From the Top Shelf - The Woodshed

I haven't posted a poem lately, so here's one that I hope will start your week off on a high note.

The Woodshed

by P N Dedeaux

As into the woodshed Elizabeth went
to atone for a moment's domestic dissent.
She espied an object designed to cause pain
An object which looked very much like a cane.

It could do her dire harm, our Elizabeth knew
for she'd suffered before its effect...black and blue
having bent her broad bum to its beastly embrace
and suffered its sting and the shameful disgrace.

Altogether her future seemed lacking in cheer
as her father, observing her symptoms of fear,
stated her sentence and set her ears buzzin'
"For answering back, Miss, the best of a dozen!"

"A dozen? Papa, oh please not so strict!
For cheeking Mama I've ne'er been so licked.
Oh Mercy, Dear Papa, 'twill cut me in two
Oh please let me off, if only a few!"

But let off she's not, despite wringing white hands
and a body that's trembling right there where she stands
her bosom so tense it might well be in milk
and lily white thighs, their surface like silk.

And now she is focused on Papa's thick stick
which now larrups the air so's to make her feel sick.
All her pleas were in vain, just elicit a frown
a click of the latch and a gruff "Take 'em down!"

Oh God she must strip, she must "take 'em down", quite
with fumbling hands bare her buttocks so white.
Though not long to remain so is our guess and fear
To judge from the way father eyes up her rear.

He eyes its appearance appraisingly now
as Betty disrobes with modesty's bow
and while father rolls up the sleeves of his shirt
her task is to doff, rather slowly, her skirt.

Now bare from the waist, heavy bottomed and broad
Betty blushes and stares, rather glumly, toward
the trestle o'er which she must bend her poor base
soon to be redder than even her face.

Her sense of distress and impending dire pain
increase at the sight of that frightening cane.
"Now get over tight and stick it right up
I'll teach you to lip, you insolent pup!"

Now that dreaded sawhorse has legs widely spread
and the end where she bends slopes down to its head.
So poor Betty is really extremely distended
an impartial viewer might call it well bended.

Upended, distended and thoroughly bended,
poor Betty, we fear, can not be defended
from that terrible flexible hickory stick
positioned and ready to give its first lick.

The wood writes its stripe with a grunted out "One"
for, heavens above, her chastisement's begun
and a flame of white fire courses through that young rump
as the second cut follows with sickening thump.

With the thump on her bottom, Elizabeth grips
holding hard to the trestle with in-bitten lips.
Three and four follow with plenty of time
for her father undoubtedly knows how to "lime".

And now he wraps round her the full of the tip
whose burrowing ache and blistering nip
extract his first 'music' - a quick stifled cry
Chastisements due toll, howe'er hard Betsy try.

Brave Elizabeth tries with her might and her main
to suffer in silence the scorch of the cane
but if seven is hell she gets eight at a run
her bottom is blazing, her pluck is near done.

Yes the pluck of poor Betty is seen in her face
when she turns it to daddy, as red as her base.
"Oh Father, oh please you have set me on fire!
Oh please, can't you cane me a little bit higher?"

"Please come up higher.." she piteously begs
"...the last two you gave me were down on my legs!
I'm trying to bear it the best that I know
but it isn't fair, daddy, to beat me so low!"

"You're cutting so low that it's down in the fold
where its tender and sore...if I might be so bold
I'll even take extra if higher you'll come...
In short, oh papa, please oh please just my bum!"

"I'll beat it..." he told her "...I'll beat it all right
just spread your cheeks wide and get it up tight"
and the last strokes he gave her were deadly and true
Betty yelped like a puppy and, be fair, wouldn't you?

The last that he dealt were so terribly strict
she leapt up as if by some mule she'd been kicked
for a second she seemed with the sawhorse to wrestle
in the next she had leapt from that terrible trestle.

She leapt up in terror as the last caught her well
clipping in underneath like a brand hurled from hell
it came right in to the region so tender, defined
the most feminine part of poor Betty's behind.

Poor prancing Elizabeth holds hard her rear
quite lost to all modesty now then I fear
as stamping with pain and howling her woe
she kneads her young bottom like soft stripy dough.

