It was bedtime, and as usual I opened the drawer of my bedside table and reached for the hand cream. Beside the small jar I had been using, I noticed an tube of lotion that I had purchased some time ago, then forgotten about. I picked it up and read the label. It wasn't hand "cream" but hand "gelee". I hadn't used this particular product before, but had picked it up on the clearance table at the local supermarket - I can't resist a bargain!
I thought I'd give it a try that evening. I squeezed a liberal amount onto one palm and rubbed my hand together. It was kind of gooey and sticky, and I'd used way too much. What to do with the excess?
Earlier that day Ron had used the black leather strap very energetically on my bottom, and I still felt the effects. Maybe some gelee would put out the fire. Reaching behind me I gently rubbed my bare cheeks, transferring the sticky stuff to my bum. It immediately felt very cool and tingly. The fire was out.
I slipped under the covers and curled up next to Ron. Suddenly the coolness turned to heat, and that darned jelly began to sting and burn. What was in that stuff anyway? I couldn't be bothered getting up to wash it off, so I simply endured the pain and counted it as a bonus to my earlier spanking.
Maybe they should add a warning to all tubes of that jelly. Not for use on a freshly-spanked bottom.
Isn't she beautiful? This is one of a group of crystal sculptures in the Love series, from Daum in France. This one is called "Apres l'Amour" (After Love). The lovely maiden looks like she has just enjoyed an exhausting session over someone's knee, and is slowly coming down back to earth.
Since the price is $9,230 (Cdn) I can only enjoy the picture. I hope you enjoy it too. (And do visit the Daum site. Their work is breathtaking.)
I was on my way upstairs last night, and had just put my foot on the first step when I felt a glancing blow on my right bottomcheek.
"Ow." It hadn't really hurt; in fact, I had barely felt it, but wanted to let Ron know his effort was appreciated.
"Wait a minute. That was not a good thing," Ron said. (He isn't a big fan of Martha Stewart, but he likes her favourite expression.) I paused and waited.
CRACK! A second, much harder swat landed right on target.
"OW!" This time I really meant it.
"There, that's better. That was a good thing. Off you go now," he ordered, and I resumed my ascent with one hand on the railing and the other on my bottom, rubbing it carefully.
It's nice to have such a conscientious husband.
Now that's motivation! Feel the burn!
Today we conclude the tale of Annie, the lady and Bertha, her maid. Here's where we ended yesterday.
"That will do, Bertha. Now it is time for the rod. Stand up."
She clambered to her feet, her skirts fell back down and she stood before me, with her hands still busy rubbing away at her seat... Her bosom heaved with both her sighings and the vigorous actions of her arms.
"How does your bottom feel now, Bertha?" The frantic rubbing had been replaced with a more contemplative soothing, her blushes had faded and her tears no longer flowed.
"Better, Ma'am."
"Right, Bertha. It is time. Move that armchair into the center of the room."
The armchair was soon in place and the implement was in my hand. I swished it experimentally, enjoying both the ominous flexibility and the alarmed look on her face.
"Pardon me, Ma'am, but does it have to be on my bare bottom?"
"Do not annoy me, Bertha. I told you that the birch has to be administered to the naked flesh, and that I have no intention ever of wasting my energies beating dust from your clothing."
"Sorry, Ma'am. Will it mark me?"
"Of course not. Well, not permanently. There will be little weals but it will soon heal completely. Now lean over the back."
She did so, resting her hands on the arms of the chair and straightening her back so that her bottom thrust against the seat of her skirts.
"Excellent."
I carefully placed the birch on the seat of the chair so that it was right before her eyes, then moved behind to lay her bottom bare again, slowly rolling the skirts all the way up to her waist and folding them neatly on her back. I retrieved my weapon, moved to her side and tapped her glowing cheeks with it to ensure that I would strike the full center, and that the tips of the twigs would bite into her buttocks rather than her flank.
