Season's Beatings

Yes, I am cutting it fine for a Christmas post - but hey, it ain't over 'til the final leftover turkey sandwich has been consumed, the decorations have gone back into the understairs cupboard, and you've vacuumed the last of the pine needles out of the living room carpet.

Now, part of me hopes you've all got better things to do at this time of year than visit the blog: but to those of you still surfing the net without Great Aunt Harriet and cousin Kevin looking over your shoulder, I just wanted to say thank you for another wonderful year in 2011. Your support has meant a great deal. And regardless of who's been naughty or nice, may you and yours enjoy a peaceful and happy holiday season.

Oh, I thought you might also like a glimpse of what I'd like my true love to be sending me this Christmas.

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.

The Worm That Turned

Fellow Brits of a certain age will remember that national treasure of a comedy duo, The Two Ronnies. Perhaps some of my overseas friends will be familiar with them too - I'm not sure how well their TV show would have exported, given that much of the humour specifically poked fun at British manners, language and regional accents ("Fork 'andles?").

Anyway, for a while one of the programme's regular features was a daft but fun little mini-serial called The Worm That Turned. This was set well into the future - or as we now call it, next year(!) - in an England ruled entirely by women. Here the men have feminine names and are forced to wear dresses, and order is maintained by an all-female police force uniformed in improbably skimpy black vinyl. No, I'm not making this up.

Although it was played for laughs, you can probably imagine the effect that this show-within-a-show had on a very young, highly impressionable and already seriously kinked Underling - especially when (at about 4:40 in the clip I linked) the late, great Diana Dors actually ordered Ronnie Corbett to report for a state-sponsored spanking. Or at least the hint of one.

Now of course the writers of The Worm That Turned knew that part of its appeal was in catering to a certain kind of male fantasy. And although the fetish wear wouldn't have meant much to me - even then, my dream disciplinarians were everyday aunts, older sisters, teachers and nurses - it was startling to have my odd little obsessions acknowledged by a mainstream comedy show. I'd have been watching with my parents, feigning nonchalance but half expecting a big flashing arrow to appear above my head reading 'WARNING! UNHEALTHY FASCINATION!'

"Undy," my mum would have said - she never used my full name except when I was in trouble - isn't it past your bedtime?" And for once I'd probably have agreed with her, grateful to be alone with my confusing thoughts about Ms Dors, and replaying in my head those few moments of prime-time TV that still resonate to this day.

The bottom line on all of this is that I have a little illustrated fantasy, more than thirty years in gestation, to share with you shortly. It's a bit stronger than would have got past the UK TV censors in 1980, but its zero- tolerance policewomen are without question descended from those running around in The Two Ronnies - not to mention my fevered imagination - during my formative years.

Thank You For Asking

Those nice people over at the Spanking Library have just been kind enough to publish an interview with your humble host, as part of their 'Wellred Weekly' newsletter. If you haven't heard of the site - and to be honest, I hadn't myself before RedRump had his own interview in the previous issue - then it's well worth a visit. Registering gives you access to a vast, catalogued resource of spanking stories, poems and articles - currently nearly seventeen thousand, and growing - not to mention a lively forum and chatroom. Some of the stories are even available in narrated form as audio files, which I thought was a lovely touch.

It's also one of the best run spanko sites I've come across, and has a real sense of community: I should think anyone who regularly comes here could also happily while away a few hours over there.

For impatient types, the interview itself is right here, but I do encourage you to check out the whole delightful facility via the main entrance. Just remember to keep the noise down. I've yet to come across a pretty, bespectacled, pencil-skirted, virtual librarian who paddles visitors for talking too loud - but wouldn't that be a nice touch?

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. :)

Here's Lurking At You, Kid!

Lurking.

Kind of a sinister word, isn't it? It's what robbers and murderers and cave dwelling monsters do. It's what danger does.

It's also the term used for dipping in and out of websites without actually waving your virtual arms in the air and yelling 'Coo-ee! I'm here!' Now, I think there should be a different, less creepy word for this - just plain browsing, for example - but hey, I didn't write the Dictionary of Online Activity.

So 'lurking' it is, and Thursday 10th November (just next week!) is 'Love Our Lurkers' day. This annual event, now in its 6th year and organised by the redoubtable Bonnie, is the spank-blog community's way of celebrating the silent majority of people who waft in and out of our sites while giving the Post Comment button a wide berth - and encouraging them to go ahead, click on it and say a quick hello.

So on Thursday I and lots of other bloggers will be making our special LOL posts, and I hope as many of you as possible - both the regular commenters and the shy types - will stop by and leave a message. We would love to hear from you, and you can be as anonymous as you like - no need for an account to post here.

This will be Underling's Humblings' second LOL year, by the way. Here's last year's post to give you a feel for it.

Finally, apologies to Bad-Penny for using her comment from last year as my post title. It was too good to pass up.

See you on Thursday! :)

Another Country, Another Picture

Some of you wanted an illustration for my story Another Country, so here it is. For those of you who didn't want an illustration, tough - here it is anyway ;).

This may well be my first 'historical' drawing. I hadn't really decided when the story is set and I've deliberately kept it ambiguous, but I thought a little period glamour might be nice for the picture.

In general my fantasies (and thus my works) are contemporary, because I find it easier to project myself into them that way.

I know some of my fellow artists, for example RedRump, have a thing for the fifties and sixties as a kind of golden age of spanking.

But how about your daydreams? Are you a modern day mistress/ miscreant, or a Victorian vixen/ victim? A wild west whipping boy? A medieval martinet?

Does period even feature in your fantasies?

By the way, this is the first time I've uploaded a picture as a .png. It might take a little longer to download, but I'm hoping if it keeps Blogger from compressing it to within an inch of its life it will be worth it!

