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Monday...The Editor Is Chief!

Returning home from a visit to my editors office, yes I know any regular readers will be surprised to know that I have an editor, but I do, though she edits my other writing projects rather than this blog.

Her name is Arena Halfpenny, pronounced a-rain-ah and woe betide anyone who happens to call her a-reen-ah! As Arena is not famed for her mellow temperament.

So where was I, ah yes sitting on the bus. It would be of no surprise to regular readers that I have a penchant for spanking ladies bottoms. Ladies bottoms mind you not girls, I like the rounded swell of a mature bottom, I would choose flamenco dancers over ballerinas, Valkyries over wood nymphs every time!

That day though it was me that was nursing the badly bruised bottom; so I looked around my fellow passengers as the bus pulled out from the city centre. I wondered if any of the other travellers were sitting on stinging buns?

Perhaps the girl in front of me she looked to be about nineteen; young enough to carry off wearing a woollen giraffe hat complete with eyes and horns, but old enough to have the womanly swell I referred to earlier. She looked rather studenty in her dress, or perhaps worked in one of the city's more hip clothes shops.

For my imagining she was a student getting a later bus than usual perhaps because one of her tutors had asked her to hold back after lectures. Maybe that tutor had implemented some plan to help her through her studies, a paternal/maternal hand to her bottom perhaps, to help her to focus, not for any sexual reasons of course.

I wonder?

Then there was older lady to my left; going by her outer clothing she was an office worker, most likely a manager, at the very least a team leader.

Her long overcoat partially hid her black two piece suit and white blouse. Very elegant, very sexy in a 'business lady' way. My mind wandered to what could lay beneath that suit, what hidden sexy delights were covered by her almost stern veneer?

My eyes lowered down to her calves; they were wrapped in black nylon, stockings or tights it was hard to decide. A quick glance at her pale blue eyes that held an almost impish shine told me stockings!

What markings though could her bottom have?

She looked very much an English Rose, so tradition would have it that they would have to be cane marks. Six uniform lines above the tops of her upper thighs? Or maybe five horizontal lines with a diagonal slash to create a five bar gate pattern?

Her crime to warrant such treatment?

Perhaps her team were not hitting their targets, so her line manager had to bring her to book?

So now I know what you are thinking...'Tomas is a pervert who spends all his time fantasising about ladies bottoms'.

To a degree that would be true, as a large part of my stories are indeed formulated on bus journeys. Today though I was making my mind wander not in search of inspiration, but to take my mind off the very real pain in my own bottom!

It all came to head on the early morning when I received a phone call from Arena, she told me she needed to see me about a matter of some importance this afternoon. My initial feelings were that she had finished my short story collection and that it was ready to go on sale.

I was so, so, wrong!

“Nice to see can manage something on time!” was the less than warm greeting that I received upon entering Arena's plush city centre office close to the rail station.

“Er...sorry I don't follow what you mean.” I replied truthfully.

“One Rosytale per week, and a promise to send me work on the short story, also your book research...any of this sound familiar to you?” she asked me rather brusquely.

I knew deep down that she had a point, I had been fannying around a lot lately on chat rooms etc., and not concentrating on any of my writing projects.

“Quite for a change Tomas?”

I nodded feeling rather silly at being scolded by this much younger and beautiful lady. Did I mention that Arena was much younger than me?

Well without going into exact ages Arena is about ten years my junior, unlike me she is highly educated and at times quite intimidating in her manner, and this was one of those times!

“You deserve to be punished...but with your predilections you would probably enjoy it wouldn't you?”

I just stood there in stony silence, how can you answer a question like that anyway?

“Yes well we will see, perhaps I'll have a few little surprises for you that you won't enjoy quite so much!”

I nodded through lack of anything else to do or say.

Arena stood up from behind her desk and walked towards me, taking off her dark blue business jacket as she approached me.

“Hang that up for me.” She ordered handing me her jacket.

I did as requested putting her jacket upon an old fashioned hat stand in the corner of her office, as I did so I could hear her dragging the chair that was in front of her desk into the centre of her office floor.

“Come here,” She said her voice soft and even, “lift my skirt.” The shock upon my face must have registered with her as she added “Don't get any ideas, I have to wear this for a meeting tomorrow so I don't want to have to spend this evening washing out a snails trail of your spunk!”

So like some naughty little boy I nodded and complied with her wish, slowly I lifted up the hem of her tight skirt. It then became obvious that she was wearing stockings as the pale flesh of her milky thighs came into view, harshly contrasting against the black nylon.

Once the skirt was bunched up well clear of her stockings and filmy black knickers, Arena broke the heavy silence.

“Drop your trousers and underwear!” She commanded, and then added. “You better not for your sake have an erection!”

My fingers shaking I undid my belt, the thought that that belt may be finding it's way across my arse made me shiver. Then I undid my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

“Hold on!” She said stopping me as my hands went to the waist bend of my black boxers.

Arena then went to her desk, returning with a little clasp of safety pins.

“I think we'll have that shirt up eh? Hands on top of your head please.” She asked or rather ordered, as she started pinning up my white shirt, till it was hanging almost bra-like just below my chest.

Once she was happy that my shirt was out of her 'field of action' she then without warning pulled down my boxers!

“I said no erection!”

“It's not...it's not erect...” I stuttered out, my hand going to rub at my semi erect member.

“Hands on top of your head!” She barked out shaking her head in disgust at me. “This is not for your enjoyment!”

Arena then sat on the chair that she had placed in the centre of her office, her hand pointing at her lap in a silent invitation.

Awkwardly I draped myself across her lap, feeling my cock rub against her thighs as I did so.

Then the spanking started; she employed a brisk and not to harsh rhythm to my naked behind. Her slaps rained down causing a pleasant warm feeling in my arse cheeks, “I could grow to like this,” I thought to myself. In fact I could feel myself growing against her, I started to think that her having me move her skirt was a good idea upon her part.

Then she stopped.

Then she said.

“So can you explain to me your lack of work?” She punctuated the end of that sentence with a very hard whack to each cheek.

Did I tell you that Arena is a very sporty girl? Tennis and golf being two of her favourite sports, meaning that when she wanted to whack hard, she was more than capable in doing so!

