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Parlourmaid punishments

Posted at 18:34 on 3 Feb 2009 by Pandora / Blake



Historical chambermaid is one of my very favourite submissive roles. I don't roleplay in private very much, but an overwhelming majority of private scenes have been based around this scenario. When I was younger and Tom and I had a more holistic D/s relationship (which was easier when I was his teenage lover, rather than the partner and equal I am now), we spent a few whole weekends in role, with me collared and subject to the formal manners he had trained me in. At the time, I described my role as "a cross between a maid, chef, valet, nurse and apprentice". But the uniform I primarily wore at home was that of a maid, and I'm wearing it again in my latest film with Northern Spanking.

This is the film I wrote about in December, discussing the hazards of improvised dialogue. At this point I'll let you in on a secret: these days, I very rarely watch my own films. When I first started working I watched them obsessively. At first, I watched them for kicks, but quickly realised that however hot the memory of shooting was, it's impossible to get off on porn starring oneself unless you're much more narcissistic than I am. I can't help casting a critical eye over my appearance, my acting, my lines, my posture, and it's too distracting to get fully immersed in the scene. Once I'd worked this out, I watched my own films with a notepad open, trying to work out what I could do better and learn from my mistakes. These days, I don't really have time.

But I wanted to watch this one, because the scenario is a favourite of mine, and because half of the film stars Niki Flynn looking ever so vulnerable, and I have no problems at all finding her films exciting. So I can wholeheartedly recommend this one. I've seen it and everything. And I even liked the bits with me in, which is surely a testament to Lucy McLean's skill as a film-maker.



Fun facts about this film:

  1. My favourite line is Michael Stamp's: "I am the Master, and you are the wench!"

  2. The reason my character is really bad at making beds is that, erm, I'm really bad at making beds. Seriously. I couldn't even lift that mattress, and I was so flustered and nervous that getting the wrinkles out just seemed impossible, so I didn't try. I guess Mr Stamp must have his own reasons for keeping me on ...

  3. That hairbrush hurt. This was the last clip of the day, so we didn't have to worry about saving my bottom. Lucy warned me that it was evil, and she was right: it left a beautiful big bruise on my right cheek, which I fancy you can see coming up during this spanking. Anyway, don't let my stoicism fool you. (Maids are stoic, right? They're used to being beaten, and no-one likes the help to make a fuss.) It really hurt. You can tell by the way I start holding my feet protectively in front of my bum after a stroke. That's my wordless signal for "ARGH HANGONHANGONHANGON GIVE ME A SECOND OW OW OW OW OWW OW."

  4. Even so, I knew he was going to do a flurry of fast swats right at the end, and I admit I was a teensy bit disappointed, when it came, that it didn't last longer. Yes, I know, I'm hopeless.

  5. However! This carpet beater hurt more than other carpet beaters I have known, as well. Fewer strands, I guess, and more widely spaced making each impact slightly more cane-like. Stingy. Pretty marks, too.

  6. Being beaten through bloomers is one of my favourite things in all the world. The sense of exposure and objectification, the only part of the body revealed being the part marked out for punishment. The contrast is delicious, especially if the rest of one's dress is formal and conservative. The way the fabric flatteringly frames the ass. The convenience aspect, not having to dress and undress, just bend over and go. Yum, yum, yum.



If, like me, you can't get enough of unfortunate maids in bloomers being punished by exacting (or vindictive) employers, then take a look at the photos Niki has posted of her half of the film, including a free preview clip and Lucy looking terrifying and utterly gorgeous in a turqoise ballgown. And if, like me, that still isn't enough, you'll just have to visit Northern Spanking and watch it yourself :)

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Tags: dominance and submission, Fantasies, Niki Flynn, Northern Spanking, otk spanking, Photos, Victoriana

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carry a big stick

Posted at 22:58 on 14 Jan 2009 by Pandora / Blake

I'm healing nicely, if by "nicely" you're referring to scabs and itching. The bruises are getting that old look, and I think the last stroke might leave a scar. At least, it's starting to look like one of those pasted-on fake wounds. Make that sexy if you can. ;)

Speaking of welts, how's this for a vintage spanking photo:



I love the classic Victorian "chained beauties" theme - it seems to have such an innocence to it, despite the total lack of innocence implicit in voluptuous naked girls being photographed bound and helpless. But one has to wonder if this photographer was genuinely into caning girls. At the very least the person in charge of props seems to have got the wrong end of the stick. As it were.

