Once upon a time, a studious schoolboy with a busy mind read a book about Love, and Power, and Truth.
Our minds evolved long before literature. Stories are a mighty magic, capable of hijacking the cognitive machinery through which we understand the world. Hence the uncanny feeling that every novel is a true account of real people, experiencing events that actually happened.
We sat side by side on the scruffy sofa that occupied much of the remaining floor of my cramped student bedsit. In our hands, we each held a tatty copy of the same hallowed book.
For this special occasion we’d dressed almost identically in matching drab boiler suits. Cheap cotton outfits I’d bought online, discounted for a pair. They were intended for decorators, throwaway garments to keep off the paint and the grime, but to us they were more erotic than the laciest lingerie.
The only difference between our proletarian uniforms was she wore a bright scarlet sash around her waist. She resembled a gift haphazardly wrapped, even though the girdling fabric was really a symbolic chastity belt. She had gathered her hair into a short ponytail that was intentionally functional rather than styled to be pretty. Her utilitarian outfit concealed her femininity, but I still found her androgynous tomboy look achingly alluring.
“Chapter 3, page one-nineteen?” I asked.
It was agreed with a silent mutual nod. We read this section regularly. It was our favourite part of this particular love story. We had highlighted the passages we would speak, in places alternating rapidly between sentences, the narrative pinging between us like returns in a tennis rally.
“Julia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty other girls…” I began, as if introducing a new speaker to the stage.
A short swish from a lurid yellow highlighter pen marked my cue on the page. The line beneath was unembellished in my copy, but highlighted in her favourite fluorescent green in hers.
"Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!” she interjected, uttering her complaint with just the right level of petty exasperation.
I loved hearing her say that, imagining her lying in her bunk, annoyed by the ambient tittering whilst longing to sniff the masculine musk of muscular men. But I couldn’t daydream, my cue followed immediately, which I hit without missing a beat: “... and she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fiction Department.”
When I first read this paragraph, computers were slow and dumb, and the thought of machines writing books seemed fanciful nonsense. Now it seemed eerily prescient. Dystopia truly would be dawning when human beings began to relinquish the creation of art.
It was her turn to continue: “She enjoyed her work, which consisted chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky electric motor. She was ‘not clever’, but was fond of using her hands and felt at home with machinery.”
“She could describe the whole process of composing a novel,” I continued, “from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she wasn’t interested in the finished product.”
"I don't much care for reading," she chipped in, with a sigh.
“Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces,” I added.
She began her own biography: “She had no memories of anything before the early Sixties, and the only person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight.”
And I continued it: “At school she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League.”
Then back to her: “She had always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it.”
“There she had remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like Spanking Stories or One Night in a Girls' School, to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying something illegal.”
This was not just highlighted in my book, but carefully underlined too. It was a landmark passage. I’d first picked up this book as an impressionable schoolboy, expecting a cautionary tale of totalitarian fascism, only in that sentence to discover the existence of spanking pornography instead. Everything I thought I knew about literature changed in the space of a paragraph. It was the most mind-blowing book I had ever encountered.
I’d often lie awake, imagining what lurid tales might exist within those publications. In my mind, “Spanking Stories” published cautionary parables of mischief and punishment. Naughty girls and boys thinking they were oh so clever, as they embarked on their silly conspiratorial schemes. They’d always be caught, of course, and the third act of the story would be their well-deserved bottom smacking, and the chastely described aftermath as they sat on their soreness writing earnest confessions. There would be no mention of the arousing sensations the spankings produced, readers would imagine that themselves.
My young naive mind would wonder why the Party permitted titillating stories about spanking in particular. It wasn’t until I was more experienced that I realised those in charge were likely inherently sadomasochistic, and such a rigidly controlled society would be bound to eroticise naughtiness.
Besides, a publication about fucking sounded much too bourgeois. Accounts of making love were the kind of erotica intellectualist pseuds would read. Spanking Stories would be full of tales of strict rules, transgression, and punishment. What better way to glorify submission than make it the sole sexual outlet of the masses? Carefully crafted disciplinary stories would train the libido of the proles to yearn for the sting of the cane.
I came to see One Night in a Girls' School as an allegory. The school represented the novel’s repressive society in microcosm. Everything was a metaphor: the fences and the gates, the inescapable location, the regimented timetable, and the reams of rules and regulations that existed for “your own good”. I pictured the young women as dissidents, vivacious free spirits the Party was determined to tame, alongside those banished for refusing the salacious advances of the Party elite.
The published stories would place these rebels in a pressure vessel of arbitrary restrictions, subject to strict inspections of not just their uniforms but intimate abstinence too. Rote learning was taught here, not original thought. All spankings took place in public, with bottoms bared in front of watching classmates. Discipline was enforced by the wooden ruler, the leather strap, and the rattan cane. By the time lights were snuffed out every evening, every girl would be in bed with marks on her bottom, or thinking about them.
As the title suggested, night time was when the naughtiest misdemeanours occurred. Masturbation was of course forbidden, as was fornication with fellow pupils. So a common narrative was for the protagonists to try to sneak out of view, desperate for just enough privacy to explore their own bodies, or those of one another.
Though with watching eyes everywhere, the fate of subversives was quite inevitable. The next day, those caught would find themselves in front of the whole school, bent over the spanking bench, skirts up, and panties down. The story would make the reader a vicarious witness, watching as each naughty girl was caned until her eyes were damp. The coda would describe the aftermath, with the well-spanked miscreants squirming upon hard unforgiving seats, writing essays of contrition as their monitors watched.
Readers would be aroused by the strict hand of justice, willingly masturbating to the unmistakable moral: we’ll always catch you in the end. Night after night, I’d imagine the contents of these pulp fictions in exquisite detail, wondering if Julia and Winston played spanking games in their own secret assignations. In my mind, they always did.
“What are these books like?” I enquired on behalf of Winston.
"Oh, ghastly rubbish,” she replied. “They're boring, really. They only have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite Squad. I'm not literary, dear - not even enough for that."
I carried on: “He learned with astonishment that all the workers in Pornosec, except the head of the department, were girls. The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less controllable than those of women, were in greater danger of being corrupted by the filth they handled.”
"They don't even like having married women there," she added. "Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here's one who isn't, anyway…"
This was where we liked to stop, to let her admission hang in the air. To me, her words were one of the most romantic passages in the English language. Sometimes she’d deliver her final line with a coy smile. On other occasions, she’d let the sentence slither from her tongue, slathered with barely disguised lust.
I closed my dog-eared book and just stared in admiration. Even though her femininity was shrouded by her formless overalls, her eye-catching scarlet sash burned around her waist like a ring of fire.
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* * 2 * *
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At its heart, 1984 was a novel about control, not just what one could think, but also what one was permitted to feel.
Schoolboy me was in awe of Julia when I first encountered her on the page. She had a sexual awareness I could only dream of, and the insight to see through the Party’s agenda of puritanism. She appreciated how sex was more than a transitory pleasure, and was even a threat to the powerful, as our love of our lovers would always shine brighter than the fake adoration the narcissistic Party depended on.
Sex offered an escape route for enslaved minds. Sex was a fire that could burn out of control, an instinct biologically hard-wired into every citizen. That’s why it had to be ruthlessly regulated wherever it expressed itself. Those in charge exploited this, they knew sexual privation induced a kind of hysteria, and that could be usefully transformed into war fever and leader worship.
As Julia had explained in the novel, making love consumes our confrontational energy. It anaesthetises us with bliss, and saps our ability to hate. The Party’s devious trick was to transmute the bottled-up sexual frustration of the masses into rancour. The performative rage was simply sex gone sour.
