Monday, March 19, 2018

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for March 18

Do you have a safeword, and do you use it?

Dan: We do not, unless "ouch, ouch, please stop" counts. And it definitely does not count if "safe" means she stops.

Roz: We did (do) have a safe word, though it's very rarely been used.

abby: I do have a safe word...Master insisted the first time he spanked me. It has not been used, but I have asked to have a spanking stopped because of a cramp or discomfort from the position.

Amy: We have a safe word but I've never used it. We did it because I like the play of fighting a punishment "No stop... etc." but Eric wanted to be sure he knew when I was serious and needed him to stop.

Pete: We began by having a safe word, but I have never used it. The only reason i can recall what it was is that we used her Dad's first name as my safe word. In truth the heat of her dominance at that time is what gets me aroused most.

Bernie: We have a safe word, but never have used it. I feel that putting myself in her control means doing that totally. I have gotten close, but am happy I did not; the encounters were much more memorable and meaningful.

Anon 1: When we started, I insisted she have a safe word.

In the beginning, she used it a number of times (more out of nervousness). In the last 10 years or so, I only remember her using it once (and of course I immediately stopped). Unlike most bloggers, we don't do DD. just because it turns us on (funishment and playful/erotic).

Yorkie: I've never had a safe word and I don't need one. All my spankings are fun/erotic. She gives me sets of 10 at a time. I tell her when to start I tell her when to stop. Simples.

Simon: I don't have a safe word when I'm on the receiving end as I only play with people who I know will stop if I appear to be distressed. If I'm giving the spanking and the recipient likes to have a safe word that's fine although I like to think that I would know if they were at their limit or wanted to stop for any reason.

Anon 2: Safe word, my wife will just laugh at that. Dating she knew a spanking would do me good and it took some time and agreed, spankings have been effective. The only word I use and my wife will allow during a spanking is “Mommy” when she has to spank me I’m no longer her husband, but a naughty little boy and she is no longer the wife but the Mommy. So trust me I use Mommy a lot during the spanking.

Ronnie: Yes we have a safe word and I've used it once.

Lea: I have one, but I have never once used it.

A.J.: Never used one with my spanking partners over the years, mostly because it is isn't needed because we only spank for the sexy fun of it and not 'punishments'. All one of us had to do if it went overboard was to say "Stop!" and get off the lap.

We did/do the color thing, too, and that worked very well.

But what I most loved to hear was her going, "Ummmmmm, yeah. Harder. More...!" And being a gentleman....!

KDPierre: We had one starting out, but never had to use it. Now we just say what the problem is if there is one. ( spontaneous nosebleed, back spasm, etc. )

They are not a bad idea, but a lot depends on the couple and the situation. I would certainly insist on one if it was scene playing with 'strangers'.

Katie: Hi Hermione, :) Yes, I have a safe word. I think that I used it once when I got a cramp in my leg, during a spanking. I trust Rob to no end, still it is always good to have an agreed on word that gives pause to spanking, should something come up.

Hermione: We don't have one, and have never felt the need for one. Ron can tell by the sound of my "Ow!" whether it's just a natural reaction or an actual protest that it hurts too much, and he will adjust accordingly. I've never been in a situation where I felt I needed it to stop. If I ever played with someone else, I would definitely arrange for a safeword.

That was a wonderful response to our topic of the week! Do come back again for another discussion.
From Hermione's Heart

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #219

Welcome to the St. Patrick's Day spanko brunch. St. Patrick is famous for driving the snakes out of Ireland, but since I couldn't find any good snake recipes, you will have to make do with cupcakes.

I can't believe we have never discussed this topic, but somehow, I didn't think of it before.

Do you have a safeword? If so, do you use it often, seldom, or never? If not, have you ever considered having one?

Leave your response as a comment and I will publish a summary of our discussion once everyone has had a chance to speak.
From Hermione's Heart

Saturday, March 17, 2018

You Finished this Sentence

I hope nobody knows...

KDPierre: ...the things I won't say here, because if I did...... they would.

Anon: ...that I masturbate when the wife is not in the mood. Wait till she has gone shopping and hope it is a long list to get.

lurker48: addicted I am to spanking blogs.

Hermione: ...that I often think about spanking during boring meetings.

Thank you for sharing your secrets here. For more secretive fun, stick around for brunch, coming up next.
From Hermione's Heart

Friday, March 16, 2018

Friday FAIL

Let's go shopping at IKEA today. Try not to get lost!

Maybe Walmart is a better choice, ya think?
From Hermione's Heart

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Finish this Sentence

We have all been naughty from time to time, and while some of our misdeeds eventually found out, others may go undetected. What have you done that you fervently hope nobody will ever discover?

I hope nobody knows...

Finish this sentence by leaving a comment below, and I will publish your submissions for all the world to read on Saturday.
From Hermione's Heart

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

From the Top Shelf - Privatised Punishment, part 1

Here is a rather tongue-in-cheek short story—a political satire as much as a very tasty spanking tale—by Tim Starfield, published in Februs back in 1995. You might think it's a bit extreme, but then, it's the product of a spanking writer's imagination. I say 'short' story but it's long enough to be split in two. Anyway, enjoy part one.

For the first time in her twenty seven years Caroline Devereaux felt what it must be like to be on the verge of fainting in public. She had always felt a certain scorn for those heroines of Victorian novels who swooned clean away at the slightest provocation. But here she was, her head spinning and throbbing, her legs turning to jelly. A searing wave of heat was fighting its way up her body, battling against the massed ranks of icy infantry tramping down her back and stomping their frozen hobnail boots into her spine. Her ears were rushing with the sound of a dozen oceans, her mouth seemed to be full of cotton wool, but still she could hear herself shrieking:

"You can't be serious! I don't believe this!"

Mr. Stephens, the magistrate, was a kindly man, fair-minded enough to ignore this unseemly outburst in his otherwise well-ordered courtroom. Re-settling his glasses on the end of his nose, which he fancied (quite rightly) gave him an air of some distinction, he waited patiently for the onslaught to subside. Then he coughed.

"Mrs. Devereaux, I am perfectly serious. You have pleaded guilty to a very serious contravention of the Road Traffic Act 1997, paragraph forty seven, sub section one thousand and nine, to wit, the parking illegally of a motor vehicle on a stretch of the public highway designated banned for that purpose by the indication of a double yellow line. I have no option. I repeat, the sentence of this court is that you pay a fine of thirty six thousand pounds. Or you accept the alternative punishment of eighteen strokes of the cane. There, there now, please don't cry. The case is now concluded. See the clerk outside the court please, my dear, he'll sort out the paperwork for you. And - look here - take my hanky."

Outside the courtroom, a tight-lipped, white faced Caroline, incandescent with rage, was confronting her solicitor.

"Now look here, Michael, you told me to plead guilty."

"I thought it best, Mrs. Devereaux. After all, you were parked illegally, you told me so yourself, and anyway the video cameras don't often lie."

"Y-yes but-"

"I must confess, I expected him to be more lenient for a first offence. But he's quite within the law."

Caroline was even more angry with her lawyer for taking the whole thing so calmly.

"But can't you DO something? Can't we appeal?"

"I would advise strongly against an appeal, Mrs. Devereaux. Strictly speaking, there are no grounds, no new evidence, unless you changed your plea. But in that case the Attorney-General would be more than likely to declare the appeal frivolous, and then he's quite within his rights to double the sentence. I don't have to remind you, that would mean a £72K fine, or a thirty six stroke caning which, as you know, has to be carried out in public when the award is that high."

"It doesn't matter how much they fine me. I just can't pay it. Robert and I just don't have that sort of money."

"No, of course not. Nobody ever pays the fine, that's one of the beauties of the system and why the tariff is set so high....But I really couldn't advise you to appeal. I'd hate to see you spending a wet weekend completely naked and locked in the pillory on Market Square."

