Friday, 25 November 2011
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
I don't know if you have kids, but I do; 2 of them. I really love them of course, but the little sods never seem to both leave the house at the same time; certainly not when both Jude and I are both in!
Sunday, 20 November 2011
A Shipboard Romance
I followed her into my stateroom, my eyes drawn to the gently rhythmic swaying of her arse as it strained against the silky material of her bikini bottoms. I felt sure that this would be a keeper.
Michelle sat down on the edge of the bed, and leaned back kittenishly, thrusting out her ample chest for inspection; I felt sure that her brilliant green bikini was a size or two smaller than it ought to be, but I admired the effect. The thrill was not entirely intellectual and I was grateful that I was holding a towel against the front of my trunks.
“Care for a drink, darlin?” I asked;
Michelle had been keeping a porter busy supplying her with cocktails as she idled by the pool on the liner's top deck, so I was fairly sure she would respond positively.
“Ooh, Don, that would be lovely. I don't suppose you have any champagne chilled, do you?”
That was the second hurdle overcome; the first had been to entice her into my room.
“I'll just see what I can rustle up.” I replied, opening the door of the impressively proportioned mini-bar. As I reme
mbered there was a bottle of Lanson's non-vintage on the top shelf; well, there was no point wasting the good stuff until I was sure.
I withdrew the bottle, and made the usual production of popping the cork; as the fizz began to bubble from the bottle I filled two flutes about two thirds full. Turning swiftly I dropped the bottle into an ice bucket, to ensure that Michelle didn't get a look at the label.
I carried the glasses over to where she rested, her fine mid-twenties frame still displayed admirably, and sat down beside her. I handed her one of the glasses, and raised my own in prepa
ration for my toast.
“C'mon love. A toast. To shipboard romances; you can fall in love faster at sea than anywhere else on Earth.” This was bullshit of course; no one found true love on a cruise liner, the Love Boat notwithstanding.
We clinked glasses, and each swigged away half a glass or so of the dry fizzy sunshine.
“Top up?” I asked, already taking the glass from her.
This time I made sure that I had filled her glass right to the top; I returned it to her carefully, and again sat by her side.
“Is there anything you'd care to toast to darlin'?”
She wasn't the brightest bulb in the basket. “Erm, I dunno. Er, to true love.” With this inspiring toast made she once more went to clink glasses with me. As her glass approached mine I moved it just a fraction backwards, so that she gave it only a glancing blow. The momentum of her hand took her flute past mine, and, as she tried to halt her arm, she inevitably spilled most of it's contents over my bare chest.
As the bubbles fizzed against my chest hairs, and Michelle, now more than half drunk, gulped in surprise at what she had done, I adopted my sternest expression.
“Michelle, you naughty girl. You did that on purpose!”
“No, Don, it was an accident. I swear it was.”
“No, no. I saw it all; you moved your glass so that it'd miss mine, and splash me. You're just a naughty child.”
“Honest Don, I don't know how it happened. I must have taken my eye off your glass...”
“I don't buy that for a minute. You deliberately splashed me, and with good wine too. Your idea of a joke, I suppose.”
“No, Don, I don't know how it happened. I really don't” Her desperate repeated denials had the ring of truth. Of course, I knew they were true, so it was pretty easy to spot.
“Look Michelle, I think I better take that glass off you, before you throw the whole bloody thing at me.” I placed both glasses on a low table that stood just by the foot of the bed.
“Now then my girl, I know what a naughty girl like you needs.” My position next to her made it easy to reach across and grasp both of her elbows. I pulled her up, and across, and in less time than it takes to tell her glorious backside was propped up by my knee, presented for punishment.
“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” she screeched, achieving impressive volume and pitch; idly I wondered if she was a singer, as she certainly had the necessary projection.
“I'm pretty sure that you'll work that one out. 'Though I'm sure this isn't the first time a naughty girl like you has been in this position.”
“Let me the fuck up, dickhead!” Wow, bad language as well, now. Certainly ample reason to spank her arse red!
I couldn't see any point in continuing the dialogue further, so I began to spank her instead.
I'd spent quite a bit of time on cruise ships, and my skin had taken on a kind of walnut brown hue. My hand, through the use of appropriate exercises, has taken on the texture of walnut too. Flattened, fingers together, and propelled by arm muscles developed by regular attendance at a gym, it was more like a paddle.
I walloped Michelle's bikini covered bottom, mainly catching her right buttock, and a distant pink glow appeared at once. I favoured the left side with similar attentions, and got broadly similar results.
Michelle lay across my lap alternating screeches of outrage, gasps of pain and extremely inventive expletive combinations. One or two of these were actually new to me!
I began to alternate smacks, mainly striking just below the bottom of her bikini, and her goosepimpled flesh quickly turned a fetching shade of crimson; well, I liked it anyway. Michelle might not have been quite as keen, what with having to return to her room, and with nothing to cover it.
Of course, she might not have to leave, depending on how things progressed. On average I find that 1 in 3 girls that I spank like this actually enjoys it, and stays for repeat performances. The others threaten to report me to the Captain, and are easily bought off with a few hundred quid, and a couple of bottles of good wine.
I like to spank, and I hate to waste time building up a relationship, only to find that my paramour has no interest in the corporal arts. I've found that a sharp spanking early on let's us both know where we stand, and whether the relationship has a chance.
As I let Michelle go, and she struggled to her feet, still swearing most foully, it was dreadfully clear that this particular romance was dead in the water.
She stood, rubbing her bottom, and proceeded to spend the next five minutes suggesting various things that I could do with myself. She calmed, marginally, when I apologised, telling her that I had obviously made a mistake in believing that she was into been spanked.
Her anger reduced another notch when I opened my wallet, and produced a bunch of fifties; the two bottles of '96 Moet were the final cooling touch. She took my offerings and we parted on relatively good terms.
Despite not finding a companion for the night I had been extremely excited by spanking Michelle, and so I found it remarkably easy to satisfy myself once I was alone again.
