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She’s trussed up tightly in a shiny rubber ball, in the classic Benson fashion. But there’s plenty enough of her bottom showing to make this belt spanking effective:
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Kiki slept through her alarm clock. So this is her spanking wake-up call. There’s no way she’s going to sleep through this!
From Realspankings.com.
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There’s a scene in Speak Softly To The Dead by Dale Bogard, as appearing in the January 1952 issue of Popular Detective. It’s the classic stuff; she slaps him, he threatens her with a spanking, and then she tries to seduce him:
Suddenly, she jumped off the chair. The noise her hand made when it slapped me across the left cheek was loud enough for the French maid to hear if she was listening and she would be doing that if she was as smart as she looked.
I sent both my hands out and got hold of Miss Lola Broekman’s shoulders. I used enough pressure to hurt, letting my grip slide down her forearms a little so that she couldn’t use her hands again. She stood quite still, her lips parted slightly against her shining teeth and her eyes snapping at me. Then they stopped snapping.
“What are you going to do?” She asked it in a quick throbbing tone.
“I ought to put you over my knee and give you a good old-fashioned spanking,” I told her. Instead, I let my hands drop.
She swayed off from me for a second, then moved close in until her body was against me. I could hear her breathing. It was a little faster than normal.
“I might like that — Dale,” she whispered.
Then her arms were sliding under my jacket and round my back.
“You feel nice under your shirt,” she said.
“I’ll bet you do, too,” I said. I thought my voice sounded a little thick and I hadn’t been drinking.
She tilted her head back fractionally, keeping her eyes wide open. I could feel the rise and fall of her breasts. I couldn’t feel my legs on account of they had gone off somewhere and I didn’t know how to get them back.
“Want to… find out?” She only just said the words.
I let one hand go in under her jacket and stay against the small of her back. I could tell that it would be a beautiful back.
“You can kiss me now,” she breathed, “and then we can forget all about this silly old case…”
I bent and kissed her on the mouth. Only once. It lasted about three and a half minutes. Her mouth was large and warm and melting. There were also other interesting things about it. Then I got my hands back on her shoulders and stood her off me.
“That’s for the slap,” I said. “For that and not for anything else.”
She twisted herself free, walked backward a few steps.
“You — you…”
I grinned wickedly.
“I mean you can’t get me off this case by waving a few curves at me,” I said.
She went on standing there, her hands clenching and unclenching and a lot of emotions criss-crossing her face. I didn’t identify any nice ones.
“Get out!”
In the June 1958 issue of Science Fiction Stories there’s a story called Constabulary Duty by Calvin M. Knox, the entire point of which is to set up a spanking scene as the plot resolution. The hero is a old space cop, and the spankee is the daughter of a rich industrialist who makes sporty spacecraft. Of course the daughter is a joy-riding hellion, and he has to arrest her and take away her space-pilot’s license. She complains, naturally, to Daddy, who owns everything:
O’Reilly went through the sumptuous door into a sumptuous office. D. F. Collins of Collins Spacecraft sat behind a broad mahogany desk. He was a tall, sturdy-looking man in his fifties. He seemed to be scowling.
He said, “Are you Sergeant O’Reilly?”
“T-that’s right.”
“Sit down, Sergeant. I understand you and my daughter had some difficulty earlier today.”
O’Reilly nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Collins said. His voice was an authoritative and commanding one. “She’s always been a headstrong girl, you know. She took private lessons in space-piloting — cost me a fortune — and then demanded her own ship. It had to be a high-acceleration sports model, too. Nothing else would satisfy her.”
“I saw the ship,” O’Reilly said. “It’s really a beauty.” “You took her ticket away, I understand?”
O’Reilly nodded. “You’ll get the full explanation tomorrow, I think. I filed a charge downstairs. Seven major violations and four minor ones, including resisting arrest. But…”
“But what, Sergeant?”
O’Reilly felt driblets of sweat pouring down his beefy face. “Look here, Mr. Collins. I used to be a space pilot, and it isn’t my fault I’m a traffic cop now. I’m too old for space, according to the medics. But I know what my job is and my job was to bring your daughter down from space fast before she did some serious damage. So I did it. Okay, I know you can pull strings to get her ticket cleared, and I know you can get me booted out of here for arresting her. Why don’t you just say it, then, instead of letting me squirm? Why…”
He stopped. Collins was smiling.
“There seems to be some mistake, Sergeant. I’m not going to pull any strings. You don’t know how happy I am that Melva’s going to be suspended; I only hope it’s a life suspension and not merely a few years. I called you over to congratulate you, that’s all. And to thank you. It’s the first time in twenty- three years that anybody has been able to discipline that girl. And…”
The door flew open.
O’Reilly turned and saw Melva Collins stalk in. She was still dripping wet, and her clothes and hair were soggy. Her long eyelashes were plastered together by water. She looked angry.
“Father!”
Collins looked at her. “You’re supposed to knock before entering, my dear.”
“To the deuce with that. I’ve lost my license! They say they won’t let me space again! And it’s all because of this — this…
“I was just doing my job, Miss,” O’Reilly said.
“You should have heard the things he said to me! And then he refused to let me land my ship, and — oh, I wish I could scratch his eyes out! You’ll have him fired for me, won’t you?”
“No,” Collins said. “I won’t.”
O ’REILLY began to grin.
Somehow, seeing the magnate bearded by his daughter was worth all the boredom of nine months as a traffic cop. He watched the frustrated rage animate the girl’s face as she worked herself up into a tantrum which Collins seemed powerless to control.