Oh, and part two of 'Another Country' is almost ready. Hopefully it'll hit the blog in the next few days.

The Personal Touch

Ah, Tumblr. What a fickle mistress you are.

If you're a user, tell me if this sounds familiar. When I came across my first spanking-themed Tumblr site I thought hmm, this looks interesting. Lots of pictures.

Then I noticed that all the visitors who'd 'liked' stuff on that site had links to their own, similar sites. And the people who followed those sites had their own sites too, and all of them filled with astonishing numbers of photos and drawings and little animated gifs. I gawped at the goods on display - June, 576 posts - July, 852 posts - like a kid in a sweet shop. On pocket money day.

Eventually, after gorging myself silly for a few hours - and thinking that this was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to me since the birth of the internet - I calmed down and began to wonder what this explosion of pure content meant for the average, old-fahioned blogger like me. Let's face it, if all you want is a heap of spanking pictures - and quite often, that's all I want - you can open a Tumblr page and fill your hard drive to bursting in the same amount of time that it takes you to get past this site's adult content warning. But never mind... wow, look at that. August - 987 posts!

At some point during that first orgy of browsing I spotted a familiar-looking thumbnail - a drawing of mine, scooped up and chucked into that month's bargain bin along with 986 others.

And it looked a little sad.

Now, don't get me wrong - I still got a kick out of seeing it, as I always do. But devoid of context, and swamped by its similarly cast-off neighbours, there was little sense of the amount of thought (well alright, procrastination) or the many hours of work that had gone into it. There was no sign at all of the carefully crafted story I'd written to go with it. A few people had 'liked' and reposted it, but mainly without comment. After all, there were hundreds more to get through.

And, much as I enjoy it, this is the flip side of Tumblr for me. Where once I scoured the web hoping to unearth an exciting new picture or two, Tumblr serves 'em up by the pound. It's impersonal, even cynical. It collects followers with the same ruthless efficiency as it does images, and typically doesn't really engage with any of them. And I think that's a shame.

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to the real purpose of this post - inviting you to enjoy the very personal touch of some friends of mine who've recently opened their own spanking art blogs, if you haven't come across them already.

First up is OTTO, whose earlier work I knew from the now sadly inactive 'Over Her Knee' site. OTTO is a 3D computer artist: but post-production touch-up, along with expert use of light and shadow, gives his scenes a wonderful painterly look. He's no slouch, either - he's posting most days at the moment - and his work is always full of erotic intrigue.

Next is Banjo, who needs little introduction for anyone who's been collecting F/M artwork for a while. Recently back on the scene after a long hiatus, he was kind enough to email me and say I was one of his inspirations to start blogging again. Also working with 3D software, he produces delicious scenes of humiliation and punishment in largely domestic settings. He writes great stories too. Suffice to say, if you like what you see here then you'll also find much to enjoy there! Oh, he's prolific as well - kind of like Underling with a work ethic.

Very different in style,
RedRump produces hugely accomplished pictures - mainly pencil drawings, and many with a 1950s aesthetic. Indeed retro charm is the order of the day, with vintage photos and magazine scans supplementing his beautiful sketches of no-nonsense wives and hairbrushed husbands.

Each of these blogs is a refreshing antidote to your Tumblr hangover - with pictures in moderation, but warmth, wit and personality in spades.

What, you want to see these guys' work? Sadly, I promised myself way back when that everything I posted here would be self-made. So you'll just have to head on over to their sites, and don't forget to say hello while you're there. It's all about the personal touch!

One Hand Clapping

It occurred to me recently that I haven't dedicated much blog space to that purest and most traditional of physical punishments, the hand spanking.

I guess it's a severity thing - I don't like my guys to get off lightly - but then again an experienced lady can deliver plenty of sting without having to wield an implement. And that's before we factor in the added humiliation - the maternal overtones, and the oh-so-intimate contact of her punishing palm on your hot, bare bottom.

And while it's true that hand spanking is relatively hard on the hand, I imagine it brings its own warm afterglow for the spanker that's a nice souvenir of the discipline she's just dished out.

Yep, all things considered: hand spanking - what's not to like?

Half A Mil, Half A Mil, Half A Mil Onward...

A few days ago, Underling's Humblings received its five hundred thousandth page view since, well, whenever it was that Blogger started counting. While I don't expect Mark Zuckerberg to sit up and take notice any time soon, I'm sure my 'real life' friends would be impressed - if only they knew the site existed!

As it is, I'll just have to celebrate the occasion with you lot. ;) So thank you, sincerely, for all your visits through thick and thin (and I think the rate of posting lately probably qualifies as 'thin'!)

Here's to the next half mil. I'll do my best to earn them.

Another Country (Part One)

It was an uncomfortable ride in every sense: hot, and jarring, and filled with foreboding.

Emily was wearing the low-cut navy dress that Richard liked so much, and he absently watched his wife's full breasts swaying to the rhythm of their ancient taxi as it bounced along the rutted track that led to the hotel. Emily herself stared dismissively out of the dust-yellow window: but from the set of her jaw, Richard knew that she was barely keeping her temper in check.

As they neared their destination, his wife finally turned her elegant face towards his. "How dare you?" she demanded. "First that poor young girl at breakfast, and then twice at the market this afternoon."

"I'm sorry, Em," Richard replied unhappily.

Emily returned her gaze to the African grassland scrolling past outside. "You can save that for when I get you indoors."

Richard shifted in his seat, as if anticipating further discomfort, and tried a meaningful glance to remind her they were not alone. "Darling, please..."

There was an audible snort from the front seat, and in the rear view mirror the driver's eyes signalled his amusement. That devil, thought Richard bitterly. All the bloody same. Couldn't speak a word of English when we asked him about the fare, but oh, he's having fun at my expense now.

