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.

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“Hole In Wall” For Spanking And Punishment

You might or might not know that there’s a niche fetish called “hole in wall” on the image boards; it involves bondage of a sort where someone’s head is one one side of a wall and their bottom and other tender parts are exposed on the other for both flagellation and ravishment. It’s extremely objectifying, of course, which we may suppose is the greater part of the purpose of the exercise!

As a fetish idea, we know this notion has been floating around for at least thirty years, because there’s a version of it to be found in a 1994 edition of the faux-Victorian BDSM novel The Captive’s Journey by Richard Manton. In that book our hapless captive Caroline is delivered to a specialized gentleman’s club, where she’s emplaced in such a wall for an evening of unhappy treatment at the hands of the sadistic patrons, after first being allowed to witness another woman in that predicament:

We led Caroline down the backstairs to a special room in the cellar. When I opened the door, Caroline emitted an audible gasp.

The sight that greeted us as we entered the chamber, was of one of the attractive submissive girls tightly bound in a most ingenious manner. She was bent over at the waist with her belly resting on a padded punishment horse. Her ankles were secured to rings on the floor so that her shapely legs were pulled widely apart. Her body was facing the wall and her head and wrists had been secured to a special set of stocks built directly into the wall in such a way that those parts of her anatomy were completely hidden from view. Her ass, however, was prominently displayed and a special spotlight had been focused on her out-thrust buttocks.

It served to nicely illuminate the current condition of the poor girl’s ass.

Standing next to the girl, was a container filled with freshly cut willow switches and, judging from the condition of the girl’s exposed bottom, it was clear that the willow switches had been put to good use. Her ass was crisscrossed with angry red welts which entirely covered the area from the base of her spine to the girl’s knees.

The way in which she was tied also nicely displayed the woman’s cunt and asshole. It was obvious that these openings had recently, and repeatedly, been used by visitors to this chamber. Gism oozed from her bunghole and strings of it hung in ropey strands from the mouth of her cunt.

Any member of the club could visit the room at any time. In it, he would always find one of the submissive girls displayed in this manner. He was free to use her exposed bottom in any manner he wished: he could blister her exposed asschecks with a bare-bottomed spanking. He could thrash her naked buttocks with one of the handy willow switches to within an inch of her life. He could roger her pussy or bunghole with his cock to his lascivious heart’s content. And all of this would occur in complete anonymity….

Because of the way in which she was tied, the girl would never know who had used her in this way. She could only lay there, for as long as we wished, totally helpless and completely exposed, enduring whatever abuse the steady stream of anonymous visitors to the chamber chose to inflict upon her defenseless bottom.

Two of the attendants untied the lovely girl from her bonds and released the stocks so that she could remove her head and wrists. Still gagged, the exhausted girl was quite the worse for wear as a result of the day’s activities. Her lovely cheeks were streaked with tears and she was having trouble standing up. I could see in her eyes, however, a glimmer of profound relief that her unpleasant ordeal was, at least for this day, finally over.

For Caroline Martin, however, it was about to begin. She watched, her eyes wide with terror, as the naked girl was led from the room. Lucy then came to her and brought a large leather ball gag to Caroline’s tightly clenched lips. It took a vicious twist on one of the girl’s nipples to persuade her to open her mouth and allow the intruder in.

In short order, Caroline found herself bound in a position identical to the one the other girl had just occupied. She looked very alluring with her ass out-thrust in that inviting manner. I ran my hand down her exposed slit, fondling her lewdly for a moment to help her realize how totally helpless she now was.

My first appointment — a distinguished Member of Parliament with a taste for extreme flagellation — was due to arrive in a few minutes. I left Caroline alone in the chamber to await the arrival of her first visitor of the day.

Two hours later, I paid Caroline a visit to see how she was faring. I entered the small room off of the main chamber into which Caroline’s head and hands protruded. From the appearance of her face, the first two hours she had spent in the chamber had not been easy ones. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her brow knitted with pain.

