Saturday, March 31, 2018

You Completed the Caption

KDPierre: "One of those 'morning afters' where you should really hand someone else the keys."

Anon 1: Lost her phone.

Anon 2: Searching for her dignity.

Anon 3: This would be a lot more enjoyable if I had a cushion to kneel on!

Baxter: Dammit, where are my key to the office and my company phone? The boss said he would blister my ass if I lost either and now I am going to get a double blistering. Oh woe is me. Of course, I could always pleasure him on my knees after I go over his.

Anon 4: Could you not have asked for this before we left the house?

Simon: Sally wasn't absolutely convinced that this was part of the sobriety test.

Bernie: Can't we do this on the side without the steering wheel?

Mitch: Why does everyone say I'm half-ass?

Amy: "I'm trying but it's stuck! Why did you put it in there in the first place?"

Sir Wendel: Well that is one way to pass the driving road test.

Dave: Jack has Jill convinced this is how to charge an electric vehicle.( Jack doesn't own an electric vehicle.)

Anon 5: This relationship is all about pain and pleasure ... my pain and his pleasure. First my bottom, now my knees. What other parts of my body am I going to have to sacrifice to satisfy his many desires?

Anon 6: If he ever expects me to do this again he’d better get a car with a back seat.

Hermione: Darn! Where did my keys go? I'll have to walk home now.

I love all your explanations, and there's more 'splaining to do at brunch, coming up next.
From Hermione's Heart

Friday, March 30, 2018

Friday FAIL

The careless artists who crafted these signs all need to be spanked hard!

and no Christmas bonuses for them!
From Hermione's Heart

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Complete the Caption

I know what you're thinking, but she's just... what?

Complete the caption by leaving a comment and I will let the world know what you're thinking on Saturday.
From Hermione's Heart

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

From the Top Shelf - Return to Heatherton Hall

Ron and I have just finished watching all six seasons of Downton Abbey, and we enjoyed it even more than we had when we first watched it. We had forgotten so much!Three years ago I shared the prologue and first chapter of The Ladies of Heatherton Hall, a novelette by the late Rollin Hand, an I thought it would be fun to reread those, then carry on with the story.

You may read the prologue here, then enjoy chapter one again below.

We fast forward two hundred years, more or less. Josh, a young and very poor American engineering student, has received a letter from a London solicitor. It seems that he is the last descendant of James Carlisle and therefore has inherited Heatherton Hall. In an instant Josh is transformed from a penniless student to the Earl of Carlisle, wealthy landowner and lord of the manor. He abandons his studies and moves to England.

Josh finds his new life at Heatherton Hall daunting, to say the least. Equally daunting are the two ladies in residence: the Dowager Countess Lydia Heatherton, mother of the late Cranston Heatherton (the recently-deceased previous Earl of Carlisle), and her granddaughter, Lady Gwyneth. The latter assists him in learning his new duties at Heatherton Hall, and introduces him to one of their quaint traditions.

Dinner was served each evening promptly at eight. It was a formal affair that Josh was getting somewhat used to. But each day brought new revelations with which he was trying to cope. It was after dinner a night or two later that the next surprise was revealed.

“I hate to inform you, madam,” said Griggs the butler, addressing Mrs. Heatherton, “but two maids are on report.” Both Gwyneth and Lady Heatherton looked nonplussed at this news.

“Oh, dear,” said Lydia Heatherton. “What shall we do?”

“Daddy always handled maids on report,” whispered Gwyneth.

“What do you mean, ‘on report’?” This sounded ominous.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said. “What happened, Griggs?”

“Jane and Millie were roughhousing in the gallery instead of doing their duties. A disagreement of some sort. They broke your late mother’s blue flowered vase, I’m sorry to say. A complete dereliction of duty and conduct most unbecoming,” said the butler solemnly. Then he produced the broken pieces of the blue vase.

“What shall we do?” said Mrs. Heatherton again. “Cranston always handled these things. No one has been on report since he died.”

“What the hell is ‘on report?’” whispered Josh.

Gwyneth put her napkin down. “I suppose I shall have to tend to it, Granny. We cannot expect our American cousin to just jump in—even though as the earl and lord of Heatherton Hall, it is his job.”

“Will someone tell me what is going on?” Josh felt like he was the only one in the room not in on the secret.

“Tell Mrs. Finch to prepare a rod... no, make that two. And tell the girls to report to the library in half an hour.”

“At once, Lady Gwyneth,” said Griggs, who then turned and left. “Come with me,” she said to Josh.

