Birching Bordello part 2

IRL there is plenty of new branches all around, very suitable for birching, see the picture, but I started to write this story in the dead of winter. Oh, well...

For Birching Bordello part one, click here. 

Izzie’s hands shake as she tugs the metal buckle open. She never ever took off his belt for him. Nick, jaw dropped and picked up back from the floor, lifts his hands to give Izzie an easier access. She yanks out the belt in one swift whoosh and holds it like a dangerous snake or a loaded gun aiming at him. 

“What is it?” she asks, furrowing her brows. 

“A belt. I guess you’ve never seen it before.” Nick retrieves the belt from her trembling fingers. “It’s a new fashion, from Italy.”

“For discipline? Like a tawse?” 

“Mostly to hold the trousers, but it might be. Not as evil as a tawse, I suppose.” Nick lowers the belt on the coffee table, next to the roses, trying not to make an extra sound. 

“Did you bring this belt to use it on me, milord?” asks Izzie.

“Beg your pardon?” 

“Oh, Madame Babette will kill me, I forgot to greet you.” Izzie drops in a deep curtsy. “Pleased to be at your service, milord, at the Birching Bordello.” 

“Birching Bordello?” Nick pinches the bridge of his nose. Izzie and be damned her wild imagination. 

“Madame Babette says bordello is a more elegant word than a brothel.” 

“Birching Bordello?” Now Nick emphasizes the first word. 

“Yes, birching. Birches are not in season, too brittle, Madame Babette said to use the roses. More elegant and still sting like the dickens.” 

“Have... have you been here long?” Now it’s Nick’s turn to stutter. 

“First day. My apologies, I’m not here to talk.” Izzie proffers him three roses and promptly drops face down, bent in half on the edge of the bed. 

“Not even a dinner and a movie?” Nick mutters. 

But Izzie’s next move is better than any movie. She grabs the hem of her long dress, pulls it all the way to tuck into the strings of the apron at her waist. Nick stares at the pair of white cotton pantalettes or pantaloons, whatever it is. The two parts, one for each leg, are not sewn together but have a slit, an opening that runs along her butt crack. As to confirm his racing thoughts, Izzie pulls the halves apart like the curtains to allow access to the pièce de résistance, that is...

“I expected a blank canvas,” Nick says.

Izzie’s hands fly up to hide her rapidly blushing cheeks, matching the more than pink bottom. “Forgive me, milord, I had another.. customer... earlier this evening.” 

“Pray tell, was his name Mister Brush or Mister Spoon?” He caresses the telltale red marks on her bum. 

“Mister Brush,” she whispers. 

Nick drops on his knees behind her in a desperate attempt to kiss it better before making it worse. 

“No, no,” Izzie protests, “I’m here only for the discipline. I’m engaged to a... a groomsman. I just wanted to make money to buy a wedding dress.”

“Darling, as you can see, I’m fully dressed and intend to stay this way. Although, that would probably entail calling another girl, after I’m done with you.” Nick pauses at his own faux pas. Shit, shit, shit! No, she didn’t notice. “I won’t do anything ungodly, anything you do not wish me to do.”

“But it’s dirty!” Izzie wiggles, trying to escape his firm grip on her hips. 

“On the opposite, you smell delicious. Is it a lavender soap?” Nick leans closer to sniff, nose brushing against her bottom. 

“Yes, milord,” she gasps. “Are you touching me with your tongue?” 

“Nose, unfortunately, but my tongue will join in shortly.” 

“Ah!” another high-pitched sigh. 

Boy, all this for the audience of one, Nick preens indulgingly at the thought. “Fear not, love, I will not touch your maidenhead. Not today.” 

He enunciated the last word, playing into her virginity kink. Damn, if Izzie will trick him again into it, but talking, he can do all the talking in the world, if it pleases her so much. Nick raises an eyebrow and leans in closer, waiting for a reaction from the beloved. A moan, a squirm, and a telltale twitch, the holy trifecta. 

“There you are,” he exhales. “Now, tell me everything. How did that lavender soap come into your possession? And don’t spare a detail, dearest.”

