U is for Ugly

Dear diary,

Real life got so ugly that the only thing that stands between me and insanity are my delusional dreams. Doesn't make much sense to me but I summon the mind reader Nick, like a Genie in the bottle, to fix what cannot be fixed. In the hope that he will wave the magic wand, in this case my own pink Hitachi, and will right the wrong. Yes, I still cannot touch myself. I barely wash myself down there, which is utterly disgusting. I'm torn apart between craving the release and inability to make it happen. So, maybe Nick Dreamson, armed with extra RPMs, will be my ungodly saviour. I take a more comfortable position than in the dream, lying on my back, legs open, Hitachi in my right hand, and close my eyes. Action!

In the dream, the kitchen table was covered with the fluffy orange blanket, the same one I liked to cocoon in when watching TV on the couch in Ibiza or reading a book till I fell asleep. I was wearing nothing but the red leather garter belt and a thong with matching heels. Nick ordered me to lie on my back, so I did and lifted the legs up. The wooden spatula in Nick's hand was a pretty good indication of what he had in mind. Wrong!

“I'm not going to touch you,” Nick embarked on his let-go speech, pausing for a thunderous crack now and then. “But I will help you.” Smack! “That's what I do.” Smack! “I help you.”

“Oww!”

“When you need me the most.” Smack! “When you need to feel safe.” Smack! “Do you feel safe?”

“Yes, sir!” I cried into an empty room. That damn wooden spatula turned into a heavy hairbrush in my hand, with a menacing rhythm lulling me away from everything I wanted to leave behind. 

“Do you feel taken care of?” Smack! Mister Dreamson was not holding back.

“I do, I do!” My foot in a heavy shoe kicked and almost hit Nick's forehead.

“You're a danger to society. Scoot back,” he tapped my butt with his spatula. I wiggled back from the edge a bit. “More, more.” He kept tapping till I was almost a foot from the edge, still holding my legs up, knees together. “Heels down on the table.”

I froze mid-air. That meant to open my legs wide open in front of Nick.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Nick slapped my thighs hard. “Did I ever hurt you?”

“No!”

“Did I ever wrong you?” Smack! He was using the spatula like a riding crop, effortlessly reaching for my burning butt.

“No!” I opened my legs quickly and cupped myself with one hand, waiting for another reprimand. 

“That's my girl,” Nick chirped. He bent my knees and put my feet on the edge of the table. High heels dug into the blanket and prevented it from sliding off. “Now, be a doll and show me how you do it.”

“Do what?” I squeezed my mound, stalling, waiting for the direct order.

“Please yourself, of course.” Nick cooed. “Come on, darling.” With the spatula handle he moved the thong to the side. “Show me the works.”

“May I please use Hitachi?” I rolled my hips, to cover the embarrassment of the question.

“All in due time.” He caressed the back of my leg with the spatula, sending shivers down my spine, shivers of pleasure. “I will help you.” He tapped my butt in short but stingy strikes. “I will deliver you to the promised land.” Dreamson dropped a Passover reference.

A Chinese water torture, a metronome. My mind couldn't process any thought but that relentless slow tapping. He won't stop until I will not give in. What am I waiting for, if I want it more than anything else? My fingers slid between the folds for the first time in forever and I shuddered from the familiar feel, how amazing it felt, the forgotten slippery wetness around the engorged clit, desperate for the touch. Nothing can be compared to pleasuring yourself with your own fingers. Poor brain overwhelmed with the sensory overload from both the clit and the fingers, which sensation is the strongest, which one will win. Like an electric circuit, sending sparks galore, pushing further towards an inevitable finish line. All that accompanied by the slow tap on my ass, incapable to register the pain anymore, only one short sting of pleasure at a time.

“Hands off!” Nick's voice yanked me from the so-close mountain top. He nudged my hand to the side with the same spatula that became an extension of his hand for the night. I just noticed, as promised, he didn't touch me there, not even once. “Let me see you.”

“It's ugly!” I cried out and covered my face with my hands.

“Don't you dare to call my pussy ugly!” He smacked my mound with the spatula. “You know what will make it even more beautiful?”

“No!”

“Painting it red!” With one hand, he lifted my ankle off the table and pushed it up. “Hold it!” I grabbed one ankle, he held to the other. Now, I was really opened wide. “Put your hand back and keep going.”

I slid my hand in between my legs. I was so fucking close, he could've taken out a Scottish tawse, it wouldn't stop me. Nick knew exactly where to aim, alternating between my swollen outer lips and my aching butt. If my brain was overwhelmed before, now it short circuited for real. 

