tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84316449635353654922024-03-28T13:31:54.481+00:00Underling's HumblingsF/M spanking art
Femdom Spanking stories
Spanking animationUnderlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-5045385936793396092024-02-29T23:50:00.008+00:002024-03-01T18:18:38.816+00:00Amazon DeliveryYes, it has been more than six years. No, I'm not dead! :)</br></br>
Of course it hardly makes up for such a long absence, but I'm posting two separate images today.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
Ok, it's still pretty sordid. But at least it's not racist.</br></br>
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...</br></br>
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.</br></br>
Anyway, here we are, finally.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnX_WKMkePEIs1Gv5LO65p5j3iCb9cuiUtavwz8vZdL0udTWbXFRB37WBw02Qk1U26almQ6ituIN9o-z7_LdNmc6ZpffVt3VPvq1Fn5OB-_S5RCjl9552DAmvo7BVRXZq7vKDGLn6uxpb_88TEjSyyjiG3KCwwqeMGnolfyiHiTCXYbqw7f114AJ8bNg/s1471/Men%20in%20Peril%20Cover%20Art.PNG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="1039" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnX_WKMkePEIs1Gv5LO65p5j3iCb9cuiUtavwz8vZdL0udTWbXFRB37WBw02Qk1U26almQ6ituIN9o-z7_LdNmc6ZpffVt3VPvq1Fn5OB-_S5RCjl9552DAmvo7BVRXZq7vKDGLn6uxpb_88TEjSyyjiG3KCwwqeMGnolfyiHiTCXYbqw7f114AJ8bNg/s400/Men%20in%20Peril%20Cover%20Art.PNG"/></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9Im6LLR9TjWPzwYzZ5t4AURGS-Ipd06XB66IPU45YeiF6t1_-A-Vq84d3EKa0sGFc4CY9Qkyi3Rs6rZiqaPiKpMiUf-786NNkKYNuX1izB8ydelD5A8RULhCJYf3uC-i4UsXWVd07jfVk0kJYPPfodZf0K-uVM1jtLwva5R6RlTr0Q0HXVCR9A6JW5Q/s1471/Men%20in%20Peril%20Story%20Art.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="1039" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9Im6LLR9TjWPzwYzZ5t4AURGS-Ipd06XB66IPU45YeiF6t1_-A-Vq84d3EKa0sGFc4CY9Qkyi3Rs6rZiqaPiKpMiUf-786NNkKYNuX1izB8ydelD5A8RULhCJYf3uC-i4UsXWVd07jfVk0kJYPPfodZf0K-uVM1jtLwva5R6RlTr0Q0HXVCR9A6JW5Q/s400/Men%20in%20Peril%20Story%20Art.png"/></a></div>Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-30004574295043335582017-12-04T00:08:00.000+00:002017-12-04T00:16:24.955+00:00In At The Deep End - Part TwoHello again, everyone.</br></br>
Thanks for all the comments on my recent <a href="https://underlingshumblings.blogspot.com/2017/11/in-at-deep-end.html">picture post</a>, and especially to those of you whose naughty imaginations fuelled a number of associated narratives.</br></br>
As promised, here's my own take on preceding events. Hope you enjoy it!</br></br>
************************************************************************************
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.</br></br>
"Debora," he yelled in the direction of the en-suite bathroom, "have you seen my trunks?"</br></br>
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.</br></br>
"Right there," she said, pointing with her toothbrush at a pair of swimming briefs atop one of the piles of clothing. "There. Look."</br></br>
Robert looked. "Not those," he said, irritably. "The shorts."</br></br>
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."</br></br>
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."</br></br>
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.</br></br>
Debora reappeared. She had thrown on a t-shirt from the airing cupboard.</br></br>
"Well, it's about time you did wear those," she said. "My mother bought them specially for you two Christmases ago."</br></br>
"Two Christmases ago I was thirty-three years old," Robert complained. "Not twelve."</br></br>
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."</br></br>
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."</br></br>
She disappeared off down the landing in search of a pair of jeans.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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."</br></br>
His wife stopped in the doorway, jeans in one hand and a disbelieving expression on her face.</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
"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.</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
"But, honey..." began Robert, and then stopped short as his wife approached him and reached up to put a finger to his lips.</br></br>
"Shush," she said, and Robert did.</br></br>
Debora leaned in close to his ear. "I don't want to hear any more about this. Are we clear?"</br></br>
Robert nodded.</br></br>
"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?"</br></br>
Robert nodded again.</br></br>
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."</br></br>
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?"</br></br>
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?"</br></br>
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."</br></br>
Deborah sighed. "Except that it's Sunday, and they don't open until eleven."</br></br>
"Oh. Then maybe they have some for sale at the pool."</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
That only added to Robert's unease. He tried to think of all the Chloes that his wife might know.</br></br>
"Chloe?" he asked. "You mean Chloe-on-my-team-at-work Chloe?"</br></br>
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."</br></br>
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?"</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
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."</br></br>
"It was a key meeting," Robert grumbled, "with a new client."</br></br>
"But still just a meeting," said Debora, "and still just three minutes."</br></br>
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."</br></br>
"I guess so," admitted Robert. "Did you manage to cheer her up?"</br></br>
"Oh, yes," said Debora, with a sly smile that Robert didn't like the look of.</br></br>
"What did you say?"</br></br>
"Hmm. I don't recall exactly. I think something about you not getting away with speaking to me like that."</br></br>
"You're kidding," said Robert, his eyes widening.</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
"Oh God," said Robert. "Why would you say that?"</br></br>
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?"</br></br>
"Um," said Robert.</br></br>
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."</br></br>
Helen brightened at that. "Oh, didn't you know? She works there on Sundays."</br></br>
"In reception?" asked Robert, as casually as he could muster while his heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest.</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
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.</br></br>
"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."</br></br>
Robert looked dazedly through the windscreen. They were just pulling into the pool's car park. "Christ, I hope she doesn't," he said.</br></br>
But Chloe did.
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-60609246678820026882017-11-20T00:25:00.002+00:002017-11-20T00:51:43.349+00:00In At The Deep End<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZxWhpMcqRu3ziqhmCStMVfC-eNNdkBdfC2Cs1KWF42EcYkOAnfVi3oST6zbdFPRyzMyxkr2Zs3nvtSl_lA0szTuKiWCYehFJWkNhJfHSGcL_RgbwmxRp3l0b1sW7bH_cwgmY_OdtiA0/s1600/In+at+The+Deep+End.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZxWhpMcqRu3ziqhmCStMVfC-eNNdkBdfC2Cs1KWF42EcYkOAnfVi3oST6zbdFPRyzMyxkr2Zs3nvtSl_lA0szTuKiWCYehFJWkNhJfHSGcL_RgbwmxRp3l0b1sW7bH_cwgmY_OdtiA0/s320/In+at+The+Deep+End.png" width="320" height="254" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="953" /></a></div>
Just when you thought I'd sunk without trace, another picture trundles slowly into view... not quite a year on from the last one.</br></br>
Hello, everyone!</br></br>
There is a backstory associated with this drawing, and I'll post that in the next week or two (no, really!)</br></br>
In the meantime, feel free to make up your own. :)Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-8863829343871144742016-12-29T21:03:00.000+00:002017-01-02T11:26:19.556+00:00Do Your Bit If You Want To Sit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTXx8r5ZDD5j4C3UFVoonpLVSp6a1cSCnyC4ElBZGLaEz1FRuKvPMIdbBa6h5hGxsL_fPqSGeY1-uJcHcM5eNdgcI0bJ9pfRSs0L5Y9orjxG87U2FbjYGVVqocJip5FEzZz8_7x9tJFg/s1600/AtDeskMotivation.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTXx8r5ZDD5j4C3UFVoonpLVSp6a1cSCnyC4ElBZGLaEz1FRuKvPMIdbBa6h5hGxsL_fPqSGeY1-uJcHcM5eNdgcI0bJ9pfRSs0L5Y9orjxG87U2FbjYGVVqocJip5FEzZz8_7x9tJFg/s320/AtDeskMotivation.png" width="320" height="212" /></a></br>
Those of you who remember me (because, yes, it's been quite a while!) may also remember my stepsister <a href="http://underlingshumblings.blogspot.com/search/label/Wanda%20Ling">Wanda Ling</a>, who's now been working at the female-led <a href="http://underlingshumblings.blogspot.com/search/label/OSIRIS">OSIRIS company</a> 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.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
Anyway, Wanda's even shared her latest poster with me, and asked whether I'd feel inclined to work harder after seeing it.</br></br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqfDtZyHNr8WYeWPu4nQVqLmlienk-VsxXpXEqqFU5fowi9_Ir-g57iE1BnQylU2CYyiD_GT_g20R6_l9PVyR4UVUbZUb2srgvtx5VOzUn8-gS_CXPWuWBz-TmzxzEoZytKi-aRz6vO8s/s1600/HereToHelp.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqfDtZyHNr8WYeWPu4nQVqLmlienk-VsxXpXEqqFU5fowi9_Ir-g57iE1BnQylU2CYyiD_GT_g20R6_l9PVyR4UVUbZUb2srgvtx5VOzUn8-gS_CXPWuWBz-TmzxzEoZytKi-aRz6vO8s/s320/HereToHelp.png" width="240" height="320" /></a>
</br>I had to admit I would. Wouldn't you?