Posting to Saturday Spankings, next instalment in a week! Also, I'm using a new writing tool to clean up the grammar, readability etc. Please let me know if you can feel the difference.

Hurt Not Harm

An incredible account of a journey from vanilla to Master from his perspective. There are so many bottoms/submissives journeys and so little from Tops/Doms/Masters.

Found it on Tumblr on Scarlet's Real Magic page (here), she has a fantastic blog. No idea how to re-blog from Tumblr, so just copied here with back link. The picture is mine.

toysmaestro:

heramberheart:

guardianofamber:

The very first time we spent a night together, I playfully swatted your backside during sex. I wasn’t prepared for the reaction, but something in my brain registered it. Your face lit up, your whole body reacted and you closed your eyes in satisfaction. That time, that was all it was, a few tame swats in the middle of sex to get your attention. Something lingered though.

Months later, we began to talk about spanking. I had a hard time getting my head around it. Of course I understood pain and how it can excite, we had a ready begun to dance around that idea. But I struggled with so much of this. Could I hit you, with intent? How would it feel to make your cheeks redden, or still, bruise you? Why did you want this? What would you get from it? What could I get from it? What if I hurt you? How would this come to be? Wouldn’t it feel like role play, to have you over me knee? Etc, etc, etc …

You were incredibly patient and considerate. You explained time after time even though you found it difficult and uncomfortable to express your needs, you gave me space to think, to question, and in turn, to try. You felt my lack of surety, you explained and guided me again and again. Yes, submissives guide their Masters too. This was in our early (ish) days, I wasn’t your Master at that point in truth.

The path to spanking has been slow, and probably for you, tortuous. But I had to be sure of my step each time. I had to understand and be confident. Light slaps became firmer. I began to use spanking as another way to control and focus you when you lost it. Stopping mid-devotion when I could feel you spinning out of control to put you over my knee and centre you.

I began to find a way to use it for me, and for us. I found my way to make it fit into our way. All the time you’d patiently waited for me to get to where you knew I need to be.

The first time you slowly crawled across my knee, you looked at me and smiled. A smile of permission, a smile that asked, pleaded. As I spanked you firmly, purposefully, I felt your body tense then relax. Cries of pain and relief, sobs of acceptance. I watched in satisfaction as your arse reddened, leaving my mark behind on you. My mark of ownership. The dots in my mind began to join up.

This week there was another shift. The spanking was no longer just about you. I needed it. I needed to push you and challenge you. I had you bend over, hands on the bed frame. I hit you far harder and with more confidence and intent than ever before. It hurt, I know it did, it was supposed to. Afterwards you described it as being “on the edge of too much” and I felt such pride, that was exactly where I’d wanted to take you. I calmed you when it got too much, held you when your legs felt weak, and when I knew you could take no more, I stopped. But I wanted you to accept what I wanted to give you, for my own needs. I was so proud of you.

This week, we’ve completed a circle. I spanked you because I wanted to, because I wanted to hurt you and test you, I wanted you to take it for me. You wanted me to spank you because you need the pain and the challenge to centre you, to feel your submission so deeply, you would give me whatever I wanted, because you wanted to show me you will never ever quit, and will give me anything to please me.

Days later you showed me the pinkness of your arse and where once I would’ve wrestled guilt and concern, I felt just one emotion. Pride. I did that. You took that.

I marked you and you are mine.

Pride in each other and your ownership of me.

I love who we are with each other and for each other.

Beautiful steps to freedom for you both.

(via toysmaestro)

Birching Bordello

 

Can you believe it? I took this picture in some fancy-shmancy bathroom, someone used these as decor!! 

With his hand already resting on the door handle, Nick tries to catch his breath. He skipped the steps by two, while climbing the stairs. It's not the physical exhaustion but the unknown behind this door that keeps him panting. He was giddy on his way up, on his way to her, shoving aside everything he dealt with throughout the day, antsy to finally have a few uninterrupted hours with her. Even a dinner was out of the way, Nick ate at the charity event, and Izzie nibbled enough, or so he was told. But somehow, an odd glimpse of a thought made its way from some far corner of his brain, that he was forgetting something, something that Izzie planned for today. 

