Category Archives: Book Worm

Lacey Spanked Hard

fhm9 fhm8  fhm5

“Find out all about the book that’s turned your girlfriend into a rampant spankaholic.”


The Fifty Shades of Grey effect shows no sign of abating with the September issue of FHM magazine hosting an A-Z guide to “the book that’s turned your girlfriend into a rampant spankaholic.”

The model who gets tied up and spanked otk with a Coco de Mer paddle is Lacey Banghard {her real name believe it or not), and , according to the editorial page,  she enjoyed every minute of it.


As usual in this type of magazine, the spanking is F/F in spite of the fact that the book is all about a woman being sexually dominated by a MAN. The A-Z list has some amusing moments though, and I thought the letter L was the most interesting;


L – Lucy Hale

The 23 year old actress – the pixie faced star of The OC and Pretty Little Liars – is a front runner to clinch the role of Anastasia Steele in the upcoming Fifty Shades movie adaptation. Who wants to see Lucy spanked to a quivering climax? Everyone, that’s who. Everyone everywhere.

Jacques Serguine’s Eloge de la fessée

jacquesserguineI thought we’d take a look at Jacques Serguine’s Eloge de la fessée (In Praise of Spanking) which was reviewed in the 1976 issue of Panorama magazine whose full colour cover was brought to the internet for the first time here.

The slim volume – part memoire, part treatise – had been originally published in France three years earlier and caused something of a furore. It’s author was a 38-year-old with a string of successful novels and children’s stories behind him.

Another contemporary review appeared in Janus magazine written by non other than our friend Murray Roberts who introduced Serguine to his mostly British readership thus:

M. Serguine sees himself as a missionary, bringing to the heathen the gospel of spanking, as given by a man to a consenting woman, adding an extra dimension of pleasure, learning, and reconciliation to their sexual relationship. As far as readers of this review are concerned, he is presumably preaching to the converted, but we can nonetheless enjoy his sermons.

An early example of the flavour of Serguine’s writing is his description of the first spanking he ever administered to a woman. He was in love with, and living with, a girl called Michele but petty disputes had brought their relationship to the point of collapse:

I remember the occasion very well. Perhaps it was during the summer, I seem to recall that the streets were very empty and the occupants of the houses all away. We were in bed together, and Michele, who normally set up nudity as a sort of declaration of woman’s rights, was for once wearing quite a long night-dress. It was two or three o’clock in the morning. The night was hot, oppressive, then cold because we hungered and thirsted for that love from which we were fleeing yet again, and for the sleep that we repelled.

And then everything became, at any rate for a few moments, so obvious, so easy, and so simple. Michele in the bed, was on my right side, and although in the gloom I could not see her body very distinctly, I knew where it was. I slid my right arm under Michele’s back and raised her, setting her upright, at the same time drawing her to me and bending her, really more over my stomach and thighs than across my knees.

Then I raised Michele’s long night dress, nearly as far as her waist, and, her little behind innocent and offered up to me in the semi darkness, set about applying to it a resounding spanking. At first rather uncertain of the degree of force, even of the rhythm that I should observe, I was soon swept up by a natural force and rhythm, without conscious calculation, as in physical games or the act of love.

I remember the too sudden, too violent onrush of feelings, of emotions, I thought of Michele’s voluntary helplessnes, of her nakedness, of my own brutality. I have never known just when Michele realised that I was going to give her and that she was going to receive a spanking.

Undoubtedly the first smack hurt her considerably, but she was still taken by surprise. Her little bottom seemed to contract instinctively, and perhaps she uttered a brief, stifled cry. Before I could stop to think I continued to spank her, and then Michele and her body accepted the spanking; her bottom relaxed, calm and passive under the rain of smarting slaps.

I took advantage of that acceptance to prolong and intensify the spanking. Her little behind in turn closed again, tightened and re-opened, in an almost involuntary and unconscious attempt to avoid, to escape me. Of course, it was at that moment that I myself was tempted to stop. But, in a paradoxical way, I believed that to do so would be proof, not only of weakness, but of egotism, as if I had substituted, and almost for myself alone, a different pleasure to that from which we were fleeing.

So I spanked Michele for several more minutes, even more forcefully, making her write, sigh, then begin to undulate gently and finally raise her charming bottom one last time, then let it settle, hot and relaxed, just as I for my part smacked her one last time, then stopped.

