Monday, 27 February 2012

A jolly spanking holiday

Just a note to say that the latest instalment in Becky Sharpe’s series of 1950s school stories is out on Kindle. In School Trip Shenanigans the girls go on a visit to London and get up to all sorts of mischief. Spankings, of course, result!

P.S. I am very jealous of the girl on the cover. A good, hard, bare bottom slippering is just what I need x

Friday, 24 February 2012

Thank you, Mr Whacker

The following is an extract from the diary of Penelope Hasler, a Fifth Form pupil at Birchington School for Girls.

Friday 24 Feb

I went to see Mr Whacker as instructed this afternoon, and my poor little bottom is now very sore as a result.

This whole week I have wished and wished that somehow Friday wouldn't come, but of course it did. I could have cried when I awoke this morning. And I have spent the most miserable day in school, for I have known each and every moment that a thrashing lay in store at four o'clock. Of course my thoughts being elsewhere during classes led to trouble: I was given a harsh telling-off in Needlework, six with the slipper in History, and was sent to sit in the corner in French.

On my long bicycle ride to Whackenham, I seriously thought about absconding – simply running away, from my punishment, from school, from everything – but then I thought about the trouble I would be in when I was inevitably found, and I thought better of it.

Once arrived I was escorted to Mr Whacker's office by a girl who was younger than me; she was perhaps a Second Year. She smiled cruelly when I said I was there to see the Headmaster, and she seemed to take great pleasure in leading me to my fate along the dark corridors of the school. "Don't dawdle, Hasler!" she scolded at one point, much to my embarrassment. A Second Year, speaking to me in that manner! But I didn't dare answer back, for fear that she might land me in further trouble out of spite.

And then we were suddenly at the Headmaster's door. I took a deep breath and knocked, then timidly crept round the door when commanded to enter.

"I am pleased to see you here on time, Miss Hasler," said Mr Whacker. "Were you late, you would have been very sorry for it. Now come here."

I stood in front of Mr Whacker's desk and was given a long, stern lecture. I was told that I was a hooligan; a disgrace. I was told that my antics were inexcusable. I was told that I would have to buck my ideas up or I would never amount to anything but a very foolish, very wicked little girl. I was crying by the end.

And then it was time for my first punishment. Six strokes of the cane, three on each hand. I hate being thrashed on the hand, and I had to summon every ounce of courage I possessed in order to hold my hands out in turn. The junior cane was applied, hard, and I yelped in pain with each stroke. Once all six had been delivered I whimpered a little "Thank you, Sir," and coddled my stinging palms sadly.

"I trust that you will think twice before stealing again, girl?" Mr Whacker asked, flexing his cane with satisfaction.

"Y-yes, Sir!"

Next was the strap. I had known since receiving Mr Whacker's reply to my confessional letter that I would have to raise my skirt and bend over for this punishment. Yet when the moment arrived I was hesitant to do so, not only because I knew that the feared leather would be applied to my bottom when I did, but also because I was overcome with a kind of shy trepidation. After all, I didn't lift my skirt and show my knickers off to strange men all that often, and the prospect frightened me a little. "Please, Sir," I whispered, "Must I raise my skirt?"

"Yes, Penny, you must. Now be a good girl and do as I say."

Mr Whacker's voice, calm and commanding, washed my hesitancy away. My trepidation, however, remained. But I obediently lifted my skirt and bent over, gripping my ankles tightly. My hair fell down round my face, as one further reminder of my predicament.

"Good girl," Mr Whacker said. "And I am pleased to see you have regulation knickers on. Now, you will retain that position until I give you permission to stand. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered. Mr Whacker patted the strap against his palm a couple of times. I held my breath. The next moment the strap cracked against my bottom with an awful SMACK!

I knew full well that I had been instructed to stay in position, but I simply couldn't help leaping up and reaching back to rub the soreness better. Mr Whacker was, of course, very cross with me, and he pushed me firmly back down into position. "BEND OVER, GIRL! You really are a mischievous girl, and you're going to be VERY sorry you disobeyed me!"

