All posts by Valdor

The Tatler

The September issue of the Tatler had the strapline Spanking Spectacular, Bend Over, Darling. Inside there were some ads for designer spanking paddles and a Beginner’s Guide to Spanking as well as the following piece by Giles Coren. Someone from the London Evening Standard contacted his wife about this and asked if he spanked her but she was less than impressed.

My problem is that, as a young man, I had sex with too many feminists. It was the Eighties, I was at Westminster School and then Oxford University, and every girl I went out with wanted to be taken seriously. She dreamed of a high-powered job, cared desperately about homelessness, racism, poverty, abuse, equality and respect. And that filtered into everything.

So my first forays into sex were with girls who:

– Would not do it doggy-style because it was degrading and made her feel like an animal.
– Would not do it against a wall because it made her feel like a slag out the back of a pub.
– Would not swallow because it was disgusting.
– Would not do it outdoors because she was not a whore.
– Would not do it in this position because she couldn’t see my face, which meant I could be anybody.
– Would not do it in that position because it was ridiculous.

And so I developed an approach to sex based on the assumption that women want to feel respected, civilised, clean, loved, connected and sensible while doing it.

Terrible mistake. I ended up shagging like the husband in some Seventies video aid for young married couples nervous about the first time. I did it silently, attentively, respectfully, politely – preoccupied with her ‘pleasure’, muted about mine, creating as little mess as possible, saying something nice afterwards.

And it was years before I discovered that women – after a certain age and out of a certain social group – do not want that at all.

They WANT to feel like an animal. They WANT to feel disgusting. They want, more than anything, to feel like a whore out the back of the pub doing it with some masked pervert.

But only sometimes. And only some of them. Trouble is, I just can’t ever tell which one I’ve got naked in the bed with me.

In my late 20s, coming out of a long relationship and back on the scene for the first time as a grown-up, I was baffled the first time a woman I was screwing suddenly said, ‘Hit me!’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Spank me! Slap me! Hit me!’

‘Why?’ I said. I had never seen a porn film.

I had shagged only Oxford graduates with shelves full of Sylvia Plath and degrees in
world misery. I had no idea what she was on about.

‘Because it’s HOT!’ she said.

So I whacked her a couple of times and she said, ‘Not there!’

So I said, ‘Where then?’

So she pointed and said, ‘Here!’

So I whacked her there and she said,

‘Not now!’

So when?

When she’s coming, apparently. So as to involuntarily contract her kegel muscle and make her orgasm more… something.

But then how do I know when she’s coming? How dare I presume? What if she isn’t coming but only shouting out of politeness or boredom? I’d feel such an arse, whacking a bird like a racehorse when she’s only faking it.

But then other girls think of it as foreplay, not orgasm percussion.

‘Tell me what I’ve done wrong before you spank me!’

‘But you haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Make something up.’

‘Um. You’ve been a very bad girl. You left the fridge open after you made a cup of tea and the butter got a bit soft so I’m going to…’

‘That wasn’t me!’

‘I think you’ll find it was.’

‘And anyway, what kind of repressed bourgeois psycho are you that you’re thinking about keeping the fridge closed when you’re having sex?’

‘Look, do you want me to hit you or not?’

And then still other girls wanted dirty talk with the spanking.

‘Take that you ****ing *****!’

‘That’s horrible. Don’t just call me names!’

‘What, then?’

‘Tell me what you’re going to do to me!’

‘Um, right. OK. Well, first I’m going to
put my…’

I can’t even bear to write it. How do you know what to do when, and to whom? I don’t want to come over all vanilla and boring with a girl who’s used to being tied up and beaten, but then I don’t want to end up ravishing a nice girl and getting pepper-sprayed and carted off by the rozzers.

The scariest girl I ever shagged whispered in my ear, ‘If you’re going to f*** a woman properly, Giles, you have to hate her a little bit.’ You try telling that to a girlfriend who just happens to be the Oxford University Liberal Democrat Women’s Officer.

