From the Top Shelf - Thomasina

Today's selection from the top shelf concerns a young girl who is out of bounds, and a boy who delivers the consequences. This excerpt from The Tutor: Being the Reminiscences of Thomasina Wragg, edited by P.N. Dedeaux, came to mind after a discussion on Erica's blog about how a discipliner could administer half a stroke. The answer lies below.

It was lovely that summer in the sun. Everything seemed easier and slower, more relaxed and mazed in warmth. I was happy, helping both in the hall and on the estate; and I sneaked off more than ever to the bounding shore in my hour off in the afternoon though I was never more late. My hiding had had that effect, at least. Mrs Wilson pointed out the moral more than once.

"A good whipping never did a girl no harm. It quickens the senses and, I believe, even whets the appetite. Ye're growing up to a big girl, Thomasina, but you need not put on ways just because milady has taken a fancy to you. Upstairs or below, ye'll mind yer place else I'll see you leathered on that trestle in a trice."

So I would strip off my clothes in the cave and run full-tilt into the sea, my new breasts bouncing and my bottoms joggling behind. The sting and slap of the waves made me gasp as I flung myself into them, and came out with breasts aching, breath sputtering, drenched and swamped with the salt. It was doing so late one August afternoon that I had my shock...

Nobody was there. No one ever watched. I left my clothes in their usual place, on a ledge of rock at the back of the cave, and rinsed the day out of me delightfully enough in the brine. Minutes later I stood shivering and aghast, staring at the empty sill of stone. Where had my things gone? Who had been?

Heart in mouth I scampered to the back where the cave took a turn. It was a darkness I had not explored.

"Hands up, Thomasina," said a voice, and a boy of sixteen, well grown, with touseled hair, came forward into the half-light smiling. "Caught'ee," he said, doing so and trying to plant a kiss on my lips and landing it on my twisting neck. I wriggled wetly free and stood ducked, hiding myself with my hands.

"Give me my clothes, you wretch," I told him. "Come on, where are they?"

For the boy was Reggie Shore, of course. The Hon. Reginald Shore, I should have said, only son of the widowed and dark-haired Lady Mildmount, whose lands at one point adjoined our own. He was often coming to our house with his mother, a lady I cordially dreaded, or riding past on his pony, but since helping me over a stile between fields had contrived to come in my way more often. He was cheerful and good-looking, with an open, sandy face and an infectious grin. He was a great tease... Now I knew that he had been spying on me.

"Give me back my clothes at once, Master," I hissed, huddling. "Come on, I can't stand here for ever now."

"You look awful pretty doing so, Tommy."

"Come on. I'll be in a frightful scrape at the house if you don't, quickly."

"Ah, that's just it," he said, miming an imposingly grave manner. "I'm afraid you've been a naughty girl, Tommy." He was tapping one toe with a peeled willow switch. "And we will have to pay the consequences, Miss Wragg."

"Don't play the schoolmaster with me, Reggie Shore."

"You know you're not supposed to be down here, are you?"

"Nor are you," I retorted. Lady Mildmount was rumoured to bring him up like a tartar, afeared lest in the absence of a father he might be raised too 'soft'. He winced wryly but did not change his grin. "Where are they, Reg? Please." I changed my tone of voice. "Oh, do give me my things and have done with it."

With a mock sigh, he said, "I fear there is a penalty you must pay for your indiscretion." His wand made a juicy whistle through the air. "You have to have a taste of this for your sins."

I looked at him with mute imploring.

"Reg, please."

"Four," he said shortly.

"No," I said, "it'll tingle terribly."

But my time was running out and I was beginning to feel giggly with him, shielding my breast and self once more...

"Come on, naughty Tommy, 'tisn't such a souse. Four quick licks is all I ask. Lord, if we only got as little at school, in the bill. Why, it's never less than a dozen with the birch, and a good rod is seven or eight of these." He swung it whirringly again. "Lord, how those first cuts sting. But you have to stick it through."

"Does you good," I said, pouting.

"But I'd rather have a dozen at the block than my mater's switch any day. It cuts like a razor, that does. Come on, I dare you."

I was shivery and excited and suddenly I said, "Three."

"Four."

"No, three only."

"Four it is."

"Three," I stuck out.

"Three and a half, then, cowardy."

I giggled nervously and acceptingly. What was a half of a cut, I wondered?

"Where?" I asked then.

"Across the bum, of course, where did you think?"

"No, I mean where. I'm not going to bend over like this for you, Reggie Shore."