And with that he took the strap to me with vigour, slapping it against my rear with agonising force and rapidity.


I got twelve frightful swats, in addition to the first that had been discounted. I howled with pain at each one but remained bent over until I was told to stand, and did not dare rub my bottom despite its soreness. I simply thanked Mr Whacker once more and gazed meekly down at my shoes.

"Now, Miss Hasler," the strict Headmaster said, pacing across the room as if to retrieve something. "It is time for your third and final punishment. The birch."

Oh... not the birch! And I was to get it on the bare! "Oh, but Sir!" I pleaded, a look of pitiful desperation on my face. "Not another word, young lady!" came the stern rebuke. "You will take your punishment well, or you will receive extra. Now remove your skirt and knickers, and place them neatly on that chair."

My heart sank as I realised that I had no choice. I looked up at Mr Whacker appealingly one last time, in a silent plea for clemency, and began to unfasten my skirt. I removed it, then folded it neatly and put it on the chair as instructed. Then I eased my blue school knickers down my legs, timidly stepped out of them, and placed them on top of my skirt. Naked from the waist down, I felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and so very sorry for being naughty. And then I gasped, and instinctively covered myself with my hands, when the door opened and a man entered.

"Ah, Mr Groves," said Mr Whacker. "Right on time. Now, if you would like to take your place behind my desk?"

I blushed furiously as the middle-aged, stocky groundskeeper walked past me and took up his position. And then Mr Whacker turned to me. "Now, Miss Hasler, you will bend over my desk."

I didn't want to, of course, but I knew that I had no choice. I shuffled to the large oak desk, and bent down over it. Mr Groves placed his big, rough hands over my wrists. I felt so unutterably helpless and trapped.

I trembled when Mr Whacker swished the birch rod through the air. "You will receive exactly thirty-six strokes, Penelope," he said. "You do not have to count them. Now, are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered.

For a moment I could feel my heart beating against my breast, and its thump was the only sound in the room. And then I heard the terrible SWISH! of the birch through the air, and felt its scorch on my defenceless cheeks. It stung so terribly! "Oww!" I wailed.

SWISH! "Oww!"

Again and again the birch struck me, each successive stroke making the fire that raged in my behind more excruciating; more impossibly unbearable. I howled and danced, and struggled with all my might against the groundskeeper's firm grasp, but I was held firm and those frightful twigs returned to lash me with unerring, merciless repetition. All I knew was pain and regret – damn that awful, awful birch! Long before the last stroke, my howls had become mere islands in an ocean of tears.

And then, at last, it was over. Mr Groves relinquished his hold on my wrists, but I simply remained limp over the desk, sobbing uncontrollably. I didn't even hear him leave the room.

Some time later, Mr Whacker told me to stand up and put my knickers and skirt back on. I tearfully and painfully obeyed, and, through my tears, thanked him for disciplining me.

"I only hope that your punishment teaches you a badly needed lesson, Penelope," he said, sitting back at his desk once more. He looked and sounded the epitome of calm authority. I looked, and felt, a disheveled, chastised wretch. How my bottom burned!

Once Mr Whacker had dismissed me I was shown out of the school by the same girl who had escorted me to my appointment. She wore an even more insufferably superior expression than before, which made me think she had been listening to my ordeal at the door, and which made me feel like quite the silliest little schoolgirl in the world. "Thank you," I said when she had deposited me at the entrance foyer. "Thank you... what?" she surprisingly prompted, fixing me with a stern, expectant glare. "Thank you... Miss," I gulped, lowering my head instinctively in humiliation. "That's better!" she grinned. "Now wait here for your teacher like a good little girl."

"Yes, Miss," I tearfully answered.