I had matched Michelle more or less drink for drink all afternoon, and so, my head gently spinning, I lay down on my bed for a short nap. I planned to be awake by eight to have dinner in the ship's main seafood restaurant.
I had perhaps drunk a bit more than I thought, as I slept through my alarm, and dinner, and, when at last a noise disturbed me, it was deep into the night. The dark of my cabin lay lie a blindfold across my eyes; it seemed to have a physical force.
The noise came again, and I tried to sit up, reaching for my bedside lamp with my right hand. My arm didn't move, staying twisted behind my back, and, without a lever to push with, I found I could not sit up either. In fact I was disoriented enough to not actually be sure which way was up.
The reason I couldn't push myself up was that my left arm was also twisted behind my back, and my two wrists were, in fact, joined together by handcuffs. Now, I didn't mind the odd bondage game, but I preferred to do the tying up.
I reacted in the obvious way. “Help!” I yelled, or rather, I tried to. A cloth, tightly bound across my mouth, prevented anything other than a rather equine snort from escaping.
Okay then, I thought, don't know what's going on, but it's probably a good idea to assess my position. Well, handcuffed, yes, clearly. Gagged as well. Maybe blindfolded; I could usually see at least vague shapes in the night. I tried to blink; while there was something against my face I couldn't rule out the possibility that my position was just forcing my face into the bedclothes.
I hated the feeling of being helpless, and of not knowing what was happening; I almost welcomed a sharp smack across my buttocks that came suddenly, from out of the dark.
“Hullo Don. You're awake I see.”
I was still a little dozy, and it took me a few moments to identify the voice as belonging to Michelle.
“About time. You've kept me waiting for far too long; there will be punishment for that, in a bit. Now are you comfortable? Handcuffs not too tight.”
I spluttered against the material that was, by now, working it's way into my mouth; my tongue was already fuzzy from the afternoon's alcohol, and I really didn't need anything making it worse.
“Cat got your tongue, has it? Nothing to say for yourself?” Michelle was clearly enjoying this, milking my plight for every cliché she could remember. How terribly banal.
As this thought passed through my mind it occurred to me that I really wasn't as frightened as I ought to be by my position. Taking the time to critique my jailer's use of the language did not strike me as normal behaviour when tied up and gagged.
Of course, I still didn't know what Michelle's intentions were. And I still couldn't fucking move. I might not have been frightened but I was certainly pissed off!
“Well, let's see what you've got to say for yourself, shall we?” Michelle leaned over, and, with a worryingly sharp knife, she sliced through the gag. She also flicked the switch on my bedside light; although it was bent tightly over and aimed at it's base there was still enough light to get some idea of my surroundings.
Well, I thought, I'm clearly not blindfolded. And I'm still in my own cabin.
“What do you have to say then? Fancy a good rant at me, do you?”
Purely in the spirit of awkwardness I decided not to answer for the moment; let's see how well Michelle deals with a bit of frustration!
The answer came painfully; she didn't care for frustration at all! I lay on my bed, on my front, with both arms drawn behind my back, and my face pressed into my pillow, left cheek downwards. As the loop of my arms had been pulled down to rest against the back of my thighs, my bottom was thrust vertically into the air.
My position was most uncomfortable, and rapidly became painful as she began to swat at my arse with a large wooden hairbrush. I had not seen it before so I assumed that she had brought it with her.
As it crashed into my bottom, time after time, she kept up a litany of questions, spitting them out like some dude in a Western with a mouth full of chewing tobacco.
“What do you think now, eh? Not so happy now, eh? What do you fucking think now? Having a good time, are ya? Do you like getting your arse tanned, eh? Well fucking do ya?”
“Alright, alright, alright! Stop it; I can't..ow! Talk while you keep..Ouch..doing that.”
The cascade continued for a few seconds more before she realised the truth of what I had said, at which she let the hairbrush drop to her side. I tried to reach up, to rub my smarting backside, but I was prevented from doing so by the damned handcuffs.
“I'm sorry. Honestly. It was just a mistake.”
“And what, exactly, was the mistake? Spanking me? I've been checking up on you; the purser has a file on you, you know. You've been pulling your spanking stunt all year; setting girls up to do something so you can justify putting them over your knee .”
“Yeah, er, well, yeah, but it's only to try to find someone as into it as I am. Like Becky was, in June.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But they only stay until the end of their cruise and then they're off, and you're alone. Again. Wouldn't you like someone to stay with you, just for once? Eh?”
“I don't know about that. I like to...experience different girls. I'd feel trapped with just one girl. I'm still young enough to sow a few oats.” Now I was descending into cliches.
“How about if you had someone with you with similar interests?”
“Yes, but all the girls that stay with me are into being spanked. It's kind of my reason for being here.”
“That's not what I'm talking about. How about a partner who also likes to spank?”
“No, that wouldn't work. I don't get off on being spanked. I'm strictly a top; always have been.”
“I'm not sure that the bulge I can see in your pajamas entirely bares that out; me and my hairbrush seem to have had some effect.”
I couldn't really argue with that, given that her view was better than mine, and I was aware of a certain stiffness in the area indicated. Of course there was always prevarication.
“I don't know about that, but I do know that I like to spank! That's all there is to it; I like to spank girls.”
“Good. Me too.”
“Eh? What did you...D'you mean...?”
“I like to spank girls. I like to spank boys too, of course. But mainly girls. What I'm proposing is that we travel together; I'm sure that, between us, we could find lots of ways to lure girls into....spanking situations.”
My mind raced; this couldn't be true. But deep down I believed every word, and I couldn't help imagining the possibilities if we worked together. The infidelity spankings we could work, with the crushed lover demanding to punish the girl who had led their partner astray.
I shivered with joy, and now I really grew hard. Michelle quickly spotted this too, and, as though she had read my mind, she knew that I was with her.
So, I was wrong. You can find true love on a cruise, and this then, is the tale of my shipboard romance.
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Thursday, 17 November 2011
I read a lot of spanking blogs, as I'm sure that many of you readers do.
