London Spanking

Spanking & Caning in London with Miss Elsa Svenson

 

Archive for September, 2011

 

Spanking story competition 2 — please give your vote!

Thursday, September 29th, 2011

Please give your vote from 1 to 10 by post­ing a com­ment to each story.

Thank you

 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 17 by Thomas!

Wednesday, September 28th, 2011

As the boy ambled casu­ally up to the door, he took note of the let­ter­ing on the brass plate:

Head­mistress

Miss Elsa Sven­son M.A. (Hons), Dip. C.P.

 

He knocked and received an imme­di­ate response. ìEnter!î

The blond lady sit­ting behind the desk await­ing him looked rather smart and dis­tin­guished dressed as she was in a black skirt suit and white blouse.

ìI was told to report to you and bring you this noteî, he said, hand­ing her a sealed envelope.

ìAnd what is your name boy?î she asked quietly.

ìThomas, Missî.

ìI was expect­ing you fif­teen min­utes ago Thomas. You are late and I do not approve of tar­di­ness. Now close the door please.î

Slightly taken aback at her stern tone the boy replied vaguely ìI guess I must have got side-tracked on the wayî, and shrugged his shoulders.

ìYou are fairly new here, arenít you?î she con­tin­ued, ìI do not believe we have met beforeî.

ìNo Miss. By the way Miss, what do those let­ters behind your name on the door stand for?î

ìYou will prob­a­bly find out later,î she replied with a lit­tle smile. ìNow let us see what this note is all aboutî.

The Head­mistress opened the enve­lope and began to read the let­ter it con­tained. As she did so, her expres­sion turned con­sid­er­ably more severe. Thomas, in the mean time, stared vacantly through the win­dow and began to whistle.

ëSilence please,î she hissed, this time sound­ing very much less friendly.

ìAccord­ing to your class teacher it seems you have per­sis­tently been behav­ing in an unruly man­ner dur­ing lessons. Is that so?î

ìWell, maybe I talk to my mates and muck about a bitî he replied carelessly.

ìShe tells me that she has tried to dis­ci­pline you but now believes that I need to inter­vene with suit­able pun­ish­ment to dis­suade you from con­tin­u­ing this way. What do you think?î

ìI sup­pose you are going to wal­lop me. Iíve had the slip­per loads of times before so Iím not too wor­ried about itî, said the boy with a cheeky grin on his face.

ìVery well,î replied Miss Sven­son, ìI had no idea I was deal­ing with such a hard­ened criminal.î

Again a faint smile played about her lips.

ìPer­haps then we should get right on with it.î

She opened her desk drawer and took out a well worn rub­ber soled gym shoe.

ìUnbuckle your belt and touch your toes!î she commanded.

The boy, seem­ing to know what was expected of him, did as he was told, dropped his trousers and bent over. The Head­mistress moved around beside the stoop­ing fig­ure and lifted his shirt tail up over his back. She noted with sat­is­fac­tion the thin cot­ton mate­r­ial of his under­pants stretched tight over his small but rounded bot­tom. The smile returned one more.

Grip­ping the slip­per by the heel, she raised her arm over her shoul­der and brought it down sharply on the left side with a sat­is­fy­ing slap. Quickly she repeated the blow with equal vigour on the right cheek and paused. The boy had not flinched. After a few sec­onds she repeated the treat­ment in reverse order ñ right then left.

The boy seemed unmoved and remained bent sub­mis­sively, his fin­gers touch­ing the floor in front of him. Some­what sur­prised, the Head­mistress put extra effort into the fol­low­ing two swings and detected a slight twitch from the recip­i­ent ìThatís bet­terî she mur­mured under her breath.

How­ever, to her sur­prise, there had been no sig­nif­i­cant reac­tion from the boy to these first six. He started to lift his head.

ìStay downî came the harsh instruc­tion. She then moved in front of the stoop­ing fig­ure so that her knees rested gen­tly against his shoul­der blades. In this posi­tion he looked as if he was bow­ing deeply in respect.

She placed her left hand on the small of his back, hold­ing the shirt tail in place and, reach­ing for­ward slightly, deliv­ered a fur­ther six smart strokes on the seat of his pants, alter­nat­ing right and left as before. Because she was hit­ting straight down, the slip­per seemed to have much more of an impact. She left a short pause between each blow to allow the full effect to be felt. The boy still did not move but she thought she heard a muf­fled grunt from him after the fourth sting­ing slap of this sec­ond onslaught.

Some­what sat­is­fied, the Head­mistress stepped back.

ìYou may stand upî she said.

Thomas straight­ened and made imme­di­ate eye con­tact, but began vig­or­ously to rub his but­tocks to ease the undoubted throb­bing pain.

ìWhat do you have to say for your­self now boy?î

Con­tin­u­ing to mas­sage him­self, Thomas looked directly at her. She thought he almost looked as if he was smirking.

ìIt was­nít too bad a whack­ing, but I think it was a bit hard for just mess­ing about in lessons. Iíve had worse. Any­way, can I go now?î He made as if to retrieve his trousers but was swiftly interrupted.

ìJust a moment, I havenít fin­ished with you yet.î

Miss Sven­sonís eye­brows were raised in aston­ish­ment. Admit­tedly the boy had taken his pun­ish­ment well, but such effron­tery from a pupil she had never before expe­ri­enced. It was as if he were assess­ing her per­for­mance, judg­ing her. Such an atti­tude needed nip­ping firmly and quickly in the bud.

ìI think we should avoid any mis­un­der­stand­ing,î she con­tin­ued calmly. ìThe slip­per­ing I have just admin­is­tered had noth­ing at all to do with your reported behav­iour in class,î she said, point­ing at the let­ter lying on her desk. ìI gave you that spank­ing for being late, for show­ing no remorse and for offer­ing no apol­ogy. We still have to deal with your other mis­deeds which demand that I pun­ish you properly.î

She tapped the slip­per thought­fully against her hand and turned back towards her desk.

ìYou were ask­ing about the let­ters behind my name. The hon­ours Mas­ter of Arts Degree is authen­tic, from Oxford Uni­ver­sity some years ago. The other qual­i­fi­ca­tion is a lit­tle joke I have with my pupils. I decided to award myself an hon­orary self-taught ëDiploma in Cor­po­ral Pun­ish­mentí, which is a par­tic­u­lar pas­sion of mine. You have already gath­ered that I know how to use a slip­per, which I will now return to its home.î

With that she replaced the shoe in the desk drawer and moved towards a wall cupboard.

ìWhen infants are sent to me for being naughty, I usu­ally just put them over my knee and smack them with this,î she ges­tured with the open palm of her hand.

ìBut for older chil­dren or more seri­ous mat­ters we have other options.î

She opened the cup­board to reveal an array of sin­is­ter look­ing implements.

ìI sup­pose I could use one of my pad­dles or give you a taste of the strap.î Her fin­gers seemed to brush lov­ingly over each of the items as they were mentioned.

ìOcca­sion­ally I even use the birchî.

Then her hand shifted towards a row of long thin sticks arranged in a rack, the slen­der­est on the left and the most robust on the extreme right.

ìBut my real favourite is.….î

The boy had been watch­ing and lis­ten­ing, dumb­struck and increas­ingly alarmed. Now he got his voice back.

ìThe c..cane, Miss!î he stam­mered. ìI did­nít know you used the cane at this school.î

ìOh yes, when it is jus­ti­fied. As you see I have quite a selec­tion. I pride myself on being some­thing of a spe­cial­ist. They say the exper­tise is in a flick of the wrist at just the right moment. But I donít really know.î

Her hand moved along the row, paus­ing in the mid­dle and then mov­ing again two posi­tions to the right. Finally she seemed sat­is­fied and removed one of the heav­ier ones from the rack giv­ing it an exploratory flour­ish in the air. It made an omi­nous swish­ing sound and seemed remark­ably flex­i­ble con­sid­er­ing its rel­a­tive thickness.

ìI am now going to give you a proper beat­ing as I told you, so letís get you ready.î

Thomas was now extremely agitated.

ìNo Miss, please. Itís not fair. I did­nít know.î

ìI think I will have you bent over there,î she con­tin­ued, ignor­ing his protests and indi­cat­ing an upright chair. ìI would advise you to get a good grip on the seat as I donít expect you to move until I have fin­ished. Oh! And just to make it a bit more inter­est­ing, letís have those pants off. I pre­fer to see the results of my work. Neat par­al­lel lines are what I like.î† (She had a men­tal pic­ture of a pair of rail­way tracks side by side)

The boy stood still in defi­ant dis­be­lief, his trousers round his ankles.

ìReally no, Miss. You canít cane me on my bare bum.….î

As the word slipped out he knew he had made a bad mis­take. He turned his eyes to the floor and bit his lower lip.

ìThat does it Thomas,î said the grim faced Miss Sven­son, now advanc­ing on him with the fear­some look­ing cane.