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-9944025698709379042015-03-14T23:24:00.000+00:002015-03-16T20:50:18.622+00:00Hello, Sailor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-SlfSFIuh7YV-TeQQYKnvLdVe2qgNcqgIXw80d-KMLH0KiWgujU-4zUrN4pw4rJCojLtRXCs5RqcPe4IJgCzvxOxp6C11HeXqIbIazZIC9c85iUcBG6k-HxQLAgJPqiqNNMv6_14EWw/s1600/Hello+Sailor.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-SlfSFIuh7YV-TeQQYKnvLdVe2qgNcqgIXw80d-KMLH0KiWgujU-4zUrN4pw4rJCojLtRXCs5RqcPe4IJgCzvxOxp6C11HeXqIbIazZIC9c85iUcBG6k-HxQLAgJPqiqNNMv6_14EWw/s320/Hello+Sailor.png" /></a></div>
<i>In the navy</br>
Yes, you can sail the seven seas</br>
In the navy</br>
Yes, girls will put you 'cross their knees...</i></br></br>
So sang <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InBXu-iY7cw">The Village People</a> - well, nearly - way back in 1978.</br></br>
Quite how much a cowboy, a construction worker, a biker, a soldier, a native American and a motorcycle cop actually knew about maritime military tradition is open to debate - the largely female crew of HMS Martinet, on the other hand, are well versed in it and are dedicated guardians of one aspect in particular: discipline.</br></br>
Of course, it's not all about standing to attention and saluting - when a vessel is going to be at sea for weeks at a time there have to be opportunities to let off steam, and things can get a little boisterous. For the junior male ratings there are occasions when full uniform won't be required, as young Seaman Staines here - stop sniggering at the back - is just in the process of finding out. And since he's going to be stuck in the middle of the ocean with these ladies for the next month at least, he may just have to accept that some 'traditions' are newer than others.</br></br>
So, any takers for a post aboard the Martinet? The crew are looking forward to giving you a warm welcome. All together now...</br></br>
<i>They want you, they want you,</br>
They want you as a new recruit!</i>
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-7250805594166099462014-12-24T15:40:00.001+00:002014-12-24T18:44:08.754+00:00Surprising Santa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWCgmHAYggETqTuVGfhhpqzTvAiGbrpEotH9qtMNTs2Q5R9td-EgVd0YXIR_OxnN0k3lbxrXs1QryCkA-Pw22K7eMDQ7IggfsDVV7dGpY0M7m88Y7YtjHLwSsaRmXe_NNQ1mrejjoElY/s1600/SurprisingSanta.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWCgmHAYggETqTuVGfhhpqzTvAiGbrpEotH9qtMNTs2Q5R9td-EgVd0YXIR_OxnN0k3lbxrXs1QryCkA-Pw22K7eMDQ7IggfsDVV7dGpY0M7m88Y7YtjHLwSsaRmXe_NNQ1mrejjoElY/s320/SurprisingSanta.png" /></a></div>
Hello, everyone. At last, a new picture - albeit of a cartoony sort.</br></br>
Wishing you and yours a very happy and peaceful Christmas. May you all have a wonderful time.</br></br>
And, unlike young Annabelle here, may each of you get exactly what you've been asking for - one way or another!Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-90481205740461730212014-10-25T15:15:00.004+01:002014-11-02T19:18:43.623+00:00Cross CountryThe glider is high up - maybe three thousand feet over the hilltop, which is itself a good six hundred above the sea. Had he not been lying on his back and gazing contentedly into the late summer sky, Frank would probably not have noticed it at all. Now he is transfixed by the lazy progress of the slender machine as it climbs in a slow circle, riding a thermal, neatly framed by the circle of long grass in which he and Mary are hiding.</br></br>
"Think he can see us?" Frank asks, shifting his position a little to escape a stone that's digging into his bare backside. His shoes, socks, jeans and briefs are in a tangle at the far corner of their picnic blanket.</br></br>
"'He'?" asks Mary - up on one elbow now, straw-coloured hair in disarray, breasts revealed invitingly by the scooped neckline of her yellow cotton dress. "Stop press, sweetheart - just occasionally one of us little women gets out of the kitchen and all the way up in one of those things, you know. Sometimes," she says, reaching over to take a soft, teasing grip on her husband's penis,"they even let us handle the controls."</br></br>
Frank closes his eyes at her touch. "They do?"</br></br>
"They do, and have done for quite a while. Amelia Earhart? Ring any bells?"</br></br>
"Sure it does - oh God, honey, that feels good - she's the girl from way back who flew across the Atlantic - or was it the Pacific? And then -"</br></br>
"It was both."</br></br>
" - and then took a wrong turn trying to find some island, and was never seen again." Frank opens one eye mischievously. "Probably got into trouble while she was fixing her makeup in the rear-view mirror."</br></br>
Mary withdraws her hand abruptly, and uses it to brush crumbs from her skirt. "You'd know all about getting into trouble," she says.</br></br>
That produces an uncomfortable smile. "Hey, sorry about earlier, love - but let's not spoil the mood. Look, the sun's shining. It's not supposed to be a school day." Frank puts his hands beneath him and slides his torso over until his head is resting on her lap. "Or if it is, how about you carry on with the history lesson? You know I have a thing for you intellectual schoolma'am types."</br></br>
Mary regards him coolly for a moment. "Amelia Mary Earhart," she says. "No relation, before you ask. American, born around the end of the nineteenth century. Learned to fly. Set quite a number of records, became a celebrity proponent of female equality. And disappeared, like you said, in mysterious circumstances - most likely after running out of fuel. Which, by the way, as well as any 'wrong turns', would have been down to her highly experienced, and very male, navigator."</br></br>
Frank is sceptical. "Male navigator, oil changer, heavy lifter, engine starter..."</br></br>
Mary squints up into the sunlight. "Maybe so. But our friend up there doesn't need an engine," she says.</br></br>
"I guess not," says Frank, eager to keep the mood light and the subject safe. "So, do you think he - or she - can see us?"</br></br>
"I should certainly hope not," Mary says. "And if you mean, can he or she see your frisky little cock - since you're the one lounging around partly tumescent and practically naked - I'd say probably not without a very low pass and bloody powerful binoculars."</br></br>
Frank looks hurt. "I thought you liked my cock," he says.</br></br>
"Oh, I do, sweetie. But I like dragonflies and bumble bees and dormice too. Doesn't mean I'm in a hurry to put one in my mouth."</br></br>
Frank sighs and sits up. "Guess I might as well get dressed, in that case. And then we can head back home to mother."</br></br>
"Not just yet, I don't think." Mary makes a show of gathering up his discarded clothes and pushing them into a corner of their wicker picnic basket, where the plates and glasses and leftover food have already been put away. Then she fixes him with her gaze and says, "Not until we've had a little discussion about what happened this morning."</br></br>
Frank rolls his eyes. "Come on, darling. You could see how she was needling me."</br></br>
"'She' is my mother, Frank, and a guest in our house. Yes, she can sometimes be a little forthright. But she is not an 'interfering witch'. And next time you're tempted to address her as such, I want you to be thinking about the consequences."</br></br>
Frank blinks. He opens his mouth to speak, but then thinks better of it, and in any case Mary is busy rooting inside the basket again.</br></br>
"Let me tell you what's going to happen," she says. She retrieves the large, folded penknife whose corkscrew attachment they'd used to open the wine, and points it toward him for emphasis. "You are going to cut me a switch. Not too thick, not too thin, say the diameter of your little finger. Make it about a foot-and-a-half long. Nice, pale wood with plenty of spring - hazel or hickory or birch are all good."</br></br>
Frank looks warily at the knife for a moment and doesn't move, almost as though he were considering saying no. Then he reaches out and takes it, as they both knew he would. </br></br>
"Honey, she really was needling me," he says again, but this time without conviction.</br></br>
"Less whining," says Mary. "More switch-cutting."</br></br>
Mary's hunt for the knife has also turned up an uneaten banana. Now she uses her long nails to pry open its skin before peeling it slowly, thoughtfully. "Look on the bright side," she says, "Once we've got this unpleasant business out of the way, who knows? If you've shown me you can do as you're told, and after I've had the satisfaction of whipping your bare little behind, I might even be in the mood," - she slowly slides a good third of the banana between her full lips, bites off a mouthful and talks around it - "to show you some forgiveness."</br></br>
She picks up the paperback book from the blanket beside her, opens it at the bookmark and reads half a page before looking up again as if in surprise that Frank is still in the same spot. "Or," she says, "we can head back to the car right now. And we'll do this at home, with the hairbrush, and with mummy listening in the next room."</br></br>
Frank's face flushes instantly. "Wait... okay," he says. </br></br>
"'Okay', what?"</br></br>
"I mean, I'll do it. The switch thing."</br></br>
"Yes," says Mary, still chewing, "you will."</br></br>
Frank glances over to where one trouser cuff is protruding from the top of the basket. "I'll just put my..."</br></br>
"No," says Mary, "you won't. Not until <i>after</i> you've been dealt with."</br></br>
Frank lowers his gaze and pushes out his bottom lip, like a scolded child. He spends a minute or so fiddling with the knife, popping a blade in and out. Stalling. Finally he looks around, and nods hopefully at the small stand of bushes a few yards behind them. "Are any of those hazel or... what was it again?"</br></br>
"Those are laburnum," Mary says, and points over his shoulder. "Try there."</br></br>
Frank turns and gapes at the open ground between their hidden location and the wooded area that Mary is indicating. "You're kidding, right?"</br></br>
Mary ponders briefly. "Nope," she says.</br></br>
"But that's miles away. What if somebody walks past?"</br></br>
"Then you'd better be busy inside that wood, or safely back here with my switch, when they do."</br></br>
"But what if they're around when I come out?"</br></br>
Mary sighs and closes her book. "I suppose we mustn't frighten the locals. We'll need a secret signal, to spare your blushes."</br></br>
"Secret signal?"</br></br>
Mary raises her eyebrows. "Did you read even a single adventure story in your youth? Or did you progress straight from picture books of moo-moos and baa-baas to the lingerie pages of your mother's catalogue?" Frank begins to protest, but she cuts him off. "Yes, dear, a secret signal. Like an owl hoot, or a cuckoo call. Or a whistle."</br></br>
"A whistle?"</br></br>
"Good God," sighs Mary, "I've married a parrot. Yes, a whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you Frank? You just put your lips together, and blow."</br></br>
"I know how to whistle," says Frank. "But how will this work?"</br></br>
"I'm coming to that. Once you've cut yourself a switch, you stay nice and hidden but you give me a whistle. Like this." She demonstrates, with a low sound that glides up and down in pitch. "Now you do it."</br></br>
Frank looks pained, but manages a fair imitation.</br></br>
"Hmm," frowns Mary. "Well, that will have to do. Now, when I hear that, I'll stand up and have a little look around. If the coast is clear, I'll answer you with the same whistle and you can come scurrying back with your weapon of choice."</br></br>
"And if the coast isn't clear?"</br></br>
"Then I won't answer you."</br></br>
Frank looks unhappy. "We don't need to do this, honey."</br></br>
"Fine. Then you can take a chance on an impromptu audience."</br></br>
"Um, I actually mean...we don't need to do this at all."</br></br>
Mary greets this suggestion with an icy stare. "I do hope we're not entering a period of defiance, Francis. But if we are, I daresay my mother might enjoy hearing it brought to an abrupt end."</br></br>
Frank's shoulders slump visibly. "No," he sighs. "It's just... could you point? I wouldn't know any of those types of tree..."</br></br>
"...if they bit you on the ass?" Mary allows herself a smirk. "Tell you what, we won't worry too much about the species. You just keep examining nice, whippy little branches until you say to yourself, 'That one looks like it'd really, really hurt.' Then you deliver it back here and we find out how right you were." She leans over and places a finger beneath Frank's chin to lift his face toward hers. She's no longer smiling. "You'll want to take your time and choose carefully, little man, because if I don't like the switch you bring me then you'll be going right back to cut another. Now, do we understand each other?"</br></br>
It's the question Frank always struggles with, even though it has only one permissible answer and he has had plenty of practice at providing it.</br></br>
"Yes, ma'am," he says with difficulty.</br></br>
"Good," says Mary, "then there'll be no more debate."</br></br>