Oh really? thought Caroline, her eyes narrowing. Then why does something in your expression suggest you'd enjoy nothing better? Bloody slimeball!

"Really," he was saying. "A public flogging is not a pretty sight these days. Now I'll just have a few words with the clerk of the court and arrange the whole thing for you. We just pack you off to a private clinic for a couple of days and everything's taken care of. You have to pay for the 'treatment' yourself, of course, but it's not too expensive and won't break the bank. It's best to go private, the government facilities are..well..a bit sordid. I'll try to get you in Monday or Tuesday, then you can take the rest of the week off work, and you'll also have the weekend to recover. Oh and I think you said you're with the National Automobile Club, aren't you?"

"My husband is, yes," said Caroline

"Ah well, you'll be on his membership then. That means you're insured for the first £2,500 in cases like this."

Caroline brightened.

"Which should just about cover my bill." The solicitor smiled cheerily and ducked off to find the clerk of the court.

Caroline slumped into a lime-green plastic chair. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette and was about to light it when she saw the notice: NO SMOKING. BY ORDER. PENALTY: £50,000 or SIX OF THE BEST.

I hate this bloody country, thought Caroline. I wish we'd never come back.

And they wouldn't have had to come back, she reflected bitterly, if Robert had an ounce of business sense. They had married in '93, and he, a big, soft-hearted Canadian Air Force pilot, had taken her, and his service leaving bonus, back to Vancouver to make a new start. At first the business had gone well. He bought a natural sponge farm on the Taseko Lakes, and for a time, while natural sponges were the thing in every yuppie bathroom worldwide, they prospered. Then some stupid animal rights woman had gone on prime-time TV in America to announce her discovery that natural sponges still felt agony when dunked in hot, soapy water and, indeed, if you listened carefully, you could hear them screaming.

Within eighteen months, with their order books empty and the farm under 24 hour picket by assorted nut-cases in duffle coats, the business had collapsed, and very nearly taken their marriage with it. But Caroline was a strong character - her flaming red hair, retrousse nose and flashing green eyes might have told you that - and she had kept Robert going for five years, bullying him, cajoling him into a bunch of badly paid jobs for which he seemed to have little aptitude and even less enthusiasm. So when her father had thrown him a lifeline, insisting on their return to England and Robert's joining him as a junior partner at Fowler's Fudge Factory, it had seemed like a sign from heaven. A return to the Promised Land.

But it wasn't. Sure, Robert seemed happy enough going off to work each day as a salesman for her father's 'traditional home made sweets' (manufactured by the kilo-tonne from the waste products of crude oil in evil-smelling robot-controlled vats in a vast factory north of Letchworth.

"Start him at the bottom, love, he'll soon work his way up. Talent will out, lad, and anyway blood is thicker than toffee." But for Caroline, England seemed grey, dank and drab after the breath taking wilderness of British Columbia. It seemed always to be raining. She missed the clear skies, the endless fir trees, the ever changing play of light over the pure water of the lakes. The vast empty skies. Even the snow, which surprised her.

And England had changed so much. In 1996 with a desperate government rapidly running out of ideas, confidence and votes, a new young Home Secretary was appointed and at the Party Conference he finally gave the great British public what they had been baying for all along. He announced a complete shake-up of the criminal justice system. Put simply, after a trip to the middle east to see how the law worked there, he brought back hanging and flogging....

And the government's popularity went through the roof, re-elected in a snap General Election with a massive landslide. 'Its barbaric,' moaned 'The Guardian' leader column,'A return to the Roman days of bread and circuses'. 'AND WOT'S WRONG WIV BREAD AND CIRCUSES?' screamed 'The Sun' headline next day.

And now, in the year 2001, newly embarking on a record sixth term in office, the Government was privatising the last remnants of every public service. With income tax at two pence in the pound, Ministers congratulated themselves on a well-run country and a booming economy, thanks to all the extra investment they now received from places like Singapore and Saudi Arabia.

Caroline told Robert that night the whole story of her grisly day in court and what horrors now awaited her. He seemed to take it all in his stride as always.

"Won't be too bad, darling. I got tanned myself a couple of times at school. I mean you squeal a bit but there's no lasting harm done."

"It's vicious, for God's sake! And I'm a grown woman."

"Well what other choice do you have?" He shrugged. "We can't pay the fine, not with Thomas's school fees as high as they are."

Thomas was Robert's son from his first marriage, aged thirteen, carefree and amiable like his father, now at an ivy clad institution in the Cotswolds, learning Latin, Greek, rifle drill and cricket. Every child went to a fee paying school nowadays as State schools had been abolished.

"Anyway, " he said languidly, "it gets the offence over and paid for and then you can forget all about it."

She gritted her teeth and thought, when I was nineteen I used to love him for being so laid back. Right now I could kill him!. She said:

"You won't tell Daddy, will you? He'd be heartbroken ..and outraged, and determined to pay my fine. And I know he hasn't got the money because Mommy's last private operation nearly bankrupted him. Even thought they bungled it. I think he can barely afford to sue them."

"Won't breathe a word, my love. By the way, I'm playing golf with him tomorrow. He wants me to become a Mason."

Caroline took herself off to bed, and was crying herself to sleep when Robert came in, put his arms around her and whispered, soothingly:

"Don't worry, darling. It will be all right. I'll think of something."

But he didn't - because there was absolutely nothing he could do.

Three days later, as they were making love, he started to smack her bottom in a playful manner, murmuring something about getting her into training. Caroline threw a screaming fit, pushed him out of the bed, and locked him in the bathroom. Which he didn't seem to mind, since, when she relented the next morning and opened the door, he was lying in the bath, snoring quite contentedly, with his large round head jammed between the taps.

* * *

When she went downstairs the envelope was on the mat. It bore the inscription 'THE LUDGATE CLINIC - PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL'. She hid it in the fridge until Robert had had his breakfast and left for work, then she rescued it, opened it, and, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around her as if to ward off the sudden chill, read the letter inside.

'Dear,' (it said typed), Mrs Devereaux (name hand written). Thank you for choosing the Ludgate Clinic for your legally prescribed Corrective Therapy. We are sure we can render your stay, if not painless, at least as pleasant as possible under the circumstances.

'We are delighted to accept your reservation for the (hand written) 29th. Please arrive at 4pm. You will be free to leave at 4pm on the (hand written) 31st.

'We must advise that during your 48 hours with us you are permitted neither visitors nor telephone calls. Please do not bring mobile phones, computers or hand-held video games. Please do not bring soft toys, pets or children. Please do not bring alcohol, tobacco, or drugs of any kind onto the premises. If you are taking any medication you must inform us. If you have special dietary requirements (kosher, halal, vegan etc) please let us know and we will do our best to accommodate you, although this may not always be possible. Please bring as small a travelling case as you can as bulky suitcases can be a problem.

'You will not need any more clothes than those you are wearing. You will NOT need pyjamas, nightdresses, housecoats, dressing gowns, slippers, toiletries, hair-curlers, hair-dryers, hair-nets or bed linen. Please do not bring books, magazines, newspapers or periodicals into the clinic. Please do not bring portable televisions, radios or personal stereos. Do not bring jewellery, large amounts in cash or other valuables.

'You will, however, be required to have with you the following items:-

1) Certificate CP1221, which can be obtained from your family General Practitioner and must be signed by him or her. Please make an appointment with your GP as soon as possible to facilitate this. He/she will carry out the necessary medical examination and furnish you with the form. Please note that failure to present this certificate will result in your appointment being cancelled. Penalties for this are severe.

2) Your Home Office ID card. Please note that failure to present this card will result in your appointment being cancelled. Penalties for this are severe.

3) We ask that you bring with you, your cheque book, credit or debit cards, so that our bill can be settled before you leave our premises. We find this makes things easier.

Ha! I bet you do, thought Caroline.

