Spanking scenes from mainstream books and novelshttp://chross.blogt.ch/forum/list.php?10Sun, 26 May 2013 05:43:39 +0200 Phorum 5.2.19 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12902,12902#msg-12902 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12902,12902#msg-12902The Spank Statement

Published in 2006 this best selling historical novel tells the story of two of the wives of Henry VIII from the women’s own point of view. In an early chapter the 24 year old Anne, Henry’s fourth wife-to-be, is beaten bare bottom with a rod for displeasing her brother William, the all powerful Duke of Cleves, who spies on the scene from an adjacent room.

I go through quickly to our privy chamber and fling my clothes into the chest at the foot of the bed and jump into bed in my shift, drawing the curtains around the bed, pulling the covers up. I shiver in the coldness of the linen, and wait for the order that I know will come.

In only a few moments, Amelia opens the door. “You’re to go to Mother’s rooms,” she says triumphantly.

“Tell her I’m ill. You should have said I’ve gone to bed.”

“I told her. She said you have to get up and put on a cloak and go. What have you done now?”

I scowl at her bright face. “Nothing.” I rise unwillingly from the bed. “Nothing. As always, I have done nothing.” I pull my cloak from the hook behind the door and tie the ribbons from chin to knee.

“Did you answer him back?” Amanda demands gleefully. “Why do you always argue with him?”

I go out without replying, through the silence chamber and down the steps to my mother’s rooms in the same tower on the floor below us.

At first it looks as if she is alone, but then I see the half-closed door to her privy chamber and I don’t need to hear him, and I don’t need to see him. I just know that he is there, watching.

She has her back to me at first, and when she turns I see she has the birch stick in her hand and her face is stern.

“I have done nothing.” I say at once.

She sighs irritably. “Child, is that any way to come into a room?”

I lower my head. “My lady mother,” I say quietly.

“I am displeased with you” she says

I look up. “I am sorry for that. How have I offended?”

“You have been called to a holy duty; you must lead your husband to the reformed church.”

I nod.

“You have been called to a position of great honour and great dignity, and you must forge your behaviour to deserve it”

Inarguable. I lower my head again.

“You have an unruly spirit,” she goes on.

True indeed.

“You lack the proper traits of a woman: submission, obedience, love of duty.”

True again.

“And I fear that you have a wanton streak in you,” she says, very low.

“Mother, that I have not.” I say as quietly as her. “That is not true.”

“You do. The King of England will not tolerate a wanton wife. The Queen of England must be a woman without a stain on her character. She must be above reproach.”

“My lady mother, I…”

“Anne, think of this!” she says, and for once I hear a real ring of earnestness in her voice. “Think of this! He had the Lady Anne Boleyn executed for infidelity, accusing her of sin with half the court, her own brother among her lovers. He made her queen and then he unmade her again with no cause or evidence but his own will. He accused her of incest, witchcraft, crimes most foul. He is a man most anxious for his reputation, madly anxious. The next Queen of England must never be doubted. We cannot guarantee your safety if there is one word said against you!”

“My lady…”

“Kiss the rod,” she says before I can argue.

I touch my lips to the stick as she holds it out to me. Behind her privy chamber door I can hear him slightly, very slightly, sigh.

“Hold the seat of the chair,” she orders.

I bend over and grip both sides of the chair. Delicately, like a lady lifting a handkerchief, she takes the hem of my cloak and raises it over my hips and then my night shift. My buttocks are naked, if my brother chooses to look through the half-open door he can see me, displayed like a girl in a bawdy house. There is a whistle of the rod through the air and the sudden whiplash of pain across my thigh. I cry out, and then bite my lip. I am desperate to know how many cuts I will have to take. I grit my teeth together and wait for the next. The hiss through the air and then the slice of pain, like a sword-cut in a dishonourable duel. The sound of the next comes too fast for me to make ready, and I cry out again, my tears suddenly coming hot and fast like blood.

“Stand up, Anne,” she says coolly, and pulls down my shift and cloak.

The tears are pouring down my face, I can hear myself sobbing like a child.

“Go to your room and read the Bible,” she says. “Think especially of your royal calling. Caesar’s wife, Anne. Caesar’s wife.”

I have to curtsey to her. The awkward movement causes a wave of new pain and I whimper like a whipped puppy. I go to the door and open it. The wind blows the door from my hand and, in the gust, the inner door to her privy chamber flies open without warning.

In the shadow stands my brother, his face strained as if it were him beneath the whip of the birch, his lips pressed tightly together as if to stop himself from calling out. For one awful moment our eyes meet and he looks at me, his face filled with a desperate need. I drop my eyes, I turn from him as if I have not seen him, as if I am blind to him. Whatever he wants of me, I know that I don’t want to hear it. I stumble from the room, my shift sticking to the blood on the backs of my thighs. I am desperate to get away from them both.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 24 May 2013 23:45:56 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12776,12776#msg-12776 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12776,12776#msg-12776Judith McNaught has spanking in a lot of her novels, an I definitely enjoy them all (Kingdom of Dreams is a nice one, too). but the spanking in Whitney, My Love-- her debut novel-- is really well done. I have not verified this, but I've heard that in subsequent editions, she was required to edit it out, as spanking is now taboo in mainstream romance.

Whitney, the heroine, has just struck a skittish horse with her riding crop (she was actually aiming for Clayton, the hero, who was riding the horse. The horse runs away with Clayton, but he manages to get it back under control. Here's what happens next...



He sat down with his back against the tree and drew one leg up at the knee, resting his arm across it. In a voice like the crack of a whiplash, he said, "I told you to get down off that horse."
Whitney reluctantly did as she was bidden and slid awkwardly down from Khan, stepped onto the boulder next to her, then gingerly to the ground. She waited there beside her horse, enduring the icy blast of his gaze. It dawned on her that he was striving for control of his anger, and Whitney prayed be would gain it. His eyes raked over her, riveting on a spot just below her right hand. Following his stare, Whitney realized she still held the crop, it slid from her numbed fingers.
"I believe there are several things which you enjoy as much as riding," he remarked with scathing sarcasm.
Whitney nervously clenched and unclenched her hands.
"Come, come, don't be shy," he prodded in a soft, menacing voice. "You're a young woman of many pleasures -you enjoyed humbling me into an apology, did you not?"
Whitney nodded, then winced at the blaze of fury her answer ignited in his hard features. Quickly she tried to shake her head to cover the admission she'd just made.
"No, don't deny it. You enjoyed it tremendously. And I think we can assume that besides riding and apologies, you also enjoy using the crop. Correct?"
How could she answer these questions? Whitney thought frantically. She flicked a glance at Khan, longing to flee.
In a silky, dangerous voice, he warned, "Don't try it."
Whitney stayed where she was. She didn't think she could get away, knew, in fact, that if she tried, she'd only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn't let him vent his wrath now, he'd undoubtedly go to her father. She steeled herself to endure the rest of his verbal assault.
"You wanted us to have something in common if we were going to be friends. You wanted us to enjoy the same things, didn't you?"
Whitney swallowed convulsively and nodded
"Pick up the crop!" he clipped.
Cold fear raced down Whitney's spine, and her pulse accelerated wildly. In all her life, she'd never encountered such controlled, purposeful rage. She bent down and picked up the crop with shaking fingers.
"Bring it to me," he rapped. Whitney froze at the sudden, blinding realization of what he intended, and he said in a terrifyingly pleasant tone, "Which will you have, your father or me? Do we settle this between us now, or would you prefer that I take it up with him?"
Whitney frantically considered her choice: physical punishment meted out by this man whom she despised, or the mental anguish of reopening old hostilities with her father. Her choice was really no choice at all.
Rather than give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her quaking fear, Whitney reverted to an old girlhood habit of putting her chin up and assuming an appearance of remote indifference. Haughtily, she walked over and held the crop out to him like a queen bestowing the sword of knighthood, her disdainful green eyes clashing with his icy gray ones.
"Now we are both going to share your favorite amusements: Riding, using the crop, and apologizing. You will 'ride' my knee, I will use the crop, and you are going to apologize. Do you understand the rules of our little game?"
Whitney's gaze slid unwillingly to the black riding crop in his hand, then jerked back to his tanned face. She did not deign to reply.
"Lie across my lap, Whitney." He politely extended his hand to assist her, and in her terror, Whitney unthinkingly accepted it. She knelt beside him, glaring at him in stiff hatred. Cocking a dark eyebrow, he nodded meaningfully at his lap.
Drowning in an ocean of mortification, Whitney lowered herself into the humiliating position. His hard thighs pressed against her churning stomach; a beetle scurried through the blades of grass inches from her nose.
Above her, she heard his voice. "I will stop when you apologize. Not before." He raised his arm and Whitney wondered wildly how much protection her riding habit would provide, then had her answer as the crop whined through the air, slicing against her clothing, welting her tender flesh. He paused, waiting. For her apology.
Whitney gritted her teeth; he could beat her senseless but she'd never give him the satisfaction of an apology. Never! His arm came up another time, the crop landed mercilessly across her buttocks. Another pause .
Whitney counted through streaks of vivid pain-three times, four, five. By now she was sobbing. The sixth time her body jerked and a strangled cry wrenched from her. His arm lifted, and she screamed "Stop!" then cursed herself because he had already flung the crop away.
He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and turned her in his arms to sit across his lap. Whitney tried to pull away, but his arms tightened, and his hand lifted to hold her face pressed to his chest. Her ribs heaved and scalding tears raced down her cheeks, soaking through the front of his shirt as she wept, more from impotent fury than from pain. As if he were soothing a child, he began to stroke her hair. Whitney angrily shoved his hand away, but he ignored her and continued.
The minutes passed, and Whitney had just gotten control of herself when his hand touched her chin, tipping her face up to his. Glaring at him through a haze of wrathful tears, she whispered, "I hate you!"
"I know you do," he said quietly. It registered on Whitney that there was neither triumph nor satisfaction on his face and, since she could find nothing else in his expression to stoke the flames of her animosity, she looked away, staring fixedly off to the left, occasionally wiping at her tear-streaked face with her fingertips.
"Look at me," he ordered gently.
"No!" Whitney retorted. "If I do, I'll scratch your eyes out, so help me!"
"You're not nearly so angry with me as you are with yourself."
"How much would you care to bet?" Whitney snapped, but she could feel her anger ebbing as she looked at Dangerous Crossing, whose satin blackness was now splashed with huge, sweaty white patches. It was a miracle that the horse hadn't injured himself, that the rider had been expert enough to stay on him, and wise enough to continue riding him instead of returning him to the stable. It was & double miracle that both horse and rider hadn't been seriously injured.
He was right: she was bitterly angry with herself for what she had done even if her regret was more for the sake of the horse than the man. She finally realized that Clayton was waiting for her to apologize, and since she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, she said tonelessly, "I never meant to hit the horse, I meant to hit you. But either way, I suppose it was irresponsible and dangerous, a childish act deserving of a child's punishment."
"Thank you for that," he said almost tenderly. To be guilty and punished, to feel remorse and then be forgiven was a sequence of events totally missing from Whitney's childhood experience. Whenever she had apologized to her father, he had listened and then launched into a fresh tirade about her misbehavior, and Whitney had expected about the same from Clayton. She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she saw and felt. His gray eyes were full of warmth, and he was smiling at her with gentle understanding.
Suddenly, Whitney felt as if they were the best, the closest, of friends-as if there was some special bond between them now. The feeling stunned her, then surged through her, sweeping everything away in its path. "I'm terribly sorry about …"
"No more," he interrupted softly. "It's forgotten." Whitney knew, as he slowly bent his head to her, that he was going to kiss her, but instead of drawing away she shyly lifted her face and met him halfway, somehow seeking proof of forgiveness. His lips came down to caress hers in a long, tender, undemanding kiss.]]> ReneeRose Spanking in LiteratureWed, 01 May 2013 13:11:40 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12717,12717#msg-12717 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12717,12717#msg-12717
The currently available source is:

Daughters of Canaan: A Saga of Southern Women
By Margaret R. Wolfe
Page 123
Link: http://books.google.com/books?id=I9ZY78vcAjMC&dq=Daughters+of+Canaan%3A+A+Saga+of+Southern+Women&q=%22Robert+Gunn+Crawford%22#v=snippet&q=%22Robert%20Gunn%20Crawford%22&f=false


Margaret R. Wolfe's original source was:

A History of the Kentucky Penitentiary System, 1865-1937
By Robert Gunn Crawford
Page 255

.............................

A state prison employee, whose first job, in 1931, had been that of a guard, later claimed that the lash was still being used on both male and female prisoners after this punishment had supposedly been discontinued. Robert Gunn Crawford, a student of the Kentucky penal system who conducted the interview, reported that his subject "recounted with gusto the experience of a 'high society' lady who was in prison for murdering her husband." According to the guard,

she would not perform any of the tasks assigned her, such as laundry or cleaning; nor would she wear the standard prison dress. She defied the matron and the superintendent to force her, on the threat of using political influence to cost them their jobs. At long last . . . the superintendent ordered her taken to the "bull". [The guard] interspaced his remarks with loud guffaws when he described how she was placed on the "bull," with her hands tied to her ankles. A guard then jerked her dress up and her "drawers" down to expose a white "ass." When the guard picked up the wet and sandy strap and hit her full on the buttocks, she screamed and . . . "pissed a bucketful."
..............................


