Thursday, 16 September 2010

To the Manor Born

I usually don't allow advertising on this blog (up to this very moment I have had 28 comments on the last blogpost trying to promote dodgy sites, the spam filter is quite good, though) but I will make an exception today.

Over at Blushing Books there is a book by someone I know. Her name is Amanda Dashwood and the book in question is called To the Manor Born. It is a tale of a young man who inherits an estate and a title and as it happens he is met by the staff, mostly female, who have very special ideas about how he should run it.

Since I write about it here and regarding the site where you can get it, you will understand that there is a lot of smacked bottoms in this book. Just wanted to let you know.

Tuesday, 7 September 2010


As I said, the stories that include some public whipping of poor women tend to get the most attention. The last one has now eight comments and that is more than I am used to. I don't mind, it's just that it fascinates me.

Today I am posting a story, or a fantasy, whatever you wish to call it. Actually, I have nicked this fantasy, read it somewhere, a long time ago, but it made an impression. The words are all mine but the basic outline of the events are those of the fantasy I read.

He was tall, lean and almost scrawny. His head moved like a bird's and his eyes were as keen as those of a bird of prey. I stood to the side, looking at him as he came through the door.

I had been scrubbing and cleaning the whole afternoon for the small party in the evening. I had tried to do everything according to his demands. I had prepared the dinner, chopped the vegetables and the meat, had made marinade and peeled the potatoes. I had done my very best to follow his every instruction.

He looked at me and smiled. It was a kind of smile that was bound to scare, rather than comfort. He hung his coat on the hanger and I immediately took it and moved it to the wardrobe. He went into the flat and looked around. He stood for a long while, scrutinising it.

He went to the kitchen and looked at all my preparations. He didn't speak. With every second of his silence, my apprehension rose. My mouth was dry, my heart was beating. I waited for his verdict.

He went back to the living room, put his finger on the sill and slid it along the surface. He looked at his finger. He stared for a while at the table and I noticed that a corner of one of the napkins was in disarray.

'There are some imperfections here,' he said, his voice dry.

I didn't reply.

'There is some dust left, the napkins aren't in order and I found that there is a tiny piece of potato peel by the sink,' he continued.

'I am sorry.'

'You know what this means?'


'Get the whip.'


I walked on trembling legs to the cupboard in the living room. I opened the door and took from its hook the narrow green dressage whip. My fingers were numb as I carried it to him.

I stood back as he took the whip from my frightened hand and held it before him. He smiled again. This time I knew what the smile meant.

'What are you waiting for?' he snapped.

'I was just thinking...'

'What were you thinking?'

'The guests will be here, any minute.'


'No, nothing, I am sorry.'

I walked over to the sofa. I looked over my shoulder at him. He stared intently at me and I saw no hint of hesitation in him.

I unbuttoned my skirt and folded it and put it on the sofa. I took a deep breath and pulled my knickers down to my knees. I leaned forward and took my position across the armrest.

He approached me. I looked up at him and I could see he was angered. I must have protested too much, must have dallied too much. I knew I would feel that anger very soon.

He let the whip swish through the air. I looked forward and closed my eyes. The sound of the whip made my body tremble.

He let the whip fall on a cushion, in front of me and I had to look up. He whipped the cushion again with a menacing hissing sound followed by a sharp report. Soon my skin was going to be hit by the whip, just like the cushion was hit before my eyes.

I drew my breath as he placed the green whip across my bottom. I closed my eyes.

I drew my breath and held it, as the whip left my skin. I waited. He waited.

Then it fell on my exposed skin, with the same menacing hiss, followed by the same terrible report. I gasped and tensed my body. My frame was traversed by a relentless wave of pain, emanating from my bottom.

He hit again. I whimpered and squirmed. He took no heed. He whipped me again. And then again. Burning lash fell upon burning lash and I had to struggle with all my willpower to stay in place, to endure the whipping.

Then he stopped. I came to my senses after a short while. He stood listening. I listened too. It was the doorbell.

'Wait,' he said and rushed off.

I heard him open the door and how he cheerfully greeted one of the guests, an old friend of his with wife. He chatted with them for a while. Then I heard them, to my horror, approach the living room.

'Please, take a seat,' he said, 'I am just disciplining my wife.'

Then he began whipping me again. I could no longer keep my tears back. I whimpered and sighed, I gasped and even let off small cries of distress. He showed no mercy.

More guests arrived and they were all greeted cordially and conducted into the room where I was still lying across the armrest. They were all invited to watch my being whipped.

'Now I think you have had enough,' he said.

I drew a sigh of relief, although my bottom was still burning with an intense pain.

'Get up and prepare the dinner.'

'Yes,' I gasped as I rose to my feet.

'Take off those knickers and put them away with the skirt.'

I nodded and pulled my knickers down to my feet and stepped out of them. Blushing I took my skirt and went out of the room. Still naked from the waist down, I went into the kitchen. My face was still wet from tears and my bottom numb from the whipping. There was no time to think of that, I had a dinner to serve.