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Yes, it has been more than six years. No, I'm not dead! :)

Of course it hardly makes up for such a long absence, but I'm posting two separate images today.

The first one is a cover for an imaginary Men's Adventure magazine, inspired by similar publications that had their heyday during the fifties and sixties. Those vintage magazines often featured drawings of scantily clad damsels being tied up or threatened or tortured, and sometimes all three at once. The women's fiendish abusers were typically Nazis or crudely stereotypical East Asian villains. In the background of many of the artworks, a burly male Caucasian hero was shown about to effect a rescue. It was all terribly predictable, and very much of its time.

Occasionally the victim in these pictures would instead be a man, and his tormentor a woman - but I don't recall ever seeing one in which the rough-and-ready rescuers were female. And that, dear visitors, is where we come in - because we have a serious thing for assertive and powerful Amazonian women, don't we? We don't just want them to cruelly punish us. We want them to carry us, naked and helpless, out of captivity. And then we want them to celebrate by having wild, passionate sex - not with us, but with each other.

Ok, it's still pretty sordid. But at least it's not racist.

Now, if I were to make wholly inadequate excuses as to why it's taken literally years to post this new work, they might sound something like this...

When I'd nearly completed the cover art way back when, I showed it to my girlfriend and asked what she thought was happening in the picture. I was a little dismayed to find that her interpretation was quite different from what I'd intended. Since I've always prided myself on telling a bit of a story with my artwork, I decided I'd better go back to the drawing board and produce some additional illustrations for a page of the story itself, to give the cover image some more context. Of course, mainly due to my glacial working pace, that took forever.

Anyway, here we are, finally.

To view the pictures at a decent size, you may find you need to click on one, then right-click the popup version and choose to open it in a new tab. If you have any issues, do give me a shout and I'll be happy to assist.

As far as I know, none of those old pulpy magazines from decades ago were called "Men in Peril" - but my imaginary one is. I hope you enjoy this view of it.

In At The Deep End - Part Two

Hello again, everyone.

Thanks for all the comments on my recent picture post, and especially to those of you whose naughty imaginations fuelled a number of associated narratives.

As promised, here's my own take on preceding events. Hope you enjoy it!

************************************************************************************ Robert was prowling the bedroom, naked, engaged in a frantic search. As he always did when he couldn't find something, he was cursing steadily under his breath. He'd already tipped two drawers full of clothing onto the bed, and now began to rifle through a third.

"Debora," he yelled in the direction of the en-suite bathroom, "have you seen my trunks?"

His wife appeared at the doorway, dressed in her underwear and with her blonde hair wrapped in a towel. She regarded the tangled jumble of garments with a sigh.

"Right there," she said, pointing with her toothbrush at a pair of swimming briefs atop one of the piles of clothing. "There. Look."

Robert looked. "Not those," he said, irritably. "The shorts."

Debora had returned to the bathroom to spit toothpaste into the sink. "Oh, those," she called back. "I dropped those nasty old things into the clothing bank yesterday morning, while I was down at the supermarket - you know, buying food to make sure we don't starve, while you were still snoring in bed."

She leaned out beyond the door jamb. "And before you ask what's happened to that hideous shirt you brought back from Jamaica, I'm afraid that's also been donated to the homeless. God help them. As if they haven't suffered enough."

Robert looked dismayed. "I don't care about the stupid shirt," he said. "But I needed those shorts. You knew I only had those, and... these things... for swimming." He held up the trunks by one corner, and eyed them as he would something he'd found forgotten and putrefied at the back of the fridge. They were blue, but covered in a pattern of smiling yellow emoji. "And you know I've never worn these," he groaned.

Debora reappeared. She had thrown on a t-shirt from the airing cupboard.

"Well, it's about time you did wear those," she said. "My mother bought them specially for you two Christmases ago."

"Two Christmases ago I was thirty-three years old," Robert complained. "Not twelve."

