Men, huh? Can't live with 'em. Can't strip 'em and spank 'em. Well actually, you CAN, in this little corner of cyberspace. Around here, fully grown males are at constant risk of humiliating bare bottomed correction - hence the 'humblings' of the title.
The glider is high up - maybe three thousand feet over the hilltop, which is itself a good six hundred above the sea. Had he not been lying on his back and gazing contentedly into the late summer sky, Frank would probably not have noticed it at all. Now he is transﬁxed by the lazy progress of the slender machine as it climbs in a slow circle, riding a thermal, neatly framed by the circle of long grass in which he and Mary are hiding.
"Think he can see us?" Frank asks, shifting his position a little to escape a stone that's digging into his bare backside. His shoes, socks, jeans and briefs are in a tangle at the far corner of their picnic blanket.
"'He'?" asks Mary - up on one elbow now, straw-coloured hair in disarray, breasts revealed invitingly by the scooped neckline of her yellow cotton dress. "Stop press, sweetheart - just occasionally one of us little women gets out of the kitchen and all the way up in one of those things, you know. Sometimes," she says, reaching over to take a soft, teasing grip on her husband's penis,"they even let us handle the controls."
Frank closes his eyes at her touch. "They do?"
"They do, and have done for quite a while. Amelia Earhart? Ring any bells?"
"Sure it does - oh God, honey, that feels good - she's the girl from way back who ﬂew across the Atlantic - or was it the Paciﬁc? And then -"
"It was both."
" - and then took a wrong turn trying to ﬁnd some island, and was never seen again." Frank opens one eye mischievously. "Probably got into trouble while she was ﬁxing her makeup in the rear-view mirror."
Mary withdraws her hand abruptly, and uses it to brush crumbs from her skirt. "You'd know all about getting into trouble," she says.
That produces an uncomfortable smile. "Hey, sorry about earlier, love - but let's not spoil the mood. Look, the sun's shining. It's not supposed to be a school day." Frank puts his hands beneath him and slides his torso over until his head is resting on her lap. "Or if it is, how about you carry on with the history lesson? You know I have a thing for you intellectual schoolma'am types."
Mary regards him coolly for a moment. "Amelia Mary Earhart," she says. "No relation, before you ask. American, born around the end of the nineteenth century. Learned to ﬂy. Set quite a number of records, became a celebrity proponent of female equality. And disappeared, like you said, in mysterious circumstances - most likely after running out of fuel. Which, by the way, as well as any 'wrong turns', would have been down to her highly experienced, and very male, navigator."
Frank is sceptical. "Male navigator, oil changer, heavy lifter, engine starter..."
Mary squints up into the sunlight. "Maybe so. But our friend up there doesn't need an engine," she says.
"I guess not," says Frank, eager to keep the mood light and the subject safe. "So, do you think he - or she - can see us?"
"I should certainly hope not," Mary says. "And if you mean, can he or she see your frisky little cock - since you're the one lounging around partly tumescent and practically naked - I'd say probably not without a very low pass and bloody powerful binoculars."
Frank looks hurt. "I thought you liked my cock," he says.
"Oh, I do, sweetie. But I like dragonﬂies and bumble bees and dormice too. Doesn't mean I'm in a hurry to put one in my mouth."
Frank sighs and sits up. "Guess I might as well get dressed, in that case. And then we can head back home to mother."
"Not just yet, I don't think." Mary makes a show of gathering up his discarded clothes and pushing them into a corner of their wicker picnic basket, where the plates and glasses and leftover food have already been put away. Then she ﬁxes him with her gaze and says, "Not until we've had a little discussion about what happened this morning."
Frank rolls his eyes. "Come on, darling. You could see how she was needling me."
"'She' is my mother, Frank, and a guest in our house. Yes, she can sometimes be a little forthright. But she is not an 'interfering witch'. And next time you're tempted to address her as such, I want you to be thinking about the consequences."
Frank blinks. He opens his mouth to speak, but then thinks better of it, and in any case Mary is busy rooting inside the basket again.