With my eyes fixed on the nervously quivering orbs, I raised it with tantalizing slowness (fully aware that her moist eyes were glued to it) and swept it smoothly down. The faint hiss as the bundle of supple twigs raced down through the warm summer air; the thwack of their landing; the ripple in her flesh as they bit into the softness; the jerk of her body; her gasping inhalation; all these thrilled me. I could see the swathe of red left by the stroke, narrow on the nearer cheek, broadening as it crossed her bottom, where the twigs had spread.
I heard her mewing softly and delivered the second with another smooth, wristy sweep of my arm. She squealed at that one and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her face screwed up with the pain. She jerked her hips...she tried to shake the smart out of her hips and her fat cheeks wobbled gloriously. Then, with a little sob escaping from her compressed lips, she stuck her bottom out again, then lowered her arms to project it even more. I hit it again. She wailed, wobbled it about again, proffered it again, and I smacked it for the fourth time, inched my feet backwards to alter the landing position of the tips, aimed at the upper parts of her bottom, just below the commencement of her cleft and whisked again, tempering the power to allow for the relative sparsity of the flesh there.
She almost stood upright and I feared for a moment that her skirts would fall but she caught herself in time, slumped forward and stuck her rump out again, with her knees sagging inwards, presenting a sharply rounded and well-divided target. In a flash, I whipped the rod in an upward sweep and landed exactly where I had intended - on the lower, sitting portions of her bottom.
Her resistance broke and she burst into tears, stood up with her hands nursing her blazing hindquarters and dancing from foot to foot. I dropped the birch and pulled her to me, so that she could sob on my shoulder.
"It is over now, Bertha. I hope that I whipped you to your satisfaction?"
I had expected confusion, so her remarks came as something of a surprise.
"Oh, Ma'am, I really needed that. I was feeling all lazy and dozy. I'm all lively now. Thank you."
I smiled at her choice of words, which described the benefits of a loving chastisement so well. "And how about the birch? Was I not right in telling you that it would not be too punishing?"
"Yes, Ma'am. You were. It stung just right."
"Good. And I hope that you now agree that a spanking is much better delivered to a girl's bare bottom."
She blushed modestly and her agreement was a whispered "Yes".
I hope you enjoyed the birching of Bertha as much as she and Annie did!
We continue the tale of the lady and Bertha, her maid, where we left off in the previous post.
"Actually, Bertha, I have had second thoughts."
She looked up and although there was relief and hope in her expression, I recognized a hint of disappointment.
"I shall spank you as your main punishment and then give to a few strokes of the rod at the end. You have been inattentive rather than wicked and so anything more would not be fair. Now stand with your back to me and raise your skirts."
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you."
Her hands were trembling so badly that she had difficulty in grasping a sufficient quantity of cloth and her shaking transmitted itself to her arms, for the hem rose up the columns of her limbs with tantalizing slowness... Her naked thighs were temptingly curved. As she felt the cool air begin to caress their upper surfaces, thus informing her that her buttocks were about to be exposed, her nerve seemed to fail her, for she shook in a series of little sobs and the skirts fluttered in sympathy. I heard her drawing a deep breath and the material resumed its upward creep. There was another stifled sob and her bottom inched slowly into view until it was completely bared.
"A little higher, please, Bertha." She complied immediately. I ran my palm over the entire surface... I patted each side and loved the springy quiver which shimmered across the surface.
"Now place yourself across my knees."
Modestly ensuring that her skirts were held low in front, but still holding them well up behind, she moved beside me, bent forward and placed herself in position without allowing her skirts to fall, a feat which is hard to achieve gracefully...
I rolled up my sleeves, gazing down at my delectable target as I did so, noting that although her posture had caused her buttocks to spread and make them noticeably flatter than they had been when she was upright, their youthful firmness was such that the cleft seemed almost as long and deep.
I placed my left arm across her bottom, firmly gripped the well-fleshed ball of her hipbone, then took aim at the roundest part of her nearer buttock and sent my eager hand flying down to sink gladly into the marvellous flesh, revelling at the sound, feel and sight. Her whole bottom quivered most becomingly. What came as a surprise was the dramatic colour of the imprint of my hand on her fine skin. Even though it could hardly have been described as a hard spank, the mark stood out in a glorious shade of bright pink.