I was lost in time and space. I don't know how long he kept me there, on the edge between ugly and beautiful, between pain and pleasure. An ugly duckling no more, I soared and soared on my amazing white wings. Over the ocean, over the mountain tops, to the brightest star, to get burnt and fall to the ground, and like a phoenix, to come back to life from ashes and to soar again and again.

E is for Eager

Dear diary,

You have to understand, at that point Aldous was the only man I've ever been with. We met when I was seventeen, he was ten years older, patiently waiting for me to grow up. We didn't have sex till we got married when I turned twenty one. Maybe one day I will write about that. These days they would call it grooming. But back then, I liked how he was always there for me. He was there in the front row, when I fell on stage. He took care of everything. Maybe that's what I always wanted, to be taken care of.

As long as I could remember, I danced. Always in a pursuit of that perfect stance, perfect jump, always at the expense of an excruciating pain. When I fell, and it was over for me, there was another pain, of loss of something I loved the most. And Aldous was there for me as always. One day he just replaced one pain with another and took it to a different level. I was indeed a pain slut, as he liked to call me, and he was the only one who understood that part of me, how much I craved it, how eager I was to learn all the new ways to receive it. So he gave it to me.

It's weird, from someone who has never been touched sexually, I felt men's hands on my body quite often, of my ballet partners, of course. The hands that would hold tight onto my waist, lift me, ground me, keep me safe. Except when I fell. There was a deep connection between those strong hands on my body and feeling safe. And as anything else, Aldous took it one step further. His secret spot was the small of my back. With his hand there, he would guide me through a crowded party, lead me on the dance floor, nudge me into position. Like it was a switch to turn off my anxiety and connect me to him even more, with no words necessary.

So when Aldous slid his palm down my back and rested it on the small of my back, it wiped out all my fears and hesitation. I was his, eager to take whatever he planned to dole out. But this eagerness was calm and serene, if it makes any sense. Overwhelmed no more, I was eager to serve.

“May I please you?” The smell that sent me into the agony mere minutes prior, was now as welcoming as ever. 

“You mean, please me, please me?” He chuckled but I noticed the familiar twitch.

I was nervous, as we never tried it before, you know, him striking me with him in my mouth. What if I bite him by accident? But Aldous had more faith in me or just wanted to teach his pony a new trick. He unzipped and fed himself into my mouth. I wiggled my hands, still tied behind my back, and got my wish granted. After all, Aldous loved my inexperienced hands on his body, tugging, squeezing, pulling him closer. 

The blows that followed did not distract me, I welcomed them the same way I would his playful swats. The belt bit into my ass time after time, but I sucked on him with a newfound reverence. I even rocked my hips, following his rhythm, eager to feed his both needs: the need to give me that pain and the need to fuck my mouth. It shifted the mood. There was neither place, nor time, only his belt falling on my ass and his cock in my mouth.

Aldous admitted to me once, how many times he fantasized about my mouth, while watching me perform on stage or later, getting off to my videos. He was eager to teach me to suck properly. I couldn't take him in at first, which frustrated me so much. Obviously, I had no one to compare him with, but he explained to me that he was much thicker than average. So, he bought a collection of dildos for me to practice with, though I still had to learn to deep throat.

“Good girl,” Aldous touched my cheek, and I let him go. I didn't even notice that the blows stopped. “Stay here,” he got off the bench and patted my butt. 

Only now I realized how thoroughly he thrashed it. My poor ass burned the same as my thighs, before he numbed them with the cream. I heard the water running and the sound of a fabric being wrung from the excess water. When Aldous pressed the hot wet towel over my smarting cheeks and held me down, I yelped in agony. He was ticking off every single rule in the book of torture.

“You didn't think we're done, did you?” He adjusted the hair that was blocking my eyes, and I saw my pink Hitachi on the bed next to the pillows.

D is for Discipline

Dear diary,

The sounds of Aldous constantly moving behind my back were maddening, but I didn't dare to peek and kept my nose glued to the corner that pleasantly smelled of old wallpaper. There wasn't much furniture in the bedroom. When I heard something dragged to the middle of the room, it could only be the long tufted bench at the bottom of the bed that I knelt on, while waiting for Aldous. The old hardwood floor creaked as he walked to the bathroom and banged a few vanity drawers looking for something, then came back and rummaged through the drawer in the nightstand on his side of the bed, the side that was closer to the door. 

I heard Ellis, the gardener, watering the roses and walking away along the gravel path. My mouth felt dry, and my heart was pounding. If I could hear the dainty sounds of water and gravel, Ellis for sure heard me scream. As Aldous liked to joke, this guy worked longer at the estate than I was alive. Will he tell anyone else? Will I lose respect of the staff, or will they feel sorry for me? Will they tell Uncle James? To whom was Ellis more loyal, Aldous or Uncle James? Back then I was still trying to figure out their family dynamics, which our marriage affected so much.

