Friday FUN

The next time you pick up an item from your cupboard, take a good look at the packaging. There might be a hidden message.

 Stop looking at my bottom

This bar was specially formulated for the intense hunger that hits 5 minutes after 4:20

 I see pancakes in your future (on a bag of pandake mix)

 Open other end Einstein

Awww, I like you too!

From the Top Shelf - Love's Passionate Frenzied Fury, part 2

We continue with our would-be author of bodice-ripper tales, and how she gets her inspiration. You may want to refresh your memory here of how Arthur helps his wife Eleanor create her realistic stories of passion and dominance.

And, as it turned out later, astonishing as well. Eleanor acquired a publishing agent through a friend. The agent liked the novel and got it published-- in hardback of all things. It sold well. It sold well enough in fact that Eleanor acquired a publishing contract with an option for her next three novels.

A few weeks later Arthur came home to see a delivery truck parked in the driveway and some boxes and a large object being carried into the basement. What now? What is all this stuff?

Eleanor was inside directing the placement of the items. There was a strange contraption like T-shaped wooden frame. When the deliverymen left, Arthur asked, “What in the world is this?”

“It’s for my new book, Love’s Passionate Frenzied Fury,” said Eleanor. “I’m writing about a daughter of an English nobleman. You see her father has promised her in marriage to Lord Foulweather who is a villainous rogue, but she wants to marry Sir Percival who is her true love. So she runs away. Anyway Lord Foulweather is the nephew of Henry, the King and is a staunch royalist and his minister the evil Oliver Cromwell captures her and delivers her to Lord Foulweather. He conspires with Cromwell to have her tried for treason unless she marries him but she refuses, so he sentences her to be flogged and…”

“Wait, wait. Which Henry is this? Henry V? Henry VIII? Henry II?”

“Yes, one of those Henry’s.”

“Yes, but my dear,” began Arthur slowly, “there was no Oliver Cromwell in the reign of either Henry II or Henry VIII, or Henry V.”

“There was a man named Cromwell in there somewhere, I read it.”

“Yes, but it was a Thomas Cromwell in Henry VIII’s day and well, Oliver Cromwell was much later and certainly no royalist and…”. Arthur knew a little bit about English history.

Eleanor stamped her foot. “Those are unimportant details. What is important is that Lady Elspeth has run away to find Sir Percival, but was caught and is now in the clutches of Lord Foulweather who is determined to flog her until she agrees to marry him.”

Arthur sighed. “But then what is this, this…thing?” He was pointing to the wooden construct on the garage floor.

“It is a stocks. I bought it in a catalog. On sale for only $599.00.”

“What on earth is it for? And $599? That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s for the new novel, Love’s Passionate Frenzied Fury.”

“You need a $600 wooden pillory to write a novel?”

“Do I have to remind you of everything? This is the way I write. I live my characters. Lady Elspeth is to be flogged. I must place myself in the pillory to be flogged by Lord Foulweather until Sir Percival arrives on his stunning white horse and saves her.”

Arthur mused, “Let me guess. I’m to be Lord Foulweather?”

Eleanor beamed. “Yes, precisely.” Her face glowed with excitement.

Arthur surveyed the apparatus. “So this Lord Foulfeather…he puts you in that and he flogs you with…”

“It’s Lord FoulWEATHER, Arthur. Don’t you listen?” She said in exasperation.

“He uses this,” said Eleanor pulling an object from one of the boxes. To Arthur it looked like a cat-o-nine-tails that he’d seen in old seafaring movies like Mutiny on the Bounty and such. It had a handle and seven or eight strands of thin supple leather.

“It’s made of deerskin, Arthur. Here, feel. It’s soft.”

The strands were light and supple. “But won’t this hurt?” The thing did have some heft to it.

“It’s deerskin and it will sting some, but Miss Cadivec says we must be prepared to suffer for our art. I was assured that it will leave no marks. I’m prepared to take the whipping Elspeth would take. I have to know what she feels, her fear, her emotions when she is stripped and locked in the pillory. The sting of the whip on her naked behind, the…”

This really did have possibilities, mused Arthur. Eleanor had certainly turned passionate as a result of their last encounter, but then she had locked herself away to write for, it seemed, days on end. Now she wanted to play another scene. Suffer for art, she said. She’d also suffer for spending $600 without asking him.

“…heat of the lash and the response of her quivering sex.” Eleanor was getting worked up enough just by talking about it.

“So will you do it?”

“Do what, now?” Arthur was startled out of his reverie.

“Be Lord Foulweather. Strip me. Put me in the stocks. Lash my bare behind with the whip.” Eleanor eyed him breathlessly. “You do remember what happened last time?” She asked coyly, a little come hither twinkle in her eye.

“Of course, dear. Where do we start?” Arthur was a bit more enthusiastic this time.

“Wait here. I’ll get the clothes.”

The clothes? thought Arthur. But Eleanor pulled a costume out of the box and handed it to Arthur. “Go put these on. I’ll dress here. Don’t be long,” she cooed, smiling.

But it took Arthur quite some time to figure out the damn costume, what with all the buttons and cuffs and frilly frou frou. Did they really wear this ridiculous outfit back then? He supposed that he was intended to look like a 17th century cavalier, but to Arthur it looked like he was Captain Hook sent over from central casting.

When Arthur arrived in the dungeon, i. e., the basement, Eleanor had changed into something that looked like a lady’s gown pilfered from the set of Shakespeare in Love.

“Eleanor, I feel ridiculous in this outfit. By the way, how much did all this cost?”

“Arthur dear, it’s all in the furtherance of art. But if you must know,” she sniffed, “it was a mere $850. These are very authentic.”

Arthur cringed. So this little set up was now running close to $1500. And it was just so they could act out a scene and be ‘authentic’. Arthur sighed. “What do we do now, dear?”

“Well,” said Eleanor, handing him a manuscript, “you read what Lord Foulweather says, right here.”

Arthur skimmed the page. Then he began, “Well, you disobedient little strumpet, what do you say now that I have you in my dungeon? You will marry me or suffer the consequences!”

“I will never marry you, you swinish oaf! Lord Percival will hear of your mistreatment of me and he will bring an army to rescue me.”

It seemed to Arthur that he’d heard this dialog before, but he continued, “Ha ha! I will tame you, you cheeky doxy. I think you require a sound whipping for your insolent behavior.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? I’ll show you. Strip out of that gown. Strip, I say, or I’ll call the guards and tear it off you.”

Eleanor, now fully into the part of the captured Elspeth, put her arm across her forehead and said, “You beast. You would ravage a young maid. You are indeed foul, Lord Foulweather. I have no choice but to obey.” Slowly she shucked out of the gown, and took off several layers of petticoats to stand before Arthur in a chemise and stockings. She looked quite lovely. Arthur stared rapturously, not moving

“Arthur,” she whispered, shaking him out of his reverie, “Now you must put me in the stocks.” She pointed to the wooden contraption.

“Hunh? Oh. Ok,” Then Arthur whispered back. “But why are we whispering?”

Arthur saw that the pillory had a hinged top and pried it up. Eleanor put her neck and two hands in the indented lower half, then Arthur gingerly lowered the top and locked the clasps. This left Eleanor in a quite vulnerable position. Bent over like this her shapely posterior was presented for what Arthur guessed would be Lord Foulweather’s evil ministrations.

“What do I do now?” said Arthur.

“You must pull down my drawers and lash me with the whip. It’s what Lord Foulweather would do.”

“All right, dear, but this might hurt, you know.”

“We must be prepared to suffer for our art, Arthur. Please go ahead.”

Suffer for art. Well, ok. He picked up the whip and tucking it under his arm approached Eleanor and tugged down the white pantaloons or whatever they were to reveal Eleanor’s full and curvy rear. The rounded moons were plump, but well proportioned. Arthur now felt a genuine stirring in his lower regions. He took the whip and swished it a time or two. Then taking a stance beside her, he drew back his arm and lashed her bottom. The whip went swish…thwick! Eleanor seemed to jump at the impact. A series of tiny red lines appeared across her rump. Drawing back, he lashed her again. This time she hissed and contracted her buttocks. He settled into a slow tempo, carefully drawing his arm back and whipping it forward so the strands landed evenly across her bottom. The tails would fan out for each lash. Eleanor would flinch and her bottom would wobble as the whip hit, but she remained silent through ten lashes.

“Er, Eleanor, how many lashes does Lord Foulweather give her?”