Remember the line about lemons and making lemonade? Nick was famous for catching eggs thrown at him and whipping a Western omelet out of them. But the curveballs his beloved was pitching lately, man, you have to be Babe Ruth to handle it right. Nick stretches his neck and his right shoulder like he would, if he was really stepping to bat. He nudges the door open as silently as possible. Whatever there is behind that door, he will not bat an eye, he will improvise, he will... Shit! 

Luckily for him, Izzie sits on the couch with her back to the door, apparently unaware of his presence, gifting him with a few extra seconds for reconnaissance. 

She wears a dark blue, almost floor-length dress with a white bib apron and a white bonnet. Definitely not a French maid, too long, too modest. But what, a governess, a lady's maid? 

The top half of her face is fully covered by a Venetian mask made out of black velvet with intricate silver beaded patterns around the eyes. Beloved is mixing countries, cultures, and centuries, not that he would dare to mention. 

Her tits, squeezed up high by the laced corset, are loosely covered by a thin see-through shawl, corners tucked into the dress. Her small bosom, that's the word that fits this dress, bosom, rises and falls with her uneven breaths. Nervous, she's definitely nervous. As to confirm his thought, Izzie jerks her head to the side as she picks up the next rose from the vase. 

Yes, a long-stemmed rose, already as thornless as they come these days, but Izzie takes it one step further. A small white towel on her lap is covered with a heap of leaves she had already cut off. She trims off all the branches and leaves with a small paring knife, keeping just the bud at the end of  the stem. A stem that looks like a rod or a cane, Nick gulps. Izzie runs her fingertips along the stem to check for imperfections and slivers them off with the knife. She puts the knife aside and, swat! hits her own open palm. 

"Oww!" she bawls at the sting. 

Nick clears his throat, hence interrupting her solitude. 

"I'm sorry, milord," Izzie jumps on her feet and curtsies. The towel drops on the floor, spilling the leaves all over. Izzie and Nick both dive in to clean up the mess, bumping their foreheads with a loud smack. "No, milord, please, Madame Babette will kill me." She gets up and curtsies again. 

"Forgive me for frightening you, my child. No one is going to threaten your life, not on my watch," Nick grabs her chin.

When she looks up at him, her eyes widen into saucers. She frantically tugs at her shawl, pulling it tighter around her neck. Eyes cast down, the mask doesn't feel large enough anymore. 

"I didn't expect you so early. Madame Babette said," she stutters in a heavy cockney accent or more like, her best impression of it, "a gentleman, new in London, with a penchant for the English Vice." 

"Uh-huh." Nick smirks, suppressing a giggle. 

"Is anything wrong, milord?" 

"Only, your accent, never mind." The pieces of puzzle start falling into place. Madame, English Vice, thornless roses, not that it scares him less, but her sweet attempt for an accent is too amusing and a welcome distraction nonetheless. 

"I do mind, milord," she sticks out her chin. "Not everyone is born into one of the best families of Mayfair, but I work there and learned a thing or two." She switches to the poshier version of London accent. "Is that bet-tah, milord?" 

"Alpha, beta, I'm not sure," Nick grins. Still can't recall what is the scenario for today. "What else did Madame Babette say about me?" he probes. 

"That milord is to be married in a week."

"That's right," Nick nods. 

"But, milord, I did not expect you to be..." 

"Handsome? Ah! Now I remember, sorry darling, you're not a scullery maid but his --" 

"Hush, milord, you probably hit your head too hard. Let me fix your costume." 

Izzie loosened his tie and pulls it out completely. She unbuttons the top button of his shirt and turns up the collar. The tie goes back in a shape of a bow. She cards through his hair to smoothen it forward and up. 

"Here," she steps back to admire her own work. "Now you look more like one of those Bridgerton boys."

"That's Regency, darling, I thought you were aiming for Victorian." 

"Is there much difference?" 