I was driven back to school by Miss Porter, the Head of Year. I sobbed and sniffled the whole journey, squirming in discomfort, feeling very sorry for myself and desperate for sympathy. But my strict teacher simply told me to sit still and be quiet. "If you don't stop making such a fuss, Penny, I'll pull over and give you something to cry about!" she scolded. "Yes, M-Miss," I whimpered in reply.

On reaching Birchington I wanted nothing more than to run to my bed and cry my eyes out and soothe my poor, aching rear. But, of course, I had my nightly detention so I had instead to hurry to Room 7A. I felt so lonely, and so very wretched, sitting at that horrid desk writing "My behaviour on Saturday, February 11th was inexcusable and I shall never, ever repeat it" over and over and over. Sitting was dreadfully uncomfortable – those stupid wooden chairs are so unforgivingly hard – but I had no choice but to stay, and to write, in dismal, monotonous silence, until all thousand lines were written. I will freely admit that fitful tears trickled down my face, wetting my exercise paper, the entire time.

And now, finally, I am back in the dorm, lying on my front (with my knickers round my knees, lotion and cool air doing their best to soothe my ravaged skin) and wishing I had never had that silly, naughty impulse to steal an apple.

Monday, 20 February 2012

Dear readers

After my exchange of letters with Mr Whacker I thought it only polite to write to you, my dear readers, to say thank you for your kind interest in my little blog. I have never had so many visitors! My genuine thanks to you all.

I must also mention that I may not be able to post as frequently as I would like for a little while, but I will do my best to post again before too long. Don't worry, it's nothing bad – so please just imagine me wrapped up in a boarding school intrigue, like the one delightfully captured above. Just look at that naughty pair, sneaking around the school after hours, carefully listening for the slightest sound of a teacher's approach – what mischief could they be up to?

Feel free to offer your opinions on their conduct and my own (and, of course, to suggest ways in which such wicked girls should be disciplined) in the comments or by email – your messages mean a lot to me and I read every single one. Back soon! xxx

Saturday, 18 February 2012

Dear Miss Hasler

Saturday, February 18th, 2012

My dear Miss Hasler,

Thank you for your letter and also for your belated, and no doubt reluctant, confession to the crimes committed this last Saturday evening. I spoke with your Headmistress, Miss Hyde, on the telephone yesterday morning when she informed me of your recent nocturnal activities and of your previous propensity for unseemly and unladylike behaviour. I must first say that, had you confessed to your misdeeds earlier, it would have spared me the trouble of thrashing the entire Lower Sixth, whom I had suspected of involvement in this outrageous act of vandalism. I trust that their suffering will bear heavily upon your conscience.

From your letter I understand that you have now received the public caning at Assembly that Miss Hyde had told me she intended to deliver. She also informed me of the slippering that she had already administered. I must say that I am encouraged that Birchington School maintains a traditional approach to discipline, although at the same time I feel that perhaps your Headmistress may be too kind-hearted to deal properly with girls of your obviously hardened nature. I am therefore pleased that she has given me the opportunity to assist in bringing you to heel.

I shall therefore expect you to present yourself at my office, this Friday afternoon at 4pm sharp. You will wear your full Birchington School for Girls uniform, including the correct regulation knickers. I must inform you now, Penelope, that I intend to punish you quite severely.

Now as I see it, you have committed three separate offences and so you shall be dealt with for each one in turn. Your first punishment will be for breaking into the school grounds and stealing apples. For this I intend to give you six strokes of the cane, three on each hand. This is to teach you not to steal.

Your second punishment will be for throwing apples at the walls. Quite what pleasure you managed to derive from this senseless activity I do not know, but I can say without a doubt that you will not enjoy the consequences. For this I will require you to raise your skirt and bend over and touch your toes. You will receive a dozen strokes of the leather strap across the seat of your knickers. This will teach you to respect school property.

