Vintage Hairbrush Spanking
I really like this vintage hairbrush spanking photo from Vintage Spank. As always, I’m a sucker for expressive faces:
Spanking Blog: Adult Erotic Spanking At Its Best
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Flogging A Bad Secretary
So, the job interview was promising. But it turned out that pretty “Seven” couldn’t type 70 words a minute the way she claimed she could (or even seven words a minute). And she snotted off when the boss asked for a cup of coffee:
Big mistake.
Fired? Oh, no. More like, indentured.
“Listen to me, you little tramp! From now on, you do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it! And no backtalk!”
And then the floggers came out, just to reinforce the lesson:
From this shoot at Whipped Ass.
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Paddled At The Prison Farm
More prison spanking, this time from the comfortable realm of fiction, down on The Prison Farm:
“This is what we use for discipline.” Sam, the warden, spoke, as she jumped down from her desk, and walked up and down the line, with a long wooden paddle in her hand. “This is what you can expect if you step out of line.”
“Turn around, Margie, bend over and grab your ankles,” Sam said, tapping the paddle on the palm of her own hand.
Marge looked at her with pleading eyes, then turned and assumed the lewd position. She had to spread her legs in order to grab her ankles, and knew her privates were well exposed from behind.
“This is just an example,” Sam again directed the group. “Now, Margie, you are going to get five swats. I want you to count aloud so we all can hear. If you release the hold on your ankles, we will start over. Is that clear?” Sam asked, while tapping the paddle on the bare bottom.
“Yes. I understand,” Marge answered, breathing heavily. Sam took a few steps back.
“Oh, Margie! We can see EVERYTHING from back here!” Sam chided.
“You know, conjugal visits are not allowed. You sure you can go 18 months without a cock?” Sam mused. “Your pussy looks hungry already!”
The words cut through Marge like a razor. She screwed her eyes shut, knowing of how open she was to all the eyes in the room.
“Hold tight now. You are about to get your first of many prison spankings!” Sam spat, her lips curling in cruelty.
Sam stood back and adjusted her range, then raised the paddle high. With a splat that echoed against the hard painted walls, the paddle cracked into the bare bottom.
“OHHHHHHNE!” Marge gasped, as the horrible sting registered. Jesus! it hurt. She could almost feel it ringing like the echo. Sam smiled.
SPLAT! again in the same place, across both cheeks at the very center. “TWOOOOOOOoooo!” Marge managed to stammer out, as the itchy sting made her knuckles white as she tightly held her ankles.
Sam walked up and down the line of women, watching the looks of terrified horror on their faces. She turned again to Marge. SPLAT! lower down at the tender under curve.
“AAAIIIEEE! THREEEEE!” Marge rhymed and lunged forward some what.
Sam tapped Marge on the ass with her bare hand, kneading one cheek at the center.
“The next one’s going right here,” she pinched the place on the right cheek.
Marge cringed with anticipation. She felt like she was going to throw up.
SPLAT! The paddle hit the mark with deadly accuracy and force. Being so concentrated, the sting felt much worse.
“And the next, right here,” as Sam pinched the left cheek.
SPLAT! Again, the paddle hit its mark and sent a searing message to her brain.
“Margie, you just stay like that now,” Sam tapped her bottom again, “And the rest of you get undressed!”
Prison Spanking Embarrassment
Some interesting social attitudes on display in this historical account of the 1950s Canadian committee that recommended the abolition of judicial corporal punishment (prison whipping and the use of the infamous Canadian prison strap) in Canada:
Virtually everyone agreed that corporal punishment, if used at all, had to be restricted to cocky young men and male prisoners who became violent or mutinous. No one took seriously the prospect of whipping females, and most found explicit talk about bodies of either gender and punishment vaguely embarrassing. Wardens provided committee members with exhaustive details about the placement of prisoners on strapping tables, their immobilization, and the exposure of their bare flesh. Had sexologists or psychiatrists been called as witnesses, they might have pointed out the voyeuristic and sado-masochistic subtext of such acts. This was precisely the Pandora’s box of barbarous impulses that Joint Committee members preferred to keep tightly lidded.