“OK...OK...I've been chatting a lot on the internet....” I gasped out as the pleasant warmth from the initial 'light' spanking was giving way to a real painful heat.

“Need... I... ask... who... to...or... should... I...just... guess?” Her hand falling hard upon my bottom with each word.

“OK..it was Linda!” I gasped out in defeat.

“I thought as much, my troublesome twin,” Arena said, her hand now coming to rest and massaging my stinging behind. “she introduces us so I can help you with your writing, then chats so you can't get any writing done, is that the size of it?”

“Well I wouldn't put it that way...we just like to chat and stuff, every now and again!” I said trying to defend Arena's sister.

In truth they make for and odd pair, their second name is rather apt as they are both like two sides to the same coin.

Anyone meeting them for the first time would know straight away that they were sisters; both sharing the same dusty brown hair that the summer sun would turn to an almost magic reddish sheen, also both ladies share the same hour glass, or as I would like to think, guitar shaped figure. In fact I can't pick up my guitar now without thinking of Linda over my lap, as it rests there upon my thighs I can think only of Linda's rounded bottom under my palm!

The two of them though are also so different; where Linda is shy and demure, Arena is brash and confident. Linda's charitable nature is counteracted by Arena's ruthless business acumen. Linda submissive...Arena anything but.

Then my day dreaming was rudely interrupted by a harsh clash of Arena's hand upon the top of my thigh.

“Come on get back on your feet!” She commanded, she commanded and I obeyed.

Again my hand went involuntarily towards my cock.

“Get off that! How many times do I have to tell you? Get your hands on your head...no on second thoughts...strip!” Arena ordered me.

As I undid my boot laces I watched as she put the cushions off her small sofa onto the top of her desk, it was more than clear that she had not finished my chastisement. As I wondered what else she had in store for me my heart leapt into my mouth as I saw what she had pulled out of her desk drawer.

I watched as she placed the very familiar ash paddle onto the top of her desk. When I say familiar, I mean I was familiar with its feel, with its weight in my hand, but not with its sting!

You see I was quite used to delivering it to Linda's bottom, being on the receiving end though was a totally different matter.

However what perplexed me even more though was the pair of surgical gloves that she had lain on top of the paddle!

“Over you go then!” Arena said pointing at the little pile of cushions.

Now totally naked; I walked slowly to her desk, all the time nervously eyeing the gloves and paddle.

As I lowered myself across the cushions I could see Arena pulling on one of the gloves onto her right hand. As our eyes met she rather theatrically snapped the elastic upon her wrist.

"I have noticed," She said as she moved behind me, tapping my bare feet further apart with her shod feet. "that a couple of your stories feature ladies being sodomised."

I then felt her fingers trail down the cleft of my bottom.

"So I thought to myself, a little humiliation would turn this into a real punishment for you. Also it could be an instructional tool as to how it feels to have ones bottom invaded!" As she spoke I felt a finger probing at my anus causing an involuntary shudder through my whole body. "Oh Tomas that is only one finger...you are going to be taking more than that!"

I gasped as I felt another finger enter me to join the vanguard of her probing.

"Relax Tomas, that is the trick to being sodomised...you have to relax that tight little muscle...believe me I know." Arena said, her voice now an almost half whisper.

As I could not see her, I had no idea what other things she could have at hand. The mention of being sodomised brought ideas of dildos or butt plugs to my mind. I closed my eyes tight shut in abject resignation to her whims.

Then her fingers dove deeper into me, but not just deeper they also pressed down over.

"I have read that this is very pleasant and highly erotic for a male to have his prostrate massaged," She said, her voice now cheerfully mocking me. "of course being a lady I would not know how it really feels. So is it pleasant and erotic?"

In fact the actual physical feeling was indeed a sort of exquisite pain, but all pleasure was nullified by the deep shame as I imagined what state her gloved fingers would be in. So all I could manage in reply was a low guttural grunt.

Her shaming manipulations continued for what seemed like an age, though in fact it was probably no more than a minute or so. In that minute however she brought me high up to the edge of orgasm, then once I was on that precipice of release she withdrew her fingers.

"Now you are going to taste your favourite little toy, it will be five whacks and be warned I'm going to lay them on hard," She said in the same mocking tone. "Now pass me that paddle!"

With shaking fingers I reached out across the table with out rising, taking paddle I handed it back to her.

She kept her promise, the paddle struck hard on my right cheek with all the power of a real punishment, and not a play paddling.

After waiting what seemed like an age I felt the paddle slam into my left cheek.

She then waited allowing the heat, and no doubt the bruise to spread and rise.

Now she was applying the hard polished wood onto an already burning base, I kept my eyes tightly closed as she practised her already hard forearm stroke onto my flesh.

Then after the fifth crashing 'pop' had hit its target, Arena broke her silence.

"Stand up, and turn around." She ordered, as I obeyed I could see a devilish gleam in her eyes. "Kneel down." She ordered, as I knelt she turned her back on me, her black pantied bottom now directly in front of my face. "Pull down my knickers!" This I did not have to be told twice. "Now kiss my bottom better!"

My lips went to her now naked full bottom. I kissed at the purple and almost inky blue marks caused by the same ash paddle on her bottom yesterday.

Remember I did tell you earlier that Arena and Linda were both two sides to the SAME coin? 

Sister Joan Faces Her Demons

Janey Olson or Sister Joan as she has been known for the last five and half years sat in quiet contemplation in the silence of the church.
With only eight more weeks remaining of her temporary vows Janey was in a state of inner turmoil. The idea of returning to the ‘real world’ terrified her; it terrified her as much as her dreams of late had disturbed her.
Were those dreams sent as some sort of a warning?
Some omen of divine intervention even or were they just simply dreams coming from a worried mind?
When she joined the order her parents were not happy, they thought that she was giving her life up on a mere whim. Her older cousin Mona had told her so much to her face.



“So Saint Janey is off to save the world? Off to save the world and not caring about her family’s feelings?”