"Only a hundred years or so, but do not let that detour you," he smiles broadly. "You know Bridgertons? I knew you look familiar, sort of." 

"No, no, I know their cook. I'm a scullery maid." She turns away. 

"Of course." Nick grabs her wrist to examine her fingers. Funny enough, Izzie's fingers aren't of the daintiest as she constantly washes the paint off them and scrubs them relentlessly at the end of the day. "May I ask for which household?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. Nobody knows I work here at night, that's why I wear a mask." 

"That's an exquisite mask. Where did you get it?" 

But Izzie's attention is all on the belt on his waist, so not conforming with her strict Victorian attire standards. 

For Birching Bordello - part 2, please click here

It's the weekend, so time for another Saturday Spanking story.

A to Z

Oh, the picture is of a hot and sour soup I ate yesterday. Yum, deliciously hot and zingy! 

Apparently, the April A to Z challenge is coming up. Thank you, Mrs Fever, for bringing up the subject, see her post here.

I've never done it. Hey, my blog is only four months old today! Four months of stressful blogging, hectic search for appropriate yet vanilla pictures, twitchy publish finger, sweaty waiting for hits and, gasp, sweet comments!

The Shakespearean question still stands, to write or not to write? Will it take away time from writing my book? Definitely. Will it be an interesting writing exercise to post every day? Definitely. Will it possibly boost the readership, as I will be in your face every single day? Yeaaah... So, what am I waiting for? 

I don't think I will ever run out of ideas of what to write about. Since it's my first year and I run a spanko blog (wow, it sounds so nice to say it out loud), let's make it all about our favourite subject, spanking. 

It can be one word per post or a few. Hmmm... Let's try. 

A is for Arse and Anticipation and Aftercare

B is for Bonnie and Belt and Blogs and Bratting

C is for Crying and Corner and Close and not the Cane

D is for Doms and DD and Dreaded D position

L is for Lap and Leather and Lotion

P is for Pain and Paddles and Punishment

R is for Roleplay (yay) and Roses (as an implement. BTW, roses story coming up, brace yourselves) and Reminders

Skipping S on purpose today, too many. Note to myself: don't forget Six of the best or else... 

T is for Tears and Trust

The end of the alphabet is tougher to tackle, but we'll get there. 

V is for Vulnerability and Vetting

W is for Wood and Whip

X for eXtreme (cheater!) and X-ray (how to avoid it) and Xanadu (does subspace qualify as one?) 

Y is for Yin and Yang or Yellow

Z is for Zingy and Zappy, which are the opposite of Thuddy (another one for T) 

I think that's a good plan, don't you think? Please drop a line in comments. Don't be a jerk, de-lurk. Sorry, it just rhymes well, I love all my lurkers, I've been one too.

Expect a lot of links, as a thank you for all the inspiration and ideas. Without the spanko blogland, I wouldn't be here writing it right now. 

Thank you to each and every one of you, who took time to welcome me, support, put on their blog rolls (I've never expected to be on so many!), comment, email, encourage, inspire, laugh and cry with me! 

Love you all! You touched my heart in the most unexpected way.

Hugs, 

Sore

Hundred - To M and B

Hundred years passed today

But the story lives forever

Only words are gonna stay

Scattered in the world wide ether

"Hundred pounds soaking wet"

Winning smile that lit the room

Feisty, strong, and smart, you bet

Turning Dom into a groom

Hundred hours no need to wait

When you know, they say, you know

Call it love or call it fate

One reins in and one to bow

Hundred bear hugs were given

Scratch that, thousands, that is

Surely up the wall had driven

Him that spunky sass and tease

Hundred blows on bare bottom

How many is too much? 

Sting not meant to be forgotten

Followed by gentle touch

Hundred parties lay unravelled 

Bottoms sore and also hands

Hundred miles of road less travelled

Peanuts boiled are yikes, no thanks

Hundreds seeds of pomegranate 

Six - thirteen to be exact

May your life will be abundant

All these hundred years back

Little facts:

- The poem is set in the year of 2123

- The author is a helpless romantic and believes that love stories live forever

- "Hundred pounds soaking wet" is a direct quote from Erica's post

- I cannot write Dom with lower-case. Sorry if it offends anyone's sense of grammar.