He glared at the back of the man's muscular brown neck as the vehicle found another pothole.

"Slow down." The driver ignored him. "Nciphisa ijubane, you idiot!"

The man broke into a grin, but kept his foot down.

At last the Victoria Hotel swung into view within its oasis of palms. Its grandeur had faded since its Empire heyday, but even so the three-story white stuccoed walls gleamed imposingly in the afternoon sun. Richard peeled one sweat-adhered arm from the cab's leather seat cover and fumbled for his wallet in the pocket of his slacks. The smirking driver took the offered notes with a mocking "Thank you, boss." He made no attempt to open the doors - but in any case Emily was already gone, striding purposefully across the gravel driveway.

In the hotel foyer, 19-year old Dupé stiffened slightly as the well dressed English couple appeared through the revolving door. She used the mirror she had been polishing to smooth the black skirt of her maid's uniform and straighten her white lace collar - and also to steal a glance at the foreign visitors.
They looked to have had some sort of argument, she thought, and that was not surprising. In the two weeks since their arrival she had grown to like the woman well enough - but the man was a pig who just that morning had publically shamed her over a small accident.

Her face grew hot at the memory of the spilled orange juice, the man's snarl and public scolding - and the words he had used when his wife had told him to calm down.

The woman was retrieving their room key from reception while her husband stood grim-faced behind her. A thought seemed to strike her as she turned away from the desk: "Oh, and do you have a large clothes brush I can use?"

"Certainly, madam," responded the receptionist brightly. "I'll have the maid bring one up to your room. Of course, if you would prefer, we do provide a full laundry and valet service."

This offer brought a smile and a shake of the head. "Thank you. Just the brush will do nicely."

Ten minutes later, Dupé was riding the hotel's clattering elevator to the top floor with the requested implement in her hands. Although happy to escape her cleaning duties for a few moments, the young maid was apprehensive. She did not want to have to speak to the man again.

She paused outside the door of room 306, turning the heavy hardwood brush over and over in her hands. It occurred to her that she could simply leave it outside, knock quietly and be gone: by the time anyone answered she could be taking the elevator back to the safety of the ground floor. As she bent down to lean the brush against the door frame, she heard the English woman's voice through the heavy oak panelling.

"...nt to hear from you right now is 'yes ma'am or 'no ma'am.' If we're to have a lesson in respect - and believe me, we are - then you can start with me."

The man's response was barely audible: perhaps he was in the bathroom.

After a furtive glance along the corridor, Dupé rested one ear lightly against the door and waited guiltily for the conversation to resume. When it did not, she straightened, took another deep breath and knocked.

After a few seconds, the door swung open and the pretty English woman stood backlit by the afternoon sun from the window. When she saw the heavy brush that the maid was cradling, she smiled broadly. "Special delivery, Richard!" she called over her shoulder.

Following her gaze, Dupé saw that the man was not in the bathroom after all. He was stood in the far corner of the room with his face to the wall, his hands were clasped behind his head, and he was quite, quite naked.

Dinner And A Show - The Itch

Finally! The second and concluding part of this story. It's quite a long one, and I've illustrated it, and I've animated the illustration (at the bottom of the post, if you're running Flash). I hope those factors go some way to excusing my tardiness.

If you haven't read Part One yet, it's just here. Probably worth a refresher even if you have read it before. It's been a long time!

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

Jeff Williams had enjoyed more relaxed restaurant dinners. Having spent much of the evening listening to his wife and her best friend Susan discussing how we was disciplined at home, he had finally persuaded them to leave The Queen Bee and had driven them back to the Williams' Springfield neighbourhood, where Susan was to be their overnight guest.

A light rain was falling as Jeff guided the black Subaru into the couple's driveway, echoing his damp spirits.

"Springfield House of Correction," giggled Susan as their three-storey property came into view. She'd found room for another three glasses of Chardonnay before leaving the restaurant, and had become a little more vocal with each. Although dreading their arrival back home, Jeff had been relieved at least that talk of his "well-earned whippings" would no longer draw stares from adjacent tables.

He watched as his wife eased herself from the car's passenger seat. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Lovely, Jen," said Susan. "And then down to business, eh, Jeffie?" She swung her long legs out and slid from the rear seat, her short skirt sliding up her thighs and drawing Jeff's helpless gaze.

"Gentleman avert their eyes, Mr Williams". And ladies don't show off their underwear, thought Jeff, but he actually heard himself mumbling "Sorry". Susan tilted her face towards his. "Oh, I think you're guaranteed to be, my dear."

Once indoors, Jenny busied herself at the stove while Susan ambled from room to room calling out her admiration for her hosts' latest decor and furniture.

"Love these new curtains!" she gushed. "And ah, this must be the flogging bench!"

"Well, most of the time it's just a regular coffee table," laughed Jenny, "but it does have its other uses."

A brief pause, and then Sue's voice again: "Jeff, sweetie, would you come here a minute? I want to show you something."

Jeff shot a hopeful look at his wife. "Don't you need help in here?"

"No. you run along and keep Sue entertained."

Traversing the hallway, Jeff saw that Jenny's thick leather razor strop was conspicuously absent from the hook that she'd had him fit under the stairs a few weeks earlier. With a sigh of trepidation he passed on through to the couple's well-appointed living room. There he was confronted by the startling image of Susan bent over on top of the coffee table, her knees spread wide to its corners and her skirt pulled right up to her waist. One hand supported her weight at the far end, and with the other she reached back to tap the wicked leather strap payfully against the taut seat of her pale pink cotton panties.

"Oh, Jenny, honey," she cooed over her shoulder as Jeff stared from the doorway. "I'm sorry I was a naughty boy. Please don't spank me any more. Please, no, I can't stand it!"

"Um," said Jeff.