Eloge 0012

A further spanking of Michele takes place while the couple are sharing a house at the sea-side with various other people. Michele borrows his car one morning to go horse-riding and returns in a fit of the sulks, (“the car had resisted her, perhaps the horse also”) retiring to her bedroom and refusing to join the party for lunch.

In his review Murray described the Proustian final sentence of this passage as “superbly evocative…and almost worth buying the book for this alone”.

I turned on my heel like the ghost of Frakenstein and advanced towards the bed. Michele undid the single button of her trousers, unzipping the zip-fastener, and, without my having said a word, rolled over on her stomach, enquiring in a voice muffled, but gay, or perhaps I should say resigned mad contented, if that was convenient. I opened my mouth to say ‘No’, then sat down on the side of the bed, took Michele under the arms and, without looking at me or raising her head, she herself helped me to put her, face down, across my thighs and my knees. In this position her marvellously round behind stood out unforgettably, harmonious and provocative.’

I never gave Michele so spectacular a spanking for her and for me. It seemed to me that I would never stop and Michele’s bottom clearly did not wish me ever to stop. At the end it had taken on the angry, velvety, and flaming colour of a raspberry in sunlight. For a while after that, Michele and me, we had been happy.

I can feel that spanking in my hand even now.

Jacques Serguine3

This third extract is another highly evocative account of a spanking that he gave to his wife after she had wearied and exasperated him:

Seated, I survey her from top to bottom one last time. Thus, erect in front of me, clothed and blushing, she is so different from me, so very enclosed in her own world. I take her by the hand, and she furtively squeezes my fingers. I betray that last confidence, and abuse it by pulling her by the hand towards me. She yields, she bends, stoops, and lays herself face downwards across my knees and my thighs. She tries somehow to keep her balance, but I can see that what would torment me does not in the least discomfort her, secretly rather delights her; to have her head lower than all her body, her legs dangling awkwardly, to feel her arms cumbersome and useless. In that unnatural position she succeeds without apparent effort in remaining supple, relaxed, warm. and solid, . . . as if she was lying on a bed of roses.”

His wife is wearing a short silk skirt, carrying the brand name of a famous couturier. He recalls how he used to raise this skirt very gingerly, fearing to crumple and damage the expensive material, until his wife told him one day that a little sadistic indifference to such considerations added spice to the situation. So now:

“I seize the lower hem of the skirt in two places, and with uninhibited pleasure and indifference pull it up over my wife’s hips, almost to her waist. I seize in its turn the upper hem of the close-fitting little knickers and, doing my utmost not to touch the flesh, which would be a sign of complicity, a caress, lower them to the delicious crease of her thighs. I greatly dislike removing them completely, because they serve as a jewel-case, a picture-frame, and also because to slide them all the way to her feet, and pull them off, would be too long a journey, too distracting and diverting.

Thus, framed between the knickers and the other rumpled little coils of her skirt, her pale bottom seems offered up to me, tensely expectant, innocent and provocative, yet at the same time arrogant and perverse. I set myself then to spanking this submissive flesh, whose very submission provokes and defies me, reddening, yielding, always regaining its shape and its miraculous beauty under the injury of my blows.

Passing from one part to another of her delicious behind, from the top to the bottom, the right side to the left side. (truly the image, and the expression, cheek by cheek, have never been more appropriate). according as it crimsons so prettily, as it tenses or relaxes to escape or to offer itself, I spank my little shrew of a wife until, just as in making love, she shudders with pleasure, her little behind writhes uncontrollably, her sex, I can tell, it also is ready to overflow and melt, until, then, she accepts as one of the pinnacles of pleasure, even of bliss, the onset of tears, crying softly in a small voice.

And when she turns a little, deliberately, head on one side, I can see her eyes starry with contentment and mischief, and the slightly tremulous smile which, in her triumphant defeat, transfigures her. She is mine. I can leave her thus, hypocritically humiliated, and, unwearyingly admire my handiwork, with the same hypocritical modesty on my part, the same perverse pride with which the Caesars counted and contemplated their dead on the field of battle.”

Serguine has since written many other books which, if their covers are anything to go by, also include spanking as a theme.