Winston was oblivious to the connection between chastity and political orthodoxy until Julia had explained it. I don’t think he’d ever thought of sex as something volatile, more dangerous to the Party than any explosive. Deep down, I think he just wanted to be loved.
In the novel, he saw Julia long before they first spoke to each other, and so it was with us. She’d enter the corner of my vision, and without even being consciously aware of her, I’d turn to look. There’s that girl again, the cute tomboy. I didn’t even know her name. But we shared a literature class, where she always sat behind me in the lecture theatre, amongst her own cadre of friends.
What Do We Want?
Our tutor had already written up the subject of today’s class. Now he addressed us, asking us to spend a moment thinking of a sentence from a favourite book that defined what people really wanted. We were permitted to search online if we needed the exact words. After a minute of murmuring, he picked a row, which happened to be the one I was sitting in. My fellow classmates began calling out their selections as he scribbled them onto the board.
"He was a man who wanted to buy the world, and found, when he had bought it, that it was a very small world indeed. Oscar Wilde. Dorian Gray.”
"What do we want? To be known, to be known as we are, and to be accepted anyway. Le Guin. The Left Hand of Darkness.”
"I want to be where you are, and to see what you see, and to share the very air that you breathe. E.M. Forster. A Room with a View."
"What people want is a good story, and they don't care much who they buy it from. Mark Twain. Huckleberry Finn.”
"What people want is a little attention, and they'll do almost anything to get it. Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale.”
I nodded to that one, my kind of book. Though there was an even more chilling quotation, where one of the regime justifies the sacrifice of personal liberty - “the freedom to” - as a small price to pay for the safety that only "the freedom from” could bring.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Austen. Pride and Prejudice”.
“The deep cravings of the human heart are not for wealth or power, but for freedom and peace. Tolstoy. War and Peace.”
And then it was my turn. I’d been unnerved by the guy ahead of me quoting Tolstoy, as I didn’t want to seem like I’d copied him by choosing another Russian giant. But it would’ve been even worse to have stuttered and appeared lost for words in front of my new classmates. First impressions can leave permanent stains. I blurted out my contribution with as much confidence as I could project.
“In the end, they will lay their freedom at our feet and say: ‘Make us your slaves, but feed us’. Dostoyevsky. The Grand Inquisitor.”
My selection won a murmur of appreciation, audible enough to make my spine tingle. But no trophies were awarded, and after several more contributions our tutor led the analysis. He began with the quote from Wilde, for whom the ultimate tragedy of human want wasn't failing to achieve our romantic or material desires. The true disaster was succeeding, because then the race was run. Possessing the prize turned out to be nowhere near as exciting as the heady chase. It developed into a fascinating lesson.
Afterwards, as we filed out of the lecture theatre, she happened to be standing behind me in the queue for the exit. She was on the step above me so our eyes, now at the same level, literally met. She was pretty, athletic, and pragmatically dressed. Just how Winston had described Julia in their first encounter.
“Great choice of quotation,” she complimented.
I almost responded by saying “thank you”, but that would’ve been much too uppity. I hadn’t come up with those words, I was merely repeating what I’d read. Equally well, I couldn’t just remain silent, she might never say another word to me if I blanked her.
“Slavery is Freedom,” I replied with a smile.
It was a line from O’Brien’s “Priests of Power” monologue in 1984 - though its mirrored formulation was more familiar as the Party slogan. You can learn a lot about someone when they try to correct you within moments of first meeting. She had no desire to be pedantic. To her, being correct wasn’t anywhere near as important as being interesting.
“Controversial,” she smiled. “Are you going to the refectory?”
I was now.
That was how our group came to be lounging in one of the conversation pits, sipping tea and nibbling muffins. We talked about politics and personal liberty with the kind of naivety one has as a student, when you think you’re smart enough to know everything, but lack the life experience to know where you’re wrong.
We were not giving each other our full attention, just hanging out as classmates, and her accompanying friends had recently departed to attend other classes. Now it was just the two of us. She was scrolling on her phone when she looked up abruptly and asked: “Do you think Big Brother really is watching us?”
I took a moment to ponder her question. Was she asking if there was actually some malign authority watching us through our phones?
I looked down at my own phone, noticing the faint glint of the camera lens, just beneath the screen. It was like a candle beside the sun. The screen was the true mechanism of surveillance that really policed our lives.
I glanced at the feed I happened to be idly scrolling through. What was I doing right now, if not watching others? I was complicit in a global techno-social panopticon, rating others, determining their status, popularity, and reputation - whilst individuals from all around the world were doing exactly the same to me.
So I gave her my answer: yes, global surveillance did exist, but its genius was that it was peer-to-peer, with everyone watching each other.
We’d all installed Big Brother enthusiastically, and carried him everywhere we went. We told him all our secrets. He controlled what we wore, and who we associated with. Yet he had no police force, and no need to covertly spy on us, as we voluntarily submitted our opinions and lifestyle for his algorithmic approval every hour of every day. We acted to maximise our reputation and grow our popularity, creating an acceptable public avatar of ourselves that wasn’t even real.
My explanation resonated with her, and triggered a fascinating conversation. We discussed the moral of 1984, debating if it was both a disturbing premonition of a repressive police state, and also a parable about growing up in a liberal society where conformity was sacrosanct.
We found ourselves agreeing that a society doesn’t just wake up one day and think: tell you what, we should establish the Thought Police. No, systems of control started insidiously, by large groups insisting their view was the right view, and making it increasingly difficult to believe anything contradictory. Once an acceptable way of thinking became established, people muted themselves.
There were already plenty of wrong-thinks that could incur the rage of the crowd. The other tribe’s politics, racism, sexism, genderism, climate denialism. Censorship was always embraced most fervently by those who believed they had righteousness on their side. The Thought Police came later, as a final display of zealotry. Privacy itself might seem suspicious. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear, Citizen.
She had raised a fascinating point. Do we want others to be able to think bad thoughts, or say hurtful words? We must think carefully about our answer, because once we decide to disallow an idea, we will have to police it.
I admired her argument that the price of policing acceptability was a bland, fearful dystopia. That was the secret of oppression: just train people to be afraid of how they’d be perceived. It wasn’t a fear of being seen, on the contrary, people were desperate for attention, it was a fear of disapproval - one of our greatest human aversions. Who knows what deviation might make you suddenly notorious, and afterwards you’d feel you could never show your face again.
Wasn’t that the lesson of The Conformity Experiment? That it was easier to acquiesce than speak out, that saying what was awkward and embarrassing could be a revolutionary act. Our fear of opprobrium is what really polices us. We are desperate to be looked at, but terrified of being seen.
“So yes,” I concluded, “Big Brother is indeed watching us, in a manner of speaking. But his power is weak. We can fight back…”
“How?”
“By daring to be a little different. Do you like picnics?”
She did.
Our first date took place on the subsequent Saturday. We met on the campus, and then walked beside the river for a while until we found a secluded spot in the rose garden of a local park. The sun was shining between the fluffy clouds so typical of an early British summer. The chonky clumps resembled the filling of a gigantic orbiting pillow that had been haphazardly scattered high above us.
We’d each brought some food and drink, and I’d brought a blanket and some cushions to allow us to lazily bask in the sunshine. We began talking about the books we’d been made to study at school, then as we relaxed, the boldness of our discussions increased. Soon the topic of conversation had escalated, and she was asking me about the most erotic scene I’d ever read.
“There is one section in 1984 that blew me away the first time I read it.”
“Is Slavery Freedom?” she wondered aloud.
“Would you like to find out? May I demonstrate with my belt?”
She looked surprised, yet was clearly intrigued. When she nodded her assent, I ran my belt out of the loops of my jeans.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to spank you with it,” I clarified.
“Shame,” she deadpanned.
