Category Archives: Book Worm

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.

Culo – The World Is No Longer Flat

Culo by Mazzucco

We’re promised  some fabulous photographs  by Raphael Mazzucco in Culo, a new book which is entirely dedicated to women’s bottoms:

Mazzucco searched the globe for the world’s most stunning women to appear in the book. The result is a 248 page collection of color photographs and art pieces showcasing a diverse group of women—some already legendary, some about to become so—who embody the spirit of culo and the start of a new era of beauty.

The book is due for release in November but you can watch a preview video right now:

Marshall Grover’s Texans Are Trouble

texans are trouble

From the library of Murray Roberts, who writes:

The Australian paperback scene was a wasteland for spankos until the arrival of Carter Brown, Larry Kent, and Marshall Grover. CB became an international bestseller, but the other two had only limited success outside Oz.

MG was a prolific writer of Western paperbacks, his most successful characters being Larry & Stretch, a couple of ‘pards’ who drifted around the Old West after the Civil War. I recall the author telling me how infuriated he was when ‘academics’ insisted there ‘must’ have been a homosexual relationship between them.

Both were chivalrous, but Larry was never averse to ‘spanking the sass’ out of an uppity female. In this story, teenage Miranda is set on an acting career, and, in her parents’ absence, indulges in a little role-play.


There was far too little of the gown and a great deal too much of Miranda.

“You’re a blame disgrace!” barked Cromwell, “Ain’t you got no shame?”

He advanced on her, with arm upraised. She took a pace backward, adopted a dramatic stance, and cried:

“Do not strike me, Father! I am no longer a child. I am a woman!

You want to bet?” roared Cromwell.

He seized one bare arm, flopped into a chair and threw her face downward across his knees. His broad hand rose and fell with rhythmic precision, against the tightly swathed posterior of his wayward offspring. She shrieked and pounded the floor with her clenched fists.

Upstairs a door slammed. Eva Cromwell, a thin, nervous-looking woman in the late forties, fluttered down the stairs attired in a yellow kimono and looking like a canary in startled flight. She flew into the corridor and entered her daughter’s bedroom, then uttered a shriek and clasped her hands to her flat breast.

“Edward!” she whooped. “You’ll kill the child!”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea that!” retorted Cromwell. rising to his full height and depositing the girl on her feet.

“Look at her! Look at your daughter…!”

“She’s your daughter, too” gasped Eva.

Cromwell scowled at Miranda, who had backed over to the mirror and was tenderly feeling at her smarting rump.

“What’ve you got to say for yourself?” he challenged.

“You’re a brute!” “she accused, jabbing a finger at him.

“Miranda Cromwell!” gasped Eva.

“It’s true!” said the girl, her breast stormy. “Only a brute would use his strength on a – – a defenceless woman…”

“How many times do we have to tell you?” moaned Eva, slumping onto the bed. “You are not a woman. You’re a mere child. You’re far too young to be stealing my dresses and — and powdering your face. Oh Edward — is this our child? What have we done?

“Don’t you start!” snapped Cromwell. “One addle-brained play-actress in a family is enough – without you takin’ on the same way!”


Miranda decides to leave home, and, being a strong swimmer, hitches a lift downstream on a floating log.

Stretch remained on the sand, shading his eyes with a hand, following his partner’s progress. Larry was fast closing the distance between himself and the drifting log, and the girl sprawled atop it was now well aware of his approach. He gave her a yell of encouragement, begging her to hang on a moment longer, then struggled on. With a last strenuous effort, he drew level with the log and reached up to grasp at her waist.

“Get away from me!” gasped Miranda. “Leave me alone — leave me alone…!”

Larry Valentine nodded grimly. He had heard of shock before. He trod water and looked her over. She was astride the log, and except for the lower part of her jeans, her clothes appeared to be dry.

Again he reached up for her. She scowled at him and raised a small fist, threateningly. Then he made a grab for the log and hung on. Miranda gave out a shriek and pounded at his face. He stifled an oath, seized one of her wrists and tugged. With another shriek, she came free of her perch and splashed into the water. He held his grip on her wrist for a moment, then switched to a new grasp, crooking his left arm about her neck.

