All About Richard Manton

If you have ever enjoyed the severe noncon corporal punishment scenes in the erotic books written by pseudonymous author Richard Manton, you’re sure to find something useful in this comprehensive bibliography of his work, along with all that is known about the likely person behind the pseudonym:

There is good reason to believe that the author of the Richard Manton is the English writer, historian, poet and novelist Donald Serrell Thomas.

Donald Thomas’s extensive output includes works of social history, criticism, poetry and translation. He is an acknowledged expert on Victorian England with The Victorian Underworld amongst his history books. As a novelist he has written three series of about fictional detectives in Victorian times as well as pastiches of Sherlock Holmes adventures.

As a biographer he has written, significantly with regard to the Manton persona, a biography of the poet Swinburne, a noted Victorian flagellant. In 1968 Odyssey Press published Summer in the Country his translation of a 19th century French epistolary novel between two lesbian lovers.

In the middle seventies he published a series of crime novels, under the pseudonym of Francis Selwyn, about the cases of a Sergeant Verity set in the 1850’s and 1860’s. These are well written and entertaining stories in the historical crime genre and show his considerable knowledge of the Victorian milieu, particularly concerning the criminal undergrowth. While these novels are not erotica, some of Richard Manton’s characters appear in the Verity stories with the exact names and characteristics as in the erotic works.

See Also:

Running From Whipper Nate

There’s a chapter in The Captive’s Journey by Richard Manton detailing a variety of kinky entertainments in the British countryside, not the least of which is a girl hunt. But why does the human fox run? For fear of Whipper Nate, it turns out:

I awakened Saturday morning just as the first light of day became visible over the horizon. It was a cool, grey morning with a damp, heavy, mist in the air — perfect weather for “The Hunt.”

Dressed in our red and buff outfits, the twenty guests assembled in the dining-room for our lavish breakfast. As we were sitting down to eat, a brass horn sounded. Sir Andrew Sternwell entered the dining hall with a statuesque red-headed woman in tow. With her wrists tied in front of her, she was strikingly beautiful and completely nude. Sir Andrew introduced the woman as Jessica Gray. She looked, understandably, very frightened. He informed us that she would be the object of our quest — our ‘fox’ for the day. He then explained the rules of the Hunt to us.

On leaving the dining hall, the naked Jessica Gray would be taken deep into the forest that surrounded the estate. She would be given an hour’s head start, while the hunting party finished their breakfast and readied their mounts. Jessica’s task was quite simple: she was to try to avoid recapture by the hunting party for as long as possible. Sir Andrew informed the girl that she would be expected to avoid capture for a minimum of two hours or else face the consequences.

As she was being led out of the room, I remarked to Lady Fiona that I was uncertain as to what would motivate the girl to play the odious role assigned her and attempt to evade the pursuing hunting party. Fiona replied that the girl had been informed that, if she did not avoid being recaptured with in the mandated period of time, she would earn a week’s stay with ‘Whipper Nate’.

“Whipper Nate?” I asked.

She then told me the story of ‘Whipper Nate Cobb’….

It seems that on the grounds of Sternwell Manor was an old grist mill dating from the 1700’s. The mill was somewhat unusual in that, instead of being water-powered, this mill was man-driven. In those less enlightened days, convicted prisoners were required to work off their sentences by driving the heavy mill shaft under the watchful eye of the jailer, a rather sadistic gentleman named, Nate Cobb.

When Rio 9 took over ownership of the estate, the old mill was still there, although it had fallen into a state of disrepair. Sensing such a facility might be of value to the organization, the mill was repaired. Ironically, old Nate’s great grandson still lived in the area. Also named ‘Nate’, he was most anxious to carry on the family tradition.

If a member of the organization felt that one of their female charges was in need of prolonged corrective action, she would be delivered to Whipper Nate. The girl would be summarily stripped naked and her head and hands would be placed in a wooden yoke mounted on a horizontal shaft that was affixed perpendicular to the main vertical drive shaft. Bent over at the waist, the girl’s naked ass would be most prominently displayed.

Whipper Nate, with a brine-soaked leather cat in hand, would stand behind his unfortunate victim and order the girl to start turning the shaft.

It was not an easy task — the shaft was quite heavy and the position is which she was tied was most uncomfortable, but Whipper Nate made sure she complied. If she stopped or slowed down at anytime, she soon felt Nate’s cruel whip on her exposed bottom. Nate, although not the brightest of individuals, loved his work and would keep the girl driving the heavy shaft until she reached the point of total exhaustion.