I for one sure hope that the guard's characterization (both stated and implied) of this woman, as a cold blooded murderess with an exaggerated sense of entitlement, was in fact accurate.

It would rather spoil my mental picture of this event were that not the case.

Based on the sources listed above, this occurred sometime between 1931 and 1937 inclusive. And if this woman was indeed one of wealth and influence, I gotta figure that the newspapers reported on her trial in some detail.

Perhaps someone here has access to an online archive of old Kentucky newspapers ??

.]]> GregE Spanking in LiteratureSat, 20 Apr 2013 20:52:20 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12708,12708#msg-12708 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12708,12708#msg-12708Bainbridge's 1989 novel is based on her own youthful experiences with the Liverpool Rep. Her teenage heroine, Stella, has been taken on as Assistant Stage Manager (ie. general dogsbody). She finds the actors, and indeed the whole troupe, more than slightly eccentric.

Every evening when she called 'Overture and Beginners' Richard St Ives dragged her through the doorway and, putting her across his knee, whacked her on the bottom with a rolled-up copy of The Stage.

Stella mentions it to the troupe's pianist, Freddie Reynalde:

She was going out of the band room when she suddenly asked: "If someone takes liberties with you, is it partly your own fault?"

"Liberties?" Freddie asked. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I keep getting put over someone's knee and smacked."

"St Ives," said Reynalde. "He's harmless. If you don't like it tell him so, or else stay out of his reach."

"It's not that I either like or dislike it," said Stella. "I just don't see what good it does."]]> PhilK Spanking in LiteratureSun, 14 Apr 2013 17:36:51 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12702,12702#msg-12702 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12702,12702#msg-12702Just a mention.

It is a short story about a young man trying to fit in with the upper echelons of society (it *is* Fitzgerald, after all).

Our narrator is playing golf when he encounters Judy Jones.


It was a curious day, slashed abruptly with fleeting, familiar impressions. One minute he had the sense of being a trespasser in the next he was impressed by the tremendous superiority he felt toward Mr TA Hedrick, who was a bore and not even a good golfer any more.

Then, because of a ball Mr Hart lost near the fifteenth green, an enormous thing happened. While they were searching the stiff grasses of the rough there was a clear call of "Fore!" from behind a hill in their rear. And as they all turned abruptly from their search a bright new ball sliced abruptly over the hill and caught Mr TA Hedrick in the abdomen.

"By Gad!" cried Mr TA Hedrick, "they" ought to put some of these crazy women off the course. It's getting to be outrageous."

A head and a voice came up together over the hill :

"Do you mind if we go through?"

"You hit me in the stomach! " declared Mr Hedrick wildly.

"Did I?" The girl approached the group of men. "I'm sorry. I yelled Fore!"

Her glance fell casually on each of the men then scanned the
fairway for her ball.

"Did I bounce into the rough?"

It was impossible to determine whether this question was ingenuous or malicious. In a moment, however, she left no doubt, for as her partner came up over the hill she called cheerfully :

"Here I am! I'd have gone on the green except that I hit something."

As she took her stance for a short mashie shot, Dexter looked at her closely. She wore a blue gingham dress, rimmed at throat and shoulders with a white edging that accentuated her tan. The quality of exaggeration, of thinness, which had made her passionate eyes and down-turning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly beautiful. The colour in her cheeks was centred like the colour in a picture it was not a "high" colour, but a sort of fluctuating and feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede and disappear. This colour and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality balanced only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes.

She swung her mashie impatiently and without interest, pitching the ball into a sand-pit on the other side of the green. With a quick, insincere smile and a careless "Thank you!" she went on after it.

"That Judy Jones!" remarked Mr Hedrick on the next tee, as they waited some moments for her to play on ahead. "All she needs is to be turned up and spanked for six months and then to be married off to an old-fashioned cavalry captain."

"My God, she's good-looking! " said Mr Sandwood, who was just over thirty.

"Good-looking!" cried Mr Hedrick contemptuously, "she always looks as if she wanted to be kissed ! Turning those big cow-eyes on every calf in town! "

It was doubtful if Mr Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal instinct.

"She'd play pretty good golf if she'd try," said Mr Sandwood.

"She has no form," said Mr Hedrick solemnly.

"She has a nice figure," said Mr Sandwood.]]> leelbelu Spanking in LiteratureSat, 13 Apr 2013 20:04:34 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12641,12641#msg-12641 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12641,12641#msg-12641Threats only. But still a nice scene.

Jason, who is obsessed with money and material gain, has been forced to leave work to search for his wayward ward (and niece), Miss Quentin. He isn't terribly happy about that.

'You- you old goddamn!' she says. She fought, but I held her. 'You damn old goddamn!' she says.

'I'll show you,' I says. 'You may scare an old woman off, but I'll show you who's got a hold of you now.' I held her with one hand, then she quit fighting and watched me, her eyes getting wide and black.

'What are you going to do?' she says.

'You wait until I get this belt out and I'll show you,' I says, pulling my belt out. Then Dilsey grabbed my arm.

'Jason,' she says, 'You, Jason! Ain't you ashamed of yourself.'

'Dilsey,' Quentin says, 'Dilsey.'

'I ain't gwine let him,' Dilsey says. 'Don't you worry honey.'


The situation calms a bit, and Jason agrees to drive Quentin to school. They end up rowing about money.


'Do you know what I'd do if I thought your money or hers [Quentin's grandmother] bought one cent of this?' she says, putting her hand on her dress.

'What would you do,' I says. 'Wear a barrel?'

'I'd tear it right off and throw it into the street,' she says. 'Do you believe me?'

'Sure you would,' I says. 'You do it every time.'

'See if I wouldn't,' she says. She grabbed the neck of her dress in both hands and made like she would tear it.

'You tear that dress,' I says, 'and I'll give you a whipping right here that you'll remember all your life.'

'See if I don't,' she says. Then I saw that she really was trying to tear it, to tear it right off of her. By the time I got the car stopped and grabbed her hands there was about a dozen people looking. It made me so mad for a minute it kind of blinded me.

'You do a thing like that again and I'll make you sorry you ever drew breath,' I says.

'I'm sorry now,' she says. She quit, then her eyes turned kind of funny and I says to myself if you cry here in this car, on the street, I'll whip you. I'll wear you out. Luckily for her she didn't so I turned her wrists loose and drove on.]]> leelbelu Spanking in LiteratureWed, 03 Apr 2013 19:55:06 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12562,12562#msg-12562 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12562,12562#msg-12562Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961) is best known as a poet and fantasy writer, a friend of HP Lovecraft. But this short story, 'Something New', shows an unexpected side to him. Slightly vanilla-ish - but charming....

Something New

"Tell me something new," she moaned, twisting in his arms on the sofa. "Say or do something original—and I'll love you. Anything but the wheezy gags, the doddering compliments, the kisses that were stale before Antony passed them off on Cleopatra."

"Alas," he said, "there is nothing new in the world except the rose and gold and ivory of your perfect loveliness. And there is nothing original except my love for you."

"Old stuff," she sneered, moving away from him. "They all say that."

"They?" he queried, jealously.

"The ones before you, of course," she replied, in a tone of languid reminiscence. "It only took four lovers to convince me of the quotidian sameness of man. After that, I always knew what to expect. It was maddening: they came to remind me of so many cuckoo clocks, with the eternal monotony of their advances, the punctuality of their compliments. I soon knew the whole repertory. As for kissing—each one began with my hands, and ended with my lips. There was one genius, though, who kissed me on the throat the first time. I might have taken him, if he had lived up to the promise of such a beginning."

"What shall I say?" he queried, in despair. "Shall I tell you that your eyes are the unwaning moons above the cypress-guarded lakes of dreamland? Shall I say that your hair is colored like the sunsets of Cocaigne ?"

She kicked off one of her slippers, with a little jerk of disgust.

"You aren't the first poet that I've had for a lover. One of them used to read me that sort of stuff by the hour. All about moons, and stars and sunsets, and rose-leaves and lotus-petals."

"Ah," he cried hopefully, gazing at the slipperless foot. "Shall I stand on my head and kiss your tooty-wootsies ?"

She smiled briefly. "That wouldn't be so bad. But you're not an acrobat, my dear. You'd fall over and break something—provided you didn't fall on me."

"Well, I give it up," he muttered, in a tone of hopeless resignation "I've done my darndest to please you for the past four months; and I've been perfectly faithful and devoted, too; I haven't so much as looked corner-wise at another woman—not even that blue-eyed brunette who tried to vamp me at the Artists' Ball the other night."

She sighed impatiently. "What does that matter? I am sure you needn't be faithful unless you want to be. As for pleasing me—well you did give a thrill once upon a time, during the first week of our acquaintance. Do you remember? We were lying out under the pines on the old rug that we had taken with us; and you suddenly turned to me and asked me if I would like to be a hamadryad . . . Ah! there is a hamadryad in every women; but it takes a faun to call it forth . . . My dear, if you had only been a faun !"

"A real faun would have dragged you off by the hair," he growled, "So you wanted some of that caveman stuff, did you? I suppose that's what you mean by 'something new.'"

"Anything, anything, providing it is new," she drawled, with ineffable languor. Looking like a poem to Ennui by Baudelaire, she leaned back and lit another cigarette in her holder of carved ivory.

He look at her, and wondered if any one female had ever before hidden so much perversity, capriciousness and incomprehensibility behind a rose-bud skin and harvest-coloured hair. A sense of acute exasperation mounted in him—something that had smouldered for months, half-restrained by his natural instincts of chivalry and gentleness. He remembered an aphorism from Nietzsche: "When thou goest to women, take thy whip." "By Jove, the old boy had the right dope," he thought. "Too bad I didn't think to take my whip with me; but after all, I have my hands, and a little rough stuff can't make matters any worse."

Aloud, he said: "It's a pity no one ever thought to give you a good paddling. All women are spoiled and perverse, more or less, but you--" He broke off, and drew her across his knees like a naughty child, with a movement so muscular and sudden that she had neither the time nor the impulse to resist or cry out.

"I'm going to give you the spanking of your life," he growled, as his right hand rose and descended . . . The cigarette holder fell from her lips to the Turkish carpet, and began to burn a hole in the flowered pattern. . . . A dozen smart blows, with a sound like the clapping of shingles, and then he released her, and rose to his feet. His anger had vanished, and his only feeling was an overpowering sense of shame and consternation. He could merely wonder how and why he had done it.

"I suppose you will never forgive me," he began.

"Oh, you are wonderful," she breathed. "I didn't think you had it in you. My faun! My cave-man! Do it again."

Doubly dumbfounded as he was, he had enough presence of mind to adjust himself to the situation. "Women are certainly the limit," he thought, dazedly. "But one must make the best of them, and miss no chances."

Preserving a grim and mysterious silence, he picked her up in his arms.]]> PhilK Spanking in LiteratureMon, 18 Mar 2013 19:12:44 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12019,12019#msg-12019 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,12019,12019#msg-12019Jim]]> jim Spanking in LiteratureSat, 13 Apr 2013 17:03:19 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11980,11980#msg-11980 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11980,11980#msg-11980The story's protagonist, Hamilton Felix is the archetypal superman; he possesses a superhuman physique, an intellect to match it, and can expect to live centuries without any form of medical assistance. Authorities aware of his genetic makeup consider him to be the most advanced human in existence - the 'star line.' However, he lacks eidetic memory, which disqualifies him for what many consider to be humanity's most important occupation: that of an "encyclopedic synthesist", one who analyzes the sum total of human knowledge for untapped potential. As such, he finds his life - and the society he lives in - to be enjoyable but meaningless. In this scene he meets the woman he is to marry (who has effectovley broken into his home) and they 'converse'...

“You are the woman Mordan picked for me!”

“That’s right. Of course.”

“Why, damn your impudence! What the devil do you mean by invading my privacy like this?”

“Tut!Tut!Tut! Mamma spank. Is that any way to speak to the future mother of your children?”

“Mother of my fiddlesticks! If I needed anything to convince me that I want to have nothing to with the scheme, you have given it to me. If I ever have children it won’t be by you!”

Heedless of her struggles he picked her up and carried her to a large chair where he seated himself with her on his lap. He pinned her legs between his knees, forced her arms behind her back until he managed to get both her wrists in one of his fists, She bit him in the process.

With her thus effectively immobilised, he settled back, holding her away from him, and looked at her face. “Now we can talk,” he said cheerily. He measured her face with his eye and slapped her once, not too hard but with plenty of sting in it. “That’s for biting. Don’t do it again.”]]> leelbelu Spanking in LiteratureTue, 30 Oct 2012 15:10:19 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11876,11876#msg-11876 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11876,11876#msg-11876The entire novel is a monologue told by Dolores. She narrates the story of her younger life, her married life, and into her old age. As it is Stephen King, a certain amount of crime and horror surround her existence.