"Ouch!" giggled Susan. She bucked her hips provocatively in time with the gentle rhythm of the strap. "Ooh!" She thrust her undeniably beautiful behind towards him, positively writhing in a pretence of agony.

Jeff had seldom felt an impulse as strong as the one he had now - to march into the room, snatch the strap from that woman and use it to turn her mocking parody into merciless reality. He knew from bitter experience that just one good stroke would wipe the smirk from her face. Christ, the consequences would be almost worth it. Almost.

Ever the mind reader, Susan smiled her slyest smile and said, "You'd love to, wouldn't you Jeffie?" Suddenly coy, she tugged her skirt back down, perched her now covered bottom on the edge of the table and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Sadly I'm not the one who gets spanked around here - speaking of which, I can hardly wait to watch you learning your lesson. I do hope Jen's not going to be a spoilsport - if I don't get to see a whipping, I'm going to have to stamp my foot. Or repeat to Jenny what you said to me just now."

"Said to you?"

"About what a bitch she's been lately. About how you're going to start putting your foot down."
Jeff snorted his derision, but at the same time he reminded himself how often his wife wielded the strap at the least provocation.

"I'd better be getting back," he said uncertainly.

"You better had. Don't want to keep the mistress waiting."

En route to the kitchen, Susan replaced the strap on its hook and ran a fingertip down the polished leather. "See you shortly," she said. "We're going to have some fun."

Jenny handed a steaming mug of coffee to each of them. "Take a seat, Sue. You too, Jeff - while you still can." Sue shot a glance at Jeff, who was flushing prettily at his wife's words. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten," she purred.

"Oh no, my dear," her friend assured her. "I never forget, and I never back down. If you promise punishment and don't follow through, they never learn."

"They?" Susan was more curious than ever.

"Well, let's see. First there was Tom, remember him? Wonderful guy, abs to die for, hung like a horse. But a little too alpha-male for my liking. He didn't take direction or correction too well, so I'm afraid that one was pretty short-lived. Shame, because I do miss the feel of that exceptional cock between my legs.

Then there was James, who was too far the other way - forever 'yes, ma'am-ing' and 'no, ma'am-ing' and generally enjoying being the subbie boyfriend rather too much. More or less creamed his pants whenever I raised my voice. In the end I let him down gently - told him if I'd wanted a devoted little puppy, I'd have gone to the pet store.

And then finally this one. Not such a bad catch, are you J? Can cook and clean and tie his own shoelaces, and for the most part does as he's told - in and out of bed. Looks pretty good too, especially with his face buried in my crotch or his bare butt nicely welted - preferably both!"

Jenny drained the last of her coffee and took the cups from the other two. "Speaking of welted butts, shall we retire upstairs?" No, Jeff wanted to say: but he went anyway, his wife leading and Susan at his back, studying his behind with a wry little smile. In the guest room, Jenny opened the base of the futon and withdrew clean bedding that she put to one side. Then she glanced around her. "Oh! We seem to have forgotten something."

"I'll fetch it," said Susan brightly, the hem of her flared little skirt swinging as she practically skipped from the room. She could be heard whistling to herself as she descended the stairs.

Jeff turned a forlorn face to his wife. "Please," he said.

"Please... publically whip some manners into you? With pleasure, my darling."

Sue reappeared at the door, carrying the dark leather strap that she then presented with a little curtsey to her grinning friend.

"Thank you, Susie baby." Jenny turned back to her husband who was standing, a picture of nervous apprehension, at the edge of the futon. He looked at her, his raised eyebrows asking the silent question whose answer he dreaded.

The corners of her mouth twitched as she held his gaze. "Every stitch," she said.

Sue's eyes widened. "Every stitch? Oh, my." And then, in reference to Jeff's suddenly scarlet complexion, "Sure is warm in here, hmm, Jeffie?"

For a moment the young husband stood paralysed, as if waiting to be released from a bad dream. He opened his mouth to speak, but his wife's crossed arms and raised eyebrows made him close it again. Then he bent, half-dazed, to untie his shoelaces with trembling fingers.

As he removed each item of clothing before the unabashed gaze of both women, Sue kept up an accompanying narrative. "Those socks have seen better days"... "Mmm, have you been working out?"... "Dig those tighty whities!"... and finally, as with a grimace he slid his underwear down and off, "Aww, look at his cute little pee-pee!"

Jenny allowed herself a smirk at her friend's comments, but said nothing until the moment that her husband was stood naked, hands at his sides as he had learned within the first week of their marriage. Then she simply instructed, "Over you go."

Susan's eyes followed the young man as he positioned himself at the back of the futon and leaned forward over it, placing his hands flat on the seat, his body already slick with sweat and the marks of the previous week's strapping still vivid across his muscular behind.

Jeff had never been a stoic under his wife's discipline. He knew from bitter experience that mute acceptance moved her precisely as much as sobbing and pleading; which is to say, not at all. Yet the sight of the gloating Susan, her head cocked expectantly and her hands resting lightly on her hips, made him bite down hard on his lip. He would give her as little satisfaction as he could - although, he thought grimly, having watched him strip bare and drape himself obediently over the futon she was already looking pretty pleased with herself.

Jeff closed his eyes as he felt the supple leather being tapped lightly across his cheeks: Jenny, lining up her aim. A moment later the strap was drawn back, and his wife's soft intake of breath made him squeeze his eyelids tighter and push his fingertips into the soft fabric of the futon.

With a practised arm Jenny went to work, slicing the air with the dark strap and snapping it noisily against her husband's drum-tight rear. It seemed to cling there momentarily, a black mamba delivering its venom, and left a bright red brand across both cheeks.

Jeff bore the first stroke well enough, although it hurt like hell. At the second he felt his eyes begin to prick, as though there were sparks being driven there from the fire building in his behind.

