Be Careful What You Order...

I love having kinky dreams.

If it were up to me, I would dream kinkily every night! Unfortunately, however, my subconscious usually feels otherwise...

Except a few nights ago, when something in my subconscious was telling me that I, desperately, needed a spanking.

I don't brat, dear readers. :) Those of you who know me, either through reading here, or in person, can attest, I am sure, to my purely angelic nature :D But somehow, something let loose inside me that night when my guard was least vigilant, and I got what I'd been hoping for: a kinky dream. Only, perhaps not quite what I originally had in mind...!

Sometime after our botched dream-land hiking trip (as described in this post about the first half of this dream), my bratty friends and I went out to dinner together -- a much more familiar experience for all three of us and our multimillion-dollar ($dream$) backgrounds.

Dream-me knew there would be trouble as soon as we arrived at the over-packed restaurant.

'Ugh, all these people,' I thought to myself in the dream. 'Can't we go somewhere more private...?'

But, grudgingly, I communicated none of this to my friends. Instead, I let the sneer on my face do all the talking about how dissatisfied I was with the lack of exclusivity in our restaurant choice.

When we entered, the host --
an obsequious gentleman, dressed to the nines -- spotted us through the crowd, and immediately disengaged from whichever customer he was dealing with at that moment, in order to approach us: a trio of frequenters he knew, and dreaded, quite well.

"Young Lady, wipe that sour look off your face this instant." --unfortunately, was not what the poor man decided to say.

Instead, he greeted us heartily and we were promptly shown past the long line of all the other waiting guests and straight into the restaurant. My friends and I didn't have to wait, apparently -- and dream-me felt slightly more satisfied that at least this hadn't changed about one of our favorite dining establishments...

As we were led through the restaurant, I kept my hawk-eyes peeled for the perfect place to sit, peering around as if I owned the place. Almost instantly my eyes fell upon a lovely little table, tucked away in a corner near a window. Of course, it was occupied -- but that didn't matter to me: I pointed out the table to our host and fully expected his cooperation in seating us there.

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and just barely managed to keep the "here-we-go-again" look from showing on his face.


To my disdain, and my friends' shock, he apologized profusely about not being able to move those people in order to seat us at that particular table, and tried to distract our attention by spouting on and on about what a beautiful table he already had waiting for us and how much he knew we would love it...

"Excah-use, me?" I thought, as we reluctantly set off again after our host, "Do you realize, waiter, that I could buy this restaurant and have you fired tomorrow?"



It seems, however, that my dream-self knew how to keep her brattiest thoughts to herself.


Otherwise one of the surrounding customers, a diligently old-fashioned gentleman, perhaps, may have felt compelled to step in and provide all four of us with some much-needed disciplinary instruction...


So disgruntled was I with this series of disappointments, that when we reached the very back of the restaurant, where a specially private little alcove existed just for us (literally, around a corner at the back of this dream-restaurant was a tiny little room all by itself), I was not happy.

It didn't matter that our seats were golden, and upholstered with crimson velvet (and armless). The lush carpeting and ornate oak table, complete with decadent chandelier hanging over us, did nothing to soften my mounting temper.



When a trembling waiter came to take our drink orders, I expressed my dissatisfaction with a stoic silent treatment, expecting my friends to follow suit.


Obviously, a swift, sound spanking would have helped to loosen my tongue -- but alas, this logical procedure was far from our gentle waiter's mind.

Unfortunately for her, one of my girlfriends had been unduly swept-up by the apparent luxury of our special seating arrangements, and as such had failed to notice my mood. She cheerfully ordered an orange juice, and then turned stark-white as the waiter walked away and she glimpsed the enraged look on my face.


And when my friend's drink finally came to our table, she stared uncertainly at it, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, not wishing to incense me any further by making any attempts at consuming the offending order.


The waiter, specially assigned to wait on only our table, could obviously sense the tension rippling through this tiny little space, and stood rather awkwardly nearby, caught between wanting to get away and his duty to take our dinner orders.

And now, dear readers, we reach the height of my dream-land brattishness. I am sure my face while I slept must have reflected the shock with which I witnessed my own audacity during this next scene in my dream...!


In all my silent rage, I reached slowly out across the table, cupped my manicured hand around the glass of orange juice, and, inch by inch, swept it calmly to the side of the table.


I pushed the entire glass right off the edge of the table, dear readers, and sent it crashing to the expensively carpeted floor. The juice spilt everywhere.


