Monday, February 27, 2012

Letters

One of the mainstays of spanking lit is the letter to the editor. I wonder if this particular form is somewhat unique to the spanking fetish, as it seems to have been the vehicle of choice for many during several periods in history, especially in those times when accounts of spanking incidents were none too easy to come by for consumers. Letters appeared in The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine in the late 19th century, for example, and in other seemingly straight publications. Indeed the famous Eric Wildman used the ruse of "letters" (written it seems by his own hand) to build interest for his spankophilic endeavors. In the 1960's letters appeared in a Canadian publication, Justice Weekly, extolling the virtues of corporal correction. Also in the '60's and '70's an American men's mag, Mr. Magazine routinely featured letters from wives, schoolgirls, daughters and strict aunts recounted their experiences with palm and paddle. Most interesting were the pulp romance magazines like "Your Romance" which in a letters column called "Pats and Peeves" featured letters from spanked wives, girlfriends and schoolgirls, all written in lurid detail, but maintaining an absolute innocence as if unaware of the erotic potential of such accounts. Lastly there have, on occasion, been letters to the various "agony aunts" such as Ann Landers that have included accounts of spanking incidents.

Some of these may have been authentic, but I suspect that most were penned by staff writers who had stumbled across a sub genre that seemed to have a fairly enthusiastic fan base, much to their consternation, I'm sure.

This month the Kilahara Library of Spanking Fiction (www.spankinglibrary.tk) is featuring a contest in which the entries must be in the form of a letter or letters bearing homage to this venerable art form. Your humble blogger has a few entries, but in honor of the contest I have decided to post here a few old ones, which, having been previously published, do not qualify for the contest. I have termed these "Letters to Annie" as if Annie were the local paper's version of the "agony aunt".

          LETTERS TO ANNIE VOL 1

I discovered this old cache of obscure "Romance" magazines in my aunt's attic while cleaning it out for her. She said to throw them away, but I held on to them. There was something very precious and campy about the articles, the artwork, and pictures. They had been published in the late 50's and early 60's and there was this sense of innocence masking an aura of repressed sexuality. There was nothing sexually explicit--much more was implied than actually stated or shown. That is when I noticed how frequently there appeared stories or articles about spanking. The title of one article was "My Husband Spanked Me". The story related the confession of a wife whose husband had come to the end of his rope over his wife's poor housekeeping and undisciplined spending habits. She described in great detail how he had finally, out of desperation, rolled up his sleeves, put her over his knee and had smacked her pantied backside until she had tearfully promised to mend her ways. The story ended with our heroine's declaration that she appreciated the resolve of her masterful husband and hinted  that vigorous lovemaking followed the spanking.

Now, spanking turns me on, and so I poured through the contents of each magazine hoping to find similar items of interest. I hit the jackpot with a "letters" column in one of the magazines called "Letters To Annie". For a period of several months readers poured out their tales of real life experiences as spanked wives, girlfriends, roommates, and others. While most were written by females, a few men weighed in too. Here is a sampling of what they wrote.

Dear Annie,
    I live in Washington DC and work as a secretary for my congressman on capitol hill. Housing in Washington is hard to find, and I have had to share an apartment with three other roommates. I am Julie, and I'm 20. My roommates are Joyce 22, Peggy 19 and Cathy, the senior member of the group at 23. We are all attractive, fun loving gals and we get along great. Well, mostly.

     We rent one half (the top) of a house turned duplex on capitol hill from a Naval officer named Commander Robert Sharp. He works at the Pentagon. He is a widower in his 40's and what a dish--even for an older guy! He is about 6' 1" and has dark wavy hair, is broad shouldered, and very handsome. He lives in the bottom half of the house. He comes on like this very military tough guy but actually he's very sweet under all the gruffness. We call him Commander Bob.

     Us girls haven't been away from home too long. Most of us work on the Hill or at the Pentagon as a result of being recruited right out of high school. Now we have no parental supervision. As a result we tend to cut loose every now and then, reveling in our new-found freedom. That is what got us in trouble with Commander Bob. One night we put some records on and got a little crazy dancing in our upstairs flat. Joyce had bought some wine and after awhile we were all feeling no pain. Commander Bob knocked on our door at about 11:00 and told us to pipe down. Well, I'm afraid that we were so worked up, laughing and carrying on that it took three times for Commander Bob to knock on our door and tell us to keep it down before we shut up. That last time, he looked really angry. We were so loud, I guess the neighbors had complained.

     The next morning we were all a bit hung over and feeling generally crummy. To make matters worse, Bob wanted to talk to us. He was still angry. He told us he would not tolerate a gaggle of such inconsiderate young women and that we would all have to "ship out". He said our parents should have taught us better behavior than that. We were stunned. As I said, apartments were hard to find, and the last thing we wanted was to slink back home, having been kicked out of our housing by the landlord. So we all sat down and frantically tried to think of something.

