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Bethie says I have strange opinions about what’s cute. But a pretty girl with her face all squinched up — how could this not be cute?
Of course she’s getting spanked, just as she should be. From Real Spankings.
If you’ve seen much modern porn, you’ll have stumbled over the MILF acronym. “Mothers I’d Love To…” Well, you get the idea. (And if you don’t, there’s a hilarious pro-MILF rant over on ErosBlog that will clue you in.)
Well, Matt, it turns out, has a thing for spanking moms. This is buried in a long long long report on a Shadow Lane spanking party/convention, so I’ll quote the MILS (sigh, not as snappy an acronym) paragraphs:
You know, please don’t ask me to have favorites – I play with a lot of different women who are a lot of different types of women – younger, older, long-time friends and new acquaintances, emotional, detached, chaste, erotic, discipline, role play, and just for fun. Some are in shallow scenes and others let me get into their heads; some have gym-hardened butts and others have pillow-soft bottoms. So when I say I like one thing it doesn’t mean I dislike the opposite – just that that one trait happened to add to the experience this particular time.
Having said that and ready to make a sweeping generalization, you know what I like about moms? They’re so grounded. Yes, I may be in the Scene for the drama of it, but I appreciate the way that nothing at the party is going to affect them all that much – it’s not that big a part of their life, it’s not their identity, they’re not asking me to validate their existence. And I think this frees them to enjoy playing more. In my experience moms play with you the way they want or they find someone else – after all, if you’re not looking for a relationship. just a guy with a strong arm and a reasonable amount of respect, there’s no lack of candidates.
You’ve got to approve whenever an anime character finds herself in this well-spanked bondage predicament:
From Bondage Blog.
Here’s another spanking story excerpt (from Selling Stephanie by Rosetta Stone:
“You’ll pay for that you stupid little tart! I can do whatever I like because I’m rich and respectable and you’re no more than a common little tramp. Call yourself a secretary? If you hadn’t wriggled your arse and tits at my husband, there’s no way he would have given you a job. And that you are about to regret!”
Still holding the handkerchief to her cheek and with a murderous look in her eyes, she nodded to the man holding Stephanie and the girl felt herself pushed roughly towards towards the desk. Her thighs banged painfully against the edge and she was pushed further forward, the weight of the man bearing down on her to bend her over the desk. Only when she was bent right over were her arms released. The relief from the relentless grip was tremendous but she was too numb to offer any resistance when she was grabbed again, her arms hauled straight across the desk.
…
Crack!
Stephanie squealed in shock and alarm as a blaze of heat ripped across the taut flesh of her bared behind.
Crack!
Another stinging blow smacked down and she twisted wildly around, straining to see what was happening behind her. Mrs. Lloyd was standing to one side of the desk, a thin leather belt dangling from her hand and a cruel smile playing on her thin lips. “I’ll teach you to insult me, you little slut!” As she spoke she raised her arm and whipped the belt down for the third time.
It hissed wickedly through the air and smacked down hard against Stephanie’s helpless backside. She whimpered and Mrs. Lloyd bent closer. “Better get used to the feel of leather on your pretty little arse because there’ll be plenty of that where you’re going.”
Stephanie whimpered again, concentrating hard on not writhing too much. Her backside was hurting a lot but she was much more concerned with keeping her legs pressed together to preserve what little modesty she had left. Mrs Lloyd noticed her desperate attempts and smiled.
“No room for modesty where you’re going, sweetie. Get those legs open!” She backed up the order with another wicked slash of the belt across Stephanie’s upthrust backside and another when Stephanie showed signs of hesitating.
“Come on, slut. The men here want a show.”
Tears pricking her eyes, Stephanie shuffled her feet apart. Her face flamed as red as the welts striping her backside as she realised how lewdly she was exposing herself, but if she didn’t…
Crack! Crack!
The belt slashed two searing tracks across her backside and she howled out loud, twisting and writhing over the desk.
“Wait, I want to see her tits.”
Stephanie stiffened as the man behind her spoke. She wailed in protest but it was no use. He moved up close behind her, his body crushing her bruised buttocks as he leaned over her. His hands slid beneath her, groping for the front of her blouse, fingers sliding inside and gripping the flimsy material. With a quick jerk he ripped it open, buttons popping loose and and spilling to the desk top beneath her, the material tearing as he pulled the garment out from under her. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her bare breasts spilled out, nipples puckering on contact with the cold wood.
“Lift her up. Let’s have a good look.”
The pressure on her wrists eased as the man holding her pushed her back across the desk, and then Stephanie felt her hair grabbed and twisted, her head forced up. As her torso lifted clear of the desk her breasts spilled forward, firm and round, nipples hard and swollen.