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His most recent work L’attendrisseur from 2007 looks especially interesting because it is described as “the new Eloge de la Fessee” and the cover has a photo of a bottom with a red hand print (above right).

In this video the photographer Patrick Georges is shown taking the cover shot and actually applying the handprint. As he works he discusses spanking and the fact that many models easily consent to that little pleasure  (warning: it’s in French).

Finally, Serguine also wrote the screenplay for the 1969 film La Fiancee du Pirate. He must have enjoyed scripting this scene in particular which features the bottom of actress Bernadette Lafont. (Below the screen grab I’ve attached one more quote from Eloge de la fessée.)


“The rounded feminine behind is one of mankind’s most noble possessions.” – Jacques Serguine 1973.

Many thanks to Murray for his help with this post.

Try and Beat Her

From the library of Murray Roberts:

Murray writes: In the late 1930s and 40s, a series of magazines was published with spicy titles like High Heels and Silk Stockings. These featured stories and ladies in not very alluring underwear, and the stories sometimes included a spanking.

The love-hate relationship between heiress and bodyguard was – and still is – a standard plot. In this story, things are settling down nicely when Larry makes a somewhat tactless remark…

His lips left her clinging mouth, and his deep voice was whispering in her ear:

“My darling, my darling, thank heavens you came to your senses –“

And immediately in that phrase, the spell was broken. She remembered all her humiliations at his hands, all the revenges she had planned.

“Dad!” she yelled, “Dad!” The blood-curdling shriek echoed through the house. J. Travis Newcombe burst from his study into the living room, his eyes starting from his head. His first reaction on seeing his daughter sprawled in the embrace of her bodyguard was one of surprise.

“What in the name of thunder is happening here?” he asked.

Larry rose to his feet, running a hand through his tousled hair. In his eyes was a look of mingled determination and triumph.

“Nothing,” he said, “to what is going to happen, Excuse me sir.”

He turned to Sherry like a tiger. In one movement he swept her across his lap and sat down on the couch. With his left hand he imprisoned her head, and with his right leg he snared her kicking legs. Then he raised his right hand and brought it down firmly and squarely with a resounding smack. The result was a little squeal of rage and pain from Sherry. But Larry was in no mood for sympathy, and the relentless hand rose and fell. Flimsy chiffon was no protection, and for the first time in her life Sherry was receiving a good old-fashioned spanking.

J. Travis Newcombe made no move to halt proceedings; rather, into his eyes came a gleam of pure satisfaction. Larry’s square, hard hand continued to meet yielding flesh in a dreadful rhythm, and at each contact Sherry smarted and burned. It was a tearful and doleful little Sherry whom Larry finally set on her feet, and who backed away with brimming eyes and hands on tender hips.

“Now, young lady,” said Larry, a little breathlessly, “do you give up?”

“This is what should have happened years ago,” said J. Travis Newcombe sententiously.

Sherry looked to her father for sympathy, got none, and turned towards Larry. She looked again at his tousled red hair, his clear blue eyes, his tall manly figure, and suddenly through her tears she smiled.

“OK. I give up. I’m beaten – in more ways than one. You see,” she said, turning to her father, “like a d-d-arned fool I went and fell in love with him.

“Splendid!” said J. Travis Newcombe, and smiled his rare and splendid smile.

Larry crossed to her and folded her in his strong arms

Wesley Firth’s Night Secrets

From the library of Murray Roberts:

Murray writes: Firth was perhaps the most talented of the ‘gangster’ authors, able to turn his hand to humour and Westerns as well as thrillers. He died at only 27, but fortunately left a fair sprinkling of spankings. Night Secrets depicts a stormy relationship. First, we have the preliminary bout; then we move on to the main event, aided by some parental cooperation. The interest here is in the build up and dialogue, rather than the spanking itself, which is treated rather perfunctorily.

The action begins on a fairground ride:

Maizie grabbed on to me as we stepped in, and then down we went on hands and knees and started crawling, being tumbled over every now and then by the twist of the drum.

Next I knew we were cluttered up with about a dozen more folks who were sprawling helplessly in a pile midway through the barrel.

They weren’t even trying to crawl out, just rolling here and there and laughing like a bunch of hyenas.

Someone suddenly rolled on top of me, and I got an eyeful of slim. straight legs and sheer stockings. I also got an eyeful of the slave anklet! I grabbed her leg and steadied her.