In truth, I’d have loved to have spanked her, right there and then. I wanted nothing more than to tell her to get on all fours, so her skirt rode up and I could lash her on her pretty panties. But we were in the middle of a park, it was nowhere near private enough. So I merely shuffled across to where she was sitting and discreetly looped my leather belt around her ankles, then fastened it tight.
“Why did you tie me up?” she enquired. “I wasn’t going to run away.”
“I think a loss of liberty turns you on. And I want to put that theory to the test.”
She accepted my explanation with a smirk. So I continued with my preparations, bringing up the text of 1984 on my phone, then pressing the bookmark to scoot to page 119. Then I handed my device over and asked her to start reading it aloud.
She was hesitant at first, perhaps even anxious I wanted her to read some dark passage of psychological torment, but she indulged my unusual request. A few paragraphs in, as the theme of what she was reading became apparent, she got into the swing of things, and began to deliver a brilliant voice acting performance.
"Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here's one who isn't, anyway…" she said at last, uttering the last phrase with shattering seductiveness.
“That was outstanding,” I commended, plucking my phone from her fingers and stowing it back in my pocket.
I left my belt around her ankles, but didn’t ask her directly whether a loss of liberty had turned her on. Some questions are too profound, too intimate, and can only be answered with actions and not through words. I planned to ask her another way.
The way she kissed me with her legs bound was all the proof I needed.
The following Saturday was just as clement. This time, as we resumed our conversation on restrictions and liberties, a subject she seemingly couldn’t wait to talk about, she was the one who asked: “Aren’t you going to tie me up with your belt?”. So I did.
We began discussing the cultural power of sexual shame. She made the point that throughout the centuries puritans had always found ways to stigmatise pleasure. Fun is an expression of the human spirit, difficult to control, potentially incendiary - and demagogues find all those possibilities threatening.
I agreed completely. It was alarmingly easy to devalue fun and dismiss it as frivolous. Many sneered at sports and games for being trivial and non-productive. But this same belittling could also be used to enforce sexual morality, by labelling anything erotic as self-indulgent and weird. That was how the thrilling fantasies of some came to be admonished as thoughtcrimes by others.
She argued shame exists to keep society stable, like a gravitational force that stops its individuals flying off in all directions. It was Social Darwinism: stable societies had a selection advantage, they grow faster, last longer, and each successive generation is brought up to adopt the prevailing social norms. Sexuality had always been tightly controlled, even demonised and reviled, because few aspects of human nature had such power to radicalise quiet minds, and inspire such unquenchable, dangerous passions.
It was no wonder that Orwell’s book on despotism was a romantic tragedy too. Sex is a chaotic, destabilising force, but closely choreographed societies require order to function. That’s why there are rules on public decency and nakedness, and why laws exist to regulate sexual behaviour and relationships.
She concluded her argument by asserting this was why no one really talks openly about sex, even though we intuitively know it’s quite natural, and everyone does it. Her contention provided me with the ideal opportunity for my own intimate line of questioning.
“Then let us talk openly. Have you touched yourself thinking about me since our last picnic?”
She looked at me coyly, realising the trap I’d sprung. My hunch was she’d enjoy resisting, that any protestations would be performative, and she’d love being forced to ultimately confess.
“My belt is staying around your ankles until I’m satisfied with your answer.”
That was how our first interrogation game began. By the time we left the park, she had surreptitiously slipped her sticky panties down beneath her sundress, and I had stowed them in my pocket. Later, behind closed doors, she finally got her bottom smacked.
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* * 3 * *
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1984 became our own shared escapist fantasy world. We identified with Winston and Julia, sneaking off to explore each other in secret. Our commitment to the conspiracy was total. We’d sit apart in lectures, and none of our friends knew we were an item. We’d behave differently in their company, with the briefest of glances and no displays of affection. We could have arranged our covert meetings by text, but it was much hotter to do it by passing notes, just as Julia had done in the book.
I still remember the explosion of joy I felt when I unfurled a scrap of paper that she’d deliberately folded into a square, and saw that she’d scribbled: I LOVE YOU.
We would meet in my tiny bedsit in the afternoons when neighbouring residents were out at work. Or I’d sneak into her place when she was sure her flatmates would be away. Our assignations felt authentically Orwellian. We kept our voices down as we talked, and were careful never to be too noisy. Something different unfolded on every occasion, as if we inhabited a subtly different Oceania reality during each encounter.
Sometimes we’d play colleagues in the Fiction Department, where our job was to come up with lurid new tales for Pornosec publications. We took it in turns, so one would dictate the story, and the other would write it down. It didn’t take us long to invent far more than six plots. My Julia was an expert storyteller, she would have flourished as a curator of One Night in a Girls’ School.
On occasions, we’d go back to read what we’d transcribed months ago. Sometimes we narrated the story sitting on opposite sides of a table, as if in a committee meeting, officially reviewing the text for the proper level of smuttiness. Or I’d do the reading as she was sprawled naked over the table, her bare back the lectern, the pages placed between her shoulders. I’d push in for a little extra emphasis during the most arousing parts, and pull out to spank her when punishments were described.
When it was her to read, she’d ask me to stand in front of her, and unbutton me so I dangled freely. Then she’d begin narrating, as if my cock was her microphone. Her filthy words sounded so alluring in the posh plummy accent she affected. It didn’t take long until her mic was standing to attention, and I could feel the puff of her every breath on my tip.
I kept the pages of every story she told me. Evidence for the Thought Police, for the next time we played that little game. For instance, this was how her imagination worked:
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“Punishment Poses”
Every school has its own disciplinary innovations. In this one, any girls caught masturbating would be put on display in the entrance hall, in the position in which they were discovered. It didn’t matter if a girl had been found sitting, on her back, or on her front - all were posed standing up. Arm-like retort brackets, of the kind one might find in the chemistry lab, had been screwed into the hall’s brick pillars. Steel clamps extended from the fixings like grimy grasping fingers, awaiting the arrival of the naughty.
Any girl caught playing with herself was remanded into the custody of the Head Girl and her team of senior prefects. She was immediately escorted to the hall, still wet and unwiped, so her vulva was still swollen and sticky, and posed just as she’d been found.
The immediacy of punishment meant fiddlers would be dressed in whatever they were wearing at the moment they were discovered. To see a girl in her uniform suggested one who’d sneaked off to a secret nook, but hadn’t been careful enough to ensure she hadn’t been followed. Those in nighties would be ones caught playing under their bedcovers, or wiping a little too vigorously during their bathroom ablutions.
Those standing bashfully naked were almost always those who’d been caught playing in the shower. There was no doubt playing under the warm sprinkling cascade was intensely pleasurable, but with such delight came the risk of the ultimate humiliation.
The prefects were extremely adept at maximising the embarrassment of those in their care. For a girl who was still dressed, the hem of her skirt or nightie would be plucked and raised by a metal clip, high enough to expose her, front and back. If she was wearing panties, they would always be pulled down to her feet.
The process of posing involved loosening the screws of the joints that articulated the grasping limbs. The clamps around the calves were set first. Once the grasp of the metal fingers had been closed to surround the girl’s legs, the prefects tightened the screws that froze the hinges. Now rigid, the captive would no longer be able to move her feet. Her hands would be next, one wrist clamped next to her thigh, a thin rod holding her extended finger against her lips for all to see - but not quite close enough to actually touch. Her other hand might be posed cupping a breast, or suppressing her moans as it covered her mouth.
Once posed and immobile, the girl would be left to wait for the Headmistress to pass through the hall carrying her cane. That was when all bare bottoms were smacked. A girl might spend several hours frozen in position, awaiting her whacking like a living statue. One who, distracted by her approaching climax, had been surprised by a Gorgon, and been petrified by its stare.