In this scene she discusses her honeymoon, some fifty years earlier.

What I set out to tell you was that we went down to the dinin room that Sat'dy night, had a good dinner, and then went back up to our room again. Joe was listin considerably to starboard on the walk down the hall, I remember-- he'd had four or five beers with his dinner to go with the nine or ten he took on over the course of the afternoon. Once we were inside the room, he stood there lookin at me so long I asked him if he saw anythin green.

'No,' he says, 'but I seen a man down there in that restaurant lookin up your dress, Dolores. His eyes were just about hangin out on springs. And you knew he was lookin, didn't you?'

I almost told him Gary Cooper coulda been sittin in the corner with Rita Hayworth and I wouldn't have known it, and then thought, why bother? It didn't do any good to argue with Joe when he'd been drinkin; I didn't go into that marriage with my eyes entirely shut, and I'm not gonna try to kid you that I did.

'If there was a man lookin up my dress, why didn't you go over and tell him to shut his eyes, Joe?' I asked. It was only a joke-- maybe I was tryin to turn him aside, I really don't remember-- but he didn't take it as a joke. That I do remember. Joe wasn't a man to take a joke; in fact, I'd have to say he had almost no sense of humour at all. That was something I didn't know goin into it with him; I thought back then that a sense of humour was like a nose, or a pair of ears-- that some worked better than others, but everybody had one.

He grabbed me, and turned me over his knee, and paddled me with his shoe. 'For the rest of your life, nobody's gonna have any idear what colour underwear you've got on but me, Dolores,' he said. 'Do you hear that? Nobody but me.']]> leelbelu Spanking in LiteratureSat, 13 Oct 2012 14:18:36 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11814,11814#msg-11814 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11814,11814#msg-11814Source: Heart and Soul



I took a poke from him whenever he chose to give me one, but I never tried to get him to embrace me. I had a number of admirers myself, and could have had plenty of poking had I wished, but I was always faithful to Randolph, not from any feeling of honor towards him, but simply because I did not care for strange men. (At that time there was no necessity for me to allow myself to be poked if I did not wish to be. Captain Franklin was the only man who ever had had me with my own consent during the whole time I lived with Randolph.)

As the days passed, I saw less and less of Randolph, and, even when he was with me, he never touched me in any way. Meanwhile, his manner towards me became very cold, though he never was actually rude to me. I guessed what it all meant. He had grown tired of me, and I had a presentiment that he soon would turn me adrift. However, I always had known that our relations would come to an end sooner or later, and that then I should have to do what many a woman has had to do when she has found herself deserted by the man by whom she has been ruined.

Before long, Randolph gave me the news which I had been expecting. He said: I am going to Europe with a party of friends, so I cannot take you with me. In fact, Dolly, the time has come for us to part altogether. But, though I am leaving you, it is not through any fault of yours. You have always been a good-natured girl and you have done whatever I asked you. Therefore I wish to do the best I can for you. I intend to buy you a little house and to furnish it well for you. I also will give you a sum of money to start with. You are only twenty-two years of age, you have a pretty face and a very good figure.

It was a hard way of putting the matter before me and the tears rose to my eyes. But nevertheless I felt a certain amount of gratitude to him for what he intended to do for me. He had ruined me, but he might have cast me off with nothing at all. I thanked him, and he gave me a short kiss, saying that he would take me out next day to look for a house. He then went away, leaving me to think over my future prospects.

I shall not lengthen my story by telling you of our house hunting; it will suffice to say that eventually he bought this house, furnished it throughout. When everything was in order, Randolph brought me here one afternoon, handed over the title deeds of the house and gave me a thousand dollars. We then sat down and had a chat while he drank a glass of wine and smoked a cigar.

When he had finished, he rose from his seat, saying with a laugh.

You know, Dolly, that I am fond of whipping a woman’s bottom. Now I don’t suppose that I shall ever have a chance of doing such a thing in Europe, so you must let me give you a farewell spanking, a real smart one.

I did not like the idea at all, and a cold shiver ran down my back, for I knew that he would hurt me dreadfully. But I had not the strength of mind to refuse his farewell request, so, in a rather faint voice, I said: I will let you spank me, but do not be too hard upon me. You know that I cannot bear pain.

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he tied my wrists together, a proceeding which alarmed me. Oh don’t tie me! I exclaimed.

He laughed, saying: I am going to whip you as if you were a naughty slave girl, so your hands must be tied to prevent your putting them over your bottom during the spanking.

Thoroughly frightened, I made some feeble remonstrances, but he seized me and, sitting down on a chair, placed me in the orthodox position across his knees. Then he turned up my petticoats and took down my drawers.



Now, he said, stroking my bottom, don’t make too much noise, or the servants will hear you.

Then, holding me firmly, he began to spank me very severely. Oh how hard his hand was, and how it did sting!

I burst into tears, wriggling and squirming about on his thighs. I could distinctly feel his stiff member pressing against my belly. Clenching my teeth and holding my breath, I suppressed for a short time the cries which rose to my lips. But at last the stinging pain became so intense that I began to squeal shrilly, kicking my legs about in anguish and begging him to stop.

He went on spanking me until my bottom burned and throbbed in a most agonizing way and I screamed out as loudly as I could. Then he stopped, and, laying me in a stooping position over the end of the sofa, he poked me while I was still crying and smarting with the pain of the horrid spanking.

When all was over, he untied my wrists and laid me on the sofa, while he stood beside it, looking down at me with a smile on his face as I lay with the tears trickling down my cheeks, all my clothes rumpled and my drawers hanging about my ankles. My face was red, but I am sure that my poor bottom must have been much redder judging from the way it was throbbing and tingling. (It was black-and-blue the next day.)

Bending down he gave me a kiss, saying laughingly: There, Dolly, that is the last spanking—and the last poke you will ever get from me.

It was very cruel of you to have spanked me so severely,» I said tearfully. I cannot understand why you should have taken pleasure in giving me such dreadful pain.

He was not a bit sorry for having spanked me with such wanton severity. He said: Oh, you soon will find that many other men besides me are fond of spanking a woman till she squeals. (I since have found that such indeed is the case: many men are very fond of taking a woman across their knees. I often have been asked to allow myself to be spanked, but I have never consented. Randolph is the only man who ever has taken me on his knees for a spanking.)

He went on, laughing at his own poor joke: You know, Dolly, when a man sets up a new establishment, he generally gives a housewarming. Well, I have given you a bottom-warming instead. I have always admired your bottom, and I shall always have a pleasing recollection of it as it appeared today. It looked very pretty while the plump white cheeks were blushing at the touch of my hand.

He then kissed me again on my tear-bedabbled face, bade me goodbye and calmly left the house, leaving me lying on the sofa, sore, angry and indignant. Fortunately, the servants had not heard the shrieks which I had uttered while being spanked.

I lay there quietly till the intense smarting pain of my bottom had somewhat subsided, then I fastened up my drawers and, going into the bedroom, bathed my flushed face, thinking to myself what an utterly heartless man Randolph was. There certainly had never been any sentiment in the relations between us, but I thought that he might have parted with me in a more tender way. However, I had no tender feeling for him after the way he had treated me, and so the only tenderness" there was about our parting was the tenderness of my sorely spanked bottom.

Randolph sailed for Europe the next day. I have neither seen him nor heard from him since. But I know that he remained abroad until the war was over.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 05 Oct 2012 20:30:48 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11472,11472#msg-11472 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11472,11472#msg-11472Source: SpankStatement

The movie Norman Conquest (aka Park Plaza 605) was based on this book.

In his first encounter with the Russian girl, Nadina, Conquest comes off second best:

He laughed again – a soft, lilting sound which affected her far more than any yelp of surprise. His serene coolness, his contemptuous glance at the gun, made her fiercer than ever.

“Trick you, Green Eyes?” he said softly. “Now why the dickens should I try to trick you? Don’t imagine that I’m frightened of that silly little toy in your hand. You’re not going to use it….”

He was quite wrong. She used it then and there. A quiver ran down his spine as he saw her finger squeezing the trigger, distinctively he ducked. But there was no report – no bullet. Instead, an unexpected squirt of liquid hissed from the muzzle of the little gun. Some of it missed him, but as she quickly turned the weapon the remainder took him fairly and squarely between the eyes.

“My God! You little devil!”

He staggered back, clapping his hands to his eyes, for the liquid blinded him instantly, and the agony was intense. He hated being taken by surprise – and he hated even more the prospect of losing his eyesight. As he reeled about the room, cursing, he realised with a sense of stunning shock that his wits were leaving him. His legs began to fell like jelly. A thunderous roar was crashing inside his head – and his last conscious thought was that the squirted liquid was a volatile knock-out drug.

And there was nothing he could do about it…

He promises his wife, Joy, that he will get his revenge next time they meet:

“You can’t beat me, Norman,” she said coldly. “You’re only carrying on with this business because you want to meet that girl again.”

“Correct sweetheart.”

“What!”

“You bet I want to meet her again!”

“You have the nerve to tell me –”

“And when I do meet her again, the first thing I’ll do is to take her across my knee, lift up her skirts and smack her bottom,” said Norman severely. “I’ll teach her to make a monkey out of me! Take that black look of your face, young Pixie, and switch off the green light. You’re with me in this binge from now on. and I shall want you to hold the glamorous Nadina while I do the smacking. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

Joy disapproves:

“Oh yeah?” Joy felt, perhaps with reason, that the married state would make no difference in her cavalier’s eyesight. And the very fact that he had met this present blonde menace in such extraordinary circumstances only added to Joy’s unease. He talked glibly of taking the girl across his knee and smacking her, but Joy felt that that sort of treatment was quite likely to have the wrong result. Look at it any way you like, smacking a girl’s bottom is no way to encourage aloofness. Far too intimate, in fact; and yet Norman, like an ass, had thought that he was putting the whole matter on a safe and business-like basis by this suggestion.

Finally, the denouement:

You had me nicely fooled. That’s one up to you. Two, counting your slick performance at the Park Plaza. Which reminds me,” he added, with a sudden frown. “I promised myself that I’d smack you —”

“Don’t come near me!” she whispered, watching him intently. ” I fooled you, yes. Now you will do as I say.” She produced her little gun and pointed it straight at him.

“First, you will put your hands up”

“The term, Gorgeous, is “‘reach for the ceiling,’ said Norman, as he raised his hands obediently. “I might have known you’d be as tricky as a dozen cats. I apologise for not giving you credit…Hey! Mind what you’re doing with that toy! You pulled the trigger once, but you’re not catching me again.”

“This is not the same gun,” said Nadina tensely. “This gun has bullets. If you move a step towards me I will kill you.”

He laughed, deliberately lowered his hands and took out his cigarette case. he flicked a lighter and applied the flame. As he inhaled deeply a sudden twist of his wrist sent the lighter straight past he left ear, and for a fraction of a second her attention was distracted. He moved lithely forward, seized her arm, and twisted the gun out of her hand.

“Silly to try things like that with me.” he said, as he clicked open the gun and examined it. “Well, well! So you weren’t fooling? This is the real thing, and fully loaded. Dangerous little devil, aren’t you?”

He pocketed the gun, seized hold of the startled Nadina, and sat down on the lounge, Her struggles were futile in his steely grip.

Laying her face downwards across his knees he pulled up her skirt and delivered half a dozen resounding slaps on her nylon panties. She was so surprised, and so outraged, that she even forgot to struggle and kick.

“I promised to give myself this pleasure at our next meeting,” said Norman, as he calmly readjusted her skirt and stood her on her feet, “Not that you don’t deserve something far more severe than a slapping.”

Nadina’s face was twisted,

“You hurt me!” she said, rubbing a small hand over her rear.

“How dare you take such liberties? No gentleman does such things to a lady!”

“Agreed, Mademoiselle Borordin,” chuckled Norman, as he smiled into her reddened face,” But I am not a gentleman, and I don’t think you are a lady. However, Let’s forget it. I want to ask you a straight question now that the pleasantries are over. What, in a word, is your game?”

She was looking at him with a new expression on her face. A moment earlier she had been indignant and angry – as any girl might who has just had her bottom smacked by a stranger – and a male stranger at that – a male who was high, wide and handsome. The enormity of the outrage had been intensified by the fact that he had lifted her clothes… But she was looking at him with wide-eyed admiration. he was so strong – so virile – so masterful.

it was not the first time that Norman Conquest had had this effect on a gril at close quarters. There was something in his personality – some magnetic quality which ran with the speed of quicksilver to the feminine bloodstream. She could feel her pulse quickening as she feasted her eyes on his fine masculine features.

“Kiss me!” she said softly.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureSat, 18 Aug 2012 02:59:15 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11315,11315#msg-11315 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11315,11315#msg-11315

Source: TheSpankStatement

The slim volume – part memoire, part treatise – had been originally published in France three years earlier and caused something of a furore. It’s author was a 38-year-old with a string of successful novels and children’s stories behind him.

