From the Top Shelf - Discipline on a Jet

Today's story comes from my good friend Joey. As well as being both a giver and receiver of spankings, Joey is a talented writer. I'm sure you will agree after reading this short tale. To discover how he came up with the idea for this story, read his introduction to it here.

Discipline on a Jet

After a wonderful weekend of spanking fun, I am trying to find a comfortable way of sitting on a plastic chair in the airport while waiting to board a jet back to NY.  My bottom is sore and bruised, but I am relaxed and happy as I remember all of the terrific scenes of this past weekend. I am also relieved that I was able to pass through security with my implements in my rollerboard bag. 

Fifteen minutes later, I board with my equipment and settle into my seat which is on the aisle and ten rows from the rear of the jet. I start reading Runners Magazine and soon one of the flight attendants stops by my seat to chat about running. She is sweet and nice with an athletic build. We trade marathon stories for a few minutes and she returns to her duties.

A minute later, I notice that she is engaged in a conversation with a young man who is texting on his iPhone several rows in front of me. When she turns around, I see that she is in distress so I ask her what is troubling her. 

“That young man in aisle 32 is very rude. He gave me lip when I told him that he would have to stop texting in a few minutes. The pilot will be furious if he does not turn off his phone.”

I try to calm her, but she is visibly upset.

A few minutes later, the Captain asks all passengers to turn off their electronic equipment, but the young man totally disregards his request. A moment later, I see the flight attendant speaking to him again in a firm voice, but he does not even look up at her. In frustration, she heads back up the aisle with a very distressed look on her face.  I stop her and ask what is going on.

“I am very upset. I asked him firmly to turn off his phone, but he will not.  Although the door is locked and we are taxiing to the runway, I must tell the pilot. The Captain will be very annoyed that I cannot handle the situation.  And I am sure that he will stop the jet until the matter is resolved.”

She returns to the rear of the jet and I can tell she is in a heated conversation with someone.  And she is almost in tears because of her frustration with the young man. A few minutes later, I notice that the jet has stopped moving. She starts forward and I ask to speak with her.

“What is going on?” I ask.

“The pilot wants to return to the gate and have him escorted off the jet. This will delay the flight by at least 45 minutes. And, he will blame me for not being able to handle the situation.”

“I have an idea; may I speak with you in the rear galley?”

She nods and I follow her.

“I have experience with providing old-fashioned discipline.” I show her my acrylic cane and whisper my plan in her ear. She smiles and nods her approval. I turn and head for the young man who is named John. I look at John and in my most commanding voice I say:

“Look at me!”

Startled, John looks in my eyes.

“FOLLOW ME. NOW!”

He stands and follows me to the galley. When he passes me, I close a curtain to give us some privacy.

“John. You are in big trouble. In a moment, the pilot will put you off the jet and most likely add your name to the no-fly list. You will not be able to fly for at least five years.”

“You are bluffing me.”

“No. I am as serious as a heart attack.” His mouth dropped and I could tell he was a little scared.

“I have an alternative for you.”

“Tell me.”

“You can accept 12 strokes with this cane from the flight attendant and apologize.” My plastic cane does not look harsh, but it stings like a bunch of bees and leaves a nice after burn.

“Take your best shot.”

I place a stool in front of him and tell him to drop his pants and bend over the stool. When he drops his pants, I find out that he is dressed commando style with no knickers. So, John will get the strokes on the bare. Well, all the better for this rude lad.

I show the flight attendant how to swing the cane and tell her to take a practice swing. I like my plastic cane because it is easy to handle in tight quarters, but packs a mean sting.

“Are you ready?” I say to the flight attendant. She nods with a smile.

“Ok. I will count strokes.”

The first stroke is delivered with a passion that I only see with the most sadistic dommes. John jumps in surprise at the sting.

“Back down, young man!” I say in a firm voice.

Five quick and nasty strokes are delivered and his bottom has five welts. The sixth stroke is very harsh and he jumps and uses the F-word.

“No cursing!  We will start over.”

“What?” said John.

“Keep quiet and keep your mouth shut. Get it?”

“Yes sir.”