He examined the trunks, front and back, with a scowl. The emoji grinned back at him. "These are like something you'd buy for a child - a very, very uncool child. In fact," he said, peering suspiciously at the label, "I'm guessing they are from the kids' section - they're at least a size too small."

Debora shook her head and began to towel her hair vigorously, her face now stern. "Then you should have taken them back or given them away, like I told you at the time, instead of leaving them in the drawer. That way I'd have known not to get rid of the other ones. Anyway", she said, "Here's an idea. How about you just try them on and stop being a crybaby? I think they're fun. And hurry up - we're already late."

She disappeared off down the landing in search of a pair of jeans.

With a deeply unhappy expression, Robert stooped to slip the briefs over his feet and then pull them up. They were already tight by the time he'd got them to the tops of his thighs. He winced as he worked them over his buttocks, and that made another thought occur to him - a fluttery, panicky kind of thought.

When Debora returned she found Robert with his back to the full-length mirror, craning his head around to study his behind. "Oh shit," he said. "Shit. Debs, we definitely can't go to the pool."

His wife stopped in the doorway, jeans in one hand and a disbelieving expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, theatrically tilting her head to one side and and waggling a fingertip in her ear, "maybe I got some water in here and it's affected my hearing. Because I'm pretty sure - especially so soon after last night's little discussion - that you didn't just say something about not going to to the pool."

"But that's the thing," said Robert, waving his hands ineffectually to indicate the livid cane marks traversing his buttocks and extending well beyond the edges of his improbably skimpy costume. "Everyone..." His voice trailed off into bewildered silence.

"Well, yes. I expect they will," said Debora, stepping into her jeans and sliding them up her long legs. "But since it was you who earned a whipping by breaking your promise again about going to the gym this week, and you who swore you'd come swimming with me to make up for it, I don't really see how that's any of my concern."

"But, honey..." began Robert, and then stopped short as his wife approached him and reached up to put a finger to his lips.

"Shush," she said, and Robert did.

Debora leaned in close to his ear. "I don't want to hear any more about this. Are we clear?"

Robert nodded.

"Good boy," smiled Debora. "Now I am telling you for the last time that we are both going to the pool and that you are going to wear those trunks, and there's nothing at all that you can do about it. And when I remove my finger, there are only two words I want to hear from you. Are we also clear on that?"

Robert nodded again.

Debora dropped her hand to her waist and waited while her husband's shoulders slumped and he looked at the floor and said quietly and with some difficulty, "Yes, Ma'am."

Then after a moment he said, "Honey, I've said I'll come, ok? So please don't be angry." He gestured again at his vividly striped bottom. "But is there something we can do to cover up these marks?"

Debora finished fastening her jeans and glanced over at the dressing table. "I suppose we could find time for that," she said. "What would you like me to use - the strap, or the hairbrush?"

Ten minutes later, in the car and en route to the pool, Robert pointed hopefully towards a side-road and said, "You know, we could swing by the supermarket and get me some new swimming shorts. It's only ten minutes that way."

Deborah sighed. "Except that it's Sunday, and they don't open until eleven."

"Oh. Then maybe they have some for sale at the pool."

"Maybe they do," said Debora, "but we won't be buying any there. The mark-up on the stuff they stock at reception is nearly three times what they pay for it, Chloe said."

That only added to Robert's unease. He tried to think of all the Chloes that his wife might know.

"Chloe?" he asked. "You mean Chloe-on-my-team-at-work Chloe?"

Debora watched the road. "Yes, my young friend Chloe, who also has the misfortune to report to you as her boss. I met up with her for coffee yesterday."

Robert had the distinct sense that his woes were piling up in some way that he didn't yet fully understand. He tried out half a dozen questions in his head, and finally settled on "How was that?"

"Not bad," said Debora, "only she was a little bit subdued, which isn't like her. You know, she's normally such a gossip. But she did tell me about the public dressing-down you gave her last week for being all of three minutes late for a meeting."