ìAs you are new, I was going to be lenient and give you just four strokes. But as I now know you also have a sewer for a mouth, you will get the full six of the best.î (In her mindís eye she now saw a five bar gate per­haps with a diag­o­nal strut). ìAnd remem­ber, no mov­ing until I say you may, and no more objec­tions or you will get even more. And I promise you, you wonít want any more than six from this cane.î By the way she empha­sized her words, Miss Sven­son made it very clear that ëthisí cane was par­tic­u­larly to be feared. And she was not smil­ing at all.

The boy stood trans­fixed beside the high backed chair and the Head­mistress saw his eyes begin­ning to moisten.

ìThomas, you are now being treated like a big boy.î Her tone had per­haps soft­ened a little.

ìNow, pants down and over the chair please. Letís not behave like a baby!î

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 16 by PeeJay!

Saturday, September 24th, 2011

† † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † ††My Mis­take

 

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† By PeeJay

 

It was the day of vac­ci­na­tions.† Because I was first on the list, I had been a bit care­less with my tim­ings and for the first time was a lit­tle bit late for school.† The pre­fect on the gate noted this down and I hur­ried for my vac­ci­na­tion. For some strange rea­son the loca­tion for vac­ci­na­tions was Miss Sven­sonís study.† I had not seen the inside of this before, so there was a touch of excite­ment as well as fear because i had heard from sev­eral of the pupils about things that had hap­pened in here.† I was sure if any of these were true, or had merely been exag­ger­ated, but they sounded com­pelling and just a bit chill­ing.† I sat down on the sofa and waited for the nurse to appear.† She did­nít. I waited a full five min­utes and there was no sign of her.† Dur­ing the five min­utes I had looked around to see what there was on dis­play in the office to get my imag­i­na­tion going.† Sadly, there were no tools of cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment on dis­play, but very notice­able in the mid­dle of the room was some­thing that I imag­ined could be used as a pun­ish­ment stool.† Wow, I could just imag­ine how that might have been used.

As still no-one appeared, I could­nít resist giv­ing in to the temp­ta­tion to bend over it.† I had just moved to this school from another one, because my fam­ily had needed to move to a new area.† In my old school, I had been told by my class teacher and the deputy head, both kind ladies who pre­tented to be fierce when it suited them, that they would teach me a les­son or make me sorry if I mis­be­haved.† They had never done that, even when I was delib­er­ately cheeky or naughty to see what they would do, so I could only fan­ta­sise about the use of cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment, which was used here.† As I was imag­in­ing, I pulled down my trousers and then my under­pants, just to bring a lit­tle touch of real­ity into my imag­in­ings.† Of course, with my bare bot­tom in the air that just had to be when the nerse arrived.

I had to make excuses about this.† I said to her that as she had been late, I had been try­ing to work out my posi­tion for vac­ci­na­tion.† ìWell, nor­mally, I vac­ci­nate in the arm, but I will very hap­pily do it there if you wish.† And no, I was­nít late ñyou were and as a num­ber of pupils have called in sick, I went to have a cup of tea with Miss Sven­son.† I believe I still have a bit of free time ñ I will text Miss Sven­son and tell her how I found you.† Then she can come and watch you being vac­ci­nated.î† Oops, how could I get out of this one?† Miss Sven­son arrived very quickly and gave a very sur­prised look in my direction.

ìMiss Sven­son, as he is in per­fect posi­tion, I won­dered if you could pro­vide me with some of your tools of cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment to get his behind in the right state of numb­ness before I inject him?† She brought out a slip­per, a strap and a dra­gan cane.† ìI think we should each give him six of the best with each of these, Nerse Phillips,î she said.† ìAfter you!î† The nurse started off with the slip­per.† It was quite hard and uncom­fort­able and pro­duced a beau­ti­ful crack, but the nurse was not putting much force into it, which meant that this was going to be no prob­lem for me.† The strap was dif­fer­ent and bit in more and I started to take in deep breaths.† This cane was heavy and hard and made an inter­est­ing sound, but hit with the force of the nurse, it was not going to do me much dam­age.† I was­nít sure about Miss Sven­son though, so I had to do something.

ìPlease Miss, does­nít the nurse need to vac­ci­nate oth­ers now.† I could come back and see you for your pun­ish­munt another day?† ìIím glad you realise that you need to be pun­ished by me.† I was always sus­pi­cious about the per­fect report and the immac­u­late grades that were described.† I was sure there was more to you than that.† Today you have shown your true colours.† Of course you will be pun­ished by me on Fri­day for the long cat­a­logue of crimes that you have com­mit­ted this morn­ing.† But I promised you six of the best with each of these first, just to get you warmed up for Nurse Philips.† And that is what I will do.

 

She bent me back over the stool, but put my under­pants back on, so I no longer had a bare bot­tom.† Just as I was breath­ing a sigh of relief, the first crack of the slip­per came.† It was so much harder than before and I knew this was going to be seri­ous.† Each stroke was harder and caused my now clothed bot­tom to wrig­gle and writhe.† ìKeep still boy,î she yelled, ìor this will also be counted against you for your pun­ish­ment on Fri­day.î† I tried very hard to keep still, but as she started on the strap strokes a whole new sen­sa­tion started to spread down below as I started to feel on fire.† I clenched my mus­cles, deter­mined not to deserve any more pun­ish­ment on Fri­day and bit my lip.† The strap­ping came to an end.

 

Finally, she started with her dragon cane.† I had never expe­ri­enced any­thing like this before.† It was mean and hard and scary and yet there was some­thing exhil­a­rat­ing about it to.† I really had deserved this for a long time, I thought and I was truly get­ting my just deserts from some­one who could really deliver. The sixth and hard­est stroke really did make me writhe and wrig­gle, how­ever hard I tried to stop myself.† The nurse gave me my injec­tion, though she did pull down my under­pants first and then gave me another six strokes with the paddle.

I got up angrily and said, ìWhat was that for, that was­nít on the agenda ñ I did­nít deserve that you stu­pid nurse!î† Miss Sven­son glared at me and said, ìTake your trousers and get out of here now.† That last out­burst will be taken into con­sid­er­a­tion too!† Present your­self here on Fri­day after school and then you will get what you truly deserve from me!

 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 15 by Andy K!

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

Mis­taken Awak­en­ing Ö..A Mod­ern Fable.

 

Alone in her apart­ment, Miss Elsa Sven­son pre­pared for her first appoint­ment of the day. She had plenty of time, but ever the per­fec­tion­ist, she wanted to devote some time to adopt­ing exactly the right per­sona and mannerÖÖ..

Steven was a ìnew­bieî, inas­much as heíd never expe­ri­enced a can­ing, but had always fan­ta­sised about being told to ìbare and bendî by a strict head­mistress flex­ing a length of rat­tan pur­pose­fully. Heíd often tried to put fan­tasy into real­ity, and had found numer­ous ìmis­tress­esî adver­tis­ing their ser­vices. These tended to be either leather-clad dommes, hook­ers who hap­pened to have a cane ( usu­ally of the Anne Sum­mers type) or elderly har­ri­dans that should have retired years ago.

Heíd just about given up on find­ing an intel­li­gent and sophis­ti­cated lady, who not only looked but acted the part, and was only inter­ested in authen­ti­cally can­ing his bot­tom. That was until the happy day when heíd googled ìLon­don SpankingîÖ.and found the won­der­ful Miss Svenson!

Her front-page mes­merised him, from her pic­ture to her intro­duc­tion, which struck such a chord in him that he knew she was the one heíd been look­ing for. A cou­ple of emails were exchanged, and an appoint­ment had been made.† A week before the appointed day, heíd typed a let­ter out­lin­ing his wishes, and had posted it to Miss S. Heíd also included the fee, explain­ing that he really needed to be ìin roleî from the moment he rang her doorbell.

It was this very let­ter that Miss Sven­son was now re-reading. It was very spe­cific as to his require­ments, but respect­fully so. ìAuthen­tic scholas­tic atmos­phereÖ.î she read. ìWell,î she thought , ìthe fact that Iím sit­u­ated in an old school build­ing should please himÖ..and that walk through the foyer and up the stairs to my door should really focus his mind!î

ìÖ..12 of the very bestÖ.î

ì† Ö..feel prop­erly punishedÖ.î

ìOh, Steven. Be care­ful what you wish for!î she mused with a wry smile, as she con­tin­ued to fine-tune the details of the ses­sion in her mind.

Her thoughts were rudely inter­rupted by the buzzing of the front-door inter­com. She glanced at her watchÖ.12.40. He was 20 min­utes early! She could­nít prac­ti­cally keep him wait­ing that long, but she would impress on him the fact that in her book, early was as bad as late. Steven would be get­ting a few more than the 12 he was expecting.

ìYes?î she spoke into the inter­com, a trace of gen­uine annoy­ance in her voice. ìHello, itís SteÖ.î said a strangely chip­per male voice in response. ìYou are early, young man!î she inter­rupted him sharply. ìHow­ever, I am ready to deal with you now, so come up, knock on my door and wait.î

 

With that, she turned on her heel, donned a scholas­tic gown, selected a crook-handled senior cane, and adopted her most stern ìhead­mistressî vis­age, rather too eas­ily. Exactly two min­utes after the knock on her door, she opened it and ush­ered in a rather surprised-looking Steven.