He stood up and went to a patch of sand where the sun came in and thrashed it. The bendy switch wrote a long weal there. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? This was obviously going to hurt.

"Here." The limb pointed and I lay down. I did so on the hot moist sand with my legs together, and put my head in my folded arms. I was determined he should not make me flinch.

There was a lengthy wait.

"Come on," I said, mouth muffled.

"You do have such tender buns, you know, Tommy, so soft and close and jouncy, it seems a pity to..."

"Don't comment," I said primly. "Get on with it, if you must."

"I'm afraid this is going to hurt you more than me, Thomasina."

As there was another long pause I stole a glance back.  He was doffing his jacket on the ledge for the job. The switch looked unspeakably licky. Up the line of one leg I saw his manhood most manifest; it seemed to stretch itself, like some snoozing cat, as he sighed and came forward again. I hid my head instantly.

"The chaps at school say it's twice as bad wet."

The willow rested on my posterior then, before it lashed across them with a long singing sweep--Pffffuikk! I gasped and stretched quickly. The pain came to me at once, much more stingy if not as brutal as Mr Jorrocks' thong. I pressed into the sand, striving not to satisfy that throbbing thing of his in front by any writhing or wriggling. He paused so long I hissed out angrily, "Come on. You don't have to draw it out so."

"You mark nicely, Tommy. This one's going to be tighter."

I was aware of him rising to his toes to gain full height for the second, which really slashed across me excruciatingly. I gasped again and twisted like a worm for a second.

"You don't have to...that hard."

"Get straight. Don't try to turn off your right side so."

Pffffuikk!

The third was even harder and drove me burrowing into the sand which I suddenly realized had filled my mouth as well. It stifled my cry, but I knew he had the pleasure of my motions after it. It was impossible not to writhe.

"Now," I heard, "for the half."

I was expecting a stroke half as hard, but my curiosity was piqued when he said gently, "Legs apart now, a little."

My twistings made the command unnecessary in fact. I felt his hand palp my left cheek lightly as if to steady it there, and "Here's the half," he said.

With which he brought that fiendish switch whistling down precisely across my single sinister buttock. I jacked with a cry, fairly grabbing where he had cut. This was cruelty itself. The blade-like limb had buried itself about my separated left cub with the result that its timed tip, the agonizing part, had bitten like an adder inside my division, welting into the puppy flesh just by, and beneath, my seam. I had never known such pain and turned, speechless, in the wet sand, doubling and rubbing. Then I heard myself saying "No" and again "No."

I think four would have been preferable.

You Completed the Caption

This woman will have to eat her words when she reads these shockers:

Michael: "Dear, this is a paddle, this is a spreader bar and these are nipple clamps; now please undress."

SixoftheBest: President Obama has invited Sarah Palin to visit him in his Oval Office. And has promised to give her a 'spanking good time'.

Kingspan: Thank you, but my language is not the point of this discussion, young lady. What you said was shocking to me and the Vicar, and there is a bar of soap and a hairbrush in your immediate future.

Anonymous: Well let's try out our new Tens unit and see if that can shock you.

Ronnie: "I'm leaving you and by the way, I've just won £52 million on the lottery."

Prefectdt: "I've set fire to the cotton wool that you stuffed in your ears."

Pink: "Sometimes, when I'm spanking you, I pretend you're my Uncle Irv. Except Irv never looked so good in petticoats."

Redxxx: Ron just wrote on a blog that Hermione has started spanking him, and it is not consensual. She simply decided it was time Ron felt the back of a hairbrush, not just holding the handle.

Hermione: You may be the CEO, but you forgot to draw the drapes last night. I saw you over your husband's knee, getting what you deserve.
 
Thanks for having some shocking fun together.  Next week there will be a very special celebration. I hope you will all join me.

Complete the Caption

What did someone say to this lady that would prompt her to say this? I'll bet my readers can come up with something that will shock her, even though she's been around the block a time or two.

Leave your shocking suggestion, invitation, warning or innuendo as a comment or in an email. I'll post them - if I dare - tomorrow.

Friday Fail - Spanking Bench

I suppose you could think of this as a spanking bench with its own built-in canes or switches. But they look rather difficult to remove without a saw or loppers. Besides, that would destroy the artistic ambiance.

Whomping Willow, anyone?

Beat it

Last night we enjoyed some homemade pickled beets with dinner. Between us we managed to finish the jar, leaving only some pieces of onion floating in the tangy red liquid.

As we cleared the table, Ron grabbed the jar and announced that he would dump the contents down the drain. He knew this would annoy me because I am a fervent composter.