Of course, her classmates would also be flowing through the hallway too, as they shuffled between classes. They’d demonstratively shake their heads in disapproval, though all knew this was simply a preview of what would happen to them the next time their luck ran out, when they felt the dreaded grip on their shoulder.
School rules were absolutely clear: the penalty for wanking was always the cane. Those who’d got stripes on their bottom would be powerless to prevent their curious classmates from inspecting the marks as they passed. Seeing a smacked bottom was never a deterrent. If anything, the very sight simply served to make tummies flutter and naughty places tingle. A sore pink bum merely made those who saw it even more determined to not get caught themselves.
It was funny how many would hurry from the hall with a damp wet heat between their legs, already scheming how that ache might be discreetly and safely relieved. Never noticing the prefect slyly tailing any whose pace had quickened. But that was why rulebreakers were always punished so publicly. The intention behind such explicit humiliations was never to deter misbehaviour. It was to encourage it.
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I remember when she told me that story. I was blown away by how hot and inventive it was. Still in character, she’d chided my prudishness: “You think only boys have filthy minds?”
Her other favourite game was “Interrogations”, where we’d role-play what might happen should the Thought Police finally catch up with us.
One of us would play the Ministry of Love apparatchik, the other their prisoner, with wrists bound to the arm-rests, and ankles to the chair’s legs. The rules of our game were that each interrogation lasted exactly 30 minutes. If the captive could resist until the end without coming, they were released and could claim their reward. But if they spilled their secrets on the interrogation chair, they would go home unfucked, but with a sore bottom instead.
When it was my turn to interrogate her, I’d begin by asking a simple question.
“Do you masturbate?”
“Of course not.”
“An unsatisfactory answer, Comrade.”
With every denial, I’d undo one of her buttons, starting at her collar. This added jeopardy to her predicament, knowing she only had a finite number of denials before there was nothing between my hand and her hot defenceless cunt.
“How do you masturbate? Do you put your fingers inside? How many?”
I’d reward her compliance by caressing her nipples with my fingertips. A skilled interrogator knows a girl has three clits, one between her legs, and two jutting out from her chest.
“Do you fantasise about stiff men or soft women?”
She’d try to feign innocence, disavowing any sexual experiences, pretending to be a chaste virgin who’d found herself captive through some terrible bureaucratic mistake. But her repeated unconvincing denials simply cost her all her remaining buttons.
When I had peeled her overalls open to her crotch, my finger could begin to probe her wetness, which was more reliable than any lie detector.
“Do you have a lover? What’s his name? Does he put it here? Or in here?”
The only prop I used was a pillowcase, which when placed over her head increased her feeling of helplessness. No longer able to see me, only acutely aware of my fingertips probing her holes. But I was always careful to avoid her clitoris - that would have been akin to a forced confession. If she was going to come, I wanted it to be through a momentary loss of control, her wet hole suddenly clenching my finger as her mind was overwhelmed with lust.
When it was her turn to interrogate me, she would bind me to the chair in just the same manner. Her questioning was equally ruthless.
“Do you prefer cunts or bums, Comrade?”
I would be condemned by my first answer, as either a lothario, a sodomite, or a liar.
“Cunts,” I offered, realising after it left my lips that I’d used the plural form, and practically confessed to promiscuity.
“How many cunts have you defiled?”
Again, every answer would condemn me as either a creepy voyeuristic virgin, a liar, or a womaniser. Even my own body would betray me. I’d feel myself rising, already behaving like a sordid sex criminal, or a compulsive customer of whores.
“There’s a bulge in your overalls, Comrade,” she grasped at my crotch. “What secret are you hiding?”
I felt her hands rise to my throat, plucking open my collar button.
“We found quite the stash of spanking material when we searched your home. Do you find the thought of naughty girls getting spanked exciting?”
Was there any legitimate justification for that interest? Everything sexual sounds so weird in the cold light of day, and every further denial would cost me another button.
“Do you masturbate imagining poor girls getting their bottoms smacked?”
Once her remorseless questioning had unbuttoned me to my crotch, she’d change her tactics. Instead of looming over me, she’d sit down beside me and reach across, gripping my erection as she asked her next leading question. She’d give me a few moments to allow her lurid words to ricochet around my imagination before delivering several rough tugs on my shaft. This was weaponised masturbation, not a sensual handjob.
“Is that your dream job? To be the official spanker at the Girls’ School?”
Yes, I’d confess, I did imagine being solely responsible for dispensing punishments to every naughty girl sent with a note to the spanking room. Skirts up, panties all the way down, no exceptions. I’d perform my professional duty meticulously, and gain a reputation for being unwaveringly strict.
“When they bend over, would you make them put their fingers between their legs and rub their swollen lips before you spanked them?”
That would depend on their offence, I’d explain, which would also determine whether they were put over my knee for a bare bottom slippering, or over the caning horse for a good hard whacking. The naughtiest offenders would certainly deserve to be forced to masturbate and climax in front of me, so their bums were super-sensitised before I smacked them pink.
By now I had nothing to hide, I’d answer every question with as much salacious detail as I could muster. I’d tell her how every naughty girl who visited would leave my office with teary eyes, clutching her poor burning bum. I wouldn’t be doing my job right unless she replayed the experience as she laid on her front in bed afterwards, reaching behind to thoroughly rub where it was still tingly and tender.
It was thrilling to stop denying and let my fantasies spill out uncensored. I could tell my candour excited her too.
Sometimes, just to be a minx, she’d spend the last few minutes of the interrogation kneeling between my knees, teasing my cock with her mouth to induce the spurting that would confirm my deviancy. Of course, if she succeeded, it would cost her a fucking too, but she had a competitive streak. That was what made her so much fun to play with.
She’d run her hand up the inside of my thigh, grasping my bits in the palm of her hand.
“Who do these belong to, Comrade?”
“I’m all yours.”
It wasn’t the doctrinally approved answer, as dictated by Party orthodoxy, but it was the truth. She’d clench the shaft of my stiff rebelliousness.
“And what do you intend to do with this?”
I began my answer in a sotto voce, forcing her to lean forward, so I could whisper my filthy insubordinate thoughtcrimes right into her ear. Words so filthy someone might end up getting spanked just for thinking them. They never failed to make her drip.
.
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* * 4 * *
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My Julia had another interpretation of 1984 that frightened me more than any secret police. That the novel was written by a dying man who understood with terminal clarity the transience of existence. Something would always catch up with us in the end, and pop our perfect bubbles of bliss, and it was more likely to be the march of time than the beat of jackboots. Our life’s purpose was not merely to keep our heads down and stay out of trouble. It was to live in a way that maximised our humanity, and find happiness in the time that fate had granted us.
A thoughtcrime was daring to think differently. It was an act of rebellion against righteousness. A contrarian protest against the drift towards everything becoming the same. Utopia wouldn’t be a paradise of consensus, its founding principles would be dignity and a tolerance of discord. Harmony required disparate notes.
In my mind’s eye, I can still see her in her Anti-Sex League uniform, her blood-red sash hugging her tight around her waspish waist. She looked so beautiful silhouetted against the incoming sunbeams, her figure resembling a gift-wrapped hourglass.
Neither of us ever wore anything beneath our overalls. She liked how I bulged when unrestricted, and how her nipples scuffed against the coarse cotton as she moved.
It was even hotter that the sash wrapped around her waist was a de facto chastity belt. She couldn’t be fucked until she pulled down her drab overalls, and that couldn’t be done until her sash was untied. That was another of the ways she loved to tease me, ungirdling her sash slowly. It was more exciting than any striptease.
Once untied, she’d drape her sash around my neck, as if offering me a choice of how to use it. I might wrap it around her eyes or her mouth, or bind her hands behind her. Sometimes, for old times’ sake, I’d tie it around her ankles.