When they were all in the library she shut the door. “Our staff,” she said, “are like family. Generations have been in service here at Heatherton Hall. No one ever gets fired. But as in all families there are behavior lapses and discipline problems. This is apparently the end result of a long standing feud between Jane and Millie. They have been warned about this before. Now it has resulted in damage. Griggs was right to put them on report.”

“So what happens now?”

“What happens now is that they will both receive a flogging.”

Josh let this sink in. “A flogging? Are you kidding?” This was 2013, not 1913.

“I know our ways may seem odd to you, but it is part of the compact that has served all of us for generations. Perhaps you have heard that the birch is in use for certain offenses here on the island, so it is part of our culture. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Daddy did this. Always. Ever since I can remember. As the lord of Heatherton Hall, it was his duty. He was the ultimate authority.”

“And therefore the new earl should do it, newcomer or not,” said Lydia Heatherton.

“Granny!” said Gwyneth. “You can’t expect him to…”

“Why not?” shot back Lady Heatherton. “He’s the earl now. It’s his job, like it or not.”

Josh’s head was swimming. This was happening all too fast. “Now wait a minute. I can’t come in here and just start…what? Flogging maids?”

Then Gwyneth, seeing his obvious discomfort, smiled a wicked smile. “Oh, yes, you can. And you must. Tradition must be preserved,” she intoned.

“But how do you do this?” Josh was still in a state of disbelief.

“Easy,” said Gwyneth. “I was tennis champion in my class and a prefect at my boarding school in Scotland. I think I know what to do,” she said with confidence. “I’ll show you.”

 Then Mrs. Finch, who seemed to be some sort of head downstairs maid, arrived. She carried a pair of sheaves bound at one end with twine. Gwyneth picked up a rod and swished it about. It was made up of a bundle of thin switches about three feet long and very swishy. “The lady bends over the back of a chair. You take the rod and line it up on her derriere, like so.” Gwyneth took one of the rods and stood so that the end was centered on the chair back. “Then you pull back and using arm and elbow whip it down right on the crowns of her bottom. Don’t forget a little flick of the wrist at the end,” she said with a smile. “You’ve played tennis before, haven’t you?”

Josh nodded dumbly.

“Good,” she said. “Just like that. Give it your best forehand.” She handed the rod to Josh who took it and stared at it like an alien thing.

Griggs entered with the girls, both of whom were pale and nervous. They wore black uniforms with white trim, dresses that came to mid-calf. Jane was a tall slender brunette, Millie a petite but voluptuous redhead.

“You know why you are here,” said Griggs to the girls. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. Fighting in the gallery when you should have been about your work. Shameful.”

“What was this about, Jane?” asked Gwyneth.

“It’s about my boyfriend,” Jane began.

“Your boyfriend?” snorted Millie, interrupting. “He’s with me now. I’ll sort you out.”

Gwyneth held her hands up. “All right, all right. I get the gist of it. But you are going to have to sort out your disagreements without resorting to fisticuffs.” She looked pointedly at each. “I’m sorry but Griggs was right to put you on report. And you know what that means.”

“Oh no, Lady Gwyneth, please. We’ll not fight in future,” pleaded Jane.

“Yes, please,” said Millie, suddenly sober and eyeing the rods nervously.

Gwyneth shook her head. “No. This is not the first time. I’m afraid it’s six for each of you.” She inclined her head toward Josh. “Ladies, this is the new master of Heatherton Hall. You will accept your punishment from him.”

Both maids gasped when they beheld the young robust American flexing the birch rod in his hands. This prompted more pleas for forgiveness but Griggs and Gwyneth stood firm.

Finally when all supplications had been exhausted, Gwyneth said, “Over the backs of the chairs, both of you. Skirts well up.”

They were to be whipped on their bare bottoms. Truly amazing. Josh could hardly believe what he was watching. And I have to do this.

Jane and Millie approached the pair of chairs and raised their skirts. Josh felt a tightening in his groin. Both girls were attractive. Underneath the skirts both wore  black silk panties framed by a garter belt and stockings. Two very attractive bottoms came into view, Jane’s compact but perfectly heart shaped derriere, and Millie’s bottom, a pair of plump rounded orbs that jutted out prominently. When both had bent over, placing hands on the chair seats, Gwyneth said, “Mrs. Finch, if you please.”

Josh just about fell through the floor as Mrs. Finch strode over and peeled down two sets of panties to lay bare both quivering bottoms. Griggs leaned in and whispered, “The rod is always applied bare breech, sir. It is tradition.” Josh nodded as if he understood.