Pain4Fem gave us a choice of canes: 10mm or 12mm, peeled or not peeled (Amy tested them out and voted for unpeeled; I said I'd have what she was having. I may have still been slightly dazed by the sight of Amy thrashing the air in the studio with full force). And one huge rod the size of a walking stick, easily 18mm or 20mm across. Peter laughed about it but we weren't entirely sure whether it was a joke or not.

I've been hit by something that thickness before, and not with the kind of power that we were subject to in our judicial punishments. This domme appears to be using it with a gentle wrist action. I can tell you now, something that size would never leave neat little welts like that.

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Tags: other pictures, those crazy kinksters, Victoriana, Vintage

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Affinity

Posted at 19:01 on 29 Dec 2008 by Pandora / Blake

Merry Christmas! I hope everyone's having a brilliant holiday. Today was my first day "back at work", but I'm afraid I haven't achieved very much. Having spent the last four days drinking, carousing and staying up all night with my family of choice, I'm still recovering. I got up this morning, blearily checked my email, cursed my freezing cold flat, and at the point I discovered I had neither hot water for a shower nor milk for tea, I gave up on the day and went back to bed.

I absolutely don't regret this decision, as I can catch up on work later in the week, and my morning was delicious. I didn't go back to sleep, but I ate all of a Thorntons Eden box of very sinful chocolates, and finished reading Affinity, the new Sarah Waters novel which was my Christmas gift to myself.

Sarah Waters' books perfectly map a substantial part of my fantasy landscape. The only difference is that her Victorian London is queer, and mine is queer and kinky. The queer relationships she describes tend to be tragic and complex; full of repression, oppression, changing alliances, dysfunctional power dynamics and unrequited longing. As a queer woman I kind of wish she applied her formidable skill as a storyteller to describing healthy, cheerful lesbian relationships ... but hey, they make much less interesting stories. (And, I'll be honest: her portrayal of same-sex relationships pretty much matches my own experiences so far. I hope to meet a woman one day with whom I can enjoy romance without unnecessary drama, but haven't yet. This might say more about me than anything else though.)

The lesbians aren't the main reason I love Waters' work, although as a submissive I adore the unjust power dynamics in her romances. And I admire the sophistication of her narrative techniques, her twisting, thrilling plots that never fail to surprise me. But her main appeal, shallow though this may make me, is the immersive, compelling way she writes about Victorian institutions.

Huge households, where the family and staff form an insular hierarchy, with the lowest servants at the mercy of those above them. Asylums for the insane, where women are straitjacketed, subjected to electroshock and cold water treatment, have their hair cut and are punished for not conforming. More indirectly, she also writes about the intricate, written social institutions of the Victorian underworld: the theatre; sex workers; families of thieves. In Affinity both these trends are continued with a story that threads between three settings: the dark circles of Victorian spiritualists, dabbling with ghosts and mysticism with their own set of rules and expectations; a miserable great house rife with tensions between aristocrats and servants; and a ghastly, towering women's prison cut off from the rest of London on its own grim island.

I bought the book since writing my last post, without even realising what it was about. Having finished it, I'm finding it harder than ever to get my image of prison out of the 19th century.

Affinity doesn't contain any mention of CP, but every scene seems to be pregnant with the possibility of it. The strict rules of the prison and the ogreish matrons who patrol it. The tragic stories of the women who find themselves there - abortionists, attempted suicides, prostitutes, pickpockets - most of them poor, few of them with other options. The aristocratic ladies in Waters' books are rarely sympathetic, and her working-glass characters tend to be far more real and interesting.

My fantasies tend not to focus on deserved punishment, but on unjust mistreatment; what better setting than a barbaric, miserable prison populated for the most part, not by criminal masterminds, but the gutsy victims of misfortune?