“Just keep going, darling, I’ll tell you when it’s enough. Oooh, it’s hot and stingy, but please continue. Miss Cadivec says we must really feel it to appreciate the true emotional state of our heroine. I must feel her pain.”

Arthur mused that a recent president had said much the same thing. He probably did not have this scene in mind—or maybe he did, who knows? Then Arthur decided that this was one way to get a little satisfaction for a $1500 outlay. Hopefully there would be several novels with this kind of scene so it would at least be a bit more cost effective. He went to work with the whip.

Arthur set about to give Eleanor her money’s worth. The lashes fell on Eleanor’s quivering rear end in a slow but steady tempo, impacting the soft cheeks and drawing more red lines across the wobbling rounds. Eleanor began to make little gurgling noises, but did not beg Arthur to stop. Arthur felt like a grim executioner of old, standing beside his prisoner, drawing the whip back with his arm and then striking a blow to the reddening cheeks. After a while he thought that his form became pretty smooth.

Swish….thwick! At each lash now, Eleanor shifted from foot to foot which only made her bottom cheeks dance lasciviously. Eleanor began to give out little stifled yelps. After about 30 lashes she implored Arthur to stop.

“Oww…oww, darling. That’s quite enough, dear,” she said hopefully. “I think I have the feel of it now.”

Arthur stood back. He could not stop thinking about the $1500 worth of stuff.

“Well dear. Lord Foulweather would not stop just because Lady Elspeth asked him to do so, would he?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” came Eleanor’s muffled response.

“And so, I think he might lay on another dozen or so ---real sharp stingers, wouldn’t you think?”

Eleanor was silent for a moment. “No, no. He wouldn’t, he…..well, maybe. But not too hard, darling.” Eleanor was pleading now.

Arthur chuckled. “Oh, I think they’d be hard. After all, she is a naughty wench.”

By God, this was exhilarating thought Arthur. He drew back the whip and resumed, lashing her with a volley of deliberate, stinging strokes delivered right across the fullness of Eleanor’s backside. Eleanor yelped, all pretense of bearing it stoically cast aside. Now she was getting a taste of it. Now she knew what it meant to be whipped, the little baggage! The whip bit. Swishh…..whick! Eleanor’s bottom quivered in response. Refuse to marry him, would she? Swish….whick! He’d show her obedience, he’d….

“Arthur! Arthur! Stop!” Eleanor was practically shrieking.

Arthur stopped himself. Whew! What had he been thinking? Eleanor’s rear was a bright red with little striped tracings near the side. Arthur dropped the whip and caressed his wife’s glowing cheeks. Eleanor moaned, “Oh…Arthur, that feels so good.” He had moved his fingers down lower into her cleft. The slit of her vagina was slippery wet. She moaned and rotated her hips, responding to his fingers which continued to stimulate her sex. Without thinking Arthur stood behind her and unzipped his pants, letting them fall. Eleanor heard the sound, but could not see him.

“Arthur, dear, what are you doing?” But before she even react she felt the probing of Arthur’s maleness at the entrance to her vaginal slit. “Oh, my….Arthur, ohhh….Arthur,” she gasped as it slid all the way in. Arthur stroked Eleanor, slowly at first, but then built up speed, his mid section spanking the red globes of her bottom as he thrust repeatedly deep inside her. Eleanor screamed as she was ridden to climax and Arthur seemed to go completely rigid as he was wracked with orgasmic spasms.

Later, in bed and out of the period costumes, Eleanor confided that it had been a most thorough whipping Arthur had meted out, but that his manly conquest of her had made it worth the suffering endured by her poor bottom.

“Well, as you said dear, we must sometimes suffer for our art. I now feel almost like a co-author of these novels of yours. I’ll be happy to help, anytime, dear. Really.”

Eleanor's creative juices are really flowing now! I would love to read the finished product.

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for January 26

If your doctor were to notice spanking marks and ask you about them, what would you say?

Roz: Fortunately it hasn't happened, though there have been once or twice where there may have been marks that had just about vanished. I have always been careful about any marks when there is a doctor's appointment looming. Thankfully I also haven't had to see a doctor in an emergency situation either. Both marking and doctor visits are fairly rare. To be honest, I'm not sure what I would say.

Baxter: When I have a physical scheduled, I have my wife stop the spankings at least two or three weeks prior. I would have no idea how to answer a question like 'What is this bruise'?

Graham: I wouldn't want to embarrass the doctor, though I suspect she's seen it all. Also, I have some scar tissue from very hard spankings/canings when I was younger. It's not terribly obvious, but I'm guessing a trained, professional eye can figure it out.

Bonnie: I try to avoid such situations, but if there were no choice, I would tell the truth. When medical professions sense deception, they are much more likely to get others involved. If I say that the marks are from consensual play with my husband, that would hopefully be the end of it.

 Anon: My doctor is the same as my wife, a female doctor. She has seen the results of a spanking, really not much said.

Wendel: Spankings stop days before a scheduled appointment. If there was an emergency visit needed I would probably tell the Dr that the Misses spanked me for not eating my vegetables. The Misses would probably tell the Dr that she got a spanking for shopping too much. No point in trying to hide the obvious.

Glenmore: I doubt that any Doctor would be the least bit interested in any marks on the buttocks caused by a spanking so don't worry about it.

Rosco: No, but...

One doctor asked if I was gay after a rectal exam. I said my wife had a few toys ...

Also Irene gets a little wild sometimes, especially after she comes, and scratches me all over. Those marks have been apparent to family and friends, and there have been a few embarrassing comments.

KDPierre: This is one time I definitely agree with the majority: just casually explain it as consensual adult play. That should be sufficient.

Barrel: As I am at my urologist every 6 months for a follow up, this is definitely an issue for us. We plan in advance when we have to stop heavy sessions to let the bruises and marks heal, usually 4 to 5 weeks. But then start planning for a “catch up” shortly after I see the doc, which if fun, as she teases me how long and hard it will be. But I like the answers about candor, and thank you all for your sage advice.

Prefectdt: I would say to my Doctor that it is the result of the adult spanking play that I told you about, that you refused to believe that I was genuinely into. I have informed my Doctor of my involvement in consensual spanking but he refused to believe me, the same as most of my family, apparently I'm just not 'the type' (hurumph). Perhaps I should show up in his surgery one day displaying battle scars, then he might believe me.

A.J. OK, here goes.

If I had the time to plan I would have planned more time. I could not so I was stuck. I'm also a light player, and while I "red up" quickly, it quickly goes away.  However, this time I "got" a little more than I thought I would get!

I wasn't sure if it would be noticeable, but I certainly thought about what I would say if it came up.

1st option: "Well, she's really cute! A bit kinky, but damn cute."
And then a wink and a you-know-what-I'm-talking-about smile! That's very important.

2nd option: "You should see her!" (And yes, it was a switch session.) And then a wink and a smile!

I would not lie to him. And I think Wallace above is correct - They've seen it all!

I disagree with Glenmoretales. A doctor sees something he/she should ask! Went for a physical a few years back and, just talking in his office before the actual exam, he sees a scar on my hand and, "What's that? Where did you get it?"

I had shoved my hand with a sponge into a glass, it broke, and I was cut.
Him: A bad cut?
Me: Took a lot of bandages?
Him: Go to the ER?
Me: Nope.

And then I got the lecture on the physiology of the hand, and why - if it ever happened again - to get to an ER!

My last physical I was asked when I walk down a sidewalk or in a mall do I walk in a straight line or do I move left and right. That means something to a MD.
Do I get up in the night to pee? That means something, too.
Do I sleep soundly of wake up often in the night (heart problems, anxiety, depression, etc, a whole bunch of things.)
Why is your eye red?
What's that twitch?

The weirdest one I ever heard was a man, embarrassed, told his MD that his nose tingled during orgasm. His Doctor became very alert hearing that!
Cause: a sign he was having a small heart attack. He was ent to cardiology where it was confirmed - early.

Same symptoms in a female but in her finger tips or toes - same thing.
Details, people!!

I also think it professional for a doctor to ask a female about any marks just to be on the lookout for any abuse. A laugh and honesty ("Oh, yeah; the both of us are a little weird. And fun!) should take care of that.

Anyway, no one asked so I assume the little pink I had the day before was gone. The only thing I wondered after was - had the two cute female assistants in the room with us noticed and asked him later? That would have been one heckofa conversation, no?