It’s a hanky-panky-spanky minefield. But it is only now, writing about it here, that I have begun to realise how incredibly sexy a proper spanking ought to be. I curse myself for not having applied myself to it properly in the past, and I can’t believe that the spank monster has come upon me, finally, at a time in my life when I’ve got a two-year-old daughter, an infant son and, so far as I can tell, will never have sex again as long as I live.

Spanking! I’m all for spanking!

The cast perform a song from the new Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Stephen Ward. This could be more interesting when it is actually staged of course as the scenario is a swinger’s party at which the guests pair off and play a spanking game. The show is based on a book and lyrics by Christopher Hampton who has some previous form. He wrote the play on which A Dangerous Method was based.

Charlotte Spencer (left) and Charlotte Blackledge (right) play vice girls Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies, respectively, in the show which is set in 1960s London. The quote below is from an interview that the pair gave to The Guardian.

Stephen Ward musical

…the show is funny. It’s dangerous. It’s quite exciting.” Blackledge interjects: “It’s cheeky.” Spencer laughs and shoots back: “Actually, literally.”

Update:  Rehearsing their technique? Christine and Mandy have some fun during a scene in Stephen Ward’s flat.

01 02


Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging

An interesting excerpt from teen flick Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging (2008).

Needless to say, there’s no follow up and we don’t find out if the boyfriend gives the bully her spanking. If this was set in the 1960s or 70s the stereotypical games mistress would have done the job back in the changing room after the match. Another bottom – this time a very red one – for the girls to stare at!

Eleanor Tomlinson

Ouch! That really stings!

2013 spanking vertical wall calendar (1)It’s Wimbledon time again and on the opening day of the tournament Lauren Davis from Ohio USA fell to Lucie Safarova of the Czech Republic, 6-4, 6-0. Davis, ranked No. 88 in the world, was competing in her first Wimbledon main draw.

The teenager might have found the loss a tough one but it probably didn’t hurt as much as when she fell to a third-round defeat at the Sony Open in Florida last March.

That match was interrupted when a wasp stung her on the backside! Luckily, a cameraman was on hand to capture the kind of on-court reaction shots that normally only feature in our fantasies about tennis players. Like the one in the wall calendar picture for example.

Lauren Davis Lauren Davis2
Lauren Davis3 Lauren Davis6
Lauren Davis5

In other tennis news, here’s a picture that I don’t think I’ve posted before.

Amy Green And Jodie Gasson Play Topless Tennis For Zoo www.GutterUncensored

Impact by Mollena Williams

Impact-Photo-4-Aeric-Meredith-Goujoun-1024x675 (1)

What is the impact of a blow you witness? Does it shift as the perception of pain, pleasure, ambiguity, shifts? IMPACT is a short that invites the viewer as voyeur to experience a strangely intimate and ultimately challenging series of encounters. How do they impact you?

Ear Grabbing

I don’t have a title for this new clip and neither does Chross (help please!) but it’s a nice bare bottom flogging with a build up which includes an ear grab and ear grabs are always good!

Thanks to JS for sending me the bottom picture. He says that “despite appearances, I’m sure the girl isn’t really Debra Winger.”

Ear Grab4
Ear Grab1 Ear Grab2
Ear Grab6

Philippa Gregory’s The Boleyn Inheritance

250px-The Boleyn Inheritance

Divorced, beheaded, died, birched!

Published in 2006 this best selling historical novel tells the story of two of the wives of Henry VIII from the women’s own point of view. In an early chapter the 24 year old Anne, Henry’s fourth wife-to-be, is beaten bare bottom with a rod  for displeasing her brother William, the all powerful Duke of Cleves, who spies on the scene from an adjacent room.


I go through quickly to our privy chamber and fling my clothes into the chest at the foot of the bed and jump into bed in my shift, drawing the curtains around the bed, pulling the covers up. I shiver in the coldness of the linen, and wait for the order that I know will come.