Affinity is packed full of details to delight the kinky imagination. The rigid structure of the prison day; the lessons given twice a week from tattered textbooks, in which the grown women stand with hands clasped before them to recite their Bibles. Visits to the prison chaplain; the chief Matron's office with its wooden posts and shackles. Cruel forced exercise; pointless work that makes your fingers bleed and your eyes itche; stockrooms full of chains, hobbles and handcuffs; tiny, damp, freezing cells buried deep below the Thames where rebellious women are straitjacketed and shut up for days in the absolute dark.

Or maybe the details aren't important. Maybe the point is the system, the institutional structure intended to shut down all humanity ... and yet, conversely where the tiniest glimmer of kindness seems to glow all the brighter.

Sadly, I don't have the budget to make a spanking film set in Millbank Prison. But if it's possible to make a film that captures the essence of the institutional context - the controlling, oppressive, punishing atmosphere and the inspiring way that the human spark can respond to it - then, I think, I'll be on the way to expressing one of the most important internal narratives of my kink.

All I need now is for Waters to write a book set in an educational seminary for young ladies, and I'll be set.

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Tags: books, corrupting the innocent, Fantasies, meta-analysis, reviews, Victoriana

1 comment

The historical punishment of juveniles

Posted at 11:20 on 13 Aug 2008 by Pandora / Blake

I've just discovered a fascinating website: an archive of historical material about the corporal punishment of juveniles. It's lovingly researched, focussing mostly on the punishment of boys, and contains a wealth of primary sources, including illustrations, press cuttings and personal accounts.

I could get lost in this collection for hours. Schools, reformatories, the military, judicial punishments, care homes are all covered here. There are sections on the cane, birch and tawse, richly embroidered with historical drawings, photos and accounts from the time. Like these two, showing the caning of boys in the navy:


1906 drawing of a shipboard naval caning, published in 'The Humanitarian', a campaigning journal

I was caught doing something which if I had been in the navy proper would have got me 'cells.' I was brought before the captain of the training ship and sentenced to 12 cuts of the cane. I was taken at once to the sickbay and told to strip off except for my socks and was given a pair of white duck punishment trousers. These are always worn by a boy who is to be caned. Then I was marched into the gym where the master-at-arms checked to see that I hadn't sneaked in any padding. I was told to stand to attention and the surgeon general came in with the regulating petty officer, who is always deputed to give the cuts and was carrying two long canes.

I was made to lay over the end of the gym horse and was held in position by two well-built boy ratings. The captain came in and said 'Carry on' and the RPO lifted the cane in a wide semi-circle to the back of his head and brought it down with considerable force. After each stroke the master-at-arms called out 'Cut delivered sir.' At the end of the 12 cuts I was taken to the sickbay where my injuries were inspected. The marks had already turned a mauve-blue in colour.

(A sailor recalls being caned as a boy in a naval training establishment; punishments of this kind continued into the 1960s and 1970s.)

Or these descriptions of 19th century judicial birching:


A 19th century birching table used in Scotland. This ingenious design subdues the prisoner by confining his arms through two holes cut into the table top.

The two boys were both found guilty of theft and sentenced to receive 12 strokes of the birch. The sentence was to be carried out at 1pm, after the birch had been pickled for two hours. It consisted of a number of long thin lashes tied to the end of a stick about 2 feet long. Each lash had a resemblance more to wire than wood. At the appointed time the magistrates arrived to witness the punishment and the sobbing boys were brought in. A move was made to the courtyard at the back of the gaol, a dull, bare piece of ground surrounded by high walls. In the middle of the courtyard had been placed a bench, similar to a school form.

"Now then, down with your trousers, quick!" said one of the constables Although the two culprits obeyed the command their movements were not very rapid. One of the constables quickly unbuttoned one of the fellow's braces, and his trousers were pulled down so as to leave his buttocks bare. Almost with lightning rapidity he was placed on his stomach on the form. One constable at one end held his hands with an iron grasp and the other took the wretch's legs.

