A reader, who wishes to remain anonymous, kindly sent us a piece of their writing recently. We thought you might enjoy it, so with their permission we present possibly the finest spanking poem I’ve read:
The Brush
He sat down squarely on the red settee.
The lass, amazed, was hauled across his knee,
Her heels in air, her nose against the plush,
And from her hand he plucked the antique brush
Which, while she needled him with jibes and mocks,
She had been pulling through her auburn locks.
Now, with her bottom perilously flaunted,
She wondered if she ought not to have taunted.
She thought he might be thinking to remind her
She should have put such childish spite behind her,
And as things lay she felt that her behind
Was all too likely where he would remind.
But she was much too dear for him to hurt,
And he too kind – then, oh, why did she blurt
“You wouldn’t dare!” and watch, with widening eyes,
His hand, reflected, and her hairbrush rise.
Now with his left arm firmly round her waist
He felt that he and she were better placed
To bring the spat she’d started to an end.
Her posture showed her ready to attend
While he expressed his full and frank response,
A task he thought he’d best begin at once.
Thin cotton slacks, but tauter than a drum,
Revealed each pliant contour of her bum.
With petulance she wriggled her trapped hips
And then that fateful phrase escaped her lips.
He sensed a thrill, a tremor down her back;
Her bottom winced beneath the pending smack.
“All right, my girl,” he said, “enough’s enough.
Or did you think I wouldn’t call your bluff?
You little minx, it’s time you were controlled.
I told you plainly once, you’re not too old
To spank, like daddy should have done before.
And no brat ever needed spanking more.”
(Too true: the strap or rod that should have taught her
Had never striped the misbehaving daughter;
The spoiled young princess never touched her toes
To have her pert bum printed shades of rose.)
“Your time has come, young lady, and now you’re – ”
And down he brought the hairbrush, hard and sure –
“About to get the paddling you deserve – ”
And down against the other gorgeous curve.
(How sweetly were her smooth and tender flanks
Upraised for him, to be adored with spanks…)
The swift effects of ten such sounding whacks
Against the tight, light fabric of her slacks –
Her bucking buttocks and her kicking heels,
Her cries of “No!” and piercing, outraged squeals –
Sent rays of warming gladness to his heart
(For her, a different warmth, another part),
Confirming that his instinct wasn’t wrong
To give what she’d been asking for so long.
So back to work. He dextrously undid
Her sleek, chic pants, and down her thighs they slid.
The sheer white briefs were clearly all too brief
To lend her well-warmed roundness much relief,
But since again she blurted “Don’t you dare!”
Her pink posterior was quickly bare.
With shrinking fear, and yet with odd elation,
She knew her rear faced one fierce flagellation,
Indignities her person never knew.
Her nightmare, and her dream, was coming true:
Bent over, quite uncovered, tightly held,
She held her breath, she trembled – then she yelled.
His wooden weapon went from cheek to cheek
And each return she greeted with a shriek.
Its form was flat and stiff, hers soft and plump,
And sternly it addressed her blushing rump.
It said hot things about her fits of pique;
It made its case against her naughty cheek.
Too many times her crimes had gone uncaught:
For every crime she earned a smart report.
Too many times she’d flexed a waspish tongue:
For every word her writhing backside stung.
She gasped in anguish at the fires he lit
And fed with well-placed strokes. How would she sit
Again upon such throbbing, tingling flesh?
She cried that if he’d stop she’d start afresh,
But plead and sob and promise all she might
He plied that wicked brush with no respite.
His aim was steady and his will was firm;
Her fate was but to redden, weep and squirm.
For fully half an hour the ceiling rang
With echoes of the sorry song she sang.
For fully half an hour he took great care
Her precious seat was spanked both ripe and rare.
And here our household scene finds happy ending:
When she’s released at last from her down-bending,
One soundly punished girl, one happy chap,
And she’s sat – gingerly – upon his lap,
And one hand’s found, while in his arms she blubs,
Her buttocks’ glowing places, which she rubs,
With kisses warmer than those flaming hills
She shows appreciation of his skills,
The master’s brushwork painting for his wife
A rosy picture of their future life.
– Anon, 21st century
The knout whip is fixed to a wooden handle a foot long, and consists of several thongs, about two feet in length, twisted together, to the end, on which is fastened a single tough thong of a foot and a half in length, tapering towards a point…