Author: Dana Kane

For the contest entrants,


This month’s writing contest was less about challenging your writing skills and ability to research, and more about encouraging you to use your imaginations. I am pleased to say that I received several very imaginative entries and that you have exceeded my expectations once more. Some funny, some saucy, and some serious…I’ve enjoyed all your stories greatly and am pleased to share them with other readers here.  
As always, if I could choose every story, every month, I would. 
Keep writing and sharing…there will be more contests and many more chances to receive your Dana Kane spanking.


With gratitude,
Dana

MY KIND OF STRANGE*


Dana is a professional disciplinarian. She has short, straight black hair and dark blue eyes that always remind me of the “violet” color in Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes. She’s slender, with curves in all the right places.
We met at a bdsm party at ***. I had been intrigued by her look, including some impressive ink on her arms, and her energy, but never had the opportunity to talk to her.
I was on my morning run on Venice beach and there she was taking her surf board off the roof of her car. I stopped to ask if her name was Dana. You look familiar. She nodded, smiling at me until I asked the next appropriate question: “Were you at the *** party last Friday?”
It turned out that she had noticed me and was curious why I hadn’t made the effort to meet her at the party. Now, with her standing directly in front of me and giving me such an evil smirk, I felt drawn to find out for myself. I finally made the first move, inviting her over for breakfast when she was finished surfing. I pointed out my apartment building, gave her the number, and jogged off, feeling her eyes on me as I sprinted to the corner.
I’d gotten cleaned up by the time she arrived and, still in her wet suit, asked if she could shower while I finished getting breakfast ready. I heard her singing over the sound of the water. What would she wear when she got out of the shower? Would she put his wetsuit back on? Or wear a towel?
I was pouring orange juice into glasses she strode into my living room, surprising me. That’s what my friend Georgia had said about her, Dana was always full of surprises. She wasn’t wearing a towel. She wasn’t wearing her wet suit. She wasn’t wearing the robe from the back of the bathroom door. She was wearing one of my blue oxford cloth button down shirts with a pair of my black satin boxers.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, moving toward me, that evil-seductive grin still on her face.



I shook my head. “No, knock yourself out.” I wondered what she would do next, and I suddenly realized that I was starting to perspire from wondering.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said, sitting on the edge of my couch and staring at me. My apartment is small, with the dining room and living room together, separated only by the sofa. My hand was still on the forgotten orange juice container, my entire body was frozen in place.
I watched as she ran her fingertips along one of her long, slender legs. Her legs looked good, sexy, her body was very pale against the black silk boxers. I took a step toward her, thinking that I wanted to take the place of her hands, I wanted to run my fingertips along her legs.
“There’s something erotic…” she started to say, looking at her reflection in the mirrored panels around my fireplace, “…something sexy about opposite sex lingerie.”
I got up my nerve to walk all the way to her side and once there I settled myself next to her on the couch. I reached out to touch the silky material and she leaned back against the cushions and grabbed my wrist before I could make contact. “Since I’m wearing yours why don’t you slip in to these”, holding out a tiny pink thong trimmed in lace.
I couldn’t believe how turned on I was at seeing this woman in my underwear and quite frankly, would have jumped out of the window if she’d asked. As I high-tailed it to the bedroom to change, she called after me, “and bring that hair brush that’s on your dresser.”
I returned to the living room and stood behind the sofa, my hands trembling, I hand her the brush, and wait.
She took the brush and examined it. It is old. The wood polished smooth as silk. The handle worn soft with use, the light bristles set into the dark wood. Turning her face, she strokes the bristles through her hair, leaving a path of obsidian, shining brilliantly in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the window. I touch her hand. I reach for the brush. Desire winning the battle over fear, I take the brush. Beautiful. Terrifying. Love and hate mingling in my heart as the wood presses into the palm. I lay the soft bristles to her hair, drawing them slowly down, bringing a brilliant shine to her lustrous locks. 

As I begin another stroke, she raises her hand to mine. She takes the brush in her hand and gently pulls me around the couch towards her, guiding me between her spread legs, facing her. Slowly she lays the soft bristles against my chest as my hands fall to my sides. I tremble as the touch sends tingles of electricity through my body. She traces the brush around my nipple, the tingling spreading throughout my body. I am floating in the sensations. My head light with pleasure. I feel her touch being withdrawn, leaving an aching desire, an emptiness in my chest.. Her finger traces down my chest and over my stomach, hooking it in the waistband of the thong. She tugs gently, then slowly pulls the panties down to my ankles. Her eyes move slowly up and down my body.