“I — know you’re loco-scared ma’am!” he panted. “But I’m gonna get you back to dry land!”

“Let me go –ulp!” spluttered Miranda.

The last word was caused by the fact that Larry was holding her head half-in and half-out of the water. He began striking out for her bank, mentally praying that she would not struggle. The thoughts of slamming her shapely chin with his bunched fist filled his soul with gloom. To Larry, it just didn’t seem right.

He need not have worried. Miranda was incapable of struggling. So firm was Larry’s grip on her neck that she could do little more than gasp for breath. By the time he reached the shallows and waded to the shore, carrying her across his shoulders, she was speechless. Gently, he laid her on the sand and bent her over her. Stretch, now fully dressed, joined him there and, in his helpful way, began fanning the girl’s face with his Stetson. Her eyelids flickered.

“She’s comin’ round!” whispered Stretch.

The brown eyes opened wide and flashed a baleful glare at a startled Larry Valentine. His alarm increased when she raised herself to a sitting position and swung a fist at his face missing his chin by a mere half-inch.

“Hey!” he gasped. “Take it easy, ma’am!” To Stretch he said, significantly. “Still crazy-scared-from bein’ near drowned.”

“Near drowned my eye!” blurred Miranda. “I was safe out there – safe and dry! Then you had to make a big hero of yourself and pull me in the water and get me all wet again – you – you big ox!”

“Hold hard, now,” remonstrated Stretch. “You ain’t bein polite – to a feller that’s just risked his life on your account…”

“Did I ask for help!” blared Miranda. “Why couldn’t he mind his own business?”

“That does it!” scowled Larry, rising to his feet. “I damn near drowned myself – draggin’ this maverick out of that river. Maybe she’s a mite loco from shock, but she needs a lesson – and the best lesson for her is another shock!”

Let go off me!” shrieked Miranda.

It was no use. She was powerless in his grasp. In a swift double movement, he dropped to the sand, cross-legged, and hauled her across his knee. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Miranda Cromwell suffered the supreme indignity of an energetic paddling.

Strong as her father was, Larry Valentine was even stronger. His broad, hard palm attacked her nether region so forcefully that, after ten blows, the sharp pain had increased to a tingling numbness. Miranda screamed, Miranda shrieked threats, Miranda pleaded – but the Texan did not desist until his hand was aching.

“Lucky for you I was usin’ my gun-hand,” he growled, pushing her from him and getting to his feet, “else I’d never have let up!”

All ends well. Miranda’s parents agree to her joining a troupe of actors, while Larry & Stretch drift on, never seeking Trouble, but somehow always finding it.

Diana Ridley’s All My World

Thanks to Murray Roberts for sending in another extract from his library. This time it’s a 1940s romantic novel that provides the action.

Murray writes:

Even before the eruption of Historical Romances in the 1980s, spankings were scattered more liberally in Romance Fiction then elsewhere. Since these were written for, and largely read by women, perhaps it says something about how they felt about being subject to discipline by their menfolk. The author claims this story was written in response for requests for a ‘he-man hero’.


After many threats, Max finally gets down to giving the troublesome Betsy exactly what she deserves….

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it!” she said, her voice gradually rising. “In the meantime, kindly keep it to yourself. You insufferable, conceited oaf! You stand there as calm and unmoved as if you were made of stone laughing at me! Well, I won’t be laughed at by anyone like you; and the sooner you realise, the better! I wonder if you’d still laugh if I were to throw this glass of water at you?”

Max did not move a muscle. He merely looked at her very steadily, his mouth set and his jaw firm.

“I shouldn’t make the experiment,” he said quietly. “I put up with a lot for your father’s sake. and because I realise that you have had a difficult childhood, but there are limits to my patience, and I will not stand much more of it. You are behaving like a spoilt, unreasonable baby, and…”

But he got no further, for the word “baby” had snapped the last remains of Betsy’s self-control. With a little cry she rose to her feet and threw the glass straight at this head. Luckily the glass itself missed him by a mere fraction of an inch, but his face received the full impact of the water, and he recoiled involuntarily, temporarily blinded, whilst the water made havoc of his dress shirt and trickled in cold, unpleasant rivulets down his neck. Betsy stared at him open-mouthed, half alarmed and half triumphant at the result of her action.