As Jessica Gray had painfully learned at a previous session, an hour of such treatment was almost unendurable — an afternoon of it seemed like a lifetime. Facing the unpleasant prospect of a full week at the hands of Whipper Nate if she failed, Jessica would do everything she could to avoid that fate. She’d run as fast and as far as was humanly possible to elude us.

See Also:

The Menace Of His Cigar

If you’ve ever read any of the numerous spanking and BDSM novels by Richard Manton, you may remember that one of the more intense (and squicky for me, though your mileage may vary) recurring themes involves light touches in vulnerable places with the business end of a cigar. Not my kink at all. However, I do enjoy this photo starring a well-caned girl who is clearly very concerned that her punishment isn’t over. Is she worried about more caning, or is it her master’s cigar that has her so worried? I guess I don’t mind a bit of ambiguous menace:

caned girl in strict rope bondage nervously eyeballs the cigar in her masters hand

The photo circulated a lot on Tumblr-that-was, without attribution. Based on style, I would guess that it’s a turn-of-the-century photo from the original Insex, but I don’t know for sure.

See Also:

A Peppermint Whipping And Blowjob

Here’s a festive peppermint-flavored whipping and blowjob for your Christmas Eve pleasure. It comes from the Blue Moon erotic novel Jeremy by Richard Manton. The villain of the piece confronts that eternal problem: the reluctant heroine who needs more whipping before she will suck him properly, which is difficult to deliver while he’s entangled up front. So he resorts to “enhancing” her whipped bottom with a bottle of stinging peppermint extract:

The tumble of her ringlets stirred as she as she made a pleading, wanting sound, and shaped a kiss to the fly-vent of his trousers. It almost startled him. But this was clearly a girl who knew what life was all about and what she wanted from it. She kissed the cloth again, her lips finding and feeling the shrouded bulge.

Jeremy smiled to himself. There was usually a point where the girl whom he was tanning did something like this, either in passion or desperation. He looked down, grinning, and watched her do it again. Sometimes girls had done this sort of thing because they were too sore to take more discipline. Sometimes they tried to persuade him by these little sounds of sexual hunger, pretending that the naked agony of the whipping had made them feel randy and submissive at the same time. But, almost without fail, for whatever reason, they were ready to give him a memorably good time. Because they really were randy or because they knew what they would get otherwise, did it really matter? When you came to think of it, Jeremy decided, the world was a remarkably simple place.

He unzipped his trousers. Theresa needed no lessons. She rounded her lips and slid them down the length of the shaft without the least fuss or protest. He reached to one side and drew towards him a tall stool on which he could sit while she performed. Interesting that she had not asked him to unstrap her before she began. Perhaps she really did get a thrill from being strapped down while she sucked. One never knew, these days. He put it down to the way that women’s magazines were full of sex, instead of knitting and cookery.

Theresa moved her mouth up and down the shaft a little faster than he wanted. Best not let her finish too quickly. He took her head between his hands and moved her commandingly, teaching her the speed he wanted. She learnt at once and obeyed. Then her tongue began to flicker and Jeremy’s toes curled in appreciation. After ten minutes or so, however, he thought she was getting sluggish. Needed smartening up a bit. Very difficult really to whip a girl while she sucked one. Problem of being in two places at the same time. Still, a little bit of ingenuity might do the trick.

He drew himself from her mouth and padded out to the kitchen, whistling softly. There was a little bottle of peppermint essence which Aunt Em must have used to cure her after-dinner indigestion. Absolute bloody fire-water, these old birds used on themselves. Humming a contented little tune to himself, he returned to the front room. Theresa’s ringlets brushed her bare shoulders as she tried to twist her head round to see what he was going to do to her.

Jeremy stopped humming. Before he opened the little bottle, he had to ask himself whether those handsome showgirl bottom-cheeks had been whipped quite raw. Well, almost but not quite. I want to be happy…. Where the hell was that sash-cord? There it was. …. till I’ve made you happy too…. Whip!… Whip!… Whip!… That last one was a beauty, right across the lower fatter cheek swell of Theresa’s handsome backside. No wonder it made her yell!

Schoolgirl or showgirl, they all yelled at about the same point and in much the same way. But only a bastard would do a thing like that last stroke to her…. Whip!… Whip!…. And there was a coincidence, she was actually calling him a bastard, as she screamed. What that old boy Jung had called synchronicity. Best make it a dozen. Whip!… Whip!… Whip!…. The way those Amazon bum-cheeks compressed and contracted in torment! Whip!… Whip!… Whip!…. And now how she stuck her backside right out at him, trying to writhe away the torture that lingered so long after each stroke…. But really seeming to ask for it too! And about to get it! Whip!… Whip!…. Whip!… Whip!…. Wait a minute. He had lost count. Must have gone way past the intended dozen.