I gasp and look down at her questioningly. She slides the fabric of the shirt tails up, revealing her naked thighs. I step to her side. I stumble, hobbled by my panties but quickly step out of them and stand by her left thigh. “Get over my lap,” she says in a sweet but insistent tone. Seizing my wrist again, she tugs me forward and bends me over her lap, settling me across her thighs. She runs her hand over my ass.
Her firm thighs support my body, as I lay myself before her. The rays of sun fall across my body, warming it, however a chill settles in my stomach as I feel her gentle touch on my naked buttocks. I feel her palm moving over my bottom, tracing small circles over the bare skin. The hunger surges up once more, fighting its way ahead of the chilling fear. I feel her thigh pressing against me. I push myself against her, moving my hips forward against her leg. I feel her touch vanish, once again leaving me empty, desolate. I pull back, raising my hips, aching for her touch. Wanting. Waiting.
Rubbing gently, caressing the backs of my thighs, her fingers play up the crevice between my cheeks, and slide down between my thighs. I open my legs, exposing myself to her, and she strokes my inner thighs with her fingertips. I draw a shuddering breath, and she lets her fingers trail up between my cheeks again. I raise my hips, offering myself to her. She lets her finger play over my bottom’s sit spot and I shudder again. Her fingertip traces around the sensitive skin, I twitch slightly. Very gently she draws her fingernail over it and I moan softly. “Please…” I whisper. She lets her finger trail down between my thighs once more, tickling the back of my legs. Slowly she withdrew her hand and I feel the hairbrush rest on my buttocks.
The smacking sound of contact, wood against skin echoes loudly. The sharp sting spreads quickly through my left buttock. My breath comes out in a soft gasp. Another smack accompanies a matching sting in my right buttock. My eyes close. The crack of wood against flesh fills my ears. The burning sting builds in my bottom. I shift, desperate for the sensations to cease. And with equal desperation, willing them to continue. The sting continues to build, as the terrible brush rises and falls like clockwork. It is too much. I thrust forward once more, knowing she can feel the stiffness against her thigh, but desperate to escape the stinging fire raining down on my bottom. As her soft skin brushes mine, a new desperation seizes me. I draw back, raising my hips to meet the next painful assault of the terrible, wonderful wood. The pain burns through my backside, as a new fire ignites in front. Again and again, I thrust forward, and back, meeting the fiery spanks above. As the heat builds, it mingles, until it is indistinguishable. The pain and the agonizing pleasure, all becoming one. The exquisite agony throbs through my body. Gasping as the pain and ecstasy rage through me, the crack of the brush coming faster, harder.
I collapse over her lap, breathing heavily. The wood, smooth, and soft, touching my skin. After a moment she puts the hairbrush down on the sofa. She raises her left hand, and I tense in anticipation. She brings it down with a sharp smack. I gasp, another smack, and another. I squirm, and as I raise my hips, smack, again and again. 

The sting is beginning to build in my backside now, but her left hand works deftly, Smack, smack, smack, smack, I am whimpering now, bucking wildly as she spanks me faster and faster. Smack smack smack smack… I moan and gasp. Smack smack smack smack smack smack…
Then just as suddenly as it started, it’s over. I collapse once more over her lap, panting. She rubs my tender cheeks which are bright pink from the stinging slaps. I lie still with eyes closed for several moments, breathing deeply, then slowly push myself up.
“Naughty boy,” she said, moving back, after we collapsed together on the sofa. I leaned my head against her chest and confessed to knowing about her, knowing that she liked things in the extreme. Confessed my curiosity. She smiled that devilish smile and stroked my hair away from my eyes. Then she cradled my head in her hands and said, “what do you expect when you invite a strange woman into your apartment…?”.
My kind of strange.


*Story inspired by “Whose Panties” by Allison Tyler

This is a saucy one from The Cowboy Writer, and I’ve used asterisks liberally to edit some beautiful yet naughty language. There is a whole lot of spanking going on at Woodsley College…definitely my kind of institution. Enjoy!   – Dana




For the rest of Cowboy Writer’s stories:
Taming the Cowboy
Taming the Cowboy II: The Cowboy’s Revenge
School for Husbands
Beth

Make sure to click ‘Read More’ at the bottom of the visible text for the entire story.

From our UK Laureate, ‘The Governess Makes a Discovery’…and he’s up to his usual form with another amazingly written F/M spanking story. (The asterisks are my edits, for slightly sensitive content.)   – Dana


UK Laureate’s other writings:

The Ballad of Lord Hazlemere
The Blue Umbrella






The Governess Makes A Discovery


London, 1910.


Grace Bennett was nervous as she knocked on the door; she had a task to undertake that was going to be sensitive, to say the least. In over twenty years of service as a Governess in wealthy Edwardian families in the south of England she had never had to do anything like this before. But she had determined it had to be done.


Edward Carrington had been her employer for the past four years. Her primary responsibility was educating his children, Emma, aged six, and James, aged nine. A man of considerable status and means, he considered that home education was more valuable for the children than attending any of the local schools. He had considered sending James to a public boarding school, but having himself been educated by a Governess in the last quarter of the nineteenth century when education in English schools was haphazard and unregulated, he was aware of the value of a first-rate Governess. Miss Bennett was certainly that. Both he and his wife had been hugely impressed at her interview. Her experience and maturity – she was some ten years older than himself – gave her a confidence and stability that he felt would be of huge benefit to his children. This had been even more valuable for the past two years since the sudden death of his dear wife, Helen. He appreciated her willingness to take on extra duties, caring more generally for his children’s welfare in conjunction with Mrs Humphrey, the Nanny he had employed since James was born.


Miss Bennett’s nervousness was due largely to the nature of the task facing her, which required her to contravene the etiquette of Edwardian England. Although Mr Carrington was less formal than many of his contemporaries, he was nonetheless her employer. It was her place to take orders from him, and as a member of staff to execute her duties in such a way as not to cause him any inconvenience or to intrude in his affairs. She was aware she had, inadvertently, already crossed this line, and now she was about to do so deliberately.