Finally we come to your worst offence. The apple trees in the school orchard have stood unmolested for seventy years, being originally planted by one of my predecessors during the last war to provide a supply of fresh fruit to the pupils of this school. For these trees to now be irreversibly desecrated by your obscene scribblings has caused consternation (and some juvenile snickering by certain girls in the Lower Sixth) throughout the school. I must say that Mr Groves, the groundskeeper, is quite beside himself. I have therefore decided to let the punishment fit the crime and revive a method of discipline as old as our orchard. In short, you will receive thirty-six strokes of the birch. I have instructed Mr Groves to cut some springy twigs and make a brace of stout birch rods. These are now soaking in a bucket of brine in the corner of my office awaiting your arrival. For this final punishment I intend to have you remove your skirt and knickers and bend over my desk. Of course no girl could be expected to bear such a flogging on her own volition so Mr Groves has kindly agreed to assist in holding you down.

I trust that you will convey my kind regards to Miss Hyde for arranging your visit. Perhaps it might be wise if she can arrange for you to be collected by motor car after your visit as I feel that the state of your backside following your punishment would preclude your returning to school by bicycle.

Yours faithfully,

Mr. J. Whacker, Headmaster, Whackenham School

Friday, 17 February 2012

Dear Mr Whacker

February 17, 2012

Dear Mr Whacker,

Please forgive my unsolicited communication, but I have been asked to write by my Headmistress, Miss Tanya Hyde.

As I am sure you are aware, on Saturday evening a number of apples were stolen from the orchard in the grounds of your school, the majority of which were thrown against the east wall of the school building, and a number of obscene messages were etched into the trees. I am writing to inform you that the individual responsible for these outrages was not any of your pupils. Rather, it was me.

I will not trouble you with the details of my recent interview with Miss Hyde, save to say that once I had admitted my crime I was introduced quite thoroughly to my Headmistress’s slipper. If I might be permitted one further digression, it might please you to hear that this morning in Assembly I was called onto the stage and given twelve on the bare with the senior cane, and that after classes this evening I shall begin the first of a month’s detentions.

To return to the matter at hand, Miss Hyde has asked me to request an appointment with yourself so that you might have the opportunity to administer some correction of your own. If this suits, please let me know the date and time I will be expected to attend your school.

Please believe me, Sir, when I say that I am very sorry for my misbehaviour and for any distress it may have caused, and that I look forward humbly to your kind attentions.

Yours truly,
Miss Penelope Hasler, Form 5A, Birchington School for Girls

N.B. I have been instructed to state that you may deal with me by any means you see fit.

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Spanky sports

A post by OldFashionedGirl, in which she ponders the motivation of a blog visitor using the search term ‘volleyball dominatrix’, really put me in a sporty kind of mood. Well, okay, if I must be strictly accurate, a kinky, sporty kind of mood.

And I found that, even though her post concerned volleyball (and dominatrices), I involuntarily began to imagine myself as a tennis player – in public, a dedicated, professional athlete, famous and respected; in private, a brat who needed to be (and was) frequently spanked, my little dress flipped up, my tight knickers pulled down, and my spoilt little buns toasted right there in the locker room – and then I started a little search for sexy pictures that would provide vivid colour to my imaginings...

…like this picture of the gorgeous Maria Sharapova, for example:

Such a pained expression on her pretty face, and such an undignified position to find herself in – it’s almost as if she is being spanked. Mmm... what a lovely thing to think about! The elegant Russian beauty held firmly down across her coach’s lap, her knickers halfway down her perfect, long legs; a proud little Miss reduced to squirming and kicking pathetically as her pert, bare cheeks are smacked an ever more painful red. And how she howls! ;o)

Yet even without spankings, I can’t help thinking how terribly humiliating it must be to be a female tennis pro: to be obliged to wear such short skirts, which fly up and reveal your knickers with each and every movement (and this in a sport that demands constant motion); to have to play outdoors, so that your modesty is at the constant mercy of the slightest breath of wind; to have the world’s cameras trained on you, ready to capture and transmit your image around the globe (whether you like it or not)... (to return to our favourite subject!) just imagine having to go out and play with a freshly-spanked bottom! The very instant that pitilessly short skirt gusted up so much as an inch, your status as a brat would be plain for all to see. There would be no hiding place, no concealing your glowing derrière, no way to save your blushes. Ooh! :o)

And, I know, I’m being a hypocrite, expressing sympathy whilst adding (in my own small way) to the panoply of internet images of Miss Sharapova. But hey, it’s my blog. And besides, I really have quite a crush on her...

