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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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This is an enigmatic spanking image that cries out for a narrative. I’m going with “punishment night at the sorority” but there are so many slightly-taboo domestic punishment situations that could also fit this scene!
This kinky watercolor painting is by an artist whose identity is uncertain or unknown. Paltego at Femdom Resources discusses the possible candidates here under the tag “German” as is seen in many online collections of the artwork.
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There’s a chapter in The Captive’s Journey by Richard Manton detailing a variety of kinky entertainments in the British countryside, not the least of which is a girl hunt. But why does the human fox run? For fear of Whipper Nate, it turns out:
I awakened Saturday morning just as the first light of day became visible over the horizon. It was a cool, grey morning with a damp, heavy, mist in the air — perfect weather for “The Hunt.”
Dressed in our red and buff outfits, the twenty guests assembled in the dining-room for our lavish breakfast. As we were sitting down to eat, a brass horn sounded. Sir Andrew Sternwell entered the dining hall with a statuesque red-headed woman in tow. With her wrists tied in front of her, she was strikingly beautiful and completely nude. Sir Andrew introduced the woman as Jessica Gray. She looked, understandably, very frightened. He informed us that she would be the object of our quest — our ‘fox’ for the day. He then explained the rules of the Hunt to us.
On leaving the dining hall, the naked Jessica Gray would be taken deep into the forest that surrounded the estate. She would be given an hour’s head start, while the hunting party finished their breakfast and readied their mounts. Jessica’s task was quite simple: she was to try to avoid recapture by the hunting party for as long as possible. Sir Andrew informed the girl that she would be expected to avoid capture for a minimum of two hours or else face the consequences.
As she was being led out of the room, I remarked to Lady Fiona that I was uncertain as to what would motivate the girl to play the odious role assigned her and attempt to evade the pursuing hunting party. Fiona replied that the girl had been informed that, if she did not avoid being recaptured with in the mandated period of time, she would earn a week’s stay with ‘Whipper Nate’.
“Whipper Nate?” I asked.
She then told me the story of ‘Whipper Nate Cobb’….
It seems that on the grounds of Sternwell Manor was an old grist mill dating from the 1700’s. The mill was somewhat unusual in that, instead of being water-powered, this mill was man-driven. In those less enlightened days, convicted prisoners were required to work off their sentences by driving the heavy mill shaft under the watchful eye of the jailer, a rather sadistic gentleman named, Nate Cobb.
When Rio 9 took over ownership of the estate, the old mill was still there, although it had fallen into a state of disrepair. Sensing such a facility might be of value to the organization, the mill was repaired. Ironically, old Nate’s great grandson still lived in the area. Also named ‘Nate’, he was most anxious to carry on the family tradition.
If a member of the organization felt that one of their female charges was in need of prolonged corrective action, she would be delivered to Whipper Nate. The girl would be summarily stripped naked and her head and hands would be placed in a wooden yoke mounted on a horizontal shaft that was affixed perpendicular to the main vertical drive shaft. Bent over at the waist, the girl’s naked ass would be most prominently displayed.
Whipper Nate, with a brine-soaked leather cat in hand, would stand behind his unfortunate victim and order the girl to start turning the shaft.
It was not an easy task — the shaft was quite heavy and the position is which she was tied was most uncomfortable, but Whipper Nate made sure she complied. If she stopped or slowed down at anytime, she soon felt Nate’s cruel whip on her exposed bottom. Nate, although not the brightest of individuals, loved his work and would keep the girl driving the heavy shaft until she reached the point of total exhaustion.
As Jessica Gray had painfully learned at a previous session, an hour of such treatment was almost unendurable — an afternoon of it seemed like a lifetime. Facing the unpleasant prospect of a full week at the hands of Whipper Nate if she failed, Jessica would do everything she could to avoid that fate. She’d run as fast and as far as was humanly possible to elude us.
