Tuesday, January 23, 2018

From the Top Shelf - In a Mist, Chapter 20a


The story so far:
Chapter 1Chapter 12
Chapter 2Chapter 13
Chapter 3Chapter 14
Chapter 4Chapter 15
Chapter 5Chapter 16
Chapter 6Chapter 17
Chapter 7Chapter 18
Chapter 8Chapter 19
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

Last week many of you surmised that Daisy Potter would be Lennox's next victim of choice. Let's see if you were right. It's a very long chapter so I have had to break it up.
Chapter 20a - In which poor Daisy reflects on her role as Lennox's victim.

Alone in the makeshift dormitory young Daisy Potter lay naked on the hard comfortless bed with its cheap institutional metal frame, gazing apprehensively at the razor of light filtering through the crack in the door from the landing, beyond which lay the stairs - and down the stairs the hall - and leading off from the hall the dining room with her evening meal, cold and untouched still on the table.

And at the table she was sure Mr. Lennox would still be there seated, arms folded, grim and unforgiving. Just as he was half an hour before when , the meal about to commence, she'd said or done something - she knew not what - to displease him and he'd ordered her up to bed.

So suddenly, so inexplicably had he shouted at her that in dumb dismay she'd fled the room and scampered up the stairs like a frightened rabbit, pert little bottom gyrating beneath the blue pleated skirt.

Hot pearly tears of indignant disbelief gathered in her blue eyes as she smarted from the bitter blow of sudden banishment. What had she done, she asked herself yet again, to deserve it?

She was cold, frightened and hungry. As if to emphasise the latter deprivation her empty tummy gave a protesting rumble.

How like a petulant child she'd flounced along the corridor and slammed the dormitory door shut behind her, not caring if he heard the noise. She'd torn off her skirt and, in just blouse, white cotton knickers, and knee socks had bent her firm young body taut as a bow-string to undo her shoes. Kicking them off her feet noisily and rebelliously, she'd peeled off her knickers, socks, and blouse, flung them in an untidy heap on the floor, leapt into bed, flicked off the bedside light and pulled the harsh grey blanket up over her head - as though to blot out the cruel uncaring world.

"Why, oh why, does he always have to set such impossibly high standards?" He told her sagely that it was for her own good, and she tried hard, so very hard, to match up to them. But she was, after all, only a young girl. She knew she'd never be a paragon of virtue and she resented him for demanding that of her. Why couldn't he for once meet her half way?

But no, it was always this. Sent to bed instantly, utterly dejected and hungry for more than just food.

Then the long lonely wait in bed, cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine every time she thought she heard a creak on the stairs, a rustle in the corridor - imagining that the time had arrived for him to come upstairs and deal with her.

And those ridiculous little pyjamas she always had to wear that made her feel like a child again....

"Oh God, the pyjamas!" - she'd quite forgotten. She fumbled frantically for the light switch, scrambled out of bed and ran across to the dressing table.

She was slender and leggy, pert-bottomed, her thick dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

She opened the drawer and there they were in the left-hand corner, neatly folded. Fleecy pink-flowered little girl's pyjamas. They looked so small she was always amazed they fitted her at all, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be said that they fitted her comfortably.

The top was fine, it went on easily even if the arms were on the short side. But the pyjama pants were always a problem.

They clung to her legs, particularly the tops of her thighs, and stretched drum-tight across her dainty seat like a second skin. They nestled in the crack between her cheeks and rubbed embarrassingly against her pubic mound.

She contemplated her tightly trousered bottom in the wardrobe mirror and reflected blushingly on how blatantly erotic, yet temptingly punishable, they made her bottom look.

That, she supposed, was the idea.

Not so much plump but cheekily prominent, her bottom seemed bigger than it really was only because the rest of her was so delicately small. Slight and fragile though she looked, she was by no means weak, and had often surprised Lennox by the wildcat struggle she would put up, the furious kicking and flailing before giving in and allowing herself to be spanked into abject tearful submission.

Painstakingly she'd coaxed herself into the pink flowery pyjama pants, stretching the elasticated waistband perilously close to snapping in order to accommodate the full firm flare of her seventeen year old bottom. They didn't quite reach her waist and they ended just a little way below her knees.

She rubbed the well-worn threadbare seat of them with a curious fondling motion. They were drawn tight across the part of her person that was shortly going be so relentlessly, so shamefully, chastised.

She felt more exposed than if she were naked. She'd come to associate the wearing of these pyjamas with the prolonged painful tannings she so dreaded. She only had to put them on to feel her stomach start to churn and her bottom to develop that nervous twitch it always seemed to develop just before he spanked her. It unsettled, unnerved her to have to dress like a child again - she could practically feel herself regressing.