Yum. (If you’re reading this, Maria, call me! xxx)

Monday, 13 February 2012

Remote discipline

I learned on Friday that I have to go away for work at the beginning of March, and will be staying in a hotel (in a single room, on my own) for a week. That basically means:

1) No blogging, in all probability
2) No better half around to swat my naughty bottom

Now, BH and I aren’t lifestyle kinkers by any stretch of the imagination, although (at least in my case) that doesn’t mean we don’t think about it all the time. And the prospect of my staying away – unsupervised – for a week has fired that part of our imaginations where BDSM things live. I will, of course, have to be kept in line somehow. But how? Being tied up and left helpless on my bed (like the poor maid pictured above) is, alas, not likely to happen. I very much doubt I could tie myself up like that, and I’m not asking room service to do it!

Things we have come up with so far are corner time, writing lines, and self-spanking. And telephone calls, of course. (I anticipate being told off a lot. As if I would dream of doing anything naughty... on my own... in a hotel shower...)!

Naturally, dear reader, I would love to hear any suggestions you might have for things I could do while I’m away. And I’d be very interested to hear from anyone who has experienced ‘remote discipline’ themselves, either as the discipliner or the disciplinee.

P.S. Isn’t the photo above just gorgeous? It comes from Tucson Tied, a fantastic female bondage site. (I wonder if they want any new models?)

Thursday, 9 February 2012

On chalic'd flowers

After Tuesday's scholarly exploration of OTK spankings and experiential categorisation, I think it's time for a bit of culture. And so, with my best poet's hat on, I present a piece in that most celebrated of poetic forms, the limerick. (Hush, please):

How Many Swats to Give a Brat?

There was a young lady called Penny
Who frowned that she didn’t want any;
Her Daddy said, “Fine,
You’ll get ninety-nine!”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “Ow, Daddy! Too many!”

I thank you :D

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Another new friend

Another Country is a wonderful blog that I happily chanced upon yesterday. It's full of evocative writing, by an old-fashioned girl, on nostalgia, erotica, and kink. Please pay her a visit! x

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

More kinky thinks

I was set off on a think by another post of Spanky’s – itself inspired by a (six year old!) post by Bonnie about spanking positions – in which he writes interestingly about OTK spankings given on a chair. (His discussion of ‘high’ and ‘low’ ass is particularly fun!)

This position, as it happens, is my absolute favourite for receiving a spanking, and I posted a comment to that effect under Spanky’s post. (As, obviously, Spanky and his readers needed that vital piece of information). All well and good. But then, throughout the day, my unconscious kept poking me, in that sly, muttering way it does, asking “But why is it your favourite? Why? Hmm?”

Because it’s really nice… because it’s humiliating… because it just feels… oh, leave me alone!

And then that evening it hit me. As well as just plain feeling great, physically and emotionally, the OTK-on-a-chair position is my favourite because it corresponds exactly to what I inherently recognise as the prototypical spanking position.