ìIím sorry, butÖ.î began Steven, sound­ing a lot less chip­per, prob­a­bly at the sight of the gowned and cane-flexing† Miss S stand­ing implaca­bly before him. That kind of reac­tion was com­mon with first-timers, once they knew that a fan­tasy was about to become painful real­ity, and Miss S knew the best way to counter those nerves was to exert her total authority.

 

ìYou WILL be sorry, young man. Very sorry indeed!î coun­tered Miss S.† ìBut Iím here toÖ..îhe attempted to con­tinue. Miss Sven­sonís look grew even more severe. †Play­ing the reluc­tant school­boy was one thing, but this needed to be nipped in the bud.† ìEnoughî she announced firmly. ìWe both know why youíre here, and that is to have your bot­tom caned. And that is pre­cisely what is now about to occur. Go and stand thereî she instructed, empha­sis­ing the order by point­ing at her desk with the for­mi­da­ble cane.

ìOk, fair enoughî replied a rather crest-fallen Steven. ìFair enough??? You impu­dent urchin, how dare you? You will speak only when asked, and you will address me as MISS. Understood?î

ìErr, yes Missî he replied, as he stood against her desk, seem­ingly unsure what to do next. ìTurn around, you silly boy. Itís your bot­tom Iím about to pun­ishî from Miss S cleared that up for him, fol­lowed by her trade-mark ìbare your bot­tom and bend over the deskî under­scored with a swish of her cane.

ìErm, I donít understandÖ.err..Missî said Steven in a fal­ter­ing voice. Miss S gave† an exas­per­ated sigh. ìI mean, lower your trousers and pants, bend over and present your bare bot­tom for a can­ingî she said, in mea­sured tones, as though she was speak­ing to a sim­ple­ton. ìIf I have to do it for you, youíll feel my strap first.î

With a shrug and a soft ìoh my gawdî that did noth­ing to soften Miss S, he com­plied, and soon a bare bot­tom was indeed offered for her atten­tion. †ìFinal­lyÖ.î she mut­tered, as she advanced on the tar­get. Tap­ping his bot­tom with the cane to line up the first stroke, she con­firmed the sen­tence and gave the cus­tom­ary instruc­tions and warn­ings, before draw­ing back the cane and whip­ping it down hard across the very cen­tre of his bot­tom. The clas­sic ìmark­erî open­ing gam­bit, where the other strokes would be just above or just below it. Apart from the final îspe­cialî of course, but that was for later.

The first stroke elicited a sat­is­fy­ing gasp, and a wrig­gle, but to his credit he retained posi­tion, and uttered the required ìOne thank you, Miss Sven­sonî com­mend­ably quickly. He clearly was deter­mined to avoid penalty stokes at all costs, as he con­tin­ued to behave as instructed while Miss S painted lines of fire across his cheeks. Miss S allowed her­self a smile as she pre­pared the 12th strokeÖhe thought it was the last, she knew it was­nít. Six more with her strap to fol­low. He would be exactly on-time in future.

She lined up the† ìspe­cialî, which was always deliv­ered in what she termed the sweetspot, the crease between but­tocks and thighs, and with that bit of extra wrist-action for which she was famed. This would be the stroke he would feel most and longest when­ever he sat down for quite a while. As heíd annoyed her with his atti­tude ear­lier she decided to enhance the ele­ment of sur­prise by lin­ing up the stroke on the first ìmark­erîÖÖbe­fore actu­ally deliv­er­ing it exactly where she intended.† The result was of course as expected. He shot up like a scalded cat, hop­ping from foot to foot, and fran­ti­cally try­ing to rub away this fresh new hurt. In short, mak­ing a spec­ta­cle of him­self, but they all did, every time. Thatís why she never awarded a penalty on the ìspe­cialî, except for swearing.

 

Even though he had­nít counted the stroke ( he could­nít, to be fair) once heíd stopped his lit­tle dance, Miss S informed him his 12 of the best was con­cluded. Steven bent again, but this time to pull up his nether gar­ments, and had almost re-dressed when he was interrupted.

 

ìNot so fast, young man. Thereís still the mat­ter of your appalling time-keeping. Bare and bend again. Per­haps† a dozen with the strap will teach you that 1.00 means 1.00pm.î said Miss S, icily.

ìIím sorry Miss, but the card my office sent said 12.40, and thatís when I got here. Thought it best to be on time in the cir­cum­stances. But Iím not argu­ing Miss, of course Iíll do as you say. Shall I fetch the strap for you?î. And with that, Steven began to lower his trousersÖÖ

Some­thing began to worry Miss S, and she was­nít accus­tomed to the sen­sa­tion. ìWhat card? What office, Steven? What circumstances?î

ìThe card from British Gas, Miss. Iím Steven Palmer, a Senior Cus­tomer Rela­tions Man­ager. Hereís my ID. Itís about us cut­ting off your gas for sev­eral days last month in error. I was detailed to apol­o­gise in per­son, and give you a com­pen­sa­tion cheque. I told my fool of a PA to notify you.î

ìOh dearî replied an aghast Miss S. ìIf Iíd been informed, Iíd have arranged another time. You see, Iím a pro­fes­sional Dis­ci­pli­nar­ian, and I pun­ish dis­cern­ing gen­tle­men on request when they need it. I have a first appoint­ment with a client named Steven at 1.00pm! I thought you were him, arriv­ing early! Iím so sorry, are you ok?î

ìA pro­fes­sional dis­ci­pli­nar­ian?î replied the man from the Gas Board. ìWell, youíre cer­tainly very good at it. And yes, Iím sur­pris­ingly fine, thank you Miss, albeit rather sore. †From the tone of the com­plaint let­ter you wrote, I expected you to be annoyed, but I cer­tainly was­nít expect­ing you to demon­strate† in quite that man­ner. But please donít worry, Miss. I do under­stand the mix-up, and per­haps we should keep this between our­selves? Oh, hereís your cheque.î

ìWell thank you very much, Mr. Palmer, thatís good of youî said a relieved Miss S.

ìSteven, pleaseî, he replied. ìActu­ally, it should be me thank­ing you. I was sur­prised by your reac­tions to say the least. But there was some­thing about your man­ner, your author­ity that just melted me. And I found myself unable to do any­thing other than what I was toldÖ.and that was excit­ing, even the can­ing. I have to con­fess, when you said you were going to use the strapÖ.I actu­ally WANTED you to!î

ìThatís very inter­est­ing, Steven. Per­haps we should dis­cuss itÖ..but another Steven will be here for his appoint­ment in 10 min­utesî† Miss S reminded him.

ìAh, right.† I hope for his sake heís spot on time!î† said Steven P., rub­bing his bot­tom, and smil­ing. ìBe see­ing you Missî he said as she showed him out­ÖÖand Miss S felt that she prob­a­bly wouldÖÖ

 

As this is a fable, there is a moral. And that isÖn­ever under­es­ti­mate the pow­er­ful effect of a strong deter­mined woman on the male of the species.

 

 

 

 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 14 by Phillippa!

Monday, September 19th, 2011

(NB: I asked my Amer­i­can spank-buddy for help with some of the Eng­lish, but the story is my own, part based on a true inci­dent I read about in an Eng­lish news­pa­per a few years back.)

ëYouíre Dutch?í

A look of sur­prise passed across Miss Sven­sonís nor­mally expres­sion­less face.

ëYes, Miss Sven­son.í The red-haired girl smiled demurely. ëFrom Ams­ter­dam. Do you have a prob­lem with that?í

Miss Sven­son scowled. Twenty-five years of deal­ing with lippy teenagers had made her alert to the slight­est trace of sar­casm. Did she have a prob­lem with that? Hon­estly! As if she, Miss Elsa Sven­son, pil­lar of moral rec­ti­tude, was some kind of closet racist who would look down her nose at Dutch peo­ple. The face of the girl sit­ting in the chair on the other side of the desk, her legs chastely crossed, still wore the politest of smiles. But there was dev­ilry under­neath. Miss Sven­son would bet her mort­gage on it.

ëíOf course not, of course not,í she said hastily, keen not to over-react ñ there would be plenty of time to lay down the law later, if needed. ëDutch girls are as wel­come at my school as French girls and Ger­man girls and, er, other girls. Ams­ter­dam? Charm­ing place! Rem­brandt and tulips and, er… Youíll be most wel­come in our new, expanded sixth form, Miss, er…í

ëPhilippa.í The smile was as seraphic as ever. ëPhilippa von Haasen.í

The girl rose, bobbed a curt­sey, then shook Miss Sven­sonís extended hand as if but­ter would­nít melt in her mouth.

ëI am watch­ing you, Philippa von bloody Haasen,í thought Miss Sven­son, as the girl turned and left her study, dis­play­ing a pert bot­tom sheathed in jeans that were frac­tion­ally too tight. ëIím watch­ing you.í

*

One of the peren­nial chal­lenges fac­ing the head of a busy Lon­don com­pre­hen­sive was choos­ing your moment. Some pupils badly needed tak­ing a peg or two. You knew that as soon as they walked through the school. There was some­thing cocky, self-satisfied about them, and Miss Philippa von Haasen, the high-born of a wealthy Dutch banker who worked in the City, was a text­book case. What they were cry­ing out was some old-fashioned school dis­ci­pline, the thwack of a cane on their rumps and the hot tears after­wards. The trou­ble is that you could­nít sim­ple pun­ish them for no bet­ter rea­son that than you did­nít like their man­ner. You had to have an excuse.