I read blogs by professional spanking models, by life style submissives and by writers who are just fans of the spanking internet.
sexual needs, and I don't think she understood how vital it was to my sexual identity. In all fairness I think that the internet, and the many avenues it provides to explore TTWD, has fostered a growing fascination with the subject in me, making it more important to me now than it ever was.
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
The School Mistress
Matthew was terrified of his new teacher Miss Robinson, even when he only saw her from behind his desk in the third row.
He was, at 11 years old, both the newest and the youngest boy in her class; previously he had been educated purely at home. Upon his mother's remarriage her new husband had insisted that he attend the local grammar school.
This was all very new to him; his mother was a gentle woman, and the tutors that she had hired were kind and attentive.
Miss Robinson, whose pacing at the front of the room reminded him of an irritated tiger prowling along the bars of it's cage (if only she were behind bars!) was a totally different proposition.
She wore a tight black skirt that fell half way down her shins, and below this were dark stockings that sank into stern black shoes. Above the skirt she wore a neat white blouse, with a raised collar that covered the back of her neck. Her throat, unadorned by jewelery, was long and sinuous. Her hair was dark and lifted into a tight bun, with not a single strand out of place.
All of her angles were sharp; whilst her skin was smooth and chalk-white it still seemed almost lizard like. Matthew somehow expected a forked tongue to flick out from between her pale thin lips as she hungrily surveyed her prey.
In her hands was a long thin yellow pointer that she whipped around, thrashing it on to her desk to demand silence should her charges make the slightest unauthorized noise.
Behind her as she stalked was her large wooden desk, and behind it her chair, to which she retreated for rest whenever the class were writing in their exercise books. Another wooden backed seat was placed to it's side; this she referred to as “my throne”.
She had just finished taking the attendance register which, for the first time, included Matthew. Placing the register on the desk behind her, and taking up her pointer once more, she faced the class.
“Matthew, please stand.” The new boy was taken aback by this, but still obeyed promptly, his face red with embarrassment at being singled out.
“Matthew is new here. Everyone, please welcome him to St Everett's” The class chorused a relatively enthusiastic hullo. “Yes, welcome Matthew. I hope that you take advantage of your time here. This really is an excellent school. And on that subject, could you please tell us a little about your previous school. After you sit that is.”
“Urm, please Miss, I didn't go to school before.”
“I see. And you therefore have no education?”
“No Miss. I was taught at home. By my mother and...”
“So your Mother is an expert in every subject, is she?”
“No Miss. She taught me reading and writing, but I was taught Mathematics, History, Geography, Latin and the Sciences by several tutors.”
“Oh, I see. What an industrious child you must be. And well spoken too. It seems that you have learned your lessons well. Ah, we will soon test that out.” Her eyes bore into Matthew, who felt somehow that he had insulted her by having gained knowledge without attending St Everett's.
“And, Matthew, I trust that your mother ensured you were well behaved whilst in the care of your tutors?”
“Yes Miss, she has always been keen to teach me respect for my elders.”
“Hmm. And when you did misbehave?”
“I was well behaved Miss.”
“Come Matthew, all boys misbehave. It is is their very nature. And that is why I have my throne.”
“No really Miss.”
“Really Matthew. Surely your mother found it necessary to spank your little bottom on occasion?”
“No Miss, Mother has never beaten me.”
“She did not? Well then, she allowed your tutors to spank you when necessary?”
“No Miss. I have never been spanked.”
“Well then, not spanked. But paddled? Caned? Slippered perhaps?”
“No Miss. I've never been beaten in any way. Mother is opposed to such punishments.” By this stage Matthew's face was as red as so much beetroot; indeed had he been an elderly gentleman a doctor would have been called. His voice had also risen to a quite inappropriate volume, and his breath came in ragged pants.
Miss Robinson leaned back, perching herself on the edge of her desk. She regarded Matthew with a cool, dry look; she did not, to him, appear to blink at all. Her stare was unnerving.
The class sat silent, enthralled by this exchange.
Miss Robinson placed the pointer onto the desk, to her right, and, placing her hands behind her, she leaned back further, her body now a straight diagonal line. She pursed her lips, and considered.
“Matthew, I do not think that I like your tone. You will, at all times, address me with respect, and at a much lower volume than you have chosen.”
Matthew did not trust his voice. He nodded at her comments.
“It is customary to answer me when I speak to you. Matthew. Do you understand.”
“Yes Miss.” He almost whispered his response.
“Well then, I'm afraid that I do not believe you have never been beaten. And I do not tolerate liars in my classroom.”
“But Miss, it's the truth!” Matthew's voice rose again, and he flew to his feet.
“Furthermore.” she continued “I do not approve of children who argue with me. That shows a lack of respect I cannot permit. Once more you have raised your voice, and I did not give you permission to stand.”
Matthew made to retake his seat, only to be halted by Miss Robinson's voice.
“Do not trouble to sit. I think perhaps I can find a better use for the lower portion of your body. Join me at my throne, won't you.”
This was clearly not an offer. Rather puzzled at how he had ended up here Matthew trudged reluctantly to the front of the room, head bowed and eyes tracing his footsteps on the floor.
He reached Miss Robinson's desk to find that his teacher was not there. Looking up he saw that she was seated in her throne to the left of her desk.
“Hurry Matthew. Over here!”
He walked across to where she sat; she was ramrod straight, her knees firmly together as they pushed against the material of her skirt. She had taken on an almost regal air, and suddenly Matthew though that he understood why she referred to this chair as a throne.
She waved a hand, indicating her lap. Matthew regarded it like an alien landscape; he was struggling to breath rather like the atmosphere had evaporated as well.
“Over my knee boy! I'm sure you know the position.”
Matthew shook his head; even he wasn't clear whether he was refusing her instruction , denying he understood her meaning or just failing to believe what has happening.
“Enough.” she snapped, and grasped his left arm. With a sharp tug she ruined his balance, and he tumbled across her lap, arms and legs flying at all angles.
He lay there, head to one side of her lap and legs to the other, his bottom protected only by short trousers positioned neatly within the orbit of her right hand. Miss Robinson placed her left hand onto the centre of his back, pinning him in place like a prized moth.