Prototypical? Yep. Because, if you subscribe to the theory that we comprehend the world by means of experiential categorisation and metaphorical conceptualisation* (a system again grounded in experience), you see that we categorise (and therefore understand) things in terms of prototypes: a prototypical bird has feathers, a beak, eats worms, etc; a prototypical car is made of metal and has four wheels, and so on. The theory of course allows for flexibility and variation (thus distinguishing it from objectivist accounts of definition), with non-prototypical things understood both on their own terms and through their relation to prototypes. (‘Variations on a theme’, if you like). So, for example, we Westerners can understand a mud hut as being a house because it is sufficiently close to our Western concept of a prototypical house in e.g. physical terms (a living space sheltered from the elements by walls and a roof) and ‘interactional’ terms (people own houses/mud huts; they sleep in them, eat in them, etc). A more sexy example of similarity through interactional commonalities (specifically, ‘purposive’ commonalities) is provided by spanking implements. These come in all shapes, sizes and designs, but they all fit into the category of ‘spanking implement’ because they’re all used to spank!

I should mention that definitions and categorisations can of course vary from person to person as well as between cultures. Other peoples’ spanking experiences will be different to my own, so they will have different conceptualisations of spanking-related things.

Anyway..! This is all just my way of explaining how a spanking, over the knee, with the spanker sitting on a wooden chair, is what I most fundamentally recognise as a spanking. I imagine that this is the case because I saw lots of pictures and comics of just that when I was a child (kid characters always used to get spanked in British comics), so that way of doing it became my default concept of ‘spanking’ through repetition (and, I suppose, vicarious experience). And I suspect this means that, when such a spanking is given to poor little me now, in addition to the physical and emotional pleasure it provides it also satisfies something deep in my psyche; a kinky little something that grins: “Oh yes, that’s a real spanking! Ooh!

The lovely photo above, featuring a very naughty brat getting just the sort of spanking I mean, is from My Spanking Roommate. Judging from that sassy expression, she needs plenty more swats yet!

*One of my favourite books, Metaphors We Live By (George Lakoff and Mark Johnson), gives a fascinating account of these theories. If you haven’t read it, I thoroughly recommend you do!

Monday, 6 February 2012

Oh, but Daddy..!

Yesterday my better half was very much in the mood for some Daddy and Little Girl action, which was perfectly fine with me! I love ageplay. There’s just something so hot and exciting yet sweet and comforting about it, very much related to the sensation of erotic escapism I wrote about here, I think. I’ll write a more contemplative post on the subject at some future point, but right now I’ll just get down to the details…

I own a variety of fancy dress outfits in the ‘innocent yet sexy girl’ style, and for yesterday’s play I was put into a dress not unlike this one:
My long socks had bows on them, my red shoes had bows on them, my dress had a big bow on the back, I had frilly white French knickers and a big white petticoat underneath my short skirt, and I put pigtails in my hair and tied ribbons in them, so I was all bows and ribbons and frills.

And when I had finished dressing, and transforming into 'Penny', Daddy stood me in front of him and began giving me a good telling-off. I’ll hand over to Penny at this point so she can tell you everything that happened...


Daddy was very cross. He said I had been a very bad girl all week, neglecting my chores, answering back, showing off and flirting, and, most wickedly of all, touching myself. He told me that I needed a spanking. I said I didn’t want a spanking, and stamped my foot. That made him even more cross. He took me by the arm, marched me to the bed and pulled me down across his knee.

He flipped my skirt up and ran his hand over my bottom, and up and down my legs. He did that for quite a long time, and he told me what a naughty little girl I was. I felt very silly over his knee. “Please, Daddy, I’m sorry,” I said, because I didn’t want a spanking at all. “It’s too late for sorry, young lady!” Daddy replied. “You need a good hiding, and your backtalk just goes to prove it.”

He started to spank me, his big hand stinging my bottom very hard. I tried to wriggle free, but Daddy held me firmly down. “Ow! Ow! Oh, please, Daddy! That hurts!” I begged. “Be quiet, Penny!” he scolded. “You really are the naughtiest little girl there ever was – you can’t even take your punishment like a good girl!”

Daddy spanked me for a long time. He warned me halfway through that he would be taking my knickers down to check my pussy for wetness. I begged him not to, because I knew I would get into trouble for being wet, but he just told me off again for speaking out of turn. Daddy always tells me that little girls should be seen and not heard.