But it was nearly Christ­mas before Philippa von Haasen pro­vided Miss Sven­son with the cast-iron excuse she was secretly crav­ing. The girl still wore that infu­ri­at­ingly haughty air, as if she was bet­ter than every­one else, but although sev­eral of her class-mates felt the sting of Miss Sven­sonís cane, she kept out of seri­ous trou­ble. Aca­d­e­m­i­cally, she was out­stand­ing and looked a cer­tainty to get top marks at A-level. But that faint hint of arro­gance… Miss Sven­son heartily detested it and so did the other staff.

It was pure chance ñ a flurry of snow in the sec­ond week of Decem­ber, an impromptu snow­ball fight in the play­ground, and a stray snow­ball land­ing on the head of Mr Plinth, the his­tory teacher ñ that blot­ted her pre­vi­ously unblem­ished copybook.

Miss Sven­son had been watch­ing the snow­ball fight from her win­dow with a kindly air ñ snow reminded her of her child­hood in Nor­way ñ and pri­vately thought that Mr Plinth was a pompous tosser who deserved a snow­ball in the neck. But when she peered through the win­ter fog and saw that it was Philippa von Haasen who was respon­si­ble, her eyes lit up a like a traf­fic war­den see­ing a Rolls-Royce on a double-yellow.

ëPhilippa!í she boomed. ëCome and see me in my study at once.í Then she went to her cup­board, quiv­er­ing with pent-up excite­ment, and fished out her senior cane.

*

Given the fact that hit­ting some­one on the head might have caused seri­ous injury ñ ëYou could have put his eye out, you silly girl,í Miss Sven­son explained to a blush­ing, con­trite Phi­ippa ñ it clearly counted as a Cat­e­gory One offence, demand­ing the ulti­mate sanc­tion ñ six of the best on the bare bottom.

ëTake off your jeans, fold them neatly and place them on that chair,í Miss Sven­son ordered, in her cold­est, cru­ellest voice. Then she stopped in aston­ish­ment. She could hardly believe her luck! Miss Philippa von Haasen, who was about to get a very sore bot­tom indeed, was wear­ing a bloody thong! As Miss Sven­son had warned girls only a week ago that any­one caught wear­ing one of these vile, tarty gar­ments ñ which Miss Sven­son loathed and would­nít even have worn to tit­il­late her toy­boy lover Fabio ñ could expect condign pun­ish­ment, it was the work of a moment to dou­ble the sen­tence she had just announced.

ëTw-w-welve?í stam­mered the Dutch girl, who sud­denly was­nít look­ing quite so cocksure.

ëCor­rect,í said Miss Sven­son, mak­ing a valiant effort not to gloat. ëYour arith­metic is a lot bet­ter than your dress sense, Philippa. You may remove that revolt­ing thing and throw it in the bin. Thereís a good girl. Now if you could be so good as to bend over that chair, with your bot­tom raised. Just a lit­tle higher, please, Philippa. Thank you.í Even at her most stern, Miss Sven­son was always scrupu­lously polite.

Before the first stroke landed, with a resound­ing thwack which caused the next-door geog­ra­phy class to look up from their books, Miss Sven­son had time to admire the 17-year-oldís smooth, lily-white cheeks It seemed almost a shame to mark them, let alone dec­o­rate them with a dozen angry red stripes, some over­lap­ping with oth­ers to raise impres­sive welts, but it had to be done. Stuck-up young misses like Miss Philippa von Haasen needed the odd sore bot­tom to keep them hon­est, Miss Sev­en­son reminded her­self as she whipped back her cane and brought it down, singing through the air.

After eight strokes, the girl was sob­bing con­vul­sively, and there was a part of Miss Sven­son which was tempted to show mercy and admin­is­ter the final four strokes more gen­tly. But the mar­tinet in her pre­vailed ñ as it usu­ally did. She did­nít make the final four stokes gen­tler, she made them harder. It was an extremely chas­tened young Dutch girl who limped out of her study five min­utes later, still clutch­ing her bot­tom as if the fires of hell had engulfed it.

 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 13 by Jamie B!

Saturday, September 17th, 2011

So what’s the most intense feel­ing one can experience?

 

- Fear of the unknown?

 

- The rush of adren­a­line when you push your­self just that lit­tle bit fur­ther than you thought possible?

 

- The tum­bling of your stom­ach in the pres­ence of a beau­ti­ful woman?

 

You don’t know?!

 

Try stand­ing out­side that large wooden door, clutch­ing a piece of paper in my hand and star­ing ner­vously at the embossed sign that read: “Miss Sven­son — Headmistress”.

 

Just try doing that and see how you feel as you knock on that door, hear a curt voice bark “Enter”, turn the han­dle and walk in as instructedÖ

 

In the moment you hand Miss Sven­son the piece of paper that describes exactly why you’ve been sent to her as she opens it, reads it and frowns, you’ll feel all three com­bined. That sim­ple crease of her fore­head seems such an inno­cent gues­ture yet it con­veys many things instantly — you’re in trou­ble — a lot of trou­ble — and by the time you leave this room, you’ll have paid dearly for the fun that got you into this mess in the first placeÖ

 

 

 

Every­one does it, right? You’re in a shop, no one is look­ing — so you grab some­thing, stick it under your coat and swiftly walk out before you’re noticedÖ except some­one did notice. You got caught, were reported and sent to Miss Sven­son to be dealt with. You recall the words of the lady who caught you so clearly — ” In my day you’d have got a damn good thrash­ing and you’d think twice about steal­ing again — so here’s my dealÖ take this note to a friend of mine, allow her to deal with you accord­ingly, return back here and show me proof and we’ll let this mat­ter drop. Refuse and I’ll get the Police involved — you’ll get a crim­i­nal record and maybe lose your jobÖ you decideÖ”

 

 

 

Miss Sven­son looks up at you and shakes her head sadly. Stand up and walks to the cen­tre of the room. She pulls over a chair, sits upon it and straight­ens her tight black skirt.

 

“I despise thieves. You are despi­ca­ble. I am going to give you a spank­ing you’ll not for­get in a hurry. Get over here, boy.”

 

You do so.

 

“Over my knee.”

 

Again you do as youíre instructed.

 

Her left arm pushes into the small of your back and holds you firmly in place as her right hand rises and descends in a rapid stac­cato rhythm as she begins to spank your back­side sharply. It kind of stings but not really — if this is a ‘damn good thrash­ing’ then you’re get­ting off eas­ily — but then:

 

“Stand up and remove your trousers”

 

You do so — and when beck­oned, return over her knee after which the spank­ing resumes. This is start­ing to sting a lit­tle more — not too uncom­fort­able but then you feel your pants being low­ered. You start to feel it now — a warmth build­ing almost to the point of feel­ing uncom­fort­able. But hey, you can han­dle thisÖ

 

The spank­ing stops. You hear a drawer being opened and closed. A cool flat object rests lightly against your but­tocks and is rubbed over the warm sur­face. This is nice! Thanks Miss Sven­son! It is lifted and falls rapidly with a loud ‘splat!’ — a hair­brush — oh godÖ NO! This isn’t so goodÖ NOÖ NOÖ stopÖ the brush strikes over and over relent­lessly. You strug­gle and find your right arm pinned behind your back, your legs locked in place by her right leg — no escape. It HURTS. STOP. PLEASE.

 

Finally the spank­ing ends and Miss Sven­son releases her iron grip on you. You stand up and she directs you to the cor­ner where you are instructed to stand with your hands on your head while your back­side throbs and burns.

 

“That’s for steal­ing” she calls out as she strides over to a cup­board in the far cor­ner, opens the door and retrieves some­thingÖ “Now this will teach you not to steal again”…

 

You dare to glance over your shoul­der and catch a glimpse of a heavy black leather strap that Miss Sven­son holds firmly in her right hand as she draws the busi­ness end over her left palmÖ

 

“Get over here and hold your left hand out” she demands. Of course you do as you’re told. She lifts the strap high over her shoul­der and then with fear­some enthu­si­asm draws it back over and brings it slam­ming across your palm with a tremen­dous crack. The pain is imme­di­ate and dev­as­tat­ing. You pull your hand away and right away she shouts at you “Hold that hand back out, boy”. Oh GodÖ you do as you’re told but it’s so hardÖ a sec­ond and third stroke fol­low and then you’re told to present your right hand for the same treat­ment. Then a fur­ther three strokes are deliv­ered to both hands again as she shouts out “Let this be a leson to you, boy. If you are EVER sent to me again you’ll feel the wrath of my cane.“Ö

 

 

 

You know how some­times your mouth works with no dis­cernible assis­tance from your brain? How your con­scious mind seems to sim­ply observe as your mouth utters words that it knows you’ll regret later? This is one of those occa­sionsÖ and time seems to slow almost to a stop as your lips form one sin­gle word that you barely whis­per but which Miss Sven­son imme­di­ately responds toÖ

 

Bitch.”