An early example of the flavour of Serguine’s writing is his description of the first spanking he ever administered to a woman. He was in love with, and living with, a girl called Michele but petty disputes had brought their relationship to the point of collapse:

I remember the occasion very well. Perhaps it was during the summer, I seem to recall that the streets were very empty and the occupants of the houses all away. We were in bed together, and Michele, who normally set up nudity as a sort of declaration of woman’s rights, was for once wearing quite a long night-dress. It was two or three o’clock in the morning. The night was hot, oppressive, then cold because we hungered and thirsted for that love from which we were fleeing yet again, and for the sleep that we repelled.

And then everything became, at any rate for a few moments, so obvious, so easy, and so simple. Michele in the bed, was on my right side, and although in the gloom I could not see her body very distinctly, I knew where it was. I slid my right arm under Michele’s back and raised her, setting her upright, at the same time drawing her to me and bending her, really more over my stomach and thighs than across my knees.

Then I raised Michele’s long night dress, nearly as far as her waist, and, her little behind innocent and offered up to me in the semi darkness, set about applying to it a resounding spanking. At first rather uncertain of the degree of force, even of the rhythm that I should observe, I was soon swept up by a natural force and rhythm, without conscious calculation, as in physical games or the act of love.

I remember the too sudden, too violent onrush of feelings, of emotions, I thought of Michele’s voluntary helplessnes, of her nakedness, of my own brutality. I have never known just when Michele realised that I was going to give her and that she was going to receive a spanking.

Undoubtedly the first smack hurt her considerably, but she was still taken by surprise. Her little bottom seemed to contract instinctively, and perhaps she uttered a brief, stifled cry. Before I could stop to think I continued to spank her, and then Michele and her body accepted the spanking; her bottom relaxed, calm and passive under the rain of smarting slaps.

I took advantage of that acceptance to prolong and intensify the spanking. Her little behind in turn closed again, tightened and re-opened, in an almost involuntary and unconscious attempt to avoid, to escape me. Of course, it was at that moment that I myself was tempted to stop. But, in a paradoxical way, I believed that to do so would be proof, not only of weakness, but of egotism, as if I had substituted, and almost for myself alone, a different pleasure to that from which we were fleeing.

So I spanked Michele for several more minutes, even more forcefully, making her write, sigh, then begin to undulate gently and finally raise her charming bottom one last time, then let it settle, hot and relaxed, just as I for my part smacked her one last time, then stopped.

A further spanking of Michele takes place while the couple are sharing a house at the sea-side with various other people. Michele borrows his car one morning to go horse-riding and returns in a fit of the sulks, (“the car had resisted her, perhaps the horse also”) retiring to her bedroom and refusing to join the party for lunch.

I turned on my heel like the ghost of Frakenstein and advanced towards the bed. Michele undid the single button of her trousers, unzipping the zip-fastener, and, without my having said a word, rolled over on her stomach, enquiring in a voice muffled, but gay, or perhaps I should say resigned mad contented, if that was convenient. I opened my mouth to say ‘No’, then sat down on the side of the bed, took Michele under the arms and, without looking at me or raising her head, she herself helped me to put her, face down, across my thighs and my knees. In this position her marvellously round behind stood out unforgettably, harmonious and provocative.’

I never gave Michele so spectacular a spanking for her and for me. It seemed to me that I would never stop and Michele’s bottom clearly did not wish me ever to stop. At the end it had taken on the angry, velvety, and flaming colour of a raspberry in sunlight. For a while after that, Michele and me, we had been happy.

I can feel that spanking in my hand even now.

This third extract is another highly evocative account of a spanking that he gave to his wife after she had wearied and exasperated him:

Seated, I survey her from top to bottom one last time. Thus, erect in front of me, clothed and blushing, she is so different from me, so very enclosed in her own world. I take her by the hand, and she furtively squeezes my fingers. I betray that last confidence, and abuse it by pulling her by the hand towards me. She yields, she bends, stoops, and lays herself face downwards across my knees and my thighs. She tries somehow to keep her balance, but I can see that what would torment me does not in the least discomfort her, secretly rather delights her; to have her head lower than all her body, her legs dangling awkwardly, to feel her arms cumbersome and useless. In that unnatural position she succeeds without apparent effort in remaining supple, relaxed, warm. and solid, . . . as if she was lying on a bed of roses.”

His wife is wearing a short silk skirt, carrying the brand name of a famous couturier. He recalls how he used to raise this skirt very gingerly, fearing to crumple and damage the expensive material, until his wife told him one day that a little sadistic indifference to such considerations added spice to the situation. So now:

“I seize the lower hem of the skirt in two places, and with uninhibited pleasure and indifference pull it up over my wife’s hips, almost to her waist. I seize in its turn the upper hem of the close-fitting little knickers and, doing my utmost not to touch the flesh, which would be a sign of complicity, a caress, lower them to the delicious crease of her thighs. I greatly dislike removing them completely, because they serve as a jewel-case, a picture-frame, and also because to slide them all the way to her feet, and pull them off, would be too long a journey, too distracting and diverting.

Thus, framed between the knickers and the other rumpled little coils of her skirt, her pale bottom seems offered up to me, tensely expectant, innocent and provocative, yet at the same time arrogant and perverse. I set myself then to spanking this submissive flesh, whose very submission provokes and defies me, reddening, yielding, always regaining its shape and its miraculous beauty under the injury of my blows.

Passing from one part to another of her delicious behind, from the top to the bottom, the right side to the left side. (truly the image, and the expression, cheek by cheek, have never been more appropriate). according as it crimsons so prettily, as it tenses or relaxes to escape or to offer itself, I spank my little shrew of a wife until, just as in making love, she shudders with pleasure, her little behind writhes uncontrollably, her sex, I can tell, it also is ready to overflow and melt, until, then, she accepts as one of the pinnacles of pleasure, even of bliss, the onset of tears, crying softly in a small voice.

And when she turns a little, deliberately, head on one side, I can see her eyes starry with contentment and mischief, and the slightly tremulous smile which, in her triumphant defeat, transfigures her. She is mine. I can leave her thus, hypocritically humiliated, and, unwearyingly admire my handiwork, with the same hypocritical modesty on my part, the same perverse pride with which the Caesars counted and contemplated their dead on the field of battle.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureSun, 22 Jul 2012 09:49:35 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11223,11223#msg-11223 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11223,11223#msg-11223Source: Hermione



Octavia, an obnoxious 26-year-old spoiled society beauty, is handled by a Welshman Gareth who is having as weekend break with her in the country. They are at a "country set" party and she is slightly drunk. She describes herself thus:

Upstairs in the bathroom, I hardly recognized myself. I looked like some Maenad, my hair tousled, my eyes glittering, my cheeks flushed. God, the dress was so beautiful. It was a short tunic in silver chain mail - the holes as big as half crowns - high necked in front, it swooped to positive indecency at the back. Two very inadequate circles of silver sequins covered my breasts. I didn't wear anything underneath except a pair of flesh-coloured pants, which gave the impression I wasn't wearing anything at all.

"Will you stop behaving like a whore!" he swore at me and, pulling me into the nearest bedroom, threw me on the bed and locked the door.

"Now I suppose you're going to treat me like a whore," I spat at him. "What will your precious Lorna say if she catches us here together?"

Suddenly I was frightened. There was murder in his eyes.

"It's about time someone taught you a lesson" he said, coming towards me. "And I'm afraid it's going to be me."

Before I realised it, Gareth had me across his knee. I've never known what living daylights were before, but he was certainly beating them out of me now. I started to scream and kick.

"Shut up," he said viciously. "No one can hear you". The record player was still booming downstairs. I struggled and tried to bite him but he was far too strong for me. It was not so much the pain as the ghastly indignity. It seemed to go on for ever and ever. Finally he tipped me on to the floor. I lay there trembling with fear.

"Get up," he said brusquely, "and get your things together. I'm taking you back to the boat."

She is sick, so he puts her to bed. Later:

"I'm sorry," I said, rolling my head back and forth on the pillow "I'm so terribly sorry". In a flash I saw him as the father, strict, yet loving and caring, that all my life I'd missed; someone to say stop when I went too far, someone to mind if I behaved badly, to be proud if I behaved well.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureWed, 21 Nov 2012 21:11:16 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11068,11068#msg-11068 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,11068,11068#msg-11068Wheel of Time.
I intend to read all of it and probably in a row, since I like the first book quite a lot.

So step by step I will supply all the spanking threats / scenes / whatever whenever I stumble upon one.

Book One, The Eye of the World (Page 554 Kindle Edition)

One of the protagonists, Rand, climbs on a tree ad then falls down. He lands in a garden and is taken care of by a young man and a girl. Later it turns out, they are the prince (Gawyn) and the princess (Elayne) and the garden the Royal Garden.

Rand looked at Gawyn. "Does she always expect everybody to do what she tells them?"
A flash of surprise crossed the young man's face, and his mouth tightened with amusement. "Most of the time she does. And most of the time they do."
[...]
"Most of the time they do exactly what she says," Gawyn went on with an affectionate grin at the top of her head.
"Most people. Not mother, of course. Or Elaida. And not Lini. Lini was her nurse. You can't orders to someone who switched you for stealing figs when you were little. And even not so little."
Elayne raised her head long enough to give him a dangerous look. He cleared his throat and carefully blanked his expression before hurrying on. "And Gareth, of course. No one gives orders to Gareth."


Soon after that Rand realizes who they are. Before he can exit, he is arrested and taken to the Queen.
The princess tries to convince her mother that he is harmless, but her mother is angry because they were in the garden despite an order not to do so.

"Mother," Elyane protested, "I do mean to obey. Truly I do."
"You do?" Morgase asked in mock surprise, then chuckled. "Yes, you do try to be a dutiful daughter. But you constantly test how far you may go. I did the same with my mother. That spirit will stand you in good stead when you ascend to the throne, but you are not Queen yet, child.
You have disobeyed me and had your look at Logaine. Be satisfied with that. On the journey north
you will not be allowed within one hundred paces of him, neither you nor Gawyn. If I did not know how hard your lessons will be in Tar Valon, I would send Lini along to see that you obey. She, at least, seems able to make you do as you must."
Elayne bowed her head sullenly.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureSun, 05 May 2013 13:41:52 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,10778,10778#msg-10778 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,10778,10778#msg-10778Source: Zille

In the story so far, a young lady named Edith is in an abbey for education and preparation for her marriage. The Abbess, her aunt and the Mother Abbess Christina. Christina wants Edith to make the choice to stay and become a nun, despite her father’s orders that Edith is to be married and is not there to take orders. Edith, for her part, is very much on her father’s side….

“Did I or did I not, yesterday, order you to put on the veil?”

Mutinous silence.

“Did I?” said Christina dangerously.

“Yes. Mother Abbess.” Edith muttered.

“And what did I say would happen to you if you persisted in arguing with me?”

Edith made herself look up again. “It will make no difference. I cannot wear the veil. Because of what my father said.”

“Because you are hard of heart, impious, unable to recognize a magnificent opportunity when it is put before you. I will give you one more chance, Edith. Go to your dorter and fetch the veil I gave you. Put it on. Then we will say no more about this foolish fit of defiance.”

Edith stared at her feet again and neither moved or answered.

“Very well, said Christina, and shot out a hand to grasp Edith’s arm. She was only in her forties, but her fingers looked as if they belonged to a woman much older. They were, however, extremely strong. “Come with me,” said Christina.

The other girls, who had drawn back, sorry for Edith but too frightened to speak in her defence, followed slowly, in an awed cluster, exchanging a few whispers. In the abbey building, they gathered at the foot of the dorter, up which Christina had dragged her victim.

They could hear it all. The most heart-rending part was they they heard the whistle of Christina’s cane for so long before Edith shrieked. They turned to scatter as their abbess stormed down again, but she saw them and and spoke sharply, calling them back. “None of you are to go to the dorter, or speak to her. She will come to the refectory, I hope, in a chastened state of mind and wearing her veil. You may speak to her then, but not to express sympathy. And those of you who are crying had better dry your tears. They’re wasted. She brought her troubles on herself.”]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 04 May 2012 19:19:31 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,10237,10237#msg-10237 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,10237,10237#msg-10237Source: Hermione

I had often been in establishments of the same sort in London, and also in Paris, Vienna and other cities on the continent, but I had never seen a better appointed drawing room than the one I was in.

In about five minutes time, Mrs. Leslie came into the room and greeted us as if we had been old friends, smilingly telling us to sit down and make ourselves comfortable. Then she sank down on one of the couches, displaying a pair of neat feet and ankles, cased in black stockings. I took a good look at the woman who had treated my pretty Frances so cruelly. She was by no means bad-looking; being a tall, dark-haired, well-preserved woman of about forty years of age; she had a buxom, but shapely,
figure; she was handsomely dressed, and she was quite lady-like, both in speech and manner.