There was a small peephole in the wall which permitted me to peer unseen into the adjoining chamber and see who was about to make use of my beautifully displayed victim. A distinguished looking older gentleman entered the room and boldly bent over Caroline’s exposed bottom. Caroline clenched her eyes shut in shame as she felt him gave her a deep and lingering kiss directly on the puckered mouth of her anus, his tongue snaking deep inside of her. He chuckled softly and then selected a supple willow switch from the nearby container. I could watch, although Caroline could not see, as he carefully tested the flexibility of his chosen implement, preparing to administer the first blow. It landed like a gunshot across her naked cheeks and her facial reaction and muffled scream of pain was enchanting.

Since my next appointment was not scheduled for another half hour, I stayed there and watched Caroline as she endured this gentleman’s enthusiastic attentions. Her face revealed each detail of what she was experiencing — the pain as the switch ripped repeatedly into her bottom cheeks — the shame as he worked his rigid member deep inside her rectum. Her tear filled eyes searched desperately into mine seeking mercy or attempting to comprehend my cruelty. I merely smiled at her.

My next appointment was due to arrive shortly, so I kissed her brow and departed.

When I returned a short while later, she was between visitors. I entered the main chamber to inspect Caroline’s pain-filled bottom. The evidence of the brutal treatment she had endured so far was clearly evident on the well-whipped globes of her ass. From a nearby shelf, I picked up a small jar and opened it. Dipping my fingers into it, I spread the contents of the jar over her abused bum. Under normal circumstances, the lightest touch of my hand on her battered bottom would have caused her a great deal of pain. The contents of the jar, however, only served to magnify that pain. Instead of providing comfort, however, the jar contained a specially formulated salve which would adhere to the girl’s bottom. The gooey mixture was heavily laced with salt which served to set every welt on her torture bottom ablaze with fiery agony. Through the wall, I could hear a muffled shriek and see her body stiffen with pain. I left her, for my my next appointment was due to arrive.

Late that evening, we untied the exhausted Caroline Martin and drove home. She was forced lie on her side on the back seat of the car during her ride home, so painful was the condition of her ass. She had done quite well that day but had paid a frightful price. Her knees were weak with exhaustion and her bottom was a tapestry of painful red welts. She would need a day so to recover, and so I escorted her to her chamber, assisted her into her bed, and, turning out the light, listened as she cried herself to sleep…

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A Severe Whipping For Monnelia

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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Buggered And Severely Spanked

In the faux-Victorian and badly over-written erotica novel The Blue Train by Richard Manton, there’s a totally noncon account of an afternoon’s cruel enjoyment of a young woman on her way to a old-fashioned penal institution. Under the most amazingly-contrived circumstances, our viewpoint villain arranges to impersonate a guard and isolate his helpless victim in a shared toilet compartment on a train:

In the toilet itself, one of the guards had left his peaked cap and his jacket on the hook, an official-looking leather despatch-case beside them. Quietly I opened the case. Inside it I saw a collection of leather restraining straps, a tailed spanking-strap, and a file of documents. I stared at these and with a half-formed plan lifted down the prison guard’s cap and jacket. Indeed, I carried them off to my own cabin.

The toilet itself had two doors and each could be bolted from within, so that the occupant was secure from intrusion by a neighbour. I studied the bolt on my side and saw how, by loosening the screws a little, it could be moved out of line and prevented from sliding across.

Then I waited. Presently my heart jumped as if with shock or a fright of anticipation. The far door of the wash-room and toilet opened and closed. I heard the slither of cloth on skin. The bolt on my side had not even been closed as I entered, clad in the jacket and cap of officialdom.

There are stories I look back upon with excitement and some with longing but few with such amusement as this. I felt like a character in a stage farce. Ragnhild had shed her tartan blouse and blue shorts. She was now undressed charmingly in her white bra and tight black bikini pants.