Debora slowed the car momentarily to let another driver pull out at a junction, and took the opportunity to give her husband a cool sidelong look. "Three minutes! The poor girl was trying to make light of it, but it was obvious you'd upset her."

"It was a key meeting," Robert grumbled, "with a new client."

"But still just a meeting," said Debora, "and still just three minutes."

She acknowledged the other driver's thanks with a nod, and put her foot back on the accelerator. "Don't you think you could have cut her some slack? Maybe had a quiet word in private, or said nothing at all? She's still finding her feet, Robert. She's twenty-two years old."

"I guess so," admitted Robert. "Did you manage to cheer her up?"

"Oh, yes," said Debora, with a sly smile that Robert didn't like the look of.

"What did you say?"

"Hmm. I don't recall exactly. I think something about you not getting away with speaking to me like that."

"You're kidding," said Robert, his eyes widening.

"Why would I be kidding? It's true, isn't it? Oh, and I might have said something about you maybe being a bit of a bully at work because you don't get to wear the trousers at home."

"Oh God," said Robert. "Why would you say that?"

Debora reached down to change gear and said, "I may even have mentioned that you might not be sitting comfortably on Monday. But you know, Chloe just giggled at that, so I guess she assumed I was joking. After all, no little woman is going to be taking big, bad Robert Saunders in hand, is she?"

"Um," said Robert.

They drove on for a few excruciating minutes in silence, until finally Robert asked the question he'd been avoiding because he was now almost certain he wouldn't like the answer. "So how does Chloe know about the mark-up? I mean, about the stuff at the swimming pool."

Helen brightened at that. "Oh, didn't you know? She works there on Sundays."

"In reception?" asked Robert, as casually as he could muster while his heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest.

"Sometimes," said Debora. "But today I gather she's on lifeguard duty." She waited a moment while Robert considered this and then, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, said, "Oh! Just your luck that it's her who's going to be keeping an extra close eye on all the swimmers this morning. I mean, on the very day when you turn up with your well-wealed behind hanging out of your cute little swimsuit."

Robert stared. He opened his mouth to make one last plea to his wife, but what came out of it was little more than a noise something like a whimper. He sank a little lower into his seat and looked sideways out of the car window at the street signs as they passed. They were almost at the pool. He hoped against hope for something - a puncture, a prang, anything - that would curtail their journey.

"Oh dear, oh dear," his wife was saying. "Whatever will Chloe think if she notices? Perhaps she'll realise that I wasn't joking after all. Perhaps she'll tell the other people at work what happens to mean Mr Saunders at home when he misbehaves."

Robert looked dazedly through the windscreen. They were just pulling into the pool's car park. "Christ, I hope she doesn't," he said.

But Chloe did.

In At The Deep End

Just when you thought I'd sunk without trace, another picture trundles slowly into view... not quite a year on from the last one.

Hello, everyone!

There is a backstory associated with this drawing, and I'll post that in the next week or two (no, really!)

In the meantime, feel free to make up your own. :)

Do Your Bit If You Want To Sit

Those of you who remember me (because, yes, it's been quite a while!) may also remember my stepsister Wanda Ling, who's now been working at the female-led OSIRIS company for almost six years. When I say 'working', of course, it's in the loosest sense of the word - having risen through the ranks of OSRIS's all-woman management team, from what I can gather Wanda still spends most of her day dishing out any real work to her male underlings, and dishing out discipline to those of them who don't come up to scratch. It's clear from her emails that the latter is still her favourite part of the job, but no surprises there - she always did have an unashamedly sadistic streak.

Apparently progress has been slipping of late and a couple of projects have gone over budget, so things have been hotting up somewhat for the male employees while the plans are brought back on track - all of their Christmas leave was cancelled and there's now some serious micro-management going on, including unannounced spot checks and plenty of at-desk motivation provided for those who need it.