Kneading her buttocks and panting again
she writhes in the grip of real punishment pain.
Her father regards her, a light in his eyes
with a grin he confounds her - "Did I say you could rise?"

For rising before permission is given
is extra, alas - however you've striven
in vain poor Elizabeth falls to her knees
in vain do her salt tears now back up her pleas.

Once more she goes over in tearful despair
Once more stern papa whips that cane through the air.
The dozen's a butcher's - all ways of that word -
"Now off to your mother" is all that she heard.

Leaden limbed, dewy eyed and holding her bum
Betty dresses and drags herself off to her mum.
Her bottom is blazing, it seems twice the weight
the weals thick as fingers whose smart won't abate.

"Mama I am sorry, I apologise quite"
and curtseying Betty displays quite a sight
for turning she shows to mum her bare seat
its lily white hue turned the colour of beet.

She must turn and display the results of her crime
transgression's reward and humility's prime
the work of her father's skill with the cane
"Dear Mama, I shall ne'er answer back once again!"

With raised skirt in a corner our sinner must pass
an hour with the bible, while quite bare of ass
reading the prophets, while, rueful of face,
one hand rotating the skin of her base.

Bare of behind and a Bible before her
Elizabeth's mind is in growing disorder.
Her pain is below but her mind's overhead
where the squeak of a mattress, the springs of a bed...

...cause a blush to creep o'er Elizabeth's cheeks
hearing lusty large lungings, Mama's answering shrieks
as her father, as always after Betty's disgrace
exacts his reward from...a different place!!

From the Top Shelf - The Brush

Today I proudly present to you the fourth and final poem written by Anon, 21st century. In  order of composition, it was actually his first. I hope you enjoy it.


The Brush

He sat down squarely on the red settee.
The lass, amazed, was hauled across his knee,
Her heels in air, her nose against the plush,
And from her hand he plucked the antique brush
Which, while she needled him with jibes and mocks,
She had been pulling through her auburn locks.

Now, with her bottom perilously flaunted,
She wondered if she ought not to have taunted.
She thought he might be thinking to remind her
She should have put such childish spite behind her,
And as things lay she felt that her behind
Was all too likely where he would remind.

But she was much too dear for him to hurt,
And he too kind – then, oh, why did she blurt
“You wouldn’t dare!” and watch, with widening eyes,
His hand, reflected, and her hairbrush rise.

Now with his left arm firmly round her waist
He felt that he and she were better placed
To bring the spat she’d started to an end.
Her posture showed her ready to attend
While he expressed his full and frank response,
A task he thought he’d best begin at once.

Thin cotton slacks, but tauter than a drum,
Revealed each pliant contour of her bum.
With petulance she wriggled her trapped hips
And then that fateful phrase escaped her lips.
He sensed a thrill, a tremor down her back;
Her bottom winced beneath the pending smack.

“All right, my girl,” he said, “enough’s enough.
Or did you think I wouldn’t call your bluff?
You little minx, it’s time you were controlled.
I told you plainly once, you’re not too old
To spank, like daddy should have done before.
And no brat ever needed spanking more.”

(Too true: the strap or rod that should have taught her
Had never striped the misbehaving daughter;
The spoiled young princess never touched her toes
To have her pert bum printed shades of rose.)

“Your time has come, young lady, and now you’re – ”
And down he brought the hairbrush, hard and sure –
“About to get the paddling you deserve – ”
And down against the other gorgeous curve.
(How sweetly were her smooth and tender flanks
Upraised for him, to be adored with spanks…)

The swift effects of ten such sounding whacks
Against the tight, light fabric of her slacks –
Her bucking buttocks and her kicking heels,
Her cries of “No!” and piercing, outraged squeals –
Sent rays of warming gladness to his heart
(For her, a different warmth, another part),
Confirming that his instinct wasn’t wrong
To give what she’d been asking for so long.

So back to work. He dextrously undid
Her sleek, chic pants, and down her thighs they slid.
The sheer white briefs were clearly all too brief
To lend her well-warmed roundness much relief,
But since again she blurted “Don’t you dare!”
Her pink posterior was quickly bare.