"Let me tell you what's going to happen," she says. She retrieves the large, folded penknife whose corkscrew attachment they'd used to open the wine, and points it toward him for emphasis. "You are going to cut me a switch. Not too thick, not too thin, say the diameter of your little ﬁnger. Make it about a foot-and-a-half long. Nice, pale wood with plenty of spring - hazel or hickory or birch are all good."
Frank looks warily at the knife for a moment and doesn't move, almost as though he were considering saying no. Then he reaches out and takes it, as they both knew he would.
"Honey, she really was needling me," he says again, but this time without conviction.
"Less whining," says Mary. "More switch-cutting."
Mary's hunt for the knife has also turned up an uneaten banana. Now she uses her long nails to pry open its skin before peeling it slowly, thoughtfully. "Look on the bright side," she says, "Once we've got this unpleasant business out of the way, who knows? If you've shown me you can do as you're told, and after I've had the satisfaction of whipping your bare little behind, I might even be in the mood," - she slowly slides a good third of the banana between her full lips, bites off a mouthful and talks around it - "to show you some forgiveness."
She picks up the paperback book from the blanket beside her, opens it at the bookmark and reads half a page before looking up again as if in surprise that Frank is still in the same spot. "Or," she says, "we can head back to the car right now. And we'll do this at home, with the hairbrush, and with mummy listening in the next room."
Frank's face ﬂushes instantly. "Wait... okay," he says.
"I mean, I'll do it. The switch thing."
"Yes," says Mary, still chewing, "you will."
Frank glances over to where one trouser cuff is protruding from the top of the basket. "I'll just put my..."
"No," says Mary, "you won't. Not until after you've been dealt with."
Frank lowers his gaze and pushes out his bottom lip, like a scolded child. He spends a minute or so ﬁddling with the knife, popping a blade in and out. Stalling. Finally he looks around, and nods hopefully at the small stand of bushes a few yards behind them. "Are any of those hazel or... what was it again?"
"Those are laburnum," Mary says, and points over his shoulder. "Try there."
Frank turns and gapes at the open ground between their hidden location and the wooded area that Mary is indicating. "You're kidding, right?"
Mary ponders brieﬂy. "Nope," she says.
"But that's miles away. What if somebody walks past?"
"Then you'd better be busy inside that wood, or safely back here with my switch, when they do."
"But what if they're around when I come out?"
Mary sighs and closes her book. "I suppose we mustn't frighten the locals. We'll need a secret signal, to spare your blushes."
Mary raises her eyebrows. "Did you read even a single adventure story in your youth? Or did you progress straight from picture books of moo-moos and baa-baas to the lingerie pages of your mother's catalogue?" Frank begins to protest, but she cuts him off. "Yes, dear, a secret signal. Like an owl hoot, or a cuckoo call. Or a whistle."
"Good God," sighs Mary, "I've married a parrot. Yes, a whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you Frank? You just put your lips together, and blow."
"I know how to whistle," says Frank. "But how will this work?"
"I'm coming to that. Once you've cut yourself a switch, you stay nice and hidden but you give me a whistle. Like this." She demonstrates, with a low sound that glides up and down in pitch. "Now you do it."
Frank looks pained, but manages a fair imitation.
"Hmm," frowns Mary. "Well, that will have to do. Now, when I hear that, I'll stand up and have a little look around. If the coast is clear, I'll answer you with the same whistle and you can come scurrying back with your weapon of choice."
"And if the coast isn't clear?"
"Then I won't answer you."
Frank looks unhappy. "We don't need to do this, honey."
"Fine. Then you can take a chance on an impromptu audience."
"Um, I actually mean...we don't need to do this at all."
Mary greets this suggestion with an icy stare. "I do hope we're not entering a period of deﬁance, Francis. But if we are, I daresay my mother might enjoy hearing it brought to an abrupt end."
Frank's shoulders slump visibly. "No," he sighs. "It's just... could you point? I wouldn't know any of those types of tree..."
