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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?
Here’s a sample from Cal Star:
If memory servers, her very bruised bottom receives an enormous enema nozzle in the next scene.
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They say it’s good to be king, or baron, or whatever flavor of nobility you need to be in order to have a fine tunic, a good sword, and a dungeon with fancy whipping ladder. And it’s probably so. But in the days when such things were possible, the after-dark entertainments were sharply limited. What are you gonna do after the candles are lit? Log in to your Myspace and update your profile with the latest list of taxes squeezed out of your peasants? I don’t think so.
Which may explain how yet another bored duke finds himself in the dungeon on yet another Thursday night, horse-whipping the bejabbers out of yet another overworked and underpaid kitchen wench:
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Here’s a man in a scary mask giving a spanking to Device Bondage model Sarah Jane Ceylon:
Nice tattoos.
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