- It's believed that there are 613 seeds in pomegranate, therefore making it a symbol of abundance

- Most important: the poem is solely based on a few teeny tiny facts from Erica's post, the rest is all figments of my own depraved imagination.

Meddling again, in the hope that two wrongs will make it right. When I wrote the first poem, To M and Erica, something irked me endlessly, and I apologized for meddling (thank you, Erica, for the kind words). It took me a while to realize what it was:

It was supposed to be all about M and B, but the first poem came out about M and Erica, which was wrong. I thought I didn't know anything about B, but then again, what do I know about M, really? So, here I am, apologizing my heart out in another poem, because that's what I do... in a hope that one day it would bring a smile on their faces.

To M and B

Dreams of summer

Why the geese? Because they are BACK!!! You know what it means? That the spring is really really here, despite all the snow, there is no turning back. So, to all the good things to come: shorts, sundresses, flip-flops (on my feet or not, see the footnote), lavender fields, the smell of fresh strawberries, the smell of fresh cut grass, what else? tan lines!! Sore dreams of summer...

Footnote on flip-flops, sandals, and other flat footwear: 

Hermione recently posted about slippering here. And while I recalled reading the Marrakesh story (here) but there was something else I couldn't pinpoint that day. Only today it hit me, it was the beautiful spanking story I un-earthed one day on Erica's site, as she called it, My favourite spanking story. For you reading pleasure, read it here

To M and Erica

I know it's not them on the picture. Read the damn post, will you?

Trusting her body and soul

Body heals, soul, not so much

Life's taking unfair toll

Out of reach, not out of touch

Fond memories of Shadow Lane

Forever cast into living on

Silly crazy, or safe and sane

Humming into oblivion

Poking without fear

First got her attention with scorn

Please do not disappear

The rarest of unicorns

Pain's easy, words make me weep

Of firm hand and of gentle heart

Yielded masterfully belt or whip

May your hand will never gets smart

Taking care of the one you love

Loyal achingly yang to her yin

I can't help, only cry or laugh

With a hope that good karma wins

I'm honestly weeping as I'm writing this post... Sorry for butchering otherwise beautiful picture, will give you the link to the original in a sec. 

You know when it comes to pictures, my blog is ridiculously pg rated, yeah, flowers, macarons, and silly t-shirts. Not so much with words, just in the previous post, was discussing with Kathryn the merits of saying cock versus dick and Izzie getting spanked for using the latter. You can weigh in in the comments, whichever of two you prefer. 

It all started with this picture. For the original picture please go to Nora's blog: https://ourmarriageanddomesticdiscipline.wordpress.com/2023/01/05/his-discipline-nsfw-18-spanking-fiction/

I loved the story and the picture so much that I mentioned it to Erica, she said it’s a famous photo. Read original Erica's post here:

https://ericalscott.wordpress.com/2023/02/02/some-words-about-pictures/

Hi Erica, as I was reading your post, i was thinking of one particular picture with plenty of hands, both hands, rolled up sleeves of the white dress shirt (sic!), and most of all, plenty of tenderness. This picture pushed all the right and wrong buttons for me. I’m usually all about the words, but this picture just did it for me.

Sore — you have good taste; that is a very popular photo. It’s a small world; I know both of them. That’s Ralph Marvell and Samantha Woodley, and the still is from a Shadow Lane video. I believe it was called Older Men with Younger Wives, or something along that line.

And then I wrote a poem inspired by that picture called Thick Brown Leather:

https://soreismore.blogspot.com/2023/02/thick-brown-leather.html which both Erica and Nora loved.

But enough about my shit, what happened next is that Erica wrote the most heartbreaking, sweetest post about M: https://ericalscott.wordpress.com/2023/03/10/for-my-friend/

I sat there helplessly and cried and thought about that picture again. And then I wrote a poem about M and Erica that you've already read, because that's the only thing I can do. That's all. 