When we embraced, the heat of her body seemed to radiate right through me. I felt pulled into her, by the magnetic allure of feminine sensuality, which would always exist, and could never be outlawed. The tighter we hugged, the more we were ready to defy the Party with our bodies.
I’d cradle her throat to keep her chin raised, feeling her elevated pulse thrum in my fingertips. My other hand would locate the collar button of her boiler suit, and begin flicking them open, until I’d exposed the low mounds of her dainty breasts. It was as if my fingers were the claws of a remorseless undressing machine, or a laser beam slowly peeling her clothing open.
Now I could glimpse her flat tummy. One button later, and I’d revealed the neatly trimmed fringe of her bush, which I teased and tickled with my fingertips. After opening the final button, I guided her arms out of her overalls, then helped them off her shoulders, and let the garment fall to her feet with a satisfying flop.
I encountered no resistance as I pushed my hand between her thighs, curling upwards to find her already soaking wet.
“Guilty of thoughtcrimes,” I pronounced, “You know the penalty, Comrade.”
My sentence only made her push down further onto my intruding fingers. It’s the things we think of as forbidden that arose us the most.
“I must be spanked,” she acknowledged in a whisper.
I lifted the sash from my shoulders and used it to blindfold her, then took my seat, then reached for her hand to guide her across my lap. My favourite stance was to sit with my legs spread so I could bend her over just one of my thighs, allowing her outer leg to dangle downwards against my stiffness, whilst her inner leg jutted out horizontally behind her.
I loved how this position split her bottom and revealed every detail of her swollen folds. It allowed me to clamp her dangling leg between my own, further restricting her ability to move. I drew her arms behind her, grasping her wrists and pinning them against the small of her back. It always felt so amazing when she struggled.
As she squirmed, I pressed my free leg against the lowest part of her bum, raising it slightly until I found just the right angle for her glistening pink lips to impart a little kiss to my thigh. When I spanked her, I held her tightly in place so she couldn’t rub against me. I wanted to hold her motionless so she could feel how helpless she was against my physical strength. Yet I wasn’t squeezing her spirit out of her, it felt more like I was concentrating it.
Over a spanker’s lap, a girl learns what she really wants. She discovers being held down is more arousing than being free to do as she pleases. She realises she can see further with a blindfold. A girl with a well-spanked bottom truly appreciates why strictness is a liberation and soreness is a pleasure.
Together, we had sworn a vow.
We would never allow our renegade fires to dwindle and die.
I've so many scenes I'd love to roleplay. I've even got a list of them, I've been meaning to turn it into a series of posts, it's already several pages long.
As I've played the role of stern disciplinarian countless times, there's an allure to playing something entirely different. When I compiling my list, it was clear there are more archetypes to inhabit than just naughty subs and strict punishing doms.
What if I was to play the part of a naughty boy who wrote an outrageously filthy spanking story? What if I gave said story to my girlfriend, and when she was bored, she took out what I'd written and started reading it in class?
Those filthy words would get her all flustered, and she'd inevitably be caught red-fingered. The outcome is she's sent to the strict headmistress to be deal with - and told to bring the pages of my story along to show her.
Out of a sense of noble responsibility, I accompany my classroom crush to the disciplinarian's office, and to my surprise, I'm permited to stay. Naturally, Miss makes my girlfriend read aloud the story I wrote, commenting and critiquing as she listens.
I can see Miss suppress the expressions that would show what she was really feeling, but it's clear she's enjoying my naughty story every bit as much as the girl I gifted it to. Eventually she finishes reading, and it's time for her to get the bare bottom spanking she deserves.
Miss permits me to stay, but on condition I prepare my own girlfriend for her spanking! She has to put her hands on her head as I untie her laces and slip off her shoes, and keep them there as I unbutton and remove her skirt.
A blush turns her whole face pink as I kneel in front of her crotch. She knows the inevitability of what will happen, screwing her eyes shut in embarrassment as my fingers enter the elastic at her waist. I tug her panties down her thighs slowly, almost reverently, encouraging her to step out of them when I guide them over her feet.
Miss hands me a tissue and tells me to wipe my girlfriend and report her wetness. I do as I'm told, standing behind her, reaching around her hips to place the tissue on her mound. I slowly slide it between her legs, all the way to her bottom hole. I report back that she's soaking wet, but her bum seems to be clean. I am commended for my thoroughness.
Now Miss tells my girlfriend to sit on her desk, her feet dangling just off the floor. My task is to lift her feet upwards, until they're level with her hips, then keep raising them until she leans backwards. Eventually, she's lying on her back on the desk, and I'm holding her feet in the air, looking down upon her glistening slit.
I'm told to move around the desk, so I'm standing behind her head, and guide her feet backwards so her shins are resting on my shoulders. Now her upturned bum can receive the attention of the wooden ruler Miss keeps especially for naughty girls.
I watch her spanking between her raised legs, looking downwards into her wide sparkling eyes. I'm sure I can decipher the message she's sending me: look at trouble you've got me into. I am indeed looking, extremely closely, I wouldn't want to miss a moment.
My gazes flicks between her sticky slit, her reddening bum, and the continuingly changing expressions on her pretty face. Sometimes I see her face contort in pain, other times I recognise the delirious detached expression of bliss. It's fortunate I still have my trousers on, otherwise my erection would be poking through her hair, trapped between the top of one ear and the side of her head.
Technically, I haven't done anything wrong, it's not against school rules to exercise one's imagination, so my own bottom should be safe. But strict headmistresses can be capricious, and this one might find an excuse.
Perhaps my indignant girlfriend might let slip the naughtiness I get up to. Or maybe Miss will spot the obscene bulge at my crotch, with my hands occupied holding up legs, I'd have no way to conceal my own naughty secret.
Putting on this costume would be quite a different character to who I usually am. Normally I'm in control, not anyone else. It would be exciting to facilitate a spanking - to witness it, rather than deliver it. There'd be a different dynamic to roleplaying a scene with three different minds, an opportunity to see where our collective improvisation might take us all. The greatest fun happens when we give ourselves the chance to be delightfully surprised.
Sir, I was wondering what your thoughts were about a girl masturbating with a mirror in front of her pussy, seeing her dripping slit and wet hole. Using a rabbit vibrator, edging herself, enjoying the wetness dripping out, her shaking lips, her horny clit. Should she be punished, should she be rewarded?
Rewarded. I think playing with legs spread in front of a mirror is absolutely the right way for a girl to masturbate.
Naughty girls masturbate under the covers, as if they've got something to hide. Or with their faces buried in their pillows, as if they're already concealing their guilty blushing faces. Or naughtiest of all, whilst staring at a screen, masturbating to the sight of other girls' pussies rather than her own.
Good girls know they have nothing to hide. Even if she's playing alone, watching herself in a mirror feels like practicing for a future moment when she'll perform in front of someone else.
Good girls know their pleasure is incidental to obeying their instructions, and putting on a good show. It is important for a girl to know how her body responds to stimulation - and with the faintest touches too. She should be able to come without a vibe, training herself to reach the brink by barely touching herself at all.
She might be told: "I want you to play in front of me, and climax in exactly ten minutes. Then I'm going to spank you."
Or maybe she'll be told to spread herself for inspection, then given exactly ten minutes to come just after she's received a smacked bottom. That's when all that practice in front of the mirror pays off.
A good girl should play to train herself rather than chasing the transient rush of orgasms. In doing so she'll develop the sexual confidence to expose herself unashamedly, and put on a seductive performance that will set her audience's lust ablaze.
So I hope those reading will keep this post in mind the next time they feel the urge to satisfy the throbbing between their legs.
