Spanking stories

I run into the inevitable blogging dilemma; I either have time to write the blog, or to do things to blog about. Not both.

This leaves me with a dilemma. Once I get into writing, I enjoy it and want to carry on. When I stop, I lose momentum and its a struggle to get back. However, work life has kicked in and our kink life has been relegated behind domestic chores and work exhaustion for a bit.

So my solution? Attempt to write fantasy - attempt to write a spanking story. I've not done this before but I have had a fantasy, or rather an in depth series of fantasies, which could easily be translated into a novel or a series of short stories. This is my attempt to write the introduction. If it goes well and if people like it, I will attempt more.

Be nice, it's my first attempt!!!

The capture

She gasped for breath as the hood was ripped off but the gag in her mouth stopped her from being able to fill her lungs. Blinking slowly, she looked around the room, taking in the dripping wet walls, boarded up windows and rubbish piled up in the corners. Most overpowering was the smell; damp, decaying rubbish and urine. Oh god, the urine smell was coming from her.

Her chin was gripped and her head forced upwards so that she was staring into the eyes of the man who was holding her upright. He ripped the gag out of her mouth, filling her mouth with the coppery taste of her own blood. “You wash now” he intoned in broken English.

The words didn't make much sense – she felt like she was hearing him through a fog.

“Wash” he repeated, miming scrubbing actions for her benefit, dropping her to her knees in the process.

When she still didn't respond, he sighed and dragged her to her feet, got a handful of her hair and pulled her towards the door. She was sure she should have felt pain but she felt numb.

Where was she? She took a deep breath and talked herself through it. Ok, Ellie work it out. She was with someone who didn't speak much English and the writing on posters on the wall used the Cyrillic alphabet. Some suburb of London she didn't know? The sounds from outside were too quiet for that; she could hear birdsong and tractors, neither of which were common London sounds. She tried to recall how she might have got here – her last memory was of hailing a cab to get her home after a night out with her work colleagues. There were some vague recollections of a dark space, smells of oil and lots of vibration. Nothing clear, nothing she could make sense of. Had she been abducted? Was she having a nightmare?

Her thoughts were interrupted by being suddenly thrown up against the wall by her captor. They were in a shower room of sorts and she could hear the sounds of other girls in the background; talking, crying, screaming. She wished the feeling of numbness would stay with her as he grabbed her once more and began ripping at her clothes. She began to struggle, fight but her hands were bound and he was strong.

She could barely hear the“wash, dirty bitch” over her own rasping breath, but his intentions were clear. The shower was like needles of ice as he shoved her under. She gasped for breath but that just caused her to inhale the ice water. He laughed as she choked and spluttered, holding her firmly under as she tried to squirm away.

“I wash you then, lazy slut”. She could feel the stiff bristles of a brush scraping at her back, her arms, her breasts as he began to scrub at her. A smell of carbolic from the soap got into her mouth and nose as she began to gasp with the pain of the scrubbing, leaving her retching. She struggled, trying to get away from him, kicking out at him and his relentless hands. She felt his hands slap the back of her thighs as she span away – sharp, stinging on her now ice cold skin.

“Keep still, stupid bitch”. His hands slapped down again and again until she collapsed down onto her knees, screaming out with pain. He dragged her to her feet again, leaning her body weight into him. Dragging her knees apart, he continued to scrub at her with the stiff wooden brush, tearing at the soft skin of her inner thighs and between her legs. She sobbed over and over, choking on the water as it ran over her face, her nerve endings burning with the cold, with the almost mechanical scratching of the brush. She disappeared into the pain until she lost sight of where she was, who she was; all embarrassment gone, all fight gone.

The towel he handed her after the shower was rough and gritty which felt like sand paper to her reddened skin but she still rubbed herself dry gratefully, bringing life back to her ice numbed limbs. The backs of her thighs stung as she patted them dry and her knees began to tremble, barely holding her weight. He watched her impatiently, handing her a plain white shift when she was done. It was grubby and too small for her, barely covering anything but her torso but it warmed her a little, reducing her shivering to occasional tremors.