I didn't stay in the corner for long, before Aldous called me out and pointed at the same spot in front of the mirror, but now there was also a bench right next to it.

“Pillows-shmillows, I will buy a proper bench for the next time.” He patted at the end nearest to the mirror. I froze at the words ‘next time', unable to move. “Hop on. Straddle it.” Aldous patted the same spot with more vigor and pulled my hand towards the bench. 

With two hands on my bare waist, he guided me over. My torso pressed flat on the bench, legs spread out wide, feet dangling in the air, face turned towards the mirror. He pulled out one of my scarves from his pocket and tied my crossed wrists together to stay behind my back. I closed my eyes from the embarrassment. His handprint on my ass faded away, the jarring contrast of my white butt and crimson thighs was terrifying and humiliating at once.

“Yes, dearest, I will not wait until you transgress again.” I felt his hand rubbing something cold on my burning thighs. I didn't care anymore, if it was to make me feel better or worse. Either way his conniving mind will come up with a new torture. I just hoped it was not capsaicin cream. “Little girls like you need discipline on a regular basis. Will start with weekly.”

The cream worked its magic, soothing and numbing the scorching pain. I understood his evil plan, to numb the pain in my thighs, so it will not distract me from the new batch. On my behind. But before proceeding any further, he sank two fingers deep inside me and quickly withdrew. I squirmed from the pain and sudden intrusion.

“Oh. You're as dry as the Sahara Desert!” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why? Is my little pain slut not happy to see me?” 

My eyes filled with tears, and I turned away. 

“Answer me.” Aldous poked my hand.

“No, sir. Yes, sir.” I yelped. “I'm always happy to see you, sir!”

“Then why so dry?” He kept his hand on top of mine, still tied with the scarf.

“It's the pun– sorry, the discipline, sir.”

Aldous shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn't mean I won't fuck you after. Doesn't mean I won't give you your yummy cummies.” He pinched my ass cheek. “I'm going to teach you a valuable lesson.”

“Please, sir.” I grabbed his hand with mine. I didn't know what scared me more, the further onslaught or the threat to fuck me after. Or even worse, to force me to cum with Hitachi, when all I wanted was to be left alone and fall asleep. All I wanted was for this to be over.

“Please what?” He freed his hand.

“I learned my lesson.” That was the first time out of thousands I uttered the wretched phrase. I learned my lesson. I sold my soul to the devil. I learned my lesson. Aldous was and will control every aspect of my life. I learned my lesson. There is nothing I can do about it. I learned my lesson. My ass is his, in any way he desires. And so is my pussy and my mouth and whatever else Aldous will come up with. I learned my lesson.

“No, darling. We are only halfway through your discipline. One third.” He corrected himself and straddled the bench behind my head. “Can't neglect those pillows.”

One hand on my neck, pressing my head hard against his crotch, I could smell him through the thin fabric of his summer linen pants. The smell, intoxicating any other time, suffocated me to the brink of a panic attack. I thrashed under his hand like a fish out of water, gasping for air. Aldous lifted my head and stroked my hair until I calmed down.

“I need you to stay still, doll.” He leaned forward, pressing one hand between my shoulder blades. And then I heard the belt buckle.

 

C is for Camel's back

 

Dear diary,

I cannot emphasize enough how that day changed my life, how the sole thing I crave turned into my worst nightmare. The very words that I whisper every single time I cum, “I learned my lesson”, were prescribed on that God-forsaken day.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Aldous charged from the doorway.

I jerked from the sound of his voice, the belt slid off my butt and fell on the hardwood floor with a loud bang. I jumped off the bench to pick the precious thing off the floor in a hurry and to kiss it, the same way I saw my friend N. kisses her prayer book. The parallel I just thought of, comparing the belt with N.’s prayer book, was appalling. I blushed profusely from that more than from any other reason. Starting from the fact that I had to face Aldous in nothing but a short blouse, while clutching his belt to my chest and cupping my bare bush, unable to raise my eyes. Anything to avoid that glare.

“You said to get ready and presentable,” I mumbled.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Aldous waved in the direction of the dressing room. “Go put that dress back on.”

“And panties?” I blurted out, as I scurried to get more clothes to cover my body, if only for a few minutes.

“Sure. Why not.” He plopped on the bench with a sigh of annoyance.

For a quick second I considered putting on my lucky yellow with white trim Zimmermann dress, but then decided that no luck in the world will help me and I wouldn't want to marr the dress with a memory of this day. Somehow, I already knew, this day will stay with me forever, the same as the day I fell on stage. The light green sundress with daisies I wore on the walk was pretty, but I wouldn't hesitate to get rid of it and throw it into the donation bin, if it comes to that.

