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If you’ve ever spent any time in Russia, you’ll know the Russians love their picnics. What I did not know that is that they also have caning picnics:
That was fun, now who’s grilling the shashlik? And where’s the pivo?
From Discipline In Russia.
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Somehow I think this sounds like a doomed strategy:
Fresh in the post this morning arrived a quirt (which looks a little like this). When I purchased said item from Ebay, for a very reasonable £12 including delivery, a couple of weeks ago, I thought it looked rather harmless.
Wrong. Wronger than a very wrong thing.
It’s rather brutal. So, I’ve decided to hide it. Now, you’d think I’d keep silent about it’s arrival. Oh, noes, not I. Here goes the phone call…
Me: That quirt’s arrived and I’ve hidden it.
Girl, that’s so not going to work.
Sigh, if only.
Of course, no such photograph is known to exist. We may thank prolific erotic artist Julius Zimmerman for rendering the vision:
Title of the drawing is “Betty High”.
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There’s a lot of menace in this picture, especially if you are familiar with the welts that usually decorate Pain Toy models. This is Karmen, and she’s not welted yet:
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Although young ladies used to get switched on their calves in the days when modesty prohibited hiking up their skirts, the calf has since fallen out of favor as a punishment zone. And why not? In this more flesh-soaked era, a woman in trouble cannot rely on modesty to save her more tender and private areas from the lash. So the calves generally don’t enter into it.
None of which, obviously, is inhibiting Mark Davis as he whales away with the cane:
Nobody, I think, has ever accused Mark of being a nice man (at least, not when he’s got his game face on, in the Sex and Submission studios. I’m sure he’s a pussycat in real life.)
More here.
As every spanker knows, a good brisk hairbrush spanking can make her wiggle and try to escape like nothing else. Which is why the wrist straps in this vintage spanking photo strike me as very handy indeed. Keeping her hands out of the way protects fragile fingers:
From vintage.
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Some candor on whipping, from a woman who wants a whipping now and again:
I have a strong mind and an even stronger will. While I’d been waiting for years for someone who could subdue me, sometimes I wasn’t all that easy to subdue. Even if I wanted to be. Even if I wanted to reach that place of softness, of opening, of letting someone in, I couldn’t necessarily command it into being.
So he’d whip me.
There was an element of ritual to these whippings. A footstool was placed in the middle of his living room that he’d bend me over. I’d be on all fours, with my ass in the air, expectant. Scared. Sometimes the sweat would drip from my armpits, as I knelt poised on the edge of anything-could-happen. I could not move away or flinch or he’d whip me harder. The only recourse I had was acceptance. I could hear the whoosh of the crop through the air and its subsequent sting, slicing my ass, or my upper thighs, would reverberate through my entire body.
…
There is a gift in someone who dares to be so rough with me. Most men would never dare. I need to know that a man will be so bold, that at least he is capable of this sort of wielding. Then I can trust him. The flimsy men, the ones who would never dare to hurt me, to see me flinch, to bend me over and take me anywhere, anytime; I have no use for. Their trepidation is suffocating to me. And reflective of their behavior outside the bedroom. It always is. You can tell a lot about someone by how they fuck: Timid or decisive. Experimental or staid. Hard-driving and fierce or languid and droopy. My selection criteria is all about this crucial element: Can this man take charge? Does he dare?