Each subsequent impact produced further delights and for the whole of her spanking, the reddening of her flesh absorbed me almost to the exclusion of the other pleasures, although the soft feel of her under my palm was always delicious.
She was, however, an unusually noisy spankee. From the third blow, her moans were audible and, as the fustigation progressed, they grew to squeals, cries, sobs and howls as she bucked and twisted on the firm support of my parted thighs. I continued until I was quite out of breath, with a smarting palm and aching arms. Her bottom was by then a rich deep scarlet all over, including the very tops of her thighs where I had occasionally strayed in my efforts to ensure that even the folds marking their conclusion were visited.
"Well, Bertha, I believe that will have warmed you up nicely. Does it feel very different being smacked on your bare bottom?"
"Ohhh, Ma'am, it really stung. I feel as though a swarm of bees has been sitting on my arse." Smack. "Owww, I'm sorry, Ma'am, honest I am. I mean my bottom. Please don't smack me no more."
"Any more. No, you can remain where you are for a little longer so your bottom can cool off a bit."
"Oh thank you, Ma'am. Can I rub it please?"
"Of course."
Her hands flew back, sank into the discoloured globes, so that the flesh bulged out from between her fingers, then palpated the masses with happy abandon.
"That will do, Bertha. Now it is time for the rod. Stand up."
I'm afraid you must return tomorrow to read about the birching of Bertha.
We continue the tale of the lady and Bertha, her maid, where we left off in the previous post.
She was as I had left her. Perhaps a little more tense and drawn, but still sitting calmly on the small chair beside mine at the bureau and with our books spread out before her. She rose at my entrance and stood, head down, with her hands folded in front of her. I placed the birch on top of the books and her widening eyes followed it to its resting place.
"You have never seen a birch rod, Beatrice?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Not even at school?"
'I never went to school, Ma'am." I should have guessed.
"Do not be afraid. It is not as fearsome as it appears. And I have no desire to do more than give you a little warning of what will happen to you if you happen to be naughty in the future. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you."
Her relief that she was not facing a severe flogging softened her little face back to beauty again.
"Now, you said that your mother spanks you. Does she place you across her knee?"
"Yes, Ma'am. She says, er...she says that sitting down to spank me is the only chance she gets to take the weight off her feet." I laughed aloud. She smiled back at me.
"And your farther. How does he thrash you?"
"I bend over the back of his chair, Ma'am."
"Do your parents remove your drawers?" I kept my voice low and intent. She reddened and looked down.
"Oh, I've never worn drawers, Ma'am."
"So you are beaten over your skirts?" My disapproval was clear.
"No. Just me shift. Nothing else underneath."
"Humph. But it is your posterior which is the target of their attentions?"
"You mean me bum, Ma'am?"
"I do not care for that word, Bertha. From now on we shall say 'bottom' when we are discussing that part of you. Now answer my question."
"Sorry, Ma'am. Well, mainly my... bottom. But my back and legs get quite a few as well."
"I see. Well, I shall strike you only on your bottom. And Bertha, I shall always punish you on your bare bottom."
Her startled eyes flew back up to meet mine... I continued remorselessly.
"The birch is in any case always administered on the naked flesh. Otherwise the ends will snag in the clothing. But I shall bare your bottom even when I decide that a spanking is the right punishment." I watched the confusion and dismay flicker across her features.
"Actually, Bertha, I have had second thoughts."
Oh, dear. Are we not to witness a birching after all? Stay tuned...
Today, Canadians are celebrating Victoria Day, and I thought it might be fun to honour that royal person's memory by sharing a Victorian spanking novel with you this week.
In this second delightful excerpt from Annie and the Society by Evelyn Culber -- here is the first -- Annie, a Victorian lady who enjoys both giving and receiving corporal punishment, decides to hire a lady's maid to assist her with her personal needs. After receiving her husband's permission and overseeing the preparation of suitable accommodations, she begins interviewing applicants.