Titillating notions popped out at several points, but teasing and jokes nervously sublimated them. When the presiding chairman asked William Common why youth gang “molls” were not “spanked” along with their male compatriots, he rattled the prosecutor, provoking him to assert that “assaulting females” was “more or less revolting to the average man.” The Joint Committee’s unofficial gadfly, Harold Winch, punched holes in Common’s chivalrous armor. As he reminded the prosecutor, the “average” man might very well spank his errant daughter when she was naughty. And if legislators were so chivalrous, Winch added, why did they not exempt women from the death penalty? As pointed as this heckling was, it still delicately sidestepped the scandalous prospect of “burly” male guards strapping or paddling women’s bare buttocks.
The Joint Committee members confronted the pornographic qualities of physical punishment again when members debated the prospect of observing an actual whipping. MP Ann Shipley, one of three women on the committee, shocked her fellow members when she argued that watching lashes and whips in action would be more instructive than merely gazing at them and listening to prison officials describe them. The warden of the Kingston penitentiary politely declined her request, protesting that the prospect would be “very embarrassing” (to whom, he did not specify).
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Bondage Girlfriend Cleaning Urinals
So, your kinky girlfriend wants to play at master-and-slave. She promises to do anything, you laugh and tell her she’ll have no choice. She smiles while she says “Yes, Master” in her best I Dream Of Jeanie voice, because she knows you’re just a big old softy who likes to talk mean.
Then, before she knows it, she’s all tied up, on the floor, and scrubbing the world’s dirtiest urinals:
You say WHAT?
Because you know your girlfriend. It’s all fun until somebody says “clean the toilet”, and then it doesn’t matter that she’s wearing a ball gag, she’s just gonna give you this look:
So how do you get from that look, to her on her knees, scrubbing and fuming, smelling like Clorox, and starting to get the idea that being a slavegirl isn’t all silk scarves and “forced” orgasms and colored suede floggers scented with rosewater and attar of lavender?
Dude. You’re reading Spanking Blog. Which is, or ought to be, a clue:
The beatings will continue until morale improves!
Today’s inspirational illustrations are courtesy of The Training Of O, and are, in particular, from this shoot, which features the multi-day slave training of the lovely (and talented with a scrub brush!) Tawni Ryden.
Laughing And Caning
The laughing sounds like something I would say / do:
Puzzled, I watched the boy strapping up our mattress. In twelve months of creative fornication, he had never tied me up, except to cook the occasional dinner in handcuffs. It seemed a matter of both principle and no minor disinclination.
This rig was a recent gift, nothing more than four nylon straps with rings. If our mattress were more rigid I would’ve felt good about my chances of breaking the hardware right off. He insisted on the included Velcro cuffs, which really completed the picture. Barbie’s First Bondage!
(If you find anyone with a Velcro fetish, do let me know.)
I settled on my stomach, spreadeagled, as he cinched down arms and legs. Aww… how honeymoon! But this was not Barbie’s first caning, and behind my heckling I was getting seriously worried.
“Do we have a safeword?”
He laughed, which was what I should’ve expected.
“Don’t laugh!”
He started to cane me instead.
Not being able to move scared me severely. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of it; I’d become accustomed to the right to run away. And much of the time, the boy tops like a little fourteen-year-old shit. I like laughter, but practical jokes are unwelcome when I’m tied up.
At least he was calm. He didn’t seem like he was trying to upset me.
I burst out crying in minutes, which I did not expect. He waited as I blinked mascara out of my eyes. I realized I had never cried during a scene with him — at least not one that didn’t end in a hurry. (If you believe that only bottoms have limits, ask your top what they think about tears. Or puke.)
“Is crying a safeword?” Unbelievably he was still calm, still at cane’s length. Still with me.
I shook my head. No, please.
He broke the cane.
I put my face in the pillow — something else I never do, because he feeds off my reactions — to cry. I wasn’t upset at all. It felt self-indulgent to cry, and cry, and be encouraged by more pain to cry, and have no one telling me to pull it together.