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I found this story Singapore Sting in an old offline archive of sex stories. It’s by Alex Birch, who posted it to Usenet in 2005. Our heroine, in desperate financial straits, got a job in Singapore under false pretenses, and gets caned by her sternly-aloof boss for it:
Dear God, I will be anonymous here, won’t I? My husband and family will never find out? Very well I certainly need to open my heart to someone or I’ll bottle up my guilt and shame inside. I’m 42 years old, married and with a young son who has just started at Cambridge and until six months ago, we had been living for two years in Singapore where my husband held a post of lecturer. Sadly, after six months in Singapore my husband was stricken with ME and was unable to work. We had a mortgage, there was his contract to negotiate around and our son was studying for his A levels. The money worries were immense and I began to look in the Straits Times for work I could do, for I have a degree in languages.
To my delight I eventually found an advertisement from a Singaporean importer of French and German farm equipment asking for language experts with a technical background who could translate the accompanying instructions into English. I applied, lying dreadfully about my technical background, and was duly interviewed in the sumptuous lounge of the man’s home. He was perhaps thirty five, very charming and business like, with a very strong, almost overwhelming, personality. I had noticed how his maidservants scurried to do his bidding and felt myself blushing with a strange conflict of feelings particularly when he quite unashamedly looked my body up and down with undisguised pleasure. I have kept myself in shape and for a woman of my age I am quite proud of my full figure. To my delight I got the post at a very good salary and was told to read the contract carefully, sign it then report to his home every Monday and Thursday to hand in completed work and to collect fresh.
My first task was a 4000 word technical handbook in German and I realised when I started how much I’d bitten off and had to guess at some of the more technical expressions. I handed the work in on the Thursday, collected more and the following Monday I called at his house once more. I was told, to my surprise, that my employer required to see me upstairs in his study. A little apprehensive about going upstairs in a man’s house, I knocked on his study door and was told to enter. He was walking round the small room which contained just two chairs and a desk, clearly in a state of some annoyance. I was told abruptly to sit down and then he looked down angrily at me. He told me there were some fifty technical errors in my translation, minor ones in themselves but enough to invalidate the handbook and render some of it positively dangerous. He accused me of lying about my technical background and, by now close to tears, I admitted it and apologised profusely.
To my distress, he told me apologies were not enough and he would have to invoke the reparation clause in my contract. I was devastated, as if the money worries I already had were not enough, and I pleaded with him to reconsider. At this point, he stilled my pleas and said he was aware of my husband’s plight and our financial situation thus he had no intention of demanding money. Instead, he continued as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he would extract due reparation by the application of a cane across my bottom!
I heard what he said but I couldn’t take it in. At first I thought I’d misheard and the room seemed to go round as I grabbed the seat of the chair.
I felt the blood drain from my face and hands in total shock as I must have just stared open mouthed like an idiot for some seconds. Then realisation dawned, the blood rushed into my face and I became completely hysterical.
Crying and almost retching with disgust and humiliation, I got out of the chair waving my arms around and calling him the most unladylike things, almost anything I could think of, all the time almost squealing in hysterical rage as my pride and my dignity rebelled at the very idea. A respectable and mature married businesswoman with a young son, asked to accept the cane across her bottom for poor performance like some naughty school girl of old. It was beyond comprehension!
He just stood there casually as the storm raged and, of course, eventually it died out and I collapsed into the chair crying and shaking with no strength in my legs. My employer seemd not a whit perturbed by my outburst and offered me a glass of sherry, which I angrily refused. When I had calmed down he said that, my being English, he had expected such an initial reaction as western women had ideas above their station. He told me that his Asian staff were far more resigned to corporal punishment for mistakes and that his three maids were caned regularly. He added that he had employed three English girls previously as translators, most staying with him two years or more, and to each he had offered the choice between canings for serious errors and dismissal. All of them, he said with a grin, had accepted the canings. I shrieked out to him that I was NOT a girl but a respectable married woman who was some years his senior. He told me that age was of no consequence and that if a healthy woman of any age committed serious indiscretions she should be punished with the cane.
I sat there shaking and weeping with disbelief, shame and a whole spectrum of emotions as he stared at me, not unkindly. He told me I had thirty minutes to decide and to go back to the lounge where the maid would get me some tea. In that time I could leave and never return, throwing away a good and lucrative contract, or I could come back upstairs and knock on his door.