'N.B. Do not plan to drive home on leaving the clinic. Arrange to have someone pick you up. Or take a taxi, but please book this in advance of your arrival. It is a good idea to ask whoever is collecting you to bring a supply of soft cushions.'

Caroline flinched.

'Finally, thank you again for choosing the Ludgate Clinic'.

And that was that. Enclosed with the letter was an A5 sized glossy leaflet showing on the front a picture of a low-slung red brick building which announced itself to be 'Ludgate Clinic - Centre for Corrective Therapy', and on the back a sketch map showing how to get there, and on the inside two tiny passport sized photographs of smiling young women in nurses uniform and a larger portrait of a silver-haired man in his early forties with startling steel-blue eyes, posing in a blue chalk-stripe suit and polka-dot bow-tie behind a large desk and in front of an elaborate old-fashioned bookcase. This photograph bore the legend, 'Founder and Chief Consultant Dr. Charles H. Ludgate FRCCP'

Also in the envelope were three adverts from credit-card companies, two from private health insurance schemes and two invitations, one for a football pools company and one asking her to join the Conservative Party. Caroline threw all these in the bin and re-hid the letter, this time behind the dining room clock.

Every time she passed that clock in the next three weeks, or heard its cheerful faux-Westminster chime, she found herself shuddering involuntarily, and her buttock muscles tensing.

* * *

The medical examination was a nightmare. Old Dr. Gillespie had been the family doctor for as long as Caroline could remember, and he gave an outward show of concern.

"Dear, dear, oh that is terrible. A nice young girl like you too, Caroline Fowler."

"Er, it's Mrs. Devereaux now."

"Yes, yes of course it is. Still a terrible thing for a young lady such as yourself. But it's a sound idea. Short, sharp shock. Lesson learned. I voted for it myself, yanno. Oh yes, much better than the old way."

And then not only did he listen to her heart with a painfully cold stethoscope, take her blood pressure, make her say 'ninety-nine' and 'aaah' with a spatula clamped across her tongue, make her cough, and shine his micro-torch into her ears and eyes but he also made her undress completely and spent a full fifteen minutes running his cold, old, papery hands over every inch of her ivory skin. After a while, Caroline ceased to feel stupid, humiliated and goose-pimply, and just felt angry. She bridled.

"Are you quite sure all this is completely necessary?"

"Oh totally, my dear. Got to check that you're fully fit to take your medicine."

He gave her bottom an unexpected and none-too-gentle slap.

"I expect you'll be back to see me after you've been whipped. I'll be able to prescribe an analgesic cream for this very healthy young arse!" Then he pinched that part of her anatomy, relishing Caroline's shock at his sudden crudeness, "and some extra strong painkillers. Oh yes, you'll need them."

Caroline had a sudden brainwave.

"Couldn't you give me something beforehand, to stop it hurting so much?"

"Good Lord, my dear, that would never do. The law is the law after all. What's the point of being punished if you don't feel the pain? Besides you're not the first to have that idea and they always find you out. Then you'd regret it - and I'd be struck off. And don't go getting any daft ideas about walking into a pharmacy and trying to dose yourself up. They test you in there and you'll be in real trouble. Where are you having your treatment, by the way?"

"The Ludgate Clinic," said Caroline, now crestfallen.

"Oh right. Young Charlie Ludgate, eh? Knew him when he was a junior houseman at Barts. When it was still a proper hospital not a private hotel, mind. Damn good chap. Done well for himself there."

He gave her bare behind another sharp slap.

"I wish I'd gone into that line myself," he said sadly, watching Caroline rub her bottom. "Oh well, I suppose you ought to get dressed, and I'll do your certificate."

He sighed, as though he would rather have Caroline, nude, in his surgery for the rest of the day, and pulled a pink form from his drawer. By the time Caroline had finished buttoning her coat, he was handing the completed form to her.

"There you go, my dear. A1 standard of health. Fit for some of the hardest stingers Charlie Ludgate can dish out. Bloody lucky bastard!"

"Thanks very much," said Caroline, icily. "I'll see myself out."

"That'll be a hundred and seventy five pounds for the consultation," said Dr. Gillespie. "You can settle up with the receptionist."

As Caroline closed the door she heard him chuckling to himself and was sure she caught the words, "That'll take her down a peg or two. Love to be there for that!"

* * *

On the night of the 28th, Caroline could not sleep. It was raining, and she could never relax with the rain battering the bedroom window pane. Robert was away at a Mint Cake Convention somewhere in the Lake District. She had been depressed and moody for a fortnight. Robert had put that down to PMT, but her period had come and gone and she was still tense and irritable. Now she sat up late into the night on the sofa, drinking endless cups of cocoa and watching an interminable succession of crappy American game shows on TV. Questions kept gnawing at her mind.

'What will it be like? What will they do to me? How will they do it? Will I be able to bear it? Will I cry? Will I scream? Will I pass out?' But the only question she could definitely answer was 'Will it hurt?' and the answer was always a definite 'yes'.

When the Breakfast Show came on, she got up from the sofa and took a long hot bath with gallons of exotic oils in it. This had the desired effect of brightening her outlook considerably and, as an extra bonus, the rain had finally stopped. The condemned woman ate a hearty breakfast, she thought, as she ate a far from hearty breakfast, barely forcing down one slice of toast and half a cup of coffee. Then she tidied the house from top to bottom, leaving a thousand and one notes for Robert so he'd know exactly where in the freezer his dinner would be when he got home tomorrow and which buttons to press on the washing machine, and one extra large one which she left propped on his pillow, absolutely imploring him not to forget which train he had to catch in order to be at the clinic on time to drive her home in her car.

'AND PLEASE DON'T FORGET THE SOFT CUSHIONS!' she wrote in an over-large hand, and then added three exclamation marks so it would seem more light-hearted than it actually was.

Then, before she knew it, it was one o' clock and time to be thinking about leaving. Time to go into the bedroom and do her make up, slowly and thoughtfully, as though getting ready for the Vienna Opera ball. To sweep up her long red hair and pin it. To check fingernails and toenails as perfectly painted. To put on her best ear-rings.

Then she donned a brand new ultra-sheer pantyhose, a cream blouse and her best charcoal grey cashmere suit, smoothing the skirt over her bottom and buttoning the jacket. She chose black court shoes, with not too much of a heel - don't want them thinking I'm a bimbo. She checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. Looking good, feeling great. Well almost.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she phoned her boss - sorry couldn't ring earlier - sick all morning - temperature, yes I'm seeing the doctor at 4pm (Oh God why did I say that?) - no probably won't be back until Monday -thank you.

It took her an hour and a half to drive to the Ludgate Clinic. Thank God the traffic wasn't too bad, though she did spend rather a long time utterly lost on an almighty ring-road, somewhere outside Bedford, but she was still there at twenty to four.

The clinic looked just as it had in the brochure, low slung, red brick and anonymous, but whereas the glossy photos had hinted of green fields and country lanes the truth was somewhat different. It was part of a 1900s industrial estate, set alongside dozens of warehouses and depots with fleets of vans parked outside. Like most of its neighbours the Ludgate Clinic appeared to have no windows, which gave it a very sinister air, at least in Caroline's eyes.

She parked the car, after three attempts, because seeing the building reminded her of why she was here and made her very nervous. I suppose I'm meant to feel remorseful and properly repentant, she thought, but I don't care. I'm resentful, trembling and bloody scared.

She got out, locked the car, put the keys in her handbag, and smoked two cigarettes in such quick succession that she surprised even herself with the ferocity with which she inhaled. Then, with a sense of mounting trepidation she walked across a scrappy grass verge to the only visible door. She pushed the bell which buzzed like an angry hornet, and the intercom crackled into life.

"Name please." A woman's voice, adenoidal, sing-song.

"Caroline Devereaux."

"Look at the camera."

What camera, where? Instinctively she looked up and a flash went off right in her startled face.

"One moment, please."