When Daddy did pull my knickers down he put his hand between my legs and stroked me. “Is this where you touch yourself, Penny?” he asked.

Ohh! Oh! Y-yes, Daddy!”

“Naughty, filthy girl! You know very well that you’re not allowed to touch yourself there. Only Daddy can play with your little pussy, can’t he?”

“Yes, Daddy!”

Daddy slipped one of his fingers inside me and thrust it in and out. It felt so nice, but I knew I was being very naughty by enjoying it. And I know Daddy is right to punish me for touching myself, but I just can’t help doing it.

Daddy inspected my pussy for a long time. He was very cross that it was so wet. When he had finished, he told me to stand up. I did, and he pushed me down to my knees. He stood in front of me, undid his trousers, pulled his underpants down and held his big, hard cock in front of my face. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about all week, Penny? Daddys cock? Have you been thinking about kissing it, and sucking it, and stroking it, when you should have been concentrating on your chores?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I nodded, ashamed.

“Naughty girl! You are such a little slut! And just look at how hard youve made it with your teasing! Well, my girl, now you can do what you’re best at!”

And then he pushed his cock into my mouth. I wanted to tell him that it was far too big, but he held the back of my head so I couldn’t escape! I could only suck and lick and gulp and look up at him helplessly.

“There’s a good little girl,” Daddy said, stroking my hair. “Ohh... you are so good at that... ohhh... I’ve a good mind to come in your mouth right now. You’d deserve that, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmnh, mnnh!”

But Daddy didn’t come in my mouth. He let me suck him for a few more minutes then pulled his cock away. “That’s enough for you, greedy girl,” he said, ignoring my sad pouting. “Now come along, it’s time for your second spanking.”

Aww, not another spanking! I didn't want to be spanked again, but I knew better than to answer back to Daddy.

Daddy sat on the bed again, but right on the edge this time, and he told me to straddle one of his legs. I climbed onto his leg and he flipped my skirt up and I waited for the first spank. But it didn’t come. Instead, Daddy reached down and took one of my shoes off my foot. He slapped it against his hand and I knew what was coming. “You have been so bad, Penny, that you deserve a slippering.”

“Oh, but Daddy!” I begged, trying to wriggle free. “I’ll be good! I promise!”

“Now, Penny. You know that you thoroughly deserve this, and you know it’s for your own good!”

Daddy whacked me very hard, and my bottom hurt so much I started to cry. But he just kept whacking me, and scolding me, and I felt very naughty and very sorry for myself. But deep down I knew that Daddy was right, that I was a wicked little slut, and that I deserved every last swat. I certainly felt very ashamed as I ground myself against Daddys leg, but I couldn’t help doing it. When the slippering was over Daddy lifted me up and sat me on his knee. “There, there. It’s all over now,” he said, holding me close and stroking my hair. “There’s a good girl. Now, are you sorry for being so naughty?”

“Yes, D-Daddy,” I tearfully nodded.

“Good girl. And you won
t be naughty again today, will you? Because if you are Daddy will have to give you another spanking.”

“No, Daddy, I promise.”

“Good girl. Now, Daddy wants to play with his sexy little girl. Youd like that, wouldnt you?”

“Yes, Daddy! Oh, yes please, Daddy!” I smiled.

And he lay me on the bed and played with me very hard. I came seven times in all.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

Sleb spanking statement shock!

I don’t, as a general rule, look out for celebrity spanking-related stuff, but I couldn’t help spotting a plug on Yahoo! for Keira Knightley’s latest film, ‘A Dangerous Method’, and thought I’d mention it here for the benefit of any readers unaware of its release.