"No, it goes into the green bin." I carefully strained out the solid vegetable matter, then bent over the compost bucket and coaxed the pieces out of the jar.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Ron decided to administer an impromptu paddling while I was in the appropriate position.

"Beats, beets. Get it?" he chortled, as his hand warmed my bottom.

"Yes, I - ouch! - get it. Very funny."

You've gotta love a man who enjoys his homonyms. But I think that tomorrow we'll have bread and butter pickles with dinner.

Wednesday WIN

Isn't this a sexy matchbox? It would make lighting candles for a romantic evening even more exciting.

Subby Kitteh

From the Top Shelf - The Third Dozen

Are you ready for the third dozen strokes of the cane? More to the point, is Mrs Hammond ready after that last dozen? Personally, I would have grabbed my resume and terminated the interview. Here's the final installment of Obliged to Bend by R.A. Bradbury.

I allowed Irene Hammond a longer rest, fully fifteen minutes, following the second dozen. From the look on her face when I announced this I knew the respite was most welcome. The desire to finish the session was tempered now by her need to recover somewhat, for her behind must be burning exceedingly.

She rubbed vigorously and, having removed her drawers altogether at my behest, proceeded to walk about the room. Every few seconds she would stop and bend her right knee, raising her foot at the back in that curious way women do when their bottoms are on fire.

For the third and final dozen I decided to try her in an unusual and difficult position - difficult for both of us, that is. I cleared the top of my desk and had her stand upon it, needing both my assistance and the use of my chair as a step to manage this feat. She seemed somewhat I'll at ease ascending to this elevated position, and I held fast to her hand, assuring her I would not let her fall.

I had her stand with her back to me, her heels at the very edge of the desk, and then squat down. At my instruction she gathered her skirts and pulled the loose material about her waist. Her bare buttocks overhung the edge of the desk, positively inviting a slap.

It is not, as I said, an easy position, either for punisher or recipient. Blows must be delivered in an upwards direction, which feels most odd and unnatural and requires considerable practice if accuracy and consistency of strength are to be maintained. It is certainly not a position the novice flogger should be contemplating.

"So, here we are," I said. "The final dozen."

I was standing behind her and somewhat to her left. I rested my left hand lightly on her shoulder to steady her, touched the tip of the cane to the floor directly below her buttocks, then whipped it upward. I made this a very firm stroke, the hardest yet. She jerked; or rather, bounced on the spot. Her face was buried in the gathered folds of her skirts so that her cry was somewhat muffled, as was her voice when she spoke.

"Twenty-five, sir."

The caning continued. I paused after every third stroke... I made the final three harder still. I was striking with a fair degree of force and knew the pain must be considerable. She had curled into a tight ball, hugging her knees with her arms, her head and shoulders down. Muffled though her voice was I could hear her distress clearly as she counted. The final stroke was, in accordance with a cusom that went back to the dawn of time, the hardest of all.

"Thirty-six, sir," she said.

There was no hint of relief in her voice that I could detect. She waited, a shivering ball, her trembling very pronounced - I presumed from the strain of her position. I sensed apprehension. Possibly she feared further punishment. I had learned this classic flogger's trick - the allocation of further strokes just when the victim believed it was all over - at an early age. It can be astonishingly demoralising for them, shattering the last vestiges of control they'd been hoarding so scrupulously...

I told her to get down, taking her hand while she did so. She was rather unsteady on her feet, her face pale and drawn. I led her to the couch and lay her face down while I examined her buttocks. They were, I have to say, in something of a state. They were crisscrossed with weals, some greater, some lesser. The last dozen strokes in particular had been especially hard on her. Owing to the stance I couldn't tell precisely where the strokes were landing; and I now saw that three of them were virtually superimposed. I was pleased and most agreeably surprised that she had borne it all so well, for it had not been an easy punishment and had been her very first.

I rubbed her bottom gently: she stiffened, gasping. I considered applying the lotion I possessed, specially formulated to ease the pain of violated flesh, but in the end decided it was appropriate she experience the full aftermath of a caning. It would be an invaluable experience for any aspiring flogger.

I retrieved her drawers and had her put them on.

"That was very well done, Mrs Hammond," I said, while she was putting herself in order, straightening hair and garments. "Well done indeed."

"Thank you, sir."

She seemed rather distracted, which was understandable, and I imagined she was keen to retire to her room.

I rang for Alice, and told her to send Willy the hall-boy to me immediately. He arrived, anxious and breathless, and stood before me fidgeting and bobbing in that irritating way he had.