Now she was nervous. Very nervous. This is like walking in to meet a firing squad.

"OK, come in."

The door opened automatically. Caroline took a deep breath and made as if to stride inside, only the second door took her completely by surprise. It was a metal barred affair. Just like a prison, she thought, and immediately felt sick. The outer door swing shut, locking itself with an ominous thud. The inner door slid open with an almost imperceptible whirr. Caroline crossed the threshold. The door slid back with surprising speed and a resounding clang. She found herself in a small lobby, shabbily decorated, like a one star hotel or student hostel. To the left was a reception desk. Behind shatterproof glass sat a blowsy middle-aged bottle blonde watching a daytime soap on one of a dozen video screens and chewing her fingernails.

"Just a minute, dear. Sister knows you're here."

There was nowhere to sit, so Caroline stood. The woman paid her no attention. Five minutes passed. Caroline's right leg was trembling violently, and she kept trying to jam her heel into the scruffy carpet, but to no avail. Her heart was beating so hard she could hardly breathe and an ominous sense of pressure was beginning to build in her bladder. Finally she cleared her throat.

"Um- excuse me- but do you have a toilet?"

The woman grinned knowingly.

"There'll be one in your cell, dear."


"You won't have to wait much longer. But if you can't hold it they won't mind if you pee in your panties. You wouldn't be the first in here to do that!"

No I bloody well won't wet myself, said Caroline to herself. I'm not a bloody kid. She was grinding her teeth so vehemently that it hurt.

As it happened, Sister arrived the very next minute. A tall, brisk Irishwoman with iron grey hair under a traditional cap. A starched apron, and a starched demeanour, as down to earth as her sensible shoes.

"Mrs. Devereaux. So sorry to keep you waiting. This way."

She hustled Caroline down a long, dimly-lit corridor with bare brick walls and blue carpet, unlocking and relocking several doors as they passed them with a huge bunch of keys she carried on her belt. Almost without breaking stride too, thought Caroline, admiring efficiency. They stopped outside a blue door, identical to the dozens they had passed. The door had in it a big round window of wire-reinforced glass, but there was no lock or handle to be seen.

"Here we are. Room 36."

Sister found a panel in the red-brick wall, turned yet another of her keys in yet another lock, and the blue door slid open.

The cell was small but not as squalid as Caroline had feared. The walls were bare and whitewashed, the floor was stripped boards, and Caroline was relieved to find it was quite warm, which must have been due to the underfloor heating, for there was no radiator. Neither were there any windows. In one corner was a white porcelain toilet bowl which she eyed with relief, but without a seat or a lid, a wash basin and a roller towel dispenser. There was a single bed, with a white tubular steel frame and a white mattress. No sheets, no blankets, no quilts. The room was lit from above by four brilliant spotlights set in the ceiling behind a glass panel. Caroline guessed there would be no point in looking for a switch for the lights, and she was right. Also set into the ceiling and high on three of the walls were small squares of darkened glass, four in all, whose function was a mystery to Caroline. Sister reached under the bed and pulled out a red storage case.

"Now everything you have goes in here. Give me your doctor's certificate, your ID card, and credit card if that's how you are paying?"

Caroline nodded and handed over the said items from her handbag.

"Now everything else in here please. Come on, quick about it. All your clothes off."

Caroline, crimson faced, obeyed. All the clothes she had so lovingly chosen to make a good impression! Shoes, pantyhose, knickers, bra, blouse, suit -which she carefully folded - necklace and earrings joined her handbag in the red plastic case. Naked, Caroline was cowering, trying to cover herself, both top and bottom, with her hands, and failing.

"Mrs. Devereaux. I said everything!"

Caroline looked blank.

"Your hairgrips, please."

Of course! And the hairgrips joined all the other symbols of self worth, of control, all the trappings of comfortable and conforming civilised adult life. And the long red hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

Sister was holding something out to her. She took it. It was a pair of shorts, in thick towelling material, white.

"Put them on!"

Caroline did. No zip, no buttons, hard to pull them up. Very tight, skimpy, only covering half her bottom. How naff. She nearly laughed - but not quite. She felt too stupid, too ridiculous.

"Make yourself at home, Mrs. Devereaux. Nurse Dawson will be with you at six o'clock for your final check up."

And abruptly, taking all of Caroline's outside life with her in a red plastic box, Sister was gone.

Whirr...clunk. The cell seemed even smaller now. Caroline sat on the bed - Jesus its as hard as nails - and hugged herself. Soon she was crying in self pity for the pathetic almost nude doll she had become, barefoot on bare boards in a bare room with no windows on a bare bed with no covers, bare-arse naked except for this ridiculous pair of shorts - almost like wearing a nappy. And then suddenly the surge in her bladder reminded her how desperate she was for a pee and she made it to the toilet just in time.

* * *

Caroline had no way of knowing whether or not it was six o'clock exactly when Nurse Dawson arrived. It certainly felt a lot later to her, having spent what seemed like an eternity moving restlessly between the bed and the porthole in the door, which invariably gave the same view of an empty corridor. Bored, fretting and dislocated, Caroline felt increased sympathy for zoo animals everywhere.

Nurse Dawson breezed into the tiny cell like a breath of fresh air. Plump, pretty, dark haired, cheerful and very young, probably only twenty or twenty one, dressed like the Sister in regulation, old-style starched white uniform, but with quite high-heeled calf-length black leather boots, she instantly made Caroline feel a lot better. It was Nurse Dawson's task to carry out another medical inspection which she did with minimum fuss, considerably more quickly and efficiently than old Dr. Gillespie. Then she gave Caroline two pills and a glass of water.

"What are these?" asked Caroline.

"One is a sleeping pill. It will knock you out in about two hours time, after we've taken you to see Dr. Ludgate. The other contains a very powerful laxative. Tomorrow morning you will have the mother of all bowel movements and then there will be no danger of you having to go again. Which is just as well. You don't want that happening while you're being caned."

Caroline looked horrified but reluctantly swallowed the pills.

"No need to look so terrified. It's not poison." said Nurse Dawson.

"I just don't like taking drugs," said Caroline. "Any drugs. I don't normally take pills even if I've got a splitting headache."

"Lots of people like you these days," agreed the Nurse. "They'd be better off, most of them, with the occasional aspirin inside them. But few people seem to trust the medical profession."

Can you blame them, thought Caroline, when a ghastly institution like this ends up under the control of medical staff?

"What's going to happen to me now?"

"I told you. We're going to see Dr. Ludgate now. He'll explain everything to you. Then it's back here and I'll lock you in for the night."

"What about dinner?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid. You won't be fed before your therapy tomorrow. We give you an evening meal tomorrow night and breakfast on the day you leave, although the quality of the food leaves a lot to be desired, believe me. But, be honest, you're not hungry now. Don't really feel like eating, do you?"

Caroline had to admit that, no, she didn't.

Nurse Dawson led her out of her cell and along some more identical corridors. Caroline wrapped her arms tightly around her naked breasts as she walked. It seemed bizarre to be walking around with no clothes on, and she was mortified at the thought of meeting anyone on the way, but they did not pass another soul, and she saw no-one peering out of any of the portholes in the identical blue doors. They came at last to an ordinary wooden door. Nurse Dawson knocked smartly and a deep rich voice called "Come!" Entering, Caroline found herself in the study shown in the photograph, and there, behind the desk, exactly as in the picture, sat Founder and Chief Consultant Dr. Charles H. Ludgate FRCCP.

"Ah, Mrs Devereaux. Splendid, splendid."

There were no visitors chairs and so Caroline stood in front of the desk while Nurse Dawson sort of melted into the shadows behind her.

Dr. Ludgate opened a file on his desk.

"Now then, what's the award. Ah yes, eighteen strokes. Not too severe, my dear, but maybe a little harsh for a first time offender."

It'll be the last time too, thought Caroline.