Her triumph vanished very quickly, however as, dashing his hand across his eyes, he came towards her. He no longer looked suave and amused: his face was set in lines of grim determination, and there was a look in his eyes that made Betsy feel as if an icy hand was clutching at her heart. She had achieved her original purpose of rousing him. but she was much too scared to feel any satisfaction.

“Very well,” he said, steely purpose in his tones ” you’ve asked for it often enough, and now you’re going to get it!”

Betsy realised his intention, and turned to escape, but he was too quick for her. His hand shot out and grasped her shoulder in a grip of iron, and before she had time to take in what was happening he had sunk on to the seat and she was lying face downwards across his knee.

“Max! Stop it!” she gasped, her voice shrill with fright and humiliation. “Please don’t! I will be good, really I will! Please, Max!”

But Max took no notice of her tearful pleas for mercy, nor of her frantic kicking and struggling, and screams of rage and terror. Holding her as in a vice with his left arm, he used his right hand with stinging effect – not viciously, and certainly not playfully, but as if she were a naughty child. Her frock was very thin, and his hand was very hard, and before long every shred of temper had deserted her, giving place to sobs of mingled pain and shame, whilst in her heart there dawned the beginning of a happiness that was as real as it was mysterious.

She was being hurt more than she had ever been hurt in her life before, but she knew that it was a punishment well deserved and long overdue, and besides – it was Max who was spanking her! He must care for her after all! This proved it in a way that was unconventional but quite beyond all doubt. Any man might kiss a girl – she had discovered that with Sigurd – but only one who loved her with all his heart would take the trouble to spank her if she deserved it!

“There!” Max was panting a little as, at long last, he released her and dumped her on to the seat beside him. “Perhaps that has taught you a lesson!”

But. despite the severity of words, his face was white and curiously gentle as he looked at the abject, tear-drenched little figure beside him; and Betsy, looking at him shyly, knew that her supposition was correct. she was aware of profound gratitude and gladness that at last – although certainly not in the way that she had expected! – her great wish had come true. There was a twinkle in her wet eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitched mischievously.

“I thought you didn’t care what I did, Max?” she said very demurely, a slight quaver in her voice.

“You told me so once, you know.”

Max looked at her very steadily, a faint ghost of a smile denting his chin.

“Did I?” he said.

Betsy nodded.

“Yes,” she told him. “you did. It wasn’t true, was it, Max? You do care. Just a teeny, weeny bit.”

Hank Janson’s Lilies For My Lovely

Thanks to Murray Roberts for sending in another testosterone- fuelled novel extract from the hard-boiled 1950s when men were men and women were spanked – good and proper!

Hank Janson was the pseudonymn of an English author who wrote violent faux-American thrillers which were sold as cheap paperbacks with erotic cover art. I’ve illustrated the extract with a few of these covers.

Murray writes:

For a period c.1950, Hank Janson was Britain’s top selling author. His monthly stories sold in hundreds of thousands. In this one, heiress June has been kidnapped, her hair cut off and sent to Papa. She has been rescued by Papa’s bodyguard, but does not seem very grateful…”

liliesformylovelyI said: “All right, can the big I am stuff, Jane. If you can’t treat Dan like he’s a human being at any rate stop getting at him all the time.”

She tried to toss her head at me. But it didn’t come off. She’d have made a pretty good show if she’d had her hair. But she hadn’t and the result of her action was to make her look pretty silly.

I grinned. Sally tried to suppress a smile and Dan said:

“Creepers, don’t she look queer that way.”

June flew into a rage. She slung a jug off the table at Dan. He dodged and it smashed against the wall beside his head. She’d have probably thrown a lot of other things and Dan would probably have gone on dodging them if I hadn’t stepped in and grabbed her.