In only a few moments, Amelia opens the door. “You’re to go to Mother’s rooms,” she says triumphantly.

“Tell her I’m ill. You should have said I’ve gone to bed.”

“I told her. She said you have to get up and put on a cloak and go. What have you done now?”

I scowl at her bright face. “Nothing.” I rise unwillingly from the bed. “Nothing. As always, I have done nothing.” I pull my cloak from the hook behind the door and tie the ribbons from chin to knee.

“Did you answer him back?” Amanda demands gleefully. “Why do you always argue with him?”

I go out without replying, through the silence chamber and down the steps to my mother’s rooms in the same tower on the floor below us.

At first it looks as if she is alone, but then I see the half-closed door to her privy chamber and I don’t need to hear him, and I don’t need to see him. I just know that he is there, watching.

She has her back to me at first, and when she turns I see she has the birch stick in her hand and her face is stern.

“I have done nothing.” I say at once.

She sighs irritably. “Child, is that any way to come into a room?”

I lower my head. “My lady mother,” I say quietly.

“I am displeased with you” she says

I look up. “I am sorry for that. How have I offended?”

“You have been called to a holy duty; you must lead your husband to the reformed church.”

I nod.

“You have been called to a position of great honour and great dignity, and you must forge your behaviour to deserve it”

Inarguable. I lower my head again.

“You have an unruly spirit,” she goes on.

True indeed.

“You lack the proper traits of a woman: submission, obedience, love of duty.”

True again.

“And I fear that you have a wanton streak in you,” she says, very low.

“Mother, that I have not.” I say as quietly as her. “That is not true.”

“You do. The King of England will not tolerate a wanton wife. The Queen of England must be a woman without a stain on her character. She must be above reproach.”

“My lady mother, I…”

“Anne, think of this!” she says, and for once I hear a real ring of earnestness in her voice. “Think of this! He had the Lady Anne Boleyn executed for infidelity, accusing her of sin with half the court, her own brother among her lovers. He made her queen and then he unmade her again with no cause or evidence but his own will. He accused her of incest, witchcraft, crimes most foul. He is a man most anxious for his reputation, madly anxious. The next Queen of England must never be doubted. We cannot guarantee your safety if there is one word said against you!”

“My lady…”

“Kiss the rod,” she says before I can argue.

I touch my lips to the stick as she holds it out to me. Behind her privy chamber door I can hear him slightly, very slightly, sigh.

“Hold the seat of the chair,” she orders.

I bend over and grip both sides of the chair. Delicately, like a lady lifting a handkerchief, she takes the hem of my cloak and raises it over my hips and then my night shift. My buttocks are naked, if my brother chooses to look through the half-open door he can see me, displayed like a girl in a bawdy house. There is a whistle of the rod through the air and the sudden whiplash of pain across my thigh. I cry out, and then bite my lip. I am desperate to know how many cuts I will have to take. I grit my teeth together and wait for the next. The hiss through the air and then the slice of pain, like a sword-cut in a dishonourable duel. The sound of the next comes too fast for me to make ready, and I cry out again, my tears suddenly coming hot and fast like blood.

“Stand up, Anne,” she says coolly, and pulls down my shift and cloak.

The tears are pouring down my face, I can hear myself sobbing like a child.

“Go to your room and read the Bible,” she says. “Think especially of your royal calling. Caesar’s wife, Anne. Caesar’s wife.”

I have to curtsey to her. The awkward movement causes a wave of new pain and I whimper like a whipped puppy. I go to the door and open it. The wind blows the door from my hand and, in the gust, the inner door to her privy chamber flies open without warning.

In the shadow stands my brother, his face strained as if it were him beneath the whip of the birch, his lips pressed tightly together as if to stop himself from calling out. For one awful moment our eyes meet and he looks at me, his face filled with a desperate need. I drop my eyes, I turn from him as if I have not seen him, as if I am blind to him. Whatever he wants of me, I know that I don’t want to hear it. I stumble from the room, my shift sticking to the blood on the backs of my thighs. I am desperate to get away from them both.