Twelve more vicious strokes and his young bottom is nicely striped.

“Get up. Say you are sorry.”

“I am sorry, Ma’am.”

John returns to his seat with his head bowed.

I hug the flight attendant and we both smile in triumph.

I wish all nuisance travellers could be dealt with in such an effective manner. To discover how Joey came up with the idea for this story, read his introduction to it here.

A Cartoon Startle

The comic strip Overboard portrays the lives of two groups of feuding pirates, and usually features the antics of the mice that live on board and the dogs that seem almost human. I found an unexpected startle in it the other day.

How does one discipline a pirate?


For old times' sake, here's a cartoon from the days when spanking was a fairly common subject.

Another Disciplinary Kitteh

This is obviously a domcat.

Disciplinary Kitteh

Has anyone ever said this to you?

The Empty Office

Someone has moved into the empty office at the end of the hall on the floor above the one I am located on.

I hope I am never summoned upstairs.

Vintage Disciplinary Ladies

Here are some ladies from days gone by who look very capable of delivering a satisfactory bottom-warming with a varied assortment of implements.






Spanked with peacock feathers? Could be.

One Giant Step

Ron and I engage in spanking strictly for enjoyment. For us, it's both fun and erotic, but never for discipline. Ron isn't interested in turning our favourite aerobic activity into punishment, and as he always tells me, I enjoy it so much it could never be punishment for me. But still, sometimes I wish he would pretend, and use the disciplinary words that press my buttons.

One evening, we were in the kitchen together, jointly preparing dinner, when Fluffy scratched at the back door. I let him out.

"Don't give him a treat when he comes in," Ron told me. "I'm mad at him. He was a nuisance today."

I heard, and agreed, but five minutes later, when Fluffy came back in, I automatically reached into the treat jar and popped a tiny doggy goodie into his open mouth.

Let me explain. The habit of giving a treat is one of long standing. The theory is that it encourages our dogs to go out in inclement weather to do their duty instead of using the carpet. It also provides an incentive to come in when they are called, even though there are so many interesting things to eat, roll in and bark at outdoors. So Ron's request was simply overruled by years of habit. It wasn't intentional.

But Ron noticed.

"You disobeyed me," he remarked.

"Um, yes."

"You disobeyed my order and gave Fluffy a treat," he continued in a very authoritarian manner. My heart leapt!

"Yes, Sir." I tried to sound contrite while wondering where this was going.

"Go upstairs and get the paddle out right now," Ron commanded.




I stood and stared, eyes wide with disbelief. These were the words I had been waiting for, even though I knew he didn't mean a word of it. We had just finished a vigorous spanking session half an hour earlier, so I suppose Ron was basking in a dominant afterglow. He had no intention of administering a second dose, but was still in spanko mode.

I hugged Ron and laughed as I told him, "You've finally got the dialogue down. You said exactly the right words. Thank you."

We've taken another giant step forward on our spanko journey together.

And no, I didn't get another spanking for disobedience.

I haven't told you about the one I got just before this happened, have I?

I must do that soon.

If...

I don't get spanked as punishment, but if I did, failure to obey one of the many Rules of the Cars is what would get me into trouble.

Ron is very particular about our cars. He cleans them frequently - inside and out - when weather permits. He's diligent about taking them in for regular servicing, and investigates every tiny noise that might signal a possible problem.

Once, just once, I drove away one winter's day without unplugging the car. For those of you who live in warmer climates and might wonder what I'm talking about, here in the north we have heaters that keep the engines warm at night. They prevent the oil from freezing or the gas from congealing or something - I'm not clear on the details - but the main thing is, when you turn the key, the car starts on even the coldest morning.

Anyway, before getting into the car, it's a good idea to unplug the car from the power source before driving. I only forgot once, but Ron's never allowed me to forget it. (And just so you know, he did it once too. And have I ever mentioned it to him? Well, not often.)

He could have just spanked me, and that would have been the end of it. But no. Every morning for the rest of the winter, when I was ready to leave for work, Ron would give me a hug, and just before he kissed me good-bye, would say, "Don't forget to unplug the car."