Frank would like more debate - a whole afternoon of it, if he thought he could wear Mary down; which long and painful experience has taught him he cannot. During three years of courtship and another two of marriage he's lost count of the number of times she's found it necessary to 'deal with' him - never quite without reason, but always with an enthusiasm bordering on glee. Mary has made good and frequent use of the hairbrush, the belt, the slipper; in the bedroom, the lounge, the kitchen and, on one occasion that he still blushes to recall, the rear patio of their semi-detached surburban house while their neighbours entertained friends on the far side of their six-foot fence. Are his wife's ministrations good for him? Do they strengthen their relationship? Frank doesn't know, and has long since given up wondering. He does know that the force of her personality intoxicates him in exactly the same way as it did in their first few months together; and that when she instructs him to do something and she means it, he cannot say no.</br></br>
Frank does not say no. Instead he rises cautiously to his knees, and peers across the space between the edge of the long grass and the woods. Lord, that's got to be at least a hundred-and-fifty yards. He eases himself up a little further, self-consciously tugging down the hem of his t-shirt as he does so. He cranes his neck to look up the path as far as he can see, to where it disappears over the rise. He turns to his left and for a few moments watches the opening at the far corner of the field. Nobody appears, but that doesn't mean nobody will.</br></br>
Mary glances at her watch. "The village market closes at four, doesn't it?" she says casually. "Probably be quite a few people heading home this way soon." Frank doesn't answer, but pulls harder on the fabric until he more-or-less manages to cover his crotch. "What I mean is," continues Mary, "if I were you I'd stop making like a meerkat and run, rabbit, run. Oh, you'd best leave your shirt here too. I paid good money for that, and you're stretching it all out of shape." She extends a hand. "Take it off please, and give it to me."</br></br>
Frank stares at her in dismay. "I can't," he says, feebly.</br></br>
"'Can't'?" says Mary. "Of course you can, sweetie. Just pull up that hem...come on, up, up, higher... now over your head... there you go."</br></br>
A minute later Frank, perfectly naked now except for the running shoes that Mary has tossed him at the last moment - "We can't have you scratching those pretty feet" - is crawling to the edge of the long grass. Slowly, head on a swivel, he rises to his knees and finally balances on his haunches.</br></br>
For a few moments he just crouches there, swaying slightly, caught between the resolve to get this over with and the queasy fear of putting distance between himself and the dignity of his clothing. He looks back at Mary and opens his mouth to say something - <i>anything</i> - but she's already engrossed in her book.</br></br>
"You're supposed to be keeping a look out," Frank hisses.</br></br>
"I am. Off you go, nature boy."</br></br>
Frank's mouth tightens and he closes his eyes for several long seconds. When he opens them again he is still there, still naked, and still - but not for much longer - hidden from view. Reluctantly, giddy with adrenaline, he gets to his feet and then catches himself momentarily, ridiculously, looking for a pocket in which to stow the knife. Finally he grips it between his teeth. Then, genitals clasped in one hand and with the other trying ineffectually to cover his bare bottom, he begins to run.</br></br>
Frank makes it halfway to the trees before he falls. A rock, or a root, or something - he's not about to stop and investigate - catches his toe, and he loses his balance and sprawls full length in the dirt. Cursing, he scrambles to his feet and then stumbles on, one hand still cupped over his groin and the other rubbing at a graze on his knee. The knife has been jettisoned ahead of him, and he scoops it up without breaking his stride.</br></br>
As he nears the treeline he realises the way into the woods is blocked - stinging nettles, hundreds of them, standing chest-high along the perimeter as far as he can see. His pace slows to a stop and he backs up a little to get a better view. "Shit," he says. "Shit!" Hands jammed between his thighs, bouncing on his toes, he turns this way and that in an agonised fit of indecision.</br></br>
The barking of a nearby dog breaks the spell. There's no telling where it's coming from, but every chance that the animal and its owners are heading this way. Alarmed, Frank plunges straight ahead through the dense vegetation, ignoring the hot sparks of the stinging hairs breaking over his skin.</br></br>
Now inside the wood Frank feels a little better, if not exactly at ease. The trees are densely packed and there's plenty of low-growing foliage, and once he's a few yards in, the field is completely hidden from him - and thus he from it. He crouches experimentally, and decides that he could probably make himself mostly invisible if anyone came along the path within the wood. Probably. Mostly. "Shit," he says again. Best to keep moving.</br></br>
At first Frank can't find what he's looking for. There are branches everywhere, of course, but all of them somehow wrong; too thick, too thin, too bent, too dead. "Choose carefully, young man," he reminds himself bitterly. He rubs vigorously at the nettle stings peppering his thighs, and watches his exposed penis bobbing in response as if mocking his predicament. Twice he's heard voices within the wood, thankfully none of them nearby but more than enough to make him jittery.</br></br>
After several minutes of activity, much of it spent ducking into bushes at the slightest unexpected noise, Frank comes across a promising-looking tree with a dozen small branches radiating out from its trunk. Crouching, he bends a couple of them to test their flexibility and then chooses one. After a furtive glance over each shoulder he uses the knife to saw away at its base, twisting and tugging at it until it suddenly comes free. He topples backwards onto his behind, not hurt but nonetheless left with a dismal vision of himself - a thirty-four year old man, stripped to his birthday suit in the middle of a public wood, holding the instrument of his correction in one hand and using the other to pick away the dead leaves that have attached themselves to his bare buttocks and scrotum. The knife has skittered away into the undergrowth, and after a brief search Frank resigns himself to having lost it. Sullenly, he hacks at the undergrowth with the switch, and it cuts the air with a menacing <i>thwip</i>. At least that will help to fend off the nettles for the return trip.</br></br>
Frank makes his way carefully back to the spot where he entered the wood - or thinks he did, since it all looks the bloody same by now. He finds a patch of bracken and hunkers down within it, as close to the tree line as he dares. If he can make it back to Mary without being seen, then at least he's past the worst of this. He might even laugh about it later, especially if the promise of that thing with the banana comes to fruition. He's not looking forward to the whipping, of course, but it will hardly be his first.</br></br>
It's only when Frank attempts to whistle that he realises how dry his mouth is. He swallows hard and tries again, and this time the result sounds, if anything, too loud. At least that ought to do it, he thinks - except that it doesn't. Only sporadic snatches of birdsong break the stillness of the afternoon. Frank tries again, then suddenly thinks: shut up, you idiot - no response means the coast isn't clear. And here you are drawing attention to yourself.</br></br>
Frank squats and listens and waits, fingers drumming against his pink-skinned knees, until eventually he can no longer bear the suspense. Creeping forward, he straightens up until he can just see over the top of the nettle bed. There is indeed someone walking there, out towards the stile at the far corner of the field - a young blonde woman in a yellow dress, carrying a picnic basket.</br></br>
"Mary!" Frank exclaims in an absurd stage whisper.</br></br>
She has to be teasing him, of course... doesn't she? She's heard him whistle, probably guesses that he'll be looking, and she does have a fondness for pranks. Any moment now, she'll look round and flash her trademark grin in his direction.</br></br>
Any moment now.</br></br>
Frank waits for Mary to turn back at the stile. Then he waits, a little less certainly, while she hoists the basket - the basket containing his clothes - and climbs over it into the roadway. And then she is gone.</br></br>
Oh, God.</br></br>
Suddenly gripped by anxiety, Frank briefly considers making a break out of the trees and straight through the meadow, and dignity be damned - but that's before a brown labrador, nose to the ground, trots across his field of view. Following it are a middle-aged man and woman, deep in conversation but still unlikely to miss a stranger clad in running shoes and nothing else sprinting across an open field - so Frank stays put. Cursing furiously under his breath, he peers through the leaves and watches the dog walkers saunter along the path, taking their time; for all the world as though they were only out for a pleasant stroll and not actually intent on ruining his life.</br></br>
Finally, inexorably, the walkers disappear from view. Frank counts to ten, glances briefly behind him and begins to swing at the nettles with the switch. Twenty seconds later he is edging sideways through the gap he's created and thinking, thinking hard. The car is parked about half a mile away and Mary has a head start of five or six minutes, which means she'll be most of the way there by now. It's unthinkable - isn't it? - that she'd drive off without him. So yes, yes, she'll be waiting in the car. He won't want to waste any time, though - the field has been quiet enough for most of the afternoon, so he'll cut across to the far hedge as fast as he can go, and then be more careful once he gets to the road.</br></br>
For a while, Frank is lucky. Nobody yells or screams as he races across the field, arms and legs pumping, testicles bouncing uncomfortably. Next he follows the line of the road but keeps within the edges of the fields as best he can, hurriedly pressing himself into hedgerows whenever he hears an approaching car. At one point he spots a farmer's tractor in the distance, but there's not much he can do about that. Probably doesn't care so long as I'm not trampling his crop, Frank thinks - then, a second later: who am I kidding? More likely he's on his cellphone to the police right now, reporting a dangerous pervert in the top pasture.</br></br>
As Frank watches the tractor it seems to turn in his direction, which gets him moving again. He vaults over a gate and out into the lane at the same moment that a blue Toyota convertible, top down, is rounding the bend. Frank gets a glimpse of the driver and her passengers - three young female faces, all sharing one astonished expression and all turned in his direction - as the car cruises past. He turns away and retreats down the lane at a brisk walk, as if to run would make him somehow more conspicuous. Behind him the Toyota slews to a stop, and from within it come a shrill wolf whistle, raucous laughter and a girl's voice. "Hey, sexy! Need a lift somewhere?" No, thinks Frank - just a sack to cover my head and a hole in the ground to swallow me up. He quickens his pace and after a few seconds hears the car pull away again, a double tap of the horn and more laughter fading into the distance. At least, thinks Frank, they probably don't have room to turn around.</br></br>
Another five hundred yards, another bend in the lane and there, thank God, is the couple's white Ford saloon. By ducking his head Frank can see Mary in the driver's seat, one foot propped up against the dashboard, reading her book. She looks up as he approaches, her expression hard to read except that there's a definite hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth.</br></br>
Frank stalks up to the car, yanks at the handle of the passenger door and finds it locked. His wife cocks an eyebrow, but makes no move to open it.</br></br>
"Christ, Mary," Frank says through the closed side window.</br></br>
She's smirking openly now, and when she speaks her voice is muted by the glass. "Enjoy your walk?"</br></br>
"No, not really. What the hell were you thinking?"</br></br>
"That you'd like the chance to show off your superior male navigation skills. What happened, did you take a wrong turn?"</br></br>
"Very funny."</br></br>
Mary taps the face of her wristwatch. "Anyway - ten minutes, I said. You were fifteen, at least. A girl gets bored, left alone for too long."</br></br>
Frank scowls, searches his memory. "What do you mean, 'ten minutes?' You said no such thing!"</br></br>
"Didn't I? Oh. Well, I meant to. You probably distracted me with all that sulking."</br></br>
Frank pulls at the handle again, uselessly. "Could you open the door?"</br></br>
"What's the magic word?"</br></br>
"Please," sighs Frank.</br></br>
"And where's your magic wand?"</br></br>
Frank stares at Mary for a moment, and then lifts the switch for her to inspect. He'd almost forgotten he had it.</br></br>
"Very nice. Very nice indeed. So, are you ready for your whipping?"</br></br>
"What?"</br></br>
Mary reaches over and cracks the window an inch. "I said, Frank: are you ready for your whipping?"</br></br>
Frank shakes his head weakly. "Please, love. Look, I'll apologise to your mother. Unlock the door and let's go home. I've... learned my lesson, alright?" He looks up and down the lane and then takes a step back, spreading his arms to indicate his nakedness. "Hey, I've spent the last half hour like this. I've hidden in bushes. I've been stung to buggery by nettles. I've been chased by farmers. I've been damn nearly abducted by predatory women. Now, come on. You've had your fun."</br></br>