When I came back, Aldous was standing in front of the full length mirror, fixing his hair. The Venetian mirror with an ornate wooden frame hung in between two tall windows, now suspiciously closed and heavy curtains drawn shut. This bedroom faced the back lawn, surrounded by the rose bushes, right now being trimmed by the gardener. I audibly gasped. Aldous expected me to get loud, he won't gag me, but he doesn't want the gardener to hear me scream.

He stepped back from the mirror and motioned for me to step in between. With his both hands on my shoulders, he positioned me sideways and pushed my head down, a sign to bend over. I usually liked to be manhandled in the bedroom, but there was something eerie in everything he did. I completely forgot about my plan to beg, I already molded into a puppet-like state of mind.

“Look in the mirror,” he touched my cheek. “Do you see your panties?” 

My back was parallel to the floor in a perfect upside down letter L. The dress rode up but nowhere near to show the white lace panties. I shook my head. Smack! His hand landed on the exposed skin just above my knees.

“I expect either of two answers: yes sir or no sir. What is it going to be?”

“No, sir!” I yelped, anticipating another smack. It was like I couldn't wait any longer and wanted to provoke him to get going. So at some point, he will be done with it. I wanted nothing more but to be done with it.

Smack on the same spot. “No reason to raise your voice, Elizabeth. I'm riiiight here. Not going anywhere.” His hand on the small of my back nudged me to bend more. “Come on, bend in half, like you did on stage. And grab your ankles.” I followed his order without any hesitation. “Look again, can you see your panties?” The dress rode higher but was still safely covering my butt.

“No, sir,” I whispered this time. Grab your ankles. That was one of the worst positions. I knew too much, I read too much, I saw too much. I knew exactly what was coming. The skin got pulled so tight on my legs and my butt, each stroke will hurt tenfold.

“Do you know why? Do not answer.” Aldous walked over to the bed to pick up the forgotten belt. “Because your dress is long enough.” Fire! It felt like fire just licked my upper thighs. Ah! With my head down, I could see the belt moving toward my legs with a threatening speed. One, two, three, four, five, six. He stopped at six. He went so fast, so hard. I was whimpering already.

“Do you think I'm giving you a whipping for being late?”

“Yes, sir.” I breathed out in between the sniffles.

“No, dearest, it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.” He delivered another six before he paused again. He seemed not to be bothered by my bawling,  “Probably the cane would be a better substitute for a straw.

“Nooo! Please, not the cane,” I wept.

Aldous ignored my pleading and added three more. The bastard was aiming at the same spots over and over again. 

“It's not up to you, Elizabeth, and I've already ordered new canes.” He tapped my thighs with the edge of the belt, indicating that he was about to strike me again. One, two, three! 

“Ahhhh!”

“Be thankful that I chose the lightest belt.”

“Thank you, sir.” If you are ordered to be thankful, you better say it, that I knew well.

“Good girl, you're learning your lesson.” Aldous rubbed my burning thighs, as he paused. “Right, as I was saying, it was a long list of transgressions. Just this afternoon, before your fateful walk, you were arguing over the length of your dresses.” 

Another six, one by one, bit into my thighs. The stinging overwhelmed me. I was afraid to lose balance, to let go of my ankles, to do anything that would cause Aldous to hit me more and more. I so wished he would move onto my butt. He never hit my thighs before, I heard that it's more painful but the reality was way worse than I'd ever imagined. 

“Get up,” he patted my back, and I managed to awkwardly straighten up. “Do you see the beauty of it?” Aldous waved at my tearstained reflection in the mirror. The skirt of the dress fell back to just above my knees, covering the scarlet red thighs. “No one can see you've been whipped.” He picked up the hem to fold up and tuck it in between the buttons on the back, then yanked the panties down, revealing my still pale butt. He smacked it with gusto, leaving a red handprint of all five of his fingers.

“Go stand in the corner and think about it. I'm not done with you yet,” he smirked. “Your pile of pillows, too adorable to not give it a go.”

A is for Arrangement

Dear diary,

I stumbled upon an interesting challenge recently, an April A to Z challenge. You're supposed to post on your blog a post each day, each day the topic of the post should start with the corresponding letter of the alphabet. A on the first day, B on the second, and on and on. You know, I do not have a blog, and I'll never be able to post any of my revelations publicly, but the idea seems quite alluring. As my Manhattan shrink liked to say, writing is healing. So, let's begin with the letter A.