Ronnie: I've always been careful about marks if there's a Doctor's visit scheduled. If there were and I was asked, I think I'd tell the truth about what we do.

Simon: I had to go to the doctor and have a prostate examination with some very obvious cane marks on my bottom. It wasn't my usual GP but a very attractive and young female Asian doctor who was a bit taken aback by the marking. I did what I always do in these situations and told the truth, that I enjoyed a good spanking and caning and she dropped the subject. This has not always been the case and one doctor offered me counselling as if I was suffering from some form of addiction.

Hermione: Once when I was being examined by a doctor, he noticed what he thought was a bruise on my abdomen and asked about it. Before I could answer, he looked closer and decided it was just dark pigmentation. His attitude was one of concern. If the mark had actually been on my bottom, I would have said that I didn't know it was there. I realize that medical practitioners have seen it all, but I would have been too shy to admit where the bruise actually came from. Bonnie does have a good point, though. Confession is probably better than arousing suspicion of domestic abuse.

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #315

At last week's brunch, A.J. recounted a trip to the doctor when he had obvious marks from a recent spanking. That inspired him to suggest this week's topic.

If you have to see your doctor while still showing the results of a spanking and your doctor asks, "What's this?" what would you say?

I can't wait to see what you have to say, so please leave your response as a comment. I will publish a summary of our discussion once everyone has had a chance to speak.

Friday FUN

I love the way passiver-agressive people thumb their noses at office signs, don't you?

Happy Friday!

From the Top Shelf - Love's Passionate Frenzied Fury, part 1

You know those lurid bodice ripper novels? The kind that show some beefcake guy clutching a fair damsel and about to ravish her royally? Of course you do. But do you know where they come from? Rollin Hand does.

“Arthur, I need to speak with you for a moment.” It was Eleanor, Arthur’s wife. Arthur had just settled down in his study to listen to a brand new remastered recording. Bill Evans with Scott LeFaro and Paul Motian. Classic. Relaxing. Arthur sighed. It would have to wait. “What is it, dear?”

Eleanor bustled into the room. She was a bundle of energy as usual. Never stopped talking. She never just walked into a place, she burst in. She looked the part too--- a short voluptuous blonde with curly hair that cascaded in ringlets framing a round and very pretty face. They had been married for nine years. No children.

“I need help with my writing.”

Oh God. The latest of Eleanor’s nutty hobbies. Now she was writing these romances, for Christ’s sake. The kind with some alpha male in a loincloth on the cover clutching some quivering damsel who, incidentally, had exceptionally large breasts, said breasts having been revealed by the tearing action of said male’s oversized paw visited upon said damsel’s wardrobe. He understood they called them “bodice rippers”, an apt characterization. Before that it had been pottery (the garage was still a mess) and before that violin lessons (his ears had yet to recover).

“So how can I help dear?” he said smoothly. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long.

“It’s my latest novel, Love’s Furious Passionate Frenzy. You see I’ve reached a bit of a writer’s block and I need help. I am finding it difficult to understand my own heroine, get into her head, as it were.”

Understandable, thought Arthur. Nobody can figure out what’s in a woman’s head, not even another woman. “But I don’t know anything about damsels in distress or whatever it is, dear.”

“You don’t have to, you just need to help me understand her.”

Arthur was now totally confused and Eleanor could see it on his face. “No, well, you see Miss Cadivec, my creative writing teacher, always says that we have to live the lives of our characters, to experience what they do, and well, I need to actually be her to know how it feels.”

“How what feels? To have the buttons on your blouse popped off? I think not. It looks expensive.”

“No, no, not that. It’s ah…a bit more intimate.”

Arthur was now a little more interested. Eleanor was a very attractive woman, and to tell the truth, things had been slipping in the bedroom department lately. Arthur was always busy at work and Eleanor had her hobbies. They were drifting, it seemed.

“Well, er, you see, Miss Cadivec says that, ah… spankings are very popular in romance novels nowadays, and so I thought I’d work one into the plot. I have it all figured out. My heroine, Daisy is an English princess captured by Thorgar, the Viking, as a slave, only he falls in love with her and when they get back to Thorgar’s castle he wants to marry her only she runs away, against his express authorization, I might add, and he is very angry and when he catches up with her he decides to give her a good spanking…”

It was making Arthur’s head swim. Daisy? What kind of name was that? And if she’s a slave, of course she is forbidden to run away. Spankings? For grown women? Did Vikings do that? He’d always thought that Viking discipline usually involved something with an ax in it.

“….and so he puts her over his knee, tosses up her skirt and spanks her, right on the bottom!”

“It all sounds very intriguing dear but where do I come in?”

“Arthur, haven’t you been listening? I need to live Daisy, to be Daisy. I need a Thorgar.”

Arthur processed this for a minute. “You want me to spank you?”

“Yes. Yes. Precisely. I don’t know what that feels like. I can’t write about Daisy unless I know, you see. I need to have an authentic experience.”

This was too much. Arthur had to laugh. “Do I have to wear one of those horned helmets?”

Eleanor pouted. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Sorry, dear, but your request is a bit odd, wouldn’t you say?”

Eleanor remained firm. “Miss Cadivec says it is quite common in romances, historical or otherwise, and I should embrace the idea if I’m to write about it.”

“Hmm,” said Arthur. “All right, but how do we do this? I’ve never spanked anybody before.”

Eleanor brandished a sheaf of papers. “Here is what I’ve written so far. Just read it and speak Thorgar’s dialog. I’ll be Daisy.”

Arthur squinted at the page. “What ho, Glondorf, are the thralls secured in their bindings? Odin sends a fair wind, I’ll warrant.!”

“No. No. Not there. The next page. Here,” she said pointing.

Ok. There it was. “I think perhaps I must needs teach you a lesson, wench. You sorely try my patience.”
Eleanor reads, “You brute. My father will hear of your mistreatment of me. He will bring an army to rescue me.”

“Ha ha! Before he arrives I will have tamed you, you tawny vixen.” Tawny vixen? What drivel! Who reads this stuff?

Eleanor throws her arm across her forehead and turns away. “Unhand me you Viking oaf!”

Then the page was blank. “What now?” said Arthur.

“Now you put me over your knee and spank me; then I write the rest of it.”

“Eleanor, now really, I mean…” But Eleanor had dragged Arthur over to the couch and pushed him down. He sat down in the middle of the long couch. Eleanor hoisted her skirts and climbed down across his lap. Arthur’s gaze was immediately directed to the twin plump mounds of Eleanor’s delectable behind, now covered by the thinnest of panties. She looked back at him and said, “Now Arthur. Spank me like I’m your naughty slave girl. Be Thorgar.”

Arthur rested his hand on Eleanor’s satiny bottom. He felt an immediate charge in his lower regions. Hmm, this is interesting. He brought his hand up and gave Eleanor’s bottom a little slap. The flesh quivered. He slapped the other side.

“Not like that, Arthur. Harder. Like you mean it. I’m Daisy, the slave who ran away. Punish me.” Arthur reflected that maybe Thorgar should have just let her keep on running, but he raised his arm and gave ‘Daisy’ a crisp spank that cracked noisily right on the crowns of her bottom cheeks.

“Ouch! Yes, yes. Like that.”

Well, ok, thought Arthur, and he proceeded to apply a series of crisp spanks that echoed in the study like rifle shots. He alternated with spanks delivered to both cheeks and was mesmerized by the way Eleanor’s bottom would wobble upon impact. Eleanor kicked her legs and begged “Thorgar” for mercy. Clearly she was still playing a game, so Arthur kept on spanking, one brisk spank after another until “Daisy’s” behind was uniformly red, like two bright stoplights. He paused a moment to rip “Daisy’s” panties down, now revealing his wife’s cheeky bottom in all its fully nude glory.

“Oh, my!” Gasped Eleanor.

By now the feel of Eleanor’s bottom under his hand and the vision of her shameless wriggling was giving Arthur a ferocious hard on. By God if she wants Thorgar I’ll give her Thorgar. Arthur kept it up, laying on stinging spank after stinging spank. Finally he became aware that Eleanor had stopped calling him Thorgar.

“Arthur! Arthur, Stop, Please!” She wailed.

“What? Oh…” He paused, arm upraised. “Sorry, dear. I got a bit carried away.”

“Let me up. I think that’s quite enough, darling.”