She had a sudden overwhelming desire to suck her thumb.

She looked down at the untidy heap of clothes lying on the floor, thought better of it, stopped to gather them up, and arranged them neatly over the chair.

Then she remembered it was the chair he'd use, so she laid the garments carefully on the dressing table before climbing back into bed.

The tight clingy pyjama pants accentuated every move she made, every swing of her hips, every perceptible wiggle of her bottom. Even when snuggled once more under the blanket she was still acutely aware of the provocative shape of her cheeky little bottom and the cruel fate awaiting it because the tight cotton pants were a constant reminder of her bottom's existence.

Would the spankings ever stop? He had spanked her once, sometimes twice or three times, every day since she had arrived - not to mention the half dozen or so dreadful canings he had given her, poor little Daisy stripped stark naked touching her toes, yelling and blubbering for all she was worth while that vicious cane of his sliced into her squirming arse-cheeks leaving throbbing weals and blood-blisters that made it impossible for her to sit down.

He insisted adamantly that even her most trivial lapse from grace should be treated with the utmost severity. He told her it would act as a shining example to the new girls as and when they arrived.

"Naughty girls should expect to be treated like naughty girls!" he'd say with a superior smile on his face, and she'd blush and wriggle anxiously in her seat.

Then there were the mirrors. He would sometimes position the chair so he could watch himself spanking her in one of the wings of the dressing-table mirror. She knew this because of the full length mirror facing her as she lay across his knee. It obviously excited him, for he spanked her harder than ever on those occasions.

If she wanted to she could actually watch him watching himself spank her. If she craned her neck sufficiently she could even see, in the mirror in front of her, her own bottom.

So that, as well as feeling the stinging pain of the spanking spreading like a nettle rash all over her upturned bottom cheeks, she could also watch them redden into burgundy colour beneath his hot punishing hand. But she preferred not to, thank you very much, choosing instead to close her eyes tightly, grit her teeth, and try to imagine how nice it would be when it was all over and he took her in his arms and did all those exciting things to her that made her feel better.

Strange, she thought, how he liked to watch himself smacking her bottom - gazing at the mirror image of her outspread arse-cheeks, her fully exposed anus and her other private part - gloating when, near the climax of the spanking, she abandoned herself involuntarily to a paroxysm of vulgarly suggestive wrigglings with no thought of what she was blatantly displaying.

The sudden reminder of what was in store for her, of being made to go, blushing and bare-bottomed, over his knee, was enough to make her wet her pillow with an effusion of hot indignant tears.

To comfort herself she put her hands between her legs and tried to rock herself off to sleep. Bu whenever she shifted slightly in the bed, her pyjama pants caught in the crack, nudging her back into agonised awareness of the shadow of the spanking hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles.

Then the sound she dreaded, the sound she'd been listening out for all along. His heavy measured footfall ascending the stairs.
You were right! Alas, we and Daisy must wait anxiously until next week to experience her spanking.
From Hermione's Heart

Monday, January 22, 2018

Recap: Spanko Brunch 2.0 for January 21

Does every spanko secretly wish to find out what it's like to be on the other end of the paddle? HEre's what you said:

Bernie: A bit of a switch. More bottom than top, but I do like to redden my wife's gorgeous bottom every once in a while.

Leigh: Nah, never think about it beyond a slap to my husband's bottom once in a while.

Downunder Don: I have give some thought to switching, but given herself's feelings I know it isn't going to happen.

abby: No, have never dreamed or thought, I wish I was the one holding the paddle...think M and I have each found our niche.

Dan: There are times that I think that I might be more naturally suited to being a "top," since in "real life" I am pretty Alpha. Yet, I have absolutely no desire at all to be the one holding the whip or paddle.

Bonnie: Nope. Our answers are unchanged. We've got this spanking thing figured out. No sense in messing it up now.

Roz: We have on the odd occasion switched during play, but it often ended with him taking charge again. I don't think we would ever seriously switch. We have found what works best for us.

KDPierre: I am pretty convinced that Kinsey was on the right track when he came up with his various scales. The scale concept can be applied to just about anything sexual, and I think the tendency towards dominance, submission, or some point in-between is also plottable and each person answering that question would find themselves somewhere on that scale.....even if it's the far extreme towards one or the other.

So do I think everyone has the tendency to switch somewhere in them? Absolutely not. It has been my experience that except for perhaps basic defining aspects of being a living human, there is nothing that applies to everyone......at least not to the same degree.