 

Her strap falls to her side. Her mouth opens and eye­brows rise in sur­prise and then sur­prise turns to anger and it’s as if a storm is gath­er­ing on the hori­zon — all seems calm but bad things are about to hap­pen. She marches back over to her cup­board, throws the strap into it, reaches in and with­draws a long, straight han­dled cane then strides back towards you, unbut­ton­ing the sleeve of the right hand sleeve of her blouse with her left hand as she does so then rolls it up past her elbow, reveal­ing what would in other cir­cum­stances appear to be a quite lovely, wom­anly arm but in this sit­u­a­tion all you can think about is how toned that slen­der fore­arm appears. The tem­pest is upon you as she lit­er­ally yells at you:

 

BEND OVER MY DESK, HOLD ON TO THE OTHER SIDE AND DON’T YOU *DARE* GET OUT OF THAT POSITION UNTIL I TELL YOU TO.”

 

Oh God. Why did you say that stu­pid word. WHY.

 

DID YOU NOT HEAR ME, BOY? GET OVER THAT DESK. I’LL TEACH YOU JUST HOW MUCH OF A BITCH I CAN BE.”

 

This is ter­ri­fy­ing — the calm, con­trolled woman has left and in her place, a furi­ous female intent on unleash­ing her wrath upon you with a sturdy and ter­ri­fy­ing three feet of whippy cane!

 

Fear­ing the con­se­quences of refusal, you do as you’re told. You bend over, you hold on to the far side firmly and then, the lovely Miss Sven­son plainly and sim­ply gives you the thrash­ing of your life. Twenty four times the cane rises and falls. You can hear her utter lit­tle moans of exer­tion fol­lowed by a loud ‘whoosh’ and an explo­sive ‘kerr-ACK’ as she beats you and in turn you cry out over and over again. Tears stream down your face, col­lect­ing into two small pools on the hard wooden sur­face of the desk.

 

 

 

So what’s the most intense feel­ing one can experience?

 

If you really want the answer, get caught steal­ing, call Miss Sven­son a bitch and ask your­self the ques­tion again as you care­fully try to sit down afterwards!

 

 

 

 

 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 12 by Mike G!

Friday, September 16th, 2011

Of all the days to over­sleep, this was not the one. He had been sum­monsed to Miss Svenson’s study 9 a.m. Sharp that very thursday

morn­ing. He raced out of the house and just man­aged to catch the bus as it pulled away. 8.50 traf­fic. Milk float. Dust cart. Lol­lipop lady. Had no one ant idea how dim a view Miss Sven­son took when pupils she had demanded report to her arrived late?

8.57 he jumped off the bus and raced up the hill, his mouth dry, a knot deep in the pit of his stom­ach and a sense of nau­sea and panic, for he knew he would now be late.

Miss Sven­son ran the school fairly but firmly. She had cer­tain stan­dards which she expected all stu­dents to adhere to and if they didn’t they could expect to be dealt with in a thor­oughly tra­di­tional, firm man­ner. Miss Sven­son was a fair minded lady who under­stood that school was a learn­ing expe­ri­ence for stu­dents who were encour­aged to learn from their mis­takes. That said, rude­ness, shoddy work ethic and poor time keep­ing had no place in her school, indeed in her world.

And so it was on this crisp bright autumn morn that Mike was expected to arrive on time and explain a com­plete lack of Maths home­work which included a project he should have com­pleted over the hol­i­days. And now his befud­dled, mum­bled, pathetic excuses would be given to Miss Sven­son late. She was sure to take out her annoy­ance on his bare bottom.

9.03, He reached the school gate and beyond it the solid oak dou­ble door which creaked open. Silence. A hawk­ish woman of slight, spindly build wear­ing a light grey lambs wool jumper, a black pen­cil skirt and black cardi­gan appeared in the office door way. “Young man.” She stated.

I, I, I have a 9 o’clock appoint.……” He stammered.

I know” she retorted. “You are late.† A whole four min­utes late.† Miss Sven­son will take a very dim view.” There was no emo­tion in her voice, but rather a resigned air of “you will bring these things upon your self.”

Very well, up you go.” She continued.

He walked the length of the entrance hall, each step echo­ing off the bare stone wall. Library quiet pre­vailed. An air of calm, con­trolled learn­ing. He approached the stairs. He swal­lowed. His mouth bone dry. His stom­ach one big knot. Des­per­ate for the toi­let but no time. Per­haps Miss Sven­son would under­stand. He doubted it. He began to climb the stairs. The echo of each step louder than its pre­de­ces­sor. His heart­beat pound­ing, drown­ing out all other sound. His heart now in his dry mouth. †At the top of the stairs he turned to his left and walked as if on auto pilot to the door of Miss Svenson’s study. He knocked 3 timid knocks and almost imme­di­ately the door swung open and there to the right, hold­ing the door wide open, stood Miss Svenson.

Michael.…” she said and motioned him to enter the room.† She closed the door and ges­tured to him to take a seat in the only leather arm­chair in the room.† An uneasy silence descended in the room. Miss Sven­son slowly but pur­pose­fully walked over to a sin­gle, upright wooden chair, hitched her skirt up very slightly, very ele­gantly and sat down, quite upright knees tight together. She drew a deep breath and sur­veyed the pupil before her as if to see if there were any signs of regret, remorse or a plea for forgiveness.

With a resigned air that said we all know why we are here, she said “Michael, I have received a note from your maths teacher. Very dis­ap­point­ing. No effort on your part. And you show me no respect either; you are late. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you really have so lit­tle regard for your teach­ers, for the school, for your own self esteem??? I intend to teach you a les­son for once and for all. I was tempted to make an exam­ple of you in front of the whole school. What do you think?”. She spoke slowly, in a con­sid­ered man­ner with the very slight­est trace of a Scan­di­na­vian accent. With­out wait­ing for his reply she con­tin­ued “such is the dis­re­spect and dis­re­gard that you have shown I have invited Miss Jones to join us, so she may bare wit­ness to your pun­ish­ment. So she may at least ben­e­fit from hear­ing your sobs and screams. So that you may both know what lies in store if you ever dis­re­spect miss Jones or any other mem­ber of staff ever again.

Yes Miss Sven­son,” came the all too sheep­ish reply.

At that very moment the door knob turned and Miss Jones entered the room and closed the door behind her in what appeared to be one unin­ter­rupted movement.

Good morn­ing, Miss Sven­son” she said air­ily before turn­ing to the stu­dent with a stern look of con­tempt on her face. “Thank you for your note, Miss Jones,” Miss Sven­son said “and thank you for mak­ing time to join us. Stand up, young man” she said rais­ing her voice in Michaels direc­tion only very slightly. He stood up and the uneasy silence again returned to the room. Miss Sven­son also stood, and the two women slowly, men­ac­ingly approached him. Silence bro­ken only by the tap of their heels on the wood block floor: they cir­cled him, slowly in oppo­site direc­tions rather like lionesses cir­cling their prey. He felt sick and des­per­ately needed to spend a penny.

Please Miss Sven­son,” he blurted out, “but I do need to spen.….”

Be quiet.” Miss Sven­son snapped. “Only speak when you are spo­ken to.” She returned to her wooden chair in the mid­dle of the room and resumed her posi­tion there on. She again looked at Michael almost with an air of pity. “You know only too well what you can expect, don’t you?” She said in con­cil­ia­tory tone.

He sniv­elled “yes Miss Svenson.”

Then take down your trousers.…” He began to fum­ble ner­vously with the fas­ten­ing. “Oh for God’s sake” hissed Miss Jones and with the speed of light ripped apart the fas­ten­ing so in an instant his trousers fell to the floor, gath­ered in a crum­pled mess around his ankles.† “That’s more like it” said Miss Sven­son, a tone of sat­is­fac­tion in her voice. She took a freshly laun­dered hand towel, unfolded it †and spread it squarely over her lap which she then pat­ted with the flat of her right hand. “Come” she com­manded and in what seemed like a sin­gle sweep which was clearly very well prac­tised she took his right wrist and laid him flat across her lap and with­out a moments hes­i­ta­tion “thwack, thwack, thwack” rang out, his pants pro­vid­ing scant pro­tec­tion from Miss Svenson’s no non­sense deliv­ery. Now he felt the index fin­gers of both her hands locate within the waist­band of his pants and slide down his thighs and ulti­mately his legs, in one action as if glid­ing along rails. The pants were now on the floor and his bare bot­tom a sight for both ladies to behold, laid out on Miss Svenson’s lap. Thwack, thwack, thwack.…. A fur­ther three pow­er­ful swats rained down on his bare bot­tom, each leav­ing the rel­e­vant but­tock trem­bling. He sensed Miss Sven­son had grit­ted her teeth in her deter­mi­na­tion to meter out an appro­pri­ate level of pun­ish­ment. He glanced across the room to see Miss Jones stand­ing, arms folded, watch­ing the spec­ta­cle unfold before her. Thwack, thwack, thwack, a fur­ther three blows. Miss Jones looked on with sat­is­fac­tion flick­er­ing across her face, jaw set with grim deter­mi­na­tion that this boy would learn his les­son no mat­ter what.….