The official who held the birch stepped forward both hands holding the rod, and with all his might and main commenced to administer the punishment. The boy began the most piteous howling and yelling and red marks appeared almost immediately across his buttocks. After three strokes his right buttock was like a piece of raw beef. After the sixth stroke the constable moved round to the other side of the form and administered six hefty strokes across the left buttock. The boy evinced the most unearthly yells and blood was immediately drawn. The constable took pride in the fact that the culprit would not be able to sit down for quite a time.

(eye-witness account of a juvenile birching, published in the Pall Mall Gazette in 1887)

There's dozens more; enough to satisfy any spanko appetite. Go, explore, indulge yourself. It's well worth a look.

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Tags: birch, cane, Fantasies, other pictures, Spanking art, tawse, Victoriana, Vintage

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whipped in front of the guests

Posted at 09:44 on 14 Jul 2008 by Pandora / Blake

I liked this artwork by Brian Tarsis which was recently posted by the Spank Statement, showing a clumsy maidservant being whipped with a belt in front of all the staff and visiting gentry.



My favourite thing about this image is the looks the lady whose dress is ruined and the maid are giving each other. The hatred in their eyes hints at past hostilities. Did the lady trip the maid, causing her to fall? Did the maid stumble deliberately, as revenge for a past injustice? Or is it just that she finds it difficult to keep her balance in those delicious and utterly impractical heels?

One of my oldest and favourite fantasies, as it happens, follows similar lines. I'm a maid in an Edwardian household; new to my role, and very nervous. The Lord of the Manor, Sir Edgar, has exacting standards, and his intentions towards the younger, prettier female members of his staff are not entirely honourable.

During my short time in service I've already felt the wrath of various senior servants. An unfortunate incident in the kitchens led to my being upended over the stout knee of the terrifying chef, who wielded her beech paddle with devastating effect. And the butler has already taken a dislike to me - I've found myself on the receiving end of his thick belt more than once, after disapproving reports by the housekeeper on my progress.

I'm learning quickly, though, and it's not long before Sir Edgar decides to show me off to his gentleman friends. I'm instructed to serve drinks at a soiree. Sir takes me aside beforehand, telling me in a quiet voice that he thinks I have promise, that he trusts I'll make him proud. I nod, anxious but eager to please.

In the drawing room, the visiting gentlemen sniff around me like dogs. Wherever I go I'm greeted with wandering hands, reaching out for a pat or a squeeze. They discuss my physical attributes as if I wasn't there, as if I were a piece of meat. I'm soon shaking, and it takes all my concentration not to spill the drinks I'm serving.

When Sir Edgar calls me to his side I'm grateful for the reprieve. But the worst is yet to come. He orders me to strip, so his friends can admire me more easily. I'm reluctant, but the threat of punishment prompts me to obedience. I strip down to my corset and petticoats. The comments greeting my exposed skin are raucous, greedy. One of them barks, "That's all well and good, but have you whipped her yet?"

Sir Edgar murmurs that he hasn't yet needed to deal with me personally, and, encouraged by the demands of his guest, offers to let his friend attend to me as he wishes. I'm instructed to bend over the arm of a chaise longue. I feel my petticoats lifted, rustle as they're pulled right up and settle around my head. My bottom is exposed and lifted right up into the air over the scrolled arm of the chaise, which is high enough to force me on tiptoe. I bury my head in a cushion and squeeze my eyes shut. I can hear comments about my bottom, how it's made for the rod. I sense a figure coming to stand by me and crack an eye open. It's Sir Edgar - standing calmly next to me, nothing escaping his scrutiny. I moan quietly as I realise my helplessness, but stifle the sound. I'm scared, but I don't want to make him angry. I can't afford to be chucked out on the street. I don't dare disobey.

The gentleman takes his time choosing a long cane from a selection proferred by a footman. He flexes a couple of them, whipping them through the air, before making his choice. The whole room has gathered round to watch. I don't know what's worse - the ones talking about me as if I was an inanimate object, or the ones laughing and joking about something else entirely, as if a young girl helplessly awaiting a thrashing she hasn't earned were so commonplace it wasn't worthy of notice. But the worst thing of all is that the other staff members on duty can see it all. I may not see any of the guests again, but the footmen, the other maids, the butler - I have to work with these people every day. I can't bear for them to witness my humiliation. I haven't even done anything wrong!