 In the meantime Josh fingered the rod in his hand. It was nearly three feet long, and the switches splayed out, fan style, at the business end. He stepped to Millie’s side and tapped her seat, lining it up.

“Six strokes, Millie and Jane. Mr. Fairchild shall alternate between you, one stroke at a time, until we are done. You will hold your position. Are you ready?”

A muffled "yes, Lady Gwyneth" issued from both miscreants.
Josh drew back. The rod paused at the top arc of his swing. It whined as the switches whipped through the air. The rod landed square on the crowns of Millie’s buttocks with a sharp thwick!

Millie hissed in pain. Faint red lines sprang up across her flesh.
Josh moved to stand beside Jane. Another whish…thwick! sang out as the rod swept across Jane’s bottom.

“Ow, sir!” she yelped.

Josh gritted his teeth. He felt that he was being played by a mischievous Gwyneth. He had seen that wicked gleam in her eye when Lady Heatherton had suggested that he wield the rod. But now there was no help for it. He’d play along for now, but there would be a reckoning.

Josh proceeded to apply the rod, moving from one girl to the other, carefully lining up before delivering the stroke with a smooth arm motion and a little flick of the wrist at the end. It certainly made an impression. The whick! of the rod was the dominant sound in the room. Both girls hissed and stamped their feet, trying to shift position to alleviate the sting. Bottoms clenched then jiggled lightly as the rod struck. The faint lines multiplied, merging into a reddish hue. Toward the end Jane and Millie became more vocal expressing their discomfort with a series of “ouches” and pleas for leniency as feet shuffled and bottoms quivered.

“There,” said Gwyneth after Josh had delivered the last stroke to Jane’s bottom. “You may rise.”

Both girls pulled their knickers up and rose, turning around to face Gwyneth. Their faces were red and their eyes were distinctly watery. Millie put a hand up to wipe away a tear. Jane sniffled.

“Now, we’ll have no more fighting, especially on duty. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said both maids.

“You will both apologize to Mr. Fairchild,” said Gwyneth.

“We’re sorry, sir,” said both maids practically in unison.

Josh nodded and gave the girls a sympathetic smile.

 “Mr. Fairchild is now the lord of Heatherton Hall and his arm is quite strong as you have just experienced, so behave yourselves. You are dismissed.”
I think Josh is going to make a fine Earl, don't you?

From Hermione's Heart

Monday, March 26, 2018

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for March 25

How do you feel about hand spankings? Let's see...

abby: I LOVE hand spankings....and do receive them often. They are mostly a warm-up to a longer spanking, but occasionally I get treated to a hand spanking only.

Roz: I too love hand spankings, I like the intimacy it provides over an implement. They did use to happen here, as Abby said, often as a warm up.

Simon: When I'm giving the punishment having the lady over my knee for a hand spanking is the most enjoyable part. If I'm receiving the punishment I love being spanked as long as it is followed with something harsher.

Anon: I love giving hand spankings. Ex spankee told me I was far harder than anyone she knew. I would consider it incomplete until I started seeing clear handprints.

She told me she had never cried, but by spank 28 (I had her counting) first day, by hand, I heard her sobbing.

I also love that it allows easy accuracy to insure the sit spots are thoroughly reddened. And every bit as much accuracy to the inner portions of each cheek. Special targets, as people rely on these areas when they sit.

Rob: What starts out as a fun spanking frequently leads to other things when the hand is used. She loves the leather paddle as well as the tawse, but that usually ends up being plain paddling.

My preference for 3/4 of the spankings is beginning with the hand, possibly switching to an implement and then finishing with the hand plus other fun activities.

As a point of reference, I have not disciplined in probably 15 years. Spanking is strictly because it turns us on.

Yorkie: We don't do it as a rule as I like to get as much bang for my buck so to speak. Plus, she's not keen on hurting herself. Having said that, and bear in mind we don't do punishment spankings, mine are all for one reason - I want them because they turn me on, there was a time not so long ago where she jokingly said I was naughty for not doing something, can't remember what it was, so, and I was naked at the time, I stuck out my bottom lip and walked over to her, turned around and she gave me an almighty slap on my bum. Kind of surprised me at the time that I did it and that she responded like that but we've not done something like it since. And I'm still undecided if that's a good or a bad thing.

Fondles: YUP a hand spanking is what happens about 90 percent of the time around these parts. sometimes we're pressed for time and other times we're just craving that little extra bit of connection which a hand spanking affords.