"Right, well, I need to check a few details with you. Now, tomorrow, I've got you down for two o'clock. You'll be taken from your cell at about 10 a.m. Nurse Dawson here will see you get a nice hot shower and then she'll dress you for punishment. Then, as you know, you have to stand for two hours with your hands on your head in a place where you can be clearly observed."

"I didn't know." Caroline's mouth felt as though it was full of sawdust.

"Yes, it's a kink of the Home Secretary's." He laughed at his own joke. "No, seriously, it's to demonstrate that you undergo punishment of your own free will, and that you're fit and able to do so. And don't worry, we do have a neat way of making that part of the day less unpleasant for you. We are a private clinic, Mrs Devereaux, and as long as we obey Home Office rules to the letter, we can make them mean whatever we like."

For some strange reason, Caroline felt slightly cheered by this.

"Now then, what type of cane will you have?"

The question took Caroline by surprise.

"I'm sorry? Do I get a choice?"

"Of course you do. Free market forces prevail and choice is paramount. There are two approved types. Simple bamboo, which is cheaper at only thirty-five pounds...."

Of course, thought Caroline bitterly, I have to buy my own bloody cane!

"...but, of course, there are knots in the plain bamboo which can cause quite nasty contusions. Or there is the smoothest rattan version, which I would recommend. I have them specially cut for me. It's more expensive, naturally. Sixty pounds, but you'll find it's well worth it."

Caroline gulped.

"The rattan? Yes I thought so. Wise choice. And shall I get them to oil it for you? It's only ten pounds more. Money well spent. It does make the cane more springy."

Caroline, having no idea whether 'more springy' was a good thing or not, merely nodded helplessly.

"Now you'll probably want someone to hold your hand?"

Caroline looked blank.

"You see, we're not allowed to restrain you in any way. Which is unfortunate, because if you start flailing around too much we have to abort the punishment, and your file goes back marked 'resisted therapy'. Which is not good for you, or for us."

"No, I suppose not," Caroline agreed, dully.

"So you see, we get round this by your nominating someone to hold your hand, that's quite in order. I am sure Nurse Dawson would be more than happy to oblige?"

Caroline turned sharply to see Nurse Dawson smile and nod her head.

"Good, good. She's very experienced and a lot stronger than she looks. She'll make sure you stay put for the full eighteen strokes. And she can remind you to count as well."


"My dear lady, do you not read the newspapers? It was laid down last year that the chastisee must count aloud after each stroke. It proves once again that you are there of your own free will and, more importantly, that you haven't fainted. Its to avoid the risk of -er, treating - an unconscious person,which would be very wrong indeed."

Oh indeed I can see that! Of course there's nothing wrong with -er, treating - a sensitive conscious person? thought Caroline, miserably.

"So that will be an extra one hundred and fifty pounds as a little 'thank you' to Nurse Dawson. And I'll put you down for a tub of cold cream for afterwards, eh? You'll be grateful for it, I can assure you. That will be another £13.99. Now, finally, will you be wanting a copy of your video?"

He saw Caroline's open mouthed, shocked expression and grinned.

"Ah another thing you hadn't read, Mrs Devereaux? We are required by law to video our therapy, in case the magistrates or the police want to satisfy themselves that we are following correct procedure. Don't worry, they usually don't bother. Recently people have been asking to keep a copy for their own purposes. There is even talk of some TV company putting together a compilation show, called 'So you've been flogged!" or something!" He chuckled.

Caroline shook her head.

"No video then?" His voice held a tinge of regret , probably at the loss of an opportunity for extra profit, thought Caroline. "Ah well, if you change your mind let us know and we'll run off a copy and put it in the post for you. By law we have to keep the master tape for six years."

"No," said Caroline firmly, and with a tinge of anger. "No, thank you."

Dr. Ludgate closed the file, in which he had been jotting notes while they talked.

"Right, that's it then. Any other charges will be self explanatory. I'll have the bill drawn up and you can settle before you leave."

He stood up.

"Now, last but not least, let's have a good look at the target area, shall we? Take your shorts off please, and stand with your hands on your head."

Trembling, her face hot, Caroline obeyed. He moved behind her. She felt rough, dry fingers tracing patterns on the bared flesh of her behind.

"Yes, good, good. A nice broad bottom, Mrs. Devereaux. Plenty of room here to get eighteen good ones in without having to cane too far down your thighs. Nice and firm. Been caned often before, Mrs Devereaux?"

"Never!" said Caroline, vehemently.

"Ah well, it's good to try everything once, as the man said, except incest and folk-dancing. I think she's a five-five-four-four. Will you remember that for me, Nurse Dawson? Good, good, splendid." He returned to his desk. "Well, good night, Mrs Devereaux. Sleep well. I look forward to our appointment tomorrow."

Caroline struggled back into the stupid shorts and was practically dragged from the room by Nurse Dawson. They walked back along still deserted corridors.

"What did he mean by 'five-five-four-four'? " asked Caroline. "I'm five foot six."

Nurse Dawson grinned. "Oh it's nothing to do with your height. It's technical talk. Standard caning pattern. It means he'll do five strokes from the left, five from the right, then only four on your thighs - which is lucky for you. Then he puts the last four anywhere there is a gap."

Caroline felt like a cartoon she had once seen in a butcher's shop - her body divided with crisp white lines into neat and distinctive marked areas. Rump, flank, topside..."

They were back at the cell.

"Come on, now," said Nurse Dawson, quickly spotting that Caroline was close to tears. "It's not as bad as you think it is. Well, OK, maybe it is. Maybe it's worse, but worrying can't make it better can it? You'll live. They all do, you know!"

And then, to Caroline's immense surprise and delight, Nurse Dawson suddenly reached out her arms and squeezed Caroline in a startlingly strong and intimate hug. The unexpected warmth of friendly human contact surged through her body like an electric shock.

"Now don't worry," said Nurse Dawson, cuddling Caroline as if she were a frightened child. "I'll be there. I'll look after you. Now get your beauty sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow."

Once Nurse Dawson had gone, and the door had locked behind her, Caroline suddenly felt very tired. She lay on the bed, and despite the discomfort of the thin mattress, despite the lack of covers, and despite the brilliance of the overhead spotlights, which showed no sign of being switched off, she immediately fell fast asleep.

From Hermione's Heart

Monday, March 12, 2018

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for March 11

We discussed the current state of Domestic Discipline, and here's what you said.

Dan: Hi Hermione. As you know, I've been running a Domestic Discipline related blog for four or five years. Mine is pretty narrowly focused on Domestic Discipline, as opposed to a broader spanking theme, and it's also focused on F/m relationships. So, it's focus is on spanking as adult discipline and on relationships where it is the men who spanked. Hence, it's kind of a niche within a niche. I can't really say whether overall interest in DD has gone down, but I don't have any reason to think it is going up. The stats for my blog visitors have stayed fairly steady, but I think it is hard to extrapolate anything from blog traffic, because I think any blog that focuses on one particular topic probably gets a little tired after a while.

I do think that blogging in general could be cooling off, but probably due to over-exposure. The same thing seems to be happening with Facebook and other on-line communication platforms. And, maybe that's a good thing. It probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if people focused a little more on real relationships and personal experiences.

Amy: When Eric and I first started exploring this lifestyle, we looked at various D/D relationships. We followed Clint and Chelsea a lot but then decided to go a more personalized ttwd route. As for C and C, I believe they quit blogging so much because their relationship became a full blown business - with a website, classes, books, retreats, etc.

KDPierre: Wow, boy did you hit on a subject whose tremors rumble close to home. Blogging is a subset of general discourse. Intelligent discourse is......well, you tell me: when is the last time you enjoyed that rare treat?

Every day I feel like fewer and fewer people have any interest in pursuing anything beyond the most mundane. Ugh. I could go on for hours on this. Pose a question like: 'do you think a Top should take you over their lap for something that has not been expressly forbidden in one's rules?' and get answers like: 'oh, I have a bad back, so we don't do OTK.'