Thwack thwack thwack three more slaps harder and in much quicker suc­ces­sion than pre­vi­ously and then again †thwack thwack thwack. He had a good view of Miss Svenson’s shapely legs as he peered between the chair legs. They were clad in clas­sic, seemed silk stock­ings and his eyes fol­lowed the seems down their entire, won­der­ful length to the black patent high heel shoes. As with every­thing about Miss Sven­son, there was an ele­gant beauty, an effi­ciency which said “per­fec­tion” to all the world for that was the stan­dard, her stan­dard and she expected noth­ing less from anyone.

Thwack thwack thwack yet another three slaps rained down. He knew by now his bot­tom was emit­ting a steamy hot, red glow. He noted how, with every slap she deliv­ered, Miss Sven­son raised his bot­tom to meet her falling hand by rid­ing her feet up on the ball of each foot. It occurred to him that she put every ounce of effort into the expert deliv­ery of every swat mak­ing each one count. Now he sensed blades of deli­cious, hot burn­ing pain across each but­tock where each of Miss Svenson’s fin­gers left their blaz­ing red hot tell tale where they landed. He felt tears prickle the back of his eye­balls. He bit his lip. Was that it? How much more did she intend to dish out??

The swats con­tin­ued to rain down on his bare bot­tom: his legs were stretched out straight so Miss Sven­son was spank­ing the full round of his bare bot­tom. “Stand up now” she said as she gen­tly mas­saged each but­tock. He stood as he had been told to. Miss Sven­son calmly walked over to a blan­ket box to her right and picked up a leather pad­dle. “Face the wall” she instructed calmly, then guided him so his arms were raised above his head, braced against the wall. His feet were about 50cm away from the wall. Miss Sven­son rucked up his shirt tail reveal­ing to her plea­sure the full round­ed­ness of his pert bot­tom, which by now was not just bright red but radi­ated a glo­ri­ous warmth. Thwaaaack, as the pad­dle hit the tar­get with an almighty crash, he caught his breath and rose up on the ball of both feet. Pause. Thwaaaack, another strike to the oppo­site but­tock. Again he caught his breath. He could begin to feel the imprint of the imple­ment sear­ing the sides of his bot­tom. Another Thwaaaack, fol­lowed by another, then another, then another. And with each he caught his breath and rose still higher on his toes. His bot­tom was on fire. Miss Jones was grin­ning with delight, Miss Svenson’s jaw was set in grim deter­mi­na­tion. On and on the pad­dle deliv­ered each swat with increased inten­sity. He was now fight­ing to con­trol his blad­der. He knew he had to.….….

Pause.

Miss Sven­son cupped and gen­tly mas­saged each but­tock in turn and whilst doing so leant for­ward so her lips aligned with his left ear. “Sore?” She enquired. “Yes” came the sniv­el­ling reply.

Oh really,” she taunted, “well we shall have to see.…”. She pat­ted his bot­tom almost, it seemed, with a slight hint of affection.

My poor lit­tle boy, such a sore botty,” she whis­pered in his ear. And as she did so, she curled her toe so as to hook out from under a nearby arm chair an embroi­dered kneeler. In one smooth move­ment she placed her left foot on the kneeler and firmly pulled him over the flat of her thigh. Miss Jones now ben­e­fited from the full on view of his glow­ing red bare bot­tom. Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, this time with the back of an oval hair­brush which deliv­ered a deep pen­e­trat­ing sting matched only by the deep gloss of the dark wood handle.

Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, yet a fur­ther three blows, the sec­ond of which caught the top of the back of his legs and just touched the rear of his scro­tum. An elec­tric shock shot to the pit of his stom­ach, knot­ted it for a moment and then the third swat brought the focus of his atten­tion back to his arse: it now felt so red, so hot, so prickly hot that it was his bot­tom no more! It was his arse.

Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack.† Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack. “There,” announced miss Sven­son with more than just a hint of sat­is­fac­tion in her tone of voice. “That was twelve good ones with the brush and my good­ness what a red bot­tom you’ve got..†† Stand up now and rest a while”. †It was as though she was a lit­tle sur­prised that he could take such a sound hid­ing with­out more com­plaint. Was she impressed? Unlikely he thought. As he stood up his eyes met miss Sven­sons momen­tar­ily. Then both their eyes fell to the floor. In an instant and to his absolute hor­ror and embar­rass­ment they notice, simul­ta­ne­ously a small dark patch on the very bot­tom right hand cor­ner of his shirt!! Oh dear, for a split sec­ond the con­trol of hIs blad­der had failed him! Tut, tut, tut was miss Sven­sons muf­fled response. It seemed she under­stood. She fixed him with her stare, but he felt cer­tain he saw a flicker of gen­tle kind­ness danc­ing in her eyes.

Now,” she said slowly, thought­fully. “Under the cir­cum­stances I think it only right that we offer Miss Jones an oppor­tu­nity to vent her anger on you aswell.…† †In a moment I want you to bend over and touch your toes. I will then invite Miss Jones to step over here and join us. Do you under­stand?”. Slowly, thought­fully, sheep­ishly he con­firmed his affir­ma­tion. When would this end? He asked him­self. His bot­tom was now so red, so on fire that he had lost any sense of pain; instead it was pure red hot heat.….

Good,” Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued, “now Miss Jones, if you’d just like to .……” She didn’t need to fin­ish the sen­tence, Miss Jones was already there.

Pic­ture the scene: Michael bent over touch­ing his toes, bare bright red bot­tom exposed to all the world. To his left Miss Sven­son and to his right Miss Jones. Both admir­ing their intended tar­get with eager anticipation.

Silence. Wait. Breath. His heart beat pounded in his ear, in his head. His very vision seemed to throb. His mouth was still dry. Both ladies were draw­ing in breath with just a frac­tion of excite­ment. Still they waited, it was as though they enjoyed the spec­ta­cle of his bare bot­tom and wanted to savour it!

Then, with­out a word each lady took up her posi­tion, each at either side of him. Each lady gen­tly braced her­self with one hand on the small of his back. He sensed a smile flash across the cor­ners of each of their mouths, much as to ask of the other “shall we?”. And so they did, each lady focussed on the red cheek near­est her; smm­maaaack, smm­maaaack, smm­maaaack. Some strokes landed in tan­dem with the other and some did not!† It mat­tered not. Both ladies grit­ted their teeth and rat­tled out swats as though each might be the last and there­fore really had to count. On and on and on they went with almost mechan­i­cal effi­ciency, some swats landed mid cheek, some to one side, some to the other. Occa­sion­ally one of the ladies would catch the top of the back of his leg: those swats seemed to deliver a spe­cial, intense sting which didn’t quite ease off before the next slap landed squarely on the appro­pri­ate buttock.

And so they con­tin­ued until each lady had deliv­ered 125 sound whacks and now a tear or two ran down his cheek. “There,” announced Miss Sven­son with an air of con­tent­ment. He stood up. He felt giddy. “Get dressed,” said Miss Sven­son “and we shall have a lit­tle chat”.† He gath­ered his pants and trousers and put them on. The cool cot­ton of his pants cra­dled his sore bottom.

He took a seat in the cor­ner of the leather sofa, tak­ing care to lower him­self gen­tly. Miss Sven­son sat at the oppo­site end of the sofa and Miss Jones in the leather armchair.

Now,” Miss Sven­son began, “I think we can all agree that was a very worth­while way to learn your les­son.† Rest assured next time I will invite a selected audi­ence so more of your cohort will under­stand how I deal with peo­ple who behave in the man­ner you have. And you may take note, I am sure there will be a next time as expe­ri­ence has taught me that boys such as you usu­ally need to be seen sev­eral times before they truly under­stand the error of their ways”. He swal­lowed. The thought, the indig­nity of boys and girls who he con­sid­ered to be his friends watch­ing him being spanked by Miss Sven­son filled him with hor­ror. Or did it? He was unsure. Miss Sven­son, how­ever, had lit­tle doubt that she would be see­ing him again soon in the not so dis­tant future.…

Now off you go to class. Which sub­ject have you this morn­ing?” Asked Miss Sven­son with a note of con­cil­i­a­tion in her voice.

Maths with Miss Jones,” he replied still fight­ing back the tears.

Then I sug­gest you go with her now,” Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued “thank you both: a good morn­ings work, I’m sure you’ll agree.….”

Miss Jones thanked Miss Sven­son and they parted com­pany with con­tented smiles.

Miss Jones walked down the cor­ri­dor, down the stairs and across the play­ground with him. Although they didn’t speak it was an easy, com­fort­able silence. They entered the Maths block and approached the class room door. Before open­ing it, Miss Jones took hold of his upper left arm “well done” she said, “now we shall start over”. Their eyes met and she noted a smile which said “no hard feel­ings” play across his face.