She sat up and crawled against the roll of the barrel. She was looking red and flushed, and she’d been laughing. When she lamped who had hold of her gam she stopped laughing and looked – but this time she didn’t look scared as she first had – this time she looked at me, and she looked CURIOUS!

I said” “Havin’ fun, sister?”

The barrel twisted again and over she went. I grabbed hold of her leg and hauled her upright. I didn’t take my hand away.

The flesh was warm and smooth under the stocking —

She said: ‘Let go of my leg, please!”

“Why, what’s the matter? I’m just trying to help –”

Let go of my leg!”

“Now take it easy -”

She swung a neat right; her open palm crashed against my cheek. The barrel turned, rolled her over onto her stomach so that she lay across my knees and her back was reared up in my face almost.

Continue reading Wesley Firth’s Night Secrets

Uniform Special – (Naughty) Nurses – Part Two – Literature

I’ve only found one nurse spanking in novels (unless you count The Outlander in which an English nurse from the 1940s travels back in time to mid-18th Century Scotland and ends up with a very sore rear).

Although not that well known, the scene in Passion’s Vineyard by Carl Venturi is a mini classic in my opinion. The book is described by Amazon as “a searching study into the socio-sexual mores of California’s vast grape growing community, and will make you long for the day when everyone in wine country drove something other than a Prius. Hot blooded paisanos take their women violently and it becomes the right of the Italian overlord to pick the ripest of these choice young women to put to use as an object of lust, lasciviousness or love.”

There are two spankings in the book. For not looking after his deceased father properly, our hero accidentally spanks the WRONG REDHEADED NURSE IN UNIFORM. How many bonus points do you get for that combination? In the second scene, he spanks a rude telephonist before sacking her. (but I haven’t included that one here).

passions vineyard coverHe closed his eyes, and gave a great sigh, and then suddenly his head twisted to one side and I knew he was dead. I yelled. I was mad as hell that she hadn’t been around to take care of that bloody phlegm, because he must have been spitting it up for a long time.

“Nurse, Goddamnit, get your ass in here!”

I heard footsteps down the hallway, and then in came the auburn-haired broad who’d let me in at the front door. She had an angry look on her face, and her hazel eyes were flashing. What did you say to me she snapped, and she raised her hand to slap my face.

I said to get your Goddamned ass in here I snarled. My father’s dead. And he’s been spitting a lot of blood and it looks as if he’d been doing it for a long time. What the hell have you been doing today, besides parading around in that fancy uniform and acting like a Picasso painting on display?”

“How dare you!” And then she did slap me.

I saw red. I never was much of a gentleman, and the frustrations of the last five years seemed to burst inside of me as I grabbed hold of her slapping wrist, twisted it behind her back, and fastwalked her over to a low couch by the door, my right knee banging her bottom along the way while she yowled and threatened to have the police on me.

I sat down on the bench, I flung her over my lap, I hoisted up the white antiseptic skirt and the whiter slip underneath it, and there was a bottom ideally made for spanking. Spacious, jouncy, sheathed with a white satin-elastic pantie girdle, and the tabs clung to her white stockings as if they loved her legs so much they’d never let go.

“You stop that, or I’ll have you sent to jail for life, you filthy swine you! Who do you think you are to treat me this way?” she yelled at me, straining to get loose. I clamped my right leg over her calves,

I grabbed one of her wrists with my left hand, and I raised my right hand and I let her have the hardest spank she’d probably ever had in all her life, flattening down the plump right cheek of her behind and letting it spring up again. She let out a yowl that would have passed muster for a wildcat, and she tried to throw herself off my lap. I wasn’t having any. My hand rose and fell over her big backside with satisfying, noisy whacks until she stopped cursing and screaming and threatening me and began to sob and finally to yell, “Oh my God, you’re killing me, please stop it, stop it! For God’s sake, give me a chance to talk!”

I let up after about forty wallops, and I rudely shoved her onto the floor. She fell on all fours like a cat, and she shook her head several times as if dazed, and the tears were streaming down her face, and then she put one hand back to her bottom and began to massage it carefully, while she looked back at me and sobbed,

“You big overgrown bastard, you bully you! I’ve only been here an hour because Miss Tolson, the regular nurse, got sick and Doctor Franklin had to get a substitute in a hurry, and I was just going out of town on my vacation. And this is the thanks I get.”