And DD? LOL. What do you have there? The people who practice DD are a mere microcosm of the population in general.....and not merely mere, but very selectively and exceedingly mere. Whenever I have an opportunity to discuss real DD with real DD people, I have found so much common ground, despite the differences in what our backgrounds and beliefs are, and you would think that would mean something. But to some it does.....and to others it apparently doesn't. I treasure those few loyal readers who regularly or semi-regularly contribute opinions and experiences.......because they are rare commodities. And they are becoming rarer.

And when you find those rare people who seem articulate enough to share significant DD information, you still find that only a very small number are willing to make the effort to maintain interaction beyond a certain point. Most just want a quick fix, or a temporary one. Few are willing to make the effort to sustain discourse beyond the most banal and trivial. So the best thing at this point is to do one's best to cultivate those who make the attempt to interact intelligently and thoughtfully. And even then, people seem to just suddenly fall off the face of the internet with no explanation.

The other thing is that if you stay "on topic" to Dan's point, eventually you just run out of new things to discuss. And if you dare to digress to other topics, you risk alienating certain readers whose views don't coincide with one's own.

Another problem is the sheer number of 'wannabes' out there reading these blogs. How do you expect to get interaction from someone who doesn't live the lifestyle but only wishes they could? Not that I'm not sympathetic.....but what can a person with no knowledge of living a DD lifestyle contribute to the conversation?

But if I was to cite a particular thing that I think could remedy at least part of the problem, it would have to be reciprocity. You ave to give to get, and how many bloggers do that? There's an old expression: "to have a friend you have to be a friend". How many bloggers put forth the effort to interact with the people who interact with them? I think we could start there and see where such an effort would lead. Think of it: if every blogger committed to regularly interacting with those regularly interact with them, if each contributor to a blog could expect contributions to their much total discourse would that generate?

This is a timely topic. I wonder what other viewpoints will surface?

Roz: This is a great question, the number of DD related blogs has definitely diminished, but at the same time there are new bloggers starting. I don't know, I think with the hectic pace of life nowadays I think it's probably blogging rather than the number of DD relationships decreasing.

Many who practice DD do seem to delve into other areas of ttwd. Our dynamic began as play then evolved to DD and then other aspects of ttwd were introduced. However, we haven't practiced ttwd for some time now.

Liza: I am so glad to see this post. All my favorite DD bloggers are now gone. It seems the average life of a DD blog is about four years. I think they just ran out of things to say about DD. I would still like to read the blogs that have gone private but you have to have an invitation. Do you or anyone else know how to get an invitation?

Liza, in order to be invited to read a private blog, you must be invited by the blog owner. If you have no other way to contact that person, like Google+ or Facebook, I am afraid you are out of luck.

ricky:  Another repast, eh? Well, OK.
What was that you said?

Hermione: We are not part of the domestic discipline community, but at one time I followed several DD blogs and found them fascinating. Yet one by one, something happened in the relationships of these bloggers, and DD was put on the back burner or discontinued altogether. So, according to my limited third-hand experience, I would guess that in many cases, it is not sustainable in the long term. it would be especially difficult if both parties were not equally committed to DD.

Enzo: I believe KD Pierre makes some very interesting points in particular.

To add to his and everyone else's comments -
I believe a lot of interest has gone from Blogger to Tumblr for its ease of use comparatively. Tumblr, as opposed to Blogger, lets you post pictures easily and have them speak for you vs having to write well thought out sentences. ;)

The other thing with DD is that at its core it is based on a relationship. Relationships change over time and things come and go into the relationship that influences those relationships dynamics; i.e. offspring, health, breakups, life in general, etc. which will cause DD to possibly cease let alone blogging.

Thank you all for participating in this lively exchange of views.
From Hermione's Heart

Sunday, March 11, 2018

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #218

Welcome back, dear friends, to our ever-popular weekend spanko brunch. It's always good to see you. Take a seat (if you can) and enjoy some refreshments.

At one time there was a large number of blogs devoted solely to Domestic Discipline. A small number of these blogs were written by self-styled experts who had many followers who, in turn, maintained their own DD blogs. But the enthusiasm seems to have faded in recent times.

Has general interest in domestic discipline waned? Are people turning away from it? Or is it the enthusiasm for blogging that has diminished? Is there still a DD community out there? If so, are you part of it? If not, have you tried DD and found it not to work in your relationship?

I will be interested in hearing your opinion on this subject. Please leave your response as a comment, and remember, there are no right or wrong answers. You won't be judged on what you say, and you may remain anonymous if you wish. Everyone's opinion is relevant here. I will publish a summary of our discussion after everyone has had a chance to speak.

From Hermione's Heart

Saturday, March 10, 2018

You Completed the Caption

KDPierre: "There was some leather left over when they upholstered the bar, but instead of covering the stools, I made this dress since I figured it would be more fun if you came over and sat on ME. >purrrrrrrr<"

Anon 1: This is the last time I'm going to wear this outfit to a spanking party. I thought when I accepted the invitation to be a designated spankee it would be a good idea to wear something that made me look like a domme so it would scare off some of the men and I could be more discerning about who I played with, but it seems that every man who walks in here has a fantasy about dominating a domme and thinks my pouty look and coochie mama dress are an open invitation to bend me over and warm my fanny. I mean, I love a good spanking as much as the next gal, but my bottom's so sore I can barely sit down already, and ... damn it, a new guy just walked in ... he's talking to the hostess ... now he's looking in my direction ... now he's headed my way ... and oh, shit, he just picked up a hairbrush off the implement table ... well, here I go again.

Amy: If you could only read my mind..."Trying to look sexy, suck it in, can't breathe and pray I don't have to pee anytime soon. Smile. Yes, I have his attention. Hurry up, man. Can't hold this pose much longer!"

Ronnie: The new member of the leather fetish club hadn't quite got the hang of looking relaxed.

Anon 2: Look at them, staring at me. I know what they’re thinking … that I should be embarrassed by my bratty behavior and humiliated that my boyfriend just spanked me like a naught little girl. They’re all wondering what I’m going to do next. They heard me fighting with him, I mean, how could they not. They heard him tell me I look like a trollop in this dress and that he’s tired of me acting like a trollop when we’re out. They saw me slap his face. They saw him throw me over his shoulder and carry me upstairs. They saw him smack my ass and tell me I’d had this coming for a long time. They saw me struggle and protest only to have him smack me again and tell me that if I didn’t settle down he’d be happy to spank me in front of everyone. They saw him carry me into that bedroom and slam the door. Yeah, they all knew what was happening up there … heard every resounding smack and squeal … pictured me draped helplessly over his knee, my dress up, my panties down, my ample posterior framed by my garters and stockings. They imagined me kicking and squirming as he pinned me down and landed one hard swat after another on my bouncing bottom. They enjoyed every second … listening to him paddling the living daylights out of his bitchy girlfriend. And when it was over, they heard him tell me that I’d better be on my best behavior for the rest of the evening … or else. I saw them staring at me when we came back down … they couldn’t take their eyes off my jiggling butt cheeks when I walked into the room. I know they’re all hoping I misbehave and give my boyfriend a reason to spank me again … this time in front of them. So, I’m just going to sit here quietly, hold my head high and prove to everyone that my dignity is still intact … even though my ego is as bruised as my throbbing backside, which my boyfriend has forbidden me to rub. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing my shame … or seeing me wince as I ease onto this stool despite the fact that my bottom is still on fire thanks to the heat it’s generating by being encased in this tight leather dress. Nope, I’m going to act like a proper lady … I’m not going to pout … I’m just going to slide right up here and … sheeeeeeeeeesh, that really, really smarts … damn it, I’d forgotten how hard that man spanks … owwwwwww, my poor bottom … on second thought, I don’t think I’m going to be able to sit down for quite some time … sooooooo, I think I’ll just sort of … ooooooooh … lean here, kind of nonchalantly, for a while … but I refuse to pout.