Almost as soon as the liquid made contact with the carpet, even my dream-self felt slightly bad about behaving that way. But I covered up my disappointment in myself by projecting it onto the waiter, at whom I simply glared and raised my eyebrows in defiant challenge.

Dear readers, let me show you exactly what should have happened as a result of this outrageous behavior:



Now that, ladies and gentlewaiters, would have been exactly what I'd ordered, both when I decided to push that glass clean off the table, and when I went to sleep that night, wishing for a kinky dream... :D

Assigned an Essay

Fair warning sent out to all potential Tops/Doms/Dommes/Spankers:

If you, for whatever surely valid reason, decide to take it upon yourself to assign to Miss Rayne Bailey (Yours Truly) a task, big or small, that has anything at all to do with writing, be prepared for a novel! Break out your bifocals! Get your reading lamps! Fix your hot mug of tea, kick back, and settle in for an evening of literary adventure!

Dear readers, the above notice is here-to-for displayed to any and all future writing-assigners, as a result of one such writing assignment, recently detailed to me, by a gentleman I met at the spanking party described in my last post.

During an online group chat, with other party attendees, this fine gentlemen decided to make a comment indicating the interchangeability of two slang terms, and I, rather presumptuously and before I could stop myself, made the mistake of offering to provide him with the etymology of the two terms, so as to illustrate their uniqueness from each other. To my great surprise, he took the bait, and assigned me an essay, minimum 500 words, to be in his inbox by the end of the week!

In my eagerness to please, and my voracity for linguistic studies, (and spurred into creative fecundity by the astute suggestion of another gentleman to add in spanking references wherever possible), I ended up completely overshooting the word requirement (not on purpose!) and concocting, if I do say so myself, quite a titillating bit of literature.

Reproduced for you here below, dear readers, is the very essay, detailing the etymological history, as I found it, of the two slang terms "gangsta" and "ghetto," written for a truly upstanding, dignified, and inexorably kinky gentleman.

Rayne Bailey

Etymology Essay: Ghetto and Gangsta

As per the Urban Dictionary (1), the slang term “gangsta” refers to: “a member of the inner-city underclass, known primarily for being antisocial and uneducated. Also known for ready access to illegal drugs and weapons, and staggeringly poor marksmanship.” One would hope, for many a young lady’s sake, that such “staggeringly poor marksmanship” would not extend to less illegal, more intimate activities for which accurate marksmanship is also a necessary skill… Another definition from the same source claims that a “gangsta” is: “One who willfully promotes and participates in self-serving culture in an effort to project a particular image of 'toughness' or to make oneself intimidating. Willingness to blatantly and horrifically misuse the English language is a necessity.” In no way is the writer reminded, at all, of any toppish gentlemen recently to have appeared within her experience—not, at, all, in any way, shape, or form.

For a slightly more run-of-the-mill definition of the term, one can turn to the more mainstream Webster’s online dictionary (2), which identifies it as simply a shortened version of the word “gangster.” As the title “gangster,” however, has also historically been applied to esteemed members of the Russian and Italian mafia (and also the Japanese, although translated into a different language and therefore less relevant to this discussion), it must be stated that “gangster” and “gangsta” hold two very different cultural histories. Indeed, “mobsters” or “gangsters,” especially those of pop-culture, have tended to be quite well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-versed individuals (the term “well” here being relative)—albeit prone to certain behaviors which could be seen by mainstream society as rather violent. (Here the writer is attempting to refrain from drawing a connection between a “gangster” and the reader himself, who would seem to exhibit many of the aforementioned characteristics of said “gangsters,” including a commendable taste in attire and a certain propensity for rather patriarchal, dominating attitudes toward his female counterparts, not to mention a slightly skewed perception of socially appropriate levels of “violence,” especially in matters relating to and of domestic discipline.)

Now, due to the fact that most documented materials in the world are in fact subject to the wills and wonts of those currently in possession of societal power at the time of their creation (hence the disproportionately bloated records of many a young lady’s supposed “misdeeds” at the hands of her punisher, who holds not only the implement of her discipline but also the pen making official note of her behavior), the above definitions of the underground term “gangsta” must be taken with a grain of salt. They are, in fact, definitions from the point of view of “outsiders” to the particular culture from whence the term itself came into existence. A closer look, then, at the true origins and meanings behind the term, as it is employed by those who created it, would be in order, which would require first-hand interviews with “insiders,” or, “gangstas” themselves. As the writer’s primary concern is for her own physical safety (hence the writing and turning in of this essay with the utmost attention to detail and deadline!), this area of study will be proposed here as a possibility for further research to be done by other scholars in the field who may be more willing to engage in such grassroots inquisition.