“Come in.” Mr Carrington’s voice was clear and deliberate, and Miss Bennett made her way, closing the door behind her. “Ah, Miss Bennett. Good evening. How may I help you?”


“Good evening, Sir. I do apologise for disturbing you but I wonder if I might have a word with you. There is a rather delicate matter that I need to discuss with you.”


“I see. Not a problem with the children, I trust. You know you have my full authority to deal with them as you see fit. Do come and sit down.” Mr Carrington waved his hand in the direction of the chair to the right of the sofa. He waited until Miss Bennett was seated before sitting down himself. There was a brief, awkward silence until Miss Bennett spoke.


“Mr Carrington, I have to begin by making a confession. Yesterday afternoon I went to your study to find a book for Master James and I am afraid while I was there my inquisitiveness took over and I looked at the private papers you had left on the desk. I realise this was wrong of me and I have come to offer my apologies.”


Mr Carrington looked at her with a mixture of sternness and surprise. “I see,” he said thoughtfully, “and having had twenty-four hours to think about it, your guilt has taken over and you have come to offer your resignation. Is that the situation, Miss Bennett?”


“Well, no Sir, not exactly. I recognise of course that you may wish to dismiss me, but ….” Her words were cut off by her employer.


“Dismiss you, Miss Bennett? I don’t think that will be necessary. I am aware of the excellent tuition and guidance you offer my children. I would be hard pressed to find another Governess of your calibre. I think we can put this down as an unfortunate but temporary lapse on your part. I am confident you will not allow it to happen again.”


“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your faith in me. However, I am afraid that is not quite the whole matter.” As she spoke Miss Bennett put her hand in her pocket, pulled out a photograph, and placed it on the table in front of her employer. “Do you recognise this?”


Mr Carrington was taken aback, and for a few moments was silent, giving Miss Bennett time to place two more photographs on the table. “Or this… or this?” she asked. She had more, but there seemed no need to reveal them.


“Miss Bennett, have you taken leave of your senses? Why are you showing me these photographs? Where do they come from?” Mr Carrington’s voice now was full of irritated anger, and Miss Bennett, ever observant, noticed that his hands were shaking.


“Mr Carrington, I believe you know full well where they came from. You see I did not look only at the papers on your desk. I opened a number of the drawers and in one of them were these photographs, and many others.”


Mr Carrington leapt to his feet. “This is preposterous, woman,” he bellowed, shaking his fists. “Get out, get out.”


Miss Bennett had no intention of going anywhere, and stayed seated in her chair. Her heart was racing, but she had not yet delivered her message in full.


“Mr Carrington, calm down, I beg of you. We do not want to create a disturbance that is overheard by other staff, or indeed your children. Mr Carrington, as is plainly obvious, these photographs are pornographic, and a number of the others, which I now have in my possession, are, how shall I say, of an extreme nature. It is not for me to judge why you have them or from where you obtained them, but as an upstanding moral citizen, I must inform you that my conscience will allow me to do no other than to pass these photographs to the police. However, you have been a kind employer Mr Carrington, and I felt I owed you the respect of informing you of my discovery and of my intended action.”


Mr Carrington had been pacing the floor as Miss Bennett made her oration. She had prepared her words carefully and was pleased with how confidently she had delivered them. Her employer, however, was in a whirl. Of course he had recognised the photographs instantly, and despite his anger that a trusted member of his staff should have been prying in this way, and his concern for the possible consequences, he had, nonetheless, been able to listen to Miss Bennett’s words. He stood by the window, looking out.


“I realise, Mr Carrington, that this is a highly unpleasant matter,” Miss Bennett continued. “I felt that by informing you, you would be able to contact your solicitor prior to the visit from the constabulary that will inevitably come.”


Mr Carrington continued to stare out of the window. Eventually he turned to look at the Governess. “Miss Bennett, I greatly regret that you have made this discovery and that your opinion of me has been tarnished irrevocably, but I beg you, please do not report this matter. If this indeed becomes public my reputation will be ruined, my business will be destroyed, and what will become of all of us? You are an honourable woman and I pray you can find it in your heart, for the sake of my children if not for me, to be merciful.”


Miss Bennett watched in horror as, having delivered his appeal, the normally steadfast and composed man covered his face with his hands and started to weep. It was as though the capable and highly respected businessman and loving, responsible father had suddenly turned into a helpless, frightened boy. She rose to her feet, walked to him and touched his arm lightly. “I think you should sit down and settle yourself,” she said, quietly but firmly, and steadied his arm as he walked slowly to the sofa, where he sat, head in hands for some minutes. Miss Bennett recognised he had suffered a shock, with which his body and mind was struggling to deal.


Eventually he spoke. His voice was soft, the tone of a broken man. “Miss Bennett, I beg you again, do not report this matter. If I may speak honestly, the past two years has been a great trial for me. You may have thought that I had come to terms with the passing of my dear wife, but barely a moment has passed when she has not been in my thoughts. She was my rock, my foundation, always there for me, and it was her strength that enabled me to conduct my business, and indeed my life, successfully. In my loss I have been unable to contemplate for a moment forming an attachment with another woman,” – his voice faltered as he spoke – “these photographs were somehow a consolation. “ Again he paused. “Yet all the while I was aware that they were a betrayal of my dear Helen’s love. Clearly I would not have wanted her to know of them and if she is looking down from that other place where she now resides then I am indeed a miserable man.” Again he started to weep.