Ah, well. No point crying over spilt…. Talking of which, where was that little bottle? Ah, there it was. Several times he filled his palm and smoothed the scorching peppermint essence wetly over the blaze of Theresa’s bottom-cheeks. She was yelling more in panic than in anything now, realising that it would sink into the whipped flesh like white fire. And Aunt Em’s sitting-room was stinking like a candy-factory. C’est la vie. The little bottle was almost empty, alas. But there was just a capful to be administered between her rear cheeks, finger-tip dabs right on her backside’s tightest and most intimate little…. And the scorch of that in so sensitive a rear dimple almost made her hair stand on end, he thought. And just look at the beetroot-crimson blaze of her bottom cheeks themselves…. Theresa must feel as if she was sitting bare-bottomed on a red-hot stove.

He stood before her again. I’d say you’d be really in the mood for a gallop now, he remarked pleasantly…

See Also:

Becky’s Punishments

From clues in this story fragment, it appears that poor Becky is in the clutches of an unspecified villain who (a) plans to sell her onward into sexual slavery and (b) is offended by some sort of prior sexual rejection on her part. Now she’s being punished:

I pick up the birch rod and step back a few paces, moving the chair to the side and watching Becky start to compress her bottom cheeks, her arms pulling against the restraints tied tightly around each wrist. I smile as I hear Becky in the background start to plead, no doubt asking for another chance, but my mind was fully occupied with the plump full ass now contorting in a lewd dance over the table top.

I fish her panties out of my coat pocket, with one hand, swishing the whippy birch rod through the air with my other and relishing the sound the fine instrument made.. “You’ll do anything, anyway, my dear Becky. You know what’ll happen if you don’t…”

I smile at her in the mirror and wad up the panties and push them into her mouth. “If those panties leave your mouth at any point, your punishment will be increased ten-fold. Do you understand me Becky ?” Becky silently nods her head, her eyes wide with fear.

I take a few steps back, standing to her right, and bring the whippy-ended birchrod up sharply and step forward, bring the rod through the air sideways with a backhanded motion, and deliver a fine cut low down across Becky’s straining asscheeks. WHIP!!!!!

The rod blazed a bright red strip across the girl’s bottom cheeks, low, where her upper legs swell into her bottom. Becky pulls hard against her restraints, her curly blond hair flying in to the air with the smarting impact of the blow, her legs tensed and her bottom cheeks compressing hard, and then bounding up. I step forward again, my eyes glued to the bare trim rounded pallor of Becky’s bottom cheeks, tensing and shifting, her hips contorting over the top of the fat pillow cushion.

“Keep your chubby backside quite still for it, Becky. Push those hips back up over that pillow you young tramp!”


I delivered three quick hard cuts right through the middle of Becky’s tender bottom flesh, the rod singing through the air, the impacts sounding like pistol shots as they meet Becky’s churning white bottom flesh.


Another cut delivered with vicious accuracy across Becky’s ass, aimed low, and at an angle, stripping Becky low down across the top of her bound legs, and letting the tip of the whippy-ended birch rod ride up, just catching her across the puppy fat fuller cheeks well low down on her bottom. Becky was frantic, she let out a long low gasp of agony, then a series of fast paced loud objections, her pretty blond head turning from side to side rapidly, her mane sweeping across the polished oak table top, her knees trying to draw up and rubbing against each other under the leather binding strap.

I tapped the rod on the top of her now-quivering pert bottom, enjoying the sight of the angry red lines now starting to grow against the white background of her plump bottom cheeks. Becky was tensing and releasing her plump bottom halves, squirming across the top of the pillow booster in lewd and seductive fat-assed quiverings. Her strong bottom would drive out, hips raised, and then buck back as far as the straps would allow, giving her a wanton and whorish look, like a bride inviting her lover to take her bottom in a fit of honeymoon passion. “I’m going to break you this afternoon Becky, just like a young filly is broken to the bridle…”

WHIP! WHIP! I gave her two hard brisk strokes across the plump center of her shaking ass cheeks. “I’ll have obedience from you!”

WHIP! ” Bend tighter, I want a full-bottomed cheek swell.”

WHIP! WHIP! Two more stinging reminders, delivered down low, across the fatter cheek swell of Becky’s bottom lobes. “We have all afternoon Becky, no interruptions. WHIP! “When I am finished with you, we’ll have an obedience test.”