“Are you sure?” asked Arthur. “Wouldn’t your Thorgar want to make doubly sure that his slave girl wouldn’t be tempted to run off again? Perhaps a few more…”

“No, No, Arthur that’s quite enough,” said Eleanor quickly. Arthur let her get up. Eleanor looked at Arthur wide eyed as she knelt upright on the couch and rubbed her burning bottom. But then without further ado she grabbed Arthur and toppled him backwards. By then she was smothering his face with kisses.

Arthur was nonplussed but he responded. Clothing flew off and before long Eleanor was straddling Arthur and riding him like a cowgirl on a bucking bronc. When it was all over Eleanor confessed that she’d been quite carried away, that his masterful spanking had awakened something quite delicious and that she couldn’t help herself. She rearranged her clothing and bustled off to write about Thorgar and Daisy, now absolutely sure as to how to describe it.

Arthur sat there numbly, a survivor (barely) of hurricane Eleanor. Still, it had been most interesting and pleasurable. Maybe there was something to this torrid romance tripe after all.

Will the novel be a success? We will find out next week.

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for January 19

You described your last spanking.

Barrel: Yesterday (Friday)! I took the day off after a week of travel since we had planned a session. We had lunch at home, with a glass of wine, then my wife asked me to shower so we could get started. Being naked after showering, she asked me to lay out the hairbrush, strap and two delrin canes. Unlike our usual sessions where I am restrained on the bench, my wife wanted to try a new position since she claimed I needed to be higher to improve her swing with the canes. So this session, I knelt on the bench and rested my torso on two pillows on the end of the bed. She started with the thicker of the canes. I received two sets of 10, thereafter she gave me identical sets with the thin cane. She wanted me to judge how hard the strokes were applied. I told her they felt like about 40% of her typical strength, and she agreed.

She then switched to the strap, which I had fashioned out of a shoulder strap from an old carry on suit bag I used for traveling. She told me she really likes the strap since she can swing it at 100% strength and it covers a lot of area when it wraps. She gave me 20 strokes and I could hear her deep breath before each, so they were as hard as she could swing. After a short pause, I got another 20 of the same strength.

Before we laid down for a moment, she told me there was more caning to be administered. We talked about her confidence in administering the cane with the same swing and strength as the strap. So she put me back in the kneeling position for 6 full strength strokes of the thick cane, alternating sides every two strokes. With a short pause but remaining in position, she delivered 6 full strength strokes with the thin cane, which were the worst.

I expected an over the knee spanking with the hairbrush next but she decided to stop, saying the 6 strokes of the thick cane had left deep red, weals and several of the thin cane strokes left bright pink, raised welts. This session was not as stress relieving as most since it was shorter, but the growth in her confidence administering both canes at 100% strength is something I look forward to.

Jack: I was in a foul mood, and it started on Monday morning, was very snappy, late for work, mouthing off, just one of those weeks. My wife did nothing until Saturday morning. I stepped out of the shower, care to explain this past week, I said I was sorry. Don't bother getting dressed she said sternly, my turn to have a bad moody day.

I headed to the bedroom and she said Oh No, you get to the kitchen and I felt a strong spank to my bottom. In the kitchen she was scolding me when the phone rang, her mother, she told her what was going on and would call back. She had the bar stool in the middle of the room and over her lap I went. Hated that bar stool, off the ground, unable to get off her lap, my hand pinned to my back and her hand soundly spanking my bottom.

Roz: My most recent spanking was last weekend. We haven't had any real spanky action for a very long time and have recently been getting back into it.

This one was all fun and sexy and fairly light with lots of rubbing and other stuff in between:) A delicious hand spanking OTB.

Rosco: We were planning a thing tomorrow, but Irene took a nap then summoned me from my home office about 5 hours ago. She had just bought me a red girly nightgown and she told me I needed a spanking. I put it on and she tied me to the bed face down, and spanked me with a ping pong paddle and then a two tailed tawse. Then she left me for 30 minutes.

She returned, spanked me again then untied me. Ordered me to kiss her feet and apologize. At the point I still though it was just preliminary for tomorrow’s “date”. But the she tied me to the bed again, this time face up - and left to take a shower. She returned and put her big bottom on my face and ordered me to lick her. I did, she came with a force that can only be measured by the Richter scale, then she mounted my penis.

All a day earlier than planned.

Anon: I am normally paddled by my wife twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday nights, just before we go to bed, something I look forward to. The delicious afterglow is then enhanced as we settle into bed for sleep with my bare bottom pressed up against her warm body. These spankings are hard enough to leave some residual soreness the next day, something I usually find pleasant since it acts as a reminder of how much I love my wife. But it was anything but pleasant as we sat on a long and bumpy air flight two weeks ago on Saturday.

Because we were out of town and with company, the Friday spanking the day before leaving town was the last one I received until last Thursday (a delayed Tuesday spanking), after nearly a two-week hiatus. It was very good to be home again, by ourselves!

KDPierre: Talk about timing! Downright freaky!!! After a fairly long (probably since the end of Summer) hiatus from spanking, Rosa just gave me a good one yesterday (Saturday evening) to get back in the swing of things. (no pun intended) It was cold in the house so I got to keep a flannel shirt on, but was otherwise bare. She used her favorite lucite paddle and did it in two installments with a short break in-between. After such a long period since my last spanking I found the initial round VERY hard to take despite her being pretty nice about it. However, once I sort of got acclimated to it all again, the second round was far more.....um....enthusiastic? Ouch! Still tender today.

Bonnie: Our most recent spanking was a Friday Night Special. It occurred close to bedtime in our bedroom. I was wearing a short pink satin nightie with white lace and a matching bikini. Randy sat on the side of the bed and I positioned myself over his lap. He secured me in place with his left hand while he wielded a stiff leather paddle in his right. By the time he finished, I felt toasty warm, nicely stung, and happily amorous. It was a perfect ending to a long week.

A.J.: Wow! Reading the comments before mine - some of you REALLY GET SPANKED HARD!!

Not my situation, I only spank/get spanked for the sexy fun of it. But to answer your questions, Hermione:

"When and where did it occur?"
Alas too long ago. More than a year. But she was so cute and fun it was worth the wait.

"What were you wearing?"
Me: My best birthday suit!!
Her: Naked from her navel south.

"What position did you (or the spankee) assume?"
OTK!! My favorite. For both of us.

"What implements were used?"
For both of us - bare hand. She wanted to use a hairbrush and small paddle on me, but I was not ready for that.

"Any additional details that were significant?"
I got a real life medical wake-up call a couple days before. Really unnerving. Four days after we were to play - I was scheduled to meet with a surgeon. During which I would get a full medical examination!
I almost backed out.
Didn't because we planned this for a while.
Didn't because I thought four days was plenty of time for any redness or marks to disappear. (Usually gone the next day!)
Did I mention that with just her bare hand she could really spank??? And that when it was over I was as sore as I was bright red 'back there'?
That on day three I took another look in the mirror and, "Oh shit, no...!!"
I could not reschedule so I went ahead with my doctor's appointment and hoped for the best.

In the exam room (with the surgeon's two, drop-dead gorgeous 20-something year old female assistants!) - No one said anything.
Had the red/marks disappeared? I don't really know, but I think they did. Or enough did.

Prefectdt: Unfortunately because I have been dealing with a stress (Brexit) related outbreak of psoriasis and did not want to present a rear end covered with red blotches and scaly skin I have not been spanked since July. Thankfully the psoriasis is now responding to treatment.

That session was a pay to play with a Moldovan Domme, who basically decided to use everything in her arsenal, apart from a metal chain flogger which was left out because of my special negotiating technique (begging). I was face down on a bed and naked apart from a red man thong. Two toys where broken on my rear end, a Manila cane and a horse batter. I can't remember everything else that was used but they included a leather flogger, a boot paddle (both the boot side and the wooden side), two leather paddles and the rest was just a blur of pain and endorphins.

It was the hardest and most difficult to endure whupping that I have had in over five years. But it left me so high that I did not feel safe to drive until after midday the following day.
 
Hermione: We went upstairs at the appointed tim, and while I was in the bathroom, Ron chose three leather implements and laid them out on the bed. When I came into the bedroom the toybox was open, and I chose the black and red ping pong paddle.

I removed my sweatpants and panties and bent over the bed. Ron proceeded to use each of the implements on my exposed posterior in a highly efficient manner. I tried to judge from the tempo whether he intended for us to have some erotic fun afterward. Hmmm, he was paddling briskly, but not in the frantic, gotta get it over with way he does when sex is on his mind. So I guessed not.