That wasn’t how it was at all, she had never expected to save the world, all she wanted to do was to make a difference. She had considered joining the Peace Corps but thought that they had been used too much for political purposes in the past by various administrations put her off that avenue.
Also she wanted to join something more spiritual in nature; she had always looked at the local Amish communities with a jealous eye. She loved the way that they seemed to be so content with their lot, living side by side with the modern world but not polluted by it.
So she somewhat reluctantly agreed with her mother’s wishes, she became a nun on the understanding that it would only be a six year tenure.
The reason for this was that her parents desperately wanted grandchildren and as an only child she was their only hope.

Now though those six years were nearly over, six years of travelling and working in the worlds most deprived areas, now all coming to a close.
So here she was sitting in a church in County Antrim, her mind a flurry of activity. She needed to speak to Father Thorn, to seek out not only his spiritual advice; she needed from him something much more tangible than that.
It was a release from her troubling dreams that she seeked from him; years ago it would have been so easy for a ‘sister’ to cleanse her body. All that was needed would have been a brisk application of  ‘The Discipline’ to punish the flesh to cleanse her soul.

The Discipline, the small martinet that nuns would have used in the past for self-flagellation, had long since been abandoned by her order, though still used by others. So she was now locked in promises and vows, none of which she could break.
Her release back into the non-clerical world was imminent; her uncertainty of her release was manifold.

How could she cope outside of her order?

Would she, could she, settle down to the life of domesticity that her parents wished for her?

How could she drive these troubling thoughts and night terrors away?

Would Father Thorn agree to her radical suggestion…a suggestion so wild and radical?

How could she word such a request, would he think her mad to even mention it?

She knew that she could not tell him of her dreams, or rather her dream, as it was the same dream every night, or at least some variation upon the same theme.
She would be kneeling at the same pew as she was at today, though not dressed as she was today. Rather than current modern clothing of a knee length cream skirt and matching blouse, with a black headscarf. She would be wearing the old fashioned style ankle length black habit.
As she knelt praying for guidance, she would feel the presence of someone, or something, behind her.
With her eyes tightly closed she would feel fingers at the hem of her habit. She prayed harder, more earnestly; as that hem was lifted up over first her calves, then her thighs.
Next she would feel a cool breeze upon her naked behind, for some reason she was never ever wearing underwear in these strange nightmares. She did actually feel the cold upon her bottom as these dreams were corporeal in their nature; she felt all these sensations upon her body as they occurred, every nuance was felt upon her skin.
She even felt the eyes staring down upon her nakedness, was this some angel sent to chastise her, to give her the physical castigation that she felt that she so needed. She would arch her spine and push her bared bottom back to meet the angel’s punishing hand.
Instead of the sharp impact that she was expecting, she would receive the caress of a lover’s hand, the hand would cup her springy buttocks, and the fingers would search at her virginal fleshy folds. To her shame she would never recoil from the attention, rather she would force herself further back to meet up with it, to wrap it, to engulf it!
As those ‘angelic’ fingers worked upon her she could feel and indeed hear herself getting wetter; she would bite upon her bottom lip in shame as the squelching noises emitted from the most secret parts of her anatomy, the parts of her body that in her piety she had always endeavoured to ignore.

Always; without fail she would turn back to look upon ‘her angel’, then instead of some heavenly creature her eyes were met with those of a demon.
A demon dressed in black, his skin a burning red, his face was familiar but each morning Sister Joan could never remember it, never quite place it. The harder she tried to recall the demon’s features the quicker the dream faded from her mind.

It was the realness of her demon though that worried Sister Joan; he was as real to her as Ofelia’s faun was in Pan’s Labyrinth. This demon though did not bring a promise of a magical kingdom; Sister Joan's demon was driven only by pure self centered lust!




As Father Thorn left the vestry he saw Sister Joan sitting in the otherwise empty church. His heart lifted at the sight of the pretty young nun sitting there, for all of his vows Father Daniel Thorn was still all things said no more than a human male, and liable to all the weaknesses of his sex.
So the sight of the shapely nun naturally stirred up some of his baser feelings.

“Hello sister!” He said smiling widely, though his smile soon vanished as he saw the look of consternation upon the nun’s pale face, “Is something troubling you sister?”



“Yes Father there is indeed…I feel a heavy weight upon me…as you know very soon I will be returning to the outside world…” Sister Joan struggled out, her eyes cast down upon the cold stone flooring.

“Yes Sister I am well aware that you will be leaving us soon, and I can understand you feeling a little nervous at the thought.” Father Thorn replied his smile now returning to his face.

Finally Sister Joan lifted her face to look at him, her eyes edged with tears she spoke.

“It is more than just a little nervousness Father…I’m troubled…I have been having thoughts…” She could never tell him of her wild dreams. “Thoughts of a carnal nature!”

“Ah!” Father Thorn was more than a little taken aback by this revelation. “These thoughts... have you acted upon them?... Do you wish me to take your confession?”

“No Father I have never ever acted upon them!” Sister Joan replied, shocked at the very idea of her indulging in such self-pollution; though some mornings she would awaken from her disturbed slumber with her nightshirt rucked up around her hips and her cell scented with the smell of her inner core. “I have not come here to make my confession; I have come here for you to drive these wicked thoughts from my mind!”

“I’m sorry Sister I don’t know what you mean…what it is that you wish from me?” Father Thorn replied; wondering if this young woman was asking him for an exorcism, an exorcism just for a few dirty thoughts.

“Father we are now no longer allowed to use The Discipline upon ourselves, I wish for you to beat this…these…thoughts from me!” Sister Joan sighed in relief, at last she had said it, and at last she had made her request. 

Father Thorn was initially dumbstruck, and then he composed himself and went to the back of the church. As he walked towards the large double oak doors, he fished in his pocket for the large key. As well as finding the key his fingers brushed upon his now growing erection.This pretty young nun was asking for him to deliver a spanking, and he had no intention of letting her down!
Quickly he locked the door and turned around to Sister Joan.

“I think the vestry would serve us best.” He said trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

Sister Joan rose up from her pew; her heart now hammering in her chest, she had never even as a child experienced corporal punishment, deep down inside her though she knew that was what was now required.
Needed even.



Father Thorn opened the vestry door and ushered Sister Joan into his robing room.