The third lash struck low and so painfully that a small groan escaped his lips before he could choke it off: this was met with a snort of amusement from Susan's direction.

"Something to say, Jeff? Smart alec remark, maybe? No?"

Jenny applied another stroke across the centre of his buttocks, and now his resolve began to break. He hissed through clenched teeth as the scalding sensation mounted. A single tear found its way between his lashes and rolled down his cheek. God, not already, he thought.

"Reckon he's feeling it?" chuckled Susan. She stepped around the edge of the sofa bed and leaned over, putting her face a few inches from Jeff's and providing him with a calculated view down the front of her top. "I'd say he is. Panting like an overheated puppy."

"Oh, I'm sure he is," responded Jenny, resting the strap on her shoulder once more in preparation for the next stroke. "But he'll feel it a lot more before we're done. After all, we're only just... getting STARTED!" She swung again, and the leather's bite forced Jeff onto his toes and produced an anguished yelp that Susan clearly found hilarious. Jeff rested his damp cheek on the sofa back and tried to ride the burning agony that threatened to engulf him. Just getting started, he told himself. Just getting started...

Two hours later - long after Jeff had begun pleading vainly for leniency in much the same way that Susan had parodied earlier that evening - all three retired for the night.

By then Jeff, forbidden yet to touch his ravaged buttocks, had stood hands on head in front of Susan to deliver a heartfelt apology for his behaviour at the restaurant. She had taken her time acknowledging it, all the while coolly looking the naked and chastened young man up and down. Eventually she had leaned forward, cupped his chin gently and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Apology accepted, little man. Don't let it happen again."

In the privacy of their room, Jenny now sat on the edge of the bed and hiked her nightdress up to her waist. She motioned her still-naked partner to his knees and guided his face between her thighs, smiling as he winced at the touch of his heels against his welted, scarlet buttocks. "Get to work, sweetheart. Nice and slow and gentle."

In the guest room, Susan lay restlessly on the futon over which she had so recently watched a good looking, naked young man bent to his wife's will. His really rather nice cock had been pressed into the back just here, while his beautiful bare behind had danced and squirmed under her friend's expert application of the strap. Susan rolled onto her belly and then lifted herself onto all fours, reaching between her legs to rub a fingertip against the crotch of her panties. There was an itch there that had been building since dinner. She had the rest of the night to attend to it.

The Honest Truth...

...is that this is an emergency filler post, to avoid an ugly and accusing gap between May and July. I have been slack, haven't I?

It amazes me that I still get so many page views here when I don't post for weeks on end. So thank you, everyone, for continuing to stop by, and I promise things will pick up again.

I do actually have part two of 'Dinner And A Show' aaalmost ready to publish. So we'll be catching up with Jenny, Susan and the hapless Jeff in the next few days. I hope you'll find the new installment as deliciously squirmy to read as I did to write it!

Turning The Tables

I mentioned a while back that I'd like to try my hand at some work featuring female spankees.

Now F/M is of course my first love, and it's relatively easy to be successful in that field because there's not so much of it around. But I do also love to see or read about naughty young (and not so young) ladies getting their bottoms warmed, and I know from previous polls and comments that many of you do too.

Tempting as it is to post F/F and M/F pictures and stories here - if nothing else, I think it would increase the number of female visitors - I've always wanted to stay true to the original, male-subjugating ethos of Underling's Humblings.

So the obvious solution would be to run another blog alongside this one (listen to me, talking like I 'run' this one when I've barely managed to post once per month lately)!

Still, please let me know your thoughts. If you do want to see a sister site to this one where the fairer sex are on the receiving end, tell me what would make it worthwhile for you. I'm keen to do something a little different in an already busy space.

On the other hand if you think I'm already spreading myself too thin and should stick to what I know, tell me that too!

Step Right In

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

How's it going, little bro? Nobody spanked at your office today? What a shame. A bit more encouragement for those guys on your development team - and maybe a hot bottom for you - and you might not have missed that deadline you were worried about. No such problems here at OSIRIS, of course. Funny how all of our projects come in on time, LOL!

Anyway, I know you're super keen to hear about how Frillies on Friday went. And it was a blast! Honestly, I've never seen so much pretty underwear on show, and all of it modelled by beautifully blushing men. We raised a ton of money and popped plenty of egos, so what's not to like?

There are some new nicknames floating around since the event too - you know I told you about Richard, the guy who'd been talking like he's God's gift to women? He's now answering to 'Dick Little'. Let's just say that pink stretch fabric fitted him much too well in front!

We actually had quite a bit of resistance this year - the girls tell me that there are always one or two of the men who think they can get out of it, but this time there were at least six or seven who turned up in their regular work wear. God knows what they thought was gonna happen - 'um, I've been told for weeks that I'm supposed to spend today in lingerie, but I thought it'd be ok if I just wore my suit as usual.' Think again, little man.

One of the recent recruits even tried shutting himself in the toilets - you can imagine how well that went down. I guess we did get a bit carried away, but my manager Sheila said he can pay to get the lock fixed out of his own salary since he shouldn't have been such a spoilsport in the first place. Anyway, needless to say none of these mini-rebellions lasted very long. There was some none-too-gentle help with stripping, some very enthusiastic penalty paddlings, and then of course the dressing up. For those who 'forgot' to bring their own, Sheila has a big box full of all kinds of gorgeous lingerie, and I think every bit of it got used at some point. Who'd have thought it'd be so much fun? Like having a living, life-size 'Sissy Barbie'. With realistic squirming action!