Mary sits back, opens her own door, and swings her feet out onto the dusty unmade surface of the lane. She pushes herself up from her seat, steps around to Frank's side of the car and takes the switch from his hand, flexing it until it forms an almost circular frame behind which her pretty face resolves itself into a tight-lipped smile.</br></br>
"No," she says. "No I haven't."</br></br>
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The hilltop is bathed in sunlight - maybe four hundred feet below her, Margaret calculates, with a glance at her altimeter. The shadows are longer than they were on her outbound trip, but it's still a beautiful afternoon and the sky is a flawless azure bowl stretching from horizon to horizon. She studies the aviation map on her lap: six miles back to the airfield, which at her current glide ratio should leave her about two hundred feet of altitude to spare by the time she crosses the perimeter. Cutting it a little fine, admittedly, but then twenty years' experience has given her plenty of confidence in the cockpit. She checks her watch. She'll be in the clubhouse by six and she's already looking forward to flirting with the new bartender, Matthew - twenty-three years old, and with a cute little arse that has her adding snacks to her order just because he has to bend down to get them. He lives locally, too, and he did blush very prettily when she told him what happens to naughty boys who miscount her change. Perhaps she'll take him to bed at the end of his shift - his bed, that is - and then he can bring her back to pick up her Jeep in the morning.</br></br>
A glint of reflected sunlight below her catches Margaret's attention.</br></br>
Down there in the lane, pointing off towards the distant town, is a solitary, white parked car. Probably a couple out for an intimate drive, Margaret smiles to herself, although it seems they might be having some trouble. He, shirtless by the look of it, is bending over the front of the vehicle as though to inspect the engine - but the bonnet is closed. She, a couple of feet behind him, seems to be gesturing with something. No, she's swinging her arm rhythmically back and forth.</br></br>
As the glider draws level with the vehicle, and just before the scene disappears from view beneath her starboard wing, Margaret sees that the man isn't only bare from the waist up. He's actually... and the woman appears to be... "Oh my," she says aloud, "Well, there's one for the log book." Intrigued, Margaret considers going around for a second pass, and even as she looks behind her the glider begins to drift a little. Best not to risk it, she decides after a few moments. Not so many thermals at this time of day to help her home, and in any case she'll have a young man of her own to play with before the evening's out. She spots the drift and applies some corrective rudder and stick, and the aircraft obediently responds. Smiling, she pats the control column with a gloved hand.
"Good boy," she says. "Good boy."</br></br>
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-4906805420260340652014-03-31T00:02:00.000+01:002014-11-02T19:16:58.497+00:00The Dog Ate It......my thousand-word assignment, that is, on the theme 'What Mary did to Frank during their picnic'.</br></br>
Actually, it's not quite as drastic as that. The story I'd intended to publish this month is merely somewhat delayed, and I promise to get it posted just as soon as I can.</br></br>
Meanwhile two of my favourite fellow bloggers have been kind enough to feature some of my work this week, which always makes me improbably giddy.</br></br>
First up is <a href="http://spankingcuckoldandbi.blogspot.com/2014/03/artists-i-love-underling.html">Qbuzz</a>, who's included a couple of pictures you won't find here; and then there's the lovely <a href="http://ronniesoul.blogspot.com/2014/03/snap-out-of-it-while-you-still-can.html">Ronnie</a>, who's even written her own delicious text to accompany an illustration.</br></br>
Both sites are rather ace, so if you're not already familiar with them do take the time to look around and say hello while you're there. :)Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-30636571569227169822014-02-28T23:53:00.000+00:002014-11-02T19:19:24.062+00:00Oh No! Not Another Word Search<embed src="http://sites.google.com/site/underlingimaginings/swfs/Letters2.swf"
quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always"
type="application/x-shockwave-flash"
pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/go/getflashplayer" align="middle"
height="500" width="400"></embed><br /><br />
HORSEWHIP</br>
SISSY</br>
CUCKOLD</br>
SLIPPER</br>
MATRIARCH</br>
SPANKING</br>
EMBARRASSMENT</br>
PUNISHMENT</br>
HEADMISTRESS</br>
PANTIES</br>
HUMBLING</br>
DISCIPLINE</br>
STRIPPING</br>
CORRECTION</br>
OBEDIENCE</br></br>
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.</br></br>
If you haven't played before, then do head over to <a href="http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/more-than-words.html">this post</a> 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).</br></br>
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.</br></br>
As before, you won't want to try the adjudicator's patience by submitting an incorrect or incomplete entry... or will you? ;)Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-6117854136398604392014-01-19T02:00:00.001+00:002014-01-19T02:24:33.110+00:00Friends In Shy PlacesMy fellow travellers of the spanko universe (puni-verse?) have
spent the last few weeks making me feel all warm 'n' fuzzy -
even though few of us actually know one another beyond our
pseudonyms, the stuff we post online and the occasional fun
exchange of emails or blog comments.</br></br>
First Devlin O'Neill recorded 'my' Christmas song for his blog,
then the Library of Spanking Fiction used one of my stories in
an ebook, and now the very nice and talented gentleman who runs
<a
href="http://glenmoretales.blogspot.com/2014/01/overheard-
spanking-tribute-to-underling.html"><i>Glenmore's Spanking
Tales</i></a> has been inspired to produce two drawings based on <a
href="http://underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/sore-
losers.html">this tale of mine</a> from a few months back.</br></br>
'The Glenmore' - possibly not how he's known to friends and
family - is both an artist and an author. I'm sure readers of
this blog will also find plenty to enjoy over at his place. I
like his informal, comic drawing style, and he also has a great
sense of humour - check out the words on the Scrabble board!</br></br>
Please do say hello while you're there, and tell him Undy sent
you. He hasn't had his site up for long, and I well remember
how precious comments are when you're just starting out.</br></br>
Have fun! :)Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-24327957669858491202014-01-04T13:46:00.000+00:002014-01-04T13:50:16.560+00:00Brought To BookSome of you may remember the story <i>Firm Discipline</i> that I posted back in April, both here and at the very wonderful <a href="http://thespankinglibrary.org">Kilahara Library of Spanking Fiction</a>.</br></br>
Well, now that same tale has turned up as the lead story in Volume 9 of the equally wonderful series of LSF eBooks, <a href="http://www.lsfpublications.com/index.php?id=244"><i>Women Who Spank Men</i></a>. That version's allegedly been authored by some guy calling himself 'Rudi Glenn', though. I mean, really - sounds like a seventies porn star. I hope when those gorgeous, ruthless, amazonian copyright policewomen catch up with me... I mean, with <i>him</i>... he gets the spanking he deserves! ;)Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-19434885441427424712013-12-25T02:41:00.001+00:002014-01-08T07:54:48.264+00:00The Samantha Clause<embed src="http://sites.google.com/site/underlingimaginings/swfs/sclaus4.swf"
quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always"
type="application/x-shockwave-flash"
pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/go/getflashplayer" align="middle"
height="595" width="410"></embed><br /><br />
<i>'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the shop</br>
The workforce of elves had been toiling non-stop</br>
To wrap up the presents and stuff them in sacks,</br>
No time to make small talk, no time to relax.</br>
For perched on a chair overlooking the scene</br>
There sat a young woman in red velveteen.</br>
Her garb was familiar, and trimmed with white fur</br>
And being quite short showed a whole lot of her.</br>
For those of you asking "Where's jolly St. Nick?</br>
And who is this red-and-white minidressed chick?"</br>
Well, Santa retired at the end of last season -</br>
"Lumbago," he gave as the primary reason.</br>
"Since I put me back out it isn't the same.</br>
This sleigh-driving lark is a young Claus's game.</br>
I've done it for hundreds of years, give or take -</br>
It's time I clocked off for a well-deserved break.</br>
I'll sit in my rocker, smoke pipes and drink beer.</br>
My daughter Samantha can take charge from here."</br>
When news of this handover got to the elves</br>
Those mischievous minions had said to themselves:</br>
"Thank God that old slave-driver's hung up his sack.</br>
This Christmas we'll lounge and we'll slouch and kick back.</br>
We'll tell our new boss she will have to play ball.</br>
She's only a slip of a girl, after all.</br>
We'll all get a helping of seasonal cheer</br>
As soon as she sees who's in charge around here."</br>
But looks are deceiving, and elves are not smart.</br>
"There'll be no more slacking," said Sam, "for a start!</br>
My management style's of a different sort</br>
With visits to lap-land for those who fall short."</br>
The elves had all chuckled and taunted "To where?</br>
To Lapland, you say? But we're already there!"</br>
But then their new boss put a stop to their glee</br>
By putting the first of them over her knee!</i></br></br>
Have a wonderful Christmas, everyone!</br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_lR6LQDz6Y8oz7d1ByFNxj5SqLcTef4nc50ZW7X3Yu4TiOhldAw9OWKWD0IehTg2bxrhC8qLXFhH2ibY_PXBzvgLcOQn99-aCgt9JZ9H60YPcEY2DXdR_mzez2bvjPsSWQLABW3CG1g/s1600/Samantha+Claus.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_lR6LQDz6Y8oz7d1ByFNxj5SqLcTef4nc50ZW7X3Yu4TiOhldAw9OWKWD0IehTg2bxrhC8qLXFhH2ibY_PXBzvgLcOQn99-aCgt9JZ9H60YPcEY2DXdR_mzez2bvjPsSWQLABW3CG1g/s320/Samantha+Claus.png" /></a></div>Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-4620384952737274002013-12-14T11:22:00.000+00:002013-12-14T11:23:30.642+00:00Thank You For The MusicOne of the greatest rewards in keeping a site like this is
having a fellow blogger spot something you've posted and share
it with his or her own visitors.</br></br>
Sometimes it's just a passing mention of a post. Sometimes it's
the reuse of a picture for illustration. What doesn't happen so
often is that someone records a song - yes, a <i>song</i> -
inspired by one of your works.</br></br>
In this case that someone is the charming, talented and really
rather renowned author of spanking erotica, Devlin O'Neill. He
liked <a
href="http://underlingshumblings.blogspot.com/2011/12/seasons-
beatings.html">this post</a> from December 2011 so much that he
decided to lay down his own version of <i>The Twelve Days Of
Christmas</i> - or some of it, anyway - based on the
accompanying drawing.</br></br>
You can see Dev's post, and hear his recording, right <a href=
"http://www.devlinoneill.com/?p=21830">here</a>, and if it
doesn't bring a seasonal smile to your face I don't know what
will. It certainly did to mine - it was like, well, Christmas
come early.</br></br>
While you're over at Devlin's domain, do take the time to look
around. It's a great, fun place to hang out.</br></br>
Hats off to you, Mr O'Neill!Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-56444584059890128312013-11-12T05:07:00.000+00:002013-11-12T18:43:39.470+00:00Rear Window Redux - Love Our Lurkers Day 8<embed src="http://sites.google.com/site/underlingimaginings/swfs/RearWindow2013.swf"
quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always"
type="application/x-shockwave-flash"
pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/go/getflashplayer" align="middle"
height="312" width="410"></embed><br /><br />
Welcome, everyone, to LOL 8 - organised, as ever, by Bonnie at
My Bottom Smarts (where you'll also find <a
href="http://bottomsmarts.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/its-love-our-
lurkers-day-8.html">Bonnie's own LOL post</a>, together with a
list of all the participating blogs).</br></br>
Those of you who've done this before - it's the fourth time
that <i>Underling's Humblings</i> has had the pleasure - will
know the score by now. For those who haven't, it goes a little
like this:</br></br>
Today's the day when we celebrate our 'lurkers' - the very many
visitors who tiptoe through our sites and rarely, if ever, type
stuff into the comment box that's tucked away under each post
(look, look, there it is - down a bit, down a bit... there you
go!)</br></br>
Now, I really do appreciate every single person who stops by,
enjoys the pictures and animations and stories and occasional ramblings, and
keeps the hit counter ticking over. But what I really, really
love is to hear from you lot - even if it's only to say hello.