I said: “Look you two. You’d better start getting sociable because you ain’t gonna have no other company around.”

“You ain’t leaving are you, Hank?” said Dan. He sounded scared.

“Me and Sally are clearing out.” I told him. “We’re gonna take a little trip together.”

“Gee,” he said. He looked at June, looked at her cropped head and shuddered. “You gonna leave me alone with her,” he said. “She gives me the creeps.”

Luckily I was standing right behind June and I was able to grab her when she started throwing things again. And then after she’d quietened down I said to Sally: “Okay, honey, get your things packed.”

Dan looked at me with a sorrowful expression on his ugly face. ” Gee, Hank” he said pathetically.

I said: “Look fella, come outside I wanna talk with you.”

We went outside and walked down into the woods. I said: “D’you want some good advice?”

“You’ve helped me a lot. Anything you say is okay by me.”

“You’re letting that June make a monkey outa you.”

“I know,” he said. “But that’s the way things are. She’s that kinda dame. What can you do with a dame like that?”

“Give her a damn good spanking.”

“That’s what she needs,” he agreed. “But honest Hank. I can’t get tough with a dame. If it’s a fella now…”

“That’s your trouble,” I said. “You’ve been brought up in the old school. You think women have gotta be treated gentle and polite all the time. But wake up, Dan. That line’s okay with dames that have got something to their credit. But this dame’s a pain in the neck. All her life she’s had what she wanted. She’s got no more regard for human feelings than she has for a train-line. What you got to do, Dan, is to show her that human beings are human beings.

“I’d like to get tough with her, Hank. Sometimes she makes me so mad I wanna take her apart. But you can’t treat a dame that way.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “There’s some dames that need slapping around. And the fella that does it is doing them a favour. It might make all the difference to their life.”

His big eyes looked at me seriously.” You really mean it Hank? You really think I should teach that dame a lesson?”

“What have I been telling you for the past ten minutes?” whendamesgettough

He thought about it. The idea was new to him. And when he churned it over in his mind he could see the possibilities.

I said: ” It’s a piece of cake for you. She’s stuck here with you for at least a coupla months. That’s a long time to be shut away with somebody. Are you gonna do those two months the smart way or the tough way?”

“I think you got something, fella” he said.

“Attaboy,” I felt in my pocket and brought out the photographs. “Just as a little extra encouragement to her to be good, you can wave these around in front of her. Tell her that you know a fella that’ll like to give these to his editor.”

“I’ll take those,” he said. “Maybe they’ll come in useful later. Right now I’ll try without using them.”

We walked back to the cabin. “You wanna make a start now,” I said.

“Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll feel better if I know you’re around.”

“I’ll be right behind you. And remember, every time you feel like backing down, I’m right there watching you. I don’t think you’re yella, Dan. Just prove it to me, willya?”

“Course, if she gets tough, it won’t be like fighting a fella,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You gotta develop a new technique. You just leave it to instinct. You’ll find out what to do right enough.”

We went back to the cabin. Sally was already packed and waiting for me to come back.

June was sitting back in the chair with a magazine across her lap. She said airily to me: “Well, I’m much obliged for the help you gave me. I guess my father paid you plenty for it. That’ll help you on your way.”

I stood in front of her and said levelly: “Listen, Miss June, I ain’t received a penny from your father and if he offered it to me, which I doubt, I wouldn’t accept anything. Maybe I did help you outa a jam. So did Dan here. But has it ever occurred to you that we did that just so we could be useful to somebody?”

“Yeah, but you coulda got some dough outa Dad.”

I said slowly: “Your Dad can go to hell, his money can go to hell and you can got to hell as well. And while I’m about it let me tell you what I think of you. I think you’re the miserablest, worthless slut I’ve ever met.

She sat bolt upright in her chair, her eyes flaming an the cropped scrub of her hair seemed to bristle. “You insulting swine,” she mouthed. “How dare you speak to me like that.”

Dan hitched his trousers uneasily. I’d given him a lead and this was his chance. He said: “Don’t you go talking to Hank that way. I guess everything he said is right.”