Mr Carrington dabbed his eyes with the silk handkerchief he always wore in his breast pocket. He looked up. “Miss Bennett, you are a mature and wise woman. Pray give me your counsel as to how I might be redeemed from this situation.”


All the while her employer had been speaking Grace Bennett’s mind had been active. She had entertained that he might react to her discovery with anger, or remorse, or possibly even threaten her, but she had not expected such an outpouring of emotion. The more he had spoken, the more she had recognised that her employer was, in many ways, a small boy in a man’s body. His words about the place his wife had played in his life made sense. She was well-aware what a gracious and level-headed woman Mrs Carrington had been, but she had not recognised the extent to which she had ruled the relationship with her husband. In Edwardian society women were required to take a back seat and be obedient to their husband, and outwardly the Carrington’s marriage had conformed to this expectation. The testimony she had just listened to had given her a glimpse, nay, a massive insight, into the underlying truth.


“Mr Carrington, it has grieved me to see you so distraught,” she began, “and I am well aware of the devastation to be caused by the public revelation of these photographs. I will admit to you I am two minds. It is not my wish to destroy you, yet at the same time my conscience tells me that you have sinned greatly and deserve to be punished, for without punishment there can be no redemption. By profession I am a Governess, as you are fully aware. Although I have never had children of my own I have learnt much about raising children, and the correction necessary to free them from their sinful ways. Indeed, Sir, you may recall that when I first met you and your wife, sadly departed, to be interviewed for the position I now hold, you yourself asked about my prowess with the rod. It was a matter of satisfaction to me that our views on this matter were as one. **
 Mr Carrington, it is now in my mind that, on account of actions now known to us both, you yourself, Sir, might benefit from the correction of the rod.”


For a moment Edward Carrington remained silent. On one level her statement was absurd; to suggest that he, a gentleman, be treated like a common criminal was difficult to comprehend. And was Miss Bennett, his employee, suggesting that she perform the deed, thereby inverting the relationship between them? Yet – her stated intention to inform the authorities of the photographs had to be negated at all costs.


“Miss Bennett, as you will appreciate, your suggestion is somewhat unorthodox, yet I cannot deny it has merit. Tell me, is it part of your proposal that you yourself undertake this action?”


Miss Bennett addressed her employer with a firm gaze. “Indeed, Sir, it is. As Governess of this household I consider it fitting that the boundaries of my jurisdiction are extended to include you, in order to deal with the infraction in question. “


“And may I take it that if the matter is dealt with in this way, your intention to report to the constabulary will be revoked?” Mr Carrington enquired.


Again the Governess spoke firmly. “Indeed, Sir, you may take that to be so. Justice demands that sins be punished, but to punish twice for the offence would of itself be an injustice, providing that the penalty imposed is sufficient to expiate the crime.”


“Very well, Miss Bennett. I recognise the wisdom and fairness of your words, and I submit to your proposal.” The now calm, measured tone of Edward Carrington’s voice told Miss Bennett what she wanted to hear. “How do you propose that this matter is executed?”


“I will need time to make some arrangements,” Miss Bennett replied. “I must warn you that the punishment will be, by a distance, the most severe I have ever administered. Accordingly, I must arrange for the house to be empty, save you and me. And my proviso, Sir, is that the application of the rod is in accordance with the traditions I require of all my charges on such occasions. You will be addressed by your Christian name. You will be required to confess your wrongdoing and to request appropriate punishment. You will be required to lower your breeches in order to be beaten on naked flesh. At the conclusion of the punishment, or of each section of the punishment, you will be required to thank me for my attention to your welfare. I trust that is all clear.”


Even Miss Bennett herself was taken aback by the clarity and severity with which she had issued the instructions, given the circumstances.


Mr Carrington nodded. “I understand,” he confirmed.


“I suggest, Sir, that I speak with you again in the morning, when I hope to have news of suitable arrangements having been made. Unless there is anything else, I will bid you goodnight.”


Back in her room, the Governess reflected on the situation. The discovery of the photographs, itself wholly unexpected, had given rise to another equally unexpected discovery about her employer. What is it about little boys, she mused, that they are incapable of living without female guidance? Even when they are older in years, what is it that necessitates their regression to boyhood traits? She did not have the answer to these questions, only the assurance of their truth and a conviction of the necessity of regular correction to facilitate their journey through life.


The next morning, having spoken to Mrs Humphrey, she went again to see Mr Carrington and informed him of the arrangements she had made. The following day, Friday, was Cook’s day off. She had informed Mrs Humphrey that she would be finishing lessons at lunchtime and suggested that Nanny should take the children to the park for a picnic and extended playtime. Mrs Humphrey had been surprised as it broke from their normal routine but had agreed. “The children have been working hard and I think some relaxation and fresh air will do them good,” Miss Bennett had said to her. Accordingly, the house would be empty.


“Mr Carrington, I have been giving further thought to the arrangements,” she continued. “It is my normal practice with the children to administer punishment in their bedrooms, but in the interests of propriety I consider such an arrangement for you would be improper. Accordingly, the punishment will take place in the study, which seems to me entirely appropriate given that is where the offending photographs were stored. The appointment will be at 2.00pm precisely. You will arrive promptly, knock on the door, and wait to be called in.”