With shrinking fear, and yet with odd elation,
She knew her rear faced one fierce flagellation,
Indignities her person never knew.
Her nightmare, and her dream, was coming true:
Bent over, quite uncovered, tightly held,
She held her breath, she trembled – then she yelled.

His wooden weapon went from cheek to cheek
And each return she greeted with a shriek.
Its form was flat and stiff, hers soft and plump,
And sternly it addressed her blushing rump.
It said hot things about her fits of pique;
It made its case against her naughty cheek.

Too many times her crimes had gone uncaught:
For every crime she earned a smart report.
Too many times she’d flexed a waspish tongue:
For every word her writhing backside stung.
She gasped in anguish at the fires he lit
And fed with well-placed strokes. How would she sit
Again upon such throbbing, tingling flesh?

She cried that if he’d stop she’d start afresh,
But plead and sob and promise all she might
He plied that wicked brush with no respite.
His aim was steady and his will was firm;
Her fate was but to redden, weep and squirm.

For fully half an hour the ceiling rang
With echoes of the sorry song she sang.
For fully half an hour he took great care
Her precious seat was spanked both ripe and rare.

And here our household scene finds happy ending:
When she’s released at last from her down-bending,
One soundly punished girl, one happy chap,
And she’s sat – gingerly – upon his lap,
And one hand’s found, while in his arms she blubs,
Her buttocks’ glowing places, which she rubs,
With kisses warmer than those flaming hills
She shows appreciation of his skills,
The master’s brushwork painting for his wife.
A rosy picture of their future life.

From the Top Shelf - The Wait

Our good friend Anon, 21st Century has sent me another of his poems to share with you, and this one is quite unique in its structure and rhyming technique. I hope you enjoy it.

The Wait

Rebecca sat nervously in the hall
Outside the Head’s office. A high-pitched squall
Of girlish distress reached her through the door
And she raised her teary gaze from the floor
For an instant. She knew too well the cause,
Which, after a tense, agonising pause,
Was repeated: the sudden whizz and whump
Of a long, springy cane against the plump
And delicate curves of Amanda’s rump.
Another yelp that tailed off in a sob…
Rebecca felt a sympathetic throb
In her tender flesh where it pressed the chair.
Had Higgins, she wondered, ordered a bare-
Cheeked target? Well, it didn’t make much odds:
Whichever he took of his wicked rods
(He’d quite an array), it would truly sear
His wrath across a wayward lass’s rear,
And knickers couldn’t dim those lines of flame
(Though they’d somewhat lessen the sense of shame).
Again the thin lawgiver clearly spoke –
That awful crack resounding through the oak –
And again the miscreant testified
How deeply sorry it made her backside.

But now that the sentence was halfway served,
Rebecca’s dreadful meditations swerved
Away from the pangs of her anguished friend
And were centred more on her own tail-end.
For once the last of the six was delivered,
It was her turn…  Yes, she palpably shivered.
It wouldn’t be long till her pal was sent
Off weeping, and she in her place was bent
Across the desk, while the Head raised her skirt
And explained how much her thrashing would hurt
And how he felt it was thoroughly earned.
So strokes four and five she scarcely discerned
(Unlike Amanda, who well knew she got ’em!)
As thrills of fear ran prickling through her bottom.

Too soon came the sixth, and the post-whack wail,
And after a minute, tearful and pale,
There stood Amanda, too shaken to speak,
A hand firmly clutched to each scorching cheek,
And there stood the Head, that horrid thing flexed
In his grasp, quietly commanding, “Next.”
Rebecca was moving as in a dream,
Limbs weak as jelly and chilled as ice-cream,
Following orders and playing her part
While the hot tears started to well and smart
As she laid her face on the polished wood
And promised herself she’d always be good
In future, and the cool air touched her bum
(The last of cool for a long time to come),
And a tap of the cane foretold the fate
That would end her endless and too-brief wait.

From the Top Shelf - The Butler's Birch

Here's another offering from my very talented friend for your enjoyment.

The Butler’s Birch
by Anon, 21st century

See pert Amelia, bound across a bench,
Prepared for Judd the butler to chastise:
Her naked buttocks tremble and they clench,
Who daren’t glance back to catch his hard blue eyes.
She knows full well she’s been a wicked wench
And soon the hall will echo to her cries.