The anger was all out of me now and I sat there dully, and I stared over at my dead father, and then back at this auburn-haired cutie, and then suddenly I began to laugh my fool head off. What a hell of a homecoming it was after five years! Yes, I had sure made some headway all on my own in San Francisco. I’d learned how to forget my almost virginal shyness towards women and take a strange broad over my lap and blister her bottom black and blue at first meeting. I wasn’t sure that was the kind of social grace that would be acceptable in Fresno. But at least it showed that I had Venturi blood in me, and I think maybe my father, wherever he was now at this moment, was probably laughing too and calling me a bastard in that inimitable way of his and thinking that maybe after all I could make the grade.

All the time I was laughing, this auburn-haired nurse whose behind I had just walloped crouched on her knees with her left palm on the floor and her right hand still rubbing her burning seat, her eyes very wide and her mouth gaping, as if she had just recognized a lunatic. I couldn’t really blame her. Here my father had just died, I had given up my job and everything else in San Francisco, and then without showing any respect for the dead at all, I’d grabbed the poor girl and given her a fantailing she hadn’t really deserved at all.

I said, just put it on the bill. If I made a mistake, I’m sorry as hell. And I won’t give you any alibi that because my old man just took off for the stars, I lost my head. You can call me whatever you want, you can call the cops and prefer charges against me if you want to. Then I grinned, some of my old devil-may-care arrogance coming back. But I’ll say one thing, whatever I have to pay for spanking your gorgeous butt, it’ll be worth it. She had got up now, and she was still rubbing her bottom, and then she shook her head and began to giggle even through her tears.

“If that doesn’t beat all;” she finally managed. “I thought your father was a regular heller, and I was only here a few hours, and now this. You know, I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down for at least a week. And my job’s over now anyhow, and here I was going on my vacation.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee in the kitchen, since you won’t be sitting down for a while anyhow, and talk it over.”

Don’t miss Uniform Special (Naughty Nurses) Part One here

Hugh C. Rae’s The Interview

This is a remarkable and most unusual description of a schoolgirl caning from a novel by Scottish author Hugh C. Rae.

It was first published in 1969 and when I finally got my hands on it, after many years trying to track it down, the scene certainly didn’t disappoint. Martyn is a big fan of this one too, so I’ll let him introduce it for you (contains spoilers):

It’s set in a girls boarding school. In the early chapters, a guy gets a job as a teacher there and because the headmistress has hurt her elbow, she asks him to punish an unruly girl. I know the plot sounds like it comes straight from a spanking magazine but it is written with a superb sense of suspense and fine detail. The guy can’t bring himself to cane the girl when the moment of truth arrives – but she doesn’t escape as the headmistress does the deed… even with her dodgy arm!


n109731She did not close the door on the cool dark brown stone of the corridor. I pulled on my jacket and adjusted my tie, then clasped my trembling fingers into a firm ball-and-socket behind my back. I don’t deny that I was afraid. It was a new and unexpected situation and it had a strange effect on me. I felt vulnerable but oddly excited and the two sensations met and coursed through my system like alcohol.

I listened to the tap of heels on the corridor floor but did not turn as the girl entered. I could see her with the tip of my eye. She seemed much more at ease than I was, bold almost. Not tarrying in the doorway she came directly into the study and wandered into the pool of sunlight, facing me. I tried to appear composed and gave her no attention. Miss Torbet followed the girl and I could not avoid her. My gaze was instantly drawn to the thin cane in her horny hand. I’d seen the cane only in repose. On the infrequent occasions when a girl was publicly punished I discreetly absented myself, not wanting to risk a shock to my ingrained passivity. It was a heathenish legacy anyway and did no-one any good; least of all the girls.

Miss Torbet had never really taken to me. She could not even now after years together, accept me as a harmless pedant and her attitude had changed only from disdainful suspicion to, at best, toleration. I could not understand why she had chosen me to carry out the punishment. Normally only the head wielded the cane, but acute bursitis of the elbow had forced Miss Torbet to re-allocate the task on this occasion.

‘It’s good of you, Potts,’ said Torbet.