Now scroll up and read it again!

A proper young lady shall never...

“A proper young lady–” he scoffs and withdraws with a growl.

“Shut up,” she cries out at a sudden loss, sensing some further scolding, and then blushes at her own outburst, and he lets it slide for a quick moment.

“– shall never call the gentleman’s cock a dick”, he finishes in his lilted accent, as he puts his cock securely away, behind the buttoned fly of his low-rise jeans. Deliberately slow, inch by inch, he pulls the belt out through the loops, with the holy sound that makes her squirm and rejoice all at once into a full body shudder. A triumphant grin that stretches her lips morphs into a hesitant frown, when she sees him folding the belt in half. With his eyebrow raised in a silent question and an outstretched hand, he waits for her to rise on her feet and put her hand in his, and that’s the only confirmation he needs. 

Taken in hand, the hand that puts her on the right side of the slash, she follows. He leads.

The swift shift in the mood is so palpable; his eyes, kind and playful a few minutes ago, now are flooded with hurt and disappointment. 

"I'm so sorry," she lets out in a whisper.

"I'm sure we'll get there, but for what, pray tell?" He squeezes her hand to still his own shakes.

"For saying 'shut up'," she stares at the floor. 

"Huh, that. Let's deal with the profanity first." He leads her towards the wide tufted bench by the window. "Why so grim now?"

"It's the punishment."

"No, darling, it's a preview of a punishment, if you will keep using such language." Calm and somber, he nudges her shoulder. "On your back and legs up."

That's why he lead her to that bench! It has no couch arms that get in the way, all flat and open, like a low table. No, not the diaper position, she bites her lower lip. Anything not to mention the specifically forbidden d-word to him and falls on her back, pulling her knees up with her hands to give him full access to her already spanked butt. Suddenly the throbbing pain in her swollen bottom comes back to life to remind her of what yet to come. And if the first spanking, no matter how hard and painful, was a welcomed prelude to the rest of their play, generously sprinkled with a multitude of orgasms. This spanking, a punishment spanking, she brought upon herself, while having sex, no less. Who can earn a punishment while having sex? It's ridiculous, pathetic, wrong. She tilts her head up to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks, before he even touches her, before he starts lacing her again with the belt.

The wrong shade of pink hides the tan lines he was so fascinated with before. He drags her to the edge and places his left hand just under her knees, on top of her hands to keep them from flying off to cover her bum. She always does, even when she tries not to. Her bum can take a lot of heat, he learned that the hard way, but not her fingers. It's his job not to let her, to keep her hands safe. 

"Just six," he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand that holds the belt. "Look at me, I want to see your face."

"Six of the best?" she offers with a meek smile.

"Just six." He lets out a deep breath. It seems like all her jitters and anxiousness passed on to him. No matter how much they discussed and agreed that she needs it, when it all has come to this single moment, when he needs to step up, preview or not, not in a playful way as many times before that, but this time for real, all his certainty evaporates, and he's on the verge of bailing out. 

He doesn't look down, he doesn't aim, he doesn't hold back. Six strokes rain down on her dreadfully fast, too fast for her to apprehend or absorb the pain, tanning the tan lines all over again into the sacred scarlet. She squirms, she wiggles, she tries to pull her hands from under his hand that is holding them in place right under her knees. She screams and cries out his name. 

The unwanted chore that fell upon him, the whole ordeal takes merely seconds, and then it's suddenly over. Her hiccups and rapid thank-yous fill the silence. The belt buckle brushes against the metal leg of the bench before hitting the floor. They both jerk from the loud clank. Her fingers left white marks where she held her legs. She still holds them uncomfortably up, acutely aware that there is nowhere to put them down. In his close to throwing up state, he drops on his knees to bury his face between her legs and lowers her legs to rest on his shoulders.

"No, you can't do that," she sits up with a cry. "I'm supposed to thank you. Please!"

"Don't tell me what to do," he quips. Her smell and wetness cannot lie but he stops regardless.

"I'm not, I'm sorry."