The material of her skirt was rough against his stomach where a button had popped open as he fell, and he felt a tingling in his buttocks.
“Right then Matthew, in this class badly behaved children are punished. We believe in firm discipline, promptly administered, in full view of all, in order that both you and your fellows can learn to follow the rules.” She was clearly in no hurry to begin his chastisement.
“For your information Matthew, you are now lying over my knee. And this...” her hand, palm flat and rigid, smacked against the centre of his seat. “Is a spanking.”
Her hand rose and fell again, as inexorable as the daily journey of the sun, varying it's target. She spanked his right buttock, his left buttock, the cleft of his bottom, his thighs as they thrust out from his shorts, and back again to each area of the inviting target.
Her arm was metronomic; like the postal service it was not stayed by wind, rain or snow.
At first the novelty of Matthew's situation prevented him feeling the spanking too keenly; after a few spanks though the force of each smack was magnified by it's predecessors, and he began to felt a certain warmth. This became an irritating sting, and then a genuine throbbing, and, finally, a scorching pain that forced him to cry out as tears cascaded down his face.
The spanking, and Miss Robinson was certainly expert enough to ensure it was a comprehensive one, lasted for no more than three minutes, during which the entire class studied and graded it. The general feeling amongst them was that it was a decent first effort, maybe a B- overall.
Having decided that she had made her point Miss Robinson returned Matthew to his feet.
“Come now Matthew, that wasn't a severe spanking. Just a warm up really, but now you have an idea what to expect if you are rude and disagreeable in my class again. Stop crying boy; I could have used the cane on you, you know. Wipe your face, sit down and let's get on with the lesson.”
Matthew puffed out a breath and felt nervously behind him. He expected that his bottom had expanded to a size far too great to sit back on his little wooden chair, and he was surprised that his shorts had not split wide open. Finding that he could still cover his behind with both hands he gave it several sharp rubs, which did actually seem to alleviate a little of the pain.
Turning he shuffled back to his desk, not daring to face his classmates after his embarrassment. To his surprise two or three of them gave his back a gentle sympathetic pat as he passed.
Reaching his seat he carefully lowered himself into it, rather expecting his flaming rear end to cause it to burst into flames upon contact. He sniffed, but could not smell any smoke.
At the front of the room Miss Robinson was once more pacing, poised and terrifying. Matthew stared at her face, and he felt sure there was now a little colour in her cheeks, and that her eyes sparkled.
Matthew sighed; he hoped that the rest of the day was less painful, as he shifted uneasily in his seat.
I don't know how experienced a spanker/spankee you are, but even the least experienced have, I'm sure, tried spankings in a number of different positions. The use of certain implements (the cane, belt or large paddle) require a victim bending or leaning, across a sofa arm, the back of a chair or against a wall.
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Well, good morning (or afternoon/evening, depending on where you are!) all; welcome to Love our Lurkers day; what a great week to start a blog! I've been to a couple of my favourites and left little love notes, and I'll be off to do some more soon.
I was just eighteen years old when the accident happened; walking home from school I was hit by a car that slid out of control on the December ice. The whole thing's a jumble; I remember hearing the squeal of the car's brakes, a feeling of pressure as it swiped me, and a tremendous thud as my head hit the sidewalk.
And then I felt nothing at all, other than a growing sense of lightness, and peace.
I awoke in hospital three days later; my right leg was in a plaster cast, all the way up to my hip, and my head was surrounded by a cloth bandage that extended to cover my left eye. I was hooked up to a bank of instruments that beeped softly away to themselves, and there was an empty chair by the bed on which I lay.
The door burst open as Mom hurtled through it, followed by a prim looking nurse, and my boyfriend, James. Mom's face was covered in tears, and Jim's face was split open by a wide grin. I gathered that they had been worried about me.
The nurse fussed around, checking my pulse, and temperature, and noting the results on a chart that she replaced at the foot of my bed.
My visitors gabbled at me, a tidal wave of relieved gossip that washed over me, leaving no mark behind. I was just glad to hear familiar voices; I didn't really care what they were saying.
I quickly grew tired, and was actually quite pleased when the nurse shooed Mom and Jim out, so that a doctor could examine me.
The doctor (“Call me Dr Harry; no one can pronounce my proper name”) was a pleasantly cheerful sort; he tutted and muttered to himself as he checked my chart and the flashing numbers on the instrument panel. He shone a light into my open eye, and tapped on my joints with a small rubber hammer.
At length he put away his tools, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Alright my girl; a couple of questions for you.” His voice was almost liquid, fluid but clipped. I thought that English was probably not his first language. “Your name? What is you name?”
I blinked at this; surely he had a note of it on the clipboard. Still, I resolved to be cooperative.
“Ellie Parsons Dr Harry. Don't you know that already?”
He chuckled. “Certainly. Just wanted to check you did. And the president is....?”
“Of the...of here? Obama, of course.”
“Good, good. Boyfriend?”
“Yes, I have.” Was he coming on to me?
“His name?” He remained patient, his voice low and musical. If my head were not spinning so dizzyingly I could have listened to him all day.
“Jim. Jim Staines. He goes to my school.”
“Good, good. Ah, what's 8 times 12?”
“96.” I was on firm ground here; I'd always been quick with figures.
“Good, good. You seem to be....all there. Your head. It hurts?”
“Yes. I have a splitting headache. And it's spinning.”
“To be expected. You had a nasty bang. You were unconscious for 72 hours. And I suppose you're tired. No visitors for now; sleep. You can see your family later. Sleep now.”
I closed my eyes and did as he suggested.
The following day my head felt much better; it was still a bit achy, and everything somehow seemed a little distant, but the awful spinning had subsided, and I no longer thought my brain was about to leak out of my ears.
Dr Harry came for a visit, and advised me that he was satisfied with my progress; I could expect to leave the hospital in perhaps 5 days if my health continued to improve.