Domhnall the Second: A hand spanking is my preference. It is a completely different experience from spanking with implements. Having said that, my spanker prefers to use an implement. Most often she warms me up with a wooden paddle and then she switches to leather.

(For some reason Blogger is placing a red line under the word "spanker". Doesn't Blogger know that  the spanker isn't the one that's red on the bottom?)

Ha! I guess not! "Spanker" is not in Blogger's dictionary, but if you right click on the word, then select "add to dictionary", the red line will disappear.

Ronnie: I love hand spankings. I would choose the hand everytime if I had the choice. Generally P uses the hand as a warm up and same as Abby, sometimes I get a treat of just his hand.

Lurker48: Sorry, no spanking, hand or otherwise, in my marriage.

Bernie: I like the intimacy of a hand spanking. Her hand, unfortunately, gives out first. But then, again, that's why we have toys.

Sam: We always begin with a hand spanking then most often she chooses belt, cane, or now and then a combo. All until she sees tears, then corner time. 

Sir Wendel: Nothing beats the personal touch, or smack, of a good hand spanking.

Hermione: Hand spankings are all too rare for me, but I love them when they happen. We usually go for implements that pack a wallop. Ron says he doesn't want to hurt his hand on my tough bottom!

It seems to be unanimous. We all love hand spankings!
From Hermione's Heart

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #220

Welcome to our first brunch for Spring. Many of us have been very industrious in our search for new, unusual and ouchy implements, and there are many out there to choose from. But let's go back to basics today, and consider the implement that's always close at hand (no pun intended).

How do you feel about hand spanking? Is it something that you give or receive often, seldom, or never? Is it your preferred method? 

Leave your thoughts as a comment and once everyone has had a chance to reply, I will publish a summary of our discussion.

From Hermione's Heart

Saturday, March 24, 2018

You Completed the Caption

Ronnie: Spring is here at last and I've been promised a spanking.

Sir Wendel: Hilda gleefully raced home to get a spanking from her hubby.

Dave: (Cue "Born Free" by John Barry & Don Black). Hilda had been warned to be careful during her romp through the meadow.

Domhnall: A day in the life of Hilda the frog herder.

Anon 1: I find the thrill of the chase gets my juices going and always makes him spank me even harder, which makes the experience that much more enjoyable.

I love running naked through the fields. I love it even more when he chases me for running naked through the fields after he told me not to. And I love it best when after catching me, he turns me over his knee and gives me a really sound spanking on my already bare bottom for not obeying him and running naked through the fields. Like I said, I love running naked through the fields.

Anon 2: Hilda loved the annual Rollicking Spring Spanking Romp during which the village’s women frolicked around the meadow in their skimpiest Spring outfits while the men, armed with paddles, chased after them. When a man caught a woman he was permitted to administer five rollicking swats to her alluring posterior before setting her free to continue on her way. The goal was for each man to catch and spank each woman as often as time allowed, but as usual, Hilda, who was never shy about displaying her ample assets – especially her extremely bountiful bare bottom – as she joyously romped through the fields, found herself on the receiving end of many more paddle smacks than any of the other woman. And, as usually happens in such cases, the redder Hilda’s extraordinarily spankable bottom became, the more attention it drew from the eager paddlers … which only gave her more reason to celebrate the arrival of Spring.

Dr. Ken: Hilda was enjoying her Spring Fling....until the bees started coming for the flowers....

Hermione: Ooh! I can't wait to be spanked with this daisy whip!

Please join me for brunch, coming up next, when we will continue our joyous romp through spankingland.
From Hermione's Heart

Friday, March 23, 2018

Friday FAIL

You all read those laundry care labels before washing a new item of clothing, right? What? You don't? Well, I must admit that I don't either. That is, I didn't until I came across these labels that had instructions I wasn't expecting.


Enjoy your Friday!
From Hermione's Heart

Thursday, March 22, 2018

Complete the Caption

We may be having a prolonged winter here in the Great White North, but it's springtime in Hilda's world and she's celebrating. What will be the climax to the festivities?