When he was done, he pressed my smudged face into the sheets and fucked me soundly. I came until I sobbed. Afterwards I felt strangely docile, as if a storm had left me, if the worse for wear, clean in its wake. The world was peaceful and I could sleep.
From Dominatrix Next Door.
Whipping In The Classics
The nun whipping below reminded me of the Marquis de Sade, with all his penchant for debauched monks. So I thought an excerpt from Justine might be in order, complete with birching, breast spanking, and pussy whipping. Thankfully not one of the Marquis’ bloodier pieces, but fair warning, he didn’t seem to consider it flagellation unless there was a little bit of blood, so don’t read this if that squicks you:
The monster’s tooth-marks are soon printed upon the lovely girl’s flesh; they are to be seen in a number of places; brusquely wheeling upon me: “Therese,” he says, “you are going to suffer cruelly.” He had no need to tell me so, for his eyes declared it but too emphatically.
“You are going to be lashed everywhere,” he continues, “everywhere, without exception,” and as he spoke he again laid hands upon my breasts and mauled them brutally, he bruised their extremities with his fingertips and occasioned me very sharp pain; I dared not say a word for fear of irritating him yet more, but sweat bathed my forehead and, willy-nilly, my eyes filled with tears; he turns me about, makes me kneel on the edge of a chair upon whose back I must keep my hands without removing them for a single instant; he promises to inflict the gravest penalties upon me if I lift them; seeing me ready and well within range, he orders Armande to fetch him some birch rods, she presents him with a handful, slender and long; Clement snatches them, and recommending that I not stir, he opens with a score of stripes upon my shoulders and the small of my back; he leaves me for an instant, returns to Armande, brings her back, she too is made to kneel upon a chair six feet from where I am; he declares he is going to flog us simultaneously and the first of the two to release her grip, utter a cry, or shed a tear will be exposed on the spot to whatever torture he is pleased to inflict: he bestows the same number of strokes upon Armande he has just given me, and positively upon the identical places, he returns to me, kisses everything he has just left off molesting, and raising his sticks, says to me, “Steady, little slut, you are going to be used like the last of the damned.”
Whereupon I receive fifty strokes, all of them directed between the region bordered by the shoulders and the small of the back. He dashes to my comrade and treats her likewise: we pronounce not a word; nothing may be heard but a few stifled groans, we have enough strength to hold back our tears. There was no indication as to what degree the monk’s passions were inflamed; he periodically excited himself briskly, but nothing rose.
Returning now to me, he spent a moment eyeing those two fatty globes then still intact but about to undergo torture in their turn; he handled them, he could not prevent himself from prying them apart, tickling them, kissing them another thousand times. “Well,” said he, “be courageous…” and a hail of blows descended upon these masses, lacerating them to the thighs. Extremely animated by the starts, the leaps, the grinding of teeth, the contortions the pain drew from me, examining them, battening upon them rapturously, he comes and expresses, upon my mouth which he kisses with fervor, the sensations agitating him…. “This girl entertains me,” he cries, “I have never flogged another with as much pleasure,” and he goes back to his niece whom he treats with the same barbarity; there remained the space between the upper thigh and the calves and this he struck with identical vehemence: first the one of us, then the other.
“Ha!” he said, now approaching me, “let’s change hands and visit this place here”; now wielding a cat-o’-nine-tails he gives me twenty cuts from the middle of my belly to the bottom of my thighs; then wrenching them apart, he slashed at the interior of the lair my position bares to his whip. “There it is,” says he, “the bird I am going to pluck”: several thongs having, through the precautions he had taken, penetrated very deep, I could not suppress my screams. “Well, well!” said the villain, “I must have found the sensitive area at last; steady there, calm yourself, we’ll visit it a little more thoroughly”; however, his niece is put in the same posture and treated in the same manner; once again he reaches the most delicate region of a woman’s body; but whether through habit, or courage, or dread of incurring treatment yet worse, she has enough strength to master herself, and about her nothing is visible beyond a few shivers and spasmodic twitchings. However, there was by now a slight change in the libertine’s physical aspect, and although things were still lacking in substance, thanks to strokings and shakings a gradual improvement was being registered.