"...if they bit you on the ass?" Mary allows herself a smirk. "Tell you what, we won't worry too much about the species. You just keep examining nice, whippy little branches until you say to yourself, 'That one looks like it'd really, really hurt.' Then you deliver it back here and we ﬁnd out how right you were." She leans over and places a finger beneath Frank's chin to lift his face toward hers. She's no longer smiling. "You'll want to take your time and choose carefully, little man, because if I don't like the switch you bring me then you'll be going right back to cut another. Now, do we understand each other?"
It's the question Frank always struggles with, even though it has only one permissible answer and he has had plenty of practice at providing it.
"Yes, ma'am," he says with difficulty.
"Good," says Mary, "then there'll be no more debate."
Frank would like more debate - a whole afternoon of it, if he thought he could wear Mary down; which long and painful experience has taught him he cannot. During three years of courtship and another two of marriage he's lost count of the number of times she's found it necessary to 'deal with' him - never quite without reason, but always with an enthusiasm bordering on glee. Mary has made good and frequent use of the hairbrush, the belt, the slipper; in the bedroom, the lounge, the kitchen and, on one occasion that he still blushes to recall, the rear patio of their semi-detached surburban house while their neighbours entertained friends on the far side of their six-foot fence. Are his wife's ministrations good for him? Do they strengthen their relationship? Frank doesn't know, and has long since given up wondering. He does know that the force of her personality intoxicates him in exactly the same way as it did in their first few months together; and that when she instructs him to do something and she means it, he cannot say no.
Frank does not say no. Instead he rises cautiously to his knees, and peers across the space between the edge of the long grass and the woods. Lord, that's got to be at least a hundred-and-ﬁfty yards. He eases himself up a little further, self-consciously tugging down the hem of his t-shirt as he does so. He cranes his neck to look up the path as far as he can see, to where it disappears over the rise. He turns to his left and for a few moments watches the opening at the far corner of the ﬁeld. Nobody appears, but that doesn't mean nobody will.
Mary glances at her watch. "The village market closes at four, doesn't it?" she says casually. "Probably be quite a few people heading home this way soon." Frank doesn't answer, but pulls harder on the fabric until he more-or-less manages to cover his crotch. "What I mean is," continues Mary, "if I were you I'd stop making like a meerkat and run, rabbit, run. Oh, you'd best leave your shirt here too. I paid good money for that, and you're stretching it all out of shape." She extends a hand. "Take it off please, and give it to me."
Frank stares at her in dismay. "I can't," he says, feebly.
"'Can't'?" says Mary. "Of course you can, sweetie. Just pull up that hem...come on, up, up, higher... now over your head... there you go."
A minute later Frank, perfectly naked now except for the running shoes that Mary has tossed him at the last moment - "We can't have you scratching those pretty feet" - is crawling to the edge of the long grass. Slowly, head on a swivel, he rises to his knees and ﬁnally balances on his haunches.
For a few moments he just crouches there, swaying slightly, caught between the resolve to get this over with and the queasy fear of putting distance between himself and the dignity of his clothing. He looks back at Mary and opens his mouth to say something - anything - but she's already engrossed in her book.
"You're supposed to be keeping a look out," Frank hisses.
"I am. Off you go, nature boy."
Frank's mouth tightens and he closes his eyes for several long seconds. When he opens them again he is still there, still naked, and still - but not for much longer - hidden from view. Reluctantly, giddy with adrenaline, he gets to his feet and then catches himself momentarily, ridiculously, looking for a pocket in which to stow the knife. Finally he grips it between his teeth. Then, genitals clasped in one hand and with the other trying ineffectually to cover his bare bottom, he begins to run.
Frank makes it halfway to the trees before he falls. A rock, or a root, or something - he's not about to stop and investigate - catches his toe, and he loses his balance and sprawls full length in the dirt. Cursing, he scrambles to his feet and then stumbles on, one hand still cupped over his groin and the other rubbing at a graze on his knee. The knife has been jettisoned ahead of him, and he scoops it up without breaking his stride.