Now all the staff are gathered in a ring
And Bolt the footman feasts his hungry gaze
On sweet pink hams – a dish fit for a king –
While pretty Poll the skivvy feels her stays
Are laced too tight, which makes her cringe and cling
At Cook’s stout side, and blush there as she sways.

“I’d die of shame if that was done to me,
My poor plump bottom pushed up in the air!
And stern old Judd, he seems so full of glee,
So keen to lay the birches on her fair,
Fine skin. It’s bad enough across his knee
For spankings on my drawers – but never bare!”

Bold Josephine, just seventeen years old,
Is peeping through the keyhole, saucy miss!
She saw the maid’s misdeed and quickly told
In hopes the consequence would be like this.
A lovely brat her parents scarcely scold,
Her noble rump deserves that rod’s hot kiss.

Now, Mr Judd, the rule must be applied.
Her flagellation’s been enough delayed.
The birch describes an arc both swift and wide
And splays across the haunches of the maid.
She’d thought to grit her teeth and keep her pride:
Instead her sudden shriek makes girls afraid.

The butler does his job with skill and force.
His lashes lay a mesh of vivid red
Across her milky globes without remorse.
As many yowls are yelled and tears are shed,
A frantic arse gyrates across the horse,
Till every vestige of her pride has fled.

How temptingly those tender hills keep calling
The whistling twigs to make their sharp descent;
How lustily her rosebud lips are squalling,
How helplessly she wriggles, tied and bent!
In every luscious inch the sting’s appalling:
How heartily Amelia must repent!

Her flaming cheeks a mass of snaky weals,
She’s helped down sobbing, clutching at their fire,
While pretty Poll (like peeking Josie) feels
A terror at that heat, yet strange desire.
A tingling itch through two young bottoms steals
To meet Judd’s swingeing birch, however dire.

          *   *   *

And so they did – each bottom had its day.
First, Polly with a china tea-set stumbled –
A stripe for every smashed thing on the tray.
Then, shockingly, for bottle-theft he’d rumbled,
The butler to a barn took Lady J.
’Twas there her haughty rump at last was humbled,
Her blue-blood rear stretched on a bale of hay,
Until she stood and – hands to blazing bum – bawled!

From the Top Shelf - At First, At Last

One of my readers sent me this lovely poem he had written about a woman's first experience with spanking, and another reader sent me the above picture. Thank you both - I think they go together very well.

At First, At Last
A sound introduction to spanking

“I’ve been a very naughty girl,” she said,
With a nervous laugh, though hardly contrite.
“Someone should scold me and send me to bed
For all of my misbehaviour tonight.”

“In fact, a daddy who knew what to do – ”
And her wide, bright eyes looked up at his frankly,
And a question hung there: could this be you?
“Would put me right over his knee and spank me!”

He wavers a moment: could it be him?
He feels a request: but is it a tease?
Then his arm goes around her soft and slim
Waist… Her hand gives his wrist a friendly squeeze…

He picks her up for a couple of paces
And carries her over to a stout oak chair.
The blood is burning in both of their faces
As he sits, and she stands in front of him there.

Then over she goes with a tumbling gasp,
Put in the place she herself has suggested,
And feels round her waist a much stricter grasp,
On the seat of her skirt a firm hand rested.

“What was I thinking of? Was it the wine?
It’s sweet in films when a girl’s bottom’s smacked,
But now that bottom is suddenly mine,
My distant dream is an imminent fact.”

She hears him say, through her thoughts’ crazy whirl,
As the warm palm’s raised from her derrière,
“You’re right, my dear. You are a naughty girl,
And therefore your bum will have to be bare.”

She gives a little moan, a writhe, a twist.
This scene is going further than she thought.
She squeaks no, no – but finds she can’t resist
As the rumpled hem of her skirt is caught

And lifted clear and folded on her back.
She gets the feeling, from between his thighs,
He likes the mix of creamy curves and black
Silk panties cupping them that greets his eyes.

Still, quickly they’re gripped by fingers and thumb
(For in this mood, delight won’t mean postponement),
Taut elastic’s pulled down over her bum,
Which quivers at the prospect of atonement.