After a little chat, Mrs. Leslie smiled, saying: "Well, I suppose you two gentlemen did not come here merely to talk to me. Would you like to meet my young ladies? None of them are engaged at the moment so you will be able to see them all."

...They were full of fun, and by no means shy, so we all got very merry, and there was a great deal of laughter, and no end of chaff; a little broad sometimes, but nothing indecent was said or done by any of us, just then. I began to enjoy myself thoroughly, as it was a long time since I had gone in for a spree of that sort. Ford also appeared to be very jolly. After a time, Mrs. Leslie beckoned us aside, and taking us to the end of the room out of earshot of the girls, said:

"Now, gentlemen; what would you like to do? Have either of you a particular fancy? We can give you plenty of variety in this house. You can go to bed with one or more girls if it pleases you to do so. If either of you is fond of the rod, I have a room fitted up with everything necessary, where you can tie up and strip any girl you fancy and give her a little birching; or if you prefer you can watch one girl being birched by another. Or would you prefer to see our Tableaux Vivants? I pride myself especially on them

"I can show you tableaux with scenery, and with the girls dressed in character; and I can show you some tableaux of statuary, with the girls naked; and I can also show you some very naughty tableaux."

Ford and I consulted together for a moment and then I said; "We should like to see a selection of tableaux; some of all sorts."

"So you shall. Are either of you fond of seeing the rod used?"

We both admitted that we had a liking for such a sight.

"Well then," she said, "I will show you two tableaux of whipping; then a couple of tableaux from mythological subjects; and finish up with two naughty tableaux."

Both of us were perfectly satisfied with the programme she offered, and we said so.

She then told us to take our seats on two easy-chairs which were placed a few feet distant from the curtains, and she added that we should have to wait a short time, as the scenery had to be set, and the girls dressed for the first two tableaux.

Then she made a sign to the girls, and went behind the curtain, followed by a whole troop of laughing damsels.

As we sat waiting for the entertainment to commence, we could hear the girls bustling about, chattering to each other in low tones, and occasionally laughing as they dressed themselves.

After about ten minutes, Mrs. Leslie called out, in a clear voice: "The first tableau will represent, 'The Birching of a Woman in Prison.'"

Immediately the curtains separated in the middle, drawn aside by unseen agency, and the tableau appeared, brilliantly lighted from above so that we could see the smallest details.

The scene showed a large, bare, prison cell with whitewashed walls, stone floor and grated window. In it were six figures, five 'men' and one woman, all attired in costume, and personating, respectively: the governor of the prison, the surgeon, a prison warder, two soldiers, and the lady. In the middle of the cell there was a long, curved, wooden structure, upon which the 'lady' was bound in a bent position, her feet resting on the floor. Her arms were stretched out on each side of the 'horse', her wrists were secured to rings; and her ankles were strapped together, and fastened to a bar at the lower part of the structure.

She was dressed in prison costume, consisting of a loose, blue serge frock, the skirt of which, as well as her petticoats and chemise, being rolled up to the middle of her back, and she had been divested of her stays and drawers. The 'lady' was a plump, shapely damsel with a fine big bottom, large thighs, and good legs cased in black stockings, which contrasted well with her white skin. At the left of the 'culprit' stood the 'warder' who was inflicting the punishment; a bearded 'man' wearing a uniform consisting of a dark green tunic, with trousers of the same colour tucked into long boots reaching to the knees, and a round flat cap with a peak.

'He' held high in the air a thick, bristly birch rod, which seemed just about to fall on the 'culprit's' bare bottom. At the other side stood the 'surgeon', a whiskered, moustachioed 'man', in a plain dark uniform, and beside him was the 'governor', with a fierce moustache, dressed in an imposing uniform, with medals on 'his' breast. A little to the rear of the horse stood the two 'soldiers', with cross-belts and side arms. The 'culprit's' bottom had been most skilfully made up, so that the whole surface of the skin, from the loins to the upper part of the thighs, appeared crimson and striped all over with long livid weals, spotted with blood which also appeared to be trickling down the 'culprit's' white thighs. She had her head turned to one side, and she was glaring with eyes full of intense horror at the uplifted rod; her face was scarlet and distorted with pain; her mouth was wide open, with the lips drawn back from the teeth, as if she were screaming loudly; and the tears appeared to be streaming down her cheeks.

The whole scene appeared so intensely real that I actually waited, holding my breath, for the rod to fall once more upon the bleeding bottom and to hear the victim shriek. Since that time I have seen many 'Living Pictures' but I have never seen one better done.

In another moment the curtains were drawn, shutting out the scene. Ford and I applauded vigorously, clapping our hands and crying out: "Brava! Brava! Well done! Very well done!" Then, turning to me, my companion whispered: "It was splendid! The illusion was perfect. I have never seen anything to equal it, in Paris or Vienna."

After a rather long interval, Mrs. Leslie announced:

"The next tableau will represent punishment inflicted in a boarding-school for young ladies." The curtains were parted and we saw that the recess was now fitted up as a school-room with desks, benches, a blackboard, globes, and maps on the walls. In this tableau there were ten figures; seven of them dressed as schoolgirls, in short frocks and with their long hair flowing loose over their shoulders, were sitting on high forms, so that we could see their pretty legs, cased in silk stockings of various colours; and in two or three cases where the petticoats happened to be very short, we caught glimpses of the lace frills on the girls' drawers.

In the middle of the 'school-room', stood a stalwart young woman, who was evidently one of the servants of the establishment, in her ordinary attire, consisting of a black frock, with white apron, collar and cuffs.

She was bending forward, 'horsing' in the orthodox position one of the younger of the girls, named Ethel. The skirt of her short frock, and her dainty little petticoats were pinned up to her shoulders and her pretty lace-trimmed drawers were hanging down around her knees. She had a most lovely little bottom with round, firm-looking, plump cheeks and her delicate skin was as white as snow, except where it had been cleverly made up with pink streaks, and small red dots, representing the ravages made by the rod.

Her thighs were fairly well developed and her small but shapely legs were clad in long, brown silk stockings, gartered with bows of black satin; and she was wearing neat, buttoned boots on her little feet.

The 'schoolmistress' in a grey wig, and with spectacles, was personated by Mrs. Leslie, who held over the girl's delicious bottom, a long slender birch rod, prettily ornamented with blue ribbons.

Young Ethel played her part well. She was looking over her shoulder, her face was red, she appeared to be crying loudly in pain, and her eyes were fixed with an appealing glance on the stern 'schoolmistress'.

The other 'schoolgirls' were looking on at the punishment with various expressions on their faces, some appearing to be rather amused at the sight; others appeared indifferent; and others were looking very much frightened. The girls had been well drilled in their parts. This tableau, like the preceding one, looked wonderfully real, and it was also most fetching to Ford and myself ; as we were both lovers of the rod we did not stint our applause when the curtains closed over the picture.

Then Ford said to me, with a chuckle: "What a beautiful white, chubby bottom that little girl has! I wish we could see her being birched in reality!"

"So do I. But if I had my choice, I would rather spank her smartly across my knees. I think that way of whipping a young girl gives a man the greatest pleasure," I observed.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 30 Nov 2012 07:38:37 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,10207,10207#msg-10207 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,10207,10207#msg-10207Logan is a gruff, Wild West bank robber. Caroline Kilpatrick is the feisty woman who loves him. The couple argue, and Caroline reveals a secret past which causes Logan great anguish. He walks out on her.

Caroline scrambled after him. "But-what about me? What should I do?"

He stopped, glanced over his shoulder. "Honestly, Caroline, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what you do."

He saw her jaw drop before he turned away. "Excuse me? What did you say?"

"You heard me."

He took one step away, then two. A part of him expected to hear her screech or protest. Another smaller portion thought she might run after him and beg.

Nothing-’not even his sixth sense-’gave him warning of the clay pot that hit him square between the shoulders and came damn close to knocking him down. What the hell? Glancing down, he spied the head of a red geranium propped atop his left shoulder. He slowly turned around.

Caroline stood in the street, mayhem in her eyes, her chest heaving, her complexion almost as red as the flower she’d whacked him with. Heedless of the pedestrians around them who stopped and stared, she snapped, "You can walk away from me, Logan Grey. You can ignore me. You can divorce me, for that matter. But I’ll be hanged if you’re going to talk to me like I’m cow dung on the bottom of your boot."

"You throw something at me again, woman, and I’ll put you over my knee and tan your hide."

"Try it. Go ahead. Just try it."]]> leelbelu Spanking in LiteratureTue, 06 Mar 2012 20:08:28 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,9996,9996#msg-9996 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,9996,9996#msg-9996Source: Hermione



The story of Johann, a man of advanced age who has his brain transplanted into the body of his young, voluptuous secretary after she dies in an accident. The old man lives again in the young body, but the mind of Eunice, the owner of that body, is still in residence. In this passage, Johann (now known as Joan, but oddly referred to as Eunice below) is getting to know her lawyer in a new way. The text in parentheses is the inner conversation between the two inhabitants of Eunice's body.

He stepped to the wall and squeezed down the intercom to zero, then said gently, “Get dressed, dear.”

“I won’t! If we leave now, you’ll have to stuff me into the car bare naked.”

He sighed and picked her up; she stopped crying and looked suddenly happy.

The expression did not last. He turned her in his arms as he sat down on a straight chair, got a firm grip on her, and walloped her right buttock. She yelped. And struggled.

He got her more firmly, placing his right leg over both of hers, and applied his hand smartly to her left cheek. Then he alternated sides, stopping with ten. He set her on her feet and said, “Get dressed, dear. Quickly.”

She stopped rubbing the punished area. “Yes, Jake.”

Neither said another word until he had handed her into the car, climbed in after her, and they had been locked in. Then she said timidly, “Jake? Will you hold me?”

“Certainly, darling.”

“May I take my robe off, please? Will you take it off me?”

With the robe out of the way she sighed and snuggled in. After a bit she whispered, “Jake darling? Why did you spank me?”

It was his turn to sigh. “You were being difficult…and it is the only thing I know of which will do a woman any good when a man can’t do for her what she needs. And right then—I couldn’t.”

“I see. I think I do.”

She remained quiet for a while, enjoying his arms around her and breathing against his chest. Then she said, “Dear? Did you ever spank Eunice?”

“Once.”

“For the same reason?”

“Not quite. Well, somewhat. She teased me into it.” (I tickled him, dear. And got the surprise of my life.)

“Then I’m glad you spanked me, too. But I’ll try not to tease you—though I’ll never be the angel she was.” (Fallen angel, Boss. And enjoyed it all, clear down to the Pit.)

“Jake?”

“Yes, Eunice?”

“I didn’t really mind being spanked by you. Even when I was crying. But—well, I’m padded now—built to take a spanking. And when you are spanking me, you aren’t ignoring me—and any attention is better than none. And besides—" she hesitated.

“Besides what, Eunice?”

“Well, I don’t know—but I think it happened.”

“What happened?”

“Female orgasm. Well, maybe. I don’t know what one is supposed to feel like. But while I was crying and hurting; you have a heavy hand, sir—suddenly I felt very warm inside and something seemed to grow and explode—that’s the best I can describe it. And I was ecstatically happy and didn’t mind the last few wallops, hardly noticed them. Was that a female orgasm?”

“How would I know, dearest? Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me. Later.”

“Later tonight?”

“Uh, I think not, Eunice. It’s late and we have had nothing to eat and I’m tired even if you aren’t—”

“I am, rather. But happy.”

“So tonight we’ll rest. When it does happen—and I’m no longer fighting it—let’s make the first time absolutely private and quiet. No phones and no servants and no distractions. After that—well, it might be target-of-opportunity. But I’m not a kid. You know what I mean, darling; you’ve been old, too.”

“Yes, dearest, much older than you are. Eunice can wait. Jake? What was this teasing Eunice did that was so bad it got her spanked?”

He suddenly grinned. “The little imp tickled me until I nearly went out of my mind. So I spanked her. But we were alone and that ended satisfactorily. Quite.”

“How?”

“How do you think? I excelled my usual mediocre performance, and Eunice—there aren’t words for it, but she excelled her utter perfection, impossible as that sounds.” (He darn near split me like a melon, twin—and I wanted him to!)

“So? Someday I will tickle you—and get spanked for it. So take your vitamins, dear. Jake, you enjoyed spanking me. Didn’t you?”

He was silent several moments. “I enjoyed it so much that I spanked you neither as hard nor as long as I wanted to. And I started feeling ‘young’ as you put it—but knew that, if I didn’t get you out of the house right then, you probably wouldn’t leave at all. And I don’t care to advertise to the servants.”

“You had better marry me. So we can ignore the servants.”

“You had better shut up. You’re still learning to be a girl, and I’m still learning how to handle you. You’re Eunice—but you aren’t Eunice. And we must clear legal matters before we talk about such things.”

“Old mean. Girl beater. Sadist. Hold me tight.”]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 12 Oct 2012 04:36:17 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,9351,9351#msg-9351 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,9351,9351#msg-9351Source: SpankStatement

Maizie grabbed on to me as we stepped in, and then down we went on hands and knees and started crawling, being tumbled over every now and then by the twist of the drum.