A couple of the guests have moved closer, and I can feel one grip my arms, holding me still in preparation for my whipping. I struggle half-heartedly, then remember Sir Edgar watching and make an effort to stay still.

Then a wild cry escapes my lips as the first slicing stroke falls - whitehot, searing pain, worse than the belt, worse than the paddle. I can feel the cut across both cheeks of my bum, burning and itching. I'm wiggling my bottom in the air in my efforts not to reach back and grab my wounded arse with both hands, and my struggling provokes the hands holding me down to grip my arms more firmly. The second stroke lands just as I'm beginning to regain my breath, and I let out a shriek at the force of it. Blood rushes to my head, and in a panic I realise that because this punishment has no crime, it has no limit: I have no idea how many strokes I'm due. All I know is that I can't bear the next one, I can't, I can't - until it falls, and all thought is jolted from my head as I writhe helplessly in the grip of my assailants.

The whipping is slow and searing at first, painting my vulnerable cheeks with fierce stripes of pain. At a stroke which lands right on the crease between my buttocks and thighs, causing me to emit a particularly high-pitched yelp, I hear laughter from the gentry gathered around, and a smattering of applause. As the caning increases in force and speed, their appreciation rises to match. Soon they're cheering my assailant on with rough shouts - "Harder, you brute!" "Go on!" "Thrash the little bint!" "Come on, don't be a sissy! She can take it!" Sir Edgar's guest, perhaps encouraged by a small nod from his host, responds to the encouragement, and soon the cane is slicing against my thighs and backside with barely a pause between each stroke. It blurs into one long, terrible streak of pain, and it's not until I have to pause for breath that I realise I've been screaming non-stop, unable to escape the dreadful whistling cane.

When it finally stops my head is a roar of noise, my breathing choked by sobs. The cane is replaced by a slightly sweaty hand, mauling and fondling my aching, damaged cheeks. The man whose hand it is is talking to Sir Edgar, probably about me, but the blood is pounding so hard in my ears that I can't make out the words. I can sense the crowd dispersed, laughing and chattering, their attention wandering now that the show is over. The hand gives my bottom a cheeky pat, igniting the tender weals afresh. Eventually I realise that I'm not being held down any more, and in some confusion I struggle to my feet, tears streaking my cheeks, fumbling with my clothes and trying not to meet anyone's eye, although Sir Edgar lifts my chin with a finger to force me to look at him. His guest is bright-edged and flushed, looking at me with a strange intensity. "That's all for now, girl," says Sir Edgar. "Kindly return to your duties. If any of my guests requires your services tonight you are to obey their summons at once. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I murmur, desperate to squeeze my throbbing bottom through my petticoats, but too embarrassed. Funny that I should be worried about propriety when the whole room has just witnessed my most intimate shame.

For the rest of the evening I serve the guests as normal, trying to ignore the amused glances of the ladies and the lustful gropes of the men. My bottom is red raw and the slightest touch makes me flinch, a fact which keeps some of Sir Edgar's guests entertained for some time. The man who whipped me doesn't come near me again, although I keep noticing his eyes on me, darting and lustful as he watches me from across the room. Once I even think I see him lick his thin lips, but perhaps I'm imagining things. I do feel slightly dizzy.

Despite my lightheadedness, there is one good thing about my situation. For the first time since I entered service I'm glad that my waiting position requires me to stand rather than sit.

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Tags: Fantasies, other pictures, Victoriana

2 comments

wrong-handed spanking

Posted at 15:56 on 16 May 2008 by Pandora / Blake

I'm used to seeing both left-handed and right-handed spankers, and often a spanker will switch to their worse hand for the sake of the practise; or, during a caning, to ensure that my left cheek takes a turn at receiving the brunt of the impact (because they're so kind and fair like that). It works both ways - sometimes a spanker who wants to train up their weaker hand will spank less hard at first no matter how hard they try, and I can enjoy the slight reprise. (And secretly laugh at them. Haha, just kidding.) But switching sides during a caning makes it hurt much more - my left cheek is more sensitive than my right, having been the victim of far fewer cane-tip impacts in its time, and not had as much opportunity to toughen up.