As for our second term of concern, “ghetto,” a much more easily accessible body of etymological history is available for study. (Here the writer hopes that the reader does truly appreciate the depths of research which had to be surmounted in order to accurately complete this essay.) The term had its origination during the bygone years of 1605-1615 (when many a disciplinarian still openly spanked his or her partner without fear of social ostracization (3)), in reference to the name of a Venetian island where nation-less Italian Jews were forced to reside, and derived from the Italian verb ghettare, or “to throw.” It is presumed that this act of “throwing” in fact alluded to the throwing of the Jews out of Italy, and not, indeed, to the throwing of a naughty young lady over a dignified Italian gentleman’s lap, be she Jewish or Gentile. (Here the writer wishes to inform the reader that she is in fact Jewish, and therefore not averse to making light of such situations.)

With these origins, one can easily see how the term then came to be applied throughout the centuries to other cramped and deplorable urban areas where dislocated peoples, usually Jews though not always, were forced to live in close quarters, with limited economic opportunities, aka: “an impoverished, neglected, or otherwise disadvantaged residential area of a city, usually troubled by a disproportionately large amount of crime." (4) Considering the close relation, so far, between the two terms “gangsta” (subject and/or object of crime, product of “inner-city” life) and “ghetto” (locus operandi of crime, synonym of “inner-city”), one can easily see how the reader may have become confused and come to view the two separate concepts as interchangeable. The pointing out of this syntactical blunder is in no way meant to reflect upon the intellectual strength of the reader, as such a mistake is quite understandable, and should therefore not be taken as a slight of any shape or form upon the reader from the writer, please and thank you, Sir.

One further area of study begs our attention—no, not that kind of begging, nor that kind of attention, Sir—that of the colloquial use of both terms as adjectives, rather than merely as nouns (such as “spankable,” rather than “spankee”). When one refers to a person or an object or a situation or really any feasible subject of conversation as “gangsta” or “ghetto,” as in: “that shirt is so gangsta, Mr. R*,” or “that carpet beater is so ghetto, Mr. L*,” what does one actually mean? (Here the writer wishes to reiterate that the above examples were merely that: examples, and in no way meant to reflect the true thoughts, feelings, opinions, and/or views of the writer.)

Again, Urban Dictionary comes to our rescue: according to this valuable resource, when someone refers to something as “gangsta,” they are in fact meaning something along the lines of “stupid,” “fake,” or even “moronic,” and therefore in fact would probably never be referring to the reader’s shirt, unless of course they were looking for a “helluva lotta trubble.”

Conversely, though related, the term “ghetto,” when employed as an adjective, is defined as, “jury-rigged, improvised, or home-made (usually with extremely cheap or sub-standard components), yet still deserving of an odd sense of respect from ghetto dwellers and non-ghetto dwellers alike.” (Thus, for example, the “odd sense of respect” for Mr. L’s aforementioned implement of choice, by both givers and receivers alike.) It stands to reason that anything made in a “ghetto”—a place of little resources and therefore ubiquitous resourcefulness—would by necessity be “ghetto”: “improvised” or “home-made.” Rather like some of the lovely homemade spanking implements that the writer has had the pleasure of seeing and experiencing (granted, these generally have in fact been “jury-rigged” with copious amounts of masterful skill and craftsmanship).

Our friend UD (5) also provides us with some illuminating example sentences of the adjective “ghetto” in common use, such as, “Why you always be talkin' ghetto? Get yo'self a propa' e-ju-ma-kay-shun, kid!” (Such “propa’ e-ju-ma-kay-shun” of course referring to one involving the uninhibited use of the cane, tawse, and/or paddle for maintaining proper classroom order.) And, “A TV Guide duct-taped to a 4 foot stick?! That's one hella ghetto 'mote control!” Notice, the 4-foot stick is here referred to as a “hella ghetto ‘mote control,” not a “hella ghetto ‘mplement ferspanking,” such as a carpet beater, or a FES.**

After some in-depth research and reporting, it is the writer’s hope that it has now become clearer to the reader that the two slang labels of “ghetto” and “gangsta,” even when used loosely as colloquial terms of description, are in fact entirely separate and autonomous entities, with separate, albeit related, etymological histories and usages. The writer thanks the reader very much for his time, energy, and patience, and begs—yes, that kind of begging, Sir—his forgiveness should any part of this essay have caused any undue and/or unintended offense and/or related unpleasantness (and also humbly requests a very reasonable exemption from chastisement in response to any form of typo or other grammatical inaccuracy, as a simple red pen would rectify the matter). The writer wishes to assure the reader of her unfailingly good intentions, and her ever-present wishes merely to please, rather than to incite—also two very separate modi operandi for accomplishing, hopefully, similar ends (6)… =)

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(1) http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=gangsta -- a truly enlightening source for English colloquialisms.