Next I knew we were cluttered up with about a dozen more folks who were sprawling helplessly in a pile midway through the barrel.

They weren’t even trying to crawl out, just rolling here and there and laughing like a bunch of hyenas.

Someone suddenly rolled on top of me, and I got an eyeful of slim. straight legs and sheer stockings. I also got an eyeful of the slave anklet! I grabbed her leg and steadied her.

She sat up and crawled against the roll of the barrel. She was looking red and flushed, and she’d been laughing. When she lamped who had hold of her gam she stopped laughing and looked – but this time she didn’t look scared as she first had – this time she looked at me, and she looked CURIOUS!

I said” “Havin’ fun, sister?”

The barrel twisted again and over she went. I grabbed hold of her leg and hauled her upright. I didn’t take my hand away.

The flesh was warm and smooth under the stocking –

She said: ‘Let go of my leg, please!”

“Why, what’s the matter? I’m just trying to help –”

“Let go of my leg!”

“Now take it easy -”

She swung a neat right; her open palm crashed against my cheek. The barrel turned, rolled her over onto her stomach so that she lay across my knees and her back was reared up in my face almost.


I was mad from that slap. I don’t take a slapping around from anybody, most especially a dame. I took advantage of the her position to plant three hefty clouts on her panties, and I heard her yelp as they landed.

The turning of the barrel had tossed us closer to the entrance now. I scrambled out, and she scrambled out just after me, adjusting her skirts.

One of the pansyfied looking guys who’d been with her party was standing waiting for me. He was red in the face.

“I saw what happened!” I saw you molest her – “

I growled: Button your lip and make yourself scarce!”

The girl said: “Come on, Ronnie – we don’t want to get mixed up with any thugs!”

I said “Lady, you talk big. If you’re looking for another slap on the stern you’re looking in the right direction.”

The fair haired guy stepped up to me and hissed, face red, voice trembling with anger – or maybe nervousness – “You lay a finger on her again, you hooligan and I’ll—”

****

The next day:

I apologise. Can I say more?”

Old Kenyon yammered a bit, then said: “That seems fair enough to me. What about it, Ronnie, my boy? Shake and be friends, eh?”

Ronnie snarled: “No. No, not a chance. You know what he did to Consuelo?”

“No,” said old Kenyon, with interest. “What?”

“He slapped her–hard–on the–on the—

“Rump.” I supplied.

“He did?” exploded old Kenyon,

“Well I think that would do her the world –ahem! That is, er–hmmm.”

“And I won’t sit down at the card table with a ruffian like that!”

Old Kenyon looked genuinely upset. The guy was with his party and I was his guest too–he was in a jam. I solved it for him. I walked to the door and out. Old Kenyon hurried after me and caught me in the passage,

“You really did slap Connie?”

“I guess I did.”

“Hard?”

“As hell!”

He gripped my hand fervently. He said: “Son, I’ve been waiting to meet someone like you for a long time. Consuelo’s backside has been itching for a good stout slap for years now and I’ve never had the nerve to do it!“

I said: “I figured you said you worshipped your daughter?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I do - I think there isn’t anyone like her. But that doesn’t say I can’t see that she’s in need of a good old-fashioned spanking.”

I grinned: “That’s Okay, about the spanking But, I’m afraid the slaps she got from me weren’t exactly fatherly.”

“You like Connie?” he asked keenly.

“I’m admitting it. She’s class. A credit to you.”

“Just so. In fact, you – you feel you could become quite attached to her?” Enough to want to – er – well, marry her?”

I stared at him. Here I was, virtually a stranger, and this old bum was suggesting marriage to me, with his only daughter!”

I said: “Maybe – I never thought about marriage.”

“I think you’re the kind of man she needs. One who’ll be able to handle her, control her. Knock that spoiled brat out of her system…”

“How about Connie’s feelings in the matter?”

He eyed me closely: “How about them?”

“I noticed she’d got a slave anklet on her ankle –”

He nodded, morosely. He said: “Ronnie gave her that.”

“You aren’t too keen on the idea?”

“Frankly, no. Ronnie’s a nice young man, typically useless, like most of his kind: drinks too much, pretties himself too much, and is full of high flown talk which gets him nowhere. He hasn’t the guts to do an honest job of work – I made my money the hard way – I think every young man should do the same. Don’t you?“

“I wouldn’t know. I’m still making mine.”

“The hard way?” he questioned.

“You wouldn’t know just how hard!”

He looked sly. He said: “Why not go and see Consuelo now?”

“She’d heave me out.”

“You could say you came to apologise – for what happened when you were high – last night.”

I looked at him; he looked at me. He said “I think you’d be able to knock a bit of sense into her eventually, maybe separate her from these useless friends of hers. How about it”"

I said: “Where is she?”

He pointed to a door along from us. He said: “In there – if she hasn’t gone out again.”

I knocked on that door like I meant it. Old Kenyon gave me an encouraging smile, and drifted back to his guests. I waited.

After a while a voice called: “Come in…”

I went in. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was halfway into an evening gown. It fell off her creamy shoulders, showing the pink silk straps of her brassiere.

When she saw me, she said: “Oh! I wasn’t expecting strangers. I thought it was Ronnie -” and pulled the gown up hastily, then fixed something at the neck strap, to hold it.

I got my eyes full of her, and I said” “I hope you won’t mind my busting in.”

“Not as long as you bust right out again.”

I came to square myself for last night.”

“How do you mean – square yourself?”

“For slapping your – for slapping you!”

She gazed at me coolly.

I said: “I’d drunk too much, I guess and…”

“I’m not interested. If you don’t leave of your own accord, I’ll have you thrown out!”

I said: “Yeah? Who’ll do that? Ronnie?”

Maybe that was a smile that flickered in her eyes then. “They have a bouncer here, I think. Or the equivalent of one.”

I sat down on a comfortable chair. I said: “Go ahead and ring for him, then.”

Her hand went out towards the bell. Then she paused. She said:

“How do you happen to know father?”

“Casual acquaintance, that’s all.”

“Really?…you met him here?”

“You’ve got it.”

Sh looked thoughtful. She said: “You were with a girl last night – a young girl.”

“Sure. My little niece.”

Her hand moved away from the bell. I said; “I thought you were going to ring that?”

“I’ve changed my mind. You can make your apology and go. I don’t want to cause any trouble, if father likes your company.”

I said: “Now look sister -” I got up and went over to her, and she didn’t move, only her eyes, following me until I was stood totally above her. I repeated: “Look – I’m no sap like your tame lap dog Ronnie – maybe I did get rough with you. Maybe I got fresh with you, also. But what the hell. Who do you think you are, anyway? Eh? You’re no better than I am, maybe not so good! You’re no different than a thousand other dames in town! Get wise – you don’t wear any jewelled coronets, and even if you did it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’d still have slapped you!”

She said: “Is that an apology?”

“Nope. A statement of fact. And the only reason I’m going to give to a snooty dame like you, as to why I slapped you. Furthermore, if you hand me any more great lady lines, I’ll turn you right over and slap you again – a real paddling this time!”

She got up at that. She hissed: “You wouldn’t DARE…”

“Wouldn’t I? It may interest you to learn I’ve got your pop’s permission to slap you as hard and often as I wanta! Chew on that and spit the pips out!”

“Dad – dad said that? she asked, shaken.

“Ask him, if you don’t believe me. He thinks it’d do you a power of good. And so it would.”

She suddenly gave me a shove which sent me staggering. She snapped: “Get out of here – I hate the very sight of you! You overbearing, egotistical –”

That was enough. I didn’t quite know what she was calling me but I knew it wasn’t nice. My temper came up again, and in a flat second she was over my knee, kicking and jerking, yelling:

“Set me down – you brute…you pig…let go!”

I paddled her and her gown worked up into a most unladylike position. She fought free, a writhing mass of curves, and I felt my blood rising. She came at me to claw my face.

I got both arms round her waist, forcing her hands behind her. I pulled her tight towards me and kissed her –

She fought like a demon for about ten seconds – then she went limp in my arms.

I figured she’d fainted for a moment. I released her hands and suddenly her arms went round my neck, she hauled my face down to hers again; and pressed her soft, red lips on mine…!

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she murmured in my ear. “I mustn’t have any will power, where you’re concerned…”

I said: “It goes double, baby.”

After a few minutes we sat down on the side of the bed, our arms still round each other. She said: “What’s come over me? I can’t help myself.”

I didn’t offer to answer. She smiled, kissed me again. She said:

“Can you feel the same thing yourself –”

“The name’s Rex, Con,” I told her.

“Rex,” she murmured softly. “I like it. I like you. I’m rather glad father likes you.”

She swung her long, shapely legs from the floor and put them across my knees. I caressed a length of nylon.

She shrugged, said: “Perhaps it’s what they call a sudden, mad infatuation. Would that be what’s happened to us?”

“It may just have happened to you, baby,” I told her. “But it happened to me last night - when I first set eyes on you!” She said: “Did it, Rex? What first made you notice me?”

I pointed down to the slave anklet. I said: “That. Who got the key? Ronnie, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes.”

“Like the guy?”

She hesitated; then: “N-not now!”

The anklet wasn’t strong. I got my fingers twined in it. I said: “Then you won’t need it any longer huh?” and I snapped it clean in two and flung it towards the window. Blood trickled from her ankle where the chain had cut – and she kissed me again.”]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 02 Dec 2011 16:07:23 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,9235,9235#msg-9235 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,9235,9235#msg-9235Hermione

That Eye, the Sky by Tim Winton is a moving coming of age story told by Ort, an adolescent boy living in the Australian outback. Ort lives with his parents, grandmother, and older sister Tegwyn, and after his father has an accident and remains in a coma, a mysterious stranger called Henry Warburton arrives. Henry, who is an itinerant preacher, becomes part of the family, and the women of the house are drawn to him in different ways. Ort watches them.

Tegwyn and Henry Warburton are arguing again. They fight all the time in her room; he uses all the big words on her like salvation and sanctification and she yells at him and tells him to go stuff his head up Margaret's bum.

Later I come out after scrubbing potatoes for Mum, and I see Tegwyn throw a potful of tealeaves all over Henry Warburton, on his face, in his hair - everything. He picks her up and puts her over the rail of the steps and smacks her. Her dress is all up over her head and her knickers are black and he smacks her and smacks her until she screams and bawls.

After tea I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth to get out all the bits of meat and there's Henry Warburton bleeding into the sink. Blood's all coming out his nose and it runs all over his chin and into the white sink. He looks at me in the mirror.

"Not a word."

I go out.

[...]

In the night I wake up.

I get up and go into the hall. I look in on Tegwyn and her and him are biting each other and hitting each other, with his hairy bum up and her making hate noises at him and the bed squealing.]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureSat, 19 Nov 2011 10:53:15 +0100 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8981,8981#msg-8981 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8981,8981#msg-8981

Source: Spank Statement

He closed his eyes, and gave a great sigh, and then suddenly his head twisted to one side and I knew he was dead. I yelled. I was mad as hell that she hadn’t been around to take care of that bloody phlegm, because he must have been spitting it up for a long time.

“Nurse, Goddamnit, get your ass in here!”

I heard footsteps down the hallway, and then in came the auburn-haired broad who’d let me in at the front door. She had an angry look on her face, and her hazel eyes were flashing. What did you say to me she snapped, and she raised her hand to slap my face.

I said to get your Goddamned ass in here I snarled. My father’s dead. And he’s been spitting a lot of blood and it looks as if he’d been doing it for a long time. What the hell have you been doing today, besides parading around in that fancy uniform and acting like a Picasso painting on display?”

“How dare you!” And then she did slap me.

I saw red. I never was much of a gentleman, and the frustrations of the last five years seemed to burst inside of me as I grabbed hold of her slapping wrist, twisted it behind her back, and fastwalked her over to a low couch by the door, my right knee banging her bottom along the way while she yowled and threatened to have the police on me.

I sat down on the bench, I flung her over my lap, I hoisted up the white antiseptic skirt and the whiter slip underneath it, and there was a bottom ideally made for spanking. Spacious, jouncy, sheathed with a white satin-elastic pantie girdle, and the tabs clung to her white stockings as if they loved her legs so much they’d never let go.

“You stop that, or I’ll have you sent to jail for life, you filthy swine you! Who do you think you are to treat me this way?” she yelled at me, straining to get loose. I clamped my right leg over her calves,

I grabbed one of her wrists with my left hand, and I raised my right hand and I let her have the hardest spank she’d probably ever had in all her life, flattening down the plump right cheek of her behind and letting it spring up again. She let out a yowl that would have passed muster for a wildcat, and she tried to throw herself off my lap. I wasn’t having any. My hand rose and fell over her big backside with satisfying, noisy whacks until she stopped cursing and screaming and threatening me and began to sob and finally to yell, “Oh my God, you’re killing me, please stop it, stop it! For God’s sake, give me a chance to talk!”