Personally? If the scale was 1 = totally submissive and 10 = totally dominant, I'd probably be about a 3 or 4. I have switched and like doing so, but my preference is submission.

Great question. It really gets one thinking.

Amy: Eric and I have talked about it a couple of times and we always end up at the same place. In place, it's fun for me to get bossy for about five minutes but the bigger thrill is when he takes it back over. At the very beginning, I spanked him once with the cheese board because he wanted to know what it felt like to me and I wanted to know what it felt like for him. We both HATED it but discovered after experiencing the other's vantage point, we were much more confident in our own roles.

Fondles: Nah don't think I would ever want to be a Top. I've tried giving BIKSS a swat or two to his behind as we pass each other but the feeling is too strange. We've got a nice thing going with me on the bottom.

Sir Wendel: We have always enjoyed giving and receiving spankings.

Simon: It's odd but my feelings have changed as I have aged. When I was young (18-25) I was predominantly a spanker. Then my interests changed and for 30 years I was solely a bottom and I didn't ever spank anyone or indeed feel the need to. Then a few years ago I suddenly rediscovered my interest in spanking and these days I switch regularly although I still get punished more frequently than I punish. I am fortunate in that I know ladies who only punish and other ladies who both give and receive.

Wilma: If wanting to slap him upside the head at times can qualify as a switch. Other than that, NO interest here!

Anon: According to bdsmtest.org I am 100% switch.
It got it right.

Yorkie: Even though it is only me that is spanked, quite some time ago I actually spanked my wife.
She stipulated that I had to be stern with her, as if she was in trouble and take her by the hand, roughly put her over my lap and spank her. So I did. I gave her about 30 or 40 spanks, reasonably hard and she said "Ouch!" on the last one. "Ouch huh?" I said and she giggled nervously just before I proceeded to give her another round of swats harder than the first.

When I finished I ordered her to go and lie down on her tummy on our bed and as she walked away I noticed her delectable bottom had a perfect pink patch on each cheek.  I followed her in there a few minutes afterward and, well, let's say we had a good time. She says, now, that she doesn't remember it, but I do.

Today, there is no way she would let me do it but I remain hopeful.

Hermione: When I was a child, I played spanking games with my dolls and teddies, and I was a very strict parent or school teacher because, well, there wasn't any way for the toys o spank me. I had to do the honours and did so gladly. When my cousins and I played similar games, I was the one who spanked them, because I was the biggest.

But now, the thought of spanking someone else doesn't do a thing for me.  I have found my true submissive self, and am quite content to remain so. I would never want to spank Ron, even if he asked (which he never would).  I suppose I know what it's like to be on the giving end, from my childhood play, but I can't go back.

And there you have it!
From Hermione's Heart

Sunday, January 21, 2018

Spanko Brunch 2.0 #211

Welcome one and all to our regular time together, when we explore some facet of spanking. Today's topic was one that Dave from Cherry Red Report asked our previous hostess, Bonnie. I thought it was worth a second look.

Is it possible that we are all a bit of a switch? Do tops secretly, or perhaps not so secretly, wish to be OTK? Do bottoms feel the urge the hold the whip? Do we sometimes wonder what it would feel like to be on the other end of the paddle?

Leave your response as a comment, and I will publish a summary of our discussion once everyone has had a chance to participate.
From Hermione's Heart

Saturday, January 20, 2018

You Completed the Caption

Kingspan: Hilda wasn't allowed to rub after her wet-bottom spanking, but she did at least find a way to dry off.

Anon 1: Very cute my dear, but my way is more enjoyable.

KDPierre: There are many ways to warm a bottom in winter. Hilda found this method the least noisy.

Dog: >sniff-sniff< "Oh boy, I think we're having ham for dinner!"

Anon 2: Hilda had this brilliant idea that if she pre-warmed her bottom the spanking wouldn't be nearly as bad as it would if she started out with a cold bottom. To her dismay, she discovered the pre-warming had exactly the opposite affect and only exacerbated the affects of the paddle when her boyfriend applied it to her already hot behind.

Leigh: A warm up before the warm up.

Ronnie: This is the only way Hilda's getting a warm bottom today.

Anon 3: Hilda thought that if she got her still sore bottom warm and red from the wood stove she could convince her boyfriend that she was still suffering the after affects of last night's spanking and that he'd have pity on her and not follow through on his promise to spank her again this morning. Unfortunately for her, he saw right through her scheme and not only gave her the promised spanking but also gave her an additional paddling for trying to deceive him.