In all these cases, however, the spanker switches their or my position to compensate for the change in direction. I've never heard of a spanker, say, using their right hand for a spanking where the spankee is also facing right. However, that's exactly what seems to be happening in these vintage spanking pics:





Is the pose in the first photo simply an attempt at an interesting composition? Is the second because the whip is too long to be used in the correct hand - and is it actually likely to be effective from that position, or is this just an implausible tableau?¹

It's not just a feature of vintage photos, either:



(thanks to the Spank Statement for this image)

1. I do love the way the spankee is arranged across the three chairs, though - implausible or not, it's a really hot image. Particularly the spanker's expression. Mmmm :)

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Tags: funny, other pictures, Victoriana, Vintage

1 comment

Workhouse whippings

Posted at 10:35 on 1 May 2008 by Pandora / Blake

Spankboss of Spanking Blog posted a link this morning to this collection of illustrations which accompanied early editions of the book Nell in Bridewell. I haven't read or heard of this book before, but apparently it's a famous late Victorian story about workhouse whippings. Spankboss is after some higher resolution scans of the twelve plates, so please do comment on his entry if you can help him out. These illustrations are, however, completely new to me. I like them rather a lot.



I think the strong appeal of the above image (and the one following it) is the unusual combination of position and implement. I've seen images of girls stretched out flat and restrained on whipping benches before, and the lifted bottom in the first picture, presumably over a wooden block, is a particularly nice touch. But lying down is a position I would normally associate with more domestic punishments - with hand spanking, tawse, paddle or cane. The cat o' nine tails, birches and single-tail whips of the Nell illustrations are far more commonly associated with victims restrained in a standing position, arms above head - and with whole body or bare back punishments (which we do in fact see later in the series). I love whips, and I love upright whippings, but it's nice to see this conjunction of one of my favourite implements and a very traditionally erotic corporal punishment position.

Bare-back whippings are hot, for me, in a different way to punishment applied to the bottom. Back whipping is sexy because of context, realism; because it fits into a fantasy or a historical setting. It doesn't provide that instant jolt of desire, that masochistic surge, that bottom whipping does. Or at least, not in the same way. It's kind of hard to describe.

(Funnily enough, I had a dream the night before last about bottom whipping using just such a short single-tail whip - a signal whip or similar. The setting of the dream was an old-fashioned boy's public school in which fagging still took place. A bullying prefect had lined up some younger boys who had displeased him for punishment. Trousers down, the boys were perched on a row of playground swings with their bums vulnerably hanging over the edge of the seat. The resulting angle of the swing put them on tiptoe, thighs supported by the wooden seat and upper bodies tipping forward for balance. Their tormentor paced behind them with the coiled whip, giving each a slow, hard six lashes across their exposed cheeks. Some of the strokes were so hard that they made the victim stumble forward, losing their balance and pitching onto the ground in front of them. I have no idea if such a position would be workable, but it was an intriguing image.)

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Tags: bullwhip, Fantasies, other pictures, Victoriana, Vintage, whip

1 comment

Victorian schoolroom

Posted at 14:58 on 22 Apr 2008 by Pandora / Blake

Remember the vintage spanking pics I posted last year? In transferring data to my new PC I've just discovered all the others I scanned in from the same book of erotic photography and never got round to posting.





The Victorian schoolroom is one of my earliest fantasies. When I was eight years old I remember going on a residential school trip to a manor house which had been preserved as a museum. The place was beautiful, and we had a great time climbing the vast yew trees in the grounds and exploring the old Victorian cellars. As a class we spent an afternoon in a Victorian schoolroom which attached to the house. Our usual teacher led the class, which was slightly surreal - he was a good-natured, burly, sporty man but he warmed to the roleplay, and we all dressed up in old-fashioned clothing that was provided by the museum. We had to practise writing copperplate with dip pens, all of us using our right hands to write with, and after the lesson the teacher walked up and down the rows of desk inspecting our work for neatness and our hands for inkstains. Everyone who had inky hands or messy work was hauled up to the front of the glass to be caned. Not a real caning, of course - we put our hands out and the teacher waved a dramatic flourish over each outstretched palm. The boys who giggled and thought the whole thing was hilarious were sent to the corner in a dunce cap.