‘My pleasure,’ I said, but as a ripple of dismay passed down the headmistress’s face, added hastily, ‘to be of assistance, I mean.’

Torbet gestured autocratically to Pamela. ‘The chair’

In Pamela’s nonchalance there was more insolence than bravado. She dragged my best ox-hide armchair away from the desk and placed it, according to instructions, in the dead centre of the window bay.

‘Mount.’ Torbet said.

Pamela Brown lifted her long slender legs on the seat. The girl appeared nether repentant nor afraid.

‘Does she know why she’s being punished?’ I asked.

“Do you know why you’re being punished, girl?’ said Torbet.

‘Yes, ma’am.”

‘Are we justified?’ said Torbet.


‘I’m glad to hear it.’ said Torbet.

The gown whittled darkly about her as she lifted the cane. The fluid in her elbow changed its level, flooding the old dry cells and making her wince as she placed the instrument across my palm. I still had the girl in the corner of my eye, her head and shoulders over the chair back, arms folded one on the other as if she was peering down into a pool.

‘Go on, Mr Potts,’ said Torbet.

I dropped the cane into a vertical position against my trouser leg. I wished that I’d had on a pair of voluminous bags such as I wore in the ‘thirties.’. They would have hidden it. Against the smooth black cloth of my suit those amberish sections, knobbly polished joints, stood out as starkly as steel or bone. Around Pamela’s hair the sun shaped a tender halo. I tried not to look.

‘Proceed,’ said Torbet.


‘What’s wrong, Potts?’


I closed my eyes. I’d judged the distance in advance and picked my way with groping steps round the corner of the desk, well clear of the ox-hide chair. When warmth from the window bathed my face I opened my eyes again. I swivelled. I lifted the cane. I cocked the cane, which sprang up much more vigorously than I’d intended. Away on the edge of my vision I was dimly aware of Eleanora Hadley–but there was nothing dim about Torbet. She had positioned herself on the other side of the chair, hands on hips. The gown billowed out in leathery folds, like a bat’s wings.

‘Are you ready?’


The action was so sudden that I’d no time to steel myself for the moment of revelation. Torbet flicked up the girl’s skirt, pulling it high over her frail shoulders. I recall the hem’s narrow white stitches against the green cloth as the outer limit of my detachment. Beneath the taut undergarment, by a freak of the material, the furrow was raised not indented. Torbet’s hand briskly smoothed the area. Elastic yielded, sliding and I caught the glimpse of fair, muscled flesh sloping from the hollow of the spine, all delicately speckled with blonde down. I pivoted on my heel and stepped away.


‘I can’t?’

‘May I remind you, Potts,’ hissed the head. ‘That we are not alone.’

I could not help but be affected by her scorn. ‘I’ll try again.’

A pace to my right and once more I confronted the girl’s rotundity. By now my grip on the cane was so tight that it quivered like an animal at the stretch of the leash.

‘Self-discipline is the basis of good authority,’ I think I heard Torbet say, just as I dropped the cane limply and rushed back to the safety of my desk.

‘What’s wrong with you, Potts? Are you ill?

‘I can’t do it.’

I was distraught and Torbet’s unusually kind gesture, she patted my shoulder, foolishly enticed me into hope of understanding. I blurted out some excuses, along the lines of:

  • I’m shackled by a long tradition of Protestant restraint.
  • Natural chivalric values.
  • Completely alien to me.
  • Can’t shake off upbringing in a wink. Need time.

But when I met the head’s uncomprehending, outraged stare I closed my mouth. She was so close to me that her voice had the deadly gentle hiss of a leaking gas-pipe.

‘Pick up that instrument.’

I responded automatically, lifting the cane from the floor.

Torbet snatched it from me, bent it like a bow and released it. It sang in pliant readiness. As if to prove her complete indifference to the weaknesses of the flesh — in her case bursitis — she sabred the air around me and with the finish of her pass drove me to the door and pinned me there.

‘Out,’ she said. ‘Out.’

A flash of Pamela’s blue eyes through the screen of fine hair, not anxious but calculating, then I was out in the corridor. Panting I leaned my brow against the cool brown stone, listening to the steady swish of the cane. I could think of nothing but the girl’s suffering, taut and tender flesh. Even in the name of justice and for the good of my career I could not even have brought myself to defile it, then.