He picks her up with ease and carries over to lay on the bed. He falls next to her, and she pulls him closer, murmuring her thanks again and how much she loves him. Him, the monster. How much she wants him, now and always. 

He is drained like he ran a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder, her gentle fingers threading through his hair, cooing the words of comfort into his ear. "It's over, it's all good, it's over."

When his free hand wonders along her curves again, he rises on his elbow and latches to the other set of tan lines, surrounding her small nipples. She grabs his hand and drags it down, on her terms, on her time. His fingers travel the familiar route to sharply sink inside her, followed by her welcoming moans, taking her closer, closer, closer, and over the edge. 

Whatever happened, whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you would call it, doesn't matter now. They have their whole lives to figure it out.

Hello, my lovelies, all my spanking stories are now on one page, link on the right under Spanking Stories, obviously. Posting this story to the Saturday Spankings Blog, link to the blog hop below.

Puzzled by Blogger

Calling all the Blogger experts, as I have a few questions:

- If I'm not logged in to Blogger on my phone and try to access my own blog, I get the usual content warning page AND a request to LOG IN to confirm my age. Was it always like that for the blogs with "sensitive content"??

Do you need to LOG IN in order to read my blog??

Fondles posted recently how she struggles to keep her blog clean and avoid the necessity to put the content warning. Even if I clean up the future posts, what about the old ones? 

Not sure if there is a viable solution here..

- Now, last week on Thursday I posted a short informational post that I rearranged my blog and put all the spanking stories on one page, that's all. That post got an astounding (for me) number of hits that day. Flabbergasted! The next day I posted the actual spanking story and got just the usual uptick in number of hits. 

Any explanation??

A Tale As Old As Time (spanking story)

A tale as old as time, no, not the one with the songs about the Beauty and the Beast, although there is a beauty and a beast in this story too. As Izzie is a beauty, obviously, and Nick thinks of himself as a monster or a beast at times, especially when he needs to deliver a spanking that's not for fun.

So the other tale as old as time is, of course, a spanking story about a girl that did something wrong, felt guilty about it, got caught or confessed. In this case, she just said something wrong, many things in fact. Now she's about to get punished for it, that's the most important part of the tale, about her tail getting blistered. After which her bottom will be bright red and thoroughly sore, but it's all good, forgiven and forgotten. They live happily ever after, also known as HEA, until the next time, which is never too far around the corner.

Sounds familiar? Aren't all spanking stories the same? Aren't all spankings the same in general? They all end up with the same hugs and kisses, preferably with a gentle rub of the said sore bottom, preferably while sitting on his lap. Preferably followed by some passionate lovemaking, soft and gentle, fade to black kind, or rough and hard fucking, with the most lurid graphic details of all orifices involved. Or anything in between really, whatever floats your boat. Different strokes for different folks, they say. Aaand, back to strokes.

No siree, no two spankings are the same. Ever. It's not the number of strokes, or the implements used, or the intensity. Like a tennis match, each spanking is different. Nick won't be pleased with such a comparison, still occasionally jealous of her tennis player of an ex-boyfriend from three years ago. No, not poking the bear. Izzie literally bites her tongue at the thought, while she stares at the wallpapered wall. Yes, Nick put her in the corner, with her leggings and panties bunched around her knees, no less, the hem of her t-shirt hiked up to her waist, alabaster white bum on display. Yes, good guess, before the spanking, Nick never did that before.

"Why do you have to turn everything into a Greek tragedy?" she snaps. "Just get on with it." 

"I'm not 'getting on with it', " he mocks her with the bunny ears that she can't see, "until I hear a proper, wholehearted, sincere apology!" Nick paces the room behind her back. 

"Whatever," she utters the worst word to say in the middle of the fight. 

"Whatever is the opposite of contrite," Nick's voice jumps an octave. "Digging it deeper, aren't we?" 

"Like it would change anything," Izzie adds under her breath. 

"Did you have to do it?" Nick huffs. "All I wanted is to give you a nice good girl spanking and then some fucking but, no, you had to pick up a fight. Some special talent! And over what, really, what to order for dinner?"