After all a hit count is just a number, but a comment is a
person is a human connection in the vast and sometimes
impersonal world of online kinkery.</br></br>
So whether you're a regular chatterbox here or you've never
commented before, it'd be wonderful if you chose today to pop
up and say hello. You can say as much or as little as you like,
and if you want you can be totally anonymous - no registration
required! Tell me a little about yourself, what you do and
(grits teeth) don't like about the blog, what your cat's name
is, what you had for breakfast.</br></br>
And while you're thinking what to write, enjoy 'Rear Window
Redux' - the revisited and revised version of the nosy
neighbour simulator I posted about this time last year. For the
traditionalists among you, it now features <i>actual
spanking</i>, prolonged but oh-so-tastefully silhouetted nudity and, um,
completion of the domestic chores whose neglect got our hero in
trouble in the first place.</br></br>
Happy lurking... and if you feel like <i>de</i>-lurking, don't
forget to say hi. It really will make my day. :)
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4STOpH9gsLk876ANbiqA8814758Ps7HsKEQnUotcemUzA_F5VOCN6Mf9zNsozcs0F5I3YS0QldVwlJ1FZcMA3ZxED_FBODKF_q8oc7_lifXDM4lEGeu2Gyz7uy7FSL684ZN7EkfBoUYA/s1600/RearWindow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4STOpH9gsLk876ANbiqA8814758Ps7HsKEQnUotcemUzA_F5VOCN6Mf9zNsozcs0F5I3YS0QldVwlJ1FZcMA3ZxED_FBODKF_q8oc7_lifXDM4lEGeu2Gyz7uy7FSL684ZN7EkfBoUYA/s320/RearWindow.png" /></a></div>Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-77001200759200363532013-10-31T00:50:00.001+00:002013-11-02T00:26:45.869+00:00All Lurk/ No PlayIt's almost that time of year again when - thanks to the lovely
Bonnie at <a href = "http://bottomsmarts.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/lol-day-8-
faq.html">My Bottom Smarts</a> - we celebrate and salute
the bystanders, the passers-through, the wallflowers... the
'lurkers'.</br></br>
Every day hundreds of you brave souls click on that scary big
red button - the one that says '<span style = "color:white"><span style = "background-color:red"><b>I UNDERSTAND AND I WISH TO
CONTINUE</b></span></span>' - but most of you are less inspired by the altogether
more benign blue one under the comment box marked '<span style = "color:white"><span style = "background-color:blue"><b>Publish</b></span></span>'.</br></br>
<i>Love Our Lurkers</i> Day - it's on Tuesday 12th November -
is your chance to try out that blue button for size and say
hello. Actually, whether you're a first-time commenter or an
old hand, it'd be lovely to hear from you on that day - and all
the other bloggers taking part would welcome your participation
too.</br></br>
If this is all new to you and you want to get a bit of a
flavour, feel free to check out Bonnie's post, or <a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/rear-
window-love-our-lurkers-day-7.html">my LOL post</a> from last year,
or <a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/come-
out-come-out-wherever-you-are-love.html">this post</a> from the
year before, or <a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/love-
our-lurkers-day-5.html">this post</a> from the year before
that!</br></br>What do you mean, I'm just trying to boost my hit count?! </br></br>
Well, maybe a little... :)</br></br>
Look forward to seeing you on the 12th.Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-9853463436217850562013-09-30T23:51:00.001+01:002013-10-01T01:31:23.079+01:00Remote Control<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Li0SIl1GX2ARWXsCy_MSE5BvkyGp3m2dXKOQAk30pRM-H62DWm_ogXtTXPTkrTe-3LjbpMxwPhXvsJlc-FKKrRtU8zEJaXSdUnxpCuWatc1Z86U5ZK5bnUlsZjeyqv8AFIaNF-9Ee64/s1600/RemoteControl.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Li0SIl1GX2ARWXsCy_MSE5BvkyGp3m2dXKOQAk30pRM-H62DWm_ogXtTXPTkrTe-3LjbpMxwPhXvsJlc-FKKrRtU8zEJaXSdUnxpCuWatc1Z86U5ZK5bnUlsZjeyqv8AFIaNF-9Ee64/s320/RemoteControl.png" /></a>
</br>
Most anyone who's been married, or lived with a partner or a housemate or a sibling, is familiar with the war that can develop over possession of the TV remote.</br></br>Of course, in a female-led household the conflict is pretty short-lived and the outcome a foregone conclusion. The question isn't whether you'll be watching her choice of programme - it's whether or not you'll be sitting comfortably to do it, or indeed standing up and making yourself useful while she does.</br></br>
Today's drawing illustrates the result of one such domestic skirmish. It also happens to be blog visitor Elbo's prize for coming first in the Word Search competition back at the end of July.
He came up with the scenario, too.</br></br>Nice work, Elbo - hope you like it!Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-81415272659586368792013-08-31T21:53:00.001+01:002013-10-01T01:32:30.034+01:00Excuses, Excuses...Well, it's that time of the month (i.e the final hours of the
final day), and I've nothing concrete ready to post - no story,
no drawing, no animation - which is pretty slack, and for which
I apologise profusely. Things have been super busy on both work and home fronts, but I've several blog-related projects on the go so I'm hoping there's going to be a flurry of activity in the near future.</br></br>
Luckily I'm far from the only person out there producing all
kinds of spanko goodness, so I can use this opportunity instead
to recommend someone else's work - a pair of eBooks by Lucy
Appleby (who you may also know as flopsybunny, one of the
organisers of the rather wonderful and formidably stocked <a
href="http://www.thespankinglibrary.org/index.php">Spanking
Library</a>).</br></br>
First up of Lucy's recent books is <a
href="http://www.lsfpublications.com/index.php?id=156">The Bad
Boy Story Book 2</a>, a collection of F/M tales featuring all
kinds of no-nonsense disciplinarians and their (un)fortunate
charges. Any fan of my fiction should find plenty to entertain
them in there. Did I mention that its cover also features
artwork by the remarkable <a href="http://redrump.blogspot.com">RedRump</a>? What's not to like?</br></br>
Second on the list, also by Lucy, is <a
href="http://www.lsfpublications.com/index.php?id=144
">Horrible Aunt Harriet & her Nephew</a>, a comedic (but
nonetheless erotic!) story featuring the titular tanner and her
brother's grown-up but irresponsible son. Expect paddlings aplenty from a guardian of the old school.</br></br>
Enjoy, and I promise I'll be back before too long with
something of my own.Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-600891740909562232013-07-31T23:32:00.000+01:002013-07-31T23:38:09.256+01:00More Than Words<embed src="http://sites.google.com/site/underlingimaginings/swfs/Letters.swf"
quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always"
type="application/x-shockwave-flash"
pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/go/getflashplayer" align="middle"
height="500" width="400"></embed><br /><br />
Ever noticed how much we spanking enthusiasts seem to have in common? Sure, we each have our own predilections for certain gender pairings, relationship dynamics, positions, implements... but for me these are just the proverbial tip of the iceberg.