We stared at one another. I had no idea what to do if she resisted now. I suppose I should have stripped off the cap and jacket, fled from my cabin to the far end of the train, and got off quickly at the next stop. But I had calculated that the noise of the engine would make it impossible for those in the corridor to hear anything in this place. In that I was right. Nor would there be any interruptions. They might enter the other cabin but the door to it from the toilet was bolted. They would know she was in here but would not care.

As I say, Ragnhild would still have had no escape except through my cabin and they would catch her in the corridor when she emerged. She certainly had no way off a train travelling at this speed.

All the same, she backed away and when I was close she seemed prepared to struggle.

But they had prevented her escape another way, by cuffing her wrists in front of her with soft straps. Of course, I was surprised that she did not begin to scream or shout. Then I realised. She had seen the uniform and thought I was another one of the escort.

Stand still, Ragnhild! I said sharply, playing the part. She stood still, though with a surly look. Kneel down. There! At once!

She offered a little resistance but not much, knowing that one guard could always call assistance from the others. Under these circumstances, I was a match for her. There was gasping, writhing and cursing but we descended to the floor, at least until Ragnhild was kneeling. Then I drew a stout strap from the case, ran it round her wrist-cuff chain and round the base of the toilet pedestal. Struggle as she might, Ragnhild was now face-down on the floor and could not get up. She looked extremely sexy, even in such a place. She had the sun-tanned thighs of a young Amazon. The full cheek-swell of Ragnhild’s bottom in the filmy black nylon of her hip panties looked very sexy. There was also something perversely exciting in the prospect of being alone with her behind a locked washroom door in this situation.

I had bolted the door leading to her cabin, so that we should not be interrupted. Then I used a leather bolster from my own cabin and wedged it under her belly on the tiled floor.

Lie on your belly over the bolster, Ragnhild. Lie quietly. At the first sound of crying out or screaming, I shall gag you. Very tightly.

The threat of a gag seemed to strike her like a blow. She lay startled but quiet. I was seduced by the warmly suntanned figure of a healthy young Nordic woman, the lank honey-blonde hair plainly cut with its fringe and its collar-length framing her firm features. The law forbids whipping and even spanking for girls in the country she comes from, so I think Ragnhild still was not certain of what was going to be done to her. She lay there, her handsome tits filling the white bra quite nicely at the front. She lay forward with the leather bolster under her belly, her suntanned arms pulled in front of her and her robust legs apart a little.

She looked up, wide blue eyes frightened, as I knelt down and made her more secure with several more prison straps. I strapped her wrists more firmly to the porcelain pedestal, pinioning her waist as well to a strong leather loop in the bolster, just under her belly. Ragnhild was now positioned as I wanted her.

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Whipped And Caned For Infidelity

This is one of the somewhat-contrived severe punishment scenes for which faux-Victorian-erotica writer Richard Manton is justly famous, or perhaps infamous. From the book Beauty In The Birch, also sometimes titled as Birch In The Boudoir:

Like a conjurer, Dr. Jacobus stood before us with a china egg between finger and thumb. It was not quite large enough to tightly fit the necessary place, but it would not be easily dislodged. Lesley twisted her head ‘round urgently to watch him, the light catching the fair, straight cut of her crop from its high crown to the severe cutting of it level with her jaw. Dr. Jacobus slid a hand under her, supporting her bare belly. He pressed the oval china egg between her buttocks, the narrower end foremost. There was a tensing of seat-cheeks, and a keening through wadded cotton, while the scholar’s mouth set firm and the veins in his forehead stood out more prominently. Lesley’s tight inward dimple yielded and closed again over the china oval as it passed up into her behind.

“Observe, gentlemen!” Dr. Jacobus stood back with a flourish. “See how hard and rapid the pulse beat in her throat is. Can it be sexual arousal at the thought of being chastised? Or is it no more than a young woman’s desperate fright? It matters not at all. Either emotion will generate a pitch of excitement. Lesley feels butterflies in her tummy, as the saying goes, and the flutter of panic in her bowels. The cheeks of her arse are no doubt crawling with such apprehension that they almost itch with it!”