June may have been scared of me but Dan was a different proposition – she thought – she got up outa her chair with a slow menacing movement. Her eyes were slits and her fingers crooked like talons.

She advanced slowly towards Dan, her lips writhing and curling back over her sharp teeth. Mad viciousness expressed itself in every taut line of her body.

“You scum,” she mouthed at Dan. “How dare you talk to me that way”

Normally maybe, Dan would have backed away. But now he stood his ground. June went right up close to him and then one of her hands shot out like a raking claw. Blood spurted from his cheek as nails shredded skin from his face.

June musta been surprised at Dan then. He caught her hand, spun her around and shoved her so that she went flying across the room to bang against the wall. But if she was surprised she was much more angry. It was a maddening insult to her that Dan should have treated her in the way she asked to be treated. She turned and rushed at him. Sally made a movement as though she was truing to stop her. I grabbed Sally by the arm. “Leave them to it,” I said. “Let Dan settle this his way.”

sisterdon'thatemeI watched them as June, mad with rage, flung herself at Dan. He caught her by the hands, swung her around and shoved her towards the wall for the second time.

June was good for a long while yet. She turned, ran at Dan and at the last moment kicked him in the groin. It was a vicious kick and June didn’t know it, but Dan had got himself a bad rupture through a blow like that. Dan doubled up in agony. June picked up a table and smashed it on his head. Dan crumpled up on the floor. He wasn’t unconscious but he was badly dazed.

I resisted an impulse to do something to try to help Dan. But this was his trouble and he’d have to deal with it himself.

June started kicking him. She couldn’t hurt him much because she was wearing high-heeled sandals and they wouldn’t hurt a tough guy like Dan provided it was his side or his shoulders she was kicking. Dan was still groaning but I could see he was recovering. And then he reached out, grabbed June’s ankle and jerked. She came down hard on her fanny with a bump that shook the floorboards. And when she came down she squealed like a stuck pig. Dan reached out and wrapped his hands around her mouth. She clawed at his hands and long bloody streaks gouted blood across the backs of his hands.

I guess that was when Dan entered into the spirit of the thing. He let go of her and slapped her face. She slapped back. But whereas her palm bounced off Dan’s face, her cheeks were stained red, smarting so the tears ran down her face.

“You beast,” she raged.

Dan got up slowly. She got up slowly. Then her eyes ran around the room wildly. There was a cane chair nearby. She snatched that up and brought it down with all her strength on Dan’s upraised arm. He got hold of her by the shoulder and she jerked away. She left most of the top part of her dress in his hands. Her soft breasts curved invitingly.

Up went the chair again and this time it splintered against Dan’s arm. He was tough that guy. And when he grabbed at June he didn’t miss. He grabbed her good and hard. She struggled like a wildcat, but in his strong arms she was like a child. He twisted her over his knee and then he spanked her. He spanked her with the ease and assurance that a parent smacks a naughty child, but there was a lot more steam behind his slaps. He was slapping to hurt and he meant to hurt.

June was only wearing a thin frock and that didn’t muffle the slaps any. At first June kicked her legs and screamed with the humiliation and indignity of being slapped. After that she began to scream because she was being hurt and then finally she slumped into a kinda stunned acceptance, sobbing and moaning, her body jerked painfully every time Dan brought his hand down. But it took quite a while to get to that stage.

I’ve seen some spankings in my time, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so soundly spanked before. Dan went on slapping, it seemed never-endingly. And every time his large hand came down it had plenty of steam behind it. But by the time he was finally through he was good and tired. His shirt was soaked beneath the armpits. And when he was through he just let June roll on the floor where she lay and sobbed.

“I think,” said Dan, “that we’ll have a drink all round.”

“I’m all with you. You’ve given that dame what she’s been needing for longer than I can reckon.”

“She ain’t going to like that,” said Sally. But I could see by her eyes that she thought June deserved it.

“She’s gonna like that.” said Dan determinedly. ” If she don’t. she’ll get the same again until she does.” He was completely sure of himself now. “Get up,” he said to June.