Again and again I whipped her plump backside, my mind lost in a haze of erotic discipline. My cock was straining against the rough fabric of my wool trousers, and my breathing was coming in large gulps, sucking giant mouthfuls of air in to my lungs as I let the rod fall across the middle of Becky’s girlish white cheek-swell. “Better get use to this, Becky. When you leave here, you’ll have masters who enjoy whipping tramps like you. They’ll enjoy whipping your bottom and you’ll learn to enjoy slavegirl sex up that tight little bottom passage of yours!”

I look at Becky’s face, turned sideways, her damp, tear filled eyes clear to me in the the mirror. She has a questioning look, wondering if I am done punishing her.

I smile.

“You didn’t think a little schoolgirl-style discipline would completely satisfy me did you?”

I laugh, drunk on desire.

“Oh, no Becky. I haven’t forgotten what you refused me this morning!”

Becky lets out a loud muffled protest, pleading with her eyes. She is making small mewing sounds from behind the panty gag, trying to beg.

I undo the top button on my trousers and let them drop to the floor, my cock now standing straight and hard and angry.

I pull a small tube of lubricant from my coat pocket, and smear a light sheen of the lubricant up and down my penis head, watching Becky’s eyes follow the movement of my hands across my fully erect cock in the mirror reflection.

I coat the end of my finger and push them between Becky’s parted asscheeks, running my goo-coated finger up and down between her clenching warm chubby bottom halves.

Becky’s rear mounds clench hard as I find her anus and lightly trace small soft circles all around the little ridges that lined her anal bud. She gasps as I slowly insert my finger into her bottom, first just the tip, crossing her tight opening, then slowly making her take more and more of my warm finger up her backside.

I start to slowly frig her backside with my finger, pushing my finger in slowly, feeling the tight anal ring expand over the thicker part of my finger, then letting it slide back out, till just the tip was inside her bottom. I’d gently push an inch of my finger in to her, then let it slide back out, then two inches, and let it slide back out, watching Becky tense her legs, her white bottom cheeks swishing a little from side to side, and her knees rubbing together. I would slowly push my finger in her and gently turn and twist it, small half-circles while fully up her backside, my finger worrying her little tight ring, and then slowly start working my finger in and out of her tensing bottom, pushing now till it was all the way in, up so snug and full in her.

I started to more quickly frig Becky’s tight little bottom hole, pushing more of my index finger into her anus, pumping my finger in and out in a slow deliberate motion, working her tight bottom ring with small twists as I pushed in, then pulling out at a faster pace, feeling Becky jerk a little as I turned my hand over, this way and that, twisting my finger in a small rotation while I held it deeply embedded in her bottom. I could hear small urgent moans coming from this captured girl’s panty filled mouth, caught between the humiliation of having her bottom so openly and unabashly played with, an object of simple lust openly frigged with a man’s large rough finger, and the arousal now starting to overtake her outrage. I pull my finger all the way out, watching Becky’s opening go suddenly small.

I stand up and push myself forward, my erect cock laying in the warmth of Becky bottom divide, letting the head of my penis loll in between the globes of her ass, savoring the moment; knowing how tight it’s going to be and reveling in her resistance and her humiliation.

I start to slowly push the head of my penis past her small tight anal ring, holding my breath, the veins on my forehead showing with the staring of my effort. Becky’s muffled cries are becoming louder as the pressure builds…

This was uncredited where I found it, but from the style I think it may have been originally written by Richard Manton, with possible subsequent edits by parties unknown. Many years ago Manton authored a plethora of overwrought BDSM novels for the Blue Moon erotic publishing imprint.

See Also:

A Spanked Shopgirl

Here’s a spanking scene from the anonymous erotic novel Augustus and Lady Maude. When it begins, our narrator is watching through a peephole:

The Signore snatched a silk cord from the curtain and ran the cord round her wrists and tied her by it to the bedpost. There she knelt, or rather knelt over, the edge of the bed, her hands tied and able only to look round at him with a sudden fright in the slant of her enigmatic almond eyes. How busy he was with her now!

He knelt down behind the lewd shopgirl, just like a dog who sniffs a bitch. He kissed the coppery smoothness of her bottom-cheeks, her trim thighs, and even between her legs, much to the cost of his immaculately waxed whiskers. He gave her a hearty smack on the bottom and then another.

This excited him so much that he continued until Miss Jones wailed plaintively to know if she was to be spanked or ravished. “A little spanking, Car’,” he murmured, “A smack or two to make you lively! Do you want to go home, Car? Have you had enough, Carissima Jones?” With that he unbuttoned and mounted her. I do not suppose such lust can ever be a matter for true elegance, nor was it in this present case. He rode her in and out for several minutes, then withdrew, smacked her bottom a little, and rode her again.

“Untie my hands, then,” she murmured in her charming lilt.