I tottered downstairs and collapsed into a chair, my mind a confused jumble of signals. Twice, three times I got up to leave and then I thought of my husband and son reliant on my income and I sat down again, ashamed of my own indecision. Then other thoughts took over as I imagined myself bent over the desk with my skirt up and somehow my husband and son were there looking on in horror. I beat my head in my hands and walked around the room thinking of the options and suddenly realised there were no options. I had a good well paid job, I had lied about my technical expertise which my employer appeared prepared to tolerate if I accepted his humiliating and painful interpretation of due reparation, and what was ten or fifteen minutes humiliation when our livelihoods were at stake?. I just prayed to God that nobody ever found out.
The shame and degradation as I walked back upstairs was now largely replaced by my fear of the cane. I’d never been physically punished in any way and I’d heard the cane was dreadful. How much protection would I have on? How many strokes would I get? He hadn’t said but… I realised I had reached the study and with trembling legs and a thumping heart, I knocked on the door.
As I walked in I froze, for he must have heard me climb the stairs and prepared himself, for in his hands was a 3ft long rattan cane which he swished twice in front of my terrified eyes. All my hysteria was gone and most of my rage, my mind full now of the enormous sacrifice of my dignity I had agreed to make for the sake of my job. He told me he was glad I’d made the right choice then motioned me over to the desk and told me to face the study window. I began to tremble and weep again now as the terrible moment approached, but he quietly told me to take off my jacket and hang it on the chair which I did quickly.
Then he ordered me to take my skirt off. I hadn’t expected that and I gasped with some apprehension but obeyed with trembling fingers and folded it over the chair. Below the waist I was just wearing a half slip and my black panties, Singapore being far too humid for stockings or tights. He ordered me to remove the slip and this time I half protested for although only thin it offered some protection as my panties were extremely brief revealing most of my very ample bottom cheeks. Apart from the embarrassment of bending over in just my knickers, I knew the cane would be striking completely unprotected bottom. He would not listen and repeated his instruction to remove my slip. I did so, red faced and weeping once more, standing in front of his desk in blouse and brief black panties knowing his eager eyes were on my plump bottom cheeks, so bare and visible.
I waited for the instruction to bend over his desk but instead, to my utter shock, he ordered me to take off my panties! At this I half turned in disbelief, my face crimson and my mouth open in protest but no words came out. Instead I just cried in shame. It’s incredible how a brief space of time and the removal of clothing can effect the change between a self confident businesswoman and a humiliated submissive but I seemed powerless to protest or pick up my clothes and walk out. He simply said “In my country women are caned on the bare bottom. Humiliation is part of the punishment. Now hurry up and obey!”
Trembling and crying I pulled my panties down and stepped out of them.
Completely naked below the waist now and facing him, I was ridiculously and shamefully aware of the thick mass of dark pubic hair which I was now presenting to his gaze. Turning back and shaking uncontrollably, I stood facing the window before he told me to bend low over his desk, gripping the far edge securely. I hurried to obey, desperate now to get this over with, my bare bottom now thrust up in a humiliating posture but he wasn’t satisfied. He told me to get my legs apart and to bend lower. I was weeping bitter tears now for it was clear that to his oriental mind, absolute degradation was to be the order of the day. There was no point in protesting for the point of objections had long since passed. I bent lower and spread my legs very wide so that I could achieve his obvious objective that I display my vagina and anus throughout the caning, the sudden delusion that my husband and son were present witnessing all this again filling my mind as I wept in despair..
I steeled myself, gripping the desk very hard as I heard him take a step back then I sensed him raise the cane high and then, with a sickening impact, the first stroke struck the centre of my bare buttocks. All thoughts of shame and modesty were temporarily driven from my mind as my body responded to the most agonising sensation I had ever experienced. A white hot burn scorched my buttocks and the pain began to spread through every nerve ending in my backside. I felt as if a red hot iron had been placed on my bottom. I almost shot upright, but his firm hand on my back pushed me down and he warned me that if I got up it would mean extra strokes. He waited thirty seconds before delivering the second, slightly lower and again with tremendous force which had me screaming in pain but somehow I held my position. Strokes three and four followed rapidly and somehow didn’t seem so bad yet the afterburn caused me to writhe and wriggle across the desk, my lewd and obscene display being even more graphic.
