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So the folks at Public Disgrace threw a dinner party for Charley Chase.
It turns out, she was what they had for dinner, if you know what I mean, and I think you do:
Before it was over, she was the well-spanked centerpiece:
Sadly, I don’t think she got to eat much dinner. Sure, she wound up with her face in the dinner more than once, but it was like feeding peas to a two-year old: a little bit in her and a whole lot on her.
There are more pictures here.
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I don’t actually know the scenario that goes with this vintage spanking photo, but it sure looks like pledge spanking night at the sorority to me:
At least, that’s the fantasy that I’ve decided to go with.
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Among the books I found “inspirational” when I was a young man were the compilations of female fantasies that Nancy Friday put together in books like My Secret Garden and Forbidden Flowers. These were the “respectable” equivalent of the book-length compilations of Penthouse Letters that I also got my hands on in that era; but they were a lot more plausible (I can’t say if they were in fact any more authentic) and they were real eye-openers.
I recently stumbled across some of Nancy Friday’s books again, and was freshly reminded of this fantasy, one that got my full attention the first time I read it. Its charm has not been dimmed by time:
My first fantasy is that of being spanked. I have always provoked the spanking, it’s never unjustified. My innate female bitchiness causes my lover to say, very quietly, “All right now, that’s enough!” I say “Don’t order me around” and he replies “You’re asking for a good spanking.” I answer “I’d like to see you try it!” in a very taunting manner.
At this point he grabs me, grasps both hands firmly behind my back, pulls down my panties, turns me over onto his knee and traps my kicking legs between his.
I am embarrassed and scared. He usually uses his hand, spanking me maybe two dozen times, very hard. Sometimes I fantasize that he uses a hairbrush or a ruler. I am sobbing and enraged, but the rage turns to humiliation, and then to helpless submission. At the end he forces me back on the bed and enters me quickly and without foreplay.
Sometimes I like to imagine myself staying in an enraged mood throughout the spanking. Then he pushes me back on the bed, hovers over me and pushes his erect penis into my mouth, ordering me to suck it. I refuse and try to bite his cock, which brings on another, even more painful, spanking, at which point I am prepared to do anything he asks.”
From Bondage Blog, some serious bottom whipping while held in place by tied breasts:
I was intrigued to Google up (by accident, like all the best Google finds) this account of severe but consensual ritual whipping of women in Africa, complete with a photograph. This is a “traveler’s tale” in the best sense:
Eventually we escaped the grips of Omorate on a truck to Turmi, two hours away. Although Turmi doesn’t differ much in its layout, it was certainly a bit cooler. Turmi is home to the Hamer people and we were fortunate to witness the rare bull-jumping ceremony.
Beautifully decorated women challenge the young men to beat them brutally with whips. Although reluctant, the men eventually give in to the women’s constant taunting and deep gashes are gouged in the smiling women’s backs. The boy who is being initiated, the Jumper, is required to run across the backs of ten bulls stark naked with his hair frissed into a giant afro. He has to do this four times, and if successful, then enters into manhood.
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Too often in modern BDSM porn there will be a tasty spanking, but none of the accompanying kinky condiments that we spanking fetishists often enjoy. For instance, whatever happened to good old-fashioned lecturing?
I don’t know what the actual dialog was above, but he easily could be saying “Now, listen here, missy. I’m going to say this once and once only! By the time I’m done spanking you, you’ll know better than to even dream of [insert misbehavior here]…”
Followed, of course, but a nice and helpless bondage spanking:
Pictures are from this Sex and Submission gallery.
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Here are a couple of illustrations from Stantoons #1, by Eric Stanton. The bit of story that goes with these is below:
“Whip her calves. No more than forty, mind!”
She receives precisely thirty nine harsh slaps of the wire-stiffened crop across the backs of her calves. The fatly muscled flesh indents deeply under the blows … and she can only weep, silently. Not only can she tell them nothing, because she remembers nothing, did nothing, but right now her gag won’t even allow her to tell them that!
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