(2) http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/gangsta -- another useful literary reference, for most commonly-used terms, though not all (indeed, the writer was surprised to find an entry for “gangsta” here at all…)

(3) A term here made-up by the writer, due to its dire need for, and unfortunate current lack of, legitimate existence as a viable word in the English language. Much like the term “spanko.”

(4) Also as per the ever-faithful online Urban Dictionary.

(5) UD – Urban Dictionary, for those in need of acronym translation.

(6) A spanking, for those in need of overly subtle girl-talk translation.

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And that, ladies and gentleman, was my 500-word minimum etymology essay! *Mr. R - the reader/assigner of the essay, and *Mr. L (incidentally the same gentleman who made the spanking-references suggestion :D) have both generously consented to be mentioned here in conjunction with the essay.

Do hope you have enjoyed reading! It is rare that such literary opportunities come my way -- and it has been a pleasure to share this one with all of you :D

**FES here refers to an implement of choice for the reader himself -- a particularly intimidating leather strap which he tends to save, so I am told, for special occasions...

Shall We...? :D

One ballroom, complete with grand piano, tables, chairs, and a smorgasbord of delicious potluck-ed sustenance...

Six hand-constructed tarp privacy cubicles, lining the walls, each equipped with at least two armless chairs...

40-some-odd Spankos from all manner of persuasions milling about to the tune of -- no, guess again, that's not applause.

It's a little sparser, a little more rhythmic, and accompanied by the occasional -- what was that? A muted squeal? A stamping foot?

Yes, my dear friends, it's a spanking party!



While the more social (or just the more peckish) congregate in the center of the room to chat and snack, the more industrious of the evening are either hauling or being hauled off to a "private" cubicle to either administer or reluctantly? eagerly? receive a spanking. Their privacy only extends to the visual realm, however -- the tarp does very little to conceal the tell-tale sounds of what is really happening behind those curtains... Thus the music kept at mid-volume throughout the room, to help deter outside ears from becoming too curious...!

This particular party is a monthly occurrence, and as such, draws some regulars in along with the new comers like myself. At first I'm not sure how it will go... I am eager to play, yet hesitant to initiate, unsure of how to handle invites, shy in conversation...

One of the kind souls with whom I'd made acquaintance before the party (a highly recommended pre-party course of action, by the way, to meet with one or a few party-goers in a public space beforehand) described it to me as a dance -- "It's your dance card, you fill it how you see fit."

And what a dance it was!

Spot a kind face, a strong hand, a smart look... Make eye contact... Smile.

Slowly approach, as he mirrors you... Reach out... Shake hands -- right now, you're equals. Exchange your names, scene or otherwise... Your greetings, polite, well-mannered.

Wonder if he has caught the glimmer in your eye. Dance around the subject as much as you like... by now, you both know where you're headed.

He offers his hand, with a grin, and an inviting, "Shall we?"

And when you place your hand in his, you give him permission to lead.

But he is not leading you to the dance floor. No, he is leading you away from the rest of the room, into a small space, where a chair awaits him, and his lap awaits you.

He leads and you follow, giving way to the steps of the dance, a rhythm you both know by heart, body, and mind.

"I could have danced all night."

You perform this dance again and again, with variations, different partners, but always the same tune. Time flies -- before you know it, the midnight chime has struck, and you must return to your carriage, back to every-day life, memories of the night still alight in your eyes.

Now that, dear readers, is a spanking good time!

I needn't have worried. :) As one of several new spankees in a sea of spanking fun, I could hardly stay out of the cubicles for longer than to steal a quick glass of water!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I ended up over a different gentleman's knee...

4 times that evening.

Do you remember the last time you were spanked 4 times in one night?? :D I do! And by the end of the evening I was sure I would be remembering it for at least a few weeks! : )

Chair Art by Lidia Shaddow
Cocktail Party Art by Eric (1944)

I Need a Spanking

In my dream last night, I was a class-A, thoroughbred, absolute brat!

Those who know me will be just as shocked as I was, while having the dream, about my dream-time behavior. This is so not like me! I have no idea where this prudish, insolent dream-me came from!