June lay there and whimpered. Dan bent down, grabbed her by what was left of the dress and pulled her to her feet.

“Get some drinks,” he said.

June whimpered.

Dan bent her around, twisted her, got her across his knee again. “Gonna get those drinks,” he said.

June gulped. “I’ll get them you bully.” she said.

She did too. We sat there while June got the whisky bottle and set up the glasses. We smoked a coupla cigarettes and drank and talked and all the time June sat there quietly, broodingly, looking at Dan with a strange expression in her eyes.

And she was still watching him like that when me and Sally got into my car and drove off.

The last thing June should have been able to do is sit quietly, but an author having to churn out 20.000 words by lunchtime can be forgiven the odd non sequitur.

David Divine’s Boy on a Dolphin

This extract from the library of Murray Roberts comes from a 1955 novel which was made into a film starring Sophia Loren, Alan Ladd, and Clinton Webb. Needless to say, the scene in which La Loren would have been publicly spanked on the seat of her wet bathing costume didn’t make it onto the screen.

Murray writes:

Pero Loutros, a 19 year old blonde Greek beauty, and her boyfriend Guido, have been sabotaging Calder and Madden’s attempts to recover a 2000 year old statue from a sunken wreck.

As deception follows deception, Calder’s patience finally snaps…..

Boy on a Dolphin 001

Boy on a Dolphin 002

Boy on a Dolphin 003

Alas for Pero, a young goatherd has seen everything. He tells his sister, and poor Pero is driven to distraction by the overly sympathetic commiseration of the young women of the island, while Calder is embarrassed – but only slightly – by their overt admiration!

David Lodge’s Deaf Sentence

This will be the last Spank Statement for a couple of weeks as I’m taking a little break. But there’s no need to feel lost without your favourite spanking blog. Just relax, enjoy some light late summer reading with a decidedly kinky twist and it’ll be September before you know it.


An English linguistics professor is reluctantly coaxed out of retirement to give some tuition to Alex Loom an American postgraduate student. The first time he visits her apartment Alex hides a pair of her panties in his jacket pocket. When he discovers a number of books in the university library defaced with marker pen – one of his personal bug-bears – he soon tracks down the culprit…

‘I’ll go make some tea,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Assam, right?’

While she was in the kitchenette I stood up to stretch my legs and wandered over to look at the contents of the bookshelves. As I passed the table which served as her desk my glance fell on a turquoise felt-tip highlighter lying in a small tray with a number of pens and pencils.

I pretended to carry out my intention of examining the books on the bookshelves, but I did not take in the titles inscribed on their spines. I told myself it was just a coincidence, that turquoise highlighters were ubiquitous, and I must not jump to conclusions, but some instinct told me that this was the murder weapon, covered with fingerprints and dripping with blood. Then my eye was caught by a familiar paperback on one of the shelves Analysing Discourse: An Introduction, by Desmond Bates. I took it down and opened it. Alex’s name was written inside the front cover in small, neat handwriting: ‘Alex Loom’. I flipped through the book. On many pages passages of the text had been highlighted in turquoise. Hearing the tinkle of tea things being placed on a tray I hastily replaced the book on the shelf, and returned to my seat.

Though I tried to remain calm, Alex obviously noticed some change in my demeanour when she came back into the room. ‘You’re looking very serious,’ she said, as she poured the tea. ‘Is there something about my chapter you’ve been holding back?’

‘Not about the chapter, no’ I said ‘I was wondering if you know a book called Document Analysis by a chap called Liverwright.’

‘Read it!’ she said triumphantly.

‘Have you got it here?’

‘No, it was a library copy. Much too expensive to buy, and anyway I didn’t get a lot out of it.’

‘The University library?’ I asked.

At this point she picked up the inquisitorial tone of my questions and paused for a second before replying. ‘Yes. Why d’you ask?’

‘Well, I happened to borrow the library’s copy myself the other day and I found that it had been defaced by some previous reader. It was covered in marks made with a turquoise highlighter.’

‘Really?’ She didn’t blush or show any other sign of guilt. Her bright blue eyes met mine without wavering. ‘it was unmarked when I borrowed it.’