When I had emerged from my sleepy cocoon Mom was sitting by my bed, and I endured a tearful 10 minutes or so, as she poured out all of her fears; when she was told about the accident she feared for my life, naturally enough I suppose, as my Dad had died in a car crash when I was three years old.
After a time she calmed down and we chatted as amiably as any 18 year old and her Mom ever do; there is always an underlying tension. At least my girlfriends always feel it with their parents.
Later on Mom went home to freshen up (she had basically been living at the hospital since I was hurt) and Jim took her place. We exchanged a furtive and oh, so tender kiss, and I really started to look forward to getting out of that place; Jim was a gentle caring lover. Although my experience was limited I thought that was unusual, especially in a boy his age.
We were chatting in a desultory fashion when Nurse Garcia entered the room, to update my chart once more. She nodded stiffly, to greet us both, and fussed around the room, straightening any wayward items.
As she turned to leave I was startled to see a gold light on her right butt cheek; as I watched it began to fade away, and in a few seconds it was gone altogether. I shook my head, as though it would clear my eyes, and I must have looked distressed because Jim sounded quite concerned when he asked if I was alright.
I didn't want Jim to know that I was seeing things, so I muttered something dismissive, and told him I needed to rest. This was probably true, because my eyes fluttered closed as soon as I lay back, and I dropped like a stone into the deepest depths of the lake of sleep.
I awoke to find Nurse Garcia once more busying herself around my room, and I waited eagerly for her to turn her back. When at last she did (it was probably only a matter of seconds) I was relieved to see that the gold light did not recur. I happily attributed it to the aftereffects of my head injury, and I put it out of my mind.
It was the day that Dr Harry had decreed I could, at last, be discharged. Mom was there to collect me, along with Creepy Paul, her boyfriend, for whom I did not care. He was always caressing her ass. Jim had come too, along with Rosie and Anna, two of my girlfriends.
Dr Harry called in to wish me well, and even stuffy Nurse Garcia risked a smile, and a pat on the back to encourage my exit.
My things were gathered up and our little party began the trek to the main doors, with Jim lugging my bulging suitcase, and Nurse Garcia pushing me in the wheelchair that the hospital required.
As we passed the end of the ward my room had been attached to, I noticed a young nurse talking to a white coated figure. They were clearly on good terms, laughing happily at each other, and the nurse often brushed the doctor's arm. Their conversation ended, and as the nurse turned to walk away, the doctor patted her bottom affectionately. As he did so, for the briefest moment, I saw a flare of gold on her behind.
I blinked and the light was gone. I blinked again, several times, but the effect failed to return.
I was a bit concerned by this, but as I didn't want to do anything that would endanger my discharge from the hospital, I elected to keep my worries to myself. Still, as our journey to Mom's car continued, I spent a lot of the time distracted, examining the bottoms of anyone who passed us by.
Mom sensed that I was apprehensive, and obviously thought it related to being in a car, after I had been hit by one. She did her best to reassure me that it was safe, and I quickly tried to put her mind at rest by saying I was sure that she was right.
Once in the car I settled back and shut my eyes; whilst I was far better than I had been, I was still prone to sudden headaches, and I was easily tired out. Dr Harry had told me to expect this to last for several weeks, and of course exercise was difficult as my broken leg was still held stiffly in plaster.
We arrived home without incident, and Mom showed me to the bedroom that she had constructed in the den, on the ground floor. There was a lavatory off of it, and it meant that I had easy access to the kitchen and the lounge. I sank down on the bed, glad to be home.
It had been quite an ordeal, and I was sure that, after resting at home for a few days, I would soon be more my old self.
I had been home for just over a week, and I was disappointed to find that I still tired rather easily. My trips around the house on crutches had strengthened my muscles, but I still lacked a lot of the youthful stamina I had previously taken for granted.
Most days I awoke early, and I haunted the house like a restless spirit until Mom, or occasionally Creepy Phil, came down. We would make stilted conversation, and whichever adult had emerged would make breakfast; my appetite had returned with a vengeance, which only prompted me to want to exercise more. The last thing I wanted was to return to school with a ring of fat around my tummy.
I had an exercise regimen provided by a hospital physiotherapist, and I stuck to it with a religious fervor, often spending most of the morning repeating portions of it.
After lunch I generally retired to my bed, and, like an elderly southern lady, I received my guests there. Jim came by every day, and one or other of my girlfriends usually popped in at some point.
That day Rosie came to see me, and, rather than sitting to chat, she wandered around the room. I was fairly tired, and my eyes were only half open as she repeated the day's gossip to me; I didn't really pay attention until she mentioned a rumour that Mr Arnold, the vice-principal in charge of student discipline, was in trouble for “excessive use of the paddle”.
My eyes snapped open at this; I was a honour student, and generally regarded as well behaved, but Mr Arnold had still found excuses to paddle me twice in the last 3 years, since he first came to the school. I was sure that he was an old pervert, and got turned on by beating us girls.
I looked at Rosie properly for the first time that afternoon, and I almost yelped in shock. From the seat of her pants shone the golden glow! Unlike in the hospital it was a constant almost blinding light, and it painted the entire surface of her ass.
My jaw dropped and I must have muttered something incoherent. Rosie turned, and seeing my expression, she rushed over to the bed, to aid me in my distress. I was already recovering as she reached me, and, seeing this, she slowed her pace, and then sat on the edge of the bed.
With a yelp she immediately shot back to her feet, her hands clasped against her bottom. For a second she rubbed herself, and then realising where she was her hands shot to her face in embarrassment.
“Are you okay Rosie?” I asked, my voice eager with genuine concern.
She knelt by the side of the bed,, hands over her eyes and sobbed. I comforted her as best I could, and gradually she calmed down enough to tell me her woes.
“Dad found out about me and Robbie; we stayed out together all night last weekend. His sister has a place in town, and she was away for the night, so we snook in and....well, we slept together. I told Dad I stayed at Anna's but he saw her Mom in the market this afternoon, and........well, he found out.”
“Well, you're eighteen now. He can get angry, sure, but he…..I mean I know he's always been strict with you but you're too old....”