Why our fantasies are more than naughty stories in our heads
What do others fantasise about?
Just thinking about the possibilities is strangely fascinating, isn't it? Part of us longs to peer into the most intimate corners of others’ minds, whilst another wants to be reassured that we’re not quite as weird as we’ve always secretly feared.
According to a survey by a prominent sex researcher, the seven most popular categories of sexual fantasies are as follows:
Intimacy with or in front of strangers
BDSM / Power play (domination and submission, spanking, rough sex)
Novelty, adventure, and variety (sex toys, new locations, role-playing)
Taboo and transgressive sex (e.g. voyeurism, exhibitionism, promiscuity)
Passion, romance, and intimacy (feeling wanted, attention, love and lust)
Non-monogamy and partner sharing
Erotic flexibility (going beyond expected roles, e.g. cross-dressing, switching)
I wanted to explore why some fantasies resonate with us far more than others — and also answer the question: why do we actually fantasise at all? I hope you'll find the resulting essay interesting, reassuring, and inspiring.
An excerpt from a new essay about strictness and perfectionism:
Even if kink isn’t their thing, an individual with a strict mind is likely to be self-disciplined, rule-oriented, and control-focused. They’ll want to impose structure on themselves and value it in their environments. They yearn for clear boundaries, and clear thresholds of what’s good enough. They thrive on consistency, and see strictness as a virtue.
So it’s not difficult to see how such a mindset could influence an individual’s needs for intimacy, where their affinity for strictness is manifested as a fascination with power, discipline, and erotic rituals.
In perfectionists, strictness is directed inwards, it’s like being subject to a relentless inner taskmaster. But this chronic self-imposed pressure needs a safety valve. Even if ambitions are channelled into accomplishments, the tension still builds, as our strict internal demands do not come with an off switch.
Perhaps that’s why taking charge - or letting others take charge - is so erotic for so many. During intimacy we yearn to turn the volume of our brain down, to get relief from having to make complicated decisions, the ones that leave us wondering if we've chosen the right thing, or just made others cringe. It's hot to be able to say to someone: take my hand, and don't worry about a thing.
Eroticising our inner strictness, either by taking control of a consenting partner, or submitting to somebody we trust, gets us out of our own heads. It transmutes a source of potentially hazardous stress into a powerful erotic energy within a consensual game. This act of subversion gives us ownership over what would otherwise intimidate us.
My pet theory is those who love spanking like to eroticise failure or flouting expectations, it’s just we call it ‘being naughty’.
A sexually dominant person can find considerable satisfaction in enforcing rules and being strict with someone other than themselves. The rituals of spanking appeals to their love of order, turning discipline into an act of sensual expression. They enjoy the theatre and choreography that comes from playing with power and control.
Likewise a sexually submissive person might yearn for someone else to take charge, and liberate them from the oppressive pressure of their own strict mind. They enjoy the bliss of being able to turn off their busy brains for a while, and enjoy the physical sensations of their own bodies instead. For such folk, a spanking is far more than slaps on the bum, it’s a catharsis.
Do you think you forget how much spankings actually hurt if you don't experience them yourself?
I'd say no, because inflicting agony has never been my thing. I'm not a sadist, I personally don't think a spanking has to be excruciating to be satisfying. I'd much prefer to give a spanking that was thrilling than one that truly hurt, that wouldn't turn me on at all.
So I've never spanked anyone more than they were comfortable. To stay on the right side of that line requires open communication and continuing consent. I'll often ask: how does that feel? And I love telling partners to beg me for more.
I can't imagine a spanking being conducted where the only sound is that of the smacks. Spanking should be a two-way dialogue, so it remains enjoyable and satisfying for all involved.
The joy of sex is being able to vicariously experience intimate things up close, that we may not personally experience ourselves. I don't have a vagina, but know exactly how to pleasure one in a wide variety of ways. The only way to establish sexual expertise is from candid feedback: by doing, and talking, then doing it better next time.
So I think I've a pretty good understanding of just how sore a spanking can be, because everyone I've ever spanked has told me exactly, and I just love to hear all the exquisite details.
I discovered something quite unexpected when I began writing. I realised that it became so much easier to understand myself, and my own desires, when I extracted them from inside my head, and expressed them in words.
I'd been fantasising about kinky scenarios from an early age, but it was only decades later, after I began writing them down, that I realised spanking was my sexuality, and not just some whimsical interest.
Some people think they can look inside and understand themselves purely by thinking, but I think they just end up deceiving themselves. Clarity only comes through words, when we see what we've written unambiguously in front of us - because only then do we have the necessary cognitive distance to walk around it, and critique it.
Meta-thinking - or thinking about thinking - requires a change of perspective. We benefit from fixing transient thoughts into something more permanent, so time can pass and we can look back upon them with fresh eyes.
I realised I can't introspect into my own mind directly, I need to convert thoughts and emotions into words first. Recently a friend sent me a quote by CS Lewis that expresses this notion perfectly:
"I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand."
I think that's excellent advice, for anyone struggling to understand any subject, from how the world works, to explaining peculiar aspects of ourselves.
So if you feel confused about the nature of your own desires, you should write about them. You do not need to publish them, just get them out of your head, and onto a page or screen in front of your eyes. You may be surprised.
When we think of writing, we think of storytelling, because that's how we first encounter it. Stories are how we consume most of the words we read. Yet writing is also a mental mirror, and in our words we can finally see and appreciate the complexities of our own reflection.
Boston 2287. Two hundred years after a nuclear war destroyed mainland USA, and the civilisation that had emerged from the rubble was anything but civilised. The Commonwealth, post nuclear apocalypse, was a wild and unruly place to live. Many armed and dangerous bands operated with almost complete impunity within the state of Massachusetts. Law and order was non-existent. Some claimed a higher cause, others were in it just for the gain, but the one thing all these roaming groups had in common was that they were unhinged, ruthless and fanatical. In order for most normal folk to survive, people had to take up arms of one sort or another and death was a regular and everyday threat for most inhabitants of Boston and the outlying areas.
For Nate, Curie, Cait and Piper, the answer to this everyday threat was to form into a tight knit, well trained military unit. Helping out wherever they could, they soon gained a reputation as a team able to get jobs done. What began as a few errands to earn desperately needed currency in order to survive in this chaotic wasteland, soon became broader quests for the greater good.
Chapter List:
Chapter 1 - Deployment
Chapter 2 - Harem
Chapter 3 - Room Mates
Chapter 4 - Where is Home?
Chapter 5 - Olivia
Chapter 6 - Sanctuary
Chapter 7 - Rubbing Shoulders
Chapter 8 - The Benefit of Science
Chapter 9 - Taking your Medicine
Chapter 10 - The Brotherhood Reimagined
Chapter 11 - The Secret Synth
Chapter 12 - Benevolence Squared
Chapter 13 - From Top to Bottom
Chapter 14 - Different Strokes
Chapter 15 - Heather
Chapter 16 - Laying it Bare
Chapter 17 - Asking Nicely
Chapter 18 - It's Complicated
Chapter 19 - Panic!
Chapter 20 - Forewarmed
Chapter 21 - A Little Bit Hazy
Chapter 22 - Black and Blue
Chapter One - Deployment begins below
Chapter 1 – Deployment
Boston, April 2075, Two years before the bombs fell.
“He’s gonna whoop your ass,” Vanessa laughed as she looked up from her console.
‘She has no idea,’ Valkyrie thought to herself as she stood and smiled at her friend.
“He won’t know, and I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours,” the blond army corporal assured her friend.
“In case it had slipped your notice, the place is on a complete lockdown, and we have orders to stay put.” Vanessa raised her eyebrows at Valkyrie who was stuffing a few items into her small army issue backpack.