As he nears the treeline he realises the way into the woods is blocked - stinging nettles, hundreds of them, standing chest-high along the perimeter as far as he can see. His pace slows to a stop and he backs up a little to get a better view. "Shit," he says. "Shit!" Hands jammed between his thighs, bouncing on his toes, he turns this way and that in an agonised ﬁt of indecision.
The barking of a nearby dog breaks the spell. There's no telling where it's coming from, but every chance that the animal and its owners are heading this way. Alarmed, Frank plunges straight ahead through the dense vegetation, ignoring the hot sparks of the stinging hairs breaking over his skin.
Now inside the wood Frank feels a little better, if not exactly at ease. The trees are densely packed and there's plenty of low-growing foliage, and once he's a few yards in, the ﬁeld is completely hidden from him - and thus he from it. He crouches experimentally, and decides that he could probably make himself mostly invisible if anyone came along the path within the wood. Probably. Mostly. "Shit," he says again. Best to keep moving.
At first Frank can't find what he's looking for. There are branches everywhere, of course, but all of them somehow wrong; too thick, too thin, too bent, too dead. "Choose carefully, young man," he reminds himself bitterly. He rubs vigorously at the nettle stings peppering his thighs, and watches his exposed penis bobbing in response as if mocking his predicament. Twice he's heard voices within the wood, thankfully none of them nearby but more than enough to make him jittery.
After several minutes of activity, much of it spent ducking into bushes at the slightest unexpected noise, Frank comes across a promising-looking tree with a dozen small branches radiating out from its trunk. Crouching, he bends a couple of them to test their flexibility and then chooses one. After a furtive glance over each shoulder he uses the knife to saw away at its base, twisting and tugging at it until it suddenly comes free. He topples backwards onto his behind, not hurt but nonetheless left with a dismal vision of himself - a thirty-four year old man, stripped to his birthday suit in the middle of a public wood, holding the instrument of his correction in one hand and using the other to pick away the dead leaves that have attached themselves to his bare buttocks and scrotum. The knife has skittered away into the undergrowth, and after a brief search Frank resigns himself to having lost it. Sullenly, he hacks at the undergrowth with the switch, and it cuts the air with a menacing thwip. At least that will help to fend off the nettles for the return trip.
Frank makes his way carefully back to the spot where he entered the wood - or thinks he did, since it all looks the bloody same by now. He finds a patch of bracken and hunkers down within it, as close to the tree line as he dares. If he can make it back to Mary without being seen, then at least he's past the worst of this. He might even laugh about it later, especially if the promise of that thing with the banana comes to fruition. He's not looking forward to the whipping, of course, but it will hardly be his first.
It's only when Frank attempts to whistle that he realises how dry his mouth is. He swallows hard and tries again, and this time the result sounds, if anything, too loud. At least that ought to do it, he thinks - except that it doesn't. Only sporadic snatches of birdsong break the stillness of the afternoon. Frank tries again, then suddenly thinks: shut up, you idiot - no response means the coast isn't clear. And here you are drawing attention to yourself.
Frank squats and listens and waits, fingers drumming against his pink-skinned knees, until eventually he can no longer bear the suspense. Creeping forward, he straightens up until he can just see over the top of the nettle bed. There is indeed someone walking there, out towards the stile at the far corner of the field - a young blonde woman in a yellow dress, carrying a picnic basket.
"Mary!" Frank exclaims in an absurd stage whisper.
She has to be teasing him, of course... doesn't she? She's heard him whistle, probably guesses that he'll be looking, and she does have a fondness for pranks. Any moment now, she'll look round and flash her trademark grin in his direction.
Any moment now.
Frank waits for Mary to turn back at the stile. Then he waits, a little less certainly, while she hoists the basket - the basket containing his clothes - and climbs over it into the roadway. And then she is gone.