I still think it surprising that, spread across generations and cultures and continents as we are, we nevertheless seem to share so many touchstones. It's almost as though the spanking gene - if such a thing exists - carries with it a kind of species memory. I have like-minded friends in their early twenties who have grown up with barely any reference points for real-world corporal punishment, and yet whose fantasies are the same as mine. We share the same 'triggers' too - images, and especially words, that bypass the 'vanilla' brain entirely but set our spanko senses tingling.</br></br>
Mention to another spanking-lover that your early interest had you poring over punishment-themed words in the dictionary, and you'll almost certainly get a flash of (possibly guilty) recognition - perhaps even an 'I thought I was the only one who did that!' - in response.</br></br>
Words are powerful things, aren't they?</br></br>
Which brings me on to the topic of today's post, in which once again I try to inject a little kinky goodness where by rights it shouldn't belong. Today we turn our attention to the Word Search, a staple feature of wholesome magazines everywhere. My version, at the top of this post (you'll need to be running Flash to see it) works pretty much as they all do - words are hidden, going across or down, in a grid of otherwise random letters. The only difference is the words themselves, which are all related to the Underling universe and hopefully have a special place in your hearts. To make things a little more challenging I won't tell you what they are, but I will tell you:</br>
1) There are nine words altogether, six of them the names of implements.</br>
2) All the words are labels used for posts on this blog. You can see the complete set of labels listed under 'LOOKING FOR SOMETHING?' at the top-right of the page.</br>
3) Some words may intersect with other words.</br></br>
It's easy to play (I hope!)</br></br>
When you think you've spotted a word, click on each of its letters to light them up in a nice, healthy, just-spanked pink. If you click on a letter by mistake, just click on it again to deselect it. If you want to deselect <i>everything</i> and start again, hit the 'RESET SELECTIONS' button.</br></br>
When you think you have <i>all nine</i> words highlighted, click on 'SUBMIT SELECTIONS'. Be warned that you're in for a stern look if you've made any mistakes or if you haven't highlighted all the words - the adjudicator doesn't like having her time wasted!</br></br>
Now here's the fun part - there's a prize. As soon as you've correctly identified all the words, the adjudicator will give you a password as a reward. The <i>first</i> person to include that password in a comment on this post wins the prize. What's the prize? Well, I'm not sure yet - but 'custom drawing' comes to mind, and it's pretty much all I have to give. :)</br></br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P5zlG2bn4GlWTC_K5LuGgfUW6MKJ6GZhoEzglk-LDnvqCu9RohtTY6NBKCGestkDu4tA_9TwRnLg42HdumGWJt7B2E9QJ4LF-whrl1Ofg_ZOn2xYKAE43cPkp8ns49P8moWAuoMBso0/s1600/Words.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P5zlG2bn4GlWTC_K5LuGgfUW6MKJ6GZhoEzglk-LDnvqCu9RohtTY6NBKCGestkDu4tA_9TwRnLg42HdumGWJt7B2E9QJ4LF-whrl1Ofg_ZOn2xYKAE43cPkp8ns49P8moWAuoMBso0/s320/Words.png" /></a></div>Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-87549080405539502592013-06-30T19:08:00.000+01:002013-06-30T19:32:33.053+01:00Out Of Bounds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1wC6DDw2s5dnxtczSwQXCZcUMv4yIC1ijP-gTSe7iArZ93xWpZjPAsOgaEj11mo_lnrK65JPxu8Cmq6jangTZmju_ejfRfQD4SNvle5r1bgT2dLs0JvmccUe_B_TD9xFMGX9Rxv8QoM/s900/OutOfBounds.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1wC6DDw2s5dnxtczSwQXCZcUMv4yIC1ijP-gTSe7iArZ93xWpZjPAsOgaEj11mo_lnrK65JPxu8Cmq6jangTZmju_ejfRfQD4SNvle5r1bgT2dLs0JvmccUe_B_TD9xFMGX9Rxv8QoM/s400/OutOfBounds.png" /></a></div></br>An interesting phenomenon happens around this time every year. With the Wimbledon Tennis Championships in full flow, London's public parks - not to mention those across the rest of the country, and presumably the world - begin to echo with the rhythmic <i>thwock</i> <i>thwock</i> <i>thwock</i> of people at play. And that's not just couples taking advantage of the summer sun to indulge in a little outdoor discipline - it's friendly rivals swinging racquets on the municipal courts, too, inspired by the prowess of their televised idols.</br></br>
Now, if I'm honest my interest in tennis is limited to the sexiness of it - the toned limbs, the athletic grace, and yes, alright, those wonderful panty-revealing little skirts and dresses. My interest in al fresco spanking, on the other hand, is a whole lot more hands-on. I've only spanked outside on a handful of occasions, but those of you 'in the club' will know what I mean when I say it's quite a unique experience - a heady mix of giggly pleasure, excitement and the fear of discovery by unwitting passers-by. My lovely naughty girl and I go to great lengths to avoid being stumbled upon - neither of us wants to subject other people to our kinky shenanigans - but I daresay there are situations where one or both of the participants is not so shy. I'm sure there's the odd strict lady who regularly warms up her boyfriend's bottom and doesn't care who sees it - especially when his humiliation will be at the hands of the lithe young woman she'd caught him ogling a few minutes earlier!</br></br>
How about you lot? Are you into the tennis, and if so is it for more noble reasons than mine?</br></br>
And does anyone have a true tale of denuded derrieres in the great outdoors?</br></br>Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-55384883854477674912013-05-31T22:43:00.001+01:002013-06-01T12:03:49.691+01:00The Games People Play<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUaseV_7E27NmAM3ceo0FH9tl0yi0QR3aOBWoq-2wYaEWEX23D-qoSJ1__haPs2Wn8ZFS7O5H8ywy8WZoHnZzvg-fD0dbvGhg5fnpqn9A19qnstfMY8zboBbmSnrNfn3COG_EfgnZG4I/s1600/KinkyGames.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUaseV_7E27NmAM3ceo0FH9tl0yi0QR3aOBWoq-2wYaEWEX23D-qoSJ1__haPs2Wn8ZFS7O5H8ywy8WZoHnZzvg-fD0dbvGhg5fnpqn9A19qnstfMY8zboBbmSnrNfn3COG_EfgnZG4I/s320/KinkyGames.png" /></a>
</br>The new picture I'd hoped to publish this week is sadly still on the drawing board - so here's a small substitute post to avoid an ugly little gap for the month of May.</br></br>
And since my not-quite-finished drawing has a game-related theme, I thought it might be fun to ask you this - how many of you spice up traditionally 'vanilla' leisure activities at home by giving them a spanky twist?</br></br>
An example: keen-eyed visitors may know that some while back I met a very special lady whose deliciously kinky tastes are easily a match for mine. And since we both liked Scrabble as well as spanking, it wasn't long before we came up with our own version of the rules for the former so that we could combine the two. In our adaptation, a player has to lay words that are in some way related to the smacking of bottoms. 'Slap' would qualify. So would 'ouch', 'implement', 'redden', 'bending', 'discipline' and... well, you get the picture. If the player <i>can't</i> make a demonstrable connection and has to use an unrelated word instead, then there's a penalty - a number of swats equal to the total score from the offending turn.</br></br>
Now, as you might imagine it's not always easy to come up with a word that fits the theme (and indeed it wouldn't be half as much fun if it was). As a result there is usually plenty of defaulting to be dealt with - and this generates a lot more physical activity than the basic rules of Scrabble normally allow. High-scoring matches can make for quite a workout!</br></br>
Other board games seem to lend themselves even better to the concept of alternative forfeits. Take Monopoly - what if, rather than pay rent when alighting on owned property, a player could opt to take a spanking instead? And what if some of the Chance and Community Chest cards were altered to indicate panties rather than share prices coming down? And wouldn't it be more exciting if you could only get out of jail free by taking a paddling in lieu of a prison term?</br></br>
Even if we leave the games cupboard alone, communal TV offers many options. In my youth my friends would warm up for a night out by watching soap operas and downing a measure of Tequila every time one of the characters performed a particular action. I see no reason that drinking games couldn't be modified into spanking ones - you'd only have to trade swats for shots.</br></br>
I'm convinced that lots of you have this sort of fun at home. If you do, I'd love to hear about it!Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-70480305961737062682013-04-30T23:41:00.000+01:002013-05-06T09:50:52.427+01:00Firm Discipline"It's not about the money, Stuart. It's a question of trust."</br></br>
Miranda Wells - fifty-two, sharply suited, severely beautiful - sifted through the collection of expense receipts before her.</br></br>
"Lord knows," she continued, addressing the young man standing awkwardly on the far side of her desk, "on a good day you're already making more profit for this company in ten minutes' work than this little lot amounts to. You certainly have the talent. But then I think it's fair to say - especially at your tender age, <i>especially</i> at the start of your career - that I'm paying you handsomely for it."</br></br>
Stuart Freeman - twenty-two, expensively coiffured, boyishly good-looking - said nothing. He studied the carpet at his feet with apparent nonchalance, although he was somewhat betrayed by the flush rising to his cheeks.</br></br>
After a few seconds Miranda stopped shuffling and began to lay out the incriminating sheets of paper in a neat row, face up, with the solemn formality of a fortune teller dealing from a tarot deck. Each was turned towards Stuart as though to encourage him to think on his betrayal; each foretold a gloomy future.</br></br>
Miranda carefully straightened up the last sheet. Then she leaned back in her padded leather chair, folded her silk-sleeved arms across her ample bosom, and let her cool gaze rest on her newest and youngest employee for a long, long moment.</br></br>
"So," she said presently. "Promising future, enviable salary, and yet..." - she waved an elegant hand dismissively above the offending paperwork - "And yet, <i>this</i>. The question is, Stuart... the question is, why?"</br></br>
Stuart's mouth tightened a little and he offered a small, apologetic shrug - a gesture that had served him well during the schooldays to which he felt himself suddenly transported.</br></br>
Miranda waited. She studied her fingernails. She let the silence build. Then she sighed. "I have a theory, if you'll indulge me. It's not enough for you to be young and successful and rather pretty, is it? No, you're one of those young men who's happiest when he's breaking the rules. Playing the chancer. Being a bad boy. Are you a <i>bad boy</i>, Stuart?"</br></br>
That produced something dangerously close to a smirk.</br></br>
"I'd straighten that face if I were you, young man," said Miranda, "because otherwise I'll happily do it for you." She drummed her fingers briefly on the desk. "Oh, and I'm still waiting for an explanation, but since I've plenty of paperwork to do here then I'm also happy to keep you standing there all morning if need be. What's more - since it's company time you're wasting - every minute you do stand there is another minute you'll be sat at your desk this evening making up for it."</br></br>
She peered at him over the steel frames of her spectacles. "Assuming, that is, that you're lucky enough to have a desk to go back to."</br></br>
That, at least, had some effect. Stuart cleared his throat.</br></br>
"Miranda, I..."</br></br>
"...mmm sorry I falsified my hotel claims?"</br></br>
"Well, yes, but I..."</br></br>
"...never imagined I might get caught?" Miranda retrieved one of the receipts and glanced at it briefly before holding it out towards her young underling. "You know, considering how much Mummy and Daddy must have spent on your top-flight education, you can't spell for toffee. It's been a while since I stayed at the Hilton, but I'm pretty sure that the last time I did they were still only writing the name of it with one L."</br></br>
Stuart's face reddened further. "I was going to say that I... made a mistake, it won't happen again. And I need to be getting on with that report."</br></br>
Miranda continued to regard him evenly as though he hadn't spoken at all. Then she reached across, slid open a desk drawer and began to extract its contents. Stuart watched as a pen holder, a glass paperweight and a pocket calculator appeared on the desk before her.</br></br>
"You know," Miranda was saying as she worked, "there are many different approaches to people management. Some bosses, for instance, are rather squeamish about discipline. Theirs is a warm, fluffy world where incentive is all about praise and reward - the proverbial 'carrot'. Personally, I've always been more of a..." - and here she retrieved what she'd been hunting for, and laid it flat upon the desk - "...<i>stick</i> girl."</br></br>