I let up after about forty wallops, and I rudely shoved her onto the floor. She fell on all fours like a cat, and she shook her head several times as if dazed, and the tears were streaming down her face, and then she put one hand back to her bottom and began to massage it carefully, while she looked back at me and sobbed,

“You big overgrown bastard, you bully you! I’ve only been here an hour because Miss Tolson, the regular nurse, got sick and Doctor Franklin had to get a substitute in a hurry, and I was just going out of town on my vacation. And this is the thanks I get.”

The anger was all out of me now and I sat there dully, and I stared over at my dead father, and then back at this auburn-haired cutie, and then suddenly I began to laugh my fool head off. What a hell of a homecoming it was after five years! Yes, I had sure made some headway all on my own in San Francisco. I’d learned how to forget my almost virginal shyness towards women and take a strange broad over my lap and blister her bottom black and blue at first meeting. I wasn’t sure that was the kind of social grace that would be acceptable in Fresno. But at least it showed that I had Venturi blood in me, and I think maybe my father, wherever he was now at this moment, was probably laughing too and calling me a bastard in that inimitable way of his and thinking that maybe after all I could make the grade.

All the time I was laughing, this auburn-haired nurse whose behind I had just walloped crouched on her knees with her left palm on the floor and her right hand still rubbing her burning seat, her eyes very wide and her mouth gaping, as if she had just recognized a lunatic. I couldn’t really blame her. Here my father had just died, I had given up my job and everything else in San Francisco, and then without showing any respect for the dead at all, I’d grabbed the poor girl and given her a fantailing she hadn’t really deserved at all.

I said, just put it on the bill. If I made a mistake, I’m sorry as hell. And I won’t give you any alibi that because my old man just took off for the stars, I lost my head. You can call me whatever you want, you can call the cops and prefer charges against me if you want to. Then I grinned, some of my old devil-may-care arrogance coming back. But I’ll say one thing, whatever I have to pay for spanking your gorgeous butt, it’ll be worth it. She had got up now, and she was still rubbing her bottom, and then she shook her head and began to giggle even through her tears.

“If that doesn’t beat all;” she finally managed. “I thought your father was a regular heller, and I was only here a few hours, and now this. You know, I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down for at least a week. And my job’s over now anyhow, and here I was going on my vacation.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee in the kitchen, since you won’t be sitting down for a while anyhow, and talk it over.”]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureSat, 29 Oct 2011 08:07:04 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8463,8463#msg-8463 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8463,8463#msg-8463
Emanuele]]> Emanuele Spanking in LiteratureSat, 10 Sep 2011 04:27:23 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8206,8206#msg-8206 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8206,8206#msg-8206In this 1955 novel British professor Alan Calder arrives on Mykonos to search for a sunken ancient Greek galley. He is helped by a lovely young Greek girl, Pero Loustos, daughter of a local hotel owner. She accompanies him on his dives, but he concludes she has deliberately misled him:

As they came inboard she came up the ladder and sprawled over the bulwarks. Calder bent down, grasped her firmly by the left shoulder. The blue bathing costume fitted with a delicate and expensive neatness round her waist. The gap between it and the brassiere was an even, smoothly-moulded expanse of golden skin. The silk of the bathing costume spread beyond it and enlarged, with the flow and movement of the conception of a great sculptor, into two perfect hemispheres, and the flat of Calder's hand landed on their perfection with something of the surprise and shock of the clash of the misereres as they fall in tenebrae.

Pero gave one amazed and injured wail, and the hand came down again. Calder's grip on her shoulder was extraordinarily strong. Again and again his hand came down. Only once his missed the target and three red finger weals showed where the golden skin began again beneath the blue....

With a final tremendous slap Calder came to the conclusion that his own hand was hurting too much now. He dumped her down on her heels in front of him. "Now will you behave yourself?" he said, not loudly but with quite incredible power of command in his voice. She took one horrified look at him and buried her face against the hair of his bare chest.

In 1957 the novel was adapted for the cinema, with Sophia Loren playing Pero. Alas, the spanking scene was omitted.]]> PhilK Spanking in LiteratureSat, 06 Aug 2011 16:01:14 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8205,8205#msg-8205 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8205,8205#msg-8205A few extra excerpts to supplement Chross's post. The author dedicated her novel "to all my readers in Australia who have asked for a story with a 'real caveman hero'."

Our heroine is Betsy Morrison, a pretty, spoilt young redhead of 18, about to leave school and join her widowed father in Uganda. Her wise headmistress, Miss Grayson, muses to a colleague:

"There is no real vice in the child - it's sheer naughtiness and can quite easily be cured. What she needs is a thoroughly nice husband who loves her as she deserves to be loved, and yet has the good sense to keep his slipper handy and use it when she becomes obstreperous! A few good spankings would tame her in no time, and she would probably quite enjoy it so long as he remembered to kiss her just as soundly afterwards!"

Arriving in Uganda, after a shipboard romance with an older man, Betsy meets Max Davenport, her father's 24-year-old assistant, tall and very good-looking. Since he doesn't pay immediate homage to her, she finds him intolerably conceited and plays tricks on him. He catches her putting a lizard in his bed.

"Next time I catch you, you will be treated as you should have been treated long ago - with the sole of my slipper applied good and hard in the proper place! And don't think for a moment that I'm bluffing!"

Her father refuses to interfere:

"It is not a bit of use protesting to me if, one of these days, he gives you the spanking that you deserve and that, if I did my duty as a father, you should have had long ago!"

There follows the scene in Chross's post - after which, of course, Max proposes:

"You're a spoilt, naughty, disobedient brat, but for some reason I happen to love you a great deal.... As I have shown you tonight, I mean to be head of the house, and the slipper will find good and constant use as long as you are Betsy...! I dare say you will resent it; I dare say you will hate me every time I have to put you across my knee, but - well, you'll just have to hate, Betsy, because that's where you're going, every time you deserve it.... I promise here and now never to sulk, or look hurt, or read you long lectures.... But no amount of tears, pouts or pleas will prevent you from being well and truly spanked if you deserve it, just as you shall never be spanked unless you are yourself convinced that it's necessary."]]> PhilK Spanking in LiteratureSat, 06 Aug 2011 15:43:33 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8202,8202#msg-8202 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8202,8202#msg-8202In this 1971 erotic thriller a group of high-powered men and women spend two weeks in a luxury hotel on a management course. Various amorous entanglements ensue. One of the senior executives, the stylish Clare Fazackerly, recalls how she was spanked by an electrical engineer whom she called in on a trivial pretext and treated with offhand contempt:

"You want your bottom tanning, missis."

In a second her wrist had been grasped and she was dragged to the foot of the stairs, where he sat down and pulled her across his knees. There was a sharp sting as his hand smacked her and she yelped. He said, "I told you I'd tan it and I will."

She struggled, beating her fists at his leg, but his left hand held her down while his right administered the spanking. It was painful now, but she was damned if she'd beg him to stop; instead she changed her tactics, searching the muscular calf for the pressure points. When she found one and dug in her fingers he yelped with pain. "Right, you minx," he said. "More you fight the more you'll get." The next blow was harder, the sting sharper; her skirt must have ridden up. He smacked again; his hand was like a bat and her skin smarted. "You swine," she gasped furiously as he laughed, then smacked her again.

"I'm enjoying this," he said.

She felt the elastic moving across her hips and buttocks and then a tremendous smack on her skin.

He said, "I can see my fingerprints...."

[Finally he makes her apologise.]

He released her. "You can get up." And when she didn't, another smack that was lighter. "Come on. You can get up."

Then a pause when she didn't and at the end of the pause his hands came to her again and his voice, infinitely knowing, said, "I see."

Since then there had been others, how many she preferred not to think. but they had in common that they were big men with an air of strength and ruthlessness....]]> PhilK Spanking in LiteratureFri, 12 Oct 2012 04:37:56 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8001,8001#msg-8001 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,8001,8001#msg-8001Source

Becky stood there, breath shuddering, adrenalin flowing for three uncomprehending seconds until he said, "Bend over."

And the conflagration started again, her mind racing ahead of her actions, picturing how she'd look to him, her hands braced on her bed, her rear thrust back in a purely submissive pose...

Subtle pressure bent her over. She caught her weight on her hands, feeling awkward and vulnerable and as turned on as she'd ever been...

"I've been thinking about this since morning."

It was a struggle to find her voice. "What exactly is 'this'?"

His shadow fell over her as he stood, making her vividly aware of his size, the need to dominate he'd always kept in check for her. The need she'd asked him to let loose. His hands on the waistband of her sweatpants were cold. She jumped. Her pants and underwear followed the shiver as it snaked down to her toes. "Your ass."

Which told her nothing and suggested everything.

The snap of his fingers against her right cheek had her jumping again. "Push back."

She did.

Another tiny slap, this one so soft it seemed to absorb the sting of the other. In the aftermath, his palm lingered. "You liked that?"

There was no way she could deny it, even if every liberated bone in her body demanded that she do so. Those betraying goosebumps were at it again, telegraphing her delight.

...

She braced her arms on the bed, pushing back further. It wasn't enough. She wanted more... She wanted him to claim her in a totally primitive way that went far deeper than any woman would consider politically correct... She wiggled her hips. A smart sting on her right cheek halted the movement. "Stay still and take it."

Oh God! She bit her lip as the sting melded with the heat burning her from the inside out, feeding it. How had he known? In her dreams he had said things like that to her, did things like that to her, but she'd never told him, never written it down. How had he known this part of her fantasy she'd never dared to confess?

...

"Come for me."

Low, deep and intent, the order didn't leave her any choice. On the next slap she did, bucking and arching her hips for more of whatever he wanted to give her, open to the pleasure, the pain or a combination of the two. Just open...

...

"Take off your clothes," he instructed quietly. "And then climb into bed and close your eyes]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 22 Jul 2011 08:22:37 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,7760,7760#msg-7760 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,7760,7760#msg-7760Source: SpankStatement



There was far too little of the gown and a great deal too much of Miranda.

“You’re a blame disgrace!” barked Cromwell, “Ain’t you got no shame?”

He advanced on her, with arm upraised. She took a pace backward, adopted a dramatic stance, and cried:

“Do not strike me, Father! I am no longer a child. I am a woman!

You want to bet?” roared Cromwell.

He seized one bare arm, flopped into a chair and threw her face downward across his knees. His broad hand rose and fell with rhythmic precision, against the tightly swathed posterior of his wayward offspring. She shrieked and pounded the floor with her clenched fists.

Upstairs a door slammed. Eva Cromwell, a thin, nervous-looking woman in the late forties, fluttered down the stairs attired in a yellow kimono and looking like a canary in startled flight. She flew into the corridor and entered her daughter’s bedroom, then uttered a shriek and clasped her hands to her flat breast.

“Edward!” she whooped. “You’ll kill the child!”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea that!” retorted Cromwell. rising to his full height and depositing the girl on her feet.

“Look at her! Look at your daughter…!”

“She’s your daughter, too” gasped Eva.

Cromwell scowled at Miranda, who had backed over to the mirror and was tenderly feeling at her smarting rump.

“What’ve you got to say for yourself?” he challenged.

“You’re a brute!” “she accused, jabbing a finger at him.

“Miranda Cromwell!” gasped Eva.

“It’s true!” said the girl, her breast stormy. “Only a brute would use his strength on a – - a defenceless woman…”

“How many times do we have to tell you?” moaned Eva, slumping onto the bed. “You are not a woman. You’re a mere child. You’re far too young to be stealing my dresses and — and powdering your face. Oh Edward — is this our child? What have we done?

“Don’t you start!” snapped Cromwell. “One addle-brained play-actress in a family is enough – without you takin’ on the same way!”

*****

Miranda decides to leave home, and, being a strong swimmer, hitches a lift downstream on a floating log.

Stretch remained on the sand, shading his eyes with a hand, following his partner’s progress. Larry was fast closing the distance between himself and the drifting log, and the girl sprawled atop it was now well aware of his approach. He gave her a yell of encouragement, begging her to hang on a moment longer, then struggled on. With a last strenuous effort, he drew level with the log and reached up to grasp at her waist.

“Get away from me!” gasped Miranda. “Leave me alone — leave me alone…!”

Larry Valentine nodded grimly. He had heard of shock before. He trod water and looked her over. She was astride the log, and except for the lower part of her jeans, her clothes appeared to be dry.

Again he reached up for her. She scowled at him and raised a small fist, threateningly. Then he made a grab for the log and hung on. Miranda gave out a shriek and pounded at his face. He stifled an oath, seized one of her wrists and tugged. With another shriek, she came free of her perch and splashed into the water. He held his grip on her wrist for a moment, then switched to a new grasp, crooking his left arm about her neck.

“I — know you’re loco-scared ma’am!” he panted. “But I’m gonna get you back to dry land!”

“Let me go –ulp!” spluttered Miranda.

The last word was caused by the fact that Larry was holding her head half-in and half-out of the water. He began striking out for her bank, mentally praying that she would not struggle. The thoughts of slamming her shapely chin with his bunched fist filled his soul with gloom. To Larry, it just didn’t seem right.