“Not to Daddy. He say, you live under my roof, I treat you like a child when you're naughty. He was so angry; before when he spanked me it was calm. I could tell he was doing what he thought he had to. For my own good. Not today. He was fuming; he went so red.
“He took off his belt; he had on those big baggy pants he bought on sale last year. You know the ones? He took off his belt, and they almost fell down. I wanted to laugh, but he was so mad....He threw me over the back of the couch, and spanked me with his belt. I thought he'd never stop. He really tanned my ass; I still can't sit down. Well, you saw. I'm going to be bruised, I know it.”
“But he can't do that; you're a grown woman. It's assault. Let's call the police. Get me the phone. It's over there.”
“No, don't be stupid. I was wrong. I lied to Daddy; he only gave me what I deserved. It was only because he loved me. I don't want to hear another word against him. Let's talk about something else.”
Reluctantly I agreed, but my mind was consumed by two thoughts; I would never let anyone treat me like Rosie's Dad had treated her, and did the gold light I had seen mean what it seemed to?
I had shed my cast a few weeks before, and I had returned to school; every day was a mad scramble as I struggled to catch up with the work that I had missed whilst recuperating. Much of the work had been brought to me at home, after I had been out of hospital for a couple of weeks, but I still had a lot more to do.
I had gotten used to seeing a golden glow about various bottoms as I walked the streets around town; I did a lot of walking to strengthen muscles that had atrophied while I wore my dirty white leg armour.
Every day I saw a least a handful of glowing buttocks; some had a vivid intensity, but some faded as I watched. Remembering how brightly Rosie's butt had shone after her belting I assumed that, the sorer the bottom, the brighter the glow. A pat or single slap resulted in a rapidly vanishing dim flush, while a full-on spanking gave a strong eye catching radiance.
I was amazed at how many people in our town seemed to get spankings; boys and girls, yeah, sure, but also adults, both men and women. And not just young adults either. There was one woman I saw at least three times with a blowing rear, and she had to be sixty!
I found it difficult to accept that all of these folks had earned ass whippings. It made me doubt that I was reading the golden glow properly.
I resolved to put the matter to the test.
It seemed to me that the easiest way would be to get spanked myself; I could then examine my own ass, to see what result I got. I did appreciate that this path would be a pretty uncomfortable one, for me, but I was sure that I needed to see it through.
The next problem of course was to get someone to spank me. I though about asking Jim, but I really couldn't picture it. Jim was too gentle, and I would die of embarrassment. The same with asking one of my girlfriends, and anyway, the whole thing seemed like to it would be kind of gay.
My Mom had never smacked me in my life, so she was out. I had absolutely no intention of getting Creepy Phil to spank me; my skin crawled at the very idea of his paper dry hands on me.
Finally I decided on the obvious; Mr Arnold was a spanker, and I knew he would have no problem whacking my butt. I still needed to decide what I would do to provoke him, and I needed it to be something I wouldn't be ashamed to have on my permanent record. That meant that any academic failings were out.
I considered faking a bullying incident with one of my friends, but that just seemed bogus; I mean, who'd buy me as a bully? Especially with my record.
I had been paddled once in the past for 3 tardies in a month, but since my accident my teachers seemed willing to cut me quite a bit of slack with time keeping; I guess that they thought I was still having trouble walking or something.
The other time I visited Mr Arnold's office was when he heard me swear during recess; he happened to be walking by and I was (honest!) quoting from a film I'd seen the previous night. He wouldn't listen to any excuses; straight to his office and over his desk, or else he'd have to contact my Mom, and advise the Principal.
This seemed like a plan; I'd lurk outside his office, and drop a couple of F-bombs when I saw him; couldn't fail.
So, morning recess found me mooching around outside Arnold's office; I'd dragged Rosie along, who looked kind of puzzled. She knew that there was no good reason for us to be there.
I heard the office door open, and, to Rosie's amazement, and totally out of the blue, I yelled an expletive at the top of my voice. I won't repeat it here, but it was suitably crude. There was a shocked gasp from behind me (it almost mirrored one from Rosie) and a firm hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“Miss Parsons! Is that you? I'm shocked to hear such language from you. In my office. Now!”
He guided me away from Rosie, who still looked totally perplexed by the whole business. If I had been playing a trick on her it would have been a good one!
Mr Arnold escorted me into his office, and, without asking me to sit, he placed himself behind his desk, and reached for his 18 inch long paddle, which he fondled as he spoke.
“Now Miss Parsons, you know we do not tolerate that sort of language at this school. As I see matters, you have two options. I can contact your mother, and you will be suspended for 3 days, and I know that you are already making up work that you missed recently.
“The other option is I can give you three pops with the paddle, here and now, and the whole business will be done with. No records, and no more work to catch up. What'll it be?”
Kind of a hard sell on the spanking option, I thought, but of course that was what I wanted, so I quickly gave my decision.
“Alright then. Make sure there is nothing in your back pockets, and then bend over my desk. You've been here before; you know the position. Elbows on the desk; arms flat.”
I placed myself in the specified position, and, oddly, I was quite excited. I would soon know if I had the right interpretation for the strange illumination.
As I leaned over I could feel Mr Arnold's eyes on the faded seat of my old blue jeans; my buttocks pressed against the worn fabric, and I knew that I had a good set of curves there. My butt was my Jim's favourite feature.
I swear I heard Arnold pant with anticipation as he rubbed his paddle against my butt; he lined up his shot, and took it with enthusiasm, the wood splatting against the centre of my cheeks. The paddle was drawn back again, and the pain rushed in, every inch a stinging pinprick.
The paddle smacked across my butt again, a bit lower. Damn, but that would make sitting uncomfortable.
The final swat exploded onto pretty well the exact same spot as the second; I yelped and jumped a little.
When Mr Arnold said that I could stand it took a major effort not to rub at the intense stinging, but I really didn't want to do anything that might reduce the glow before I had the chance to examine it. He dismissed me, with a note allowing me to be ten minutes late to class, so that I could clean up in the bathroom.