‘Then perhaps you marked it,’ I said.

She laughed, but it was a forced laugh. ‘What makes you think that.’

‘I noticed a turquoise highlighter on your table.’

She laughed again. ‘They’re quite common, Mr Holmes,’ she said.

‘And I just had a look at your copy of my book on discourse analysis, which is marked in the same way.’ She dropped her eyes and said nothing. ‘Of course you’re perfectly entitled to mark your own books in any way you like,’ I went on. ‘But doing that to a library book is sheer vandalism.’

‘I forgot it was a library book,’ she said. ‘I was working late, very tired, going from one book to another, some mine, some library copies…’

‘You don’t expect me to believe that,’ I said.

‘It’s true. I didn’t do it maliciously. Anyway, is it such a big deal? It’s not as if I ripped the pages out of the book. It’s still readable.’

‘it’s the principle of the thing,’ I said, getting to my feet.

‘Oh, don’t go!’ she said urgently, getting up too, and looking as if she might at any moment fall to her knees, ‘Don’t go while you’re angry with me.’

‘I’m not angry.’ I said. ‘I’m embarrassed.’

‘Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you say. I’ll buy a new copy for the library.’

‘That would be a good idea, certainly. But how many other books have you vandalised?’

‘None!’ she said. ‘Trust me.’

”I’m afraid I could never trust someone who would make irremovable marks in a library book,’ I said.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Desmond!’ she said with a pouting smile. trying a change of tack. ‘Just listen to yourself.’ “irremovable marks in a library book…” Lighten up!’

But I was not to be teased out of my anger. ‘And after that foolishness with your underwear the other day… I’ve had enough.’ I said. ‘I’m leaving now, and I won’t be coming back. Or giving you any more advice about your research.’ I picked up my document case and closed it, leaving the copy of her chapter on the coffee table.

As I pulled the front door shut behind me I heard a sound as if she had flung the tea tray and its contents across the room.


25th November. I didn’t imagine Alex would accept the severance of relations between us without an attempt at reconciliation. I thought she might offer to return my umbrella, and make that the pretext for another meeting. Instead I got this email from her this morning:

Dear Desmond,

You’re right to be angry, it was a despicable thing to do, a stupid, lazy, selfish, moronic thing, and I deserve to be punished for it. I want you to punish me. Come to my apartment at the same time on the same day next week. If you can’t make it, email me your free afternoons an I’ll choose one. Come to Wharfeside Court, and at exactly three o’clock ring my bell three times. I won’t answer on the intercom, but I’ll open the entrance door – you’ll hear the buzzer. You’ll find the door of my apartment unlatched: just push and it will open. Close it behind you and release the latch, so it locks. Don’t call out. Say nothing. hang up your coat in the lobby. Go into the living room. The blinds will be down and it will be in semi-darkness. Don’t switch on the main light. There will be a table lamp with a red bulb switched on. You’ll see me bent over the table, with my head on a cushion. I’ll be naked from the waist down. Say nothing. Come up behind me and position yourself to spank my butt. Take off your jacket and roll up your shirtsleeve if you like. Don’t try to fuck me. This is NOT an invitation to fuck me, but to punish me. Use just the flat of your hand, no stick or other implement, but hit me hard as you like, as many times as you like. If I cry out, if I sob in the cushion, don’t stop. Get the anger out of your system. When you’ve had enough, when you feel purged, just leave, silently, as you came. Pull the door of the apartment shut behind you, and leave the building.

The next time we meet we will say nothing about what has passed, or about the library book. The file will have been closed. We can carry on as if nothing had happened. This is good.