    It was Peggy, the "baby" who hit on the idea. She said in an offhand way that if she had done at home what we had done last night, that her dad would have slipped his belt off, made her bend over the bed and whipped her fanny good and hard with it. Then Joyce admitted that she too had been spanked for bad behavior by her mom. She said her mom used to keep a big hairbrush on her vanity just to warm the seats of her and her two sisters when they acted up. A summons to the upstairs bedroom meant an old fashioned spanking across mom's knees while she sat at her vanity and cracked that heavy hairbrush down on the panty clad bottoms of Joyce and her sisters.
 
     I was shocked. I had never been spanked before, not even as a kid. Cathy was amazed at this revelation. She said her mom and dad both spanked her while growing up. She said her mom even had a little paddle they called "mom's helping hand" that came into play when a spanking had been earned for disobedience or lying. "When I was due for a licking," she said, "it was bottoms up, panties down and over mom's knee for a good stinging lesson from that little paddle. It stung like crazy, but you know, after that all was forgiven."
      
    So while I stood there with my mouth open, the rest of them came up with a plan to help us keep the apartment. We would go as a group to Commander Sharp and apologize. We would offer to be punished by him and suggest that maybe if we took a good licking from him like our parents would have given us, it would clear the air and help us mend our ways. Later that afternoon we made our pitch to Commander Bob. I was so embarrassed the earth could have swallowed me up--imagine--I was standing there with a group of grown women asking a man old enough to be my father to punish us like we were 12 year olds. Commander Bob thought for a moment. He asked if we were serious. We said we were. He said he hoped we knew what we were in for, but that we could stay if we reported that evening for a little well deserved discipline.

   We cleaned the apartment and bit our nails until the hour of 5:oo pm rolled around. At 5 o'clock, four nervously blushing, contrite girls knocked on the downstairs apartment door and were ushered in by Commander Bob. He said he had given it some thought and that he had in mind that adequate punishment would be twelve licks with his belt. He said that this was the usual punishment that he and his sisters had been given as kids growing up in rural Oklahoma. We gulped and looked at each other but we all agreed that this was fair. The procedure was to be that each of us in turn would bend over the padded arm of the sofa, pull up our skirts and take twelve licks with his doubled over belt on the seats of our panties. He said he didn't think we would feel it through our skirts. Nervously we agreed to this added humiliation.

   Cathy volunteered to be first. She took a deep breath then she bent over and hoisted her dress. Underneath she was wearing full cut pink nylon panties. It didn't look like they would be much protection from the wide leather belt that Commander Bob slipped through his belt loops. To this very day I get goose bumps when I hear the slithery sound of a belt being pulled through pant loops. With her fanny fully exposed Cathy held on to a seat cushion while this handsome Naval officer cracked that belt across her bottom hard for one dozen licks. With each crack of the belt Cathy winced and wriggled. She gave out a few little yelps toward the end. We could tell it hurt. Her bottom cheeks jiggled with each lick, and we could see red stripes form through the sheer panty material. I was terrified. Joyce went next. She had on a tight skirt that she had to tug to get it up over her hips. She was taller than Cathy and her bottom stuck way up when she bent over. Joyce was more vocal taking her dozen. When she got up she frantically rubbed her bottom cheeks before she pulled her skirt back down. I was next.

   My heart was in my throat as I leaned over the couch, sticking my butt up in the air. I felt so exposed. Then I had to lift my dress. This was the worst part. I was wearing a nice dress, though a little short, with a garter belt and nylons. Other than that all I had on were white nylon panties that were pretty sheer. I have a nice ample behind and I'm sure Commander Bob got an eyeful. I will never forget the whooshing sound of the belt and the smack of it on my skin. It felt like a band of fire. It was all I could do to hold still while Bob cracked that strap against my poor hiney eleven more times. Ooh, how it hurt! I know I wriggled shamelessly and my eyes were filled with tears of shame from the awful ordeal. I had told myself that I was going to retain some dignity, but when it was over I shot up and rubbed my flaming buttocks and tried to dab my eyes at the same time.
   
    Peggy was last and took her strapping, too---much better than I did. I guess she'd had experience. Penny's bottom was sort of small and cute, but our stern Commander didn't go any easier on her. He laid on the twelve licks slowly and methodically. Penny emitted little screeching noises with each thwack of the belt. When it was finally over, Commander Bob dismissed us and we filed back upstairs. Later, sitting on pillows at supper, we all agreed that we had been soundly punished and were not likely to repeat our behavior.

   Things calmed down after that, but, as you might expect with four girls living in close quarters we would get on each other's nerves. I was a neat person and I didn't like the way Cathy left her nylons drying over the shower rail. Peggy never did the dishes. Joyce got mad at me for borrowing a blouse without her permission. It got pretty bad. There were cold silences and bitter outbursts. We realized we had to do something.