My interest in spanking had arisen long before then, and I spent the entire afternoon moving as if through a dream. Even now, I can't quite believe this was a genuine school trip. Surely I imagined it? Through the lesson I took the roleplay very seriously and when I was called up to be punished I was as solemn as if everything was real. The faux-punishment was embarrassing, a relief and a disappointment. I was glad that not all of my secret inner daydreams were being dragged out of my head and paraded in front of my classmates - because that was how the rest of it felt. I don't know if the episode cemented certain embryonic desires which might otherwise have focussed elsewhere, or if my kink was well and truly formed by then and this was just a strange coincidence. It was squirmy and shocking and I had the time of my life.

The national obsession with the clichéd Victorian schoolroom seems to date back some time. These photos were produced in 1925, when no-one had worn bloomers for decades - but the images of the sloping school desk, the prim schoolmistress and the graffitied blackboard are already essential parts of the fantasy. (Have I gushed about bloomers recently? I love bloomers. I feel more naked wearing bloomers that open at the back than I do wearing a thong, or nothing at all. I love being punished through bloomers: the sharp contrast between decorum and exposure makes the whole experience more piquant. And they frame the buttocks beautifully - no bottom is unflattered by the soft curve revealed through bloomers.) And it goes without saying, but that schoolma'am is hot.

I'm not sure what's going on with the fake ruler-welts on the schoolgirl's bum, though. But I suppose you can't have everything.

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Tags: Fantasies, other pictures, Victoriana, Vintage

1 comment

Five kinky reasons...

Posted at 10:51 on 22 Jan 2008 by Pandora / Blake

... to see the new Sweeney Todd film:

1. Johnny Depp putting a razorblade to Helena Bonham-Carter's throat. I didn't find the actual throat-slitting erotic, but the power play between these two was intense. Especially if you like breath-play, knife-play or the threat of it. It felt as if every single duet between the pair of them evolved into him pinning her and holding a knife to her throat. Not that I'm complaining.

2. Judge Turpin (that's Alan Rickman) talking about geishas! And catamites! And trying to corrupt the young male protagonist! And lusting after his young female ward! (Whom Sweeney also seems worryingly obsessed with given she's his daughter. There's more than a hint that he's got confused between the two blonde female relatives of his lost family.) Also Alan Rickman looking really hot in tight trousers and stubble.

3. Abuses of authority! Rape, incest, lashings, the workhouse! Well, at least the threat of them.

4. Lunatic asylums and corset-dresses with built-in straitjackets. (I so, so badly want to make a CP film set in Fogg's Asylum.)

5. Judge Turpin saying to his ward "I've spared the rod till now, but - ". I shall leave the rest to your imagination.

If you don't like musicals, don't bother seeing it. There's a lot of singing and it's all marvellously over-the-top. But if you don't mind that, and if you like grungy melodramatic Victoriana, corsetry, leather trenchcoats, tight trousers, Dickensian London, urchins, power abuse, victimised children, caged girls, sexual harassment, lunatic asylums, blood, razorblades, shaving, haircutting, exposed throats or cannibalism, then you'll probably enjoy it just as much as I did ...

P.S. I've filed this under my usual startles tag, "corrupting the innocent", but in case it wasn't obvious, there is nothing innocent about this film. Tim Burton is as perverse as the rest of us. In fact, he's probably worse.

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Tags: corrupting the innocent, Fantasies, films and TV, other pictures, Spanking and bondage porn, Victoriana

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Les Belles Flagellantes

Posted at 14:59 on 8 Mar 2007 by Pandora / Blake



I love the way this series is displayed - it has a real sense of movement to it, with the photos leaping from one part of the scene to the next.

Also, I had no idea that St Andrew's Crosses had been used as dungeon furniture since the 19th century! That actually increases their appeal :)

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Tags: other pictures, Victoriana, Vintage

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