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All of the men in this room are on their knees being ridden and/or whipped by three women. But if you look closely, there’s one woman perched up on the big wing chair, with her petticoats up and her hands tied and a fierce domme laying into her ass with double-wielded switches. If this is all about paying forfeits in party games, she must have lost big!
I honestly don’t know what’s actually going on in this drawing, nor do I have any credits for source or artist.
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Does she like it when you call her a good girl? Maybe you know she’s got a wee smol praise kink, but you don’t really know why. No worries. Girl On The Net has a bit of an explainer for you:
I like to be told ‘well done’ after something especially sexy. Maybe ‘you looked so hot in the socks‘, or ‘that was a lovely lubed-up hand job!’. I need positive affirmation in the bedroom so much more than I ever need to come. The correct amount of praise is always ‘a bit more than this.’ Every morning, afternoon, evening and in the dead of night: I want my ‘good girl‘, goddammit!
That craving for validation, though fun to play with during sex, isn’t particularly healthy when it bleeds into the rest of my life. It translates into a codependent level of people-pleasing, especially when it comes to men. I hope it won’t surprise regular readers to learn that I desperately want men to like me. I want hot boys to think I’m sexy and good at taking it up the ass. I want other boys to think I’m competent, funny and good at writing. I’d love women and people of other genders to think it too, of course, but broadly I yearn for the approval of men.
A ‘good girl’ in the bedroom is my favourite, but it’s far from the only one I thirst for. I need to be praised for everything. A ‘that was great!’ when I’ve written something awesome for the blog. ‘That’s delicious, well done’ if I bring you a sandwich or bake you a cake. I want you to notice when I’ve cleaned the whole house or put up new shelves or painted something – tell me it’s looking lovely and that you’re impressed. As my ex boyfriend eventually realised to great effect, I can sometimes be motivated to do even the most difficult things if you’ll only tell me ‘attagirl!’ at various points on the journey.
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Lily is a new submissive, but she figured out very quickly that good dose of pain could take away all her stress and quiet the buzzing in her busy head. And thus, after a stressful day, she asked for (and got) her first caning:
Ben grabbed a pile of pillows and shoved them in front of her. “Lean forward then. Take your time and get comfortable.”
He waited, allowed her the space she needed to settle, to sink into the submissive frame of mind that would carry her though this and out the other side to find the release she sought. When she went still and utterly silent, he picked up the cane.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Sir.” She braced.
Ben smiled. How little she knew. How much she had to learn. It started here.
He caressed her buttocks with his free hand, first the right, then the left. “Have I told you what a beautiful ass you have, my Lily? A perfect ass for spanking.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
He dropped a couple of light slaps on each rounded cheek, admired the rosy glow which bloomed at once, spreading across her skin in a peachy smudge. He spanked harder, bringing the redness up sharply, then started to stroke and caress her again. He curled his fingers inwards to scratch the now warm flesh with his fingernails.
Lily writhed under his touch. He knew she was confused, put off balance by his unexpected gentleness, aroused by the pleasure-filled sting.
“Sir…?”
“Hush. Be patient.”
“But—”
“No talking. You can scream, or use a safe word. Nothing else.”
She fell silent, her body poised, utterly motionless. It was time.
Ben laid the cane softly against her bottom, the rod spanning both cheeks. He brought it back and forth in a slow, sawing movement, drawing the length of it across her skin. Lily flinched at the first contact, stiffened as he moved, then relaxed as he stroked back and forth, back and forth. He waited until her breathing slowed, then with a quick flick of his wrist he lifted the cane and dropped it hard on her unprotected, unsuspecting ass.
Lily lurched forward, let out a sharp cry. Ben let the cane lie where it fell for several seconds, then lifted it away. The narrow, vivid crimson streak glowed across the already pink flesh. The contrast was crisp, clear, utterly beautiful. Ben traced the line with his fingertip, pressing slightly, enough to make her hiss.
“So beautiful. Exquisite. You mark so well, Lily.”
Obedient, she didn’t reply. She turned her face to meet his gaze though, and he saw the satisfaction in her expression, her desire, her greed for more.
He laid the cane across her buttocks again, an inch or so lower than the first stripe. She took longer to relax this time. She knew his tricks, knew what was coming. Or so she thought. Instead of flicking his wrist to deliver the next stroke, Ben just stopped. And waited. And waited. Lily squirmed, panted. He swore she was on the point of begging, if she dared. But that would mean disobeying his instruction that she be silent, and she wouldn’t do that.
“Spread your legs.” The command was low, almost a growl. She shifted so fast he almost laughed out loud. So eager to please. So desperate for sensation. So responsive.
