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I found this suggestive picture on one of those otherwise boring pages of dormitory hijinks that college students are so fond of posting by the millions. This picture was labled with the French for “In College”:
For those of you whose fantasies run to the harsh punishment end of the spectrum, here’s an excerpt from a judicial caning story called The Young Offender by Lupercal:
The Sergeant then took a brisk step backward and, laying the cane gently across the middle of the girl’s magnificent bum, measured his distance. Then, satisfied with his aim, he moved back even further till he stood eight or nine feet to the side of his intended target.
With a dramatic flourish he raised the long swishy cane high up over his shoulder and, looking round at the Superintendent, signalled his readiness with a curt tilt of his head.
“Stand clear,” Oliseh said to the doctor and to the two constables who stood nearby, then, consulting a printed paper he’d taken from his pocket, rounded on the Sergeant, telling him, “The Warrant is for twenty-five. Proceed!”
Without a word, Sergeant M’wapa launched himself forward – one huge stride, then another – and then, pivoting round on the ball of one foot, brought the cane thrumming down across the pretty young convict’s squirming upthrust rear, wringing from her a tremendous, ear-splitting shriek that made me fairly jump in my seat. “Oh my God!” a woman behind me exclaimed. “My baby! My baby!”
“Hush now, Ayoka!” her male companion admonished. “The Court has spoken.”
“Yes. Of course,” the woman said shakily, then fell silent.
I shall never forget Bobbie’s baleful, heart-rending cries, the sharp, meaty ‘thwack’ of the cane against her naked flesh, and the way her big black bottom danced and writhed under that fearsome court-ordered thrashing. The Sergeant, as you would expect, was utterly merciless, punishing her with such ferocity that, at the fifth stroke, the Superintendent called a halt so that the doctor might assess the girl’s condition and determine her fitness to receive more of the same. But this examination, though competent, was merely a formality dictated by procedure. Sergeant M’wapa was an expert and everyone present could see that, despite the severity of her chastisement, the errant miss would suffer no lasting harm as a result of it’s execution. Indeed, it is a testament to the Sergeant’s proficiency with the rod, and, no doubt, to the many extra-judicial whippings he had meted out before the Act came into force, that, in the course of her punishment, the unfortunate young woman’s tortured hide remained completely intact, and not a drop of her blood was drawn.
Nonetheless, even at this point, with just one fifth of her sentence administered, it was clear that Bobbie Obasanjo would not sit comfortably for many days to come. Five huge ugly welts stood out like thick braided ropes snaking from hip to hip across her big bare bottom, each as fat as a man’s middle finger, and each a searing line of unbearable anguish, painful beyond anything the bawling teenager could possibly have imagined. These the doctor examined closely then turned to the Superintendent and said, “The injury is acceptable. You may continue.”
“Ohh! No! No! Nooooo…!” Bobbie wailed, he face a tragic mask of brimming, imploring eyes, bared teeth and wide, distended mouth. “No! No! Pleeeeeeease!!” she screamed, her broad hips arching up and jiggling frantically in a futile effort to forestall the resumption of her suffering. But Oliseh took no notice whatever. “Another ten,” he ordered and immediately the Sergeant sprung forward and struck again….
Here is an amazingly pastoral scene from the usually-gritty-and-severe whipping folks at Pain Gate. A sunny day suitable for a picnic, lovely scenery, two mostly-bare pretty maids, a whipping post, some sort of snake whip:
Really, it looks like a prescription for fun to me!
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From Tangy Sweet, this description of how she likes it rough:
When he’s had enough kissing and fondling, he forces me up and guides me to lay face down, pillows supporting my hips, and my arms straight out in front of me. He forces my knees apart, exposing my cunt for his pleasure. He’s feeling rough tonight, I can tell.
I really don’t mind.
At the crack of his open hand against my ass, I jerk in surprise. The first one is always that way. The next makes me wiggle and complain a bit. The one after that warms my ass, makes it tingle, radiates into my pussy. After that the feel of his palm against my ass makes me gasp, makes me moan, and makes me wet. He never spanks me hard enough to cause the kind of pain I want to scramble away from, only enough to make me squirm and redden my skin. It’s an oddly “clearing” kind of feeling, being at his mercy this way and trusting him with everything I am. It’s enough to sweep my mind of everything but him.
The flat of his palm on my ass gets my attention, you might say.
My ass sufficiently pinkened and aching sweetly, he sinks his fingers deep inside my cunt and thrusts until I’m pushing my hips back toward him, wanting it harder and faster. He gives it to me.
I’m showing you these caning pictures from Lupus Spanking because the pictures feature an amusing conceit I’ve not seen before. Notice how the miscreants against the wall are holding their canes between their clenched bottom cheeks until it’s their turn?
I especially like this one, in which the girl on the right hastily readjusts her cane when nobody’s looking at her:
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From the most recent batch of Post Secrets, a spanking postcard:
Thanks to the reader who alerted me to this.
Here’s a couple of lines from the April 2006 Atlantic magazine, about author Ian Fleming, who wrote all the books on which the James Bond movies are based:
As he wrote to his complaisant future wife, who seems to have shared some of his tastes, “I am the chosen instrument of the Holy Man to whip some of the devil out of you, and I must do my duty however much pain it causes me. So be prepared to drink your cocktails standing for a few days.”