Suddenly gripped by anxiety, Frank briefly considers making a break out of the trees and straight through the meadow, and dignity be damned - but that's before a brown labrador, nose to the ground, trots across his field of view. Following it are a middle-aged man and woman, deep in conversation but still unlikely to miss a stranger clad in running shoes and nothing else sprinting across an open field - so Frank stays put. Cursing furiously under his breath, he peers through the leaves and watches the dog walkers saunter along the path, taking their time; for all the world as though they were only out for a pleasant stroll and not actually intent on ruining his life.
Finally, inexorably, the walkers disappear from view. Frank counts to ten, glances briefly behind him and begins to swing at the nettles with the switch. Twenty seconds later he is edging sideways through the gap he's created and thinking, thinking hard. The car is parked about half a mile away and Mary has a head start of five or six minutes, which means she'll be most of the way there by now. It's unthinkable - isn't it? - that she'd drive off without him. So yes, yes, she'll be waiting in the car. He won't want to waste any time, though - the field has been quiet enough for most of the afternoon, so he'll cut across to the far hedge as fast as he can go, and then be more careful once he gets to the road.
For a while, Frank is lucky. Nobody yells or screams as he races across the field, arms and legs pumping, testicles bouncing uncomfortably. Next he follows the line of the road but keeps within the edges of the fields as best he can, hurriedly pressing himself into hedgerows whenever he hears an approaching car. At one point he spots a farmer's tractor in the distance, but there's not much he can do about that. Probably doesn't care so long as I'm not trampling his crop, Frank thinks - then, a second later: who am I kidding? More likely he's on his cellphone to the police right now, reporting a dangerous pervert in the top pasture.
As Frank watches the tractor it seems to turn in his direction, which gets him moving again. He vaults over a gate and out into the lane at the same moment that a blue Toyota convertible, top down, is rounding the bend. Frank gets a glimpse of the driver and her passengers - three young female faces, all sharing one astonished expression and all turned in his direction - as the car cruises past. He turns away and retreats down the lane at a brisk walk, as if to run would make him somehow more conspicuous. Behind him the Toyota slews to a stop, and from within it come a shrill wolf whistle, raucous laughter and a girl's voice. "Hey, sexy! Need a lift somewhere?" No, thinks Frank - just a sack to cover my head and a hole in the ground to swallow me up. He quickens his pace and after a few seconds hears the car pull away again, a double tap of the horn and more laughter fading into the distance. At least, thinks Frank, they probably don't have room to turn around.
Another five hundred yards, another bend in the lane and there, thank God, is the couple's white Ford saloon. By ducking his head Frank can see Mary in the driver's seat, one foot propped up against the dashboard, reading her book. She looks up as he approaches, her expression hard to read except that there's a definite hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth.
Frank stalks up to the car, yanks at the handle of the passenger door and finds it locked. His wife cocks an eyebrow, but makes no move to open it.
"Christ, Mary," Frank says through the closed side window.
She's smirking openly now, and when she speaks her voice is muted by the glass. "Enjoy your walk?"
"No, not really. What the hell were you thinking?"
"That you'd like the chance to show off your superior male navigation skills. What happened, did you take a wrong turn?"
Mary taps the face of her wristwatch. "Anyway - ten minutes, I said. You were fifteen, at least. A girl gets bored, left alone for too long."
Frank scowls, searches his memory. "What do you mean, 'ten minutes?' You said no such thing!"
"Didn't I? Oh. Well, I meant to. You probably distracted me with all that sulking."
Frank pulls at the handle again, uselessly. "Could you open the door?"
"What's the magic word?"
"Please," sighs Frank.
"And where's your magic wand?"
Frank stares at Mary for a moment, and then lifts the switch for her to inspect. He'd almost forgotten he had it.
"Very nice. Very nice indeed. So, are you ready for your whipping?"
Mary reaches over and cracks the window an inch. "I said, Frank: are you ready for your whipping?"