Clearly, I am in desperate need of a spanking,
and my subconscious knows it.

First, I and two of my friends (who were equally rude, though I was clearly the leader of our brat-pack) were on a hiking trip in the mountains somewhere.



Why we were hiking, and not lounging in some grand villa somewhere in the tropics sipping champagne, or off getting our hair and nails done, eludes me...

...In the dream all three of us were rich enough to never work a day in our lives and still live plentifully on millions.

And we knew it.


True to my role as silly spoiled rich girl stuck in the mountains, I was whining and complaining loudly through the entire excursion, with my friends behind me the whole way to support my needs. I demanded frequent stops and breaks even though we were hiking with a group of at least ten others whom we did not know, along with a single (quickly wearing) guide. Consistently, I made perfectly clear to everyone what a miserable time I was having.

Apparently, I needed to be spanked.

Whenever our guide refused to stop the whole group, I got my way by pretending to faint, and threatening to sue him for over-exhaustion, dehydration, negligence to our health and safety, and downright rudeness.

Clearly, my attitude needed adjusting.

You can imagine, dear readers, how relieved our guide must have been when, not half an hour into our hike, I finally demanded to go back. I was done, done, done with all this g**d*** exercise, this ridiculous, horrid-smelling vegetation, these terribly unforgiving rocks, and all this disgusting dirt. (In reality, I love hiking and being outdoors!)

(Above: Model - Autumn Lynn)

Until he realized that he couldn't let me or my friends go anywhere on this mountain, even back down, alone. Images of the lawsuits that would follow must have gone swimming frighteningly through the poor man's brain.

But when he gritted his teeth and told me that my friends and I couldn't go back down alone and that he was not about to turn the whole group around just for us, this new bratty dream-me exploded, and, like loyal proximity bombs, my friends quickly followed suit.

It would seem, dear readers, that I, really,
need a spanking.

Ten bewildered hikers stood staring in shock at these three brat-tastic rich girls throwing a fit on the side of a mountain. Even our guide seemed dumb-struck, at a loss for what to do next.



One brave, kind soul -- a more experienced hiker in the group -- volunteered, for the sake of everyone else, to guide us back down.

My dream-self muttered spitefully, "About time!" in thanks, and proceeded to huff off in the wake of this annoyingly patient, amused young hiker, pursued in the same manner by my friends.

Knowing it was so sorely needed, the responsible young man should have stopped and thoroughly spanked all three of us right there on the mountain, the moment we were out of eye-sight, though not ear-shot, of the rest of the group!

But alas, last night's dream seems to have been all about reasons, and no rhyme, dear readers.

And what happened next? The second-half of my dream-land adventure into brat-dom is enough to fill another post on its own! Thus, it shall have to wait until next time... : ) But meanwhile, dear readers, just remember...

There are some who say that dreams are based, at least somewhat, in reality. I know, for dead sure, that I am not this class of brat (at least not yet...).

So, that leaves us with only very few options for the kernels of reality in this dream... one of which being, as I'm sure you'll agree, the cold, hard fact that, regardless of my dream-land or real-life behavior...

I need a spanking.

Must See: Through Arianna's Looking Glass

On Valentine's Day, Arianna, of Through Arianna's Looking Glass, shared a truly lovely post about her and her partner's journey thus far through their years together, and especially this past year, as both have begun to embrace a very different, yet somehow much more authentic, type of relationship.

Always so beautifully evocative, featuring tenderly crafted, intricate tapestries of words and images, Arianna's posts are, time-and-again, truly exquisite. I just couldn't go without sharing this particular one, it resonated so powerfully for me.

A brief excerpt, from Arianna's Valentine's Day post, "Five million seven hundred eighty-one thousand six hundred minutes," to whet your appetite -- and then please, do read for yourself the entire lovely post by following the link above... :D

"...You, wonderful man, have done just the opposite. You embrace and love who I am. You make me feel adored. Yes, you spank me. And when you do, it makes me feel small and vulnerable. It makes me cry; sometimes it makes me see a girl who behaves in ways I do not always like. But more often than

not, it makes me see that I am a woman worthy of love. You spank me to make certain that I know you are in charge and that you will take care of me. It is not a power grab on your part. You spank me, knowing that I will relax when you are done because I will know that you are in control. You make me feel safe..."

Girls Will Be Girls

Many readers may remember St. Trinian's School for (Bad) Girls, both the most recent movie (which is delightful, by the way :D), and the fantastically illustrated collection which inspired the films (masterpieces of the accomplished artist, Ronald Searle).