A is for Arrangement 

It happened during the second year of my marriage. I was still settling into the role of a spoiled young wife. Aldous has been laying down the ground rules left and right, finishing off the gilded cage with equally gilded barbed wire. I went on the walk after dinner, Aldous was never a fan of those. Who really walks around here, along the country road, with an occasional car whooshing by? Before I left, he reminded me not to be late or else. We've never got to ‘or else's part, and I didn't think that Aldous would actually do anything about it. He would playfully swat my ass before or during sex, I will write more about how we started later. But this was different, my butt was tingling and not in a good way, while I was scurrying back home, ten minutes past my curfew.

I found my then-husband in the library, reading by the fireplace, with a lit cigar in his mouth and a double-folded belt on the otherwise empty desk. It was kind of hard to miss, a brown Italian leather belt, that was holding his pants when I left, now sitting on top of the polished like a mirror antique writing desk.

“If anyone would as much as lay a finger on you,” Aldous commenced with his speech. “I will have to hunt them down.” Way to refer to his ample gun collection, of both antique and modern warfare. “And then dispose of the body. Thankfully, plenty of space for that. But, considering the modern technology, who knows, I might still end up in jail!” He yelled the last part at the top of his lungs and then continued in his usual near whisper tone. “Without any conjugal visits. And we wouldn't want that, innit?” 

That last ‘innit’ really did it for me. I squirmed and blurted out. “If we had a dog, I wouldn't be walking by myself.”

“But we do not have a dog, at the moment. Do we?” Aldous was a master of stating the obvious and finishing a sentence with a question. 

“No, sir.” Why on Earth did I just call him a sir? Was it the years of pent up fantasies? Was it his stern voice that implied the only answer.

“I wish I could call you a good girl.” His lips turned up into a vicious smirk. “But we're far from it, the misfortune I am about to rectify.” He put the cigar down. “Did I tell you what happens to naughty girls, Elizabeth?” Aldous nodded at the belt.

“You did, sir.” 

“Then why did you disobey your husband and put yourself in harm's way?”

“It's just ten minutes. I was ten minutes late.” I still tried to wiggle out of the inevitable.

“Do we have an arrangement that you so blatantly broke?”

“Aldous, I'm really sorry, it will never happen again!”

“It's high time to stick with ‘sir’, Elizabeth. And, yes, I will make sure that you will take my words more seriously from now on. Because I do deliver, do I not?”

“Yes, you do.” I nodded and hastily added. “Sir.”

“Good. Now go upstairs and get ready.” All I could do was nod. “What will you make yourself presentable for? I want to hear the words.” 

“For you to whip me, sir. With your belt.” Aldous avoided the word ‘spank’ like a plague, and so did I. “For coming home late. And putting myself in harm's way.” I was filling the scary void with the words.

“Excellent. You're halfway to learning your lesson. Now go and wait for your imminent encounter with my belt.”

As I marched up the stairs, I burst into tears, unable to hold them any longer. I knew that it was the first time of many. Many dreadful whippings coming my way. And there was no way I could change any of it.

PS My dear readers, for those of you who has been following Izzie and Nick story. First of all, sorry for disappearing!! And thank you for all your kind words! 

In January, Sage Blum wrote to me and explained WHY Izzie and Nick are so awesome. I was blown away by her words. At that point, I was halfway through writing a spinoff about Stuart and Sherry.

I thought long and hard about Sage's words, because Izzie and Nick are indeed my favourite couple. I'm happy to report that I'm back on working on that book. The problem is/was that initially it was written as a vanilla book, smutty vanilla as I call it. I needed to introduce kink, so... drum roll.. I'm writing Izzie's back story as a diary. You can read it this month of April 2024 as part of the A to Z challenge. Aldous is Izzie's ex-husband. It's quite dark and ambiguous, but I hope you will enjoy it!

And as always, I'm dying to hear what you think. So, don't be shy, leave a comment.

and think of England - Birching Bordello part 7

 

Next instalment of the Birching Bordello story, sorry to keep you waiting for sooo long. To read from the beginning, click here

“I’ve got you, Isabel.” Nick resorts to the familiar words, lips pressed against her temple. The first minutes of the post-play haze are the hardest, perhaps even more so than the act himself, especially when she cries. Even though she cried for him, for putting him through this, time and again. 

Nick seeks reassurance. He needs her to confirm he did well, that she still loves and wants him. His hand, hidden under the many layers of skirts, circles and rubs her stinging butt with more and more purpose. 

Even for a big guy like Nick, it’s challenging to maneuver Izzie and her giant dress on his lap. “Are we done with this Victorian nonsense?” 

“Why?” Izzie lifts her eyes to meet his, with the serenity that only comes after the storm, a shy smile curling her lips. Ha! The sign he was looking for. 

“Firstly, we need to get you out of this dress before you suffocate.” Nick yanks her up to stand in between his legs and reaches for the sophisticated bow that still holds her unlaced corset together. 

"No, leave the bow, there is a zipper under." 