As for the toilet hideaway, we had to make an example of him of course - for his sins he's going to get pride of place on the cover of the OSIRISissies calendar, showing off his well-paddled behind in the little lace thong we finally put him in - that is, after we'd had him model a dozen other outfits. I'm not actually sure what made him blush more - parading for us in panties, or desperately trying to cover his cock during costume changes! I do know that he didn't take too well to having his bottom blistered, hence his new nickname - 'Sobbin' Robin'. Honestly, if he hadn't wanted us to give him such a hiding then he should have shown a bit more fundraising spirit from the outset. Some people are so uncharitable.

Anyway, that's all I have time for - just on my way out for a long lunch, and before I go I have to give William on my team a motivational spanking to make sure some paperwork is done by the time I get back. What can I say? It's tough work maintaining discipline, but somebody has to do it!

Love,

Wanda.

Now We Are One

On 5th April 2010, I fired up Underling's Humblings by pressing the big orange 'PUBLISH' button for the very first time.

Twelve months on from that first post, here we all are, if not quite hurtling through cyberspace then at least still trundling along and enjoying the view and the conversation.

So far the journey has been pretty leisurely - I've posted around twenty drawings and a handful of stories and animations, and picked up a quarter of a million page views and a hundred or so fellow travellers.

I've also struck up online friendships with regular readers, fellow bloggers and even a few spanking artists and writers whom I view with the kind of awe that other people bestow on rock stars.

It's been fun, and I hope it always will be. And since the people who make any blog are its visitors, then I wish all of you
many happy returns!

Now, clearly a spanking blog's birthday merits a birthday spanking for the blogger. Much as I'd love to receive one, sadly current internet technology doesn't allow them to be delivered online - maybe someone will fix that in time for next year.

Meanwhile, here's my virtual whipping boy waiting to be hairbrushed on my behalf (you'll need to go and get Flash Player if you can't see him).

Obviously this young man is super keen for his spanking to get under way, but before that can happen I need to figure out how many swats a year-old blog ought to invite. I think tradition says one swat per year plus one to grow on. But two swats isn't any kind of a spanking, is it?

Anyone have any suggestions?

Faster, Higher, Stronger, More Severe

An international outcry has greeted the Olympic Committee's last-minute decision to include competitive spanking at the London Games next year. Critics have said that the controversial move clearly panders to the host nation.

José Itentso of the Spanish delegation said, "It's like a bad joke, as if bullfighting had been added as an event just before the Barcelona Olympics. It's true some of us have a little prior spanking experience, but to the British it is pretty much a national sport. Not for nothing do they call it the English vice."

Hanna Zoff of Sweden, meanwhile, said: "as one of the first countries to ban corporal punishment we have been out of practice for decades. It's simply unfair that we should have to compete against a nation of perverts."

With the committee refusing to reverse its decision, athletes across the world have had little choice but to initiate emergency training programmes. Many of these are being led by coaches specially flown in from the UK.

To find out more, we visited the newly constructed 10,000-seat 'disciplinarium' in East London to catch up with the British hopefuls as they honed their skills. We found 23-year old Londoner Willy Givin face down across teammate Helen Highwater's knee - so it fell to her to do most of the talking.

"Competitive Spanking has been a minority sport until now," explained the pretty 24-year old while dishing out blows with a small but mean-looking wooden paddle. "But its elevation to Olympic status is sure to generate a surge of interest."

So what's 'competitive' about it?

"Well, events exist for a variety of implements across two main - if you'll pardon the pun - disciplines. The first is freestyle, in which points are awarded for technique, aesthetic appeal and creativity. I think Will would agree that I do most of the work there - his main contributions are vocal reactions and facial expressions. But our real speciality is mixed doubles, where teams of different nations swap partners and compete in a simultaneous face-to-face "paddle-off". It's one of very few events where 'beating the opposition' means exactly that. A team is eliminated as soon as its spankee submits and uses the safeword, so it really is a test of both of our abilities - mine to break the will of our opponents' spankee as fast as possible, and William's to withstand punishment from their spanker until I've managed to do it. That really gets the adrenaline flowing for both of us, I can tell you!"

Asked about their background in the sport, Helen admitted that they do have something of an advantage. "As a couple, we've been enthusiastic amateurs for a number of years," she explained. "But we will of course need to up our game now that we're spanking for Britain."

Nor are the team underestimating the competition. "There are some impressive players out there," Helen told us. "I hear the Japanese spankee is a veteran of 'endurance' TV shows and has incredible staying power. And Tanya Hyde of the US is an ex-discus champion, and has a fearsome arm."

So how does Helen rate their chances next year?

"Our preparation is going well. I can now paddle at full strength for hours at a time - and that's toughened Willy's resolve, not to mention his behind, to a medal-winning degree."

"I did suggest some - ouch! - cross-training," gasped her red-faced, red-bottomed partner. "But our coach says that because the pairings in competition are F/M only, she doesn't see any benefit in Helen being on the receiving end."

"And since our coach is a former national champion herself," added Helen, "Will knows better than to argue with her."

Despite the sport's slightly saucy reputation, officials say they will be taking it very seriously in its first Olympic year. In addition to some key rules - all male competitors to be bare below the waist, and only standard Olympic-grade implements to be used - there will be random tests of spankees for banned substances including anaesthetic gels and arnica cream.

The British disciplinary duo are equally serious in their ambition to mount the podium next summer. "We're hoping it won't be just the cyclists and swimmers winning gold medals on home turf," panted Will, finally released from his partner's lap. "But we know other teams are working hard to get in shape. So we have another fourteen months of rigorous training ahead of us!"

"Speaking of which," chided his eager partner, "that's enough of a breather - we've got medals to win. Over you go!"

Five Little Words

Some of you will remember a series of polls I ran back in July, inviting people to choose what they wanted to see in a new drawing. I really enjoyed that exercise, and I thought the resulting picture came out pretty well, but it was based on some seriously limited options.