Then Bertha arrived and I fell for her at once. She was as tall as I, with glorious red hair which cascaded in glorious profusion from under her simple bonnet, green eyes, skin that was almost transparently clear, a pouty mouth and every sign of a richly contoured figure. Even more important, her demeanor charmed me from the outset. Her references were excellent and I hired her on the spot...
She added enormously to my enjoyment of life. At first she was no more than a willing and effective servant but, before long, I discovered in her an encouraging desire to learn. We began with lessons in reading and writing, for she was almost completely uneducated. Perhaps it was my inexperience in the arts of teaching, but progress was slow and my impatience with her apparent inability to grasp the basic principles of the alphabet must have communicated itself to her, in spite of my best efforts to be understanding.
"Perhaps I should be whipped, Madam," she whispered.
I stared at her, my breath stopped in my throat and the thudding of my heart loud in my ears... I remembered that only the day before I had made a nice swishy little birch for us to use in one of our sketches, and that I had never used one in earnest.
"Yes, Bertha. A nice whipping is definitely in order. Have you been treated so before?"
"Oh, often, Ma'am. Both my mother and father beat me. Well, my mother only spanks me but my father uses his belt."
"They still punish you?"
"Yes."
"Your bottom has tasted the birch?"
"No, Ma'am." She looked very apprehensive.
"Then it has a treat in store. Wait here."
With a spring in my stride, I went to collect the implement, thrillingly aware that another chapter was unfolding in what had already been a life rich in sensual experiences.
My eyes lingered on her for a moment before I left. She was blushing and her gaze flickered from downcast nervousness to a steady meeting of mine. Her hands rested on her lap and were trembling visibly. Her fear was tempered with odd stirrings deep within her. I smiled softly at her troubled little face and closed the door behind me.
The birch was in the Studio, so I had time to ponder. Did I simply punish her? Without emotion and with little involvement? Or dared I lead her to the first steps on that strenuous path to the pleasures which I now found rewarding beyond compare?
I walked slowly across the grass until I had reached the Studio, found the delicate little rod and closed the door behind me. The pliant bundle, the handle tied up in a pretty scarlet ribbon, helped me in my decision. As I raised the business end to my lips and kissed the tips of the twigs as though envying the quality of the skin and flesh they would soon themselves be kissing, I determined to make the forthcoming punishment as sensual as possible. I wandered back even more slowly.
I'll let you savour the anticipation too, and resume this tale tomorrow.
Don't let the title of this post worry you or make you scratch your head in disbelief. It's not what you think.
I've already told you what happened before and after. Now here's the story of the best spanking I've had in recent memory.
I was excited as I climbed the stairs to the bedroom, but when I got there and saw the paddle that Ron had chosen lying on the bed, my anticipation turned to dread. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. It was awfully thick. But I didn't have long to ponder my fate; I heard footsteps in the hall. Quickly I put the paddle down and proceeded to slip off my jeans and panties.
When Ron came in I stood up and waited for instructions. They weren't long in coming.
"Bend over," Ron picked up the paddle and gestured to the end of the bed.
I obeyed and felt the smooth paddle caress my bottom. Ron seemed in a chatty mood, which was unusual but very nice. He expounded on the benefits of his chosen implement as he applied it to my cheeks. My exclamations of distress were liberally punctuated with laughter. He was having fun and so was I.
"You're turning a nice shade of pink," Ron observed after a few minutes of effort.
"Ouch! And what colour are you aiming for?"
"Purple."
"Ow!"
Ron continued, but several swats landed with a dull thud instead of a sharp crack. Misfires. I laughed and asked, "What are you aiming at?"
"Quiet!" Ron startled me with the command.
"What? You don't want this to be interactive?" I giggled.
"No. You're too noisy. I want to be able to hear the whacks."
I tried to be quiet, and stuffed a corner of the bedsheet into my mouth. It worked, but then Ron sabotaged my efforts at silence. In between swats to my bottom he gently tapped the back of my head with the implement. Then he escalated the attack by tickling my tummy with the edge of the paddle. It was no use. I laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. As I dried them with the sheet I thought, I'm being spanked to tears - tears of laughter!
Ron stopped for a break, and as he rubbed my bottom he complained, "I bent the paddle."