Edward Carrington did not demur. Miss Bennett had wondered whether he might have had second thoughts about his agreement but clearly the repercussions of so doing were even less palatable to him. She had been deliberate in making arrangements for the following day, which meant he had another thirty or so hours to contemplate his thrashing. And what a thrashing she intended to give him!


As a Governess she did not take particular pleasure from corporal punishment but she was a firm believer in its efficacy. She believed too that when punishment was given it should be given soundly, in order that it made a lasting impression on the recipient. She wanted her punishments to be feared, and as with all her duties she took satisfaction from administering ‘corrective education’ with skill and professionalism.


Friday morning’s lessons passed uneventfully, for which Miss Bennett heaved a sigh of relief. She had told the children about the afternoon picnic and encouraged them to be on their best behaviour or else it would be cancelled – a circumstance she avidly wished to avoid. Once they and Nanny had left for the park she went to her room and opened the closet where her canes and other disciplinary instruments were kept. Over the years she had collected a variety of suitable instruments, in order that she could vary their use according to the severity of the punishment required.


***
***
 Through teacher friends she had acquired a couple of standard rattans, which she had used on occasions, but more normally she preferred her Governess canes, so named after their popularity with members of her profession. These rods were made from a denser species of rattan, thereby imparting a more penetrating sting. Her most well-used rod was thirty-two inches in length and of medium diameter, which meant that it retained all the flexibility that made the rattan so effective. However, on this occasion she reached for her Senior Governess, a somewhat thicker rod, four inches longer than its cousin. She had only ever used it twice, in her previous employment. As she removed it from the closet she recalled the last time it had been deployed.


***
***


Miss Bennett did not imagine that she would have a similar problem with Edward Carrington, even though she intended to increase the tariff considerably. At eight minutes before two o’clock she made her way downstairs, rod in hand. Entering the study she walked across to the desk. Quickly she cleared the few items from the top of the desk, leaving only the rod she had placed there, and rearranged a couple of chairs to ensure that she had sufficient space for the deed she was about to execute. She glanced at the clock, which showed three minutes before two. She sat down in the chair behind the desk, normally occupied by her employer, to compose her thoughts.


At precisely the appointed time there was a knock on the door. Deliberately she waited a few seconds before issuing a stern “Enter”. The door opened and Edward Carrington walked in, his head bowed.


“Come here, Edward,” Miss Bennett commanded, her voice as crisp as starched lines. “Stand in front of the desk.” She waited for him to reach the appointed spot.


“Now then Master Edward, tell me why you are here,” she ordered. For several seconds the embarrassed man remained silent. “Come along boy, speak up,” Miss Bennett demanded.


“Please Miss Bennett, I have erred greatly. I have been in possession of items that have no place in the life of a gentleman. I am truly sorry.”


“I see. Well, we shall see how truly sorry you are in due course, Edward. These items that you speak of – what is their nature?” Of course she knew exactly what they were but was determined that he should make full acknowledgement.


“P-p-pornographic photographs, Miss Bennett,” Edward stuttered.


“You naughty, filthy little boy,” Miss Bennett exploded, her tone emphasising her disgust. “How dare you! I shall not explore what other filthy things you may have been doing. The fact that you thought fit to have such wretched items in your possession is sufficient. Have you something else to say to me?” Miss Bennett looked directly at Edward, but he continued to keep his head bowed. “Look at me when you are speaking to me, boy,” she rapped.


“Please Miss Bennett, may I request you to punish me for my sins.” Edward Bennett, gentleman, businessman, highly respected in the community, had been reduced to the lowest ebb, and again he bowed his head in shame.


“Oh yes, Master Edward, oh yes, indeed I will. This is indeed the vilest crime I have encountered from a boy in all my years of being a Governess. You will be thrashed, young man, more severely than I have ever thrashed a boy before. You will be aware, no doubt, that it is the custom to administer the rod by the dozen, with the most normal tariff being half a dozen, or as it is sometimes referred to, six of the best. I have administered previously a caning of a full dozen strokes, which I considered a severe punishment. On this occasion, given the nature of your offence and the fact that you are old enough to know better, it is incumbent on me to award a fitting punishment. You will receive three dozen strokes of the rod.”


Edward Carrington allowed a gasp to escape from his lips. It was many, many years since he had last been punished in this way but even two or more decades on he recalled his suffering and the struggle to take his punishment manfully. What he had just heard was beyond his worst nightmares. However, he managed to maintain his composure sufficiently to respond, “Thank you, M’am”.


Miss Bennett rose, picking up her trusty rod from the desk as she did so. “There is nothing more to be said,” she announced tersely. “Move to the side of the desk, which you will bend over to receive your punishment, and kindly prepare yourself. “ As Edward Carrington took the few steps to the required position, Miss Bennett also moved and turned to face away from him. She waited a full minute. “Are you prepared, Edward?” she asked. Hearing an affirmative reply she issued the order to “assume the required position”.


Miss Bennett turned and walked smartly to a position on Edward’s left. Holding the rod in front of her she measured her distance, ensuring that the rod would strike correctly. She took a deep breath, gathered her concentration, raised the cane and brought it down sharply. The snap as it made contact was followed by a deep, muted grunt from the recipient. Miss Bennett silently counted to ten, as was her regular habit in these circumstances, before delivering a second stroke. A further four strokes followed in like manner.