"Alright," Nick acquiesces and drags down on the secret zipper. The dress cracks open like a can of sardines, and Nick yanks it down for Izzie to step out of it. He got rid of her white pantaloons earlier, so the only garment left are the white stockings, rolled down to her knees. He discards the stockings the same way, shaking his head with hasty annoyance. 

"Secondly, to attend to another pressing matter, quite literally, pressing." Nick drags Izzie's hand to his crotch. 

"Want a blowie?" Izzie slips into the parlance of our times. She leans against him, eager lips touching the soft skin of his neck, just below the stubble. 

"No, darling, I want an old fashioned fucking." His hands wander up and down her narrow back, inevitably gravitate to the magnetic warmth of her arse. "If you don't mind, be a good girl and open your legs for me." Nick closes his eyes as he awaits the consequences of such a brazen tirade. Whatever. He is done with the games for today. 

"Why you can curse, and I can't?" she pouts. Her fingers, drifting along the rigid outline under the thin fabric, do not bring any relief. 

"A difference in anatomy, I guess." Nick catches the tantalizing hand to press it harder against his already aching self. 

"Nicky!" 

"Nicky was a fuckboy whose heart you broke in Ibiza." He bites his lower lip, as the bitter confession leaves his mouth. 

"I want Nicky back." She doubles down the plea, two arms circled around Nicky's neck. 

"Me too." Nick cranes his head to the side to give her a better access. Funny, it's usually him who's kissing it better. 

"We screwed up again, didn't we?"  

"Majorly," he nods. 

"Fix it." Two dark eyes are staring into his. "You fix things for everyone. Please, fix it. I will do anything."

"Will you lie back and think of England?" Nick cautiously weaves a tale. "Not all of England, just one particular Englishman."

"Yes, please." Izzie steps back to sit on the bed, then slides over till her head hits the pillows. Long legs stretched and firmly pressed together, hands folded on her belly, she's a naked vision of a virtuous obedience. If only he wouldn't know better. 

"Now, will you trust that Englishman and let him make you happy?" One eyebrow raised, Nick leans over and waits. 

"Yes, I will." Little feet walk up his lithe body in tiny steps till her ankles plop on their respective shoulders. 

Left ankle gets its own kiss, then the right one. "Good girl."

For Saturday Spanking Blog, sorry for the last minute entry

PSA: Devlin O'Neill's old blog

 

HUGE THANKS to Hermione for unearthing the snapshot of Devlin O'Neill's old blog: CLICK HERE on Way Back Machine.

Many pictures were not preserved by the captures, but the posts are there. I truly hope that someone did manage to make a backup of the old site before it went down, and really wonder if it can be hosted again. 

Every time I see Devlin's name on someone's blogroll, I try it and, of course, that French website comes up. Silly me! I heard that the domain was not renewed or sold, not sure. But wouldn't it be great in Devlin's bright memory, In Memoriam, to resurrect the latest incarnation of his blog? Even if it would be a different website, I'm sure all the major blogs will gladly put it on their blog rolls or archive links.

So many miss Devlin or, like me, just heard of him, because were late to the party. I've never seen the actual blog, today was the first time. And boy, did I cry real tears...

As far as the blogs go, I'm nobody. My blog gets almost no traffic. But if only... this idea will get picked up by someone who knew him and make it happen. 

Just my two virtual cents, but if a contribution of real dollars and cents will be needed, such a GoFundMe campaign won't take long.

Too many blogs disappeared in the last year. Let's bring back at least one.

Y is for Yellow or Birching Bordello part 6

As per long standing tradition, for Saturday Spankings blog, I post an installment of the Birching Bordello story. The picture taken from Perfectdt's blog, Spankedhortic II. 

To read the Birching Bordello from the beginning: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Izzie stiffens and lies down still. 

Nick decides to repeat it as a question. "Isabel, will you count down the last ten for me?"

For me. Two little words, like magic, yank her out of her daze. "Yes, Nicholas."

"Then let's turn you over. Get up." Nick nudges her shoulder and lifts Izzie on her feet, disregarding her mild protest. Nick hooks one arm under her knees and the other one under her shoulder and lowers Izzie on the edge of the bed, but on her back, while holding her legs up. The heavy dress falls down all around her, suffocating, and she still has those pantaloons on, opened up like a curtain around her butt. 

"What are you doing?" she sounds her protest. "I can't breathe like that." 

"Exactly, we shall get you out of this dress." 

"No, please, you can't see me naked," she blurts out. Boy, she can't even admit to herself how drown in this Victorian fantasy she is. 

Nick rolls his eyes. "Alright, but I'm unlacing this corset right now." 