She released his arm and dug all four fin­gers and the thumb of her right hand deep into his right but­tock. At the same time she threw open the class­room door and the stu­dents within fell silent. He fol­lowed her in. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Log­a­rithms.….” Began Miss Jones.….….…..

 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 11 by Rickie!

Wednesday, September 14th, 2011

Markís Mis­take
Mark was a model stu­dent. He excelled at school and achieved 3 top grade ‘A’ Lev­els and was able to study law at Uni­ver­sity to realise his ambi­tion of becom­ing a solic­i­tor.
Mark and his friends had just fin­ished their exams and every­one thought that they had done rea­son­ably well. Three or four of his clos­est friends decided to cel­e­brate with a few bot­tles of wine that evening and Mark invited them around to his stu­dent bed-sit.
Time was press­ing when he arrived home and he decided to pop down the road to Miss Svenson’s con­ve­nience store to buy some wine, cheese, pineap­ple rings and cock­tail sticks. He would just have time to return and pre­pare the food before the first of his friends arrived.
He arrived at the store five min­utes before clos­ing time and selected a bot­tle of red and a bot­tle of white wine. He grabbed the other items and opened his wal­let to take his credit card out when he was hor­ri­fied to dis­cover that he had picked up a store loy­alty card instead.
There was no time for him to go home, col­lect his credit card and return to the store as it was about to close and he needed all the items for her party. He had a rash thought — com­pletely out of char­ac­ter. He had enough cash to pay for the wine and pineap­ple. He knew Miss Sven­son only had one CCTV cam­era and that cov­ered the wine and spir­its sec­tion of her shop. He could eas­ily slip the cheese and cock­tail sticks into his bag in the other part of the shop where no one could see him and come back in the morn­ing and pay for them.
What he didn’t know how­ever was that Miss Sven­son had, only that day, had a new CCTV sys­tem with three cam­eras installed. She was in her office at the back of the store watch­ing Mark, as he was the only cus­tomer, wait­ing for him to pay for his goods so that she could lock up and go home. She clearly saw him slip the cheese and cock­tail sticks into his plas­tic bag and move towards the till where Amy a 17 year old assis­tant was on duty.
She decided to move to the shop door where she could watch Mark at the till and then went out­side to col­lect the adver­tis­ing board. Mark paid for the wine and pineap­ple rings and placed them in her bag with the receipt.
Miss Sven­son stopped Mark as the shop door closed behind him “Just a minute young man” she said “May I have a look in your bag?” Mark sud­denly felt sick — she knew Miss Sven­son must some­how have seen him slip the items into his bag. He then had a greater sink­ing feel­ing — what if she called the police! — if he was pros­e­cuted for theft he could never become a solic­i­tor — all those years of study would be wasted– his fam­ily name would be shamed!
He couldn’t speak coher­ently and just mum­bled some­thing to Miss Sven­son. “I think that you ought to come back into the shop with me young man” she said. She told Amy that she could go and that she would lock the doors and cash up.
Miss Sven­son locked the door and escorted Mark into her office. She played back the CCTV tape and said “Now then — how do you explain this? — I think that we should call the police“
Mark was now near to tears — his legs had turned to jelly. His cho­sen career was in ruins all for the price of some cheese.
“No don’t call the police — pleeease! There must be some other way — pleeease.….I can pay for the cheese first thing tomorrow.…I can work in your shop for nothing.….my par­ents own a chain of con­ve­nience stores so i’m used to the work.…please, please any­thing but the police“
Miss Sven­son looked at the young man stand­ing in front of her. He ner­vously pulled at the ends of his shoul­der length black hair and begged her again not to call the police. She looked again at the trem­bling stu­dent dressed in a white tee-shirt and tight black trousers. He reminded her of her own brother who was only a few years older and thought of the shame it would have brought on her fam­ily if he had been pros­e­cuted.
“What is your name?” he enquired. “Mark” he stam­mered. “Well Mark you must be pun­ished for what you have done but if you let me pun­ish you as I would my own son, then the police need not be involved. The pun­ish­ment must remain an agree­ment between our­selves — nobody else is to know”.
“I will agree to any­thing — but don’t call the police” said Mark slightly more relieved now that his career might not be over after all. “What do you want me to do?“
“Well” Miss Sven­son replied “When I said that I would pun­ish you as I would my own son — that will mean cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment. You will bend over for a hand spank­ing, fol­lowed by six swats with a slip­per and finally six stokes of the cane“
Mark looked shocked. He had never been spanked as a child. Now he faced a spank­ing, the slip­per and the cane all in one go! Even the worst behaved boys at his school had never expe­ri­enced that!
“When you are ready Mark we will get it over with. Come here” com­manded Miss Sven­son in a stern voice. Mark moved to the cen­tre of the room. “Bend over!” He bent over and grabbed his ankles. His long dark hair fell for­ward over his eyes. Miss Sven­son paused for a moment to admire the pert bot­tom in front of her encased in the black trousers which had now stretched even tighter around his but­tocks.
Miss Sven­son took aim and her hand landed with a SMACK on his right but­tock. He swayed for­ward with the force of the blow and a few sec­onds later he stum­bled for­ward as a SMACK landed on the left but­tock.
“Stay still!” com­manded Miss Sven­son. Mark had never expe­ri­enced any­thing like this and let out an OWOOO! †He took a new stance with his legs fur­ther apart which gave him greater bal­ance and remained in posi­tion whilst his but­tocks each received two fur­ther smacks.
“Stand up” ordered Miss Sven­son. Mark stood and rubbed his sting­ing bot­tom. “Now for the slip­per — I want you to bend over and hold the arms of that chair” He saw an old easy chair at the side of the room and bent over and grabbed the arms with her hands. He ner­vously turned and saw Miss Sven­son with a huge brown slip­per in her hand which must have been at least size 10.
“Lets get this part over with” she announced and took aim. WHOPP came the first blow. Mark never expected it to be so hard and he let out a tremen­dous AARRGH! “Only five more to go” WHOPP, WHOPP, Mark grasped the arms of the chair so tight in an attempt to lessen the pain that his fin­gers went through the worn out fab­ric. WHOPP, WHOPP, WHOPP. He lept up after the sixth whack and danced around the room, rub­bing his throb­bing bot­tom.
“Now for the final part of your pun­ish­ment Mark — and this will hurt the most” announced Miss Sven­son as she searched in a cup­board and bought out a thin rat­ten cane about three feet in length. “I want you to bend back over the chair and after the third stroke lower your trousers and pants so that you receive the final three stokes on your bare bot­tom” she com­manded.
Mark was shocked. The cane was bad enough but on the bare. The boys at his school never received such humil­i­a­tion. “Oh no! nnnot on the bbbare” he stam­mered. “The choice is yours Mark — fin­ish the pun­ish­ment we agreed on or I could still pros­e­cute for shoplift­ing” said Miss Sven­son.
Mark decided to argue no fur­ther and slowly bent back over the chair grasped the arms, feel­ing the holes he made min­utes ear­lier and stuck his throb­bing bot­tom out ready for its final chas­tise­ment. “Ready?” asked Miss Sven­son. “Yes” he whis­pered. He heard the cane swish­ing through the air as Miss Sven­son prac­tised her aim and then felt a tap on his bot­tom which sig­nalled the point of likely con­tact. He closed his eyes and held his breath and thought that in a few min­utes this whole night­mare would be over.
A swish soon fol­lowed by a THWAK as the cane landed and made a dent in his trousered behind. YEEOOWW! he yelped. He jerked up and tried to smooth the area where the sear­ing pain was com­ing from. “Stay still” came the firm voice of Miss Sven­son “or I will add penalty strokes” Mark didn’t reply bit­ing his lips and bent back over the chair think­ing that the quicker this was over the bet­ter. Swish THWAK! Swish THWAK! the cane made two fur­ther con­tacts with him before the time came for him to lower his trousers.
He slowly raised him­self up and fum­bled with the clasp and zip on his trousers before low­er­ing them gen­tly over his throb­bing but­tocks leav­ing them at thigh level. Miss Sven­son admired the wheals that had started to form and thought to her­self that she would see if she could get the next three stokes par­al­lel to them. Mark low­ered him­self again and braced him­self for the final part of his pun­ish­ment. Swish THWAK!, Swish THWAK!, Swish THWAK! ARRRGGGH!
Mark shot up, tried to dance around the room rub­bing his sore bot­tom and almost tripped over his half low­ered trousers. He pulled them up and gen­tly raised them over his sting­ing rear before clum­sily secur­ing the zip and clasp.
“I hope that you will have learnt your les­son Mark and that you will never try to steal from me again” thun­dered Miss Sven­son “And there is just one fur­ther thing. I shall expect you here by 9.00 a.m. with £4.92 to pay for your cheese and cock­tail sticks” “YYYes” Mark stam­mered. “I will“
Miss Sven­son gave Mark a moment to com­pose him­self and then escorted him through the shop, unlocked the door, and let him out. Mark looked at his watch — his ordeal had only lasted twenty min­utes. He still had time to return to his bed sit and pre­pare for his guests.
The party went very well and was enjoyed by all. No one noticed that Mark stood for the whole evening or occa­sion­ally rubbed his bot­tom!
The next morn­ing arrived and Mark was in Miss Svenson’s shop by 9.00 a.m. with the princely sum of £4.92. He handed it over and Miss Sven­son accepted it with a wry smile. “How are you this morn­ing Mark?” she enquired. “Fine thank you” he replied and reflected how grate­ful he was to still have a career to look for­ward to and how expen­sive that cheese could have been!