Stuart gazed in confusion at the pale wooden paddle. It was about eighteen inches long, drilled with a neat grid of circular holes and coated in a thick varnish that gleamed under the flourescent light. It held his attention all the time that Miranda was uncrossing her long legs, rising from her chair and stepping out from behind her desk to stand behind him.</br></br>
It distracted him so completely that he jumped a little when she spoke again.</br></br>
"The fact is, I'd been thinking of awarding you a little bonus after the way you turned around the Williams account last month. But sadly it now seems rewards are not appropriate." She paused to pick a fleck of lint, real or imaginary, from his shoulder, and as she did so her mouth came within an inch of his ear. "No, it seems you've already been a greedy little donkey," she said. "No carrot for you."</br></br>
Miranda took a step back and was busy rolling up her sleeve when Stuart summoned the courage to turn his head and glance behind him. Miranda caught his gaze and said, "Take off your jacket and hand it to me."</br></br>
He opened his mouth to say something, to be the bad boy, but nothing came out of it. Instead he slipped the garment from his shoulders, passed it into Miranda's oustretched hand and watched as she deposited it on a coat stand in the corner of the office. As she turned to retake her position behind him he found himself unable to meet her eye, and faced the desk again. He felt a little dizzy, and pressed his fingertips against the cool wood to steady himself.</br></br>
The paddle tugged at his gaze, but he made himself concentrate on a large painting hung behind the chair that he had never studied before. It featured a somewhat familiar depiction of a Biblical scene: to the left were Adam and Eve, falling prey to temptation; to the right, the same couple being banished from the Garden. "<i>The Fall of Man</i>, by Michelangelo." Miranda was at his ear again. "Somewhat appropriate, don't you think?"</br></br>
She placed a proprietary hand against the small of Stuart's back, and used it for support as she leaned past him - one firm breast brushing his arm as she did so - to separate the papers on the polished walnut desktop. She arranged them in two columns, with a space between them the width of a man's torso. "As I'm sure you're aware," she was saying, "You're two weeks from the end of your probation period. And you were doing so well, too. I think it's possible you still have a bright future - yes, even in my employ. But that does depend upon us understanding one another."</br></br>
Stuart braced himself as she leaned further, stretching to reach the paddle before turning it over appraisingly in her hand.</br></br>
"It'd be a pity to lose you, Stuart," said Miranda.</br></br>
Janine Peters - twenty-seven, bespectacled, vacantly pretty - sat at her computer in the outer office, ignoring the thirty-four unopened emails in her inbox but paying rapt attention to the telephone conversation she was having with a friend. She held the receiver expertly under her chin so that she could paint her nails while she talked. "Yeah, he's in there now... yep... oh, he said to discuss his salary. Yeah, he's a cocky one - told me he'd mailed Miranda this morning to set up a meeting - told <i>her</i> that she could either pay him an extra ten thousand or watch him walk. Funny thing is, I checked her calendar this morning? And he didn't make that appointment. She did."</br></br>
She switched the receiver to her left ear and began to work on her other hand.</br></br>
"What's that, Kel? Oh yeah, he's pretty cute. If he gets that extra ten thou then I might just let him take me out to... wait, hang on a sec."</br></br>
Janine held her breath and listened, one nail half-painted, the brush poised in mid-air. Yes, there it was again - somewhat muffled by the thick office door, but unmistakable. Like a firecracker being let off in the next street.</br></br>
Janine shifted her bottom on her chair, as if at some uncomfortable recollection. "Kelly," she said, "I have to go. No, I'll call you tonight. No, really. Kel... later. Later. Bye. Bye." Janine hung up the phone and cocked her head, mouth slightly open, for a few more seconds. Then she turned back to her computer and started to work, harder than she'd done in weeks.</br></br>
Within the office, Stuart's customary smirk was long gone. Had you been able to see his expression - and you'd need to have positioned yourself carefully, since his forehead was pressed against the desktop and his formerly perfect fringe was in disarray around his eyes - then you might have called it a grimace.</br></br>
Miranda's features, by contrast, were set in a serene smile as she drew back the paddle again and cast an approving eye over the tight trouser seat to which she had already applied it, five times, good and hard. Thirty years in executive roles had given her an appreciation of a well-cut suit.</br></br>
"Burns rather, doesn't it Stuart?" she smiled. "At least, that's what they tell me."</br></br>
Stuart said nothing, but panted his agreement. Sucking air through his clenched teeth, he lifted his head just far enough to allow a small double-nod - also just far enough for him to bump it against the polished wood as Miranda swung again, the shock of the impact propelling him momentarily forward onto his toes and taking his breath away.</br></br>
Miranda watched patiently as he absorbed the agony, fingers clenching and unclenching, knees flexing unsteadily.</br></br>
"I hope we've cleared up any misunderstanding," she said. "I employ you to take money from our clients. Not from me." Then she gently placed the paddle back onto the desk next to her prone employee. "Alright, up you get. You may go back to work."</br></br>
When Miranda's office door opened again, Janine made sure that she could be seen tapping diligently at her keyboard. However it was Stuart who emerged, red-faced and somewhat dishevelled. Closing the door carefully behind him, and with the briefest of glances in Janine's direction, he made his way - somewhat stiffly - past her desk.</br></br>
"Get that raise?" asked Janine, not too loudly, and with a barely suppressed smirk.</br></br>
"She's... thinking about it," replied Stuart, a little more shakily than he'd intended. "She says I..." He stopped, for the door had opened once more behind him.</br></br>
"Janine, while it's fresh in my mind," said Miranda, "I'd like you to make some adjustments to Mr Freeman's salary this month. One day's pay deducted... no, better make it two. Just add a note against the alteration - 'Company time and materials wasted'. Oh, and Mr Freeman's expense claims have been rejected for this month. All of them."</br></br>
Janine shot a glance at the young man, who had stopped in his tracks. He did not return her gaze.</br></br>
"Oh, and Stuart," Miranda continue from the doorway. "If I have to do this again... bare bottom next time."</br></br>
Miranda made to turn back into her office, but was struck by another thought. "Oh, and Janine - the phone bill arrived this morning. I'd have thought you'd remember our little discussion about private calls on company time. But if not, I'll be happy to repeat it."</br></br>
Then she turned on her heel, leaving her employees to exchange astonished looks, and closed the door behind her.
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-5683592049733597772013-03-07T00:42:00.003+00:002013-03-08T01:34:28.233+00:00Spanks A Million!Well, what do you know? I opened up the blog yesterday morning
to be confronted by the Big Kahuna of hit counts - the magic
million! By way of a thank you to everyone who's helped rack up
all those page views - and alright, to give me a bit of a boost
towards the next milestone - I thought we could have a little
retrospective of some of my personal favourite, and not-so-
favourite, posts of the last (nearly) three years. Ready to
follow a few links? Then let's go...</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/rear-
window-love-our-lurkers-day-7.html">Rear Window</a></br>
I'm really rather proud of the animation in this post (all the
more so because it's interactive). We'll gloss over the fact
that I promised to extend it to include the actual spanking and
I haven't done it yet. I will at some point - no, really! I
remember spending half the night and most of the following day
desperately trying to get this finished in time. It's amazing
what a LOL day deadline and ten cups of strong coffee can do
for productivity. Of course I was very late into work as a
result, but we'll gloss over that too. I've more than made up
for it since.
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/the-
magnificent-seven.html">The Magnificent Seven</a></br>
I think this may still be the picture I consider my most
successful, even though there have been many that were more
ambitious. I was really pleased with her pose as she turns to
pick up the brush, and I liked the eroticism of his arm being
held fast between her thighs. I also enjoy its simplicity -
it's a challenge to add enough background detail without
cluttering things up, and I've got it wrong sometimes. This picture was the result of a series of
polls in which visitors voted for the different elements.
Hopefully the final result was cohesive enough that it doesn't
show!
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/the-
humbler-games.html">The Humbler Games</a></br>
My first (and so far only) spanking game was a big hit, and
again I was really happy with the way it turned out even though
its production was a nightmare. The deliberately pixellated
style was a lot of work, and there's a whole heap of messed-up
Flash code behind it that would make any self-respecting
programmer throw up his or her hands in horror. I hope I never
have to touch it again! Typically for me, I'd left things too
late to quite hit my target date, which would have been
<i>during</i> the Olympics - but I think the Games were still
sufficiently fresh in the public consciousness that I was able
to get away with it. One disappointment was that my dreadfully
punning athletes' names didn't generate many comments. Yves N
Ardere - that was my favourite. ;)
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/somethin
g-old-something-new-someone.html">Something Old, Something
New...</a></br>
Commissions are always a double-edged sword. It's great to be
asked to produce something that matches someone's fantasy - and
it's also horrible to have to try and meet their expectations.
Here's one I did for QBuzz's wedding - luckily, he loved it!
Most of the ideas in it are his - only the arrangement of those
ideas and the actual drawing are mine. Q now has <a href =
"http://curiousqbuzz.blogspot.com/">his own blog</a>, by the
way. Check it out if you haven't already!
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/dinner-
and-show-itch.html">Dinner And A Show</a></br>
<i>Dinner And A Show</i> got its title from a comment made by
one of my visitors, Shannon, on another post. I liked the way I
told the story (part one is somewhere around too), but like
many of my tales I think it turned some people off because of
the excessively cruel female characters. I'm gradually learning
to rein that in somewhat, and I think my latest work is the
better for depicting ladies who are loving disciplinarians
rather than outright man-hating sadists! I was super-pleased
with the animated version of the picture, though (at the bottom
of the post). It's more realistic than my usual efforts, and
there's something about a woman rubbing herself through her
panties... or maybe that's just me. Whatever, it makes my toes
curl - and apparently hers too!
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2011/04/step-
right-in.html">Step Right In</a></br>
This one is mainly for those 'special girls' and sissies
who make up quite a few of the blog's members. I don't
personally wear panties for pleasure, but I can understand the
fantasy appeal of being forced to do so by a group of rowdy
females. My real-life cross-dressing activity is limited to
modelling women's clothes as a reference for my drawings, but
as a result I have done rather a lot of it. In fact, scary as
it may sound there's a little bit of me in each of the four
ladies in that picture!
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/red-
butts-roasting-neath-open-palm.html">Red Butts
Roasting...</a></br>
When it comes to seasonal posts I have to mention this one if
only for the title, but I think she's kind of cute too. Panties
and a Santa hat - what's not to like?
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/to-
have-and-to-scold.html">To Have And To Scold</a></br>
I'm kind of a fan of the picture here as well, because
sometimes the simplest ideas are the best. Mind you, with the
length of time it took me to render that virtual cross-
stitching I think it might have been quicker if I'd embroidered
the damned thing in real life and taken a photo.