The yelling went on for about sixty seconds, at the end of which time O’Reilly turned to Collins and said, “Mr. Collins? May I make an impertinent suggestion?”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“I think I know what your daughter needs. And it isn’t a pilot’s license.”
“It’s a good sound spanking,” Collins said. “I’ve known that for years.”
“Father! How could you! I…”
“Quiet, Melva.” Collins smiled. “Sergeant, I know it isn’t quite in the vein of a traffic officer’s duties — but perhaps you’d be willing to oblige me? I think she needs it.”
O’Reilly grinned and gave a spaceman’s salute. “Call it corrective discipline, sir. It’s part of a traffic officer’s duties, and I’m willing to oblige.”
“Keep your hands off me, O’Reilly. Don’t come near me! Don’t…”
O’Reilly advanced relentlessly, cornered the kicking girl without much trouble, and bent her over his knee. He paused and looked doubtfully at Collins. The old man was beaming in unmistakable approval.
It’s been a long, tough day, O’Reilly thought. But here’s where I even the score. His arm rose and fell rhythmically.
For once, duty was pleasure for O’Reilly.
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Some 45 years have passed so it’s probably too late, but word has finally reached us here at Spanking Blog of a fellow we would like to congratulate, or perhaps have a beer with. From the pages of the May 1975 issue of Nostalgia Illustrated, come news of one John Brooks, AKA the Spanking Mayor of Chelsea:
John Brooks, the “Spanking Mayor of Chelsea,” recently sued the British newspaper Sunday People for printing a story which called him a “menace to young girls,” saying he had lured them onto his yacht and spanked their bottoms. He sued not because the story wasn’t true, but because he contended the practice did not make him a menace to young girls. And he won.
Assuming — and it must have been true if he won his case — that the young girls in question were not too young to consent to the spankings in question, I can only salute the man for contesting in court the idea that a little friendly yacht-spanking is no menace to anyone!
(Spanking Blog did actually write cover this story once before, but the “Fuck you” essence of Mr. Brook’s defense was not then clear to me.)
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This excerpt is from The Crimson Witch, an old fantasy story by Dean R. Koontz. It’s not usually considered safe to spank a sorceress, but if you come properly prepared, you might get away with it:
She struggled, kicking and hitting and clawing since her magics were no good against him. But he held on, taking her punishment and slowly exerting more and more force to tame her. He was such a powerful man, his arms like cords of wood, his muscles like knotted lengths of steel. He pulled her onto the ground with him, dragging her across his lap. Lifting her robes to bare her smooth and lovely cheeks, he began spanking her.
“Stop it!” she shouted.
He spanked her again.
She caused lightning to strike the peak of his burly head, but her powers were useless against him. The bolt dissipated into brilliant sparks and did not harm him.
He slapped her harder, stinging her with his heavy palm.
She caused a shower of sharp-toothed rodents to descend upon him, but the rodents fled and did not attempt to gnaw his flesh.
She brought heavy rain, but he did not get wet.
She brought hail.
He was not bruised.
He spanked her harder, harder still.
She began to cry.
“Who gave you your immunity?” she howled.
“The Sorceress Kell, a stronger Talented than you,” he grinned, slapping her buttocks again.
She caused boulders to drop upon his head.
The boulders turned to dust and blew away.
“That old bitch!” she moaned of Kell.
“She is a good woman, a good sorceress,” he corrected her, slapping her reddened flesh even harder. “She is wise and all-knowing, not just a temperamental, talented little snot!”
Finally she realized that fighting only brought on more spanking. She went limp and did not try to harm him either with her magics or her feet and hands. When he saw that she was out of reserves and that she had surrendered, he stood, dropping her into the dust, letting her go. She jumped to her feet, spat at him, lifted into the air and sailed quickly out of his reach, constantly muttering the vilest threats she could summon from her throat to her lips.
He stood, laughing.
She hurried away into the wind, lost in the darkness, shrieking curses to the four comers of the night…
As you’ve probably noticed I’ve been dip-netting in the Internet Archive’s collection of old magazines and newspapers for spanking references lately, and I do find some interesting tidbits. Today’s gem is a brief sociological discussion of the BDSM “tart cards” that decorated British phone booths in the 1990s, at least one example of which has been seen before here on Spanking Blog.
Anyway, back in 1993 a dude with a column in a horror magazine (Deathrealm #20) went to Birmingham for a convention and then to London, as one does. A conversation was had about the tart cards:
Back in London, Dave Carson has recovered from his night at the publishers’ launches. We continue our expeditions through phone boxes collecting naughty cards for a projected book. Cards have become extremely rude and most carry illustrations. “19 Year Old Blonde Just out of School Needs Strict Headmaster for a Spanking Good Time.” “Fantasy Fetish Specialist. Little Miss Madam Will Tie & Tease.” “The Magic Touch. Miss Demeanor. A Supreme Wardrobe Mistress.” These dudes really know how to party hearty. Carl Ford resurfaces and sez you phone up for an appointment and forty quid gets you a session. We didn’t ask how he knew, and anyway he sez he’s joined a coven. Proba-bly for forty quid. John Stewart, major British artist, believed dead but on the mend, resurfaced and sez you can make twenty-five quid a day stuffing these cards into phone boxes if you don’t get caught doing it. A long argument continues over various pints; is spanking or getting caned or being tied up or wearing knickers and a suspender belt to be considered a sexual act and therefore prostitution? Carl Ford sez nah, so long as there’s no penetration they can’t bust you. We sink pints and decline to ask how much more he knows.