Many readers may also remember that, to kick off a fanciful discussion of said illustrations, I paid a moment of tribute to the lovely adage, "Girls will be girls," as so beautifully depicted by Searle himself as the cover for a novel by Arthur Marshall of the same title.

This phrase is particularly special to me because, as many may point out, it is usually used as "Boys will be boys," much in the same way that so many time-honored spanking stories (particularly those involving schools) featured boys, rather than girls, getting in trouble and facing consequences. While I can relate easily enough to a young male spankee in a school-themed story, it is always a surprise and a pleasure when I happen to stumble across something of the same or similar time period written from the perspective of a spankee who shares my gender! :D

Little did I know, dear readers, that my musings on the subject, and my innocent posting of the above illustration, would lead to a surprise gift from two of my dearest friends in the spanking scene, Abel and Haron of The Spanking Writers.

What did I find in my mail recently but the very book, "Girls Will Be Girls," by Arthur Marshall himself, published in 1974, an original edition.

Happily turning the pages of the delightful volume brought to my senses not only literary images of many-a-girl in many sticky situations, but also the crisp, awakening scent of the time-honored leafs in an old book -- the incense of a library... I love books!


Inside, one can find a world of hilarity and popular culture, as per British 1970s and much earlier. From Isadora Duncan to Diaghilev, from Virginia Woolf to Stanislavsky, from Chopin to Beethoven, Marshall makes liberal use of classical references...




From India and Japan to France, Spain, Germany, and Switzerland, from Los Angeles and Venezuela to Sarajevo, our girls' adventures hop around the planet in pell-mell worldliness...




Common and classic tourist and school field-trip stops include Wimbledon, the Eiffel Tower, Buckingham Palace, and Eton, the last of which features (of course) more than once...





From churches and cathedrals to parades, O.T.C. camp, and submarines, from lacrosse to hockey to cricket, from three-inch heels and knitted sweaters to flutes, fire alarms, and ginger snaps, the activities and loci operandi of our girls run the gamut!




All manner of school-related happenings and players come into view, from school songs to punishments, from Housemasters, professors, Matrons, and Headmistresses to schoolgirls, prefects, and head girls...


And from Earl Grey tea, Victorian etiquette, and the "Edwardian social scene" to “freer ‘American’ manners,” from the B.B.C. to Shakespeare, and Javanese princes, police, and musketeers to dukes, earls, barons, and baronets, the variety and multiplicity of cultural references rampant in this short novel proves to be quite dizzying!


A few of my favorite quotes from "Girls Will Be Girls" include, as early as page 30, "A Schoolgirl in Switzerland is a riot of violent wiggings* from the headmistress and stern punishments..." (Marshall provides prolific reviews of "Books for Girls" in this work, with comments on upwards of 70 titles.)

On page 133, "Though this year's schoolgirl stories are milk-and-water when compared with the Brazilian glories of yesteryear, there are indications that authoresses are once more concentrating on the sensible, basic subjects such as lying, cheating, [and] squabbling..." All of which, I daresay, incur exactly what kind of consequences...? :)

Then on page 153, Marshall is on a role when he writes about Richard Wortley's Pin-Up's Progress: "There is a sufficiency of... bare, female buttocks, so especially dear to the male heart... Why were naked bottoms found particularly aphrodisiac when closely associated with bicycles? The leather saddles, perhaps?..."

And then goes on to describe why "White knickers are best for photographic purposes..."

Perhaps one of the juicier morsels, however, turns up a few leafs earlier, on page 150: "Though Victorian guilt about sexual activities is with us still, it was paradoxically the heyday of special treats, thwackings particularly... Sadism was rife. Daughters were regularly whipped, their fathers helpfully suggesting improved methods: 'Nothing like leather! Cut a strap into strips and let your governess lay your daughter down upon an ottoman after evening prayers..."

Goodness gracious! What a fantastically wonderful compendium of literary frivolity! :D Thank you, oh so much, dear Abel and Haron, for this timely and truly inspiring gift :)

P.S. I can't go without mentioning for you, dear readers, the lovely card which accompanied this present: an inspiration in and of itself! :D


*"wigging," for those in need of British slang translation, can be seen as synonymous with "reprimanding" or "scolding." : )

Bicycle painting by Joop Moesman,
Card illustration by Lynn Paula Russell

Punished for Being Late to Work

She knocks on his door, cautious, but not overly.

She'd only been a few minutes late, after all.

Only, for some reason, he'd asked specifically to see her in his office -- something he'd never done before with her, and had only done with other employees on very rare occasions.