Lesley gave a shake of her hair in order to look back at him over her shoulder. It seemed as if the once-disdainful blue eyes were trying to ask a question she could not utter. Her clear, pale features were a study in the most fearful anticipation.

“Ah!” Dr. Jacobus smiled knowingly at her. “Lesley is tormented by a last doubt! Will there be any restriction on the instrument of punishment? Any limit to the number of strokes? I think she can already guess that the answer is in the negative!”

How Lesley tugged at her straps– and all in vain! How she turned her blue eyes and fringe urgently to the audience! Whatever disapproval one may feel for Dr. Jacobus, he had a good deal of reason on his side. Lesley is a mature young woman. Her hips and seat have that slight firming-out which enables her to undergo chastisements that would be unthinkable for a schoolgirl. She has endured regular penis exercise in the marriage bed, the labour of child-bearing, the demands of her lovers. Having willingly incurred such extremes of pleasure and pain, she was scarcely able to object to a whipped bottom as punishment for her infidelities.

“Presently you will be caned, Lesley,” said Dr. Jacobus quietly, “but first I shall mark my personal disapproval of your marital treason by twelve strokes with a snakeskin pony-lash.”

Lesley was truly frantic at this. She twisted her head and scanned about her, with blue eyes wide and desperate. In vain, she jerked at the restraining straps. The gag reduced her protests to the same shrill keening, but her pale seat-cheeks were tensing urgently.

Dr. Jacobus took the whip, which consisted of a handle and slim woven lash about eighteen inches long. He ran his hand briefly over the full moons of Lesley’s bottom, smiling at the peeping vaginal pouch between the rear of her thighs.

“You had your fun with your lovers, Lesley,” he said gently. “Was it nice? Was it? Did you wriggle on the adulterer’s penis until you almost swooned with the joy of it? Now you shall pay a cruel price for it, you young whore!”

His right arm went back and his lips tightened. The cheeks of Lesley’s bottom shifted and squirmed uncontrollably. With an ear-stunning crack, the slim black lash snaked down, curling and clinging to the bare cheeks of Lesley’s backside. A split second’s pause was followed by wild mewing and buttocks contorting urgently to contain the naked smart of the leather whip. A scarlet stripe appeared, an S-shaped curve across Lesley’s bum-cheeks, dotted by two ruby droplets. Lesley had the firm, young seat-swell of a Spartan soldier-girl. Perhaps it was this which caused such breathless excitement among the audience as she was whipped. Or perhaps it was merely the satisfaction of seeing the young wife punished for her promiscuity and for being an arrogant young bitch. Who can say?

Dr. Jacobus made the whip ring out repeatedly with a savage accuracy across Lesley’s bottom-cheeks. Soon her pale buttocks were embroidered by plum-red loops and curlicues. Two! Three! Four! The strokes sang out like pistol shots, each stinging Lesley’s arse with a scorpion viciousness. Even the fiery kiss of the leather whip was but a prelude to the swelling torment as the impact of the stroke searched her lingeringly for several seconds afterwards. Vainly she tried to take the strokes on her flanks to spare her bottom. But her hips were too well pinned down for that. She tried to turn each buttock uppermost in turn, but neither of them could elude the lash. She tightened them desperately, until her arse-crack was a thin, compressed line.

Dr. Jacobus put a stop to this by an upward stroke of the woven lash, catching the fatter under curve of Lesley’s seat-cheeks just above her thighs. Frantic to writhe away the anguish, the promiscuous young wife thrust her rump out in a complete display of her rear anatomy. It was at this point that the eyes of Dr. Jacobus gleamed. He aimed the lash with vindictive precision between the cheeks of Lesley’s bottom. No refuge was left to her as the whip cracked out again. Eight! Nine! Ten! All the self-possessed sophistication taught her at school and college was stripped from Lesley now. Twice the whip’s command was printed between the cheeks of her arse. Neither this, nor the flooding tears in the blue eyes, moved the onlookers to intercede.