He's amazingly efficient with all the ribbons, bows, and knots, and in no time she feels she can move around freely inside the confines of the dress. Next thing he pulls the pantalooons down to her ankles, and off they go, and no protest, sound or silent, can stop him. 

"You won't be needing these pantaloons any time soon. I bet you'll be glad not to have any fabric touching your skin. Am I right?" 

"Nicky, please." Izzie squirms, trying to hide in the wide skirt. She covers her face with her hands. 

"Please what?" Nick pulls her over closer to the edge, while holding her ankles in one hand. "Hands off, Isabel, I need to see your face." 

"Yellow!" she cries out. 

"What's wrong?" 

"It's embarrassing." She dutifully slides her hands off, clutching at the shawl around her neck. 

"And you know any spanking that isn't?" She shakes her head. "Then I want to finish it before you pass out. Is that all?" She nods. "Answer me, was it a reason good enough to cry wolf?" 

"I won't do it again, I'm sorry!" 

"Oh, you will be, that's three extra. What number will you start counting from?" 

He moves back a bit and to the side to give himself space to swing. 

"Thirteen?" 

"That's right, a baker's dozen. No more interruptions." He sounds stern and determined. 

The first three strikes are hard but uneventful. Izzie responds with the usual 'thank you sir.' The next three send her howling, and Nick issues a warning that clenching and moving will get her extras. She turns her face away, and he doesn't say a thing. At nine Nick stops to rub for a few long minutes, and Izzie can swear that she heard him muttering 'I can't' and' yellow'. That's when she started crying, more sorry for poor Nicky than for herself. Two more, and finally, she let it go, Nick told her later. He went on for two more to keep her there, and as soon as he was done, scooped her in his arms. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she wails. "To put you through this." 

And all of a sudden it's not a Victorian Miss Isabel, but the real Izzie, hiding her face against his chest. 

To be continued. 

See below the linky link for the blog hop:

U is for Upsy-daisy

Next installment of the Alphabet Story, happens right after T is for Tears. The picture is from my Duolingo Spanish lesson. 

U is for Upsy-daisy 

Nick waits in silence until the kicking stops and then some. Izzie shifts and wiggles impatiently on his lap, actually on his left knee, or the front leg, as she calls it, reminding of the task at hand. 

She has already softened and eased into a pliable mess. He could have carried her back to bed, made sweet love to her, and call it a day. But she wants more, a total meltdown, a sobbing mess. All he needs is to carry on to that tipping point, to keep calm and carry on. Bloody hell, he's stuck. 

The belt, folded short, is still wrapped around his right hand. Nick taps her bum lightly to show that he's ready. He slides her lightly to the side, so he can wrap his left arm around her shoulders. He looks down again at the pinkened bum dangling between his knees. 

"Vamos," he deciphers a whisper. It's bad, so bad, when she reverts to Spanish. "Azotarme duro, querido." Spank me hard, darling, just like on those shorts she wore in Ibiza. 

Run out of excuses, Nick starts slowly but steady. Izzie stays still through the first few swats. But Nick can't be fooled, he knows that every single one of them stings, especially now, especially after last night. 

Dragging it any longer, he's doing her a disservice. So Nick cranks it up, swinging harder, hitting harder. Through squirming and clenching, through kicking and screaming and bawling, through begging and pleading, he doesn't stop covering every inch of her bottom with punishing stripes. Until Izzie breaks into heavy sobs and never-ending chant of Nicky-please. And then she is motionless again, accepting the blows as they come. 

The execution is over, but she is still shaking in his arms. Nick is not sure, if Izzie can even hear him in this dazed state or comprehend the words. He has so much to tell her, yes, right now. 

"I will be here to catch you, if you stumble. To cheer you up, if you are sad. To pick you up, if you fall, please don't fall, I beg you. To share your joy and your sorrows. To applaud your success. I will be here with you every step of the way." 

At this point Nick can't really tell if the words coming out of his mouth are his own, or he's playing the part. 

"And yes, to remind you and correct you, if you wish me so, as we are in it together, Isabel. Do not hide from me anymore, do not lie to me, that's one thing I will have trouble  forgiving you." 

"Upsy-daisy," she says through the quieting sobs. 

"Beg your pardon?" 

"You say upsy-daisy when you pick me up," she repeats. "You always pick me up and put me together. Upsy-daisy." 

T is for Tears and Taken

 

It's part of the Alphabet story. To read in order start at G is for Going Going Gone, then H, I, L, M, and N. Sorry for juggling a few things during A to Z. The picture is from Wiki. And, it's been a long day for me, so a shorter story today. 

We are picking up after N is for Nothing. Izzie and Nick are in the middle of the morning spanking, my favourite cliffhanger. She asked to spank her to tears. 