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2010/08/another-
world.html">Another World</a></br>
Speaking of photos, there's only one on the whole of the blog -
and even that in reality is just a scan of a sheet of newspaper
that I then used as a background for a couple of spoof OSIRIS
job adverts. It made me chuckle when I realised I could draw
the usual Underling logo in the style of a biro doodle. These
are the things that make me go 'Yeeessss!'
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2010/06/caught-
peeping.html">Caught Peeping</a></br>
Caught Peeping featured a well-received drawing that I'd almost
forgotten about until I started writing this. I think I made a
decent fist of the sunlight and shadow, and let's face it -
interesting lighting isn't my strong point in general. I must
try to be a little bolder on that score. Quite why the woman
has her bra on show isn't made clear except that, well, it's a
nice bra.
</br></br>
<a href =
"http://www.underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2010/04/clearing
-out-my-closet.html">Clearing Out My Closet</a></br>
This was one of my first posts but is still, after all this
time, among the most viewed. I think it must be something to do
with the search terms appealing to Google, and it's a bit of an
embarrassment to me because the <i>Office Discipline</i>
picture now looks very crude to me. It's a nice enough fantasy
- it's just that the drawing is a bit crappy!
</br></br>
If you've managed to make it this far without getting bored, I
hope you enjoyed it. And thank you everyone, sincerely, for the
visits. It was a bit of a thrill to see all those zeroes, and I
appreciate every one of those million little clicks!
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-52062780002588202472013-02-28T21:34:00.004+00:002013-03-03T23:39:59.491+00:00Sore Losers'And the Triple Word Score makes it thirty-three,' said Peter,
nudging the last of his letter tiles into place.</br></br>
'Funny,' mused Alan from the other side of the table as he
studied the playing board. 'When I was at school, zero was zero
whether you tripled it or not.'</br></br>
'When <i>you</i> were at school multiplication hadn't been
invented,' retorted Pete, despite the fact that at forty-two he
was barely three years younger than the other man. 'In any
case,' he continued with exaggerated patience, 'I'm not
tripling zero. I'm tripling eleven.' He tapped each letter in
turn. 'Three, four, eight, nine, eleven.'</br></br>
'I can see the numbers,' said Alan, 'and I can see the letters.
What I'm not seeing is any English word that exists outside of
your wishful thinking.'</br></br>
'Let it go, Alan,' said his fiancée Lucy - lightly, but with
just a hint of warning in her tone. Although she enjoyed having
her friend Jenny visit, the childish sniping between their
menfolk was always wearing and tonight it had reached fever
pitch.'We don't have a dictionary to hand, so you boys are just
going to have to play nicely and give one another the benefit
of the doubt - for once. Which would be a welcome change,
wouldn't it Jen?'</br></br>
'A welcome change and a bloody miracle,' replied her friend
wearily. 'I don't know that word either though, Pete. You sure
it doesn't have an A after the O?'</br></br>
Her husband scowled.</br></br>
'Jesus, Jenny. Whose side are you on?'</br></br>
'Mine, sweetie. Last time I checked, this wasn't a team game -
if you're losing then it's all your own work. And if you're
going to sulk about it, then we'll be having a little
discussion regarding that when we get home.'</br></br>
Peter's mouth opened but then shut again, and he coloured
visibly. A moment later he reached out to retrieve two of his
letter tiles and closed the gap to form a shorter
word.</br></br>
Alan studied his rival's offering with a smirk of derision.
'C-O-N, con - how appropriate - and worth a frankly
underwhelming <i>six</i>.' He retrieved the pencil from the
centre of the table and neatly wrote the figure under Peter's
name, overscoring it several times for emphasis. 'Not exactly a
winning word, ladies and gentleman - but at least this time he
had some kind of a clue how to spell it.'</br></br>
'Here's a clue for you,' muttered Peter evenly, as he reached
for the bag to replenish his pieces but found it empty. 'This
one's <i>two</i> words. Starts with 'f' and ends in 'uck
you'.</br></br>
For a moment nobody spoke. Then 'Enough,' said Jenny, pushing
her chair back from the table and turning to her friend. 'Lucy,
honey, do you have somewhere private I can take my husband for
a few minutes?'</br></br>
Peter blanched. 'Ok, sweetheart,' he said quickly, his hands
raised in a gesture of supplication. 'Forget I said that. I
take it back.'</br></br>
Jenny placed her own palms flat on the tabletop and bent so
that her face was level with his. 'I'm not your sweetheart
right now, and you're certainly not mine. And it's a little
late for you to be taking anything back, but just exactly the
right time for me to be taking something down. Lucy, sorry to
be a nuisance...'</br></br>
'Not at all,' said her friend with a small shake of her head
that made her pony tail bounce. 'You can use our bedroom,
second on the right. There's a straight-backed chair in the
corner that tends to come out when necessary.'</br></br>
'Ooh, that sounds perfect. And I don't suppose you have
a...'</br></br>
'Top drawer of the dressing table,' said Lucy. 'Always close to
hand.' She laced her fingers beneath her chin, rested her bare
elbows on the table and cocked an eyebrow at Alan. 'Isn't it,
young man? Needed it quite a lot lately yourself, haven't
you?'</br></br>
Alan, apparently absorbed, slid his letter tiles carefully from
side to side while he studied the tabletop. 'Mm-hmm,' he
said.</br></br>
'Speaking of which,' said Jenny, 'I believe it's your turn to
play, Luce. And you can take your time. There'll be no rush.'
She reached over and used two fingers to issue a brisk tap to
the back of Peter's wrist. 'Follow me, mister,' she said.
Turning on her heel, she strode purposefully from the room.
Peter sat frozen for a moment until Lucy caught his eye. 'Off
you go, little boy, and get your medicine,' she chided, and he
reluctantly stood and made his way out. Moments later there was the sound of
the bedroom door closing softly behind him.</br></br>
For almost five minutes Lucy sat studying and rearranging her
letters while her fiancée fidgeted in his seat and their guests
were occupied down the hall. One might have expected the noise
issuing from the couple's bedroom - the lengthy scolding, the
muted apologies and the eventual rhythmic <i>thwop</i> of
hairbrush against bare skin - to spoil her concentration. Yet
it only seemed to inspire her. A small, amused smile played
across her lips whenever the brush found a spot that produced a
muffled yelp from the other room. 'Con,' she half-sang under
her breath as she considered her move. 'Con, con, con...'
Finally she sighed happily and began to transfer her tiles to
the board, appending them to the three that the luckless Peter
had already put down. 'T - R - I - T - I - O - N,' she recited.
'That makes twelve altogether, plus the fifty point bonus for
using all of my letters at once.' She sat back and regarded
Alan with a satisfied expression. 'Bingo,' she said.</br></br>
A few moments later their friends reappeared, Jenny with a
contented glow and Peter looking red-faced and flustered. His
arms were held stiffly at his side and his fingers waggled
involuntarily as though he were fighting the urge to rub his
behind. He spent an agonised few seconds lowering himself back
onto his chair.</br></br>
Retaking her own seat, Jenny looked over the board. 'Ooh, you
are a clever old thing, Lucy. That's a great word.'</br></br>
'Glad you think so,' smiled the other woman. 'It's one of my
favourites.' She turned to her fiancée, who seemed to be taking
surprisingly little pleasure in the other man's discomfort.
'Your turn, Alan,' she said.</br></br>
'But the game's over,' he replied a little uncertainly. 'You've
won.'</br></br>
'Oh, I'm not talking about the game,' said Lucy.</br></br>
'I had a hunch,' chuckled Jenny, 'so I've left everything out
for you.'</br></br>
'Thanks, Jen,' replied her friend with a wink. 'The only
question is - shall I make coffee now, or after we come back? I
have a feeling we may be some time.'Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-16603402560283294092013-01-31T00:48:00.001+00:002013-03-06T08:11:12.804+00:00Equipment Failure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_pUE7Bv_T1dkMx_me5eSV6uU_4LeIpqUHI1VD9yvGgdKgMyynPXp2dk03mNqqB-jwInmfvhEppt_-DMUHcUJJbh8mulNhgKHBLp6vI1cyl8J2VRgdpROi1kz0Cxi8zNffFzdIBYo5Vw/s1600/CaningTrainingLarge.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="316" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_pUE7Bv_T1dkMx_me5eSV6uU_4LeIpqUHI1VD9yvGgdKgMyynPXp2dk03mNqqB-jwInmfvhEppt_-DMUHcUJJbh8mulNhgKHBLp6vI1cyl8J2VRgdpROi1kz0Cxi8zNffFzdIBYo5Vw/s400/CaningTrainingLarge.png" /></a></div>
I've been meaning to follow up <a href = "http://underlingshumblings.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/i-believe-youve-met-my-sister.html">this post</a> in which my stepsister Wanda was going on about the disciplinary training at her office - and now I have! :)</br></br>
*********************************************************************************</br></br>
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 - <i>Disciplinary Techniques</i> - 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.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
'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.</br></br>
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 <i>do</i> have replacements lined up, I take it?'</br></br>
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?'</br></br>
'I... think so,' faltered Kevin. 'Shall I just leave these things here? I do have that report to be getting on with.'</br></br>
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.'</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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.</br></br>
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 <i>on</i>. 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.</br></br>
'Any ideas, Kevin?' she said. 'Any ideas at <i>all?</i>'
Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8431644963535365492.post-2842012939788669672012-12-31T22:29:00.001+00:002013-01-01T14:32:58.749+00:00...And A Slappy New Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9g36U9Q4GhPFOz8R6lctviDX9S3aqLpWNsDIfmXG2Je7FZCyMHGug933q2tlpCTL2gWPeAv2Ez8mz2ZJRxjrNNMdZxVoLAliG9PSXJM6udEG7iZ1O50srHZIeAA09ZBUwYLQEEAN-oU/s1600/XmasBeatings.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="326" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9g36U9Q4GhPFOz8R6lctviDX9S3aqLpWNsDIfmXG2Je7FZCyMHGug933q2tlpCTL2gWPeAv2Ez8mz2ZJRxjrNNMdZxVoLAliG9PSXJM6udEG7iZ1O50srHZIeAA09ZBUwYLQEEAN-oU/s400/XmasBeatings.png" /></a></div>
So, just an hour or two short of 2013 - and I haven't even got around to wishing you all a Merry Christmas yet! I hope you and yours had a peaceful and suitably festive time. And if <i>you</i> happened to unwrap something that suggested your name had come up on the naughty list - well, at least it's better than socks again. Isn't it?</br></br>
Thanks so much to everyone, whether a regular or occasional visitor, for your support during the last twelve months. And may the new year bring you all the slappiness you deserve!Underlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05796851292291694070noreply@blogger.com21