Spanking Blog: Adult Erotic Spanking At Its Best

Julie is at the state prison farm, and she has angered one of the matrons. Now she’s in for it:

I ain’t going to use no whip on you,” Hazel snickered. “I got me something better. Real humane it is. Take a look at this.”

Julie looked. She had no choice. The supple heavy strap was dangled for her inspection. It was not as frightening a thing as a whip, but she liked not the look of it. It had the appearance of having been much used. It would most certainly hurt.

“Got to look after our gals.” Hazel chuckled.

“Inspectors don’t want no cut skin. This little beauty makes a lovely sound when it connects with a gal’s rump.”

The word ‘Inspector’ gave Julie a faint hope. “But aren’t I supposed to have done something bad in order to be punished?” She asked tremulously.

“Oh, but sugar, you have.” Hazel’s voice oozed satisfaction. “Don’t you remember your first order here: to call the Matron and I ‘maam’? You haven’t done it once. You’re too damn anxious to be snotty to think of it.”

Julie quailed. There would always be an answer. She looked at the hard cold eyes surveying her and swallowed apprehensively.

“Paying a bit of attention now, eh.” Hazel had seen the flicker of fear. “Let me tell you something, sugar. You can offer to munch my cunt now until you’re blue in the face and it won’t save you from a single stroke.”

Julie was searching her mind for a plea when the strap struck her across the ripest curve of her bottom. The crack was indeed resounding. It was a frightening sound like a peal of evil laughter to accompany the pain. Despite stoic intent she tugged wildly at her strapped wrists and writhed in anguish.

“Warms you up a bit more than you thought, eh, gal’!”

Hazel delivered another ringing impact, this time across the already wealed shoulders Julie moaned.

“Glad you’ve got a tongue, sugar. I’ll have you screaming in a minute. Try this one.”

When the screams got too hard to contain, Julie pealed them out. Why cherish her misery! It proved nothing. The strap was worse than she had supposed. A quite new and different kind of pain. Each blow sent scorching waves of agony in every direction through her punished flesh. Finally her tongue spoke against her will.

“No more! Oh please not again! Please stop. Ohhhh!”

“Makes a nice introduction to The Farm,” Hazel commented conversationally. She did not even pause. The strap slapped in delight on Julie’s nudity.

“It’s too awful. I can’t bear it.”

“You’re doing fine, sugar.”

The strap splatted where it chose. Held only by her wrists, Julie was able to provide writhings and twistings and the rattle of her ankle chain in a manner deeply gratifying to the woman who strapped her. “Which would you say you prefer, sugar, this or a whip?” Hazel sounded clinically interested.

“I don’t know. I really don’t – oh stop … please!”

“I’d like an answer. For the record, you might say. Fine intelligent gal’ like you ought to come by an opinion. I’ll just keep letting you have it. I don’t mind the work; it’s in a good cause.”

Julie knew there would be no right answer for her.

“The whip is the worst.” she said bleakly, uncertain if she had lied.

“Glad to hear it, gal’. Sort of makes me feel easier about using this strap. I can hack away at you for an hour with a clear conscience.”

The blows continued. The sound of some was as potent as Julie’s scream.

The girl strapped to the cross did not faint.

From Julie by F.E. Campbell.

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I’m about 90% certain this artwork is by Eric Stanton, maybe from one of the “Stantoon” mags he did:

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We have seen the photo before, at Corpun:

But it’s better with commentary by Adele Haze:

So, my husband sends me this picture, with a caption: “What’s it worth not to send this photo on to Lupus?” [Adele was a model for Lupus at the time — Spankboss]

I think, the only rational response is, you don’t suggest any such implement to any company I’m ever likely to work with, and in return I won’t stick you with a fork. Somewhere it would hurt.

Seems to me you’d need to call the brute squad just to get that thing swinging.

In the faux-Victorian and badly over-written erotica novel The Blue Train by Richard Manton, there’s a totally noncon account of an afternoon’s cruel enjoyment of a young woman on her way to a old-fashioned penal institution. Under the most amazingly-contrived circumstances, our viewpoint villain arranges to impersonate a guard and isolate his helpless victim in a shared toilet compartment on a train:

In the toilet itself, one of the guards had left his peaked cap and his jacket on the hook, an official-looking leather despatch-case beside them. Quietly I opened the case. Inside it I saw a collection of leather restraining straps, a tailed spanking-strap, and a file of documents. I stared at these and with a half-formed plan lifted down the prison guard’s cap and jacket. Indeed, I carried them off to my own cabin.

The toilet itself had two doors and each could be bolted from within, so that the occupant was secure from intrusion by a neighbour. I studied the bolt on my side and saw how, by loosening the screws a little, it could be moved out of line and prevented from sliding across.

Then I waited. Presently my heart jumped as if with shock or a fright of anticipation. The far door of the wash-room and toilet opened and closed. I heard the slither of cloth on skin. The bolt on my side had not even been closed as I entered, clad in the jacket and cap of officialdom.

There are stories I look back upon with excitement and some with longing but few with such amusement as this. I felt like a character in a stage farce. Ragnhild had shed her tartan blouse and blue shorts. She was now undressed charmingly in her white bra and tight black bikini pants.