Since war had been officially declared by the invasion of Chinese forces into US held Alaska in 2066, the whole of the US had been on a war footing for the previous nine years. More and more US military units were being mobilised and sent to the front to help with the war effort. C Company of the 112th Signal Battalion were the next in line and deployment was only days away. Prior to being shipped out to Alaska the regiment was being housed in the John J. McGlynn Elementary School in Medford, on the outskirts of Boston.
“This is the third security scare in as many days, its just the top brass getting nervous before deployment. The flat isn’t that far away, and I’ll be back in no time.” Valkyrie assured her concerned friend. ‘Vanessa was always the goodie two shoes,’ she thought to herself as she zipped up her bag and threw it onto her shoulder. “They are gonna have to let me out tomorrow anyway as I have my medical at the hospital, so no harm no foul.” Valkyrie shrugged on her bag.
“It’s your hide, honey.” Vanessa exhaled as she turned back to her work.
Valkyrie made her way to the parking lot of the school and to her boyfriend’s truck.
“Going somewhere, baby girl?” came a gruff voice from behind her that made Valkyrie jump.
“Oh hey, I was just …” Valkyrie stammered.
“You were just skipping class, little lady and when you have been told to sit tight.” Came the response from the tall, broad shouldered staff sergeant who was stood looking down at her. Valkyrie sheepishly dropped her eyes, “Well?” Dean continued, “where were you heading that was so important that you needed to disobey your commanding officer’s orders?” The sergeant asked smiling at her.
Valkyrie placed a hand on the chest of her boyfriend and gave him the most coquettish look she could muster. “I was just heading back to the flat for a few things I had forgotten, and I was going to be back before anyone noticed.”
Staff Sergeant Dean Winters looked at his beautiful girlfriend and smiled a particular smile he only ever had for her. “Well in that case, let me drive you baby girl so I can be sure you get back here safe and sound. We are on a security alert at the moment.” He gave his girlfriend a disapproving look. Valkyrie chose to stow her usual sarcastic quip and instead beamed a ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ smile back at him. “It also means we can have a little discussion about you skipping out against orders when we get to the flat, hmm?” His look becoming lascivious. Valkyrie’s stomach did a flip as she knew exactly what that discussion entailed. As her boyfriend opened the passenger car door for her, she slowly and somewhat reluctantly climbed in.
The drive over the river was in silence as Valkyrie cursed her foolishness at trying to head out from the units’ base whilst it was under a security curfew. She should have listened to her friend; little did Vanessa know just how accurate her warning had been. Valkyrie looked over to her boyfriend Dean who was whistling a nondescript tune to himself as he drove. At over six foot three, Dean was an imposing figure with a rugged outdoor look about him. He had a handsome chiselled face with his black hair contrasting against his pale green eyes. They had met the previous year and had become quite a serious item over the last twelve months. Nervous about the impending deployment to Anchorage, she was comforted by the fact that Dean was deploying with her. She enjoyed his protective streak and had been attracted to his dominant paternal nature from the first time they had met.
Snapped from her reverie as the car pulled up outside their apartment block, Dean was soon out and coming round to her side, opening the car door for her.
“Right little lady, I want you up and into our bedroom on the double, you know what’s coming, so best not keep me waiting,” and with that he landed a firm swat to Valkyrie’s backside. She squealed in protest but moved quickly to open the front door of their apartment block. Valkyrie then ran up the stairs to their first-floor condo and letting herself in headed straight for their bedroom. Stripping off she was careful to fold each item of clothing and place them on the sideboard as she knew she would get more if her clothes were spilled all over the floor. When she was completely naked, she went to their large double bed and slightly straddling one of the bottom corners laid her body flat across the bed. As she lay there, her legs slightly apart, the corner of the bed ensuring her bottom was at just the right angle for her boyfriend’s attentions, she heard him enter the room.
“Hmm,” Dean hummed appreciatively, “Good girl, all ready and eager for a bit of daddy’s discipline,” and with that he went to the closet and took out a thick black leather belt. In a well practiced manner, Dean took the supple leather and bent the belt in half as he moved to stand beside Valkyrie’s now prone body. “Now, you be a good baby girl and you take daddy’s licks, you hear?” he commanded.
“Yes Daddy,” Valkyrie answered in a quiet voice as she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes matching the hunger in his.
Dean took a step back and in one fluid motion brought the leather belt whipping down across the alabaster orbs of Valkyrie’s exposed bottom.
THWACK!
“Agh!” Valkyrie cried as a red stripe of burning fire ignited across the roundest part of her well presented bare bottom. She kicked a leg up in reaction to the stroke but put it back down just in time to receive the second punishing lick.
CRACK!
“FUCK!” Valkyrie squealed as a second fiery red stripe flashed up across her quivering bottom. Her hands shooting out in front of her to grab at the material of the bed.
“No cussing baby girl, you know daddy doesn’t like that. You don’t want me to put soap in that beautiful mouth of yours after your whooping, do you?” Dean lined up the third stroke.
“No Daddy,” was all Valkyrie had time to say as the belt once more bit into the soft flesh of her unprotected rear end.
CRACK!
“Ahh! HA!” Valkyrie cried as she bit down on the bedding below her, screwing her eyes shut against the burning fire.
The third stroke had seared a red line across the tops of the back of her legs, matching in intensity with the two previous strokes. Dean then increased the pace of his delivery.
THWACK! CRACK! CRACK! THWACK!
Valkyrie writhed and bucked under the onslaught, rocking her hips from side to side in reaction to each stroke, as if she could move her burning bottom away from the flurry of smacks.
CRACK! THWACK! THWACK! CRACK!
The punishment continued with Valkyrie trying hard to keep her position as she clawed at the bedding and screamed into the ruffled sheets screwed up into her fingers.
“Agh! Agh!” Were the only muffled sounds coming from Valkyrie as she soaked up the burning strokes.
Fully in his stride now, Dean continued to leather Valkyrie’s backside with the belt for another two minutes before finally bringing the thrashing to an end. Valkyrie’s bottom was now a mass of burgundy strap lines, the ends of many of these lines marked with a purple tip. Dean threw the leather belt onto the bed above Valkyrie’s head, she instinctively looked up to follow where it landed. Despite knowing that her spanking was over, she knew not to move from her position until she was ordered to by her boyfriend. She lay, panting with exertion, blinking the tears away from her eyes. Her backside throbbed from the whipping, and she wanted nothing more than to reach behind and rub some relief into her punished cheeks. ‘Well,’ she thought as she smiled to herself, ‘there is one thing I want more’.
As if sensing the desire in his girlfriend, Dean unclipped his army belt and pants and let them fall to the floor. “You stick that butt out baby girl, I am not done with you yet,” Dean growled hungrily as he moved up to stand behind Valkyrie and with strong arms pulled her hips towards him. Valkyrie squealed again, but this time in pure pleasure as she felt him plunge deep inside her.
“Holy Fuck!” Cait exhaled, blowing out a breath.
“Wow, that’s er…” Piper looked at Valkyrie, an amazed expression on her face.
Since finding Valkyrie imprisoned in Parsons Insane Asylum, the team had headed back south to Finch’s Farm to collect the Red Wave. They had asked the Finch family if they could camp the night and were now sat around the fire listening to Valkyrie and the story of the days leading up to her kidnapping at the hands of Jack Cabot. Even though Nate and the girls were keen to allow Valkyrie to join their team, they were all concerned as to how exactly they were going to explain the discipline dynamic that now formed an integral part of their group. Thankfully, and to the great relief of the team, it seemed that Valkyrie wasn’t at all phased by the idea of corporal punishment being a part of their team make up. Once Nate had inadvertently let that particular cat out of the bag, when Valkyrie overheard Nate threatening Cait with ‘another’ spanking, it was only right that the team explain their dynamic to the newest team member. Not only was Nate as relieved as the girls were that Valkyrie didn’t run away at the mention of a spanking, but he had noticed just how keen she was to be accepted into the team by sharing her own discipline relationship that she had with her boyfriend before her abduction.