I must have read this through half a dozen times and every time I had an erection. I have no intention of keeping the proposed appointment. But I can’t get the Sadean scenario out of my mind. It is so easy to picture myself approaching the apartment building, as if in a film, checking my watch, pressing the bell push for flat 36 three times at precisely three o’clock, hearing the buzz and click as the lock on the entry door is released, ascending to the third floor, stealthily entering the apartment, closing the door behind me, taking off my coat in the almost dark hall, lit only by a dim red glow from the living room. When I enter the room it is exactly as she described: the blinds are down, the room illuminated by a red lamp in one corner, and there she is, bent across the table, her head turned side-ways on a cushion, away from me so that I cannot see her face, the waist down, except for a pair of shiny black high-heeled shoes (a detail my imagination added), her rosy buttocks exposed. I take two hands adjust the angle of her hips and lightly caress the curve of her buttocks, like a dog fancier steadying his trembling thoroughbred for display. I draw back my arm and then swing it forward, bringing my open palm smack into contact with her bottom. The sound and the sensation of my flesh against her flesh explodes in my head. I hear her gasp. I let my hand rest for a second where it landed before withdrawing it and smacking her again, and again, and again, pausing deliberately between each smack, favouring one cheek, then the other, in alternation, each time letting my stinging hand rest a little longer where it landed…

I have never had such a fantasy before. How did this woman intuit that somewhere in my psyche it was lurking, unsuspected, only waiting to be released.

1st. December. Today was the day Alex had appointed for her ‘punishment’. I became increasingly nervous as the hour of three o’clock approached. I was alone in the house, and paced restlessly from room to room, glancing at the clocks in each of them. I had decided that the best response to her bizarre proposal was to ignore it, but now that seemed like a mistake. She had asked me to reply only if I wanted to change the day, so she might easily have interpreted my silence as agreement. I imagined her preparing the flat, closing the blinds in the living room, setting up the red table lamp in the corner, then stripping her lower limbs and bending over the table with her face resting on a cushion, waiting for my ring on the entry phone – no, I revised the scenario, she wouldn’t bend over the table until she had heard my ring and admitted me to the building, but she would be naked from the waist down, ready to take up her position at the table at once. So now she might be pacing anxiously like me, but half-naked, or sitting on the sofa with her bare knees together, like the adolescent nude in the Munch picture, waiting, wondering if I would come. Perhaps she would go to see if I was coming along the towpath. How long would she wait after the hour of three before she realised I wasn’t coming, and got fully dressed again? How foolish would she feel? How angry? What would she do next?

At about four-thirty the phone on my desk rang, I jumped, and picked it up without first putting in my hearing aid. It was Alex, of course.

‘You didn’t come,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said.

‘A pity. It would have been good for both of us’


Later, there’s a nice scene between Desmond and his wife:

Over the chicken casserole I had prepared for us, and another glass of wine, she told me, with giggles, Jakki’s confidential account of her sex life with Lionel. Apparently they have erotic theme nights from time to time, dreamed up by him. For instance an Indian Night with incense burning in the bedroom, a raga on the tape-recorder, and the illustrated Kama Sutra open for reference on the bedside table, or a Japanese Night; sexual congress on a mat with cushions, with little cups of sake to hand for refreshment. Or Italian sex, with Amoretti sweetmeats to nibble, Asti Spumante to drink, and Puccini arias as background music. We amuse ourselves with thinking up additional themes that would test their imagination and/or stamina: Eskimo Night, Roman Orgy Night, D.H. Lawrence Night…

Later in the bedroom, as we came naked from our respective bathrooms and embraced, she said: ‘If you did have a theme night what would it be?’

I said ‘Spanking Night.’

She drew back her head and stared ‘Darling!’ What an idea! Who would spank whom?’

I would like to spank you’ I said, ‘but I suppose we could take turns, if you fancy it.’

She laughed almost hysterically. ‘You want to take me over your knee? Wouldn’t I be a bit heavy?’

I looked round the room. ‘You could clear the top of your dressing table and bend over that.’

She gave me quite a hard slap on the bottom, and I yelped, ‘Ow!’ You see?’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t really like it.’

‘You took me by surprise,’ I said, ‘but the effect is actually quite stimulating. Look.’

Grinning, she gave me another, harder slap. I retaliated. Struggling and laughing, we collapsed on to the bed. Later, not laughing, I did to Fred what Alex had forbidden me to do to her, closing my eyes and imagining myself in that red-lit room. It was the best sex we have had for a long time.