Anon 3: Just the thought of the spanking my husband's going to give me when we get home has got my bottom tingling and is making it difficult to sit comfortably.

Sir Wendel: Bare your bottom so you can feel my leather.

Hermione: Come here, young man. Yes, I mean you.  Get yourself over my lap right now and...wait! Let me find a lower chair first.

Felicity never guessed that the reason she was no one's first choice as domme was because the men all slipped off her lap.

Wasn't that fun? And there's more fun coming up at brunch. It's being served in the conservatory in a few hours, so I hope you'll come back. You're always welcome!
From Hermione's Heart

Friday, March 9, 2018

Friday FAIL

I feel like enjoying a large helping of irony today.

I guess that's life!

Before you leave for the day, please Complete the Caption. You'll be glad you did!
From Hermione's Heart

Thursday, March 8, 2018

Complete the Caption

Is this sultry woman waiting for someone? If so, what are her plans when her companion arrives? You be the judge.

Leave a caption for this photo in the comments section below, and I will publish all submissions on Saturday. Let you imagination run wild!
From Hermione's Heart

Monday, March 5, 2018

From the Top Shelf - Your Sins Will Find You Out

Today we celebrate my blog's 10th birthday, as well as my nnth birthday. (Nope, not telling you how old I am!) In honor of the occasion, I have a very special treat for you. It's one of the late Alex Birch's own stories. He wrote a great many of them for his blog, A Taste of the Birch, and they were all done in a special way. He would take a series of pictures from Janus, Februs, or other spanking magazine, then write dialogue to go along with them. I was able to save much of his blog before it was deleted, but most of the pictures were not available, so I'm afraid you will have to use your imagination. That won't be hard to do because Alex had quite a way with words.
Your Sins Will Find You Out

(I don't think I can do this! Why does Martin's ex-wife want to see me? Jesus, she scares the pants off me! No wonder they split up! But I have to do it. What did she mean on the phone by 'You better get your miserable arse round here or else you can forget the wedding!' What has she heard? Oh Christ! Take a deep breath, Tracy...there ..done it! Oh God now what?)

"H-H-hello, Camilla, it-it's so n -"

"You can forget the false bonhomie, you miserable little bitch...or do I have to translate that for you? I'm sure you know why you're here?"

"No-I-I- have no -"

"Well think back two weeks to your office party. You know - the one Martin couldn't attend because he was working away? Remember the Sales Manager, Cliff Jordan? I'm sure you do, Tracy!"

(Oh Christ, I'm going to wet myself. How the hell does she know about THAT?")

"I -I don't know what you're talking ab-"

"Don't lie to me, you little cow! It's written all over your face . You're as guilty as hell. I knew as soon as Martin introduced you to me that your brains were in your pussy. Can't keep your knickers on or your legs closed!"

"You've got no right to -"

"Oh I've got EVERY right! We might be divorced but I still love that bloody fool in a sort of way - and I don't want him destroyed by some little airhead who drops her knickers as soon as a man looks at her!"

"I-I didn't- I-I (stammers helplessly) - you've got no proof of anything!"

"Oh but I have, you stupid little tart! What do you call this, eh? (Triumphantly flourishes a letter)

(Oh God I AM going to wet myself)

"It makes very enlightening reading, Tracy. Let me read you a section. 'Oh Tracy, I can't wait until the next time we can spend time together. The feel of your body, the touch of your warm nipples. And they are so sensitive, my darling, I...."

"STOP IT...STOP IT! " (sobbing) "Where the hell did you get that?"

(Grinning) "Remember the office cleaner in the blue overalls who came in to 'tidy up' your office last week, Tracy? Well he was a private detective paid for by me. It didn't take him long to pick the lock on your desk. You really shouldn't keep such juicy stuff lying around, my girl!"

(Weeping in self pity) "Oh God, please Camilla don't tell Martin. It was just a one off. I'd had a bit to drink and I was missing Martin and I was lonely and -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yadda, yadda, yadda - there's no excuse for cheating on a good man and you know it, you little cow - but I'll be kind to you."

"See screwed up and ready to be thrown away instead of being sent to Martin. Now aren't I the generous one?"

(Stunned) "Oh thank you, Camilla, thank won't regret...."

"Oh you BET I won't! Because in exchange for my generosity, you are going to accept my punishment. For some stupid reason, because he's weak and can't see past the obvious, Martin is deeply in love with you. Damned if I can see why! But I'm not going to ruin his delusions. So therefore I'm going to take you in hand myself, Tracy. You know rather like Professor Higgins and Eliza..except my form of training will be a little more physical!"

"Accept your...oh my God! What do you mean?"

"All in good time. Now let's have a good look at you...and I don't want any objections! Stand up straight!"

(Tracy obeys without question, shaking like a leaf)

"Let's have a good look at what you're wearing! Oh very sexy stockings! But what the hell are those knickers made of? God you are so CHEAP!"

( Damn her, she's humiliating me. I'm embarrassed and frightened to death. But it's a bit exciting too. I've never felt like this with another woman. I can't refuse her.)

"Have you seen one of these before, Tracy? I'm sure you know what it is, don't you!"

(Oh my God, I'm close to peeing now)

"You -you can't use that on me, please?" (I am almost begging. I feel pathetic)

"Oh but I can, Tracy..and I will. You see that's the trouble these days. You little chits at Comprehensive school...I'm assuming that WAS the height of your academic success, Tracy...have never seen a cane..or experienced physical discipline. And that's why you think you can behave how you like. No standards you see."

"PLEASE, Camilla...."

"Shut up and listen! At my private school, run by nuns I might add, if a girl was found in flagrante delicto , so to speak, she was soon taking her pants down again in far less pleasant circumstances. Just as you are going to be doing soon, Tracy. It could be the making of you!"

"Oh no, you can't make me -"

"Indeed, I can't. But if you want your dream wedding to take place, you'll do exactly as you're told. Now get your skirt up and lean over the desk!"

"Mmmm, glad to see you can take orders. That's a shapely little bottom, you've got there. Martin always was a bottom man. Now stick it out - you're getting half a dozen to start, over those terry towelling knickers or whatever they are!"

(Oh God, my heart is thumping but I feel sort of funny..and it's not altogether unpleasant!)

"Please don't hurt me!"

(Snorts) "Don't be ridiculous, girl. Of course I'm going to hurt you - but not half as much as your infidelity would hurt Martin!"

"Are you ready, girl. Ready for the first cane stroke of your dim, air-headed young life? Perhaps your arse will register what your brain seemingly can not. The way a bride-to-be should behave!"

"Oh please Camilla, this is torture. Please just get on with it!"

Scwiiiit, Crack!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhh, oh shit, oh Christ...oooooo that really hurts!! "

"Of course it does you little tart, and there's plenty more where THAT came from! And you better watch that language or I'll add a few more!"

"Aaaaaah..oh Camilla, pleeeeeeaaaasee..that really hurts!" (sobbing)

"Hurts? That little sting? You don't know what 'hurts' is, my girl! But you will!"

"Oh many more?"

"As many as I like if you don't want Martin to know the truth ..and these are just the warm up!"

" please..that one was so hard!"

"And there will be more to come, believe me. But I think it's time to have a look at the goods!"

"W-what do you mean?"

"I mean you can take that skirt off for a start - Now!"

"Camilla, please, I beg -"


(Oh God, I'm getting wet. I think I'm marrying the wrong one. Martin has never controlled me like this - and I'm getting so turned on)

"Come on, you little tramp, I haven't got all day!"

"Y-yes , Camilla, I-I'm sorry."

"That's more like it. Now get back over that sofa!"

"Right, let's have these silly knickers down, shall we? Let's see what my ex-husband is getting for his money!"

"Oh Camilla, pleeeeeaaase..this is humiliating!"