“So, you liked calling him Daddy?” Curie asked, showing as much interest in the story as Piper and Cait.
“Kind of,” Valkyrie shrugged, “the whole DDLG thing wasn’t quite my style, but Dean liked it and it didn’t bother me, as we only used it when I was getting punished.”
“DDLG?” Piper asked.
“Daddy Dom Little Girl,” Valkyrie responded in a matter of fact tone. “It was a subsection of the wider BDSM community.” Seeing the puzzled looks she continued, “bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism”.
“Community?” Curie raised her eyebrows, “so you all lived together, non?”
Valkyrie smiled at that, “No, the term was just used to describe anyone who was in to the kink, although there were clubs back in the day that people could meet at. That’s where Dean and I first met.”
“Ah, so not in the army then?” Nate enquired.
“God no, I would have never told anyone in my unit, imagine the complete ribbing I would have received. No, I had no idea Dean was into the same thing I was until I met him at the club, hmm,” Valkyrie smiled at the recollection, “now that’s a story,” she chuckled lightly.
Curie lent forward to top up Nate’s coffee, “Thanks, my love.” Nate responded. Looking at Valkyrie he smiled, “It’s not like we are going anywhere.”
“Yeah, come on V, this is way too good for you not to continue,” Cait added.
“I have talked almost continuously since you guys found me, shouldn’t I let someone else jump in?” Valkyrie looked around at her new team members.
“No, not at all, this is what we do on the road. We chat, share stories and the like. It is a great way to pass the time and also,” Piper paused, “It’s nice getting to know you.”
Valkyrie smiled back at Piper, blushing a little in the firelight. “Well, ok, so…” she took a sip of her own coffee, “I was a regular at the kink nights at the Club Café, which was a venue in downtown Boston. Kink nights were where the many elements of the BDSM community could meet, socialise and play. As a regular I was allowed to hang out in the Tops room. This was a play area where single subs like me could play with one of the registered tops that the club had vetted and approved. It was a great way to meet people, play with them and not have to worry about them doing anything inappropriate.” Valkyrie laughed, “I know, I use that word in the context of a BDSM club but stay with me.” She looked around and saw the team smiling, so continued, “I went to these evenings to impact play and nothing else, I didn’t want things going inside me unless I specifically asked and so the Tops Room was the safe option.”
“Impact play meaning spanking?” Cait asked.
“Yes, sort of.” Valkyrie nodded, “but not just a smack to the ass, as impact play can be flogging the back, caning the feet, anything that involves you being hit with something. If you haven’t tried a sensual flogging, when done properly, you are missing out.” She closed her eyes in remembrance. “Sorry,” Valkyrie then looked around at her team, “I had to keep sane somehow locked in that cell at Parsons,” she shrugged.
“Don’t keep apologising,” reassured Nate. “The fact that you are not a gibbering wreck after having been subjected to that kind of treatment is a miracle in itself.”
“Thanks,” Valkyrie smiled.
“So,” prompted Cait, obviously impatient for Valkyrie to continue the story.
“Oh yes, sorry,” Valkyrie said reactively, before looking up at Nate who raised his eyebrows at her.
“Great, first day with the new team and I’m already in trouble with the boss,” she laughed. “So, anyway, I head into the tops room and pick the St Andrews cross to be tied to. Sometimes, if you are feeling adventurous you can get tied to something and then wait until a top comes over to play with you, never knowing what they are going to do and not being able to see. It’s pretty exciting. So, there I am trussed up facing the cross, wearing nothing but a silk corset and thin bikini panties and I feel someone behind me, running their fingers softly over my ass. I then hear a gruff voice with a very recognisable southern drawl to it, ‘Let’s see if we can add to those two stripes you wear so beautifully on your arm.’ I was frozen in shock.” Valkyrie paused.
“Ha!” Cait clapped her hands, “It was your unit staff sergeant, Dean?”
Valkyrie scrunched her eyes closed at the thought, “The single most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me in my life,” she blew out a breath. “There was my unit sergeant running his fingers over my barely covered ass, whispering into my ear about giving me a spanking, as I hung helplessly to a piece of BDSM furniture.” The team laughed at Valkyrie’s obvious embarrassment, all of them enjoying her animated and entertaining story telling.
“And?” Cait exclaimed.
“Did he spank you?” Curie asked, wide eyed.
“Oh my god yes!” Valkyrie hummed in appreciation. “He tugged my panties up into a wedgie and striped my backside with a riding crop. I was a complete mess afterwards but totally in love,” Valkyrie smiled wistfully, “I miss him sometimes you know, even after all this time.”
“I know how you feel,” nodded Nate.
“But we have a riding crop,” Curie chimed in, smiling broadly.
Both Cait and Piper rolled their eyes, but Valkyrie laughed, “Thanks, Curie. That’s good to know”.
For the remainder of the evening the team expanded their story of how corporal punishment came to play a part in their team dynamic, with the girls answering many of Valkyrie’s questions with real passion and enthusiasm. Nate never stopped being amazed at how positive the girls were over their new arrangement and how keen they were to keep it.
“So, now you have heard everything about us and how … “Piper paused, “…how we work, are you still interested in joining up?” She looked apprehensively at Valkyrie.
“You are the first person we have told outside of the team and…” Cait also took on a serious tone.
Valkyrie looked directly at Cait and then Piper. “You guys have nothing to worry about, that I can promise. You freed me from that place and so I owe you my life, literally.” She paused, “So at the very least I can promise you that whatever you tell me will remain our secret, but I can also tell you that I have absolutely no wish to head out there, to wander around this shit hole on my own. You guys seem awesome and to really care about each other. I think I would be properly insane if I turned down your amazing and very kind offer.”
“Insane, eh?” Nate chuckled, “I know somewhere we can put you in that case.”
“Hey Nate!” Piper threw a twig at him.
“Too soon.” Cait gave Nate an unimpressed look.
Valkyrie laughed, “It’s ok, I used to get myself into sooo much trouble with my smart mouth. I kinda like that type of humour.” She looked at Nate.
“But whilst we might get told off for it, Mr Bossy here gets away with murder when it comes to his mouth.” Cait harrumphed in a not very convincing manner.
“So, Nate doesn’t get spanked when he shoots off his smart mouth, then.” Valkyrie grinned at Nate.
“No, he does not!” Spurted out Piper, sounding very aggrieved at that fact.
“Might have to change that then.” Valkyrie laughed.
“Uh-uh,” Nate smiled and wagged a finger at Valkyrie, “not you as well. I have a bad enough time trying to keep these three from obsessing over striping my backside. And just for the record, I have never spanked any of you for a smart mouth.” Nate paused, “but I can always start.”
“So, you are not a switch?” Valkyrie asked.
“A what?” Nate threw her a quizzical look.
“We are not here to put the poor girl off, Nate, leave her alone. No V, no one gets spanked for having a smart mouth.” Chuckled Piper, “Although Cait’s mouth got her into some trouble with a cane once, but that is another story.” She grinned at Cait who stuck her tongue out at the reporter.
“Well then, what’s not to like.” Valkyrie grinned as she looked at her teammates. “I won’t get spanked for having a smart mouth, you guys are funny and you seem to be able to look after yourselves. I think I am going to enjoy myself being in this team.” She then paused and looked at Nate, a serious tone in her voice. “Naked?” she asked.
Nate returned the serious look and nodded, “Every time.”
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