The spanking ended with squirts of cold water from the spray bottle he keeps handy, and that threw cold water on my hopes for anything extra. Oh well, there's always next Saturday.

My goodness! After reading your revelations I feel the need for another spritz of cold water!

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #314

Welcome one and all to our weekly discussion. I'm happy to say that after five days of intense concentration—most of the time, that is—I was able to meet my work deadline with hours to spare. Now I can get back to the important things in life, like blogging.

Describe your most recent spanking. When and where did it occur, what were you wearing, what position did you (or the spankee) assume and what implements were used? Feel free to provide any additional details that were significant.

Please leave your response in the comments section below. After everyone has had a chance to speak, I will publish an edited summary of our discussion.

From the Top Shelf - Brunch at the Claremont

Here's a rather old-fashioned story I found on Rollin Hand's blog. I'll let him thell you about it in his own words.

"Ever wonder what the girls talk about when they get together for Sunday brunch at a fancy downtown hotel? Well, wonder no longer for an author named Darla, writing in 1997, lays it all out for us in this little piece of Americana circa 1947."

Brunch at the Claremont May 1947

Susan shifted in her chair again, just a small movement, but enough to catch Laura's eye.

"You seem a little restless this morning, Susan.  Something wrong? Not feeling well?"  Laura winked at Mary as she bent over her cup of cocoa. Mary, in turn, smiled at Joan.

"A small case of honeymoonitis?" asked Joan, catching the wry mood of the Monday foursome.  The three laughed, looking fondly at their newly married fourth.  There was a beat as Joan glanced at the others, she silently asking if the step ought to be taken, the others considering, then each giving assent, silently, with a nod, a downward glance, a small smile.

"...or did you have to spend a little time over John's knee this morning before joining us?"

Susan put her cup down unsteadily, color staining her face, unable to quite take in what she had heard.  Joan had said it so matter-of-factly, as if she had been asking about the progress of the thank-you notes, or if anything had to be returned.  She had to force herself to look up, to look straight at Joan.  But once she had, she was caught out.  There was no way to deny the truth of what Joan had guessed.  But why would Joan have guessed that, of all things?  Had John talked about this odd little, um, quirk of his, uh, theirs?

The silence went on.  Joan started to laugh softly.

"It's all right, Susan.  It's not unheard of, you know.  I think...I know, as a matter of fact, that all of us, well, all of the other three of us anyway, feel, think, um, yes, think that it's all right. I mean, one's husband has a duty, don't you think, to guide and correct his wife, when necessary?  I mean, all of us here are sort of, well, old-fashioned that way.  Joan put her head down, finished being spokesman, and feigned great interest in the spot of marmalade next to her plate.

Mary spoke up.

"But maybe we jumped to conclusions, Susan.  After all, we didn't mean to embarrass you, or imply that... I mean... maybe your skirt was just twisted a bit, or..."

"No, ah, no, that's all right," Susan said, studying the design on her plate.  She waited until the waiter had finished refilling her glass of juice and moved away, his heels clicking on the terracotta tiles of the Claremont's beautiful terrace.

"No, you, I, well, yes, I mean."  A fresh blush stained her carefully powdered cheeks.

There was another small silence, in which the clicking of heavy old silver could be heard from the other brunchers' tables.  Laura pushed a bit of egg white around with the tip of her knife.  She had a bad habit of playing with whatever food she didn't eat.  Paul's reaction to that habit suddenly occurred to her, and she put down her knife with a start.

"Yes?" asked Laura, looking up, straightening her suit jacket.  "Yes what, exactly?"  Laura was the blunt one among them, always wanting to get to the meat of the matter straightaway.  Mary put a cautionary hand over Laura's on the ivory napery.

Susan glanced down again.  "Well, yes, I mean, John was annoyed with me this morning, because I hadn't done any of the notes over the weekend, as I said I was going to, and..." she looked up at the others, earnest in the construction of her own defense, just begun, and stopped as she saw their interested, amused faces.

"Look here, are you serious about this?  I mean, do you, ahh do your Husbands ..  I mean, actually, um, well, let's say..."

"Spank us?"  said Laura.  "Is that what you are trying to ask?  Do our husbands actually turn us over their manly knees and spank us when we need it?  Well yes, my dear, actually they do!  Some of us more than others, of course..."  Laura and Mary glanced at Joan and laughed outright, and Joan blushed prettily.  "...but all of us now and again. There's nothing to be ashamed of, Susan, nothing at all. You were neglectful of a duty, apparently, and you ought to know better! John has a certain position in the community, and it's important to him that protocol be observed. Those thank-yous need to go out, young lady!" Laura chided.  Susan looked down, as if she were being scolded all over again, as John had scolded her this morning.

"Yes, well, I know that, but we're barely back from our honeymoon, and there is a certain amount of time one has, and I am not anywhere near that limit, and..."

"And did any of that argument work on John this morning, when he asked to see how many notes you had written?" Mary asked.

"Well, no, not actually," said Susan softly.

"So--- tell!" Laura exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" whispered Susan, eying the approaching waiter.  Laura motioned him over.

"More coffee, please, and could you bring the pastry tray over here?" she asked the young man.

"Of course, ma'am," he bowed slightly and strode away.

"Let's wait till we pick some sweeties, shall we, and then Susan can tell us all about it!" Laura clasped her hands in delight.  Susan looked stricken.  These were dear friends, after all, two of them had been in the wedding and the others had helped with all the planning. They had shared a lot, really, but up until this morning, she'd not known about, well, this.  Mary judged the expression on her face.

"Susan, look.  There's no need for you to tell us anything!"

"HEY!" protested Laura.  Joan gave her a look.

"We know this is all, well, new to you, despite the fact we've been chums for a long while.  But, well, there are some things that married women share with one another that, well, have to stay among them, can you understand that?  We took a guess at what might have happened this morning when we got a look at your face as we met in the foyer.  It appeared you'd been crying -- and that's not the look of a new bride. Unless she's been, well, a naughty new bride!"  The others laughed, and Susan smiled.

"It's not an easy thing to discuss, not at first. And it's just dumb luck, I guess, that all the rest of us married men who are just as old-fashioned as John. If only one of us had, or even two, why we wouldn't be sitting around including the other two in the discussion!  Or maybe it's not luck at all.  Maybe it's what girls like us want. Or need!"  Mary sat back and sipped her juice as the coffee and pastries arrived.

"Ooo!  Napoleons!" Laura exclaimed, and grinned as the waiter lifted one to her plate on a silver server.  The others chose more modestly, and there was another small silence after the tray was gone.

"Thing is, Susan," confessed Joan, "we do talk about it with one another.  There's something about it, I don't know, something that thrills us all in a funny way.  Something about being, well, handled like that.  ‘Owned’ -- is that the word I want?  No, not owned. Mastered maybe.  The feeling that you're not going to be able to get your way all the time.  Not going to be able to manipulate him. That he truly is the head of the household, that he's, I don't know, in charge of you, and that there will be times when you are going to have to submit to his will.  Times when you are going to have to submit to his discipline when you have broken a rule, or when you need to be guided a bit."  The others had leaned forward listening to this, and a soft sigh was heard when Joan finished.

Mary swallowed hard.  "Yes.  I feel that way.  I hate it when I know it's going to happen.  Really.  I never consciously try to provoke Steven, but I can be careless and forgetful--- I know that I can.  And I have to admit that it does me some good when he catches me out.  He has a very hard hand, you know!"  Mary looked sheepish, and the others smiled.  Susan found herself relaxing for the first time since the brunch began.

Laura flicked a bit of chocolate from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue and looked at each of her chums.

"Well, I have been very good, I can tell you, since the last time Paul took his belt to me."

Susan's eyes widened.  "He what?!" she whispered.

"Well, my goodness!  Surely you don't think that all of us are spanked in exactly the same way -- some sort of Loretta Young swoop over his knee and a nice little hand-spankie on the seat of our trousers?!" Laura laughed gaily.

"My dear, Paul and I have been married for nearly three years!  And I am not the type to tearfully bend over his knee when he crooks a finger at me.  Not THIS girl!  This is 1947 for heaven's sake! Usually he has to chase me around the house a few times first!"

All of them laughed out loud at this image.  Laura grew serious first.