"Does it count as tears?" Nick asks a rhetorical question, as he wipes a lonely tear with his thumb.

Izzie shakes her head.

"Alright then." Nick shuffles her over his front leg, readying for his makeshift paddle. He folded the belt so short, that it's no different from a leather paddle. Nick wonders, if it would still count as belting or paddling in Izzie's book. But who really cares, if he was asked to spank her to tears, that's what he will do.

She is definitely still quite sore after yesterday's beating. That's what it is in his mind, no matter how consensual. Brits are more casual with the term, considering spanking a milder counterpart. If there are implements involved, especially cane, no siree, can't call it a spanking. Thankfully, Izzie doesn't object to the word. As long as Nick agrees to inflict it on her, she doesn't really care how he calls it. 

The few swats that he just gave her with his hand warmed her up enough. But he hesitates for another moment, and like on cue, he feels The Kick. Izzie was leaning so tight against him, her pregnant belly to his stomach, that Nick freezes sucker-punched. 

"Nicky, he's fine. If I'm happy, he's happy." Izzie snakes her arm around his neck. 

"You're crying." Nick whispers into the top of her head. 

"Not yet, but you will make me, right?" she tries to lift her head to look up but he presses it harder against his shoulder. 

"Give me a moment, please." 

"Take it, and then take me. That's what I need, to be taken. To break into pieces and rise again, taken." 

C is for Crying and Corner and not the Cane

C is for Crying 

DEAD DOVE Warning: Do NOT read if spankings, even consensual, are not your cup of tea.

Note: This is not your typical spanking story. Nick is a hesitant Top, guided by a more experienced bottom, Izzie.

“Nick, you bloody bastard, it hurts!” Izzie wiggles and moves away from the belt with every stroke but comes back like a clock. Yet something doesn’t add up.

“It’s supposed to hurt,” deadpans Nick. “Wait, what did you just say?” A flurry of painful strokes lands on her upper thighs, a well-known medicine for cursing.

“It fucking hurts!”

Another long flurry ensues. “Please continue with the cursing. Or shall we start over?” All the rehearsed buzzwords and phrases come out with ease. But, thank fuck, she cannot see his face, because Nick is on the verge of panic.

“Stop it!”

“Colour?” He knows better than to stop. The semaphore system is more for Nick than for Izzie. Green means, don’t you dare to stop spanking no matter what I say. Yellow means he can take a break to talk and then continue the spanking. Red or her safeword means something is really wrong, so, yes, full stop. Needless to say, the only answer he ever heard was green. No matter what.

“Yellow!”

Aghast, Nick chokes on half a sob. “Izzie, my love, what’s wrong?”

“It’s too fast and too much. I can’t let go like that. Not in this position.” Izzie is still bent over, knees on the couch, naked from the waist down. Her face, turned away from him, lies atop of the couch’s back. She spits out the words in a hurry. But all Nick sees is her pregnant belly, hanging there, presumably safe. And her wobbly knees.

“Do... do you want me to build a pillow fort?”

“No, I’m sorry, Nicky.” She sits back on her heels. “What if?” 

“Anything! What do you want to try?”

“Can you sit here on the edge?” 

Nick obliges without a clue what she has on her mind. Izzie scoots to the floor and stands to the right from Nick, staring down at his open knees. And now he gets it! He pulls her gently across, one bony knee wedged underneath her belly, the other right above it. Left arm curls around her waist to keep her in place. She fits, and she’s safe.

“I got you.” Nick rubs her back.

“I know you do, Nicky. Now, long and hard. Make me let go. Make me cry, please.”

C is for Corner 

I posted this limerick before, for all limericks go here. But since the A to Z challenge brings so many new readers, good things are worth repeating twice:

Corner time is a heavy affair
Sighs, regrets, pouts, hiccups to spare
With red bum on display
It's the price one must pay
For the pleasure of poking the bear

C is for not the Cane

On the scale of one to ten, the Cane is eleven. 

You can't be partial when it comes to the Cane. You either love it, hate it, dread it, or all of the above. Those who swear by it, still dread it. 

There is more love for the Cane across the pond due to its former use for corporal punishment.

Caning is considered an art. As any art form it requires plenty of practice.

Cane marks are universally admired, cherished, photographed, posted, and discussed at length. 

Those perfectly parallel crimson welts on someone's otherwise alabaster bottom and thighs cannot be mistaken with anything else. 

And that's all I have to say about Cane!

Now, caning tips from Ronnie of  Heart and Soul, read here. Ronnie doesn't cane, but her husband does. You can also buy them from her website.

C is also for Consent and Cock and another four letter C-word that shan't be mentioned, but seriously, I can't just write one paragraph about Consent!

Three letters down, 23 to go!