"Turn it over and use the other side to straighten it out."
He did, and reported that it seemed to have worked.
The two sides of the paddle are different, although not exactly like the ones in the above picture. The back has a raised pattern of vines and foliage on it.
"Are you making leafprints on my bum?"
"The leaves are falling off. There are twigs all over the bed."
Again I chuckled as I squirmed and squeaked. Finally, we were both exhausted from laughing, and Ron called a halt to the fun.
"Get up. That's all for this time."
I reached for a tissue to dry my face, then headed to the mirror to check my mascara. As I turned and inspected the reflection of my bare bottom, I praised my husband for a job well done and confirmed what he already knew.
"It really is purple."
Can anyone tell me what the sign really says?
This week's fiction selection is from Annie and the Society by Evelyn Culber, published in 1994. It's a Victorian romp in the hay, jam-packed with sex, spanking, and more sex.
I've added a twist by changing the real names of the three characters so that each of them could be either male or female.
Chris is the narrator of the story and speaks in the first person.
Pat is an artist in a committed relationship with Chris.
Alex is Pat's cousin, and has come for a short visit.
As you read, let your imagination fill in the details according to your preference.
We find the three conversing after breakfast the morning after Alex's arrival. Pat has proposed finishing a painting begun the day before.
"Is dearest Chris posing for you, Pat?"
"Yes, for this one."
"Nude, I trust."
"Naturally."
"Excellent. And I shall position myself where I have a clear and close view of that naked bottom. It is far too long since I feasted my eyes on the richness of its curves and the whiteness of its skin. Tell me, do you spank Chris?"
At this point they disappeared through the door into the garden and I was so dumbfounded by Alex's forwardness that I was too slow to follow them and so missed Pat's response. Had Pat been as truthful as I would have expected, the reply would have been in the negative, because in the nine months we had been together those hands had done no more then caress my buttocks. I had not been perfect but had certainly not erred to the extent that I needed chastisement. Alex's question suddenly aroused those yearnings which had lain dormant since...I had learned that Mother Nature had bestowed on me a bottom which not only seemed to please most who saw it bare but also one which found pleasure in being spanked and beaten... I hurried after them and all three of us went together into the Studio...
I was stripped naked in less than a minute. The two cousins were sitting side by side on the small chaise longue on which I had several times posed. I moved slowly until I was standing in front of them, nervous to start until I saw the expressions on their faces...As one, they licked their lips as their gaze travelled down my naked body...
I placed my hands on the top of my head and closed my eyes.
"Oh, my darling...you are more beautiful than ever... Can I see your bottom?"
I had anticipated that and was turning around as the request was made. Only the sound of our breathing broke the silence. The skin of my buttocks crawled as I sensed the four eyes fixed on the pale contours and the tight, deep cleft. I jumped as I felt the soft touch of a hand on my flesh and then relaxed as the happy familiarity of the caress sent the blood coursing through my veins...
I vaguely heard the bustling behind me as Pat set up the easel and loaded the palette with the paints best suited to capture the fleshly tones laid out so willingly...
After Chris has posed for Pat and the painting is finished, Alex suggests that Pat should sketch Chris being spanked.
Alex fetched a simple wooden chair, placed it carefully before Pat, sat down and beckoned me. I hesitated. Not from fear but to prolongue the pleasures; to savour the hollowness of my belly, the pounding of my heart and, sharpest of all, the strange awareness of my bottom, which felt for the first time in over nine months that peculiar heaviness to which I had become so accustomed when I was being regularly spanked.
Alex took my hand and guided me into position...then slowly ran a hand over the protruding mounds of my bottom... I sensed those eyes boring into my exposed flesh. I felt all the crawling nervousness that makes corporal punishment applied to the naked bottom so very effective.
Without conscious thought I proffered myself even more blatantly, raising my hips by bringing my knees upward a little and by arching my back downwards. I heard a little murmur of appreciation from above and behind as my buttocks grew rounder and more widely spread...