“Nice tits, very nice.” The man holding her wrists leered wickedly at her and Stephanie shuddered at the look in his eyes. Behind her, his companion pressed close, cupping the gently swaying breasts and squeezing hard.
“Yes.Very nice. Nice and firm.”
…
Mrs. Lloyd unwittingly came to her rescue. “Leave her for now,” she ordered. “I want to thrash her hard. I want to give her a thrashing to remember me by.”
Stephanie wailed in protest , but already the man behind her was moving back, leaving her backside open and exposed to the belt.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
With almost unbearable force , the supple leather whipped down onto her invitingly jutting backside. The heat flared through her at once,stinging and burning and wringing high pitched howls from her lips. Her hips bucked and writhed in a futile effort to evade the searing lash , but there was no respite.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
The blows whipped in to criss cross the weals already striping her, each new blow an added increment to the burning pain that engulfed her entire backside. The belt whipped up and down relentlessly and her cries and pleas went unheeded. Her body rocked and twisted, a sheen of sweat shining on her pale skin and glistening on her breasts. Her cries were breathless, cut off and choked short by each new smack of the lash across her quivering flesh. Where the lash struck, her skin rippled and flared a deep angry red and she sobbed in despair as she realised she was going to be whipped raw. Her wrists were sore from being clamped so tight while she writhed and twisted helplessly and still the belt smacked down.
Crack! Crack!
No matter how desperately Stephanie writhed and twisted, the lash found her, raising long stinging weals across her already burning flesh. Tears clouded her eyes, her breath rasped harshly in her throat and she slumped limply forward. It was useless to resist. If anything her desperate writhing was serving only to incite Mrs. Lloyd to thrash her harder.
I do enjoy the eye-catching visual feast provided by the mean fellows at Pain Gate. Although they play a lot harder than Bethie and I do, or want to do (even if she is enjoying my recent whip purchase), their stuff is often fun to look at. Here, one of their models is suspended by one leg for helpless pussy exposure, which is being cheerfully exploited by means of a narrow-bladed flogger:
Ouchies! But think of the fun to be had rubbing and “soothing” the affected area. (An evil man would mix a bit of fresh ginger juice into his aloe lotion….)
See Also:
From erotic author Alison Tyler comes this story of spanking in the best place available, namely, the back seat of a ’67 Chevy:
We used the back seat of his car, a huge cherry-red ’67 Chevy. We found alleys. We fucked in Griffith Park. We went all the way in a department store dressing room—I’d needed to buy more clothes: jeans, t-shirts, an actual wardrobe. We had no fear any longer. Who the fuck cared if someone saw us? Exhibitionism has always been one of my weaknesses. Connor was more than ready to play. He wrapped my wrists with his wallet chain and spread me out in the Chevy’s huge rear seat. He always took his time, looking at me, making me feel even more naked by the way he evaluated every part of my body. His hands roaming over my shoulders, my small breasts, down to the basin of my belly. He liked to hook his fingers into my nether lips and spread me wide, blowing a puff of air over my pussy before locking his lips on my clit and sucking. Making me come was no challenge for him. I melted at the way he touched me. Sometimes so rough, I was shaking. Sometimes, so softly, I’d beg him to stop teasing.
“Please—“
He loved to hear me beg.
“Please, what, baby?”
“Oh, god, Connor. You know.”
“Say it—“
Cruel, he was. I’d been rebuked. I’d been put down. I hated spelling out what I wanted. And Connor loved every torturous minute.
“I want to hear you say it.” His fingers tracing lightly over my ribs, making me squirm and pull away laughing. And as soon as I moved away, he’d be on me, biting my bottom lip, holding me in place with his body, still fully clothed. His voice whiskey-soft and dark, “Tell me, Alison. Tell me what you need.”
My eyes down, my hair falling forward, unable to look at him, even though I knew he already knew. Even though I knew he didn’t think I was broken, he didn’t think I was damaged goods. “Spank me, Connor.”
And he’d flip me over his lap and give my ass the lightest little patty-cake spanking. “Like this?”
I’d know better than to laugh, because all hell would break loose if I didn’t take him seriously. I’d know to turn my head to stare up at him over my shoulder, to meet his eyes and say, “No, Connor,” my voice a whisper. “Harder, please. Spank me for real.”
And, Christ, I would feel his cock grow even harder as he’d hold me in place, getting ready for the first part of the evening’s punishment.
Sometimes, he bent me over the hood of his car and striped me with his belt, taking it off my own waist first, his hands so rough, undoing the buckle, sliding the old brown leather free.