One must concede, of course, that Lesley was being punished for the great harm done to others by her conduct. To desert marital duty for illicit pleasures is a crime which law and custom has always punished in this manner. Almost every man– and perhaps most women– would have been pitiless with Lesley now. Under the long, fair parting of her hair, Lesley’s eyes– once so aloof and dismissive– implored her master vainly.

Smack! Whip-smack! Crack-smack! As the lash caught the inward curve of Lesley’s bottom-moons again, every muscle in her thighs went taut and her toes curled with the intensity of the discipline. “The justice of chastisement is absolute,” said Dr. Jacobus, as he finished. “Lesley has made others suffer in order that she might enjoy her lecheries. What she endures now is a modest retribution.”

Lesley twisted her head wild-eyed in dismay, for now the Schoolmaster appeared, cane in hand. Already Lesley’s bottom-cheeks blushed deeply, the whip prints raised in slight contours across her backside and the rear of her upper thighs. The young wife sprawled in her straps like an overgrown schoolgirl or page boy over the cushions of the teacher’s sofa.

The Schoolmaster removed the gag, allowing her to lie flatter as well. “I shall not need such expedients,” he said. “Besides which, when I cane a bottom, I like to see it writhe! How many canings your parents and teachers neglected, Lesley! How many punishment lessons to make up for before we have trained you to loyalty and submission!”

Lesley emitted a shrill protest, but the Schoolmaster dismissed it. “Come now, Lesley! You have tasted the pony-whip! What greater objection can there be to a reformatory cane?

There was a good deal of general amusement at this. When the murmurs of laughter died away, the supple bamboo rang out across Lesley’s bottom, the weals rising straight across the curving prints of the lash. You may imagine the frenzy of Lesley’s screams, deeply gratifying to the moralists who watched her thrashed for adultery. He caned her across the backs of her thighs half a dozen times and then returned to the cheeks of her statuesque young seat.

The Schoolmaster was worthy of the great tradition of pedagogues. Each lash of the cane was given with stern vindictiveness. Lesley’s backside writhed over the leather bolster in a manner which was positively lewd. You might have thought, from its sinuous squirmings, that her behind was trying to seduce the chastiser into other pleasures.

In the warm night, the young wife’s proud bare belly slithered on the leather bolster as she squirmed. There was a faint dry squeak of the restraining straps as she pulled vainly at her bonds. Under the caning, the firm, mature cheeks of Lesley’s bottom met and parted in their writhing.

How would it end? How could it end? The Schoolmaster’s disciplinary zeal seemed unabated, and it was impossible to imagine what would satisfy his punitive skill. His resolve stood out stiffly as ever for all to see. Yet now Lesley twisted her head round. She seemed to be trying to look down the length of her spine at her own bottom. In truth, she was directing the Schoolmaster’s gaze to that place! The reply was an expertly aimed lash of bamboo, drawing blood in pinpricks across several of her earlier weals. Such frenzy was provoked by it! The atrocious smart of the bamboo caused the rounded end of the china egg to peep out between Lesley’s bottom-cheeks!

The Schoolmaster, admirable moralist that he is, was not to be deflected from his duty by the reappearance of the china egg, which Dr. Jacobus had inserted in the young wife’s behind. Again and again and supple bamboo lashed across Lesley’s buttocks. The egg grew rounder and larger as it emerged, until it rolled free from Lesley’s anus, down her bare legs, and across the demonstration table. An ear-splitting smack of the cane across her statuesque backside brought a frantic pleading to her face again. The Schoolmaster’s lips parted in a grin of delight as he gave two more strokes of the cane across Lesley’s backside with all his skill.

Then the cane dropped from his hand, for he was now obliged to clutch his own stiffness. Lesley turned her brimming eyes and woebegone mouth — a vision in itself enough to cause his orgasm. She was in time to see the Schoolmaster’s weapon explode in mid-air, uncontrollably. Thick lusty jets spat forward and liberally bespangled Lesley’s backside with arcs of spawn. Who knows? Perhaps the slippery balm soothed her at last.

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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.

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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.

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