Rather than making Hilda stand in the corner with her red bottom on display, her boyfriend positioned her by the stove in order to intensify the aftermath of the hairbrush spanking he'd administered and reinforce the lesson he'd just paddled into her. The only problem was that Hilda seemed to enjoy the way the fire was spreading the warmth of the spanking to parts other than her bottom.

Fondles: If no one's gonna warm my bottom, I guess I'll have to do it myself!

Sir Wendel: Giving another meaning to the expression "One hot ass".

Hermione: Sam does his best, but he never warms my bottom as much as this stove does.

That was fun! I hope you can all stay for brunch; I'll be serving a blast from the past.
From Hermione's Heart

Friday, January 19, 2018

Friday FAIL

It's still cold and snowy here, although some of you are enjoying a lovely warm summer. But no matter what the weather, a nice cup of tea with a friend is always welcome. Unless...

I'm not that thirsty after all!
From Hermione's Heart

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Complete the Caption

Here's our friend Hilda, toasting her buns by the fire. But why? It seems a rather strange thing to do, but our girl must have her reasons.

Tell us what they are by leaving a comment. I will publish your conjectures on Saturday.

From Hermione's Heart

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

From the Top Shelf - In a Mist, Chapter 19

The story so far:
Chapter 1Chapter 12
Chapter 2Chapter 13
Chapter 3Chapter 14
Chapter 4Chapter 15
Chapter 5Chapter 16
Chapter 6Chapter 17
Chapter 7Chapter 18
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

Here is the chapter we have all been waiting for. Arthur Lennox miraculously returns to Lymchurch House under very different circumstances. You all must be eager to find out how, so without further ado, read on.
Chapter 19 - In which Lennox comes face to face with the past

Shortly after the outbreak of war, Lennox enlisted as an officer in a tank regiment and saw active service with the British Expeditionary Force in France.

He fought valiantly, risking his life again and again as the British army vainly tried to halt the advance of Hitler's invincible war machine. Wounded in the chest by a German shell during the British counter-attack at Arras in May 1940, he was sent home to convalesce. It took many weeks of his mother's doting care to nurse him back to health. Even then he found himself plagued with minor respiratory ailments that took years to go away. He was awarded a medal for his gallantry and discharged honourably from further military duties. Reluctantly, he found himself, once more a civilian.

By no means an easy patient, he soon grew restless with nothing to do except play his cornet, which his doctor recommended as an excellent means by which to improve his breathing, and go for gentle strolls on the moors. He began to find home life depressingly dull and, craving excitement, started looking round for interesting employment.

Like many country houses all over Britain during the war, Lymchurch House had been requisitioned by the Ministry of Education to be a turned into a small boarding establishment for young girls evacuated from their homes in the towns and cities. Lennox got to hear about it from a former teaching colleague.

In a wild impulse he applied for the post of Headmaster. He was short-listed together with three other candidates.

At the interview in London the Appointments Committee briefed the applicants on the particular function of the new establishment. It was to be a Special School for wayward girls, therefore maximum security as well as strict discipline would be essential.

Lennox gave a sparkling interview, for he felt the ball was in his court. Not only was he the best qualified among the contenders, especially when it came to discipline, but he was also a gallant war hero - a prestigious factor which virtually assured his success. Prudently he refrained from alluding to his brief tenure as tutor at Lymchurch House all those years before, and as it had been merely an obscure private post the Appointments Committee would have no record of it.

He was offered the Headship and, in a glow of euphoria, returned home to pack his bags and break the good news to his parents.

Meanwhile the owner of Lymchurch House, Elizabeth Montague, was informed both of the plans in store for it, and the identity of the man designated to carry them out. She felt a sharp pang of wistful nostalgia and tears came to her eyes. How strange are the twists and turns of fate, the sudden unexpected ironies of life, she reflected with a sad smile.

At Chatsworth House in Derbyshire there hangs a painting by a local artist entitled "Chatsworth in Wartime". It depicts the state drawing room turned into a girls' dormitory, for when war broke out in 1939 a girls' boarding school in North Wales was taken over by the Ministry of Food and the school was moved to Chatsworth.

The painting, which is reproduced in the official guide book, offers a fascinating insight into boarding school discipline for girls.

In the foreground of the picture, a pretty adolescent schoolgirl is standing by her bed brushing her waist-length blonde hair. Her navy-blue gym tunic is short, well above her knees, barely covering the tops of her black stockings.

A companion, her mousy-brown hair plaited in pigtails and tied with dark blue ribbon, is seated nervously upon an adjacent bed, her arms clasped around her knees which are drawn up so revealingly as to expose not only the tops of her stockings but the white elastic straps of her garter belt.