Not that Wanda minds putting in the extra effort, of course - she's always happy to swing into action, so long as it's a disciplinary implement that she's swinging. She's been sending weekly slogans to her team, too, by way of encouragement: 'When productivity drops, trousers are sure to follow'; 'Missed deadlines lead to hot cane lines'; and finally, 'Do your bit if you want to sit'. I think that last one might need some work, but I'm not about to tell her that - I'm meeting her for lunch next week, and I'm not keen to have my behind slapped in public. Again.

Anyway, Wanda's even shared her latest poster with me, and asked whether I'd feel inclined to work harder after seeing it.


I had to admit I would. Wouldn't you?

Oh No! Not Another Word Search

HORSEWHIP
SISSY
CUCKOLD
SLIPPER
MATRIARCH
SPANKING
EMBARRASSMENT
PUNISHMENT
HEADMISTRESS
PANTIES
HUMBLING
DISCIPLINE
STRIPPING
CORRECTION
OBEDIENCE

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? ;)

Equipment Failure

I've been meaning to follow up this post in which my stepsister Wanda was going on about the disciplinary training at her office - and now I have! :)

*********************************************************************************

Kevin Peters could scarcely remember spending a more uncomfortable morning at OSIRIS. Wanda, his overbearing and frankly sadistic line manager, had insisted he facilitate that day's course - Disciplinary Techniques - for the new female intake. Given just a day's notice Kevin had booked the training room, printed and bound manuals, sourced equipment, attached diagrams to whiteboards, and sent out invitations. With an empathetic shudder he had secured two well-used caning dummies - stitched and stuffed, he knew, by inmates of the local men's prison - to heavy tables.

Finally satisfied, if more than a little apprehensive, he had waited at the door to distribute the course books and the long, whippy OSIRIS-issue canes to the arriving trainees. Here they came, giggling in anticipation, one or two of them taking the opportunity to upbraid him for no good reason - trying out their newly-appointed roles as managers of men.

The air of expectation only increased with the entrance of Dana 'The Caner Trainer' Balewa. The statuesque and beautiful Nigerian, five-inch heels clacking on the linoleum, swept through the doorway and homed in on Kevin without breaking stride. Leaning so close that the heady mix of her perfume and her warm breath made his head swim, she reached around the bundle of canes in his arms to straighten the knot of his tie.

'You're one of Wanda's, aren't you?' she mused as if to herself. 'Yes,' said the young man; and a moment later added a hurried 'ma'am', in response to an almost imperceptible raising of her eyebrow.

Sliding one of the wicked implements from his grip, the tall woman flexed it appraisingly until it formed an almost circular frame for her steely gaze. 'I just met her in the canteen. She said she'd be along shortly to see how well you've done. Or... not.' She approached one of the dummies and, frowning, traced a long fingernail over the threadbare fabric stretched across its rump. 'This naughty boy's seen some action, hasn't he? I'd say he's just about to go pop!' She leaned over to examine the other dummy. 'And if anything, this one's even worse. You do have replacements lined up, I take it?'

Kevin felt his face flush crimson and his jaw slacken. There was no chatter in the room now, and one or two of the delegates were openly smirking at the exchange. His mouth was still working ineffectually several seconds later when Wanda appeared at his shoulder. 'All set?'

'I... think so,' faltered Kevin. 'Shall I just leave these things here? I do have that report to be getting on with.'

Wanda wagged a finger in mock rebuke. 'Before we've even started? Which part of 'facilitate' don't you understand, Mr Peters? No, you can stay put for the duration. You have the whole evening to make sure that document's on my desk first thing tomorrow.'

And so Kevin did stay put, as Ms Balewa laid stroke after laser-guided stroke across the first dummy's bulging behind while her awestruck students watched and learned and eagerly awaited their turns.