I thought it'd be fun - and challenging - to really open up the field this time around. So for the next few days, I'm inviting brief suggestions from any visitor who wants to play. Is there an unusual implement, or a location, or an item of dress that you've always wanted to see in a spanking scene? Maybe you just have something wacky in mind that you just want to see if I can portray. Whatever it is, I'd like to hear it!

To try and keep some kind of grip, let's limit the suggestions to one idea per person, expressed in a maximum of five words. So 'mouth soaping' would qualify, as would 'spanking aliens from outer space'. But 'blonde woman in a green dress caning a man in striped pyjamas in a New York loft' would not. And I guess if you want to help me out (and why wouldn't you?) then you could scan through the comments before yours and try not to contradict them - for example, if someone's already provided a setting then you might like to consider some other aspect of the picture.

I reckon I'll draw a line - see what I did there? - when I've heard from ten people or so. For giggles, I'll then try to incorporate all your ideas into one drawing - hence the reason for keeping them simple. If it makes my brain hurt too much trying to squeeze them all in, I might spread them across several works (listen to me, talking like I churn one out every couple of days!)

Of course, I do want to keep everything within the spirit of the blog - that rules out depictions of anyone underaged, anything 'extreme' or gory, real people, and explicit sexual activity. Those are all the ground rules I can think of right now, but I may have to implement some emergency additions once the comments start coming in! ;)

For now, over to you... and feel free to be as creative, random and, well, challenging as you like!

In Case You Were Wondering...

...I haven't been a total slacker these last few weeks. If you take yourself over to 'All Mine', you'll find the drawing I did for my wickedly wonderful friend Suzanne, who owns that blog.

While you're there, take the time to say hello and browse the rest of her posts. Fans of sissying, cuckolding and just good old fashioned femdom spanking will find much to enjoy! Do pop back here and tell me if you like the picture, but if you want to reuse it anywhere please be sure to ask Suzanne's permission since I drew it specifically for her.

By the way, you'll notice that Suzanne posts pretty often. Her prolificness makes me look pretty lazy by comparison.

I guess I am a total slacker after all!

Nice Work If You Can Get It... or... A Job With All The Frills

I don't think I told you that my stepsister Wanda recently landed herself a 'dream job' with OSIRIS - you know, that firm where the managers are all women and they've a policy of corporal punishment for the male employees?

Anyway, since she joined I haven't stopped hearing about it - about the sixty-day annual female holiday allowance (and the five-day male allowance), and the weekly 'girls only' social events, and the women chatting over coffee for half the day, and the men lined up naked for their disciplinary interviews, and... well, you get the picture.

I haven't seen Wanda this excited since the day they made her a prefect at school. Not only do OSIRIS pay her handsomely for doing next to nothing, she also gets to indulge the sadistic streak she's had since we were kids. Barely two weeks in, she's already planning which of her cute male colleagues she can get into trouble so that they end up stripped and paddled before the month is out.

Wanda's ambitious, too - she reckons she'll be promoted within six months, which will also earn her paddling rights. This too makes her positively giddy with anticipation.

Just yesterday afternoon my heart sank when I opened my inbox to find yet another email from Ling, Wanda. After the usual preamble about how she'd spent the morning painting her nails, surfing the web and belittling the guy at the next desk, she drew my attention to an article that she'd forwarded from her company website. It advertises an upcoming fundraising event that... well, see for yourselves.

You couldn't make it up. Could you? ;)

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.

From This Day Forward - The Next Bit

Happy, um, Thursday, everyone. By popular demand, here's part two of my romantic tale celebrating everyone's favourite event - a traditional wedding. Hopefully it has all the right ingredients - something old, something new, someone paddled black and blue.

If you haven't read part one yet, please go off and do that now. We'll wait!

PART 2

The wedding ceremony was all but concluded: there remained only the induction of Peter Harris into the disciplinary care of his new wife, Joanna.

Reverend Helen Green smiled warmly at the congregation. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're nearly done here - but I know that many of you have been particularly looking forward to the next part of the proceedings. Actually," she added with a twinkle, "perhaps that's just the ladies. But I'd still invite you gentlemen - for your own growth - to pay close attention." She lifted her chin towards the rear pews. "For anyone who doesn't have a good view, please don't be shy - feel free to come up to the front. Oh, and those of you with cameras, thank you for your patience. Now is the time to use them."

The guests gradually rearranged themselves, many of the women subtly vying for the best vantage point. Meanwhile the Reverend beckoned the main participants - with bridesmaids Hannah and Emma supporting Peter by his elbows, hobbled as he was by the tangle of clothing at his ankles - towards the stone font. "Equally good for christening church members and matrimonial paddles," she chuckled, as the group approached. Joanna was already getting the feel of the implement in question, smiling to herself as she whisked it experimentally through the air.

Watching her, Peter felt the same heady mix of desire and nervous apprehension that had possessed him since they had first met. It had taken him two years to propose: he would have done so sooner, if not for Joanna's repeated warnings about what wedlock would mean for both of them. On an early date they'd been watching a marriage-themed movie together when she'd leaned over to say, "I don't want to see you down on one knee until you're ready to stay that way for life." He had turned towards her, grinning at the joke, only to find her face serious.

In the months that followed, she had told him many times how such-and-such behaviour would earn him a whipping if they were married. Meanwhile she had habitually swatted him on the behind whenever she felt slighted, or mocked, or disagreed with. These were not the playful, good-natured taps familiar to many couples, but were delivered hard and without humour - in some cases, and much to his embarrassment, at friend's houses or out in the street.