The second girl is clearly in trouble and is about to be punished because, standing by the open doorway a severe looking schoolmistress dressed in black, is severely regarding her. Behind her, hanging on the dormitory wall, can be discerned the sinister presence of a crook-handled school cane....

Lymchurch House was to become, not so much a conventional boarding school for the daughters of the well-to-do as, what was termed a 'closed unit' for 'problem girls' from the big cities who had either been in trouble with the law, persistently truant from school, or generally fallen into bad company while their fathers were away serving in the armed forces and their mothers working long hours in the munitions factories. Some of the girls were orphans, their parents and relatives killed in the bombing raids - for the Germans had intensified their air attacks on Britain since March 1940.

Under cover of war, with Britain in a constant state of crisis, many moral irregularities went unnoticed. Lennox, with his little flock of a dozen or so naughty girls, whose bottoms - as well as goodness knows what else - had to be frequently attended to, was left alone to get on with the task, untroubled by tiresome inspections by nosy Ministry officials.

Once his girls had arrived and things were well under way, Lennox was kept extremely busy. Some of the girls responded to their regular diet of corporal punishment in strangely demanding ways. The girls whom he'd caned in the classroom or in his study by day were the very ones who by night pestered him for sexual favours, tapping persistently on his bedroom door in their flimsy nighties and tight pyjamas.

Amorous passions and erotic fantasies ran high in Britain during the wartime years. Despite the introduction of clothes rationing, spicy lingerie adverts began to appear on the front pages of national newspapers like the Daily Mirror. "Modern Miss buys her undies with care!" proclaimed a daring advert in the Mirror on June 12th displaying a saucy young Miss clad only in a pair of flimsy cami-knickers decorated with heart patterns, proudly showing off the barely concealed cheeks of her bottom. Never before had the male population of Britain been left in so little doubt as to what pretty young girls were wearing beneath their dresses.

The famous Jane strip cartoon featuring a shapely scatterbrained heroine had been running in the Mirror since 1932. But by 1940 occasional glimpses of her stocking tops had given way to blatant displays of her just in bra, panties and stockings - and more shocking still, naked poses of her stepping out of the bath or undressing for bed.
By September the universally popular but incredibly dizzy glamour girl had been recruited to Naval Intelligence. The cartoon strip which appeared on the 16th showed her being very soundly spanked over her rugged commanding officer's knee for some rather minor infringement of naval discipline.

Also popular at the time were several photos appearing in the magazine Picture Post showing a group of nubile "landgirls" - girls specially conscripted to help bring in the harvest - dressed in shorts and volunteering, as a publicity stunt, to be photographed while being spanked "for the war effort".

"Lennox's girls," as they became known in the village, began to arrive clutching their bags and packages, gas masks slung over their shoulders and identity labels flapping from their button holes. They were met at the station by the indefatigable Tomms who cast an appreciative eye over their charms and drove them back to Lymchurch House, where his wife Florence, in bustling cheerful motherly fashion, stripped them of their garments, which were then boiled rigorously in a large copper tub and disinfected for parasites, then rife in the bomb-torn cities.

As for the girls, they were bathed and scrubbed furiously with a formidable brush until they gasped and squealed with pain and their tender pale little bodies were red raw.

Daisy Potter, an olive-skinned seventeen year old with long jet-black hair, almost gypsy-like in appearance, was the first girl to arrive several weeks before the others.

Plucked from the burning London streets where she'd been found wandering waif-like among the strewn rubble and gutted buildings, she'd stubbornly refused to tell the air raid wardens where she'd come from. For her own safety they passed her into the hands of the police who questioned her rigorously, suspecting that "Daisy Potter" was a false name deliberately invented to throw them off the scent.

One thing she was unable to conceal was her middle class accent and good grammar school education. Wherever she came from, from whatever background, she clearly wanted no further part of it.

On her arrival, after being attended to by Florence, Daisy Potter was ushered into Lennox's study where he gave her a lecture on the type of regime she could expect at Lymchurch House. He spared her no details when it came to explaining matters of discipline and, when she emerged from his study half an hour later she looked anxious and ill at ease, already wishing she'd never been sent to such a horrid place where bare-bottom spankings and canings were to be dealt out unsparingly for the smallest misdemeanours.
Daisy Potter seems destined to be Lennox's next conquest, but where is Elizabeth? By the way, I was unable to spot the school cane hanging on the wall in the picture of Chatsworth House at the top of this post. Can you see it?
From Hermione's Heart