When the time came, some of those young women were suspiciously adept. Others were hopelessly off-target. All were wildly enthusiastic, and every one of them terrified Kevin Peters. Gradually the damage to the dummy's rear became untenable. Kevin watched, dismayed, as a tiny opening appeared in the tortured material and a single white feather worked its way through it and floated ominously to the floor. It only took another two strokes for the fabric to split completely, disgorging its downy contents into the air and prompting a triumphant cheer from the assembled women.

And Dana Balewa had been right about the other dummy - it didn't even survive her second demonstration, bursting at an overstressed seam as the cane thudded home. This time the applause was short-lived, the trainees sensing an early end to their entertainment; and as it died away Kevin became aware that Wanda was speaking into his ear in the sing-song stage whisper she reserved for such occasions. 'Oh dear, Kevin. A little lacking in preparation, wouldn't you say? We have the whole afternoon reserved for practice, and nothing to practise on. Do you have any suggestions?' She leaned a little closer, and used the palm of her hand to deliver two sharp swats to the seat of his trousers.

'Any ideas, Kevin?' she said. 'Any ideas at all?'

I Believe You've Met My Sister

25 September 2012

To: Underling
From: Wanda.Ling@OSIRISTechWorks.com
Subject: Hi!

Hey there, Undypoo!

How's it going, step-bro? Sorry it's been a while, but things have been pretty damned busy here. Or rather, my little men have been pretty damned busy and I've been making pretty damned sure they stay that way!

Can you believe I've been with OSIRIS nearly two years already? Mind you, team lead after six months and department head less than a year later - not too shabby, is it? Of course, now I'm looking after Human Resources there's a whole heap of important decisions to make. Like, who gets promoted (pretty much the girls) and who gets their bare bottoms whipped (hmmm... oh yeah, the boys!)

We're actually getting a new intake of female grads next week, so I've got my hands full organising induction and training sessions. Management 101 starts on Tuesday, but it's all a bit dull until we get to Day 3: Discipline. That's definitely my favourite part of the course - I love to see those girls' faces light up when they first get their hands on a cane, LOL!

Of course the guidelines say they have to practise on stupid stuffed dummies. Yaaaaawn! I'm badgering Head Office about that - it's not like there aren't plenty of live 'dummies' available - but in the meantime I have to entertain myself by dragging the odd team member into the sessions and scaring the living daylights out of him.

Last month it was Daniel - that beautiful young guy we took on last year? Timid as anything, and so damned diligent I thought I was never going to have a reason to bend him over my desk and bare that tight little tush :(. God, Undy, you should have seen him wriggle when I 'invited' him to watch the implement training. "Wanda, I have that deadline today"... "Wanda, I'm expected at the team meeting"... "Wanda, I'm a whiney little boy who's afraid of his own shadow"... Anyway, needless to say I insisted he come along. In fact, I made him stay all afternoon so he didn't miss a single stroke.

Well, he was white as a sheet by the end of it. Can't say I blame him, really - chief trainer Dana ('Dana The Caner Trainer', LOL!) likes to put on a good show, and once it's their turn those new girls do get a bit carried away. They scare me sometimes! Anyway, the best part is that I just found out Daniel did miss that deadline. I wonder how that happened, haha! So guess who's going to have an email in his inbox tomorrow morning, inviting him to my office?

Did I mention how awesome this job is?

Love ya. Be good!

Wanda. xx

P.S. Oh, I mentioned to Marilyn about your department downsizing. She said if they do lay you off I should forward your details - she's pretty sure she could find a spot for you here. You might even end up reporting to me! Wouldn't that be fun, sweetie? Well, wouldn't it?! ROFL!!!

Zero Tolerance

Evenin' all. Now this scenario is a little darker than most, so before you read on I thought I should make clear that I abhor all real-world abuse of power - yes, even by sexy female police officers. But in imagination? Well, bring it on...