“Come” he muttered and headed off down the corridor. She stumbled after him; disobedience requiring more thought than she was capable of.

The room he shoved her into was very different from the room she had woken up in. A large log fire burned in the grate in the corner and there was furniture, shabby but once opulent. A man sat, brandy in hand, staring into the fire. He didn't look around as he uttered commands to her captor in a strange dialect. Her captor nodded briefly and withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him. She stood, shivering on the edge of the room in silence; waiting.

The man swirled his brandy and then shrugged it down in one go. With a sigh he rose and walked towards her.

“English?” he asked, with the same heavily accented voice as her original captor

“Where am I? What's going on? Who are you? “the questions poured out of her, barely audible over her chattering teeth.

The blow across her cheek hurt more because she was unprepared than because of the strength of the impact. “Shhh” he intoned mildly, as he walked around her. Stunned, she stood in shivering silence, the fear mounting within her until it felt like a wave about to overwhelm her.

“Pretty” he murmured approvingly, “breasts too small, but buttocks tight”. She felt like cattle being assessed at a market as he poked and stroked at her skin, handling her in the same detached manner she had seen farmers use to manipulate a cow's hocks before buying. She tugged at the shift, trying to cover herself but this only served to expose more of her breasts – no matter which end she tugged, she revealed part of herself as there just wasn't enough fabric to cover her.

The crack of his hand across her buttocks was audible and she gasped involuntarily with the shock and pain. “Keep still” was his only response as she tried to pull away from him and his hands.

“Ah, English girls mark well. No spanking as child.” He smiled almost companionably at her as he examined the hand print on her bottom. His calm, detached manner was getting to her more than the aggression of the earlier man; at least she could predict him, understand him - this man was cold.

“Be good and things will be ok for you”. He pushed her lightly towards the chair and she fell forward, landing over the back so her bound hands were resting on the seat. She tried to get up but his hand pushed her back down, firmly holding her so her stomach was pressed into the scratchy leather and her buttocks were stuck up in the air.

The wave of fear broke like a tsunami when the first stroke landed. She didn't know what he was hitting her with but she heard the swish as it ran through the air, and the crack as it landed across the top of her already stinging buttocks. She heard a scream but it was only when the pain started to subside a little that she realised that the scream had been hers.

She could hear a quiet little chuckle from behind her as the second stroke landed, sending a line of fire just below the previous blow. The pain blossomed over the next few seconds until it felt like she had been cut with a knife before it finally began to subside. As she caught her breath a little, the next blow landed, and then the next and the next. The pattern continued; the blows in a slow steady pattern working their way over her buttocks and thighs until the lines could no longer be distinguished, the threads of fire merging into a bonfire of agony. Again, she began to detach from herself and see imagined she could see herself from on high, lying prostrate and vulnerable over the back of the chair. Her screaming subsided into retching and sobbing, her voice broken by the ferocity of the initial screams. Still he continued, stroke after stroke; cold, mechanical, precise.

After a lifetime, the strokes stopped. She lay unmoving bar the trembling, no more tears left, no energy to try to escape.

The man bent to examine her buttocks in depth, poking with one finger at the occasional welt and muttering to himself. He returned to his seat by the fire, ignoring her as he pored himself another brandy.

“Drink?” He offered up his brandy to her as she lay there. Her thirst overwhelming, she crawled towards him on her hands and knees until she collapsed at his feet. He handed her the brandy and she gulped it down, the burning pain in her throat a distraction from her throbbing backside.

“Good girl” he intoned almost fondly, patting her on the head like a well behaved dog. “Men will like. Sleep now, Mikov will return you to your room in a while”.

Obediently, she lay her head on the carpet and stared into the fire, exhaustion battling with pain, until, eventually, sleep took her.