“Have you something to say to me, Edward,” she asked. “I have always understood you to be a well-mannered boy.”


“Yes, M’am. Thank you Miss Bennett.” Edward raised his head slightly as he spoke but did not lose his position. His arms were spread either side of the desk, his hands gripping as best he could to help him deal with the pain. His bottom was burning from the sting of the rod, but, conscious of that as he was, he was mindful that his punishment had only just begun.


Miss Bennett moved to the far side of Edward. It had long been her practice to divide the tariff equally between forehand and backhand strokes. During her first employment an experienced Governess had explained to her the wisdom of this method, to ensure that both buttocks suffered the additional pain engendered by the tip of the rod. Content her position was correct, she resumed the punishment. The cane swished and snapped as she delivered the next set of six. If anything they were harder than the first set, as was often the case with her backhand strokes. Duly completed, she again reminded Edward of his manners.
“From here on in I shall not prompt you again. You will thank me after each further set of six, or bear the consequences.”


Edward’s backside was throbbing but through his pain he digested the Governess’s instruction. Miss Bennett considered the scene as she walked to resume the position in which she had started. The first twelve strokes had been delivered firmly, occasioning distinctive red weals amid the white flesh.


The second dozen strokes were given in like fashion, six from the left and six from the right. By now it was inevitable that stripes were created over stripes that already existed, increasing the pain considerably, and Edward Carrington had started to moan as the rod continued to land. He was determined to show the utmost bravery, but his determination was now being tested to what, he thought, was near his limit. Lost in his thoughts, he omitted to thank his Governess after the fourth set of six was completed. This fact was not forgotten by Miss Bennett, who had again resumed her original position.


“I fear something has been overlooked,” she announced, her tone displaying her annoyance. Before Edward had a chance to rectify the situation she raised the cane high above her shoulder and delivered a slashing stroke that made Edward cry out in severe pain. “What did you say, boy?” she thundered.


“Ah, ah, ooh… thank you M’am,” he managed to utter through his gritted teeth.


Miss Bennett was not satisfied and delivered another venomous stroke. The rod hummed loudly as it cut the air, followed immediately by another howl from Edward. “What do you say, boy? Speak up,” she again demanded.


“Thank you M’am, thank you Miss Bennett,” he called out. He was gasping for breath but managed to get the words out clearly.


“Very well, that’s better,” Miss Bennett announced. “I trust you are aware that those strokes were additional punishment for your forgetful and disobedient behaviour.”


“Yes, M’am, thank you M’am,” Edward assured her, anxious not to incur further wrath. He was sure he had never felt pain like it, and was praying that the remainder of his punishment would be less severe.


His prayers were not answered. True to her desire to ensure that punishment was administered effectively, it was always her practice to increase the severity of the strokes as the punishment neared its conclusion. Normally, when the tariff was six, this simply meant the final two strokes. Today it meant the final twelve.


Accordingly, for each of the remaining strokes she raised her arm higher, brought the rod down more sharply, and concentrated on flicking her wrist as she made the stroke. This was another technique she had been taught in her early days as a Governess, and she knew how effective it was. Its effectiveness was not lost on Edward, who yelled loudly after every collision of that wicked rod and his backside. No wonder Miss Bennett had arranged for the house to be empty; she was clearly aware what the consequence of the thrashing would be.


Finally it was over. Edward’s backside was covered with a mass of scarlet stripes and purple-red weals, many of them bloodied, but somehow Edward had remembered to express the required appreciation. But having done so the final time, the realisation that his ordeal was finished overcame him. He broke down and started to sob, quietly at first, then more loudly. Miss Bennett watched and waited impassively. It was the reaction she had hoped for. She understood the nature of sin, punishment and redemption. The suffering from the pain of the beating was a just punishment, but for redemption to take place there had to be an outpouring of emotion, as the consciousness of having paid for one’s wrongdoing took hold.


After several minutes, by which time Edward’s crying had subsided, Miss Bennett spoke. “I think you should compose yourself now, Edward, and correct your dress.” Again she turned away to allow him to make himself respectable, but continued speaking. “You have done well, Edward,” she said with genuine warmth in her voice. “I am sure you will continue to think about the events of the past days, and of today in particular, but you may now go forward knowing that your dues have been paid. Do not allow guilt to corrode your mind. Rather, learn from your mistakes. Oh, and by the way, the photographs I took from your drawer have been burnt.”


Miss Bennett began to make her way out of the room, then turned back to address Edward. “I will resume my normal Governess duties now, Mr Carrington, but should you find that young Edward requires further attention at some future time, I am available to assist.” She closed the door behind her and made her way back to her room.


Over the course of the next months and years Edward Carrington approached his Governess several times more to confess a variety of misdeeds, for which Miss Bennett offered her particular brand of assistance. Increasingly, Mr Carrington’s confessions were accompanied by a baring of his soul, knowing that the confidences he shared would be respected and rewarded with empathy and wise counsel. Thus, the professional barrier between employer and Governess was gradually broken down, and some three years after the events of this story, Grace Bennett became the second wife of Edward Carrington – in which role she continued to assist him as required.


DanaKaneSpanks@gmail.com

Our Cowboy Writer strikes again.

