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Remember the three caned women rubbing their bottoms on a vintage postcard that I posted back in 2017?
Well, here’s another card from the same set, showing the caning that had the ladies self-soothing their burning hemispheres:
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This is said to be a Parisian sex worker in the 1930s. Perhaps she agreed to go on a picnic excursion? I’m pretty sure her pretty ass is about to get some stripes:
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Blindfolded and gagged and tied as she is, all she can do is take the severe martinet whipping, and (presumably) whimper a lot:
Artwork is by Hanz Kovacq.
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Serenity Divine went to have her car serviced, but instead she got taught a lesson:
Transcript:
Okay, quick little learning lesson for my trans followers.
If you are having your car worked on and the mechanic comes out of the garage and says, well, looks like we have a bad tranny, number one, he is not talking about you.
And number two, your response should definitely not be well then I guess I need a spanking. Needless to say, I need to find somewhere else to have my car looked at.
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If this is supposed to be the proverbial better mousetrap, the concept still needs a lot of work. But if we upscaled it a bit and marketed it as dungeon furniture, I think it has genuine commercial potential:
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The fictional school for young noblewomen detailed in The Prefect by P. N. Dedeaux has harsh punishments for many different trivial offenses, to include the dire crime of loitering in hallways:
‘As this is a first offence I shall not strip you of your rank, Else. But you will do Duty Prefect for a week, write me out five hundred times, “I must not loiter in passages”, and the next time you are found in the slightest fault I will see to it that you get three dozen, slowly, with the whalebone birch. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Frau Direktrice. Thank you.’
‘Four strokes with the Sole.’
Maria had seen this implement, and saw it again now, reposing on a table to one side. She was surprised, however, at the sudden accession of wild, and most definite fear to the eyes of the girl as she went forward to where the Duty Mistress now pointed. Surely four was not too bad.
‘Lie down on your back.’
On her back? What was this?
Her lips – yes – quite distinctly trembling, Else Gundling lifted her legs into an L of her body. Her ankles were subjected to stout straps, which were then shackled to a pulley Wedell had lowered from the ceiling. There was a squeak of a wheel and she was hoisted until she rested but on her shoulders; the pulleys were parted, as were her legs. By now she was looking ashen with fear. Her cunt was richly bushed with swarthy hair which streamed up her belly in a flat broad bar. The tackles were adjusted, the Duty Mistress pressing on the girl’s hams to see that she was thoroughly held; then in a sudden athletic swing Wedell, grasping her victim’s wrists, swung the girl’s torso forward till her back arched. These wretched wrists were then likewise cuffed in leather and to the middle of a set of bars, evidently for the purpose. Maria breathed in deeply.
She faced the offender from the back. Else Gundling hung clear with widely parted legs, her upper body a bow attached to the bar in front. The oval purse of her pussy pouched downmost, its fat lips close. But the hair ran up the squeeze of bunched buttocks behind, the turgid flesh of whose inner sides were fully exposed, below, which was to say just above the closure of cunt.
A cold sweat started on Maria Daunitz’s brow. Undulations in the tender flesh where thigh met hip showed her that Else was not indifferent to the enormity of her situation, either. Her slabby cheeks were ripe for whipping, were going to be whipped. Wedell pressed down on them again, creaking her pulleys, then went to get her instrument. This was the Sole.
It consisted in a wooden handle and a broad leather strap of some three feet in length. Not an implement to make an experienced student pant and stretch in fear like this, surely. Maria’s tongue ran over her lips as Fräulein Wedell positioned herself with an attitude of relish some six feet back from the exact centre of her victim’s person.
‘Slowly, Wedell.’
The Prefect began to tremor, her breath coming fast.
The mistress raised the tawse above her head with both hands and with both brought it down in a slapping crack that rang through the room like a pistol shot. She had chosen as target the inside of the left buttock and the pulpy flesh under and inside the thigh there. Else jerked like a fish. Then she twisted and panted with pain.
Clearly this had been considerable. The red weal that had been ripped into her was going dark at its rim. It had cut close to her cunt but no more, yet such was her position, terror of intimate violation arched her back, clenching. The second swiped across the right, and produced a collected cry –
‘Ooooh … nicht … bitte, bitte …’
The mistress had but four and meant to extract the fullest extent of learning from them. This she effected so well at the third, again on the sturdy left cheek, that the Headmistress was moved to remark, ‘Good, very good, Wedell.’