Frank shakes his head weakly. "Please, love. Look, I'll apologise to your mother. Unlock the door and let's go home. I've... learned my lesson, alright?" He looks up and down the lane and then takes a step back, spreading his arms to indicate his nakedness. "Hey, I've spent the last half hour like this. I've hidden in bushes. I've been stung to buggery by nettles. I've been chased by farmers. I've been damn nearly abducted by predatory women. Now, come on. You've had your fun."
Mary sits back, opens her own door, and swings her feet out onto the dusty unmade surface of the lane. She pushes herself up from her seat, steps around to Frank's side of the car and takes the switch from his hand, flexing it until it forms an almost circular frame behind which her pretty face resolves itself into a tight-lipped smile.
"No," she says. "No I haven't."
The hilltop is bathed in sunlight - maybe four hundred feet below her, Margaret calculates, with a glance at her altimeter. The shadows are longer than they were on her outbound trip, but it's still a beautiful afternoon and the sky is a flawless azure bowl stretching from horizon to horizon. She studies the aviation map on her lap: six miles back to the airfield, which at her current glide ratio should leave her about two hundred feet of altitude to spare by the time she crosses the perimeter. Cutting it a little fine, admittedly, but then twenty years' experience has given her plenty of confidence in the cockpit. She checks her watch. She'll be in the clubhouse by six and she's already looking forward to flirting with the new bartender, Matthew - twenty-three years old, and with a cute little arse that has her adding snacks to her order just because he has to bend down to get them. He lives locally, too, and he did blush very prettily when she told him what happens to naughty boys who miscount her change. Perhaps she'll take him to bed at the end of his shift - his bed, that is - and then he can bring her back to pick up her Jeep in the morning.
A glint of reflected sunlight below her catches Margaret's attention.
Down there in the lane, pointing off towards the distant town, is a solitary, white parked car. Probably a couple out for an intimate drive, Margaret smiles to herself, although it seems they might be having some trouble. He, shirtless by the look of it, is bending over the front of the vehicle as though to inspect the engine - but the bonnet is closed. She, a couple of feet behind him, seems to be gesturing with something. No, she's swinging her arm rhythmically back and forth.
As the glider draws level with the vehicle, and just before the scene disappears from view beneath her starboard wing, Margaret sees that the man isn't only bare from the waist up. He's actually... and the woman appears to be... "Oh my," she says aloud, "Well, there's one for the log book." Intrigued, Margaret considers going around for a second pass, and even as she looks behind her the glider begins to drift a little. Best not to risk it, she decides after a few moments. Not so many thermals at this time of day to help her home, and in any case she'll have a young man of her own to play with before the evening's out. She spots the drift and applies some corrective rudder and stick, and the aircraft obediently responds. Smiling, she pats the control column with a gloved hand.
"Good boy," she says. "Good boy."
...my thousand-word assignment, that is, on the theme 'What Mary did to Frank during their picnic'.
Actually, it's not quite as drastic as that. The story I'd intended to publish this month is merely somewhat delayed, and I promise to get it posted just as soon as I can.
Meanwhile two of my favourite fellow bloggers have been kind enough to feature some of my work this week, which always makes me improbably giddy.
First up is Qbuzz, who's included a couple of pictures you won't find here; and then there's the lovely Ronnie, who's even written her own delicious text to accompany an illustration.
Both sites are rather ace, so if you're not already familiar with them do take the time to look around and say hello while you're there. :)
All lovely words, of course - but only nine of them are in today's deliciously kinky Word Search game. Which ones they are, and where, is for you to discover.
If you haven't played before, then do head over to this post where you'll find all you need to know about how this stuff works. Nothing much has changed in the meantime, except that we have a new adjudicator (apparently the previous one was dismissed for being insufficiently stern).
Anyway, once you understand the mechanics don't tarry there but hurry back, find nine words from the list above, highlight them all by clicking on their letters and then hit that big ol' SUBMIT SELECTIONS button. The very first visitor to be successful and leave a comment telling me the password that the adjudicator gives to him or her will win a genuine, actual bona fide prize drawn by yours truly.