"But look, I do believe that Paul is the head of our house.  And I did vow to obey, and I do.  Well, most of the time.  The running is just because I'm scared, is all.  He knows that.  And, when he catches me, there is a bit of that over-the-knee stuff, to warm the seat of my pants and calm me down, get me in the mood to admit I was wrong, and to accept my punishment.  And then we go up the stairs, he and I. And he takes off his belt and he rolls up his sleeve, and he points at the foot of the bed.  And we kiss."

There was an intake of breath, and the three leaned forward.

"No, really!  We kiss.  It's to show there's no anger, you see, and that we love one another, and that we both know that this is part of our contract as husband and wife.  So."

A silence.

"So??" breathed Joan.  Laura smiled.

"Gotcha!"  Everyone laughed.

"So, then I make my bottom bare."  Laura shrugged.  "Depends on what I have on what I do.  Skirt up, trousers down, robe off.  Whatever. But no panties.  Not ever.  Paul won't allow it.  All my punishments are on the bare.  Paul says it's so I won't be terribly harmed.  You see, if he let me keep my panties, well, he wouldn't be able to tell how much the belt was marking me.  He would never really harm me. Hurt me, yes -- it has to sting, of course, but not harm me.  And then, well, then he lectures me a bit, on what was wrong and what lesson I need to think about while I am being whipped.  And then, well.  Then he gives me a good strapping."

Laura stopped.  All four reached for and gulped something -- coffee, juice, ice water, and then laughed.

Mary recovered first. "Well, I for one do get mostly that over-the-knee stuff. Steven says he wants me to feel like a naughty, small girl -- since that's usually what I've been acting like. And yes, um, well, I have to have my bottom bare as well.  Though I don't do it, Steven does.  He says it's part of the whole thing -- the fact that he is in charge of me and of my punishment, and he takes my pants down for me and puts me over his knee.  It is embarrassing, and I do hate it.  It makes quite an impression on me.  Far more than it did when Daddy would spank me.  After all, Steven's opinion of me is rather more important that my father's, truth be told, and I hate it when I think he is annoyed with me."

Mary sighed.  "But I hate it even more when he is spanking me and talking to me, asking me if I am learning my lesson, and do I think this will make me a good and obedient wife--- and he spanks harder if I don't answer right away!

And, um, well, we kiss too.  But after."  Mary's cheeks stained violently and her friends teased.

The three turned to Joan.  She groaned and rolled her eyes.

"Do I have to?" she complained. "You know how hard it is for me!"

"Well no, of course you don't." snapped Laura. "We only thought to make it a bit easier for Susan is all. Never mind!"  Laura winked at Mary as she snapped her fork onto her plate.

"Oh all right. Look, I'm a little sensitive because I just got it Friday night."

"Again??" exclaimed Laura, and the rest of them laughed. Joan pouted.

"Joanie here is a bit, well, high-spirited," explained Laura, putting a comforting arm around her friend. "And Richard can be something of a stuffed shirt."  Joan opened her mouth to protest.

"Now now, you know I love Richard!" Laura went on, "but he is a bit older than you, miss, and very concerned with proper behavior!  So -- what did you do on Friday?!"

Joan's shoulders slumped.  "Well, Richard had a bar association thing to attend on Saturday night, and he wanted to wear a certain shirt, the one without the collar, I mean it has a separate collar.  And I was supposed to pick it up from the laundry -- he refuses to let me do his shirts, you know -- but I got distracted listening to a new Vaughn Monroe record in the listening room at Sperry's, and well, by the time I remembered, the laundry was closed, and then when I was trying to explain, I upset the box with his shirt studs in it and I stepped on two and bent them.  Oh. And I went over my allowance buying a new hat at Macy's and the record."

"Holy Cow," Laura breathed. "What are we going to do with you?"

"You're not going to do a thing with me!" Joan huffed, "but it's a wonder I can sit down even today!"

"Richard spanked you?" Susan breathed.

"Spanked me?! Well, yes. He spanked me. And then he slippered me. And then he hauled me down to his study and caned me while Mrs. Arthur held up my skirts!"

Susan looked helplessly at Laura.

"Richard is British," she said, as if that explained everything.

Mary put a hand on Susan's. "Joanie means that after Richard put her over his knee and spanked her with his hand on the seat of her scanties, he took them down and spanked her bare behind with the sole of his leather slipper."  Susan's eyes were big again.

"And then he got the housekeeper, and took Joan downstairs and into his study. I, um guess he asked Mrs. Arthur -- she's the housekeeper -- to hold Joanie's skirt and slip up out of the way, and he made Joanie bend way over, maybe the back of a chair, or the edge of his desk..."

"I had to bend over and put my hands flat on the cushion of the footstool" Joan broke in glumly.

"... and Richard took out a school cane -- you know, one of those whippy rattan things -- and whipped his naughty little wife with it a few times."

"SIX times," exclaimed Joan, "and don't think for a minute I was brave about it!  I wasn't!  I howled and wiggled and begged!  You cannot imagine how much it stings!!"

"And then?" Laura asked shrewdly, having heard some of this before. "How long did it take Richard to send Mrs. Arthur away?"

Joan put her hand up to her mouth, but not before her friend saw the start of a smile. "Right away. The sixth had barely landed."

"And??"

"Ohgod.  He was an animal!! Took me right there, on the top of the desk.  Knocked his association speech all over the floor and tore a button off his trousers," Joan reported, sounding complacent, but her eyes lit with the memory.

"JOANIE!!" exclaimed Mary, covering her mouth.

"Oh Mary, really.  As if Steven was never, well, more interested, um, after?"

Susan's eyes unfocused as she suddenly remembered John's urgency this morning, his early appointment forgotten. She thought he was just feeling a need to comfort her, but, but -- his fingers tracing the print of his hand on her bottom, and the heat of him, and the way she had felt, really... she...

"Susan?"  Laura was asking her.  "So?"

"Well," she gasped, "compared to what I have just heard, I am afraid you will be very bored with my little spanking this morning. It was nothing really!  As I said, John was annoyed -- he was about to leave for an early appointment, but when he offered to mail whatever notes I had completed, and I couldn't produce any, well..."

"Yes, well?"  Remains of pastries ringed the table on Lenox plates, dregs of coffee grew cold, the waiter was occupied elsewhere, the sun moved toward the little flag on the peaked roof of the spa building.

"Well, he said I had a few things to learn about the responsibilities of being a wife, and that this was the sort of lesson best learned on a bare bottom turned over a husband's knee! I thought he was kidding at first. I mean, he had given me a few playful pats while we were dating, and we did have a talk about obedience, and how important it was to him, and he did ask me once if Daddy had spanked me to make me behave -- but I never thought... Anyway, he took my arm and led me into the dining room. I was so surprised I didn't even think about protesting.  He sat down and stood me between his legs, and told me he was going to do his duty as my husband, and turn me over his knee."  Susan drank the last of her ice water, and opened her purse as if to look for her wallet.

"Susan!"  She looked up, feigning surprise at the murderous looks of her friends.  Then she started to laugh.

"All right! I was just playing your game! I was already dressed for our usual Monday brunch, as I was going to drive him to the city and do a few errands before we four met. He reached up, grabbed my upper arms, pulled me down and bent me over his knee. I began to struggle then, and he stopped, took both my hands in one of his behind my back, and told me quietly that I had better think hard about my duties as his wife, and that one of those duties was to accept my husband's punishment when I clearly deserved it!"

"Ooohhhhh" breathed Mary.

"Shhh!" said Laura. "Let her finish!"

"'Yes, John!' I said, and I relaxed. He lifted the skirt of my dress, and my slip, and patted the seat of my pants. 'We'll start on these!' he said, and he lifted his hand and started to spank me.  Gosh, it hurt! I'd forgotten how much it could hurt!  Just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, and was telling him how sorry I was, he stopped.  But only to tug my pants down.  I was so embarrassed -- imagine, with my own husband! But I was! He started spanking me again, and it hurt even more. It didn't take very long before I was crying and begging him to stop, promising I'd do the notes right away and never fib again!"

"Uunnhh.  And then?" Laura asked pointedly.

Susan was quiet for a moment, wondering how much she ought to tell. The feeling had come back -- the hot, liquid feeling that she had never experienced until this morning, when she felt John's hands on her in that way.

"We, um, well, we started to go back upstairs, but, um, well..."

"But you didn't make it, exactly, right?" Laura laughed.

