by the time I’ve finished with you.’

She walked away, Rowena imagined her going back to the bedroom perhaps, when she turned and in a pair of prancing strides paced forward and wrapped the licky yellow stick round the centre of the well-bent and naked posterior in front of her. Rowena gasped as if she’d been thrust into icy water. The razor-like flash of fire across her tenderest flesh mounted maddeningly, until her breath came short. Before she knew it there was
another dry whirr, like the sudden parting of curtains behind her, completed by a solid meaty snap, as the cane cut.

‘Auouuuu … OW!’

‘I said, ‘brace back your knees’.’

‘I’m trying, Miss.’

‘Well, try harder then.’

If only she could get through three. Then she could hold it after the fourth, until the word of permission to get up came.

Thhhwlckk!

‘OH!’

The lithe rod lashed round her and dug into the same line of scalding welt. Rowena struggled but as the pain rose and rose she put her hands behind her, feeling the solid hot ridge where the tip had fallen on the right. Slowly, as the pain drenched over her in another irresistible wave, she rose erect, her face clenched.

‘Bend over at once, Pledge. You have another coming.’

‘I caaa-n’t. It’s unspeakable. I’m sorry, but …’

‘Well, if you can’t take four, I’m going to have to give you lots of practice before first Hell Night.’

Rowena closed her eyes. The word ‘Please’ was turned into a stifled whine in her mouth. She was aware of herself holding her behind and spasming the centre of her body like some coarse bump-and-grind dancer’s. Tears rushed to the corners of her eyes.

‘Please. I’m not used to being caned like that.’

‘Well, you’d better pluck up your courage for the next month, my dear, if you want to get into Beta Rho. It doesn’t hurt you any more than it does anyone else.’ Rather boredly the languid blonde tossed the cane onto the sofa. ‘We’ll try that four over before you hit the sack tonight.’

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