 

 

Girls Spanking Party.…

Sunday, September 11th, 2011

I have been think­ing about start­ing a reg­u­lar girls spank­ing party.

It would be a lot cheaper than a reg­u­lar ses­sion and an oppor­tu­nity for ladies to expe­ri­ence spank­ing and CP in a safe non sex­ual environment.It would also be a chance to chat and get to know other naughty girls who share the same interest.I would like to know if there is any inter­est for this so please give me some feed­back by using the con­tact page.

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 10 by Mark L!

Sunday, September 11th, 2011

Miss Sven­sonís Detention

The boy stared at the list in uncom­pre­hend­ing ter­ror. There on the notice board, in full view of the rest of the school was his name on that most dreaded of lists ñ Miss Sven­sonís Deten­tion.†† Every Tues­day lunchtime there was one or some­times two names posted there.† The unfor­tu­nate boy then knew that he was to report to the Head­mistress after school had fin­ished on Fri­day for what was termed a deten­tion but all the pupils knew that Miss Sven­sonís deten­tion hour included much more than the writ­ing of lines or an essay under her eagle eyed super­vi­sion. Miss Sven­sonís deten­tion meant cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment usu­ally with the cane and fre­quently across the bare bottom.

The boy now expe­ri­enced what every other boy whose name had graced that list had felt ñ a knot in the pit of stom­ach as he real­ized that he had over three days to wait before he would know for cer­tain the fate that awaited him at the hands of the fear­some Miss Svenson.

Every stu­dent exam­ined that list with fear­ful expec­ta­tion after lunch on a Tues­day ñ even the girls, for Miss Sven­sonís right­eous fury could occa­sion­ally be vis­ited on a girl although to the boysí regret no girl had ever been pun­ished in front of the boys even though a few boys had not been spared the ulti­mate humil­i­a­tion of being pun­ished in front of the oppo­site sex.

That was prob­a­bly why his friends who saw the list offered him brief but heart­felt expres­sions of sym­pa­thy. The girls on the other hand rev­elled in the tor­ments they could impose on any boy whose name appeared on Miss Sven­sonís dreaded deten­tion list.

ìAre you going to get the cane?î they would ask grin­ning with mali­cious plea­sure at the thought.

ìYouíre going to get it on the bare, you knowî, they chor­tled, their eyes bright with the prospect of his humiliation.

ìYou donít mind if weíre out­side the door lis­ten­ing, do you?î

The boy felt his mouth dry at the prospect. Was it the pain that was likely to be inflicted on his bot­tom that was caus­ing him the anguish or was it the humil­i­a­tion of hav­ing to lower his trousers and pants and bend over Miss Sven­sonís desk? He was going to be inca­pable of think­ing about any­thing else for the next few days. Indeed the rea­son why he was on Miss Sven­sonís list was not clear to him but he knew it was­nít a mis­take. Miss Sven­son never made mis­takes and any attempt to ques­tion why he was going to be caned would prob­a­bly increase his sen­tence. He would sim­ply have to accept his fate and what­ever pun­ish­ment she chose to inflict on his bare backside.

Time seemed to stop. That first night at home seemed to last for ever. He tossed and turned in bed see­ing the image of the ice blonde Head­mistress tap­ping her cane men­ac­ingly across her open palm, wait­ing for the dreaded words ìTake down your trousers and bend across my desk.î Would he have to take his own pants down? Would she let him keep them on?† Would she take them down her­self? It was long past mid­night before he finally fell asleep.

He passed her next day in the cor­ri­dor out­side the sixth form com­mon room. He stopped and stared at her, expect­ing some kind of com­ment about what he would face on Fri­day but she swept by with­out even glanc­ing in his direc­tion. Would she remem­ber him bet­ter next week after she had given him twelve strokes of the cane across his bare bot­tom he won­dered or was he just some­one who would sim­ply occupy the ten min­utes of her time after school on Fri­day when she rou­tinely caned any boy who was on her Deten­tion list?

He real­ized that much as he dreaded the inevitable can­ing there was some­thing about it that was entic­ing, some­thing that caused his heart to race when he thought about the encounter, some­thing that caused him to think quite dif­fer­ently from the way he thought about pain in any other context.

Was it the can­ing that was caus­ing him this highly unto­ward response or was it the prospect of appear­ing in front of Miss Sven­son? Almost before he had phrased the ques­tion he knew the answer. It was­nít just appear­ing in front of Miss Sven­son it was the knowl­edge that for how­ever brief the time would be he was hers alone for those min­utes. He was­nít just some boy who filled out the assem­bly hall, a face she passed with­out notic­ing in the cor­ri­dor.† His per­son, or at least his body, would merit her full and exclu­sive atten­tion for that brief pre­cious pas­sage of time.

Surely, he thought, he could arrange to be alone with her with­out the need to suf­fer a painful and humil­i­at­ing pun­ish­ment?† Could he not invent some char­i­ta­ble enter­prise, some­thing that would attract favourable pub­lic­ity for the school, any­thing that required him to be clos­eted with Miss Sven­son for con­sid­er­able time?† It had to be some­thing that would cause her to remem­ber him with pleasure.

He was lying awake in bed that sec­ond night when he real­ized that the rea­son why he did­nít fol­low up any of the excuses that occurred to him was because he did­nít want to. At some level, at some very basic level, he wanted her to pun­ish him. His ratio­nal self could not accept it but he knew deep down it was true.† He did­nít want to talk about the weather with Miss Sven­son and he did­nít want to be caned by any­one else, woman or man.† The truth was that it was the com­bi­na­tion of these two ideas, the pun­ish­ment ses­sion and the fact that it would be car­ried out by Miss Sven­son that caused him to expe­ri­ence those fris­sons of excite­ment that had been run­ning through his body since he first saw, with heart-stopping panic, his name on the Head­mistressís Deten­tion list.

Work­ing it out in his mind gave him a great sense of calm. When Fri­day arrived, he knew as he shut the front door of his house that when he opened that door again he would be car­ry­ing those dis­tinc­tive par­al­lel red marks of Miss Sven­sonís cane. Now, remark­ably, the taunts of the girls and the sym­pa­thetic unspo­ken looks of the boys meant lit­tle to him.

The girls could no longer get to him. When they teased him with the prospect of what lay ahead for him at four oíclock he just smiled. When they told him they had heard Miss Sven­son prac­tis­ing for his arrival by whack­ing the cane down on a pil­low or the back of the leather arm­chair in her study he laughed. The girls were taken aback. Pre­vi­ously this image had never failed to get a rise out of the boys who were due to be caned by Miss Sven­son. It was some­thing they dreaded, some­thing that they could­nít bear even to think about let alone have it form the sub­ject of the girlsí con­ver­sa­tion. Now here, finally, was a boy who was imper­vi­ous to such remarks, a boy who was not intim­i­dated by the appear­ance of his name on the Deten­tion List , a boy who, how­ever bizarrely, appeared to be look­ing for­ward to the trip to Miss Sven­sonís study even though the whole school knew the rea­son why he was going there.

At four oíclock, as the bell rang for the end of the last les­son of the day, he thrust his well-thumbed copy of the short sto­ries of Guy de Mau­pas­sant into his locker and slipped into the toi­lets. He splashed his face with cold water, dried his hands on the roller towel and ran a comb care­fully through his hair.

He knew that by tak­ing these extra few min­utes he would be late for Miss Sven­son and she would undoubt­edly add on extra strokes to his pun­ish­ment but it did­nít bother him in the least.† Noth­ing she was going to do was going to upset him. He might be going to his exe­cu­tion but he would go at his own pace and effec­tively of his own voli­tion for he wanted to demon­strate to the cane-wielding Head­mistress that the num­ber of strokes he was to receive and the sever­ity with which those strokes were admin­is­tered would not break his spirit and would not cause him to panic. He wanted her to pun­ish him. He wanted her to take the cane out of her cane cup­board.† He wanted her to take down his trousers.†† He wanted her to place him in what­ever humil­i­at­ing posi­tions she could devise for him. And what gave him more plea­sure than any­thing else was he knew that this was pre­cisely what she was going to do.

It was seven min­utes past four when he knocked on the door of Miss Sven­sonís study. The seven min­utes would be the first thing she was going to men­tion.† He heard the slightly muf­fled call, ìCome in!î

He opened the door to see the woman he was long­ing to meet stand­ing in front of him, a slight but highly becom­ing frown dis­turb­ing her tra­di­tional equa­nim­ity.† A fear­some if iconic crook-handled cane lay on her oth­er­wise empty desk. The boy exulted qui­etly. So far it was all work­ing out perfectly.