“I’m sorry, truly I am – ” The sensation
She has so longed for comes, as hand meets rump
Resoundingly. It deserves an ovation,
The electric current that slap makes jump.

The brute, the monster – oh, how she adored him,
The gorgeous master he’s turned out to be,
And when he is done, oh, how she’ll reward him
With every tenderness this heat sets free.

But first she knows, for being such a minx,
His expert hand must raise across her cheeks
A blooming range of roses and of pinks
She’ll feel for days, and blush about for weeks.

The spanking she’s needed, all her young years,
The sting increasing by steady degrees,
Soon brings to our heroine grateful tears
As she lies there throbbing across his knees.

As for our man, his delight knows no bounds,
To punish this miss, so cool and refined,
With smart things stripped from the generous mounds
(His to command) of her queenly behind.

“Her tanning’s going to be long and hot.
I’ll make sure she literally can’t sit down,
With red prints merging on each tender spot
From her buttocks’ under-slope to their crown.”

A captured brat, whose stern guardian is mending
The mischief of her ways, whose perfect peach
Of a naked bottom, superbly bending,
Gets taught what she has longed for him to teach…

“My poor arse scorching fit to fry an egg,
I rock and kick to rhythms set by you.
I sob and squeal, I promise and I beg,
And every inch of me feels spanking-new.”

          *  *  *

And so she rose and rolled on waves of flame
And salty tears – a lesson unsurpassed,
Of joy in pain, of confidence in shame,
Learnt for the first time, though far from the last!

–Anon, 21st century

Whew! (fans self) That was hot! The poet is talented and knows his subject well. I do hope he would be willing to share more of his work with us. Don't you agree?

From the Top Shelf - Betsy Fry

We haven't had a spanking poem for a while so I thought I would remedy that today. Betsy Fry is one from a bygone age, author unknown. A naughty schoolgirl finds out what happens when she uses bad language. The poet calls her "such a great girl" so we will assume that she is a senior girl of eighteen who ought to be setting a good example for the younger pupils.

          Betsy Fry

The muses smiled, and gave consent,
when, whisk, at once away I went!
And, what was still more odd and risible
I found myself become invisible,
And slyly seated on a stool,
Among a pack of girls at school!

All tongues! As fast as they could chatter -
Sure never was there such a clatter
But one, much louder than the rest,
Amused them with a mighty jest -
A word! - she had picked up in the street!
A word this bard will not repeat!

Now, hushed at once, the little band,
Behold! The governess,so grand
The schoolroom enters! - not a word,
Where all was riot, now is heard!
Each head, by her majestic look,
Bent down on sampler, or on book!

When, Lo,the gloomy lowering eye
Prognosticates a storm is nigh:
Too sure a presage! Says the dame,
"What girl, as down the stairs I came,
Dared utter that vile, filthy word
Which never in my school was heard?

If now this instant you won't own
Who 'twas - I'll whip you all - each one!"
All- all - were ready then to cry,
'Twas not me, ma'am - 'twas Betsy Fry.'
'Who! Betsy Fry? - I'm quite ashamed -
such a great girl! - to hear her named;

But for this crime,a whipping ample
Shall be to others an example.
Indecent wretch! You, Sally Treacher,
Go run upstairs and tell the teacher
To bring that rod she made, just new,
And tied up with a ribbon blue;

Then such a punishment I'll give
You'll think on, long as you may live.
No begging,miss,will be no use
For such a crime there's no excuse
- No further talk!' and now Miss Glynn
With the birch rod marches in,

So smartly tied up with a bow,
It might be deemed a rod for show;
Yet though thus elegant the plan,
and wide expanded like a fan,
When well applied, each twig apart
Would tend to multiply the smart.

'You know, Miss Glynn, it is my rule,
when filthy words invade my school,
To use this instrument of pain
To whip and drive them out again:
So down with that vile hussy, Fry,
That I may flog and hear her cry'

The ready teacher then, Miss Glynn
(A thorough friend to discipline)
Proceeds the culprit straight to seize,
Crying, begging on her knees;
But vain her tears, and vain her prayer!-
For laid, she was, across a chair,

The governess now takes her stand,
The birchen sceptre in her hand;
With lofty air, inspiring awe,
and raised arm to enforce the law.
She shakes the whistling twigs and then,
Whip-whip-whip-whip-inflicts the pain;

Now pauses as missy roars aloud,
Sad warnings for the trembling crowd-
Crying 'Oh dear ma'am, pray do give o'er,
I will never say that word, no more.'
In vain; the rod's reiterations.