"Willy," I said, "this is Mrs Hammond, who will give you your instructions from now on. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," he said, tugging his forelock. "Ma'am."

I fixed him with a purposeful stare. "You blacked the fire grates this morning, did you not?"

"Yes, sir," he said, visibly paling and starting to quake.

I pointed to the fire and the ironmongery in question. "That," I said, "is the most slovenly, careless, disgraceful job of blacking I have ever had the misfortune to gaze upon. I am ashamed to invite Mrs Hammond into a room with such a grate. I expect she wishes to have a word or two with you about it in private - and more than a word, I shouldn't wonder."

I had not relinquished my hold on the cane and held it out to our new governess. She took it automatically as her look of surprise slowly gave way to something else. Something that boded ill for young Willy, I surmised. 

That was not a position I would want to experience. But Mrs Hammond will be a fine addition to this interesting household.

Guess the Implement - the Reveal

This wonderful paddle is actually a knee paddle tape weaving loom. Congratulations to Kelly Red and Miranda for correctly guessing it is used for weaving. They must be two old-fashioned girls who like doing things by hand.

Here is the description from the web page it appeared on:

Before the time of elastic and zippers, tapes similar to shoe strings were woven to gather waistbands and make other clothing accessories. These were done on tape looms. 

This loom is patterned after some historical looms. The warp is threaded through the slats and holes to produce the shed for weaving. The warp ends are tied to the weavers waist and another stable object similar to using a back strap loom. The knee paddle is held between the weaver's legs- curved cut outs are on each side for this purpose.

This produces a warp faced weave.

Thanks for your guesses. This wasn't an easy one, and I never would have guessed. See you next week when once again we will Complete the Caption.

Guess the Implement

My friend Season sent me this picture of an implement that she has had a little experience with. Knowing Michael, I'll bet it's used more than just a little, but Season is very modest.

So, when this wooden charmer is not warming somebody's backside, what is it used for? Leave your guess as a comment or email me, and I will unveil the mystery tomorrow.

The Quest for the Look

The J.Lo look, that is. A woman died recently after undergoing illegal buttock-enhancement surgery. She and a friend had traveled from London to Philadelphia, and were injected with silicone by a "surgeon" in a hotel room near the airport. The woman developed chest pains and later died in hospital; her friend survived.

The past president of the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons said: "There was a craze for the [Jennifer Lopez] look for a time, where women wanted more voluminous buttocks and a bit more of a curve."

The alternatives to silicone injections are buttock implants or complex protein injections; both methods are legal but expensive and time-consuming. The silicone substance used in the illegal, unregulated procedure is not approved for use in the US, and is banned in some countries.

The woman in question had undergone a similar procedure a few months ago. How big did she want them to be?

Prefectdt has a link to the full story in this post. It's a popular topic!

Rainy Day Bondage

Perfect for rainy weather, these bondage-style umbrellas are sure to cause some second looks on the bus or subway. They are available from this site.

That's a Wrap

How does your spanker signal the end of a session? Ron has various ways of letting me know when he has finished spanking me.

Some are non-verbal. He may give me a pat on the bottom, or a tap on the head. But he usually accompanies these gestures with an interesting closing line.

"Your bottom is bright red (or purple, or fuchsia)."

That's all. My arm is tired."

You've got a blister on your bum."

"Your bottom is as red as Rudolph's nose."

"Go outside and sit in the snow."

"You're glowing in the dark."

"I'm missing my football game."

"We have achieved the necessary fluorescence."

From the Top Shelf - Twelve More Strokes

More from Obliged to Bend, by B.A. Bradbury. The first dozen strokes of the cane have been administered here and here, and now it's time for the second dozen.

I allowed her to rest for five minutes or so. Initially grateful for the respite, she had begun to fidget by the end. She was impatient to see the back of all this, of course; unlike her employer, who could think of no better way to pass a frosty winter's afternoon.

"Very well," I said. "For the next dozen you must bend over and grasp your ankles."

She complied, and I raised her skirts. Though hardly original, this position is both eminently practical and nicely humiliating...

I walked behind the governess...bending over for punishment. A highly attractive woman was presenting her beautifully formed and nicely striped rear end for further treatment. In this same household three young women lived in blissful ignorance of my plans for their tender young bottoms, whilst a pair of maids were only too aware of my intentions towards theirs. Maybe one cannot have absolutely everything in life, but this came pretty damn close...