At last an arm spread itself across my naked loins and a hand gripped my right hip. We were both ready. The first spank lashed with full vigour into the fleshiest part of my left buttock. I felt the wobble spread through my bottom, the sting made me gasp, and the sound rang in my ears.
I could envisage the pink imprint of a hand on the whiteness of my skin, waxing rapidly especially where the fingertips had stung the most. The second blow visited the other cheek and I began to lose myself in the amalgamation of sensations. The spanks rained down at regular intervals and steadily set my whole bottom ablaze as I fought to stay still and present a properly accessible target to my beloved friend. The pain and the consequent pleasure revived all the ecstasies which I had experienced in my past. I was as aware of my naked posterior as I ever had been and the hotter Alex rendered my flesh, the more I yearned for more. I rocked on the firm support provided by those broad thighs; I gasped, panted and sobbed as the fiery waves spread through my being; my brain thrilled to the ringing echo of hand on bottom-flesh.
To pervert a common saying, absence had obviously made my bottom grow fonder, because Alex's hand obviously wearied before my buttocks and I felt a keen sense of disappointment when it stopped. I peered back over my left shoulder. Alex was vigorously rubbing the right hand with the left, eyes fixed on my naked and undoubtedly crimson rump. I then remembered my audience and craned my neck round in the other direction. Pat's expression mimicked Alex's so precisely that I smiled through the hot tears coursing down my face. Then I recalled Alex's request that the events just witnessed should be committed to paper and I hoped that Pat had not been to carried away to obey...
When at last I rose from the supportive lap and my rosy-red cheeks had been subjected to a lingering and admiring inspection, Pat showed us the results. Both Alex and I were genuinely effusive in our praise. Given that the sketches were unfinished and only recorded the essentials with a plan to complete them in a more leisurely manner, they were beautifully evocative, with the outlines of our bodies depicting the essential actions of a good spanking to perfection.
Ron and I engage in spanking strictly for enjoyment. For us, it's both fun and erotic, but never for discipline. Ron isn't interested in turning our favourite aerobic activity into punishment, and as he always tells me, I enjoy it so much it could never be punishment for me. But still, sometimes I wish he would pretend, and use the disciplinary words that press my buttons.
One evening, we were in the kitchen together, jointly preparing dinner, when Fluffy scratched at the back door. I let him out.
"Don't give him a treat when he comes in," Ron told me. "I'm mad at him. He was a nuisance today."
I heard, and agreed, but five minutes later, when Fluffy came back in, I automatically reached into the treat jar and popped a tiny doggy goodie into his open mouth.
Let me explain. The habit of giving a treat is one of long standing. The theory is that it encourages our dogs to go out in inclement weather to do their duty instead of using the carpet. It also provides an incentive to come in when they are called, even though there are so many interesting things to eat, roll in and bark at outdoors. So Ron's request was simply overruled by years of habit. It wasn't intentional.
But Ron noticed.
"You disobeyed me," he remarked.
"Um, yes."
"You disobeyed my order and gave Fluffy a treat," he continued in a very authoritarian manner. My heart leapt!
"Yes, Sir." I tried to sound contrite while wondering where this was going.
"Go upstairs and get the paddle out right now," Ron commanded.
I stood and stared, eyes wide with disbelief. These were the words I had been waiting for, even though I knew he didn't mean a word of it. We had just finished a vigorous spanking session half an hour earlier, so I suppose Ron was basking in a dominant afterglow. He had no intention of administering a second dose, but was still in spanko mode.
I hugged Ron and laughed as I told him, "You've finally got the dialogue down. You said exactly the right words. Thank you."
We've taken another giant step forward on our spanko journey together.
And no, I didn't get another spanking for disobedience.
I haven't told you about the one I got just before this happened, have I?
I must do that soon.
I can't believe it! My blog counter just topped the half-million mark. That's a lot of page hits!
I can't take all the credit for it. My faithful and persistent readers who keep coming back day after day are the ones behind this. You are the reason I keep on blogging. What would I do without you?
Thank you all for helping Hermione's Heart to keep on beating.
Why thongs should be removed prior to a bottom-warming.
Devlin, you were right!
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