As before, you won't want to try the adjudicator's patience by submitting an incorrect or incomplete entry... or will you? ;)
My fellow travellers of the spanko universe (puni-verse?) have
spent the last few weeks making me feel all warm 'n' fuzzy -
even though few of us actually know one another beyond our
pseudonyms, the stuff we post online and the occasional fun
exchange of emails or blog comments.
First Devlin O'Neill recorded 'my' Christmas song for his blog,
then the Library of Spanking Fiction used one of my stories in
an ebook, and now the very nice and talented gentleman who runs
Tales has been inspired to produce two drawings based on this tale of mine from a few months back.
'The Glenmore' - possibly not how he's known to friends and
family - is both an artist and an author. I'm sure readers of
this blog will also find plenty to enjoy over at his place. I
like his informal, comic drawing style, and he also has a great
sense of humour - check out the words on the Scrabble board!
Please do say hello while you're there, and tell him Undy sent
you. He hasn't had his site up for long, and I well remember
how precious comments are when you're just starting out.
Have fun! :)
Some of you may remember the story Firm Discipline that I posted back in April, both here and at the very wonderful Kilahara Library of Spanking Fiction.
Well, now that same tale has turned up as the lead story in Volume 9 of the equally wonderful series of LSF eBooks, Women Who Spank Men. That version's allegedly been authored by some guy calling himself 'Rudi Glenn', though. I mean, really - sounds like a seventies porn star. I hope when those gorgeous, ruthless, amazonian copyright policewomen catch up with me... I mean, with him... he gets the spanking he deserves! ;)
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the shop
The workforce of elves had been toiling non-stop
To wrap up the presents and stuff them in sacks,
No time to make small talk, no time to relax.
For perched on a chair overlooking the scene
There sat a young woman in red velveteen.
Her garb was familiar, and trimmed with white fur
And being quite short showed a whole lot of her.
For those of you asking "Where's jolly St. Nick?
And who is this red-and-white minidressed chick?"
Well, Santa retired at the end of last season -
"Lumbago," he gave as the primary reason.
"Since I put me back out it isn't the same.
This sleigh-driving lark is a young Claus's game.
I've done it for hundreds of years, give or take -
It's time I clocked off for a well-deserved break.
I'll sit in my rocker, smoke pipes and drink beer.
My daughter Samantha can take charge from here."
When news of this handover got to the elves
Those mischievous minions had said to themselves:
"Thank God that old slave-driver's hung up his sack.
This Christmas we'll lounge and we'll slouch and kick back.
We'll tell our new boss she will have to play ball.
She's only a slip of a girl, after all.
We'll all get a helping of seasonal cheer
As soon as she sees who's in charge around here."
But looks are deceiving, and elves are not smart.
"There'll be no more slacking," said Sam, "for a start!
My management style's of a different sort
With visits to lap-land for those who fall short."
The elves had all chuckled and taunted "To where?
To Lapland, you say? But we're already there!"
But then their new boss put a stop to their glee
By putting the first of them over her knee!
Have a wonderful Christmas, everyone!
One of the greatest rewards in keeping a site like this is
having a fellow blogger spot something you've posted and share
it with his or her own visitors.
Sometimes it's just a passing mention of a post. Sometimes it's
the reuse of a picture for illustration. What doesn't happen so
often is that someone records a song - yes, a song -
inspired by one of your works.
In this case that someone is the charming, talented and really
rather renowned author of spanking erotica, Devlin O'Neill. He
liked this post from December 2011 so much that he
decided to lay down his own version of The Twelve Days Of
Christmas - or some of it, anyway - based on the
You can see Dev's post, and hear his recording, right here, and if it
doesn't bring a seasonal smile to your face I don't know what
will. It certainly did to mine - it was like, well, Christmas
While you're over at Devlin's domain, do take the time to look
around. It's a great, fun place to hang out.
Hats off to you, Mr O'Neill!