I ran to the girls' locker room; recess was over and the corridors were deserted. I quickly made it inside, and checked I was alone.
I stood in front of the full length mirror, butt towards it, and peered over my shoulder. My ass had a molten golden glare; I gingerly put a hand upon it, and rubbed softly. I was rewarded by the slightest dimming of the brilliance where my hand had been.
Despite the still quite sharp pain I was elated; I had been right! I had the power to tell when someone's butt had been spanked.
My good mood evaporated; what a shitty superpower! My superhero identity would be Buttwhapped Girl.
My ass hurt, and I had to get to class. Suddenly depressed I trudged off to join English Lit.
I was soon caught up at school, and life went on. I did my assignments promptly, helped arrange the spring formal for extra credit, and found as much time alone with Jim as I could.
Life at home was quiet; I had moved back into my usual room, at the top of the stairs, and Creepy Phil had formally moved in with Mom when the lease on his apartment expired. I had as little to do with him as I could, although I was sure I felt his eyes on me wherever I went.
I came in from school one early summer afternoon, sweaty from the walk home. The weather was unseasonably warm, the oppressive heat only alleviated by a whisp of cooling breeze.
I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Diet Pepsi; the cold pop hit my chest like a hammer as I gulped it down. The contrast in temperatures made me gasp, but it was pure pleasure.
I drained half of the drink, and rolled the bottle across my brow, condensation mixing with droplets of sweat as they trickled down towards my nose. Sitting at the table I savoured the quiet, and sipped the remainder of my drink.
The kitchen door burst open, and Mom fell into the room, laughing. She saw me at the table, and halted, surprised.
“I didn't know you were back. Oh look, it's later than I thought. Sorry, baby. How was your day?” I thought I heard Creepy Phil in the next room, but he didn't follow Mom into the kitchen.
“Fine Mom. Just sittin', sweatin'. Trying to chill a little.”
“Good. Yeah, it's a hot one alright. Hey, I better start dinner.”
Mom shuffled over to the counter, and bent down to reach for a baking tray.
My head throbbed; my heart exploded in my chest. I blinked furiously and did a violent double take. My Mom's bottom glowed a deep shade of gold!
Holy crap! Creepy Phil must have spanked her! My Mom, in an abusive relationship. I'd fucking kill him. In his sleep.
Mom must have heard me gasp, because she turned, a concerned look on her face.
“Are you alright Ellie? You've gone pale.”
There was no way I could talk to Mom about this, not directly.
“I'm fine. Really. Swig of pop gone down the wrong way. Caught my throat. I'll be fine.”
“Well, if you're sure. Phil has a first aid certificate you know; I can call him if you like?”
“No need for that. I'm fine really. But I didn't realise Phil was here as well.”
“Oh, yes. He's just watching the box. We must have, uh, we were..chatting when you got home.” I could hear the hesitation in her voice; Mom was trying to protect me from Creepy Phil.
I already had a plan.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Anna as she bent to install the web cam behind the television in the lounge, so that it pointed at the area around the sofa.
“That bastard is hitting my Mom. I need proof, so I can get her to go to the police, and we can get him locked up.”
“Well, this camera will activate when there is movement in the room, and it records the pictures direct to your laptop. It's plugged in so it'll transmit until your hard drive is full; that's probably around 80 hours of film. Keep clearing it out and you should have more than enough to catch him.”
“Thanks Anna; you're a real friend. I could never get the hang of these things.”
“No sweat sweety. I just hope it helps.”
“Yeah. Me too. I'm pretty sure they're both off after lunch tomorrow, so, fingers crossed, this nightmare will be done by supper. And Creepy Phil will be packing his bags.”
The following day I couldn't concentrate on my school work; I've never been told off so many times in a day!
The hours dripped by like hardening tar, slow and treacly. I was actually startled when the bell for end of class sounded; I had decided it would never come.
Anna had her Dad's car, as he was away on business, so I didn't need to endure the walk home; from her passenger seat I spotted seven glowing behinds during the brief trip to my front door.
I thanked Anna, and said I'd see her the next day. I charged up the path, breezed through the front door, called a hullo to the house, and rocketed up to my room. My laptop was in the middle of my bed; it took a few seconds to boot up, and I quickly found the mpeg film with the camera video in it. I checked; it held 90 minutes of footage.
The first few minutes were just random shots of Mom and Creepy Phil crossing the room, with the odd snatch of inconsequential conversation. Then there was film of Phil finding his way to the sofa, and sitting down on the middle cushion.
The camera recorded his image for a couple of minutes, as his occasional twitches and ticks were enough to force it to maintain a constant stream of pictures. I goosed the pointer a little to move matters along, but Phil still sat there.
I was beginning to think that this idea was not working out; I couldn't face watching Creepy Phil sit for another hour or more. Suddenly on the screen I saw Phil look up at some disturbance off camera.
“You wanted to see me sir.” The words were in a little girl voice; Creepy Phil was an unfaithful paedophile?! Even I couldn't believe that.
“Yes, my girl. I am most disappointed in you. I think you know why.”
“I'm ever so sorry sir. I promise I won't do that again.” The young girl was still off camera.
“I'm afraid that's not good enough; it's happened once too often. I'm going to have to punish you this time.”
“Punish me? No sir. It won't happen again.” Who was that talking? The whole thing seemed somehow artificial.
“Yes, I must. Come here; I'm going to give you a good spanking.” Creepy Phil held out his hand, to take the girl's hand. She walked into shot.
My heart dropped out of my chest, and squashed my stomach; I felt genuinely sick.
The young girl was my mother, dressed in some St Trinian's school uniform, tight blouse, short skirt, stockings, suspenders and high heeled shoes. Her hair was back in bunches, and she had a coquettish look on her face.
“Oh sir, you don't really mean to spank me do you?”
“I certainly do; come here my girl.”
Creepy Phil lead my Mom to the sofa, and resumed his seat in its centre. She placed herself across his lap, her short skirt riding up to display brief black silky undies.
“Oh, please don't be too hard on me sir.”