He slid his free hand around the front of her thighs and reached between them. Her cunt was drenched, her folds dripping. He pinched her clit, hard, at the same moment he dropped the cane across her ass again. Lily shuddered, let out a strangled yelp and would have come on the spot had he not released her clit and spread her labia wide. Robbed of the stimulation needed to tip her over the edge, she shook and trembled, grunting as the pain seeped into her tissues.
Again, Ben stroked and played with the new welt, teasing new waves of pain out of it, pressing hard enough to make her groan.
The next stroke followed a similar pattern to the first. Lily ceased to anticipate, accepted whatever he did to her. The third ribbon of bright crimson erupted across her bottom, perfectly parallel to the first two. Ben prided himself on his accuracy.
He prepared her for the fourth stroke by circling her clit with the flat of his fingers, then plunging three of them deep into her pussy. She panted hard, her mouth slack now. She was close, he could tell, but he wouldn’t allow her to come. He’d keep her on the edge, wanting, needing, her ass smarting from his cane and her greedy cunt clenching around his fingers.
He dropped the next stripe right on her sweet spot, the place where ass meets thigh. She wouldn’t sit comfortably for a day or so. Her cries had become keening moans, tears flowed freely.
Lily ground her teeth together as she fought to process the pain, to let it cascade down, deepen, sink into her innermost recesses before eventually ebbing away to become a dull throb.
He knew the moment she reached that point, the stage where she needed the next stroke, the final one to complete the challenge.
Ben positioned the cane across her thighs and started to tap. He kept the strokes light, almost imperceptible at first, building slowly, so slowly, like a drum roll. He liked to think of his sadism as an art form, painting his marks on the willing body of his submissive, his mastery etched into her skin.
The final stroke was hard, harder than the rest and in a more sensitive spot. Lily screeched, her body lurched forward to lie quivering across the pillows. Ben rubbed his latest piece of handiwork, merciless in his play.
Lily’s lips moved, but no sounds came out. He allowed her a few moments respite then ordered her back into position. She was quick to do as he told her, and Ben took a few moments to peruse his freshly painted canvas.
“How’s the buzzing now?”
“Gone, Sir. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. You look beautiful.”
“I feel beautiful.”
“And so fuckable.”
“Sir, please…”
From Making The Rules by Ashe Barker.
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I saw this somewhere recently. It may not always work, but there’s a kernel of truth in it, at least:
Women are not complicated.
When you know she’s in a grumpy mood, walk in her door with your belt dangling from one hand and a bag of takeout food in the other hand. Watch to see which one she looks at first. She either needs a snack or a spanking.
Or both.
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In the book Jewel, by F.E. Campbell, our heroine has been kidnapped by a dissolute nobleman who has a very convenient dungeon under his mansion. She’s in love with him, but not at all on board with his sadistic schemes for her. And now he’s explaining his intention to give her a whipping:
“You’d actually whip me, your little Jewel?”
“Yes. I intend to.”
The chains on my ankles and wrists were suddenly heavy, their metal bands tight. They were there upon me for a purpose, not just whimsey. I looked at the man who had put them there. I made it as pathetic as I could. “But darling, why?”
Vivian dropped some of the insouciance. “Darling, I wish I could make you understand. The whip would do the job better than I can. But let me try.” He looked across the table at me, seriously and with love. The way you do when saying goodbye to someone going far, far away.
His grin was an apology for what he would say.
“Every man desires his own slave girl.” He said it as though thinking aloud. “I’m going to make you mine. I’ll probably have to whip you a great deal.”
“I don’t want to be a slave girl.”
“That’s where the whip comes in. There doesn’t seem to be any other way.” He sounded genuinely sorry.
“I’m jolly well not going to be whipped to satisfy some silly fantasy you’re carrying around in your mind!”
“Feel your chains,” Vivian said somberly.
I could feel them. It was almost as though they burnt my skin. I shrugged resignedly. After all, he was still my darling Viv. “I’ll obey you in anything, dearest. There’s no need to whip me.” I was still dealing in reason.
Pain flitted across his features. “I’m sorry, Jewel. It isn’t that simple.”
“Alright then,” I said crisply. “It will give you joy to whip the naked body of a girl who loves you. When do I get whipped?”
“After lunch.”
The two mundane words were more frightening than a threat. They left me no doubt. When our meal was done he would dispose me as it might please him and mark me with a whip.
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Catgirls in rubber getting spanked? I’m not sure I’d want my entire fetish life to revolve around that, but it will certainly do for a Sunday afternoon!
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This, to me, is a canonical exemplar of a well-caned bottom. There are only a few sharply-defined welts and overlaps, while at the same time it’s clear that our naughty antiheroine received a very great many strokes only slightly less severe. There’s no doubt she’ll remember this caning for quite some little time:
From Girls Boarding School.
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