After the first four strokes his firm hands began to rub my bottom, his fingers tracing the weals in my skin and his palms massaging my buttocks very thoroughly. I know now that this was to prevent ‘numb bum’ and was to ensure that I felt the rest of the strokes as keenly as the first but to my shame and horror I began to realise it was turning me on. As a result of my poor husband’s illness I had not had sex for over six months and like a dutiful married woman had tried to suppress my need for it but my God, in this awful, humiliating environment the signals were becoming unmistakeable.
It’s probably no great surprise that any woman lying naked over a table with her vagina and anus on display and with an attractive man massaging her bare buttocks should feel like this but to so unwillingly and so visibly surrender in these circumstances was grossly humiliating. I cried bitterly for my shame was compounded by the realisation that my sexual arousal must be visibly obvious to him. His palpation of my buttocks continued as I writhed and moaned in a now ill disguised sexual choreograph.
As I lay there trembling under his ministrations, I began to believe I was in some sort of a dream fantasy and that soon I would wake up. Here I was a 42 year old housewife and mother whose formative years had been free of any physical correction, who was married to a dear, gentle man who would never dream of laying a hand on me. A woman indeed who had reached an age of maturity which presumed respect and which should preclude even the thought of such debasement. Yet I lay here in the study of virtually a stranger, bent over degradingly and submissively offering my bare bottom to his cane. I began to sob once more at the thought of how humiliating this was and what would happen if my husband or son ever found out. Perhaps worst of all was the shame of his knowing that I was becoming aroused by all this and how much I desperately needed sexual relief.
My reverie was interrupted as he stepped back and whipped the cane in twice more across the lower slopes of my bottom as I screamed in pain and writhed across the desk. He left me for two or three minutes bent over the desk in that lewd and degrading position as he studied his handiwork and, presumably, the obviously engorged state of my labia. He made no comment nor did he make any attempt to interfere with me sexually. This just seemed to be a further punishment in my emotionally and sexually disturbed state for it must have been obvious that I was absolutely desperate for a man’s penis and would have offered no resistance whatsoever. I longed to scream out for him to fuck me but instead I hung my head and cried in utter degradation.
Abruptly he announced that the punishment was over and that he had been lenient as it was my first time. He told me that on future occasions he would be more severe. Then he told me where the bathroom was and said I could go and freshen up before taking the work away for next time. I could hardly look at his face for I was crimson with shame and humiliation as I tottered on unsteady legs, half naked and carrying my clothes, to his bathroom. I first sat on the toilet, painful though it was, and masturbated vigorously, soon bringing myself off in a glorious shuddering climax which left me in tears.
Before I showered and got dressed, I stared at my caned bottom in the bathroom mirror and was astonished. Six neatly laid thick red weals stood proudly above the white skin of my buttocks, the stripes already turning a fine purple shade. The caning had been very painful but I was forced to admit that it had also been incredibly sexually stimulating in a way I would never have believed and I knew at that moment I was hooked. I knew it would take two weeks before those bruises went down and I resolved to be very careful about exposing my bottom in the presence of my husband for at least that period.
After that the procedure became familiar to me and for the rest of my 12 month contract, he caned me perhaps once a month, the strokes now a minimum of twelve increasing to a maximum of twenty four for serious indiscretions.
The only difference after the first time was that I was ordered to strip completely naked for the cane which, strangely after that initial exposure, I didn’t mind and in fact I loved the feel of the cold teak of his desk against my bare breasts as the cane thrashed my buttocks. I only wished he would complete the experience by fucking me but he never did and, in fact, always caned me with clinical objectivity.
Now we are back in England and my dear husband has made a considerable recovery, indeed he has been able to begin teaching again and has recovered some of his sexual urge but I have been left feeling empty and desperate as a result of my belated awakening to corporal punishment and find that in order to be in the mood for sex, I desperately need a good dose of the cane at regular intervals. I cannot tell my husband about this for he would be shocked and distressed so I have written to contact magazines to find willing partners but it is difficult to meet without attracting suspicion and so far my experiences have been unsatisfactory.
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This cute blonde takes a taser to her pert butt with aplomb, all things considered:
It’s the moaned “Nooo…” at the end that makes the video, in my opinion.
This would appear to be a scene from some sort of cop training, which makes it more-or-less consensual, for “there is no ethical anything under capitalism” values of consent.
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