I readjusted her skirts and gave her an immediate swipe of the cane. It was a substantial stroke, guaranteed to take her mind off all extraneous matters. She groaned and swayed forward a little. Another advantage of this classic position occurred to me then: the victim cannot diminish the force of the blows by jerking her hips forward at the last second, as she can when standing upright. Whatever is delivered, that is what is felt.

"Thirteen, sir," Irene Hammond murmured.

I had not rescinded the instruction to count the strokes so she was doing what she had been told and was obeying the last order given. In some aspects of this art, she was remarkably sagacious; in others suprisingly naïve.

I decided to reward her good behaviour and made the next four somewhat lighter. This change was immediately detected in her voice as she counted. Rewards were all well and good of course, but I would hate her to think I was going soft. The very next stroke, therefore, was once again a firm one.

"Eighteen, sir."

The quaver was back, and I felt a sense of deep satisfaction. I had practised this art for many years and prided myself that I was master of both it and myself. I realize I risk being branded a braggart, but this is my honest opinion, and false modesty is more reprehensible to me than conceit.

Six more strokes were due Mrs Hammond in this second set. The challenge would be to make each stroke harder than the one preceding, and to cause her voice to crack on the final stroke, but not before.

Could I do it? I was confident that I could, and if I did, then I reckoned I could justifiably claim the title of Master Flogger and consider myself a very fine fellow indeed. If I failed, then clearly I needed a great deal more practice, and Mrs Hammond, Alice, Rose, Elizabeth, Victoria and dear Cathy had better resign themselves to taking their meals standing up from now on.

So I composed myself, like a musician about to attempt a difficult piece. I flexed my arm, took a deep breath, and took careful aim.

Swish, went the cane... Then snick!

"Oh!" went the governess... then, "Nineteen, sir."

The swish-snick combination was repeated, and the count climbed slowly. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two... Her voice so very close to breaking now. The next stroke would be critical. Too much and I would have failed; yet my self-imposed rules demanded it be harder than the last.

I drew back the cane, and snapped it forward. It contacted with a solid thwack!

"Ah-hhh!" she gasped.

The next few seconds were each about a fortnight long. I realised I was holding my breath. Would the damn woman never speak?

"Twenty-three, sir," she said in a voice that quavered mightily, but did not quite break.

After that it was easy. A slight extra impetus to the swing was all that was required. I was confident she would not move. She knew what was expected, and had herself well under control.

I raised the cane and swiped it across the lowest part of her behind, in the crease were buttock meets thigh. It is a particularly sensitive spot and it drew forth an agonized gasp. The wait for the count seemed interminable, but I had no real doubts as to the outcome.

"Twenty-four, sir," she said, her voice cracking beautifully.

James Montague - flogging supremo. I almost stepped forward and took a bow.

To be continued...

A Valentine for Ron

I hope he uses it effectively as part of our Valentine celebration.

These might add a little sweetness and spice to our special evening.

You Completed the Caption

Here are your captions for this unusual encounter in the park.


Anonymous: "Does this dress make my butt look fat?"

Daisychain:  "That butt is just like mine...but I wish mine were hard as iron too."

Our Bottoms Burn: I think it's a mannequin that someone is having some fun with.

Prefectdt: The Wilmington Post headline read: "Wilmington's most spankable butt is honoured with a statue in the park."

Season: "Honey, In honor of National Act Like a Statue day, let's go to the park. The rule is that you need to pose with whatever statues we come across."

"Hrumph! We couldn't have gone to see the Statue of Liberty?"

Michael: Artist's model, Cassandra Callipygian, visited the park everyday still angry that the city had run out of money to finish the rest of her statue.

Poppy: I think this is a cunning plan to get the statue spanked instead of the innocent girl and in doing so have Top's hand break so that he cannot do her any harm for yonks.

Kuaitomboblo: "I can stand here in this park as long as you, statue.. " 

Ronnie: "I'm sure my bottom isn't that big, is it?"

Bonnie: "How could she possibly have thought of it first? She hasn't even got a head!"

Sixofthebest: "Butt officer, why are you giving me a ticket. I'm parking my butt, not my car in this park".

Kaelah: […] Unfortunately, the sculptor forgot to tell his model that the statue was finished. And so she stood in the park, posing for the long-gone sculptor ever after...

Raven Red: "The next person that flips a coin, asking heads or tails, will be severely spanked!"

Kingspan: Henceforth, the Cast Iron Bottom award shall be presented annually to the spankee over whom the most paddles are broken.

Red: "I am NOT going to go topless."