"Come in."

If the stern sound of his voice hadn't set her on edge, the look he fixed upon her as she entered certainly did. His eyes were steel, unyielding -- yet somehow warm. In the moment of induced silence after she shut the door behind her, she felt her eyes drop to the floor under his accusatory gaze.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Bailey?" By the end of this question, his eyebrows have raised in expectation.

Had she really been that late? Had she done something else worthy of this kind of inquiry? Conscious of the stretching silence, she answers uncertainly, not wanting to further incriminate herself. "I think so, Sir?"

"You think so?" His answer is immediate, and dissatisfied.

"You are here, because of your consistent tardiness. Do you think coming late to work is okay? And you were late again today, you know that?" He is standing now, bearing closer to her with each sentence, making her more and more conscious of the fact that the closed door rests solidly behind her, leaving her nowhere to run, no room to conserve the dignity of personal space. The closer he comes, the more she must look up in order to meet his eyes—he towers nearly a foot over her modest 5’ 4”.

"Yes, Sir, I know, but --"

"No excuses. You know you've been late six times in the past three weeks?? That's practically every other day!"

He's been keeping track?? She hadn't realized that he'd been so concerned with her time of arrival -- that he'd been paying close enough attention to notice it consistently, among so many other employees.

"By all rights, you should be put on suspension from work." He looks away from her as he says this -- it is obvious that he doesn't like the idea any more than she does.

"No, Sir, please -- I'm sorry!" A suspension would look terrible on her professional record!

“You’re sorry.” The whirring gears in his mind glimmer through the thoughtful look in his eyes as he weighs his options—options as yet unknown to the unfortunate employee now standing distressed in his office. He makes to move away from her, back over toward his desk, but takes less than a step before he’s made up his mind. “Saying you’re sorry just isn’t good enough, Rayne.”

She is wringing her hands now, not yet resigned to the frightful idea of a suspension—how would that effect the rest of her career? How would she pay her bills in the meantime? What would she tell her coworkers?

“But I am not going to suspend you.”

A deeply relieved sigh escapes unwillingly from her tensed lungs… thank goodness. His eyebrows rise again at her slip in decorum, but he lets it pass.

“Instead, I’m going to spank you.”


It is several moments before her brain can fully wrap itself around his words, and their implications. All she can do is blink several times, frozen. He’s going to what? Spank her?… What does he mean? How is this even an option?...

But he is speaking again before she can regain her bearings, making the most out of her temporary state of shock. “Have you ever been spanked before, Miss Bailey?”

She finds it easier just to answer his questions, while still gathering her thoughts, “Not for a long time…” Her mind reaches back to a few childhood spankings that she can remember receiving on rare occasions from her parents. But that was close to 15 years ago now…!

“Well, seems like you need a refresher. Come over here.” He is settling himself into an armless chair near his desk, turned to face her—even while seated, his head is merely inches below hers where she stands.

This is all happening so fast! “Sir…” she is having trouble forcing her body to obey.

“Here.” His peremptory tone accompanied by an equally commanding gesture to the space directly in front of him gives her the fuel she needs. As she approaches, he swings his left knee outward, and before she can fully realize what is happening, all she can see are his ankles and the hardwood floor, all the blood in her torso is rushing to her face, and her hips are positioned squarely over his left thigh.

The spanking starts immediately—he’s not kidding!

His hands, proportionate to his height, are wide and heavy. One is wrapped firmly around her waist, and the other is spanking her over the seat of her pants, hard and fast.

More out of shock at this new, painful sensation and exceedingly vulnerable position than any real distress (yet), her feet start to come up off the ground, her knees bending more with each impact of his hand on her quickly warming bottom.

He is ready for this. Not more than five or six hard swats in, and he is already placing his right leg over hers, pinning her legs down, denying her the privilege of even limited mobility.

This is serious.

She cannot believe this is happening. What grown woman gets spanked at work? How soundproof are these office walls? Why hadn't she realized that he cared so much about her work performance?

"Do you realize that people depend on you here, Miss Bailey? Do you know that when you are late you are making them wait for you? Do you think that's acceptable behavior?" His scolding is making her feel even more like a child than she already does, over his knee getting spanked.

She is retaliating before she can stop herself, "It was only 5 minutes!"

"Only 5 mi-- get up!" The abrupt halt in spanks which had been raining down on her only moments before allows her to realize just how much this is starting to hurt. Once released, she finds her feet again as quickly as possible, unable to meet his eyes, her heart racing, somehow sure that she's just made a mistake.