   One day, Cathy, who had been in a sorority in college mentioned their system for keeping order. There was a demerit log in the sorority house and any member could charge another with an offense. Once a week the house members held "court" and the sisters could present their cases, followed by the defense of the accused. Penalties for demerits could range from extra chores assigned to a paddling with a wooden paddle. This was given by the house mother who acted as sergeant-at-arms. A sister found guilty at court might have to hoist her skirt, bend over with hands on knees, and take anywhere from 3 to 10 swats on the seat of her panties. Having gone through the ordeal with Commander Bob, we thought, "well, it might work." Truth was we were falling apart and we had to restore order out of chaos.

   So then Joyce said, "Ok, who will be the sergeant-at-arms?" We puzzled over this, realizing that no one was exempt from discipline. We didn't want to create a situation where someone was too easy or too hard on someone else. We didn't want to create grudges. We didn't have an impartial housemother, but we did have... "Commander Bob," said Peggy. It dawned on us that she was right...and, given past history, he'd probably do it.

  When we explained it to him, he saw our problem. With a twinkle in his eye, he asked if we were sure. He said he'd do it, but that we had to resolve the question of guilt ourselves. Only if we were deadlocked would he step in and act as a sort of "supreme court". It was all agreed with one stipulation and that was that we had to choose the instrument of correction ourselves.

  We thought about this and about how to structure our rules. No one had a paddle and it seemed that the belt was too severe. We settled on a ping pong paddle and went to a sporting goods store and got several. We posted the rules and chore assignments on the wall in the kitchen and hung a paddle on a nail in the closet. It wasn't long before someone was in the dock. Me.

  All three girls decided that I had been a little too cavalier about borrowing or using things without asking. This was on our list of offenses. After three incidents, the penalty was 12 swats. So we called on Commander Bob. He told us he'd be up at 8pm sharp and to be ready. I was on pins and needles the whole day. My roommates just smiled smugly. They were going to enjoy watching me get it.

  As the hour approached the butterflies in my stomach were terrible. I even had to think about what to wear. What does one wear to a spanking? It was then that it hit me. I was thinking like a schoolgirl on prom night. Commander Bob was a virile, good looking man. I wanted to look pretty and feminine for him. Almost unconsciously I had put on a black garter belt with sheer black nylons and daring French cut panties. I even lifted the fashionable dress I wore to see the effect in my mirror. The garter belt framed my fanny very nicely and my bottom was plainly visible through the sheer flimsy panties. I shivered in expectation. This was a strange emotion for a girl about to be upended and have her nearly bared buttocks soundly swatted by a man.

  After dinner we sat around, waiting. I jumped with a startled gasp when the knock on the door came. My three roommates graciously ushered Commander Bob in and explained what we had decided. Commander Bob gave me wry smile and said we should get on with it. As per our agreed procedure I was sent to fetch the paddle. When I came back, paddle in hand, Cmdr Bob had seated himself on the couch and beckoned me to step forward. He said he thought it would be easier if I just laid across his lap for my paddling. That way I would not have to hold a bent over position while I got my swats.

   I came forward and sheepishly handed the paddle to Cmdr Bob. He patted his knees, an unmistakeable signal for me to prostrate myself over his lap. I clambered over his thighs with a flush on my face. This was so embarrassing, to go across his knee like a kid. But when our laps came into contact, the feel was electrifying. I don't know why but the feeling of being over his lap, my fanny jutting up and his arm clamped across my back was strangely exciting. Then he told me to lift up. I did and he slowly pulled my skirt up in back. I felt the air on my almost naked bottom and I buried my face in my hands. I also thought I heard a murmer or two from my roommates at the unveiling, perhaps at the risque nature of my lingerie.

   He asked if I was ready. I said I was. He tapped by bottom a time or two with the paddle then delivered that first smack. It made a loud crack and I felt the impact followed by a burning sensation. I found it was not altogether unpleasant. But another crack followed and another after that. Now my poor fanny felt uncomfortably hot. By the fifth swat I was burning up. It stung and burned. He was spanking me once every few seconds, spacing the swats out. Sometimes he tapped my cheeks or pressed the paddle down before he hit me. Each swat covered both my bottom cheeks. It was like fire by number eight. Then a curious thing happened. Unconsciously I was lifting my hips in time with the swats. It was like I wanted to meet the paddle on its downward arc so that it would smack me right on the fattest part of my fanny. I was hot and flushed, almost about to cry, but I was also, can I say this, aroused. I almost didn't want him to stop. And what I really wanted him to do was take me in his arms and have his way with me. Instead, when all twelve swats had been duly delivered, he helped me up like a gentleman, said he hoped there were no hard feelings, and with a smile took his leave.

   Later, alone in my room, I peeled down my panties to look at my bright red buttocks in the mirror. Cmdr Bob had certainly given me a good seeing-to and I felt tingly back there for the next several days. I guess the die had been cast. We had started this and no one knew where it would end. Over the next few months all of us had their turn over Cmdr Bob's knee for a date with the ping pong paddle. It was almost like we were vying for his attention. In those days there weren't too many eligible men in Washington DC. In my next letter I'll tell you what finally happened with our rather unusual arrangement.
                                            Bye for now,
                                                Julie

  

  

 

   
   


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