Complete the caption by leaving a comment and I will publish your spring solstice messages on Saturday.
From Hermione's Heart

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

From the Top Shelf - Privatised Punishment, part 2

Before you read the second half of "Privatised Punishment" by Tim Starfield, I must warn you that if you thought part one was over the top, part two is off the chart. There is a happy ending, though, once you and Caroline have endured eighteen strokes.
The next morning, she was awakened by an invisible alarm bell, and a familiar adenoidal voice stating over and over, "Get up please, Room 36, it's nine thirty." Can't see a loudspeaker, thought Caroline fuzzily, perhaps that's whats behind the panels of darkened glass? A sudden pressing urgency sent Caroline to the toilet where the promised 'Mother of all bowel movements' came and went without too much distress. Nurse Dawson arrived. She gave Caroline two more tablets. "Glucose and vitamins, to keep your strength up. Sorry you're not allowed a tot of rum," and led her out of her cell, along yet more identical corridors (the place is a rabbit warren, thought Caroline) to a shower room.

She was made to stand in the shower cubicles for a full twenty minutes while a high-pressure jet of water that was almost too hot to bear gushed all over her.

"Softens the skin," explained Nurse Dawson. When the shower was switched off, Caroline expected to be handed a towel, but, instead, she was given a small scrap of flimsy scarlet material.

"Put this on, please," said Nurse Dawson.

It was an armless, backless, high-cut leotard in filmy fishnet. Caroline got it on with considerable difficulty over her wet skin. It fitted her very tightly, clinging to the contours of her body like a second skin and, being fishnet, she might as well have been naked. I don't know if this is better or worse than those bloody shorts, thought Caroline. Her wet hair hung limply down over her shoulders.

"Shoes, please," said Nurse Dawson, handing her a pair.

"God, I can't wear these!" wailed Caroline. They were patent leather stilettos in matching scarlet. The spiky heels were at least six inches high.

"Nonsense. They're regulation. Do wonders for your posture. Now come on and don't argue!"

Caroline had to be helped into the shoes one at a time. Then Nurse Dawson bent down and did up a strap at the ankle of each shoe. Once the strap was tight, Caroline could no longer kick off the shoes, and so she teetered on them, clutching Nurse Dawson for support. With Nurse Dawson leading the way and a wet, uncomfortable Caroline, half bent double, clinging to her, hobbling behind, they travelled slowly along a new, unfamiliar corridor.

They came, eventually, to a long low room, about twenty by thirty feet, lit by dull blue fluorescent lights. Down the centre of the room, at about six foot intervals, stood three perspex columns, each about eighteen inches square, and reaching to the ceiling. Caroline realised they were hollow only when Nurse Dawson unlocked a door in the side of the centre column.

"In you go," she said. "Put your hands on your head first. Home Office rules state that you have to stand where you can be clearly seen. Well, we've obeyed that because anyone could see you if they wanted to. But they don't have to see you, because we know you're there and you're not going to move are you?"

Caroline stepped into the see-through tube with her hands above her head. Nurse Dawson shut and locked the door. Now Caroline could not even turn round, let alone sit down. She began to panic.

"Now, don't worry," said Nurse Dawson soothingly. "You've got air-holes. And we've got you on close-circuit monitor in case anything goes wrong. But it won't. Just enjoy yourself. You've got two hours. According to the Government, this is when you should be bitterly reflecting on your crime. But if I were you, I'd let my mind go blank, imagine I'm on a beach somewhere, and just relax."

Relax? If you were me, thought Caroline, you'd be quaking and shaking just like I am. Especially in these bloody girlie-mag shoes. The muscles in her calves, thighs and buttocks were stretched taut.

But Nurse Dawson was gone. Suddenly Caroline realised she was not alone in her plight. Out of the corner of her eye she could make out that the far pillar was also occupied. By a tall, blonde woman, in an identical outfit to her own but in bright electric blue. She too had her hands on her head. She had her back to Caroline and her legs were wobbling uncontrollably, as though she were about to fall over. Which of course she was securely prevented from doing.

"Er...I say, there...hello?" said Caroline.

The woman didn't respond . Caroline could see her shoulders quivering. She was obviously crying.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to intrude," said Caroline.

The blonde muttered something indistinct, which was probably an expletive.

"Are you OK?" asked Caroline, sympathetically.

"No, of course I bloody well ain't," snapped the woman, viciously. " And mind your own bleedin' business!" And she resumed sobbing.

Silly cow, thought Caroline, and minded her own bleedin' business by trying to build up a daydream of a lazy boating holiday in Canada, without much success, for her imaginary lake kept turning out to be infested with sharks . But when, after a long while, a nurse and a white-coated orderly came to release the blonde woman, and escorted her, sagging and wailing, through a door at the far end of the room, she felt a stab of pity for the 'silly cow'.