He had finally gathered his courage one summer evening at the Queen Bee, where they often ate dinner. Producing the ring from his pocket, he pushed his own chair away from the table and adopted the time-honoured position beside hers. It turned out that one knee was not enough: before he'd been able even to ask the question, she reached over and gently applied pressure to the other one until he responded to the hint. Now he felt ridiculous - no longer chivalrous, but simply submissive - on both knees in the middle of a crowded restaurant, before a woman who even now was rising from her seat to increase her height advantage. Not knowing what else to do, he blustered on, trying to stay on script.

"Jo - sweetheart - will you marry me?"

Joanna did not reply for a full minute. She stood there gazing down at him, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth, while the diners at the other tables grew quiet. Finally she spoke, and Peter knew it was for the benefit of everyone present: "And everything that entails?"

"Yes. Yes, everything."

Still she did not answer, but her eyes flicked down to the carpet in front of him. Following her gaze, he saw that she had extended one pretty, sandal-clad foot. For a few moments he regarded it blankly, his head spinning.

Then, watched by the restaurant's entire clientele, he put his elbows on the floor and his lips to her bare toes.

Joanna left him in that position for a few more heartbeats, then reached down to take his arm and encourage him to his feet.

"Up you get, silly," she said. "Of course I'll marry you." Gripping his wrists, she pulled him to her and kissed him long and hard on the lips, drawing cheers and wolf whistles from the other customers. Then she firmly turned him around and delivered a hard slap to the seat of his jeans. "That," she said, "is for making me wait..."

"...Peter - your wife is waiting." Reverend Green's gently chiding voice brought the young groom back to the present: another crowd, another public humiliation. A draught of air sent a ripple through his dangling shirt tails. He desperately wanted to hold them down - but the smirking bridesmaids, now facing him across the wooden lid of the font, still had ownership of his wrists. Hannah leaned forward as she tightened her grip, her satin bodice revealing a generous amount of cleavage. Absurdly, Peter felt - dear God - an instant stirring between his legs. The thought of this being noticed was all the encouragement he needed to press the front of his bare thighs, and his now semi-hard penis, against the cold stonework. As he did so, the two women pinned his shoulders to the dark oak top so that his upper body lay flat and immobilised against it.

There was barely a sound in the church. Behind him, Joanna's dress rustled as she reached forward to stroke the back of his head. "My darling, I love you - and since today it's just for the ceremony, I'm going to go a little easy this time. But this time only." He felt the coolness of the church air as his shirt was rolled up his back and his naked behind fully exposed, prompting a flurry of appreciative female whispering and a whirring of camera shutters. The polished blade of the paddle was placed flat against both of his buttocks. A second later it was withdrawn, and he heard Joanna's slow intake of breath and the soft creak of a floorboard as she shifted her weight.

"Ready, sweetie?"

The crack of the paddle was like a gunshot inside the hushed church. It bounced from the whitewashed walls. It echoed up and down the bell tower. It made the women smile beneath their expensive hats, and their men wince in sympathetic discomfort.

For a split second, Peter felt only the shocking force of the impact. In the moment it took for the full burning agony to register, he opened his mouth to say something about "going easy." To his surprise, all that came out was an anguished yelp: he pressed his lips to his forearm to stifle it. "Hmm," murmured Hannah approvingly. "Ouchie," said Emma. "One," counted Joanna, and then, with a chuckle, "Join in, everybody."

The second blow was delivered precisely on top of the first, adding fuel to the fire. "Two," declared Joanna, and a few others. This time Peter kept his mouth tightly closed, but could not prevent a muffled keening noise from escaping through his nose. Christ, it hurt. His legs were shaking.

Out in the aisle, the Joanna's mother glanced at her own husband, who was staring ruefully at his feet. "You know I said we didn't need to renew our vows? I've changed my mind. I think that's a wonderful idea." Then she turned her rapt gaze back to the daughter of whom at this moment she was so proud.

The four remaining swats were applied without hurry and without pity. Peter had abandoned his pride, and yelled unashamedly as each one was driven home
. Beyond the pounding in his ears he could hear feet drumming on the floor, and realised they were his own. While he writhed under his wife's ministrations - "like a worm on a hook," grinned Hannah, as she and Emma struggled to restrain him - the entire female audience now kept enthusiastic count until the final triumphant chorus of "Six!" gave way to cheers and applause.

Helen Green raised her voice above the hubbub: "Here endeth the lesson."

Joanna handed the paddle back to her bridesmaids for temporary safekeeping. "Thank you both so much - it's wonderful. I doubt we'll get a present that sees more use than that one." Then she crouched next to her still prostrate and half naked groom. "My brave boy," she said.

Minutes later, Peter was once more fully dressed and taking his turn to sign the marriage register in a shaky hand. Reverend Green had thoughtfully found a cushion for him, although he still placed himself upon it somewhat gingerly. She had also procured a tissue. "We can't have tears on your wedding photos. It's supposed to be the happiest day of your life. Oh, don't forget that we'll also need a signature here."

The young man stared at the indicated paragraph. He had seen the words before, during the rehearsal, but their meaning then had seemed unreal. Now the throbbing in his buttocks brought them into sharp focus. Submit... correction... chastisement... obedience... for as long as we both shall live.

Then, watched by the church's entire congregation, he put the pen to the paper, and himself in her charge.

New Year's Resolutions, Old-School Methods

This one's for Red, who was leaving comments on New Year's Eve complaining that I hadn't posted any pictures for 2011 yet ;). Feel free to pop over to his (admittedly excellent) blog at Consensual Spanking, and give him some grief on my behalf.

Like Paul here, I've neglected to make any resolutions for this year. I find it helps to avoid the self-hatred later. Unlike Paul, no-one's going to try and force the issue in my case.

Carla's a very demanding lady, but at least she'll help this young man to feel good about himself by making sure he sticks to 'his' promises. I'd give him a week maximum before he needs his first reminder.

Have a fantastic '11, everybody!