As Sister Joan entered the room, she was struck by the ethereal green glow to the room, as the bright low winter sun shone through the stained glass window picturing the now defunct Saint Christopher carrying the young Jesus across the river.
Father Thorn followed behind her, his eyes though locked upon the bee sting waist and the rounded buttocks of the young nun rather than that of the colour of the room.

“As I have no instruments of correction here in the church we will make do with a firm…harsh even…hand spanking.” The middle aged priest said as he pulled a high backed wooden chair into the centre of the surprisingly large room.

Sister Joan nodded silently, resigned to her fate.

“Also, as to help to reinforce the punishment a certain level of humility, or humiliation is required. Do you accept that?” Father Thorn asked, swallowing hard, wondering could he really carry out what he had planned for his pretty young charge.

“Yes Father what ever you require of me.” Sister Joan replied her voice now a mere whisper, as she made her way to the side of the now seated priest.

Once Sister Joan was by his side Father Thorn told her.

“Lift up your skirt please sister, then tuck the folds into it’s waistband.”

“Er…what you cannot be serious…lift my skirt?” Sister Joan replied in both shock and disbelief.

“Yes, as I explained humility to you. When I was a young man at the seminary; the old priests and the brothers would punish us in the state of Adam before the fall. So I plan to spank you in the state of Eve.”

Father Thorn said, his voice now low and even, his argument to the young nun seemed unarguable.
After all she thought to herself it was her who had seeked out his assistance, so she would have to at least comply to his methods.
Slowly with shaking fingers she lifted her skirt, all to aware of the view that she was going to be giving to the middle aged priest.

Once she had tucked the skirt in tight, Father Thorn motioned for her to come closer still to him. She gasped as she felt his hands move up the outside of her hips reaching for the waistband of her dark tights.

Closing her eyes so she would not have to look upon his face, she felt her tights being lowered till he had dragged them down to her ankles.
Father Thorn smiled as he could now clearly see the nun’s once virginal white cotton knickers, now though they were an off white greyish colour through all the years of washing. He guessed - rightly guessed - that these knickers had been issued when she had first joined the order, when she was not quite so filled out in her bottom and the hips.
Now her once modest underwear were now drum tight upon her, her mons venus clearly outlined much to the priests delight. Of course though for all that he admired the look of her knickered crotch, those knickers would have also go.

As Sister Joan then felt his fingers at the waistband of her last vestige of modesty she felt the first tears spring to her eyes.

“Please Father must you…” She whispered her eyes still locked closed.

He never replied, all he did was lower them till they cleared her upper thighs, then gravity took over and they fell of their own accord to join her tights.
Now the view caused the priest to take a sharp intake of breath, unlike the women in his secret porn magazine collection, Sister Joan’s sex had a thick covering of light brown hair. A covering that had never, been trimmed or shaved, she looked like a picture from the nineteen sixties not a girl of the third millennium!

Father Thorn then took the nun by her waist and bent him over his waiting lap. As Sister Joan struggled to try and rest her hands upon the stone floor to aid to her balance, without warning the first harsh stinging slap fell upon her now naked upturned bottom.
The crack of that report echoed around the vestry; as did her shout of both pain and surprise, the next crack followed quickly.
Sister Joan then had to endure a volley of slaps to her bottom cheeks, causing her to tighten her buttocks up as much as she could manage.

“Please sister try and relax your bottom..” Father Thorn told her, his request though seemed to fall upon death ears. “I said relax sister!”

Now to emphasise his point the priest turned his attention to Sister Joan’s upper thighs. This sudden change of tack brought a torrent of both words and screeches from the young nun.

“You bastard…that hurts…” She shouted then realising what she had called her priest. “sorry father…I’m so sorry!”

Her writhing and kicking upon the priest’s knee had caused three things; her shoes to come off, her left leg to completely depart company from her tights and knickers, and for Father Thorn’s erection to gain even more tumescence!
The priest did not ease up any on the young nun, his hard hands kept up their onslaught upon her now very pink rear. His hands fell in a seemingly random pattern, though he made sure that both cheeks received a more or less similar colouration, as did the backs of her thighs.
The colour was now enhanced by the sun's rays hitting off the red cloak of Saint Christopher, the room was now washed in a red rather than green glow.
The other noticeable change that had taken place was in Sister Joan’s cries. Instead of the previous shouts of pain and protestations, she was now emitting earthy grunts and sighs.
Her movement too had changed, instead of the writhing in a futile attempt at avoiding the priest’s chastising hand, she was now rocking herself upon his knee in a steady rhythmic pattern. This change of events did not escape the priest’s notice, a thought then crossed his mind, a thought so wild as to be almost madness.
A thought though that stayed with him and grew; a thought that he decided to act upon despite any later consequences..

Sister Joan sighed in a mixture of relief and disappointment as the priest’s constant punishing barrage came to a sudden halt.
Then she gasped again; as she felt his fingers shallowly dipping into the lips of her pussy, then they moved along the length of her virginal slit finding their target, the hard little button that she had been at pains to ignore for all of her years since taking her vows.

“I’m sorry Sister you seem to be very wet here, and very aroused! I’m afraid your punishment seems to be encouraging the very behaviour that we were trying to rid you of.” Father Thorn said breaking the electric silence of the room.

“Father please…” The young nun said, her sentence unfinished. Was it a plea for further attention, or the start of an apology?

“It’s all right my child I know what is called for her.” Father Thorn whispered to Sister Joan as he helped her back up onto her feet.

Standing in front of her priest; her nakedness now forgotten, tears rolling down her face, her face a picture of bewilderment. Father Thorn now decided that damn the consequences he was going to continue upon this insane journey.
Standing up his hands went to the waistband of his coal black trousers and started undoing his belt. Sister Joan gulped down a little sob as she realised that now he was going whip her poor behind with his leather belt.

“Sister if you could kneel across the chair please, knees wide apart!” He said still in that unnerving whisper.
Now openly weeping Sister Joan climbed up onto the chair, obeying her spiritual guides instructions.

“Bottom right out please sister and arch your back for me.” He commanded, and she complied.

Instead of feeling the biting lash of the priest’s belt across her bottom, she felt something nudging at her sex, something hard, hard but still giving.
Turning, and looking back over her shoulder, she could see Father Thorn his huge erection in his hand preparing to enter her. Preparing to deflower her.
Then she noticed his face, his face bathed in red from the stained glass window, now she recognised the demon of her dreams!