Susan didn't think she would go into exactly what happened when she slipped on the stairs and John fell on top of her, and felt the heat of her spanked bottom pressing against the front of his trousers...

"No, not exactly!"  Susan blushed and they all laughed.

Laura neatened the pile of bills on the small silver tray and they all stood up.  "Next week?" she asked brightly.

They all smiled and wished one another well, and blew kisses toward one another.

"Susan, thank you -- you didn't have to tell, but it was delicious, wasn't it?" Joan whispered.

"Yes, yes, it was. I mean, it is!"  The four laughed again.

"See you all next Monday -- be good now!" called Laura as she disappeared down the tiled stairs. Joan turned back to the other two.

"Naaah--- let's not!"

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for January 12

Who selects the implement(s)?

Roz: Rick almost always chooses the implement(s). Sometimes I have been required to fetch them, usually if they are in a different room, but he usually does that too.

Baxter: My wife chooses between the riding crop, the very long shoe horn and the wooden spoon. I have no choice nor do I want one.

Barrel: Normally, my wife selects the implement. I am always required to bring it to her and present it. Most often she is sitting on the bench at the bottom of our bed for an OTK spanking, and she demands I put it in the palm of her hand. If she is really wanting to mess with me, she will remain silent and look me directly in the eye, sending me a clear message, “is there something you want to say?”. She expects me to ask or beg for the spanking, usually pausing again expecting me to request an especially hard and long spanking. “How hard?” she teases, whereupon I have no choice but to tell her very, very hard. With a tap of the implement on her right thigh, we are underway.

Bonnie: Usually, it's Randy, though I can make suggestions.

Joe: My wife usually chooses what she wants to use but I can ask for certain items. When I do that implement is well used.

Fondles: If I'm really craving something I'll tell BIKSS. but if not, he chooses. I am allowed to object - sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't!

Anon: Choice, my wife has her trusty hairbrush in hand, in this home she decides.

Domhnall: My Disciplinarian always chooses. (I wish you success with your "looming deadline".)

Rosco: I buy them (or occasionally cut a few switches), but do so based on Irene’s preferences. She usually employs a two or three different ones during the course of a “date” (our term for a sexual encounter over a couple of hours that includes a few spankings).

We’re both in good health but Irene’s wrists are not as strong as they once were and she much prefers implements with round handles. Flat handled things sometimes fly out of her hands. Riding crops have them, but we finally found a tawse at Can-iac that does as well.

Our newest, her current favorite and our most expensive item ever is a leather ping pong paddle. Elegant, and a cross between wood and leather.

Over time we’ve gravitated to leather rather that wood. Slightly different flavor. Moreover, a slightly off target swat with leather simply smarts a bit more whereas with wood it ruins the mood at a minimum.

Ronnie: P is the one who decides.

Prefectdt: It depends very much on who I am playing with although I very often get offered a choice. I do like it when the spanker chooses a toy that they particularly like as they usually pick something that they are comfortable and confident in using.

Andrew: In our case, Beth always chooses the instrument. Her favorite is a ping pong paddle that has a rubber lining, an old fashioned razor strop that belonged to her Dad and hangs as decoration in our bathroom, a hair brush and now and then I receive a caning.

KDPierre: Rosa tells me what she wants and I bring it to her. The only exceptions are play games where I might suggest something particular, or if I feel extra bad about something and volunteer a particular implement to make things harsher. But even then the final decision is hers.

Wendel: The spanker selects the implement. What either one of us picks depends on the mood. There are a few consistent choices. If it is girls' night out the Misses picks the paddle. If the Misses give ssmart mouthed comments I spank her with the belt.

Hermione: Both of us. Ron has three that he has chosen laid out on the bed, and he also has the toybox open. I am allowed to choose one from the box. I hand it to him and he places it on the bed to the right of the others. Then we begin.

Thank you for taking part in this lively discussion!

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #313

How was your week? Mine was quite busy, and I won't have much time to relax this weekend, as I have a looming deadline. But I will take a few minutes now to introduce this week's discussion topic, suggested by Barrel.

Who selects the implement or implements that will be employed? Is the spankee expected to present the implement to the spanker?

Leave your response as a comment, and I will publish an edited summary of our conversation once everyone has had a chance to weigh in.

Friday Fail

You had one job...

Spankings all around for these not-so-clever fixers-in-chief!

From the Top Shelf - The Marriage Mentors of Maple Lane

When it comes to marriage, there’s a lot to be said for that helpful older couple who has been around the block a few times. They sure know how to teach the newlyweds a thing or two— as today’s tale will illustrate. From Rollin Hand's The Friday Night Bridge Club.

THE MARRIAGE MENTORS OF MAPLE LANE

The morning after, Rob left early to play golf, or at least as well as he could play after last night’s party. It had been a neighborhood thing, just about a dozen couples crowded into Jim and Sally Simpson’s duplex on Maple Lane. The rent was cheap and for that reason the Maple Lane duplexes were populated almost exclusively by young married couples. Except for Rob and Amy’s duplex-sharing neighbors, the Wallaces.

They were the “old folks” of the neighborhood. Others moved in and out with regularity, but the Wallaces stayed. Stan and his wife Carol were in their early forties. They had achieved something like mentor status to the newlyweds in the other duplexes, always available to listen, sympathize and dispense marital advice. They’d been at it longer than the others, and had a depth of experience at marriage that made them worth listening to. But, as a couple, they were a study in contrasts. Where Stan was laid back, plodding, and quiet, Carol was bubbly, vivacious and a bundle of energy.

It was Carol who yakked non-stop, overindulged and told off color jokes. It was long-suffering Stan who took it all in without a word—only the occasional eye roll. But, strangely, they complimented each other. And there was something else. Amy had observed it last night. For all of Stan’s easy going demeanor around his wonderful but wacky wife, Amy had seen steel behind those grey eyes when Stan had cut Carol off from the alcohol. “No more, Carol. That’s it.” He’d said.

Carol had laughed and stuck her tongue out at him, drawing laughs all around, and had then been caught sneaking another drink. Amy hadn’t missed the pointed look and heard the sotto voce admonition when Stan grabbed her arm and said, “I think we’ll have a little reckoning tomorrow, Carol.” For the very first time, Amy had seen Carol blush and look nervously around, to see if anyone had heard. Amy quickly averted her head so Carol wouldn’t notice her eavesdropping on a private marital discussion.

So now it was food for thought. What was the nature of this “little reckoning?” It was interesting because she and Rob had been struggling with ways to resolve conflict in their own marriage. The honeymoon was definitely over, thought Amy as she puttered around in the upstairs bedroom, making the bed. And their fighting over money had tended to put a damper on their sex lives, which by the way, was getting to be boring and way too predictable.

Rob would be back soon and they had yet to resolve the issue of her recent overspending. Ok, so she was a shopaholic and a bit high maintenance, always pushing the envelope. Maybe what she secretly craved was boundaries, but Rob was maybe just a little too easy, a little too permissive. The more he let her get away with, the more she pushed. And that just made her cross and bitchy, it seemed. Didn’t he care?

On the other side of the duplex wall she heard voices. It was Stan and Carol. Were they arguing? Amy listened closer. Yes, they were, and from the sound of it, Carol was being scolded—like a child. This must be about last night. She caught herself. It wasn’t polite to eavesdrop. I should be ashamed, she told herself. None of my business. But curiosity got the best of her.

Most of the sound seemed to emanate from a picture on the wall. It was an old print that had been left there by the previous tenant. They talked about it but never got around to changing it. Amy carefully lifted the picture. There was a flap right behind it with light coming through. Amy held her breath. The voices on the other side became more audible. She deftly removed the picture frame and lifted the flap carefully to see what was underneath.

She sucked in her breath in shock. Underneath the flap was a fisheye lens. Somebody had, at some point in time, stuck this lens into the wall. With the wide field of view she could see the whole room on the other side of the wall very clearly. There must be something covering up the other end. I can see them, but they can’t see me. Who put this here? She decided it must have been there for some time. How many other couples have lived here and noticed this?

The second shock was who she could see and what was about to transpire between them. A cold knot of excitement formed in Amy’s stomach. Did she dare watch? She couldn’t turn away. Carol Wallace was standing in front her husband who was seated in an armless chair pulled away from a corner. She wore a flimsy silk nighty that barely came to her hips and very briefly cut panties. Stan was dressed in a work shirt and chinos.