For the rest of Cowboy Writer’s stories:


Taming the Cowboy
Taming the Cowboy II: The Cowboy’s Revenge
School for Husbands
Tiffany

It never ceases to amaze me – the time and creativity undertaken by readers who decide to participate in the writing contests. I do sincerely hope to have each and every one of them over my knee…my way of showing gratitude. 


Here is another great entry from the ‘Person Place and Thing’ Contest. In this (untitled) story, the boys finally turn the tables on us girls…


– Dana

Robert and Carole had been friends virtually all their life. They had grown up in one of those affluent suburbs of Boston, where their existence as somewhat pampered and much-loved children of wealthy indulgent parents had given them both charmed upbringings. Now both 21 years old, they had just graduated from a Liberal Arts college in New England that was the preserve of well-to-do but not too clever students. At College, they had become inseparable and had decided during their final year to marry, immediately after their graduation. A lavish wedding ceremony had followed, set in the lush gardens of Carole’s parent’s mansion with the groom’s parents paying for a no-expenses spared honeymoon in Europe where the couple were to visit Paris, Vienna, Rome and finally, the South of France, staying in the best hotels throughout.

Clearly they had everything they could desire and Carole certainly knew it. As they travelled from Paris to Vienna and then on to Rome Robert saw a new side of Carole, one he had never encountered before. Carole was simply arrogant, speaking curtly and rudely to the hotel staff they met, however accommodating the staff were. Despite their youth and inexperience, nothing seemed good enough for Carole as she complained of inconsequential issues, the heat and lack of air-conditioning, the food, even the scratchiness of the bed linen. Robert became subdued as he discovered this new side to Carole, a side he had never really seen or experienced before – was his life going to be dominated by this bad-tempered young women?

As they sat under a blue umbrella, which Carole had insisted the waiter put up even though they were in the shade already, in a cafe some 50 metres from by the Trevi Fountain, Robert looked wistfully at many other couples who sat in a care-free manner by the fountain itself, flicking water to each other, laughing and joking. His new wife had already complained about her coffee which was too cold for her liking, ridiculing and insulting the poor waitress in the process. To make matters worse, Carole had rather theatrically poured the coffee onto the carpet requiring the waitress to get down on her hands and knees to clear up the mess as best she could. They now sat in silence as they waited for the replacement drink, the romance and sense of excitement at being at such an atmospheric place passing them by.

Carole became impatient and was about to call the waitress back to demand her coffee when a policeman, who had been sitting at one of the adjoining tables came over to them. He had witnessed the episode and said to Carole and Robert in broken English. “I see you didn’t like the coffee, come with me, I will ensure you will get what you deserve”. Robert and Carole looked at each other and then Carole smiled sweetly at the policeman “Thanks,  this cafe is lousy, it would be great if you could take us to a better place”. “It will be my pleasure” countered the policeman as they left the cafe and followed him around the corner to the building immediately behind.

“You will get the experience of your life” the policeman said as they were ushered through the door. As they entered the building, Robert sensed something was wrong – they were not in a cafe but what appeared to be the front room of a house. The room was sparsely furnished and in the middle stood a lone tall ladder-backed chair. Behind the chair stood the waitress and in her hand, a huge paddle. Carole and Robert looked at each other in atonishment. “What’s this all about” blurted Robert.

The policeman turned to Carole. “In my country, your behaviour is inexcuseable and punishable. Spilling the coffee with intent is criminal damage and you will be locked up in prison overnight and then deported. A report will be sent to the authorities in the US” Carole turned white, she realized immediately her predicament and started to both cry and scream “you can’t do this, you can’t do this, what will my parents think”. Turning to Robert the policeman continued “this is your fault, if you had controlled and disciplined your wife properly, she would not have behaved the way she did. In my country, husbands thrash their wives and I suggest you learn to do this yourself if you wish this matter to go no further”.

Carole, oblivious to the words the plooliceman had just said, continued to cry and scream directing her venom at Robert “do something, do something, get me out of here”. Robert looked at the policeman but instantly knew what he had to do. Approaching the waitress, he held out his hand and said “May I ?” as he took the paddle from her and grabbed hold of his wife with the other. Within a second, Robert was seated on the chair and had roughly pulled his wife over his lap. “What are you doing???” shouted Carole, “something I should have done days ago” as Robert took the hem of her skirt and lifted it up over her waist exposing her bottom. Immediately he started to thrash her.  “Stop it, stop it” shouted Carole as she tried unsuccessfully to wiggle off his lap, his hold around her waist tightening. The policeman looked on approvingly and gestured to her pants as Robert continued to paddle her. Robert stopped and quitely said to Carole “Are you ready to apologise to the waitress”? “No, I am not and just wait until I tell my parents”. With that Robert strengthened his hold and with his free hand pulled down her panties resuming the paddling on her bare bottom.

Robert was like a man possessed; in an instant he knew that this opportunity would be perhaps the only time he would be able to dominate his wife and teach her a lesson. As he thrashed her, his thoughts were on the future and how he wanted his life to be. He didn’t want to have a spoilt, bored wife but one who would enjoy life and everything that it had to offer. He knew that this lesson would teach her that life was about experiencing everything that was offered – even faulty air-conditioning, scratchy bed-lined and cold coffee and as he thrashed her, he willed her spirit to change.

At last he decided she had had enough and stopped. “Are you ready to apologise to the waitress?” he said in a soothing voice as he helped her off his lap. “I’m sorry blubbered Carole, my behaviour was wrong”. Everybody smiled, the lesson had been learnt and perhaps, just perhaps, Robert was going to have a great married life after all.