THE END

Waiting For B

B.  is mad at me.

I use the letter B. because I can't tell you his name.  He would not approve me talking about him like this. He's a world famous author, you see.  He writes beautiful poignant memoirs, and thrilling suspense novels rich in detail and action, but for me, only for me, he writes naughty stories too.

Only last night though, I strayed.  He was busy working on the sequel to his blockbuster hit, now that Hollywood optioned the movie rights.  But he hasn't written any new stories for me in a few months and I was feeling lonely and needy.

So I went online and found the kind of story I like, a spanking story, better yet, a spanking story with control and obedience and kind but firm Masters for their little pets.  I was reading the story, and it was working at me, making me breathless and wet, that sweet ache rising in me as I read the words written by a different man, when he unexpectedly entered our room.  I stilled my hand under the covers, but it was too late.  He had seen the telltale rhythm of my circling wrist.  At first he grinned, thinking I was rereading an old favorite to entertain myself while he was busy- just what a good girl should do.  But the guilty flush on my face, my averted eyes, soon told him the truth without my uttering a word.  His smile thinned until his lips were pressed in an angry flat line.

"Baby, what were you doing?", he demands, knowing full well I was bringing myself off to a magic spell woven by someone else.

I look down.  I pout prettily, trying to escape his anger by playing at petulant.  

"I've been so lonely for you and your stories.  You never have time to play anymore.  And you don't send me stories when you're gone.  You know how much I like your stories.  When are you going to write another for me?"

"In our relationship, pet, you get rewarded for being a good girl.  Are you a good girl?"

"I want to be, but it's so hard to wait..."

"But are you a good girl?"

I shake my head, still staring at my feet under the blankets.

"What was that?", he's taken up his stern masterful voice, the one I love secretly, the one that makes me pant and squirm.

"No."

Just saying it gives me a thrill.  I know I shouldn't like it so much, but his quiet voice and the look in his eye makes me both miserable for displeasing him and dripping wet at the thought of his full attention, even if his punishes me.  I can barely meet his eyes when I speak, but the invisible bond lashing us together pulls taut, and strums the cords low, deep at the base of my belly and lower still.  I want to whine from the sweet agony of it.   

I look up to find him watching me, intent.  My mouth parches, and I lick my lips in an effort to restore some moisture.

"You were naughty, weren't you?"

I nod and look down at the blankets again, wondering what will happen next, and whether my punishment will be mental or physical pain.  I hate when he doesn't punish me, and leaves me alone to think on my misdeeds, making me feel wretched and sad for disobeying. 

The pain of his punishments hurt, but he's right there with me, and he's focused completely on me.  And during, I can show him how well I can take a spanking, and I can express my sorrow for hurting him from my actions with my tears.  

I've never spoken of this before, but sometimes, though I try not to think about it, the pain on my ass starts to feel good down low, there, at my core.  It feels so wrong, like I'm defective, that the spanking starts to feel good.  My pussy drips and pulses, and even though I try not to show him, trying to hide my shameful growing excitement, he knows.  Then, he holds me against his thigh and drives the apex of my sex against his muscle-hardened leg.  When he does that, even though it hurts, maybe because it hurts, I come hard.  

Nothing is more humiliating than being aroused by your own debasement.  

After the pain, it's wonderful. We're OK again.  He has forgiven me, and I bask in his comforting hands.  The punishment restores us, strengthening our bond.  I don't like to be punished, but nothing feels as good as being wholly forgiven and reassured with his hands, his voice, his eyes. When we make love after, I am completely open to him, I can let go, and we soar together.  

Tonight, he is very disappointed.  He wordlessly points to the corner.  I hate the corner.  No grown woman should have to stand in the corner!  I used to run divisions, and command others to my will, and now I'm climbing out of bed with a surly expression on my face  to comply.  

I have only a t-shirt and panties on, though I know my corner time will not be complete without further injustices.  I wait in the corner, arms wrapped behind my back, waiting.  

"You know the drill, my sweet"

I reluctantly pull down my sticky cotton underwear to my knees, pull my t-shirt up above my breasts, and put my hands on my head and wait.  

That's when he talks to me.  

He explains why his stories are the only ones he wants me to read, why my orgasms are his, and his alone.  And no other man, or woman's words for that matter, are allowed to make me cum.   He apologizes for this, telling me he knows it's unfair to limit me, but that it stems from his own fear I'll fall in love with someone else's words other than his own.  That's usually when I start to cry,  his sadness making me sad too.  But he is firm on this point, none the less.  He knows the power of words for me, because I fell in love with him through his words first and changed my life to be with him once I did.  He's quiet then, leaving me to weep quietly, with no solace until the punishment is over, and then only once he feels I've learned from it.

Without warning, he steps behind me and slides a finger, no two, into me.  He whispers, his mouth at my hair, "You're so wet, sweetness, one would think you like all of this."

I twitch like a prize mare, wanting to recoil from the idea, but I keep my hands clasped and my mouth closed.  He leaves just as quickly as he came, making me wonder if he's still watching.  I dare not turn for fear he will go away from me altogether.  

So, I wait. I stew in silence, wanting the spanking, if only to end the awful waiting.  My mind still in turmoil, dreading what further degradation and sorrow I will feel before we are whole and united again.

I do so want to be his good girl again! 

The End 

The Slender You Secret pt4 - by Ms Beatrice

Tom looked up from his notebook to greet the two women. He had just had an especially intense encounter with Wendy and her Bestie Maggie. It always happened like this. The novelty would sustain the women in the program for the first couple of weeks, and then they could “trick” the scale for another week or two after that. But week four weeded out those seriously committed to change, versus the majority, always looking externally for a quick fix from years of neglect and ingrained bad habits.