"I know," I replied for the first few days. I hoped that after a while he would see that I wasn't about to forget again and would stop reminding me. But it went on and on. I would lie awake at night, thinking of sharp retorts that might make him stop the reminders. I would fret and fume all day at work. I'd even refuse to kiss him goodbye if I heard those hated words. Instead, I'd snap "I know, stop reminding me!"

Finally, I gave up. When I got my morning reminder to unplug the car, I simply smiled sweetly and said, "Yes sir, thank you for reminding me, sir." (That didn't sound sarcastic to you, did it?) The reminders stopped like magic. Now, on cold days, Ron goes out and - on the pretext of starting the car and warming it up for me - unplugs it himself.

The other way I could easily get spanked is by backing out of the driveway incorrectly. I figure that as long as I eventually get to the road, then point the car in the direction I want to go, all is well. Ron has other ideas. I need to back out straight, with an equal amount of space on each side. He watches me from the window, and I return his wild gesturing with a friendly wave.

Once, he phoned me at work to say that he had been talking to Pete from next door. Pete had asked him to tell me to please try not to drive across his front lawn each morning. That's a gross exaggeration! And I'm pretty sure Ron made it up.

Just yesterday, I was putting my coat on, and Ron was giving me specific instructions on how and when to turn the steering wheel to back out; the car I was taking happened to be parked on an angle near the house. I nodded, smiled, and as I pulled on my gloves, I asked, "and I can expect a spanking if I don't do it to your satisfaction, right?"

"Oh, no," he replied, then added, "maybe from Pete, though. He gets pretty annoyed when you drive onto his lawn."

Yeah, right.

From the Top Shelf - Rocking Horse

This is a charming passage from Maid's Night In, written in 1988 by that prolific writer, Anonymous. I hope you enjoy it.

"We shall go to the attic," he said. His hand held mine--enclasped and covered it. As we rose his foot nudged the wine bottle and it fell. We gazed at each other and smiled.


"You will come, Beatrice? It is for the last time." There was a sadness.


We ascended, our footsteps quiet...no one had ever seen me go to the attic with him. It was our game, our secret. Our purity.


We entered by the ladder and stood. In the far corner near the dormer window stood the rocking horse, grey and mottled. Benign and handsome--polished in its varnished paint--it brooded upon the long gone days. His hand held mine still. He led me forward. My knees touched the brocaded cloth of an armchair whose seat had sagged. Upon it lay a mirror and a brush, both backed with tortoiseshell. They were as I had used of old up here.


He turned his back to me and gazed out through the glass upon the tops of the elms. A trembling arose in me which I stilled. With slow care I removed my dress, my underskirt, and laid them on the chair. Beneath I wore a white batiste chemise with white drawers whose ribbons adorned the pale of my thighs. My silk brown stockings glistened. I waited.


He turned. he regarded me gravely and moved toward me. "You have grown. Even in three years you have grown," he said. "Where shall you ride to?"


I laughed. "To Jericho," I replied. I had always said that though I did not know where it was. Nodding, his hand sought the brush. I held the mirror. With long firm strokes of the bristles he glossed and straightened my hair. Its weight lay across my shoulders, in its lightness. Its goldness shone and he was pleased.


"It is good. The weather is fair for the journey. Will my lady mount?"


We stepped forward. He held the horse's reins to keep it still. Once there had been a time when my legs could hold almost straight upon the horse. Now that I was grown more I had to bend my knees too much. My bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches. He moved behind me and began to rock the horse with one hand. With the other he smacked my outstretched bottom gently.


"My beautiful pumpkin--it is larger now," he murmured. My shoulders sagged. In the uprising of my bottom I pressed my face against the strong curved neck of the horse. It rocked faster. I clung as I had always clung. The old plank floor swayed and dipped beneath me. His palm smacked first one cheek and then the other.


"Oh! no more!" I gasped. All was repetition.


"it is far to Jericho," he laughed. I could feel his happiness in my head. The cheeks of my bottom burned and stung. My knees trembled. The bars of the stirrups held tight under the soles of my boots.