Carol was a good looking woman with curves abounding in all the right places. Rob would no doubt call her a MILF. She shifted uneasily from foot to foot as Stan lectured pointedly.

“I’ve told you before Carol, three drinks is your limit. You lose all sense of propriety after that and it’s embarrassing. Furthermore you agreed with me on that. Then last night after I brought it up, you made a joke of it. But the worst thing was that you snuck another drink behind my back.”

Carol pleaded, “I’m sorry darling. I don’t know what came over me. I know we agreed.”

“So how do we resolve this?” said Stan. It sounded like a rhetorical question, part of a familiar ritual.

Carol visibly gulped and said in a quavering voice, “With a good spanking…on my bare fanny.”

Had Amy heard right? He was going to SPANK her? This was too much. That knot of excitement expanded. Amy felt flushed. Wild horses couldn’t tear her away now.

“That’s right. You are due a good sound spanking. Come here, Carol. Get across my knee. You know you deserve this.” Stan patted his thighs. Carol moved over to his right and gingerly eased herself into the classic and ignominious position of a child about to undergo parental correction. Amy’s breath came in ragged gasps as she watched the scene unfold.

Stan rubbed his palm in circles on Carol’s bottom as he reminded her of her wifely promises. She squirmed nervously, blushing and promising future obedience. Then he slipped his fingers into her panties and tugged them down to her knees. Carol had a bottom that was full and rounded. She was a voluptuous woman.

Stan began with a slow sonorous smacking of Carol’s ripe bottom, scolding her as he did so. The bare cheeks quivered at each impact of Stan’s palm.

The first few spanks startled Amy. They sounded like firecrackers popping. Carol arched her body, trying to diminish her target area. It was to no avail. Stan spanked her methodically, covering every bit of her lush bottom with loud smacks that left vivid red handprints.

Amy was so mesmerized she failed to hear Rob enter the room.

“Amy, what on earth are you doing?” His voice nearly made her jump out of her skin.

She turned, flustered, but managed to put her fingers to her lips. “Shsss. Come here. You have to see this!” she whispered. Rob approached cautiously. “Look for yourself. There must be a one-way mirror covering the lens or something.” Rob took in the scene. Carol was being soundly paddled by her mild-mannered husband. The sound of the muffled smacks was loud enough that Rob knew it was a real spanking. He could see Carol’s bottom ripple as Stan’s hand impacted it. She was wriggling shamelessly, promising obedience.

Amy pushed on Rob’s shoulder. “Let me see,” she said. Rob let her. The spanking went on for another minute at least. Then it ended and Stan was rubbing Carol’s bottom gently while she sobbed, begging forgiveness. He relaxed his hold and she slid to a kneeling position between his legs. Deftly she unzipped Stan’s slacks and pulled out an erect member that looked as hard as steel. Amy’s knees sagged as Carol proceeded to give her husband an energetic blow-job that ended with Stan closing his eyes and freezing as his climax came. Amy watched as Stan took his wife in his arms and kissed her lovingly, rubbing and caressing the buttocks he had so thoroughly reddened a few minutes before. She heard him say, “All is forgiven, darling. Next time be a good girl. Now let’s adjourn to the bedroom. I feel like I can go all day.”

Carol giggled with delight at the prospect and said, “That spanking made your wife one horny lady, honey.” She let Stan take her arm and escort her out.

Amy stood back and replaced the picture. “Oh my God, do you believe what we just saw?” Amy was dumbfounded.

Rob rubbed his chin. “Yeah, very interesting. Who would have thought? I wonder who put that there?”

Amy sidled up to her husband and put her arms around his neck. “Honey? We don’t have anything to do this afternoon. How about taking your wifey to bed, hmmmm?”

Rob grinned. “Turned you on did it?”

Amy licked her lips. “The way he handled her, took control and just spanked her like a child, because she wouldn’t obey…it got to me. It was sexy.” Rob raised his eyebrows and gave her a questioning look.

Amy grabbed his belt and started unbuckling it. “Don’t ask questions. Come on, just take me.”

The intensity of their lovemaking surprised them both. It seemed neither Rob nor Amy could get the image of that lusty spanking out of their mind, and they renewed each other all afternoon with a passion not experienced since the honeymoon.

“So she broke rules and he actually spanked her for it, huh?” said Rob. They lay on the bed side-by-side, their passions having finally been spent.

“Exactly.” Then Amy told Rob all about the exchange between Stan and Carol leading up to the spanking.

“Hmmm,” said Rob, rubbing his chin.

* * *

But several days later they had to confront the old persistent problem when the credit card bill came.

“I thought we had agreed on this, Amy. You don’t buy clothes over $50 per month without us talking about it.”

“But it was a special sale. If I let it go by, it’s gone.” She folded her arms in a pout.

Rob ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He hated it when Amy got whiney—like daddy’s princess demanding to have her way. Then a thought struck him.

“You violated our agreement,” he said pointing his finger at her. He stood up, recalling Stan’s assertiveness with Carol who had also broken a rule. “ You went ahead and spent the money. I think there should be consequences.”

“What do you mean by that?” Amy sat up. This was a different Rob.

“I mean, we had an agreement about this, a rule if you will, and you broke it.” Then Rob gave her an intense look that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I actually think a little wifely correction is in order, Amy. If it works for our wiser more experienced neighbors, it should work for us. Come with me.” Rob took Amy by the wrist and headed for the stairs.

“Rob, no,” squeaked Amy, but she put up token resistance as he led her up to their bedroom.

He sat on the bed and had Amy stand in front of him. “This irresponsible spending has to stop, but I feel like you think it’s a trivial thing. Well, it’s not, and I need to make you understand that.” Amy was too stunned to react, but part of her was buzzing with both excitement and dread in the pit of her stomach. “So. You are going over my knee right now.”

Amy put her hand to her mouth. “You’re going to spank me? Like Carol?”

“Just like Carol. Come here.” Rob took her hand. Amy said, “Ohhhh!” as he tipped her over his knee. Amy was wearing a skirt and Rob flipped it up, revealing pretty white lace panties in a very skimpy cut. Rob had to admire his wife’s cute bottom poised over his lap, but he was serious about this. Amy let out a little shriek as he tugged the panties down, baring her bottom.

“Rob, stop now. This is embarrassing.” Amy felt she should protest even as she realized how sexy it made her feel to expose herself like this to her husband. The shame was kind of exquisite in a way. She felt her nipples getting hard.

Her competing shame and arousal reactions were interrupted by the smack of Rob’s sturdy palm on her bare bottom. Then she felt another. Then three more in rapid succession. Splat! Smack! Splat! Yeow! It STUNG! Her fanny felt like a hot iron was being applied to it.

As Rob had seen Stan do, he launched into a methodical smacking that covered the entire area of her behind, paying special attention to her sit spot. He alternated cheeks, his hand flattening the jouncy flesh each time he struck. Amy squeaked in protest and squirmed but he held her down with his arm across her back. The steady smacking continued. Amy’s bottom took on a reddish hue and her little yips of distress grew louder.

“Ohh…ahh, Rob. Oweee!” she exclaimed as Rob’s spanking palm cracked down in rapid succession.

“Shsss,” said Rob in between smacks. “Do you want our neighbors to hear?”

* * *

On the other side of the duplex Stan and Carol reclined with their backs up against their bed’s headboard and watched on the closed circuit TV.

“Oooh, they are getting into it, aren’t they?” cooed Carol breathlessly.

“Well,” said Stan with a nonchalant air, “we did give them a little nudge in that direction.”

Carol rubbed her own bottom ruefully and pouted. “I’d say that was more than a little nudge.”

Stan just smiled. “And you loved every minute of it, dear. You and your spank-loving behind. May I remind you, my darling exhibitionist, whose idea it was to put that one way mirror and fish-eye lens in the wall all those years ago? May I remind you just how many couples have seen that little performance over the years? And then adopted the same practice themselves?”

“It helped their marriages, though. We know that thanks to you and your cameras and circuits and whatnot.”

“Yes, we do. A good spanking clears the air and does wonders for settling marital discord of all types. Speaking of which, I have a bill here from Crate and Barrel that I don’t quite understand. I think it takes you way over budget.”

Carol’s hands flew instinctively to her cover her bottom as Stan said, “Please fetch the strap from the closet, dear. Then we’ll discuss your overspending in a way I think you’ll understand.”

Will Amy and Rob hear them and rush to the peephole? Or will they be too engrossed in aftercare?