Maggie and Wendy had been no exception. Maggie was a meek little thing, until confronted with the prospect of a Punishment. Then the snarling and accusations flew between the two women to the point that Tom had to separate them both before and after the paddling. Maggie had made the goal, only by stripping off her socks, shoes, and earrings in desperation. Wendy couldn’t manage it, despite a second trip to the bathroom before the weigh in. The sniping from Maggie would have been comical had it been any number of other situations.
Tom finally had to threaten an additional Punishment unless she ceased her muttering. He was still making notes regarding his Maintenance plan for Maggie. A serious attitude adjustment would do her a world of good. He only hoped it would be enough to get Wendy to hang in there during the rough part. Neither woman had ever been part of a team and both were on a steep learning curve. Those two of all the group were the in most peril of failing or quitting so far this year. He would have to watch them closely.

Tom took a deep breath to prepare himself for the next hour with Janice and Beth, standing nervously in front of him. He was much less worried about these Ladies. Janice had the makings of a fine leader, if she could come to see it herself. And Beth, well Beth would be wise to shape up quickly because Tom had a feeling Janice was going to be much more strict than Tom ever would be. But, from Beth’s anxious shuffling and downcast eyes, he suspected she was going to find out exactly how strict shortly.

Sure enough, upon weighing both of the women, Janice passed her goal with flying colors, and helped the Isis team enough that they just narrowly avoided an additional Punishment for the entire Isis team. Four pounds in one week was an impressive feat, but she was an impressive woman. She just didn’t know it yet. Beth wasn’t so lucky. She was actually up a pound from last week, and burst into tears as soon as Tom read out the number.

“I’m so sorry, Janice! Please, please, forgive me!” Beth implored her stone faced partner. Janice didn’t yell or argue, she simply stared through Beth as the realization of an impending Punishment sank in. Janice didn’t have the advantage of knowing she would be spanked today.

Would it be a spanking or the crop again? she wondered. Whatever it was, she could already feel the rage curling through her veins, heating her face with shame.
Tom sometimes thought psychologists could learn a lot simply from spanking a person. Very rapidly, the essence of their personality surfaced, and how they innately handled adversity. And he had gleaned a lot from both of these women already. If he was a betting man, he’d put his money on Janice every time. Once, that is, she shrugged off the trappings that had kept her down so long. Tom was deeply gratified he would be the one to help her evolve into the amazing woman she would become.

Though Beth appeared to be the leader externally from experience, he knew, with proper coaxing, she would be soft and biddable. Janice, alternatively, deep down had a will of iron; she just needed to see it.
To assist them both in their evolution, he planned their Punishments very carefully. Beth would go first. She would want to be first anyway, to atone for her abysmal performance this week, he assumed. Which suited his arrangements perfectly.
He brought both women to the Wall of Punishment, and positioned Beth in front of the quote on Persistence, and Janice facing the missive on Strength.

“Prepare yourselves, please.”

Beth burst into fresh tears. Thomas wasn’t expecting this level of anxiety already; he guessed correctly that a deeper undercurrent was at work. The emotional element of a punishment was invariably stronger in the first weeks than anything he could accomplish with a paddle. Initially, the program was like a boot camp, ripping off the old scabs to cleanse the wounds underneath.
He was amazed repeatedly at the amount of self-loathing many of these women possessed. Some of them discovered they liked it, the pain, requesting unreasonable goals just to get a caning. For this special breed, he had hired Clay as a counselor to cater to their particular vices, and then avoided asking too many questions. Both Clay and his special charges appeared to thrive. The fact that many would be wearing leather collars by the end of the year was none of his affair.

Clay could have them, Tom mused. He liked a woman with a bit more fight, well, a lot more fight, truthfully. Probably more than he could handle, but wouldn’t it be a hell of a ride to try, he thought not for the first time. Tom drew his mind from his lovely boss to the women now stripped to the ankles before him.
Ah yes, he did love his job.

“Beth, you first.”

She sniffled and hiccupped once as she shuffled over to the table.
“Six pops with the hickory paddle should help your motivation, I should think. Please bend and grab your knees.”

She was clearly flustered and tried to determine how to simultaneously bend to obey but without exposing her charms to all the world and sundry.
“If you wanted modesty, you should have worked out a little harder earlier in the week.”

He tapped the inside of her knees to widen her stance.

“This workout will be witnessed by anyone coming in for their meetings. It’ll help you stay focused, and anyone else who happens to watch your cheeks get hot and red.”

She whimpered softly, her chest shook, and almost involuntarily, the lips of her sex clenched and unclenched with her shudders.
“You’ll be a cautionary tale for anyone lucky enough to glimpse it.”

The hickory paddle was a thing of beauty, about a hand’s width across and over a foot in length. The striations of light and dark on the wood gleamed with a high polish, and several holes were augured into the thick plank. Both Ladies wouldn’t forget this Punishment anytime soon. But for different reasons.
He ran his hand over the smooth wood. Tom hadn’t grown up with the paddle, but it had become a favorite during his time in the States. Cynthia had tasted the kiss of it more than once during her monthly sessions. He always took her quickly, from behind, dropping the paddle and ripping at his fly once he completed the Maintenance. He loved he feel of the heat coming off her reddened arse against his thighs when he thrust in hard, urgent to sheath himself fully.

He adjusted himself outside of her peripheral vision.
“Count for me please.”

The crack of wood meeting flesh rang out.
Beth was actually calmer now that the blows had started; knowing she deserved it and hoping Janice would find a way to forgive her for having to go through it as well. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a bitch either though. She counted out the first four, and then Tom paused.
“Janice, come over, if you would.”

Janice complied with her head bowed.
“Janice will be giving you the last two strokes with the paddle, since she was able to meet her goal this week.”

Normally, he wouldn’t have relinquished the paddle to an amateur, but he felt a little nudge along the path for Janice wouldn’t be amiss in her eventual development.

He motioned to Janice with the paddle. “Here, take a couple of practice swings.” Then turning to Beth, he asked, “OK, if Janice finishes your Punishment?”

Beth was ecstatic! If this didn’t help Janice get over the Punishment this week, she didn’t know what would.
“Yes, yes! Fine! I’m so sorry Jan! Truly sorry, won’t happen again!”

Janice was unsure at first, and grasped the paddle first with one hand, then decided both would give her better leverage. She swung and landed a halfhearted blow on the quivering center of Beth’s backside.
“Five!”

“Beth, do you think that was hard enough to count?” Tom questioned sternly.