The puce blotch now extended into the buttock cheeks, at their juncture. The girl strove to clench these maddened surfaces with all her strength, gave up in a slackened pant – as the mistress struck. The strap thucked home athwart the right side, producing a positive frenzy on the pulleys. And let down, her lower limbs released before her wrists, Else Gundling writhed amain like some stranded shark, doubling up her knees, bicycling in agony as wave after wave of pain seemed to get to and engulf her.
By a miracle of control she rested as if exhausted on hands and knees a moment, head dropped, lost, freed. She kissed the tail the mistress held out and pulled up her knickers over her raw weltings. She prostrated herself on the floor, in slowly heaving motions.
‘All right, Gundling, you won’t be let off so lightly next time.’
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This is a passage from The Tutor’s Bride by Martin Pyx, featuring some scenes of creative colonial justice on an unspecified British island in the West Indies. I can’t be certain, but this might have been the first true flagellation porn book to have fallen into my horny hands in early adolescence:
He abruptly seized command of the party and motioned them back toward the stone building. “I mustn’t delay the consummation of justice. I have adjudicated some heavy measures, which wait on my inspection.”
A blue-black beauty barely beyond twenty years stretched her legs to their fullest on the Prussian slats. The angled wedges sat in a horizontal frame, their upper edges eating fiercely into the young woman’s calves, thighs, and substantial fundament. The twelve flat stones piled with care upon her lap aided the effect.
Her thumbs had been wired to her gaudy brass earrings, allowing her elbows to reach protectively, like wings, over her gourd-heavy bosoms. A heavy perspiration ran from her face and throat, onto the mammary masses.
An Army female warder with corporal’s stripes menaced the teats with a willow cane, its last twelve inches split into four light wands. The edges appeared razor-honed.
“She appears uncomfortable.” Lady Morgan leaned forward, still in Sir George’s grip. “Deucedly. The peeled stalk of the pepper plant inserted, so.” The magistrate gestured sparsely.
“What was her crime?” The coffee-skinned warder had encouraged the elbows to part, exposing the twin gloves, their nipples thick as black bullets. The cane flashed, its four tips carving into a ripe supper, humming their relish. Bubbies shaking, the woman blubbed, her sobs bouncing her upon the agonizing slats.
“Crime?” Sir George considered the question. “Surely the sentence had some cause … oh, a case of assault. Some acrimonious altercation over a male companion shared by two women. A broken bottle was employed, to some intimidating effect, but with no physical damage.”
“She attempted to stab another woman?”
The split cane lashed the pectoral flesh in turn. Puffed tracks sprung up, bold and aching, as the nipples leaped and shivered.
“Hmmm. No, no, the other woman was assailant. This one was guilty of provoking speech. Her attacker is at hard labor, with thirty strokes of the birch instead of her supper Mondays and Thursdays for, hmmm, three months?”
“Fifteen weeks, Sir George,” the colonel supplied. “With a stiff ‘Welcome’ and ‘Farewell’ of fifty strokes, before the Palace of Justice gate, that came to the thousand cuts you deemed appropriate.”
“Quite so, quite so. Dangerous things, broken bottles. It wouldn’t do to mar such young loveliness.”
They passed on as the four ends caught the underside of a breast, lifting it on tines of flame.
Her shoulders pressed on a fiber mat, a woman held her long white legs and bottom in the air, kicking as if propelling an aerial bicycle. Her blonde hair dropped loosely behind her. A loin covering of spikey red leaves crushed into tender areas as the thighs worked. The punitive garment extended between the legs, onto the raised buttocks. At frequent intervals, a battledore paddle encouragingly drove the thorned leaves into her soft skin.
Setting aside the paddle, a bored matron picked a dipper of thick amber liquid from a glass jar. She poured it over the gaps in the leafy mesh, finishing generously between the thighs.
The woman on the mat squirmed, her lips wide in pain’s rictus.
“Continue!” The paddle spanked her scratched and seared bottom.
The sharp reek from the pepper oil stung Lady Morgan’s wrinkling nose. The round paddle-flat punished the inflamed backside as the woman’s heels tossed.
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