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A PETA protester named Heather
told her master “No toys made of leather!”
As he spanked her cute ass
He said “Don’t worry, lass,
I’ll go buy me a whip made from… pleather.”
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An unfriendly little wager about Hemingway goes badly for one of the wagerers:
Helen’s face was bright red as she reluctantly lay over my lap. “Comfortable?” I asked sarcastically, my hand resting on her bottom. A gasp escaped her as I jerked her skirt up and folded it back over her waist. A small triumphant feeling ran through me as I examined her plump bottom in white cotton panties with stockings. “Stockings without a garter belt?” I mocked, and she shuddered as my hand gently caressed her thighs. “How thoroughly modern of you, Helen, is it the Paris influence?”
“What if my aunt comes down?” she croaked, ignoring my jibe.
“Then it will be very embarrassing for you. Lift up,” I instructed and hooked my fingers in the top of her underwear.
“What are you doing?” Helen shrieked.
“A spanking is not acceptable on underwear, my dear,” I laughed, “it must be received on bare skin, it’s the done thing. Lift up so I can pull down those frightful panties.”
“Catherine,” she moaned in a small protest and I gave her bottom a small slap.
“Up!” The panties came down and I smiled down at her plump white bottom. The first slap caught her by surprise and Helen shrieked. She kicked her feet a little with the second and third slap, her bottom wobbling slightly with the exertion and I admired the red marks my hand had left.
Helen was moaning slightly with the fourth, fifth and sixth slaps, the noise of my palm connecting with her skin loud in the room. Her legs kicked through the seventh and eighth slaps, her breathing loud and ragged and I slowly caressed her burning bottom with my hand.
“I think you’re enjoying this,” I murmured, my hand making little circles on her bare skin. “I think you enjoy being over my knee, your skirt up and panties down. Don’t you?” I demanded in a louder voice, my hand smacking down for the ninth time.
“Yes,” she moaned in a guttural tone, her eyes clenched shut in anticipation of the tenth slap. It was the hardest so far; my hand stung and the noise cracked through the room as Helen stiffened, moaning loudly. In quick succession, I spanked her another five times as she writhed on my lap, small tears rolling down her cheeks as she moaned.
I could smell her arousal; a deep musky perfume hung over us as my finger easily slipped inside her…
From The Hemingway Dialogue by Natalie Nessus.
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Here they are: The promised pictures of the Kool-Aid Spanking Spoon from Costco. And get this: the spoon changes color as it warms up.
I bet this would leave some interesting marks if wielded with a sufficiently steady hand….
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Here’s a neat bit of spanking art from Endart:
A little judicial punishment from the British Isles, as three rowdy young college ladies get the tawse and the cane from an entirely unsympathetic public employee:
I picked up the tawse, and moved to her left side. Holding the handle in my right hand, and the other end in my left, I draw my arms upwards, holding the tawse out before moving my left hand away and arcing it down across the her backside. She yelped — whether through the shock of the blow, or the pain that must by now be starting to radiate out across her behind, I didn’t know. I looked with satisfaction at the red outline that the tawse had formed — perfectly horizontal, right across the centre of her buttocks. Very good, I thought to myself: practice clearly does make perfect.
The other thing about the first stroke, of course, was the impact it would have on those waiting on the other side of the door. Up to that point, they had doubtless been straining to hear the conversation, wondering whether they would be in for a “workshop or a whipping”, as I termed it. Well, they would know now, all right.
I liked to deliver the second and third strokes in quick succession, aiming them directly on top of one another, below the first mark. With young Samantha, these were beauties, and she let out a cry of surprise as the third stroke descended. Her breathing was deep now – trying to keep control; trying not to give in to the ever-increasing pain.
I paused, making sure the effects of the previous strokes had had their full effect, and building the tension in the room as the girl braced herself for the next blow, not sure when it would land. And then: a beauty. Low down. Hard. Very satisfying: I do like the sound of the tawse as it cracks across its target. And a real sob from the young offender, as the blow struck home.
From Serving Her Majesty by Abel Jenkins.
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Here’s a submissive kneeling on the bed displaying her marks after her whipping:
Lovely!
For the most part on this blog I hide behind excerpts of other people’s writing, providing only snarky introductions and very thin snippets of commentary. Despite my interest in spanking and some other BDSM topics, the strange and complex ways people actually work these into their lives is often hard to understand. It’s always fascinating, but I don’t often have much to add.
Case in point: here’s an account of a spanking that takes place inside a relationship of obvious strength. Even though both parties clearly have desires that fall within the general realm of kink, it should come as no surprise that the typical human mismatch of desires and fetishes remains a problem. Love just ain’t easy, folks:
That evening, he promised me a spanking for leaving the house angry, although he was at the door yelling after me as I was huffily getting into the car – perspective, perspective. At bedtime, said spanking didn’t materialize.
I debated whether to mention it to him … torn between “I shouldn’t have to tell him!!” and “I really do want a spanking” and “heck, I don’t deserve a spanking, he was wrong!!!”, with the first choice resounding louder and louder in my head, but I did tell him and his response was laughter and what seemed like pity. I really didn’t like how that felt. He spanked me a few times, halfheartedly, it seemed, and afterwards made a comment about noise level. I snarkedly make a crack about closing the bedroom door and progressed to “it’s ok, you’re not really into discipline, I understand that.”. I didn’t mean it as manipulation, just a statement of “truth by shimmer”. But, it brought out the hairbrush for a few good hard smacks that left me resentedly excited, that sexual excitement that happens when your body betrays you, despite your resentful mindset. Master was aroused at my response to the brush and proceeded to use me sexually, thankfully allowing me to orgasm several times. It felt like release, pure and simple, and that was a good thing.
But the truth of the matter is that Master isn’t a disciplinarian. That’s not a judgement, it’s just a fact, it’s neither good nor bad. It just is. His desire is for me to obey him, without him having to enforce my obedience.
From this entry over at Shimmerings.