Harold Pinter’s Girls

Harold Pinter is one of Britain’s most accomplished dramatists. In addition to his twenty-nine plays, he has written many successful screenplays, essays and poems. In 2005, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature.

This amusing and intriguing piece appeared in Granta magazine.


I read this short story in a magazine where a girl student goes into her professor’s office and sits at his desk and passes him a note which he opens and which reads: ‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the magazine. I can’t find it. And I can’t remember what happened next. I don’t even know whether the story was fiction or fact. It may have been an autobiographical fragment. But from whose point of view was the story told? The professor’s or the girl’s? I don’t know. I can’t remember.

The blinding ignorance I am now experiencing is the clearest and cleanest road to madness. What I want to know is quite simple. Was she spanked? If, that is, she was including herself in her all-embracing proposition. If she was including herself in her all-embracing proposition, did she, personally, benefit from it? Was she, not to put too fine a point on it, one of those girls? Was she, or is she, one of those girls who, according to her account, like to be spanked? If that was the case, did it happen? Did it happen in the professor’s office, on the professor’s desk? Or not? And what about the professor? What did he make of it all?

What kind of professor was he, anyway? What was his discipline? Did he subject the assertion (girls like to be spanked) to serious critical scrutiny? Did he find it a dubious generalization or, at any rate, did he set out to verify it? Did he, in other words, put it to the test? Did he, for example, in other words, say: ‘OK. Lie on my desk, bottom up, face averted, and let us both determine whether there is substance to this assertion or not’? Or did he simply warn the student, in the interests of science, to tread warily for evermore, in the perilous field of assertion?

The trouble is, I can’t find the magazine. I’ve lost it. And I’ve no idea how the story—or the autobiographical fragment—developed. Did they fall in love? Did they marry? Did they give birth to lots of little animals?

A man or woman or both must have written this piece about a girl who walks into her professor’s office and sits at his desk and passes him a note which he opens and which reads: ‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But I don’t know his or her name; I don’t know the author’s identity. And I simply don’t know whether the girl was in fact spanked, there and then, without further ado, in the professor’s office, on his desk, or at any other time, on someone else’s desk, here, there, everywhere, all the time, on the hour, religiously, tenderly, fervently, ceaselessly, forever and forever and forever. But it’s also possible that she wasn’t talking about herself. She might not necessarily have meant that she liked to be spanked. She may just have been talking about other girls, girls she didn’t even know, millions of girls she hadn’t even met, would never meet, millions of girls she hadn’t in fact ever actually heard of, millions and billions of girls on the other side of the world who, in her view, liked, simply, without beating about the bush, to be spanked. Or on the other hand she may have been talking about other girls, girls born at Cockfosters or studying American Literature at the University of East Anglia, who had actually told her personally, in breathtaking spasms of spectacular candour, that they, when all was said but nothing yet done, liked, when the chips were down, nothing better than to be spanked. In other words, her assertion (girls like to be spanked) might have been the climax of a long, deep, thoroughly researched course of study she had undertaken honourably and had honourably concluded.

I love her. I love her so much. I think she’s a wonderful woman. I saw her once. She turned and smiled. She looked at me and smiled. Then she wiggled to a cab in the cab rank. She gave instructions to the cab driver, opened the door, got in, closed the door, glanced at me for the last time through the window and the cab drove off and I never saw her again.

Gioni’s Revenge

Gionis 1 Gionis 2

In Italy, Gioni’s sauce bottles come to life and turn the tables on their consumers. The new print campaign by a Milan-based advertising agency is entitled “Gioni’s Revenge”. There are three ads in the series:

  • Brown Sauce – Don’t Spank His Bottom Again
  • Tomato Ketchup – Did You Spank His Mom’s Bottom
  • Salad Cream – Learn To Squeeze Her (F/M not included here)