"Shut up and don't be so stupid. Humiliating? Having your pants taken down by another woman? The number of men I expect you've shown this off to, I'm surprised you have any shame left!"

"Oh please, I-"

"SHUT UP! Ah now you might be a little trollop but you've got a gorgeous arse. Its just made for the whippy stick. Ah the sound of rattan on bare little trollop flesh is sheer poetry."

"Oh Camilla...noooooooooo!"

"Stick it out , thats it and ......there!"

Scwiiiiiiiiit! Crack!

"Aaaaaaaaaaaah..oh..oh..oh...that really hurts !" (weeping copiously)

"And if you keep shooting upright, I'll double the strokes. Now get back in position!"

"Yes, Camilla, I'm sorry!"

"That's better. Oh you look so lovely in that position! Bare and submissive - just the way I like little tramps. And you are wet too, you little tart!"

(Oh she can see. And she is so right. I am getting off on this )

"Stick it right out, girl. Here comes another!""

"Right, let's have a good look at this cute little arse, shall we? Mmmmm..nicely marked. I think that's probably enough of the cane. Don't want you thinking I'm a cruel bitch now, do I!" (laughs wickedly)

"Oh..thank you Camilla..I-I'll never -"

"Oh don't think I've finished with you yet, you little slut. Stand up and take the rest of your clothes off."

"Oh Camilla, pleeeeeeeeeaaasse, I -"

(Flexes the cane) "Do you want more of this, you little tart?"

"Nooooooooooooooooo-" (hurries to obey)

"You've got a nice trim figure I'll give you that! Just the kind of firm little tits Martin likes. Do you know how you look with your knickers round your ankles? Just like a little schoolgirl being punished by mommy!"

(And that's just how I feel. Damn it, I've never felt so humiliated...or turned on!)

"Please, Camilla, what -"

"Don't speak until you're spoken to! Now get across my knee - and any protests and you'll be feeling the cane again!"

(Meekly) "Yes Camilla."

"Well this certainly has its compensations, Tracy. I've always been bi-sexual - I expect you guessed - and I have rarely had the pleasure of such a juicy arse as this across my knee. There, you little madam, take THAT!" - SMAAAAACK!

"Aaaaaaaaaaahh...oooo, Camilla, my bottom is burning from the cane. That really hurts!"

"Of course it does...and its embarrassing too, isn't it, Tracy? Lying across my knee like a silly, naked little girl - which is exactly what you are!"

(Damn her - she's right. It's shameful and humiliating but why is it turning me on so much? I'm so wet down there. Maybe I've needed this for years.)

"Owwwwwwwwwwwwww, please, no more, that really hurts!"

"Shut up and take what you're given. You're getting away lightly!"

"Yes Camilla"


"Aaaaahh..oooooo..please stop, Camilla..I can't take any more! I'm on fire!"

"Of course you are, you silly girl. It wouldn't have any effect otherwise, now would it?"

"No, I suppose n -" SMACK...SMACK... SMACK! "- ahhhhhh...oh please no more!"

(Tracy is sobbing quietly now)

"Right let's run my hand over this pretty little bottom and rub it better, shall I?"

"Please Camilla do anything you want to me but don't smack me again, I beg you."

(She's getting off on this too, but I don't care. Oh her hands are so strong and gentle. It's like a man was.....oooooooo)

"Like that, don't you, you little tart? Tell me you're a little tart!"

"Oh Camilla I'm a little tart..a slut...anything..but please don't stop what you're doing."

(Contemptuous) "I knew you couldn't get enough..from anybody (pushes Tracy away and gets up)

"Oh Camilla what are you doing now?"

"I'm writing a letter to Cliff Jordan..and you are going to sign it!"

"Oh please Camilla I'll talk to him and end it. Please don't make me do this!"

"Oh no you won't! If you are going to marry my dumb and foolish ex - AND he is going to remain in blissful ignorance of what a little tart he is marrying - then I'm going to make it clear SOMEBODY knows about you two"

"Oh no Camilla please!"

"And if I get any more complaints, Martin and Jordan's wife will get a copy of a little DVD we've been recording together. See that camera high in the wall?"

"Oh God nooooooooooooooo!"

"Oh God yes. But all is not lost Tracy. When you need the kind of discipline Martin will never give you - you know where I live , don't you!"

(Breathes deeply, trying to hide excitement) "Yes Camilla"

There! We didn't need pictures after all!
From Hermione's Heart

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for March 4

Who chooses the position for a spanking?

Lea: Its 99% of the time chosen by my Sir. He typically just throws me over his knee or onto the bed. Or swats at me while I'm standing. I don't think I've really ever asked for a spanking, and presented myself in a position of my choice.

Sir Wendel: Whoever is giving the spankings chooses the position.

Ricky: Well, you've done it again, haven't you?

How can anyone make a decision when first having to figure out what flavor to have first? (When some of us would like to have all three.) I guess it's a variation of having your ice creams and eating them, too.

Err, what was that you asked?

Roz: On yum, ice cream!:) Rick usually always chooses the position. I don't think it's ever been debated or discussed from memory.

Ronnie: P always chooses the position and I don't think P's ever asked me what position I'd prefer.

Hermione: In the early days Ron would choose, then later I wanted to be creative and explore different positions. Lately, though, we have both agreed on the position that suits us both. I am bent over the end of the bed, with plenty of room beside me for the array of implements that Ron likes to have handy.

Yorkie: It's always over my wife's lap while she sits on the bed, up against the bed head propped up by pillows. Typically we are both naked as sexy time usually follows kinky time.

I think we both arrived at this position from the very start of TTWD as it's most comfortable for her.

Thank you all for sharing that information. Be sure to come back tomorrow, when I will have a very special story for you from the top shelf (where all the naughty books are kept).
From Hermione's Heart

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #217

Welcome, one and all, to my favourite time of the week, when we friends gather for brunch. There are special treats from the freezer today for you to enjoy while you discuss today's topic.

Who chooses the position for a spanking: you or your partner? Do you always agree? If not, who makes the ultimate decision?

Everyone is encouraged to respond; you may remain anonymous if you wish. Leave your reply as a comment and on Monday I will publish a summary of our conversation.
From Hermione's Heart

Saturday, March 3, 2018

You Completed the Caption

Anon 1: Oh, great. How am I going to get my caption to Hermione now?

Anon 2: So that's why the new paddle I ordered hasn't been delivered.

KDPierre: Upon opening her mailbox, Hilda realized why her mailman had just delivered her letters by tucking them in her exposed buttcrack.

Sir Wendel: Waiting for her love to deliver a good spanking.

js666: Hilda's father told her that if she was late paying any more bills, he would spank her bottom so hard she wouldn't sit down for a week. Now what?

Hermione: When I ordered a feather tickler, this isn't what I was expecting!

Don't go away! There's more fun coming up next at our first brunch for March.
From Hermione's Heart

Friday, March 2, 2018

Friday FAIL

What's the answer? Do I have buns of steel? Does Ron not know his own strength? Or do they just not make rattan the way they used to?

Let me explain. Last week Ron delivered a vigorous paddling with a carpet beater I bought from Cane-iac.

At the end, he examined the implement and said, "It's broken." Sure enough, the rattan had cracked and broken right in the middle. Now, this isn't the first time it has happened, and it isn't our first carpet beater. Our previous one broke in the same place, and I replaced it with a duplicate. I also bought the delrin version.

This beater wouldn't break under any circumstances, and I do not welcome its attention to my bottom at all! In fact, I keep it hidden behind other, less severe paddles.

In order to make the rattan beater operative once more, I got out my craft glue, applied it to the broken ends and the surrounding area, and held it in place for about 15 minutes until the glue dried. It looks pretty good now, and I think with a bit of transparent packing tape over the damaged area, it will hold.

Unless, that is, I really do have buns of steel!

(Both photos from Cane-iac.)
From Hermione's Heart