He need not have worried. Miranda was incapable of struggling. So firm was Larry’s grip on her neck that she could do little more than gasp for breath. By the time he reached the shallows and waded to the shore, carrying her across his shoulders, she was speechless. Gently, he laid her on the sand and bent her over her. Stretch, now fully dressed, joined him there and, in his helpful way, began fanning the girl’s face with his Stetson. Her eyelids flickered.

“She’s comin’ round!” whispered Stretch.

The brown eyes opened wide and flashed a baleful glare at a startled Larry Valentine. His alarm increased when she raised herself to a sitting position and swung a fist at his face missing his chin by a mere half-inch.

“Hey!” he gasped. “Take it easy, ma’am!” To Stretch he said, significantly. “Still crazy-scared-from bein’ near drowned.”

“Near drowned my eye!” blurred Miranda. “I was safe out there – safe and dry! Then you had to make a big hero of yourself and pull me in the water and get me all wet again – you – you big ox!”

“Hold hard, now,” remonstrated Stretch. “You ain’t bein polite – to a feller that’s just risked his life on your account…”

“Did I ask for help!” blared Miranda. “Why couldn’t he mind his own business?”

“That does it!” scowled Larry, rising to his feet. “I damn near drowned myself – draggin’ this maverick out of that river. Maybe she’s a mite loco from shock, but she needs a lesson – and the best lesson for her is another shock!”

“Let go off me!” shrieked Miranda.

It was no use. She was powerless in his grasp. In a swift double movement, he dropped to the sand, cross-legged, and hauled her across his knee. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Miranda Cromwell suffered the supreme indignity of an energetic paddling.

Strong as her father was, Larry Valentine was even stronger. His broad, hard palm attacked her nether region so forcefully that, after ten blows, the sharp pain had increased to a tingling numbness. Miranda screamed, Miranda shrieked threats, Miranda pleaded – but the Texan did not desist until his hand was aching.

“Lucky for you I was usin’ my gun-hand,” he growled, pushing her from him and getting to his feet, “else I’d never have let up!”]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 24 Jun 2011 14:36:22 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,7236,7236#msg-7236 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,7236,7236#msg-7236Hermione's Heart


"Did ye no promise to obey me?" he asked, shaking me gently.

"Yes, but--" but only because I had to, I was going to say, but he was already urging my horse's head around toward the thicket.

"It's verra dangerous, and I'll not have ye there, Claire. I shall be busy, and if it comes to it, I can't fight and protect you at the same time." Seeing my mutinous look, he dropped his hand to the saddlebag and began rummaging.

"What are you looking for?"

"Rope. If ye wilna do as I say, I shall tie ye to a tree until I come back."

"You wouldn't!"

"Aye, I would!" Plainly he meant it. I gave in with bad grace, and reluctantly reined in my horse...

"Oh, one more thing."

What's that?" I said sullenly.

"If you leave that copse before I come for ye, I'll tan your bare arse wi' my sword belt. Ye wouldna enjoy walking all the way to Bargrennan. Remember," he said, pinching my cheek gently, "I dinna make idle threats."

You won't be surprised to learn that as soon as Jamie is out of sight, Claire wanders off. She is captured by the English and taken to cruel Captain Randall to meet her fate. She makes herself at home in his office, rummages through his things, and writes a rude word on his desk blotter.

I was seated behind the desk, comb in hand, studying my reflection in the looking glass, when the Captain came in. He gave me a glance that took in my disheveled appearance, the rifled cupboard, and the disfigured blotter.

Without blinking, he drew up a chair and sat down across from me, lounging casually with one booted foot resting on the opposite knee. A riding crop dangled from one fine, aristocratic hand. I watched the braided tip, black and scarlet, as it swung slowly back and forth over the carpet.

"The idea has its attraction," he said, watching my eyes follow the sweep of the whip. "But I could probably think of something better, given a few moments to collect myself."

"I daresay you could," I said, fingering a thick sheaf of hair out of my eyes. "But you aren't allowed to flog women, are you?"

"Only under certain circumstances," he said politely. "Which your situation doesn't meet--yet. That's rather public, though. I thought we might get better acquainted in private, first."

[...]


I sank on the bed with a sigh... "I'm done in. It's been a long day."

"Aye, it has that." Jamie unfastened his collar and cuffs and unbuckled his sword belt, but made no move to undress further. He pulled the strap from the scabbard and doubled it, flexing the leather meditatively.

"Come to bed, Jamie. What are you waiting for?"

He came to stand by the bed, swinging the belt gently back and forth.

"Well, lass, I'm afraid we've a matter still to settle between us before we sleep tonight." I felt a sudden stab of apprehension.

"What is it?"

He didn't answer at once. Deliberately not sitting down on the bed by me, he pulled up a stool and sat facing me instead.

"Do ye realize, Claire," he said quietly, "that all of us came close to being killed this afternoon?"

I looked down at the quilt, shamefaced. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry."

...After a long moment of silence, he sighed and stood up, slapping the belt lightly against his thigh.

"Well, then," he said. "Best get on wi' it. You've done considerable damage by crossing my orders, and I'm going to punish you for it, Claire. Ye'll recall what I told ye when I left ye this morning?" I recalled all right, and I hastily flung myself across the bed so my back was pressed to the wall.

"What do you mean?"

"Ye know quite well what I mean," he said firmly. "Kneel down by the bed and lift your skirts, lass."

..."I will not allow you to beat me," I said firmly, keeping a tight hold of the bedpost."

"Oh, ye won't?" He raised a sandy brow. "Well, I'll tell ye, lass, I doubt you've much to say about it..."

"I'll scream!"

"Likely. If not before, certainly during. I expect they'll hear ye at the next farm; you've got a good set of lungs." He grinned odiously and came across the bed after me.

He pried my fingers loose with some difficulty, and pulled firmly, hauling me to the side of the bed. He managed to turn me facedown on the bed, twisting my arm to hold me there.

"I mean to do it, Claire! Now, if you'll cooperate with me, we'll call the account square with a dozen strokes."

"And if not?" I quavered. He picked up the strap and slapped it against his leg with a nasty thwapping sound.

"Then I shall put a knee in your back and beat you 'til my arm tires, and I warn ye, you'll tire of it long before I do."

"You barbarian! You...you sadist!" I hissed furiously. "You're doing this for your own pleasure! I'll never forgive you for this!" Jamie paused, twisting the belt.

He replied levelly, "I dinna know what's a sadist. And if I forgive you for this afternoon, I reckon you'll forgive me, too, as soon as ye can sit down again."

"As for my pleasure..." His lip twitched. "I said I would have to punish you. I did not say I wasn't going to enjoy it." He crooked a finger at me.

"Come here."
-----------------

I was reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the room next morning. I had not spoken to Jamie since the night before, but he noticed my hesitation and urged me to come out with him to breakfast.

"You dinna need to fear meetin' the others, Claire. They'll chaff ye a bit, but it won't be bad. Chin up."

He might well be in a good mood, I thought bitterly. If it was revenge he'd wanted the night before,

It had been a most unpleasant night. My reluctant acquiescence had lasted precisely as far as the first searing crack of leather on flesh. This was followed by a short, violent struggle, which left Jamie with a bloody nose, three lovely gouges down one cheek, and a deeply bitten wrist. Not surprisingly, it left me half-smothered into the greasy quilts with a knee in my back, being beaten within an inch of my life.

Jamie turned out to be right. The men were restrained in their greetings, but friendly enough. The hostility of the night before had vanished.

As I was dishing eggs at the sideboard, Dougal came up and slipped a fatherly arm around my shoulders.

"I hope Jamie wasna too harsh wi' ye last night, lass. It sounded as though ye were being murdered, at least."

Dougall turned to call to Jamie, seated at the table eating bread and cheese. "Hey, now, Jamie, it wasna necessary to half-kill the lass. A gentle reminder would ha' sufficed." He patted me firmly on the posterior in illustration, making me wince. I glowered at him.

"A blistered bum never did anyone no permanent harm," said Murtagh, through a mouthful of bread.

"No, indeed," said Ned, grinning. "Come have a seat, lassie."

"I'll stand, thank you," I said with dignity, making them all roar with laughter.
The group leaves the inn the next day and travels on horseback, and the journey is very uncomfortable for Claire's backside. She gets down and walks, and Jamie walks with her. Out of earshot of the others, they have a long talk and she comes to understand him better.

I began to forgive him for what he had done to me.

As though reading my mind, he said, not looking at me, "Do you know... I mean, can ye understand, maybe, why I thought it needful to beat you?"

I waited a moment before answering. I understood, all right, but that was not quite all there was to it.

"I understand," I said. "And so far as that goes, I forgive you. What I can't forgive," I said, my voice rising slightly in spite of myself, "is that you enjoyed it!"

He bent forward and laughed for a long time. He reveled in the release of tension before finally tossing his head back and turning to me. I could see his face, lined with exhaustion, strain, and mirth. The scratches down his cheek were black in the dim light.

"Enjoyed it!" he said, gasping, "you don't know just how much I enjoyed it. You were so... God, you looked lovely. I was so angry, and you fought me so fierce. I hated to hurt you, but I wanted to do it at the same time..." he said, breaking off and wiping his nose, "yes. Yes, I did enjoy it."]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureTue, 05 Jun 2012 00:45:34 +0200 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,7235,7235#msg-7235 http://chross.blogt.ch/forum/read.php?10,7235,7235#msg-7235Spank Statement

A 1940s romantic novel

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it!” she said, her voice gradually rising. “In the meantime, kindly keep it to yourself. You insufferable, conceited oaf! You stand there as calm and unmoved as if you were made of stone laughing at me! Well, I won’t be laughed at by anyone like you; and the sooner you realise, the better! I wonder if you’d still laugh if I were to throw this glass of water at you?”

Max did not move a muscle. He merely looked at her very steadily, his mouth set and his jaw firm.

“I shouldn’t make the experiment,” he said quietly. “I put up with a lot for your father’s sake. and because I realise that you have had a difficult childhood, but there are limits to my patience, and I will not stand much more of it. You are behaving like a spoilt, unreasonable baby, and…”

But he got no further, for the word “baby” had snapped the last remains of Betsy’s self-control. With a little cry she rose to her feet and threw the glass straight at this head. Luckily the glass itself missed him by a mere fraction of an inch, but his face received the full impact of the water, and he recoiled involuntarily, temporarily blinded, whilst the water made havoc of his dress shirt and trickled in cold, unpleasant rivulets down his neck. Betsy stared at him open-mouthed, half alarmed and half triumphant at the result of her action.

Her triumph vanished very quickly, however as, dashing his hand across his eyes, he came towards her. He no longer looked suave and amused: his face was set in lines of grim determination, and there was a look in his eyes that made Betsy feel as if an icy hand was clutching at her heart. She had achieved her original purpose of rousing him. but she was much too scared to feel any satisfaction.

“Very well,” he said, steely purpose in his tones ” you’ve asked for it often enough, and now you’re going to get it!”

Betsy realised his intention, and turned to escape, but he was too quick for her. His hand shot out and grasped her shoulder in a grip of iron, and before she had time to take in what was happening he had sunk on to the seat and she was lying face downwards across his knee.

“Max! Stop it!” she gasped, her voice shrill with fright and humiliation. “Please don’t! I will be good, really I will! Please, Max!”

But Max took no notice of her tearful pleas for mercy, nor of her frantic kicking and struggling, and screams of rage and terror. Holding her as in a vice with his left arm, he used his right hand with stinging effect – not viciously, and certainly not playfully, but as if she were a naughty child. Her frock was very thin, and his hand was very hard, and before long every shred of temper had deserted her, giving place to sobs of mingled pain and shame, whilst in her heart there dawned the beginning of a happiness that was as real as it was mysterious.

She was being hurt more than she had ever been hurt in her life before, but she knew that it was a punishment well deserved and long overdue, and besides – it was Max who was spanking her! He must care for her after all! This proved it in a way that was unconventional but quite beyond all doubt. Any man might kiss a girl – she had discovered that with Sigurd – but only one who loved her with all his heart would take the trouble to spank her if she deserved it!

“There!” Max was panting a little as, at long last, he released her and dumped her on to the seat beside him. “Perhaps that has taught you a lesson!”

But. despite the severity of words, his face was white and curiously gentle as he looked at the abject, tear-drenched little figure beside him; and Betsy, looking at him shyly, knew that her supposition was correct. she was aware of profound gratitude and gladness that at last – although certainly not in the way that she had expected! – her great wish had come true. There was a twinkle in her wet eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitched mischievously.

“I thought you didn’t care what I did, Max?” she said very demurely, a slight quaver in her voice.

“You told me so once, you know.”

Max looked at her very steadily, a faint ghost of a smile denting his chin.

“Did I?” he said.

Betsy nodded.

“Yes,” she told him. “you did. It wasn’t true, was it, Max? You do care. Just a teeny, weeny bit.”]]> Chross Spanking in LiteratureFri, 25 Mar 2011 14:13:02 +0100