I mention it primarily because the film features the delectable Miss Knightley playing the lover (and patient!) of Carl Jung, and she is apparently spanked topless in a couple of scenes by the kinky shrink. I’m not a mind-reader but I figure some of you might think this worth investigating ;D

I also mention it because I was struck by the curious angle of the Yahoo! PR piece (and so, obviously, the angle taken by the film’s marketing people): it seems to consist of a reverse-psychology foregrounding of the film’s spanking content by means of loudly downplaying it, i.e. “Yes, okay, the film’s got spanking in it, but that’s not all that it’s about, and although we’re mentioning spanking here to the exclusion of everything else we don’t want you to focus solely upon it, honest we don’t.”

Methinks the artists doth protest too much...

A quote from Keira herself made me chuckle for similar reasons. Pseudo-complaining about the English media’s (apparent) uniquely keen focus on the kinky aspects of the film, she makes the astute observation that “We obviously like spanking, I don’t know.”

It’s hard to tell if she’s giving a sly nod to the ubiquitous yet still semi-underground culture of kink within our shores, or if she’s being genuinely naïve. If it’s the latter, I would simply like to add: well, du-uh! In other news, Keira, fire is hot, ducks can float and nobody on Earth is going to watch that movie for the insights into psychoanalysis it might provide :0)

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

Lucy's punishment

Lucy sat in the Headmaster's office with a nonchalance that belied her situation; a self-assurance that other girls in her position could only dream of. She was a very naughty girl, of that there was no doubt, and she was in line for a suitably severe punishment. Yet as she was lectured she sat as calmly as one might if listening to a gentle serenade.

As well as being naughty, Lucy was a very pretty young lady, and she knew it. She also knew that the Headmaster liked pretty girls and pretty legs. Perhaps she thought that she could seduce her way out of trouble. Or perhaps she was just so naughty that she simply couldn't help being a tease; shamelessly flaunting her attractiveness and arousing her teacher.

That gentleman certainly stumbled over his words when the pretty schoolgirl sitting before him casually crossed her legs, causing her grey, crisply pleated skirt – already short to the very point of indecency – to ascend still further. His gaze lingered over the glimpse of soft, bare thigh that was unveiled, and all manner of thoughts came to him. Lustful, deeply improper thoughts.

"Your... harrumph! your disciplinary record is abysmal, young lady," he continued, turning his gaze to the window and forcibly returning his thoughts to scholarly matters. "An outrageous number of detentions, and a wanton disregard for the uniform rules..."

Having raised the issue of uniform, the Headmaster could not resist turning to look upon Lucy once more. She was such a wicked, naughty girl...

...with such a disgracefully short skirt, and such a carelessly fastened tie... the knot resting impudently in the valley of her young breasts... and, oh! Those stockings... how obscenely they sexualised her legs... her lovely, shapely legs...

Lucy looked up at her teacher with a coquettishly innocent expression, her big brown eyes open wide, her soft lips just faintly parted, as if ready to kiss. "Oh, yes, Sir," she purred. "I've been a very naughty girl. Are you going to... to punish me, Sir?"

A spanking, that's what she needs; a jolly good spanking. He would put her over his knee, lift her pleated skirt... reveal her tight, white knickers... pull them down...

...and spank her pert, bare, naughty little bottom until she was good and tearful and sorry...

"Yes, young lady, I am going to punish you. I am going to give you a good bare-bottom spanking over my knee. Naughty little girls like you deserve nothing less."

Lucy pouted appealingly, then smiled to herself at the bulge in her teacher's trousers and his ineffectual attempts to conceal it. "Yes, Sir," she whispered, outwardly timorous but inwardly thrilling with excitement at the prospect of a spanking. "I do deserve it, Sir..."

As she rose from her seat and began to remove her blazer she hoped it would be a very hard, very thorough spanking; one that made her kick and squirm and cry.

For, you see, poor Lucy – poor twenty eight and three quarter-year-old Lucy – hadn't been spanked by her husband in weeks, and she really, really needed it.

Image copyright the spankingly sexy School Mistress Fantasy.