"Better that than the time you joked about me burning your dinner in front of Aldous," Izzie quips with annoyance in her voice.

"It was a bad joke, and I apologized immediately. How long will you be holding onto that, hmm?" He unbuckles the belt, and she jerks her head at the sound.

"Do whatever you want, I don't care anymore!" she murmurs.

"I will, I will do whatever I want, because that's what I do, that's what you want me to do."

She shivers from the sound of the belt snaking through the loops but keeps her nose to the wall. "Why did you take off the belt?" she gasps.

"Don't you love the belt?" Nick sounds genuinely puzzled.

"I love it when you love me, not when you're mad at me!"

"Darling, I always love you." She jumps and clenches her butt at the sudden touch. But his hand stays there to rub and caress until she relaxes and pushes into his hand, seeking more contact. "I just want to restore the peace, and it seems to be the only way these days, isn't it?"

"Yes, but..." she whines.

"No buts." He slaps her bottom sharply with his hand. "You will be bitching around for the rest of the night and then some, if I won't spank you right now. Make up your mind, yes or no?" he doubles the belt up and pulls the halves together with a loud crack.

"That's not how it works. You can't ask me. Stop asking me!" she stomps her foot.

"That's how it works for me." Nick pinches the bridge of his nose. "You know perfectly well that I will not stop asking you. Yes or no?"

"Yes!" she stomps her foot again.

"Then enough, young lady." He stands right behind her, so close, she can smell his raspberry tic tac.

"The fuck with young lady, Nick?" she raises her hands in frustration.

Smack! "Language!"

"Ouch! You can't spank me in the corner!" Her hands fly back to cover her bare bottom.

"Says who, pray tell?" 

"Corner time is for mindfulness."

"Some mindfulness with that language," Nick huffs. "Hands off." Smack!

"Wait a minute!" Izzie half-turns, and Nick pins her wrists to the small of her back.

Smack! "Not until I get a proper response from you." Smack!

"Please, sir?"

"What?!" Nick steps back.

"May I turn around?" she looks at him over her shoulder.

"Alright, alright, you may. What is it?" he continues in a calmer voice.

"I'm sorry that I ruined our evening." She turns around, eyes down to the floor.

"Not the first time. At least now I know how to fix it and get it back on track. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir," she acquiesces. Something shifts in her tone. One little word 'sir' added, and the rest of it comes out from a different state of mind, a submissive state. "I'm ready for my spanking, sir. May I have it now?"

"You surely may, with ten extra swats for this outburst in the corner." Nick taps his leg with a belt as he speaks, and she can't take her eyes of it. A snake charmer indeed.

"Ten over what?" she gulps.

"Over any lucky number I decide upon, when I decide. Not any time soon, judging by this conversation!"

"Nick!" The last burst of despair leaves her lips. 

"Nobody by that name here," he sighs.

"Yes, sir." 

Suddenly Izzie kneels at his feet. Nick lowers his hand to the top of her head, brushes the hair off her forehead, massages her neck. When he taps her cheek lightly, after a few long minutes of silence, she looks up at him and his outstretched hand. The same hand that stops her foolishness, grounds and centers her, the hand that corrects her, shows her love and care, brings her pleasure, makes her feel safe and protected. The hand that reminds her that she is his.

The single moment of clarity, just the two of them, in the world they managed to build for themselves to hide from everyone else. 

She rises on her feet and puts her hand in his.

 Hello, my lovelies, all my spanking stories are now on one page, link on the right under Spanking Stories, obviously. Posting this story to the Saturday Spankings Blog, link to the blog hop below.

PSA: Spanking stories on one page

Hello, my lovelies, my very naughty readers! You all know who you are. Don't be shy and please comment, if you like my stories.

PSA: for your convenience, I put all the spanking stories or stories that include some spanking on a separate page called, surprise, Spanking Stories, or just click on the BELTS picture on the right.

More delicious spanking stories coming soon, so stay tuned and come back often!

Until then, happy spankings or not-so-happy, whatever your heart (or bottom) desires or needs or wants...