DanaKaneSpanks@gmail.com  
 

‘When in Rome, do as you are told to do’

“The Wedding Gift”

Wow…just wow. A fantastic entry from the ‘Person Place and Thing’ Contest. Something about all the gelato talk interspersed with spanking makes it seem even more decadent..


– Dana


Be sure to click ‘Read More’ at the bottom of the visible text to display the full story.

TIZIANA’S ROMAN HURRICANE

Tiziana was excited to be making her visit to Roma, though her husband Massimo had been there several times on business over the past year. But now they were celebrating their honeymoon, having a suite at the Villa Spalletti Trivelli near the famous Fontana di Trevi.

It was a warm spring afternoon and they’d just strolled into the
Gelateria Frigidarium for a smooth, creamy, flavorful Italian ice
cream.  Massimo purchased two coppas of Stracciatella, a vanilla gelato laced with chocolate.

They sat watching the parade of Romani coming and going, friends chatting in an animated fashion, featuring many hand gestures which are understandable in any language.  Lovers ambled along, hand in hand and Tiziana winked at Massimo.

They made their way to the famous Trevi Fountain and Massimo fished some coins out of his pocket.  Tiziana stood with her back to the fountain, launching the first one with her right hand and tossing it over her left shoulder.  Two coins are said to lead to a new romance and three will bring marriage or divorce.  The second Euro coin landed elegantly in the ornate fountain and Tiziana again winked at Massimo.

He began to blush, knowing what was on the horizon.

As they made their way back to the hotel, a gentle rain began to fall.  Caught off-guard and not having an umbrella, Massimo handed a street vendor (known locally as “vu compra’s” since they routinely ask people if they want to buy:  “vu compra” in their stilted immigrant Italian) a ten Euro bill in exchange for a bright ombrello blu.  He opened the umbrella and shielded his darling Tizi from the gentle rain.

After dodging a few taxis and bicyclists they arrived back at the Villa Spalletti.  Massimo shook off the rain from the umbrella and closed it as they found their way to the elevator.  Tiziana had gotten the room key from the desk clerk.

Up on the fourth floor, they opened the elevator gate and opened the door leading to the hallway.  Massimo closed the elevator and slowly joined his beloved Tiziana down the hall to their suite. “Slowly” because Massimo was certain as to what fate awaited before their dinner at the well-known Mirabelle restaurant on the Via di Porta Pinciana.

Yes, the tossing of the coins into the fountain sealed Massimo’s fate.   Tiziana had promised him a “Sculacciata” as they came by train from Firenze earlier that day.

She sat on the edge of the spacious “letto matrimoniale,” a king sized bed with an ornate only-in-Rome headboard with a carving of the Fontana di Trevi.  After a moment she directed Massimo to remove his shoes, shirt and slacks.  “You know the protocol!” she said in a quiet, but firm voice.

And he did as ordered, hands now behind his back.  “Go stand in the corner so I can admire the sight of your lovely ‘culo’.” Tiziana commanded.

His American-styled Jockey briefs she’d purchased on her recent trip to New York were tight on his nether cheeks.  His muscular bottom was more delicious to Tiziana than the Stracciatella gelato she’d enjoyed an hour earlier.

“Massimo dear,” she sang out, “Per favore, vieni qui.”  And so he stood to he side, his eyes gazing on to her bare legs.  She’d pulled her skirt up and he soon was draped over her lap.

She enjoyed running her hand over the smooth cotton briefs which would soon be “half mast” on her dearly beloved.  “You know this is something we have to do to keep our marriage strong, Massimo.” Tiziana explained.

“Si, carissima.” he replied.

And soon there was more rain in the forecast.  Now Tiziana’s hand showered his quivering bottom with a storm of spanks.  Every so often, the downpour would calm down, as she’d soothingly massage his now reddened cheeks.  But then another storm would blow in and poor Massimo was kicking his legs in the air, trying to find shelter in the downpour.

Tiziana lifted her right leg over both of his, pinning him more
closely to her lap.  Now his scant protection was removed, as she lowered his underpants.  “It’s time to get down to business, dear.” she cooed lovingly.

And her hand continued to smack poor Massimo’s naked bottom.

She paused and ordered him back to the corner to, once again, admire her handiwork.

But then she opened her purse and produced a hairbrush, a family heirloom, as it turns out.  “My mother used this on me and my sisters,” Tiziana told Massimo.  “Now I’m going to introduce you to this.”

Massimo was told to once again “assume the position” and he fell onto her lap, as she draped her left arm over his back and grabbed the hairbrush with her right…and now a storm of hurricane intensity was thundering down on poor Massimo, the waves of the force of the spanking vibrating across his bottom like waves on a lake.   He tried to kick his legs, but to no avail.

“You know, dear, this is for both our benefits.” Tiziana intoned.
“It will make our marriage all that much stronger.”

“Si, amore mio.” he managed to reply.

And finally the storm made its way through Room 402 at Villa
Spalletti.  Tiziana gently pulled up Massimo’s “mutandine” and
gently massaged his bottom, which was now showing the effects of both thunder and lightning.

“Va bene,” she said.  “Let’s go have dinner…you never know what’s for dessert!”

DanaKaneSpanks@gmail.com