Zero Tolerance
Fanta City, 2019. In the six years since its inception, the metropolis's now largest police department, F3M - popularly known as FemForce - had amassed an impressive record of success. Staffed exclusively by female officers, its origins lay in a 2013 initiative of recruiting and training all-women teams to defuse hostage and domestic violence situations. When not negotiating with criminals, the department had toured schools and colleges educating the city's youth about the perils of crime. 'Let's talk' had been its oft-derided motto, with firearms being rejected in favour of a less lethal combination of baton and extensive body armour for protection.

Meanwhile, massive budget cuts reduced traditional policing to a minimum.



F3M's original ethos was short lived: it turned out that the city's criminals were not open to reason. A more robust approach was called for, and with a track record of innovation FemForce was moved up to spearhead it.

The department's autonomy allowed it to evolve at a remarkable rate, unfettered by bureaucracy. Within three years it had outgrown its 'softly, softly' legacy and developed a fearsome reputation for zero-tolerance - some said outright ruthless - policing.

The standard-issue baton became the 'shock stick' with the addition of a cattle prod-like function, and many officers also began to carry a shortened version of the judicial cane recently introduced into men's prisons.

Over time reports began to emerge of summary corporal punishment being administered, often in front of bystanders, for petty offences like littering. Meanwhile it became routine for those arrested for more serious crimes to be publically stripped - 'to check for weapons' - before being cuffed, caned and escorted naked into the waiting police trucks; and, particularly in cases where female victims had been involved, those same trucks were taking ever longer routes back to the station.



Eventually the city mayor announced an investigation into F3M's methods, declaring them 'wholly unacceptable', but by then it was too late - the citizens, tired of rampant criminality, had already taken the new FemForce to their hearts thanks to its winning combination of efficiency, glamour and legendary exploits.

In 2017, the department's reputation had been cemented in the public consciousness by a TV news report on the apprehension of a suspected serial sex attacker. On hearing the distinctive banshee wail of F3M's sirens, the man had fled the scene and squeezed himself several feet into the end of a sewer pipe where, stuck fast and regularly doused in effluent, he had repeatedly offered a full confession in return for being allowed to give himself up to male officers. No such concession was made, and in fact it emerged later that Captain Helen Petersen had seen fit not to forward the request: her girls had worked hard to chase down their quarry, and she was not about to disappoint them by handing him over to another section.

Following a seven-hour standoff, the suspect had finally relented and let himself be extracted, stripped, hosed down and disciplined for wasting police time. His confession had come anyway, of course, so he could have saved everyone a lot of trouble - or so remarked Sargeant Lucy Wells to the assembled onlookers before she went on to administer the final 20 strokes to the man's already ravaged behind.

Rumour had it that there had followed a brief debate about who was to ride with the nude and chastened prisoner on the way to the police station, but this was unnecessary. Remarkably, once he was secured it turned out there was still enough room for a total of eight policewomen to accompany him in the back of the truck.

Perhaps it was the ensuing commotion that distracted the driver and caused her to make a series of mysterious wrong turns. It took the vehicle a full two hours to arrive at its destination.

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are! Love Our Lurkers Day 6

So, here we are on LOL Day 6!

As per my last post, today's the day when we say a big hello to our lovely lurkers. That's those of you skulking around the dark corners of the site - and this site has darker corners than most - and eyeing the Post Comment button as though it might jump up and bite you :).

I promise it won't, and nor will I if you choose today to stand up and say, 'My name is Peter/ Annabel/ Fluffy/ EvilMistressOfPain, and I'm a spankoholic! And I like your art/ hate your art/ think you should post more often/ think if you ever post again it'll be too soon.'

Seriously, I do very much appreciate everyone who visits the site, whether vocal or not. It's just that my very favourite thing about this blogging lark is feeling a part of this wonderful international kinky community. And it's hearing from people like you that does that for me, and for every other blogger in the spanko world.