“On your knees,” the monk said to me, “I am going to whip your titties.”
“My titties, oh my Father!”
“Yes, those two lubricious masses which never excite me but I wish to use them thus,” and upon saying this, he squeezed them, he compressed them violently.
“Oh Father! They are so delicate! You will kill me!”
“No matter, my dear, provided I am satisfied,” and he applied five or six blows which, happily, I parried with my hands. Upon observing that, he binds them behind my back; nothing remains with which to implore his mercy but my countenance and my tears, for he has harshly ordered me to be silent. I strive to melt him… but in vain, he strikes out savagely at my now unprotected bosom; terrible bruises are immediately writ out in black and blue; blood appears as his battering continues, my suffering wrings tears from me, they fall upon the vestiges left by the monster’s rage, and render them, says he, yet a thousand times more interesting… he kisses those marks, he devours them and now and again returns to my mouth, to my eyes whose tears he licks up with lewd delight.
Armande takes her place, her hands are tied, she presents breasts of alabaster and the most beautiful roundness; Clement pretends to kiss them, but to bite them is what he wishes…. And then he lays on and that lovely flesh, so white, so plump, is soon nothing more in its butcher’s eyes but lacerations and bleeding stripes. “Wait one moment,” says the berserk monk, “I want to flog simultaneously the most beautiful of behinds and the softest of breasts.” He leaves me on my knees and, bringing Armande toward me, makes her stand facing me with her legs spread, in such a way that my mouth touches her womb and my breasts are exposed between her thighs and below her behind; by this means the monk has what he wants before him: Armande’s buttocks and my titties in close proximity: furiously he beats them both, but my companion, in order to spare me blows which are becoming far more dangerous for me than for her, has the goodness to lower herself and thus shield me by receiving upon her own person the lashes that would inevitably have wounded me.
Clement detects the trick and separates us: “She’ll gain nothing by that,” he fumes, “and if today I have the graciousness to spare that part of her, ’twill only be so as to molest some other at least as delicate.” As I rose I saw that all those infamies had not been in vain: the debauchee was in the most brilliant state; and it made him only the more furious; he changes weapons, opens a cabinet where several martinets are to be found and draws out one armed with iron tips. I fall to trembling. “There, Therese,” says he showing me the martinet, “you’ll see how delicious it is to be whipped with this… you’ll feel it, you’ll feel it, my rascal, but for the instant I prefer to use this other one…” It was composed of small knotted cords, twelve in all; at the end of each was a knot somewhat larger than the others, about the size of a plum pit.
“Come there! Up! The cavalcade!… the cavalcade!” says he to his niece; she, knowing what is meant, quickly gets down on all fours, her rump raised as high as possible, and tells me to imitate her; I do. Clement leaps upon my back, riding facing my rear; Armande, her own presented to him, finds herself directly ahead of Clement: the villain then discovering us both well within reach, furiously cuts at the charms we offer him; but, as this position obliges us to open as wide as possible that delicate part of ourselves which distinguishes our sex from men’s, the barbarian aims stinging blows in this direction: the whip’s long and supple strands, penetrating into the interior with much more facility than could withes or ferules, leave deep traces of his rage; now he strikes one, now his blows fly at the other; as skilled a horseman as he is an intrepid flagellator, he several times changes his mount; we are exhausted, and the pangs of pain are of such violence that it is almost impossible to bear them any longer. “Stand up,” he tells us, catching up the martinet again, “yes, get up and stand in fear of me!” His eyes glitter, foam flecks his lips like persons distracted, we run about the room, here, there, he follows after us, indiscriminately striking Armande, myself; the villain brings us to blood; at last he traps us both between the bed and the wall: the blows are redoubled: the unhappy Armande receives one upon the breast which staggers her, this last horror determines his ecstasy, and while my back is flailed by its cruel effects, my loins are flooded by the proofs of a delirium whose results are so dangerous.