We stared at one another. I had no idea what to do if she resisted now. I suppose I should have stripped off the cap and jacket, fled from my cabin to the far end of the train, and got off quickly at the next stop. But I had calculated that the noise of the engine would make it impossible for those in the corridor to hear anything in this place. In that I was right. Nor would there be any interruptions. They might enter the other cabin but the door to it from the toilet was bolted. They would know she was in here but would not care.

As I say, Ragnhild would still have had no escape except through my cabin and they would catch her in the corridor when she emerged. She certainly had no way off a train travelling at this speed.

All the same, she backed away and when I was close she seemed prepared to struggle.

But they had prevented her escape another way, by cuffing her wrists in front of her with soft straps. Of course, I was surprised that she did not begin to scream or shout. Then I realised. She had seen the uniform and thought I was another one of the escort.

Stand still, Ragnhild! I said sharply, playing the part. She stood still, though with a surly look. Kneel down. There! At once!

She offered a little resistance but not much, knowing that one guard could always call assistance from the others. Under these circumstances, I was a match for her. There was gasping, writhing and cursing but we descended to the floor, at least until Ragnhild was kneeling. Then I drew a stout strap from the case, ran it round her wrist-cuff chain and round the base of the toilet pedestal. Struggle as she might, Ragnhild was now face-down on the floor and could not get up. She looked extremely sexy, even in such a place. She had the sun-tanned thighs of a young Amazon. The full cheek-swell of Ragnhild’s bottom in the filmy black nylon of her hip panties looked very sexy. There was also something perversely exciting in the prospect of being alone with her behind a locked washroom door in this situation.

I had bolted the door leading to her cabin, so that we should not be interrupted. Then I used a leather bolster from my own cabin and wedged it under her belly on the tiled floor.

Lie on your belly over the bolster, Ragnhild. Lie quietly. At the first sound of crying out or screaming, I shall gag you. Very tightly.

The threat of a gag seemed to strike her like a blow. She lay startled but quiet. I was seduced by the warmly suntanned figure of a healthy young Nordic woman, the lank honey-blonde hair plainly cut with its fringe and its collar-length framing her firm features. The law forbids whipping and even spanking for girls in the country she comes from, so I think Ragnhild still was not certain of what was going to be done to her. She lay there, her handsome tits filling the white bra quite nicely at the front. She lay forward with the leather bolster under her belly, her suntanned arms pulled in front of her and her robust legs apart a little.

She looked up, wide blue eyes frightened, as I knelt down and made her more secure with several more prison straps. I strapped her wrists more firmly to the porcelain pedestal, pinioning her waist as well to a strong leather loop in the bolster, just under her belly. Ragnhild was now positioned as I wanted her.

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Someone on Twitter shared local news footage of the wild beach party that’s going on in south Texas among drunk people with an insufficient respect for the global pandemic. The news clip included about three seconds of amusing footage of people spanking each other.

I don’t imagine I need to explain that if by some hideous miscarriage of emergency management, the powers that be were to make the grievous mistake of putting me in charge of public health in Texas, the beach spankings administered would be entirely of another character. All those strong-armed Texas Department of Safety officers seen in the original news clip would be swinging prison straps until their arms were sore, and the party would soon become a lot more subdued.

Meanwhile, here’s the pandemic beach spanking clip as an animated .gif:

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Some interesting social attitudes on display in this historical account of the 1950s Canadian committee that recommended the abolition of judicial corporal punishment (prison whipping and the use of the infamous Canadian prison strap) in Canada:

Virtually everyone agreed that corporal punishment, if used at all, had to be restricted to cocky young men and male prisoners who became violent or mutinous. No one took seriously the prospect of whipping females, and most found explicit talk about bodies of either gender and punishment vaguely embarrassing. Wardens provided committee members with exhaustive details about the placement of prisoners on strapping tables, their immobilization, and the exposure of their bare flesh. Had sexologists or psychiatrists been called as witnesses, they might have pointed out the voyeuristic and sado-masochistic subtext of such acts. This was precisely the Pandora’s box of barbarous impulses that Joint Committee members preferred to keep tightly lidded.

Titillating notions popped out at several points, but teasing and jokes nervously sublimated them. When the presiding chairman asked William Common why youth gang “molls” were not “spanked” along with their male compatriots, he rattled the prosecutor, provoking him to assert that “assaulting females” was “more or less revolting to the average man.” The Joint Committee’s unofficial gadfly, Harold Winch, punched holes in Common’s chivalrous armor. As he reminded the prosecutor, the “average” man might very well spank his errant daughter when she was naughty. And if legislators were so chivalrous, Winch added, why did they not exempt women from the death penalty? As pointed as this heckling was, it still delicately sidestepped the scandalous prospect of “burly” male guards strapping or paddling women’s bare buttocks.

The Joint Committee members confronted the pornographic qualities of physical punishment again when members debated the prospect of observing an actual whipping. MP Ann Shipley, one of three women on the committee, shocked her fellow members when she argued that watching lashes and whips in action would be more instructive than merely gazing at them and listening to prison officials describe them. The warden of the Kingston penitentiary politely declined her request, protesting that the prospect would be “very embarrassing” (to whom, he did not specify).

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