And then she realised it was really self-pity. When she was completely alone, arms and legs now aching badly and troubled by occasional spasms, she realised that she and the blonde were in exactly the same boat. Two people in an identical horror movie separated only by an hour's screening time. Two distinct stages on the Ludgate Clinic's cold-blooded punishment production line. She tried to see if anyone had come in to the room behind her on this dreadful conveyor belt system. But she saw no-one. Heard no-one. She was quite alone. Suddenly, just like the blonde woman before her, Caroline was racked with helpless, uncontrollable sobbing.

* * *

Eventually, they came for her too. This time it was the ever cheery Nurse Dawson, accompanied by the orderly, who was a gangling youth of about nineteen, sandy haired, with terrible acne, and wearing cut-off denim shorts and a black heavy-metal T-shirt under his flapping white coat. Nurse Dawson unlocked the door of the column, and Caroline collapsed into their arms.

"This is Scott," said Nurse Dawson, by way of introduction, "He's our Youth Exploitation Scheme trainee. Scott, give Mrs Devereaux a tissue."

"Thag you ver buch," said Caroline, blowing her nose violently and drying her eyes on the proffered item.

Supported on either side, she was led through the door at the end into a much larger room. It must be right in the centre of the building, thought Caroline, because it's at least two storeys high. It was a very bright room. The floor was of stone, the walls were whitewashed. The only items of furniture were a large table about six feet square, with a polished white marble top, and a single white-painted wooden chair behind it. The table, in the centre of the room, was drenched in light from a score or so of spotlights fixed at various angles to an iron grid in the ceiling. At various points on the walls were those little squares of darkened glass again. Then the penny dropped! They're the spy-holes for video cameras, Caroline realised.

Behind the table stood Dr. Ludgate and Sister. She was dressed as immaculately as ever , in her starched white tunic and cap. Dr. Ludgate was in shirt-sleeves, collar open, no sign of his bow-tie. In his right hand he had a clip-board. In his left hand he held the cane. It was about three feet long, half an inch thick at the base, tapering almost to nothing. It looked evil and Caroline shuddered.

"Right," Dr. Ludgate cleared his throat, and read from the clip-board. "Caroline Elizabeth Devereaux, you have been found guilty..."

It was the same mumbo-jumbo that Mr. Stephens, the magistrate, had spouted, only now it meant even less to Caroline. The only phrase which cut clearly through the turmoil of her mind was the last.

"...consented to receive eighteen strokes of the cane upon your bare and willingly offered posterior."

Willingly offered! What a joke, thought Caroline.

"So, if you've understood, and you consent, perhaps I could just ask you to sign here."

He was thrusting the clip-board at her and pushing a pen into her trembling fingers. She knew she should try and read what she was signing, but she couldn't, it just wouldn't keep still for her. So she signed anyway, on what she hoped was the dotted line. So that's it, she was thinking bitterly, it's as simple as that. You just sign away your freedom and all rights to how your own body may be used, just as easily as you sign the credit-card slip in the supermarket.

Dr. Ludgate handed the clip-board to Sister.

"Jolly good," he said. "Right let's have you bare then. Get out of that leotard."

Quickly, in spite of her nervousness, Caroline peeled it off and stood naked before them.

Then Scott and Nurse Dawson led her to the table. When they had manoeuvred her so that her tummy was pressed right against the edge of the table, Scott knelt down and pulled her legs apart as far as they would go. She was now teetering on high heels, barely able to stand.

"That's necessary for when your thighs are caned." Dr. Ludgate announced almost apologetically. "We don't want every stroke hitting both legs do we?"

Caroline said nothing. She was past caring, for her modesty seemed to be way down her list of concerns at this point in time.

"Thank you, Scott," said Sister. "Now would you go and set up the video recorders?"

Scott left and Nurse Dawson moved to the side of the table and sat herself in the chair.

"Give me your hands, my love," she said softly.

Caroline did so, and was then pulled forward with sudden violence by the little nurse, so that her torso was flat on the table top. She squeaked as her naked breasts were squashed against the cold, marble surface. Her hands, stretched in front of her, were held tightly by Nurse Dawson.

This is it, she thought. Now I'm not a human being any more. I'm just a huge naked bottom served up nicely for the rod, a side of meat on a butcher's slab. From what seemed a long way off, she heard the smooth tones of Charles Ludgate.

"I shan't require you to say any more than just the number of the last stroke I gave you," he was saying. "One, two, three and so forth. Got that? Good. Well, prepare yourself, Mrs Devereaux, you're as ready now as you'll ever be."