“Um..no?” She couldn’t believe she was agreeing to more strokes of the paddle she was quickly coming to hate.

“Give ‘er another go then Janice, and put some heat into it.”

This time the crack and Beth’s involuntary shriek and stamping left no doubt that it was the hardest pop she had received yet.

“Don’t forget to count Beth” Tom helpfully reminded her.

She was sobbing and bouncing, trying to keep her hands on her knees, not knowing what would happen if she broke position to rub her blazing ass cheeks. No amount of shaking was helping the sting or the building heat though.

“F-f-five”, she managed. The delay was just making the pain worse, Beth regretted every second that continued to elapse, just wanting it over before the next group of women came through the doors and saw her complete humiliation at the hands of her best friend.

Janice still held the paddle loosely, blinking, and intently watching the purple welt develop through the already red surface of Beth’s sore hindquarters. She wanted to touch the mark, gently lay her fingers against it to feel the heat pulsing there. She was wet instantly. The feeling of power washed over her and she paused, feeling a little light headed and surprised by her own reaction. She looked to Tom, and he gave her a small smile of encouragement.
Another Domme had just seen the light.
She gave him a puzzled Mona Lisa smile back, toying with the holes of the paddle with her long fingernails, and Tom’s cock twitched in sympathy. He knew the direction her thoughts had taken by the stroking movements of her fingers. Today’s Punishment was the headiest thing he had witnessed in a long time.

Janice turned back to Beth, “We going to talk about your diet and gym schedule some more this week, I think. I want to make sure we both reach our goal, so we don’t have to do this again. Sound good to you Beth?”

“Mmm-Hmm.”

“What was that?”

“I mean, yes, yes, I’m not going to miss my goal next week.”

The Ma’am, Miss, Mistress was practically implied. Tom would have chuckled had it not broken the mood developing. He was pleased to be proven right, to say the least.
“Ready Beth?”

“Mm-Hmm, I mean, Yes.”

Janice let loose another crack low across her sits bones and Beth jumped up pitifully.
“Ouch! Ah, ah, ah, ouch!” , she rubbed her hands over her smarting cheeks, treating two unsuspecting women entering the building to a full frontal view of her dancing antics. She paused only to wipe her face roughly with the back of her hand before she returned her hands to sooth her punished bottom.

“Beth, hands on your head please, and return to the quote for Persistence.” Tom admonished her.

Reluctantly, she placed her hands above her head, and shambled over to the Wall of Inspiration. As she did so, Janice’s eyes were riveted on her swollen and bruised posterior. Janice had even forgotten the lower half of her own body was still naked as well, so entranced was she watching Beth’s butt jiggle with her tentative steps toward the wall.


Tom broke her reverie, with a gentle hand on her arm.

“Your turn, Janice.”

Letter To The Editor - A Business Woman Writes

Dear Sir, I felt compelled to write regarding the sensational nature of your articles concerning spanking, especially those involving Female disciplinarians. I can assure you, when I have cause to reprimand one of my employees, they know it is a punishment and not some little tawdry sex game.

 I have a woman owned small business dismantling defunct explosives and land mines. I can assure you, concentration and careful work are necessary requirements of the job! Because it is a proven fact that women are able to complete repetitive detail work more efficiently, most of my staff are female.
However, I do employ a few men that are able to perform up to my high work standards, but even they must accept the strict environment I maintain for the safety of our workforce. Only last week, I was required to punish Roberto.
He has been in my employ for over 18 months, and as you can imagine, the turnover rate in my line of work is rather high, so he was one of the more senior members of the workforce, and one I don't want to lose. Unfortunately, Roberto had a lapse of attention, and if it weren't for the eagle eyes of Amanda, the shift supervisor, he could have potentially blown his work area and himself to smithereens (as we say in the business). Thankfully, she had stopped him from accidentally touching the blue and red wires together on the piece he was decommissioning.

As always, I gave Roberto a choice, he could leave with his severance, or take 6 strikes from the cane. Being from the South, I do understand the frequent use of the paddle, but I find the concentrated stripes of pain the cane yields, and the visual reminder to be more effective than the broader marks of the paddle. He readily accepts his punishments, for which I am grateful. I don't draw out the event. I summarily bend him over my desk, always with a Supervisor present, in this case, and as I think of it, in all the recent times I've needed to reprimand Roberto, Amanda has been present.
She's the ideal employee, but more on her later. I bend him over the end of my desk, I have one side cleared at all times for such a purpose, and unfasten his pants and belt. I draw down his jeans to his knees, and before I start, I require my employees to recite back to me why they are being punished. I find that it helps their memory if their pants are at their ankles and they are embarrassed by their circumstances. I'm not psychiatrist, but I know it helps my staff remember to rules to recite them in such a state.
Most of my employees only have a single infraction involving the cane for the duration they choose to work at my facility. Roberto is different. He has had several instances, but I attribute that failing to be an unfortunate by product of his gender, and the inherent challenges testosterone presents to the average man. Once they have committed the broken rule to memory. I draw down their underwear or boxers, though due to the summer heat in my shop, Roberto frequently chooses to go "commando". This most recent event however, he had a standard pair of boxers.

Now, in one of your stories, this is where the author would start to describe in detail the color, cut, shape, how well formed the posterior is , the sounds they makes as they beg for mercy. There will, and is, none of that behavior in my office. I give a full hard swing each time, but not so hard as to be out of control for aim. Placement is also very important, and I take pride in my even stripes. Normally, I create a four bar "gate", with the fifth stroke as the diagonal, and then follow with my hardest slice at the tops of the thighs to creat a lasting reminder. This instance however, the welts from his previous punishment were still fading, so I elected to mix it up a bit. I laid down fresh marks in between the previous bruises in 15 second increments. I found this to be very satisfactory, since he was calling for clemency by the 4th strike. I still felt it necessary to place the final stroke at the juncture of his thighs and backside, for which he screamed quite loudly.

Once complete, I generally leave the room and allow the Supervisor to console the punished employee, because I do have compassion, after all, and I believe this also helps with the feeling of team unity. Amanda seems to know just how to make him feel better. Within the quarter hour, they are both back on line completing their work with as little disruption to the productivity if the shop floor as possible. And not one iota of impropriety is witnessed or encouraged.