“You've been asking for this. But still, it will hurt me more than it hurts you.”
With that Phil raised his hand and smacked my Mom across the middle of her bottom; she gasped, but it didn't look like pain to me.
He began to spank her in a regular sequence; right buttock, left buttock, across the middle of both cheeks. He kept this up for a couple of minutes; initially my Mom writhed as though she was suffering, but as he went on her movements seemed more designed to rub against his lap. Uch!
Then it got worse. My Mom began to implore Phil to spank her harder. He did as she instructed, his land bouncing off her bottom, as her breath became more ragged. Her face was flushed with pleasure, and her moans sounded nothing like mine when I was paddled. Her bottom had taken on a golden glow, which grew darker as I watched.
After a moment she reached back towards Phil's lap, and stretched to grasp....
I slammed the laptop shut! Oh my fucking God! Creepy Phil wasn't an abuser; my Mom was a pervert! She got off on being spanked. Well, to be fair, they both seemed pretty into it.
I was tempted to take a further look at the laptop screen. It sat there, taunting me. I reached for it, tentatively grasping the edge. Slowly I lifted the screen, looking at my feet. I shot a quick glance at the picture; I had a brief impression of entwined limbs, and far too much bare flesh.
I hit delete, and ran to the bathroom, vomit flecking my lips.
I had been unable to face Mom and Creepy Phil at dinner time; I faked an upset stomach (not too much of a push really) and stayed in my bedroom. I lay curled up on the bed; I had found the program that linked my laptop to the webcam and deleted the whole thing.
So, no more images, and the ones from earlier had gone too. Except for the ones branded into my brain; they were on a continual loop whenever I closed my eyes.
I cursed God; then I thought about the stupidity of cursing something I didn't really believe in. Whatever. I cursed the golden glow; without it I would never have known my Mom liked to be spanked.
Buried deep within my bedcovers I turned this new information over in my mind; what did she get out of it? She certainly seemed to enjoy the whole thing; the role play, the submission and the pain.
I just couldn't get the first two, and, when I'd been paddled, I never got any enjoyment out of the pain. It just fucking hurt!
Still, for all that, a part of my mind wondered what it would be like. Maybe being spanked by someone you cared for was different. Maybe it was all about context; spanking in a sexual situation might feel different. Although I kind of thought Mr Arnold appreciated all his paddlings on a sexual level; hold on, did that make Mom as bad as he was?
Idly I rubbed at my bottom, sort of imagining how Mom's ass must be feeling. On a purely abstract level I thought I could see how the initial tingle of being spanked might be arousing; I liked it well enough when Jim patted my butt. I wasn't so sure about when it got to the painful stage though.
I almost decided to ask Jim to spank me; no role play, 'cos that just looked creepy. My Mom's little girl voice still made me squirm uncomfortably when I thought of it. Just a spanking over his knee. I felt my legs go a little wobbly, at the thought of lying defenseless across his lap, even though I was still in bed.
Perhaps I could understand this after all.
I still couldn't see me working up the nerve to ask my boyfriend though. But perhaps there was a less threatening alternative.
I had asked Anna to come home with me after school; it was Mom and Creepy Phil's bowling night, so I knew we wouldn't be disturbed for a couple of hours.
Anna thought that I wanted to show her the video files that I had recorded; I hadn't corrected her impression, especially as I really did need to talk to her about the results.
“Well, then, what did you get? Is Creepy Phil hitting your mother?” Anna's voice managed to combine curiosity and compassion; perhaps she would study psychotherapy when she went to college.
“Erm, well, there's a story there. But no, he's not abusing her.”
“But that's good, isn't it? Is it? What's going on Ellie?”
“Here's the thing; Phil doesn't beat my Mom. He spanks her. Because she wants him to.”
“Oh. Oh. I never expected that. Are you okay? Well, of course you're not.” Despite her words Anna didn't seem particularly shocked.
“Is this not news to you? You don't seem very taken aback.”
“I never thought of your Mom doing it, but it's...well, it's not new to me.”
“What! Good shit, Anna! What are you talking about?”
“I...didn't really want to tell you this. I had a relationship, with spanking.”
“But you've only had one boyfriend, haven't you? Some guy at camp. Uh, Sandy wasn't it? Yeah, that's it. Sandy.”
“Yes and no. I guess I haven't been entirely truthful about that. It was Sandy. But Sandy was...well, is...a girl. I still see her, about once a month. Those weekends at my Gran's? Not really at Gran's. I stay at Sandy's.”
“So, hold on now, so you're a lesbian?!”
“Yeah. Always have been; I wanted to tell you, and Rosie, I guess, but you never know...It's no big deal, really.”
“Yes it is! Well, no, it's not. I mean; it's huge, but it doesn't matter. You're still my friend; I don't care if you like girls or boys. Except, what about the dates I've tried to set you up on? You've been out with half of Jim's friends!”
“I'm sorry; I just couldn't tell you.”
“No, that's okay. I can see it must be hard. Kind of makes what I want to ask you easier though. Oh, one more thing. Shit, almost passed me by! You're into spanking?”
“Not really; Sandy sort of likes to be spanked, just a bit, when we're...together. Nothing hard; just a light slapping. She says that it's intimate; lying over your lover's knees. I don't really get it, but we all have our things, I guess.”
“Okay then; that does make it easier. I want you to spank me Anna; kind of sharply. I want to know what Mom feels when Creepy Phil does it to her.”
“Oh, and will that make me Creepy Anna then? I should spank you for suggesting it!”
“Great; get into the swing of things.”
“You wouldn't recognise a joke if it smacked you in the face would you?”
“It's not my face I want smacked; it's my ass!”
“You're incorrigible. Come here then, naughty girl.”
I felt something deep within me shiver, in a good way, as she pulled me across her knee. Anna had small hands, and as I felt her palm slap against the underside of my right buttock I thought, hey, she'll be busy making sure she smacks my whole ass comprehensively.
The growing warmth in my butt was answered by another warmth of an entirely different nature. I was getting turned on!
Maybe I could see what Mom got out of this, after all.