She felt the cold tip of the cane gently tap-tapping on her naked defenceless rear. My God, she thought, he's measuring me up; he's getting his bloody eye in. She tried to look up and around at him but could see nothing either side of her except a curtain of her own red hair. In front of her Nurse Dawson was smiling reassuringly, but nevertheless tightening her iron grip on Caroline's slender wrists.

Still the cane was tap-tapping, oh so gently, marking out its target on Caroline's poor exposed bottom. Little tingles of electric current were racing all over her skin. She was biting her lower lip, she realised, and tried to stop, but couldn't. Her bum felt as big as a battleship. She could feel her heart pounding in her ribcage.

And suddenly the tap-tapping stopped.

Caroline's stomach turned through three hundred and sixty degrees.


And then, a sudden low hiss, and a vicious 'CRACK!' like an exploding shell bursting behind her , and a searing pain that Caroline knew she simply could not cope with. She was twisting, turning, trying somehow to run away from the fire that was raging across the cheeks of her bottom, struggling to free her pinioned hands, and screaming "No! No! No!" through warm mouthfuls of red hair.

Someone was saying, "Come on! One, One One!" It was Nurse Dawson.

Caroline remembered. "One!" she shrieked, and then, as if exhausted by the effort, sank back onto the table top and was still.

There was another hiss and then 'CRACK!'

Caroline jerked violently, almost pulling herself upright, and nearly dragged Nurse Dawson with her. "T-Two" she said, almost involuntarily and through clenched teeth before subsiding, to sob and snuffle quietly. The muscles in her legs seemed to be pumping of their own accord, and her bottom was out of her control, shimmying like a blancmange on a plate.

Dr. Ludgate waited patiently for quite a long time until she was still again. Then he raised the cane high and brought it down again with a sharp whistle and 'CRACK!' Another war-dance from Caroline, but she shouted, "Three!" almost before the stroke was complete, as if somehow responding promptly and on cue might hasten the end of her punishment. A third livid line of red snaked its venomous way across the girl's alabaster-white cheeks. Charles Ludgate noted with satisfaction that so far he had created perfectly parallel lines. He smiled happily. He was good at his job - and he loved it.

Eventually Caroline's hips stopped gyrating. And the awful cane began its work again.

Strokes four and five followed, and there there was a longish pause while Dr. Ludgate took up his backhand stance. Once again he tap-tapped with the tip of the cane across Caroline's by now burning bottom, for he was a methodical man, and he liked to get his strokes just right.

During this break in the proceedings, Caroline had managed, with a great effort, to collect herself slightly. She was now breathing heavily and fast, like a marathon runner after twenty miles, or a boxer, groggy and spent in the tenth round. Her poor arse throbbed, battered and swollen as if stung by a swarm of angry bees. But she felt euphoric, almost light-headed. She was alive. She could cope.

Hisssss - CRACK!

It began all over again , and she knew that she had been wrong. She couldn't cope at all. Her body began again to duck and dance of its own volition, and she knew she must speak, but she couldn't, there was a low ululating howl in her throat that wouldn't go away. At last she sank back onto the table, and through a mist of tears and snot managed to whisper the word "six" into the face of the concerned Nurse Dawson.

Dr. Ludgate looked at Nurse Dawson and she nodded her silent confirmation that Caroline was fit to continue. Dr, Ludgate took aim, raised the cane and struck.

Caroline's legs buckled, and she lurched backwards, like a toddler off-balance, as if she wanted to sit on the floor. Only the strength and determination of the young nurse held her in place. "Seven, seven, seven, oh God, seven!" she sobbed hysterically.

Eight, nine and ten followed painfully and slowly. The woman across the table was shaking uncontrollably and crying piteously. Dr. Ludgate stepped back to admire his handiwork. Yes, got to say it, that's pretty damn good! Ten neat almost symmetrical lines. Only one intersection, where a nasty looking purple-yellow bruise was already forming. Not much room for many more though. Oh yes, five-five-four-four, wasn't it? Well then, four across the backs of her thighs. He smiled. This is the best bit.

Caroline became aware that Nurse Dawson was trying to whisper something.

"This is the worst bit, " hissed the nurse. "He'll cane your thighs now. It's awful. Just try and breathe deeply and repeat the numbers after me."

Hissssss - CRACK!

A pulsating line of fire it into the soft tissue of Caroline's right leg.


"ELEVEN!" shouted Nurse Dawson.

"Eleven!" wailed Caroline.

Hisssss - CRACK!

The left leg.