Sincerely, Leslie McAllen, Texas

Naughty Or Nice

I gaze at Michael; he looks so gorgeous as always. Tall, slim and muscular with unruly hair and a smile that takes my breath away.  His arms are folded across his chest, head angled to one side contemplating me.  He’s wearing those loose, pale blue pyjama bottoms that hang in such a sexy way on his hips, and a white t-shirt, the type that shows off his well toned chest. His feet are bare, oh how I love his feet. 

Even after all this time I still can’t believe that he’s mine.  That I am his.

“So, what are you going to do?” I ask, my heart racing.

He grins his oh so cute grin at me and his blue eyes sparkle. “Oh I think you know what I’m going to do.”  

Hmm that American accent, so sexy

My heart does a somersault and all the muscles deep down in my belly become tight, such a wonderfully familiar feeling.  I can feel my face flush, no doubt betraying my feelings of submission and excitement.

Michael begins to walk towards me, giving me his knowing smile. I am rooted to the spot, legs like jelly and a million butterflies in my stomach.  My eyes are wide as he stops right in front of me.

“I’m going to take you over my knee and spank you.” He tells me calmly, his voice quiet.

My breath hitches in my throat and a huge tingle rips through my groin. Oh my.

“Are... are you?” I reply, almost whispering.

“Uh-huh.”  He leans in close. “I’m gonna pull down your pyjamas, and spank your bare behind.”

“Oh.” I can hardly breathe now, the atmosphere in the room is electric and I tremble with anticipation.

He gently takes my left hand in his right and leads me across the vast room, over to the large leather sofa. He sits down, gazes up at me briefly, and then pulls me so quickly across his lap that is almost winds me. In one swift move he has me positioned over his left leg, my upper body resting on the cool leather of the sofa. His right leg is wrapped around both of mine, pinning me down. I squirm and whimper pathetically.

“Hush.” He says, and gives my bottom a sharp slap making me yelp. “I said hush!” He slaps me again, and again I yelp. He loves this game. I sense him smiling, and then he smacks me hard again, this time I manage to keep silent. “Good girl, you learn quickly.”

I giggle to myself, then my breath hitches again as I feel his hands slip under the waistband of my pyjama bottoms. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pulls them down over my bottom. I’m not wearing any panties and am immediately aware of how exposed I am

“Hmm, beautiful.” he murmurs in admiration as he runs his fingers over my sensitised skin. I feel my face flush again. “Hands behind your back.” He orders.

“No.” I whine petulantly.

“Do as you’re told!” he growls

 I relent and he grips both my wrists with his hand, I turn my head to the left, then the right, straining to see his face, but my long hair blocks my view.  “Something wrong, honey?”

“I... I want to see you.”

He gently pushes back my hair, and I see him gazing at me.

“Hi.” I say quietly.

“Hi,” he smiles. He continues easing my pyjama bottoms down over my thighs, not taking his eyes off mine.

My breathing quickens, I’m trembling and everything from my waist down tingles. I watch Michael as he caresses my bottom. I feel him run his palm over my left cheek, letting his fingers slide in towards my most sensitive areas. Then, I close my eyes and let out a low moan as his fingers find my sex.

“Hmm, you’re wet for me already.”

He slips a finger inside me and moves it slowly around, sending me close to the edge. Then he withdraws it again just in time. I let out an involuntarily groan of disappointment.

 “All in good time,” he tells me. 

Then I’m brought back down the earth as I feel a sharp slap across my left buttock.

“Ow!” I yelp, more from surprise than pain.

Michael responds by caressing me again, then another sharp slap, this time on my right cheek.

“Ow!”  I look up at him, he’s gazing at me, and his expression is one of pure pleasure. Another smack, I manage not to yelp, but this one stings and I squirm across Ethan’s knee.

He maintains eye contact with me as he continues to spank me hard, alternating between my left and right buttocks, but it isn’t long before I look away. I’m straining against him, struggling to free myself.

“Oh no you don’t, young lady.  I’m not done yet.”

His grip tightens on me as I squirm more fervently, his palm is relentless.  My bottom is burning now.  In reality Michael has only smacked me a dozen or so times, but he’s an expert at spanking and achieves his desired result quickly. I come close to using my safe word, then, as if reading my mind he begins to rub and massage my bottom, easing the sting and allowing the fire to diminish.

“Hmm.” I sigh with relief and relax against the sofa.

“Better?” he asks softly.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He releases my wrists and suddenly slips a finger deep into my sex. I gasp loudly. Michael moves his finger around and around, teasing and delighting me, and I find myself grinding my hips against his thigh, trying to relieve the tension in my clitoris.

I feel a sharp smack across my bottom.

“Ow.” I yelp

“No self gratification.” He says firmly. “You’re mine, and I’m the only one to make you come. Remember?”

“Yes, sir.” I reply timidly

“Good. Now keep still, otherwise I’ll have to start your spanking all over again.”

He begins the slow torture deep inside me again, it takes all my willpower to keep still, but I know I must obey.

 Michael reaches his left hand underneath me and begins rubbing and pinching my clitoris. Oh the wonderful sensation. I let out low moans of pleasure as I feel myself building deep inside. I can’t help squirming and bucking across Michaels knee, but this time he doesn’t admonish me. He knows I’m close.

Michael quickens his pace, both inside and out, getting harder and faster. My body feels like it is ready to explode, my fists are clenched, my toes curled and my eyes are shut tight allowing all the wonderful feelings to overwhelm me.  Moments later I come spectacularly, shuddering and shouting out his name as wave after wave of pure pleasure ripples over me. Michael continues to work me, but more slowly and gently now, draining every last morsel of orgasm from me until I am totally spent.

I feel dazed and disorientated. Michael is stroking my hair as I get my breath back and my world comes into focus. My whole body is still tingling and I know I’m grinning like a lunatic.

As Michael sits me up onto his right thigh I gaze at him adoringly. “Hmm, I enjoyed that.” I mutter gratefully.

“Well, you’ve been such a good girl I thought you deserved a treat.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He says grinning, and then kisses me on the lips. “Merry Christmas, honey.”

“Merry Christmas, my love.”