'These stripes I'm sorry to impart;
But 'tis for your own good you smart.
Who spares the rod will spoil the child
By me the proverb shan't be foiled.'
this brought the conflict to a close;
When quick the smarting culprit rose,

The governess, with awful state,
and head erect, resumed her seat;
Then calling up her victim, Fry
(sobbing and wiping either eye)
Descanted, with all due reflection,
On crimes provoking such correction;

But still, to heighten the impression
Of punishment for this transgression,
On a high stool she made her perch
And in her bosom stuck the birch;
Warning the school 'gainst crimes and errors
by the grand triumph of its terrors.




If this poem amuses you, it was taken to new heights by author Jonathan South, who wove it into a charming story called Ribbon Around the Rod Revisited.

From the Top Shelf - Saucy Sal

I feel like a little poetry today. Here's a charming and humorous poem about a sailor on leave, from Old Jim's blog Tail Tales.

Saucy Sal - A Sailor's Tale

A sailor boy was I on leave
A girl in every town
And once in port I'd waste no time
To pull their knickers down.
In London there was little Nell
Near Liverpool lived Nancy
While Bristol harboured Jill and Jane
Who both did take my fancy.

In Plymouth fair I chanced to stray
One morning bright and early
And there I spied a pretty maid
Whose hair was long and curly.
“Would you care to step out with me?”
I asked in tone quite pally
“I don’t mind if I do kind sir,”
She said, “My name is Sally.”

“But not today for I must work
Meet me tomorrow night at eight
And if you buy my beer and ale
You surely will enjoy our date.
For I am gay and fancy free
And liberal with favour
If you would kindly spank my bum
My normal fee I’ll waver!”

Next day before our rendezvous
Not wishing to be bored
I met with Sue and Katie too
With both of them I scored.
Then in the afternoon I met
A girl called Lizzie from the docks
Inside her knickers she me let
Down on the beach, behind some rocks.

At eight o’clock I made my way
Down to the Rose and Thistle
My throat was parched; I ordered ale
With which to whet my whistle.
Then through the door behind me stepped
Young Sally for our meeting
Her eyes were flashing wild with rage
She spurned my cheery greeting

Confronting me my saucy Sal
So full of fun and frolics
A vicious oath at me did yell
And kicked me in the bollocks.
“Two timing rat!” she screamed, irate,
“I've heard that you’ve been busy
Out dallying with Sue and Kate
And then with my friend Lizzie

“Now piss off back to sea,” she said
“Forget designs upon my bum
And if you come near me again
I’ll go and tell my mum!”
So friends heed warning from this tale
The next time a pretty girl you dates
If time to spare, for goodness sake
Don’t spend it with some of her mates.

I hope you'll visit Tail Tales and sample some of his other work. You won't be disappointed!

From the Top Shelf - The Perfect Wife

An excellent blog called Ladies' Spanking Fiction has resurfaced after a period of inactivity. The author, Roberta S. Barnes, presents a lighthearted view of spanking. In her own words, she creates "[s]panking fiction as it used to be: no porn, no vulgarity, no nude photos, no adolescent jokes. Just cute and wholesome spanking stories, with the merest hint of spice!" That's my kind of blog.

Today I'll share one of her short poems, The Perfect Wife. 

I know the sweater that I bought is more than our finances can bear,
And I'll get the oil changed this week, my turtledove, I swear,
It's just that I'm so woozy from being in love with you,
That there are many things around the house that I forget to do.

I know that I'm exasperating, that's why you're strict with me,
Why I must take my panties down, and climb across your knee;
You spank me 'cause you love me, dear, I know it breaks your heart,
But there's no one else I'd rather have
Making my bottom smart!