Caroline was trying to inch her way up the table, wriggling on her belly like a salmon out of water, in a vain attempt to get her thighs away from the scorpion that was so savagely stinging her. Alas, all she succeeded in doing was presenting Dr. Ludgate with even more exposed and tempting targets of flesh.

Hissss - CRACK!

The top of the inside of her right thigh.

"AAAAAAAAAEEEEEEOWWWWWW!" Caroline was a helpless, blubbering, squealing mess.

"THIRTEEN, THIRTEEN!" Grimly determined, Nurse Dawson was like a coach on the touchline, willing her to win through by sheer will-power. "COME ON, GIRL, SAY IT..THIRTEEN!"


Before she'd even finished, hisssss -CRACK!

The unkindest cut of all. Top inside left. Right on her most sensitive spot.

Caroline howled and writhed in agony. Somehow she managed to spit out "Fourteen!" without prompting.

"Worst over," murmured Nurse Dawson, soothingly.

But, in truth, if the next few strokes were no worse than the preceding four, they certainly weren't much better either. To lay four hard strokes into an already well-wealed bottom is particularly cruel, and Dr. Ludgate took to his task with relish. Caroline, however, was buoyed by that courage that comes when the end is in sight, when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, when you know for certain that however dark and desperate the night, the morning will surely come. She called out "Fifteen," "Sixteen" and "Seventeen", strongly and clearly on cue, and, with a supreme effort of will, maintained her position over the table.

The very last 'hissssss- CRACK!' was especially vicious but Caroline called "Eighteen!" in a voice resonant with triumph.

* * *

Nurse Dawson and Scott helped her back to her room to recover from and 'reflect upon' her punishment. She lay face down on the hard bed, and despite her intense pain, drifted off into an exhausted sleep. When she eventually awoke she found that her hideous red shoes had gone and that she was completely nude.

Her arse was on fire. She tried to turn her head to see it but her back ached and the effort was too great. Even the touch of her exploratory fingertips as she tried to count the ridges proved unbearable. Caroline sighed deeply, her mind pulsing with many emotions.

At that moment, the door opened and in walked the ever-smiling Nurse Dawson.

"You stood up extremely well to that," she beamed. "You'll be marked for about three weeks, but then the evidence will fade and you'll be as good as new." She looked appreciatively at her employer's handiwork. "I don't suppose you appreciate it, " she said, grinning, " but it's a beautiful pattern. He does a wonderful job."

Caroline moaned. "I never wanted my arse tattooed with the Stars and Stripes, you know!"

Nurse Dawson smiled. "I've brought you some cream. Would you like me to rub it in for you?"

Caroline nodded. At first the coldness of the cream stung as badly as the cane itself. But then it started to soothe her, and the raging fire in her buttocks began to subside to a more tolerable heat. Nurse Dawson's fingers were gentle and expert, and she was lavish with the cream. Soon the warmth was spreading through Caroline's loins and, after the dreadful tensions of the last three weeks, and the awfulness of her ordeal, she began for the first time to relax, stretching and purring like a cat.

Nurse Dawson's expert gentle fingers began to stray away from Caroline's bottom and started to stroke the deep cleft between her legs. God, this is weird, thought Caroline, I've just been caned half to death and now I'm beginning to feel horny. Jesus, after all I've been through...and she's turning me on! She growled deep in her throat.

Nurse Dawson withdrew her hand immediately. "Do you want me to stop?" she murmured.

"God, no! Don't you dare," said Caroline. "I didn't think I could feel so wonderful."

"Good," said Nurse Dawson with a smile, and resumed her gentle probing, kneading and stroking.

"Actually," she said, slowly, "I am officially off-duty after this. Would you like me to stay with you for a while?"

Caroline reached up and pulled the young nurse onto the bed beside her, leather boots and all.

"I'd love it," she murmured. "You've been the one bright spot in this whole ghastly experience. Without you I'd have become suicidal. And I'd be bored stupid until four o' clock tomorrow. Just don't stop doing those wonderful things with your hands."

"Right, " whispered the pretty young nurse. "But fair's fair. Maybe I deserve a little pleasure too."

She grasped Caroline's hand and thrust it inside her starched white tunic. Caroline found a warm, plump, pliable breast squeezed into a heavy support bra. Unfastening the bra, Caroline freed the waiting breast and, sighing softly, she began to stroke the nipple, kneading, stroking, fondling....

High above them, a video camera whirred into life through a spy-hole in the wall. Scott sighed, unzipped his shorts and began to film all over again.
All's well that ends well!
From Hermione's Heart

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