Now, if you're running Flash in your browser you'll notice that I've installed a little lurker bait specially for today. All I ask is that, after you've clicked on that enticing keyhole, you also come back and click on that scary comment button and say hi. Whether you're a regular or this is your first time, it would honestly make my day. :)

In The Back Room

Anyone here born within the last twenty years or so? Then let's try something. Shut your eyes a minute - actually, don't, because you'll need to read this - but imagine, if you can, a time when there weren't a zillion free spanking pictures and stories available at the click of a mouse. In fact, imagine a time when there wasn't even a mouse attached to your computer. In fact, imagine a time before there were any comput...

OK, I'm not actually that old. But I well remember the pre-internet days of spanking erotica. The furtive phone calls to premium rate numbers, to listen to recordings of bored housewives impersonating strict headmistresses. The reading and re-reading of punishment-themed passages in novels. The panicked fumbling for the VHS record button whenever I stumbled on a bit of televisual discipline. The poring over dictionaries - dictionaries, for God's sake ("verb. To strike with the open hand, esp. on the buttocks.")

Most of all, I remember occasional visits to the seedy back rooms of certain London bookshops. There I rubbed shoulders with fellow perverts (perhaps some of you among them!), all of us studiously avoiding eye contact while waiting with barely concealed impatience for access to the spanko shelves. And what treasures those shelves offered: glossy (if slightly thumbed) copies of Janus, Februs, Blushes, Kane, and as my F/M sensibilities developed, Obey, Goddess and Viper. Being specialist publications, the magazines weren't cheap, so there was the agony of trying to choose one or two that I could afford to buy. I would leave the shop with my purchases safely hidden in the classic brown paper bag, and a longing look back at those I'd had to leave on the shelves.

For those of you who are too young to remember them, these probably sound like dark times - and in some ways they were. But you know what? There was something special about those little excursions, and the scarcity of the material made it precious.

I don't know if any of those old magazines are still in print. Do any of you still buy them? Did any of my female visitors ever buy them - and if not, where did you get your kicks? It's hard to imagine there's a market for any new spanking magazine to start up now. I think that's a shame, so I thought I'd dream up my own. I had far too many ideas to fit on the cover of this one - so if you like it, maybe there'll also be a March issue :).

Finally, thanks very much to Ken and Cora for the use of their wonderful discipline slip design. It's far too small here to be appreciated - if you'd like to see the real thing, head on over to their most excellent blog. Ken is a lovely guy, and will happily email you a copy on request.

Caught Peeping

Another fortnight-and-a-bit, another new picture. I'm not being too tardy, am I?

By the way, if I seem to have developed a bit of a lingerie fetish recently, well - there's actually nothing recent about it! All I can say in my defence is, it's hot work thrashing a deserving young man on a summer's day.

I've noticed that while I quite like the stronger, darker colours I've used here, Blogger's image compression doesn't like them one bit - hence all the ugly 'noise' on the large version. I'll see what I can do to make a nice, clean copy available to everyone.

The Politics of Spanking

So it seems that we can't even manage to run an election in the UK these days - hundreds of people were left still queueing outside the polling stations last Thursday evening when the clock struck ten and voting closed.

For the unfortunates who missed out on the day, I bring you Underling's Second Chance Election. Admittedly this is a very localised affair: all three ladies are standing in the little-known constituency of Pantsdown & Redbottom, where the hot political issue is the anti-social behaviour blighting the area.

Please be a good citizen and use your vote to decide who ought to be in charge. The poll's over there on the right. You can choose according to your party leanings, or which candidate you think is best equipped to do the job. For those of you who didn't get the result you wanted last week, this is also a chance to try your luck again. Best of all, you can vote from the comfort of your own home, there's no queueing, and polling is open for a whole seven days. Heck, you don't even need to be British to take part.

Now, I have tried hard to make this as like the real thing as possible. For one, there's little to choose between the candidates - all three are bringing similar policies to bear - and secondly, whatever the outcome, eventually the constituents are going to end up getting spanked. In fact whichever of these ladies is elected to parliament, I predict fewer safe seats all round!