"Lower your pants, and quickly."

Her face is turning beet red as she obeys, shocked beyond belief now -- barely able to breathe out of alarm and embarrassment.

She is back over both of his knees now, her pants down around her knees -- but it is only a matter of seconds before a new development takes place: apparently more peeved by her retort than she'd realized, he suddenly pulls her panties down, too, all of half-way down her thighs. An involuntary whine issues from her throat, as an even deeper wave of embarrassment floods over her.


"Complaining, now?" His hand on her bare skin, just as hard, just as fast, reminds her of just how protected she'd been with her pants still on.

"Nooo..." she can barely keep the whine out of her voice as the spanking builds velocity.

"No what?"

"No, Sir!"

A volley of purpose-driven spanks forces a squeal out of her as she tries her best not to squirm over his lap.

"I want to be sure you won't be late anymore, Rayne. Don't you? Why shouldn't you be late?" His ability to scold and to spank at the same time, with vigor, is astounding to her... while she is struggling to keep her thoughts in coherent order.

"Because... ahhhhhh...!" but the constant SMACK of his hand on her bare bottom is making it very difficult for her to string the right words together.


Satisfied at least with her attempt, his pace continues as he prompts further, "Because people are depending on you? Because you have responsibilities here? Because you shouldn't keep people waiting, right? Is that why?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"And what can you do to make sure you won't be late in the future?"

This time, he slows very briefly, allowing her to gather her breath, and her words. "Go to bed earlier?" comes her suggestion, a desperate attempt at ending this barrage.

"Good idea," and he is back to spanking again, causing her to squeak and squirm. "What else?"

Her brain is still in motion, still reaching, grasping for opportunities to stop the pain now mounting under his heavy hand, "Lay things out the night before--" But it does nothing to cease the spanks, he merely nods and continues, commenting on her new-found ability to suddenly come up with such great ideas!

Without warning, his pace triples in speed and she is hard-pressed to keep from crying out too loudly -- but the quickened volley of 15 or so is only a precursor...

"Up." She needs a few extra moments to find her balance this time, her hair messed, her hands reaching down in an automatic attempt to conserve even the smallest level of dignity at keeping her pants from falling to the ground. She need not have bothered, however, because no sooner had she stood than he followed her, walking beyond her to a cupboard across his office.

"Bend over the desk. We're not through yet."

Her bottom burning, her face flushed, she finds no strength to resist, although curiosity gets the better of her as she tries to peer over her shoulder at what he seems to be pulling out of the cupboard.

"Don't look back -- eyes straight ahead."

His movements behind her set her senses on hyper-alert.

"You're going to get the strap, Miss Bailey, do you understand?"

Luckily, he takes her concerned whimper for a 'yes.'

"And you're going to count. Three for each time you've been late. How many is that?"

Now he's asking her do to math??? Her pants and panties are down around her knees, her bottom is bright red, she's bent forward over his desk in his office, anticipating more punishment, and he wants her to practice multiplication??

"18?" the answer comes out as a question, in part due to her uncertainty in her own logical abilities at the moment, and in part due to her slight surprise at the rather large number.

"That's right. You'll count each, and you will say 'thank you' after each one, is that clear?"

"Nnnn yes, Sir."

WHAP! The first comes as a slight surprise -- but it doesn't hurt as terribly as she had feared it might. "One, thank you, Sir."

His scolding continues throughout the strapping. WHAP! "Two! Thank you, Sir." He reiterates the reasons she should not be late for work, WHAP! his concern with her conduct, WHAP! his intention to bring her here again on the drop of a hat if it were to happen again.

WHAP! "Five, thank you, Sir..." He repeats the preparations she had cited earlier to keep from being late again, WHAP! admonishes her for letting it get to this point, WHAP! and assures her that he will be watching very closely in the coming weeks to make sure her behavior improves. WHAP! "Eight! Thank you Sir!"


"Will you be late again, Miss Bailey?" WHAP!

"No, Sir! Nine, thank you, Sir..."

"Halfway there." His voice is steady, almost reassuring.

Each stroke is harder than the last, so that by the time they reach the later teens, her counting has become slightly irregular. WHAP! "Sssssssssixteeeeen... Thank you... S-sir..." WHAP! "Sev-teen! ThankyouSir!"

WHAP!! His last is so hard, she can't keep from yelping and hissing before making her count, and bringing her punishment to a close.

"Now, pull your clothes back up, collect yourself, and go back to work. I don't want to see you in here like this again any time soon, Miss Bailey."