You're always there for me, my dear, and so I pledge to you,
That I will be the perfect wife, and do what I must do;
I'll be prompt and sweet and thrifty, you'll never have to fret,
You'll never have to spank again-- hm-m...
But not just yet!

Would you like another? I'm sure you will enjoy her Reflections in Corner Time.

One-Man Band

Michael wrote a lovely poem about us for Bonnie's recent poetry brunch. In case you missed it, I'll share it with you:

Hermione hails from the land of the maple leaf
Spanking is her passion and core belief
Her man Ron has a firm hand
Playing her bum like a one man band
Who after paddling her offers sweet "relief"

That Michael is a mind reader (or maybe it's because all Tops think alike). You see, Ron's special enjoyment of spanking me comes from the very unique music that each implement makes when it connects with my posterior. I often think of him as a one-man band as he produces a wide variety of sounds (excluding the ones that come from my mouth.) Here are some of them:

SMACK  The dogging bat. It's probably the loudest implement in our collection.

TIK TOK  The broad flat wooden paddle. It sounds like a ping pong match with a distinct difference between impact on the left and right cheeks.

WHOP  The leather belt. It is flexible so the strokes are farther apart and they hurt so good.

SPLIT SPLAT  The rubber spatula. It makes two slightly different sounds depending on whether the concave or the convex side connects with my bottom. Ron frequently demonstrates the difference, much to my dismay and his amusement.

Tappity tappity tap tap tappa tap  The slender wooden shoehorn. Its sound is high-pitched, and Ron usually apples it quickly with an irregular rhythm; the rhythm of a tune only he can hear. Then it's several swats to one side, more or less the same number to the other, and a flurry of taps right in the middle that never fails to make me squeal. But that just adds to the musicality of our chastisement concerto.

THUPP  The black leather strap. A major force to contend with.

PLOTT  The long wooden spatula. It's quite a useful tool, but not in the kitchen. I cringe as I hear it coming through the air, then it lands.

SWOOSH  Then there is the dressage whip. Ron loves to swish it back and forth very quickly near my head, and it whooshes in an ominous way. I cringe as I hear it, knowing how it will feel when it ultimately lands.

THWICK  The sound of the dressage whip when it finally finds its way to my bottom.


To all of these auditory stimuli I respond in the same way: OW. I'll have to expand my vocabulary to match Ron's.

From the Top Shelf - A Poem from The Pearl

This poem, first published in The Pearl in 1879, is a little extreme in its description of a birching, so be warned. Clearly, birching is an aphrodisiac, as told from a woman's point of view, but was the poet actually female or male?

The Spell of the Rod

When Lucy's fine rump we first bared to the twigs,
She was finely cut up and her flesh torn to shreds;
She cried out for mercy in her dire distress,
Promising amendment as we lowered her dress.

She had been most naughty, and a bad rude girl,
Who presumed the hair on her fanny to curl;
But the birch reached her quim as well as her bum,
The height of her agony was glorious fun.

Her frightened looks, and deep blushes of shame,
Set our hearts pit-a-pit, and our senses in flame;
The old cockolorums our cunnies would grope,
Then tossed us on sofas and had a fine stroke.

So all those slow coaches, who a rise scarce can get,
Come, pay your respect to Our Lady St. Bridget;
She'll warm up your blood till it boils in your veins,
And your penis all his pristine vigour regains.

Let the birch be your love, St. Bridget your saint,
Never flinch from the rod, nor think of a faint;
Swish--swish--let it fall, till the glow of desire,
Will run thro' your senses, and set them on fire.

Spanking Haiku

A haiku is a non-rhymed verse, conveying an image or feeling in two parts spread over three lines. There are 5 syllables in the first sentence, 7 in the second and 5 again in the last sentence.

I composed a few for you.

Lovely roundedness
quivers with expectation
and glows in response

Polished wood approaches
swoops, lands fearlessly, ascends,
Leaving its signature

Three things are certain:
Death, taxes, and a spanking.
Guess which has occurred

Leather belt is used
to embrace the waist and then
to caress the bum

I like being spanked
o joy, o rapture, o bliss,
spank me, spank me now

Naughty one, you erred
punishment will swiftly come
and wipe your slate clean

Now it's your turn. Try one, either here or on your own blog.