Dave Wolfe: Here are two finely sculpted derrieres, but which one is actually the hardass?

Hermione: "The next time I pose for a statue I'll wear a matching pair of boots."

Emanuele Lombardi: Didn't I tell you this was my sculpture officer. Do you need any more evidence?


Welcome to our new contributors, and thanks, everyone, for playing. Next week, there will be an implement to guess, and be warned: it's a toughie. 

Complete the Caption

I can't even begin to imagine what's going on in this photo. Why would there be a statue of a topless bare bottom in the middle of a park? And who owns the live bottom beside it? Is it the model? A wannabe? A tourist?

Tell me what's happening by leaving a caption as a comment or in an email. I will post your suggestions tomorrow.

Friday Fail - The More You Look

I see a bottom - don't you?

False advertising, but nice shoes.

For Spanko Geeks

Add this code to any convenient bottom. It works with all popular browsers including Firefox, Internet Explorer, Flock, Chrome and Safari.

Sneak Attack

 








The other day, after Ron and I had finished dinner and cleared the table, we and the dogs headed for the family room. Fluffy and Fang were excited; they would be getting their evening biscuits before we all settled in to watch TV. Fang was tucked under my arm as I led the way, and Fluffy danced around us in anticipation while Ron brought up the rear.

Whack!

Ron had made a sneak attack on my bottom. My right cheek throbbed. We heard the clatter of toenails on the tile floor as Fluffy scrambled out of the room to get away from the noise. Fang remained unconcerned, his mind on the impending treats.

"You scared him," I chuckled. Then I reached back with my free hand, rubbed my sore cheek, then contemplated its untouched mate.

"Scare him again."

Whack!

The second smack hurt much more than the first one, but I was happy. I like everything to be even.

Big Butt Kitteh

From the Top Shelf - The Second Half Dozen

 

From R.A. Bradbury's Obliged to Bend. Mrs. Hammond has received the first six of her promised three dozen strokes as recounted here. The caning continues:

Since I had made my point with all the subtlety of a stampeding carthorse, there was little chance she could fail to take my meaning. From the chastened guilty look on her face I knew that she did, indeed, understand. Now that things were back on track I could happily resume the session. I whipped the cane through the air two or three times, partly to loosen my arm, but mostly to unnerve her.

"Count the strokes out loud, if you please," I said. "Start at seven."

I uses this common spanker's device routinely. The slow disintegration of control as the punishment proceeds can be heard quite distinctly in the victim's voice, and as such is a most reliable indicator of her suffering. Anyone can exaggerate a flinch, and most can cry out reasonably convincingly, but few can fake the quaver in the voice that results from stress, or make it crack in a plausible manner.

I lifted the cane and whipped it across in a firm but controlled manner, somewhat harder than before. Mrs Hammond gasped, and flinched very prettily. I waited.

"Seven, sir."

Simple and to the point. I'm not one of the "seven thank you very much sir" brigade, which to me has a false ring to it. One particular acquaintance of mine goes even further, but "seven thank you sir and pardon me for being a bad girl" turns the whole affair, in my humble opinion, into a farce.  

I delivered another stroke of identical weight, but targeted at a slightly different point on her posterior.

"Eight, sir."

And so we continued, with the strokes perhaps fifteen seconds apart. By the tenth her voice was starting to falter. I made the twelfth the hardest of the lot so far. As the last stroke in this first set she would expect no less.

"Twelve, sir," she said, her voice quavering in a most enchanting fashion.

I waited; so did she, maintaining her position. Most satisfactory. The temptation here for penitents knowing a change of stance is due, is to rub to ease the sting or abandon the position or lift one leg, or do all three at the same time. Mrs Hammond did none of these things, I noted in quiet satisfaction.

I stepped up to examine her more closely, stroking my hand over her buttocks. The pink weals were nicely spaced, with little overlap, though naturally there was some slight difference in colour due to the varying stroke length.  A good start, I thought, and decided to share that happy thought with her.

"A good start, Mrs Hammond. Only two dozen more to go."

Was that a sigh from her lips? I couldn't be sure, though it seemed likely. Her bottom must be stinging considerably by now, and the thought of another two dozen to come would not be a welcome one.

"You may lower your skirts," I said. "Feel free to stretch, or rub, at your leisure. Should you wish to take a turn about the room, please do so; but pray don't forget your drawers are still around your ankles. I would hate to see you fall flat on your face."

She took me up on two of these options, rubbing her bottom and lowering her skirts in that order. In the meantime, I helped myself to another brandy.

To be continued...