"No more!" I begged. His hand smacked on. I could feel the impress of his fingers on my own.


"Two miles--you are soon there. What will you do when you arrive?"


"I shall have handmaidens. They will bathe and perfume me. I shall lie on a silken couch. they will bring me wine."


I remembered all the words. I had made them up in my dreams and brought them out into the daylight.


"I may visit you and share your wine?" he asked. His hand fell in a last resounding smack. I gasped out yes. I fell sideways and he caught me. He lifted me until my heels unhooked from the stirrups. I sagged against him. My nether cheeks flared...I clenched my bottom cheeks and hid my face against his chest.


"It was good. I should bring the whip to you henceforth," he murmured.


The words were new. They were not part of our play. Had I forgotten the words? Perhaps we had rehearsed them once. In their smallness they lay scattered in the dust. Dried flecks of spokenness.


"It would hurt," I said.


"No, it is small. Stand still." I did not know what to do with my hands. He was gone to the far corner of the attic and returned. In his hands was a soft leather case. He opened it. There was a whip. The handle was carved in ebony, the end bulbous. There were carvings as of veins along the stem. From the other end exuded strands of leather. I judged them not more than twenty-five inches long. The tapered ends were loosely knotted.


"Soon, perhaps. Lay it for now beneath your pillow, Beatrice."


So saying he cast aside the case and I took the whip. At the knob end was a silky smoothness. The thongs hung down by my thigh... Broad trails of heat stirred in my bottom still... The handle of the whip felt warm as if it had never ceased being touched.

Ending with a Bang

For the holidays I have been concocting some interesting beverages in the traditional colours of the season. I'll admit that the intriguing shape of the bottles had something to do with my choice of flavours, but the green sour apple and red cranberry are both delicious. A little of either poured into a glass filled with seltzer or diet tonic water, ice and a dash of bitters, makes a zesty, low-calorie, non-alcoholic drink that's tasty but not sweet.

Diet tonic water is very hard to come by in small quantities, so when I buy a big two-litre bottle, I decant it into two smaller bottles that will fit into the tiny fridge in the family room. Last night I was doing just that. Did you know that tonic water at room temperature behaves much like champagne when the top is removed? I was doing my best to be careful, but some spillage was inevitable. I topped up the smaller bottles, capped them and put them away, and then Ron arrived.

"You spilled," he observed.

"Yes, just a little."

"Clean it up," he ordered sternly. It was only a little liquid, but I got a paper towel and swiped it over the bar. When I was finished Ron picked up the empty plastic bottle and held it by the top, brandishing it at me. I turned around, bent over and put my hands on my knees. Whack! Whack! I got a half-dozen swats on my bottom with the bottle. I felt the sting through my clothing.

"That makes a pretty good whacker," Ron commented. (He rates implements according to how much noise they make.) He kept the bottle in his hand and took it upstairs - whether he was taking it to the kitchen recycler or the bedroom toy box, I couldn't tell.

I'll find out soon, since it seems we are still celebrating the twelve days of Christmas.

On the Road Again

I'm going on a short trip soon, and Ron has decided to let me take his car because it's more comfortable for driving long distances. (He doesn't like me to call it "his car" but he probably won't read this, so it'll be our secret.)

We have two cars. One is mine. I'm not supposed to say that either. It's our car but I drive it to work every day and we use it whenever we need to transport something large or messy. Then there's his car our other car, which is newer; I'm only allowed to drive it under exceptionable circumstances, like when the other car is in the shop.

So, I feel quite privileged. And nervous. Ron outlined the rules for me.

"No food in the car."
"No, Sir."

"No drinks in the car."
"No, Sir."

"No breathing in the car No driving over parking bumpers."
"I'll try not to this time, Sir."

"No parking near other cars or under trees."
"I'll do my best, Sir."

"There will be a thorough inspection when you get home."
"And you'll administer the appropriate discipline depending on what you find?" I smiled hopefully.

"No! There will be no discipline. . . I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Oh, well. Maybe I'll get a welcome home spanking if the car passes inspection. And I know he'll make sure I'm not all that comfortable when I set out in the morning.