The Signore merely chortled at the suggestion and gave another sharp smack on her coppery-toned bottom-cheeks as if to reprimand such sauciness. Miss Jones gave a little squeal, whether of discomfort or excitement, who can say? Perhaps it was a little of both.

Whatever the cause, it goaded the Signore to mount her with the resolve of a born rider astride the saddle. Taking her between the rear of her thighs, he was thus able to give his hands full freedom of fondling her breasts and belly, while his hairy loins tickled and prickled her backside. There is, alas, no scale of enthusiasm in these matters by whose Fahrenheit or Centigrade one may measure the thrill of desire. Yet our almond-eyed beauty writhed and whimpered in a manner which made such exact measurement unnecessary.

The Signore feasted his lips on the delicate whorls of her ears and the fine moulding of her neck. He bit her lightly on the shoulders and his fingernails raked the smooth gold flanks of her trim thighs. She, in turn, twisted her face round and the tight-lidded slant of her dark eyes begged kisses for her greedy lips. A series of sharp rising cries announced the approach of her climax while the Signore discharged his own passion into her loins with grunts and gasps far removed from the exquisite colour of his famous verses. They lay entwined on the dark blue-and-crimson of the Persian carpet, writhing and panting together a little in the moment of their supreme satisfaction. Presently there was another sharp smack on her bottom to prepare the randy little piece for an encore…

A word about the authorship of Augustus and Lady Maude: some web references call it a “Victorian” erotic novel and indeed it uses an epistolary frame as many such novels did. But as I read more of it (and there will be more excerpts seen here at Spanking Blog) I’m finding it too modern in tone to be plausibly Victorian. Specifically, I’m recognizing stylistic elements in common with books from Blue Moon in the 1980s, which appeared under names like Paul Little and Richard Manton. I suspect this story to be of late-20th-century authorship, having been deliberately crafted for sale as if it were written 80 or 100 years earlier.

See Also:

The Cane Grows On Her

From my long history of reading spanking blogs, I think the evolution described by Abby from The Little Red Schoolhouse in How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Cane is actually pretty common:

The cane was once my ultimate squick. As a college girl, encountering my first spanking films and stories online, it was “the thing to be avoided.” Most of my time was spent on Laura’s Spanking Corner, and if a story, even my beloved schoolgirl stories by Mary Catherine and Daria Little, started to become a caning scene, it was the back button for me. My terror was not decreased in my search for free videos and encountering snippets of what was then Rigid East. I remember watching in utter horror as Pavel Šťastný caned a Czech girl strapped to her desk. (I just looked this film up on RGE Films and the girl was Drahuše Brdečková in “From the Headmaster’s Study: A Note for Absence.”) The clip was only 30 seconds and it was far too much for me.

I maintained this squirmishness until my mid-twenties, when I met the man who would become my husband. Flirting in the bookstore in which we both worked, our jokes and teasing comments made it more and more obvious that we were of like minds with the exception that, as we are in most things, we were opposite sides of the same coin. We quickly learned that he was a top and I was a bottom. Then came the terrifying news. I was still afraid of the cane. It was his favorite implement.

He called it the whippy stick. I called it the “No, no, no way in hell am I getting beaten with that stick” stick. He took advantage of our place of employment and special ordered me an early favorite of his, a Blue Moon novel by Richard Manton called Fancy Girl. Rife with delicious punishments, it also included the first caning scene I read in its entirety. I’m still not sure which made me so wet upon reading it–the scene itself, or the knowledge that it was something he wanted to do to me.

So it came to be that he caned me two years before he kissed me. We went on the first of our now many implement shopping trips. At Target, we found a perfectly flat-backed square wooden hairbrush, an item that maintains a place near the bed or the schoolbench to this day. At Home Depot, in the outdoor gardening area, we found a bundle of dried bamboo. Red-faced, I was made to carry it to the cash register. No one could have known that the bamboo canes were to be applied to my bottom rather than a gardening purpose, but one look at my face and I’m sure my excited shame showed through.

The events that transpired back at his house are now a blur of exhaltation and agony. I know he cut the bamboo down to cane-lengths, about a yard long each. I remember the swish as he tested them against the air. I believe that he warmed my bottom with hand and brush before the caning, but what I remember clearly, so clearly, is being told to bend down and touch my ankles–a new position for my limited spanking repertoire. I remember trembling.

He told me to count, and I tried. Each stroke brought a pain so quick and sharp, unlike anything I’d ever felt, that with each stroke, I thought that I would die. Three sets of six. I lost count on the way to six at least once. I’m sure I cried, but the only wetness I now remember is the one between my legs, juices webbing across my thighs…