Poking the Pole, Part Two

The drive back to Sylvia's place went smoothly enough with the girl asking me questions twenty to the dozen about my job, life in Mexico and my income level. I gave her the answers that I think she wanted to hear, which is to say I lied though my teeth, as any man will when he can sense a friendly pussy within reach of his ever-eager cock.

"I am soooo glad that we met," she cooed, in tones that almost had me fooled. Almost, but not quite. I could tell that my soothing words were having their effect from the way in which Sylvia's voice changed from hectoring to gentle, her tone becoming pure liquid velvet as she purred out her delight at having met the man of her dreams, and so on.

Her left hand strayed from the steering wheel and began to caress my thigh. With a silent chuckle I took hold of it and placed it over my rapidly hardening cock. She stroked me gently and I heard her gasp as she realised that I had become fully hard.

"You will have to wait until we get home, it isn't far now," she said, her voice breathy and heavy.

Sylvia expertly turned the car into a wide avenue and as we drove along it and past a row of shops she pushed me back into my seat with the hand that had only recently been caressing my hardness.

"Please sit back, and don't let poor, dear Ram see you as we go past his shop.  The poor darling gets so jealous - I really don't know how I shall tell him that I have met you, my love."

I had a caustic reply all ready in my mouth when the devil, who often sits by my side guiding my along the way, gave me a nudge and I kept my peace. If Sylvia wanted to think that I was her new meal ticket then she was going to be in for a surprise, but hopefully that was going to be after I had finished shooting my load inside her.

"Of course, darling, I do understand," His Satanic Majesty made me say.

At least she was telling the truth as far as the distance to her flat was concerned as it was only about two minutes away from dear Ram's shop. Once we arrived she parked the car on the street of terraced houses and led me to the door which led upstairs to her first floor flat. A soon as the door closed behind us I reached out and pulled her towards me, swiftly unbuttoning her wine red overcoat as I did so, and then letting my arms encircle her waist with my hands going down to hungrily fondle her buttocks.

Sylvia put her arms around my neck and we kissed hungrily.  Breaking apart I reached down and lifted her skirt, finding to my delight that she was wearing stockings and immediately letting my fingers slide inside the waistband of her panties, my middle finger going down to explore her hidden depths.

"Christ - you are wet!" She was as well, all slick and wet and warm and ready for my cock.

She unzipped my trousers, fumbled for the belt, found it and expertly unbuckled it. The button that was all that held the trousers in place was calmly undone and her hands went inside to fondle me.

We stared at each other for a moment, each pleasuring the other, and then as if on cue we both burst out laughing.

"Bed," was all I said, and Sylvia pointed the way to the bedroom and off we scampered.

We did not waste any time once we got there undressing each other. Instead I tore off my clothes and climbed into bed to be joined less than a minute later by the  naked Sylvia. 

She fell onto her back and as I climbed on top of her she opened her legs to let me mount her, taking my cock in her hand, and placing it inside the entrance to her inviting pussy. I thrust my hips forward and my weapon slid inside her body. Sylvia exhaled loudly as it forced its way into her and opened her eyes and mouth widely as it reached its hilt and I paused for a moment with my sword lost inside her.

There was nothing of finesse about the fucking that I gave that Polish girl that night. I gave her a good, hard seeing to which is what she wanted and as my cock drove into her body she rocked her head from side to side, muttering "nee, nee, nee" under her breath all the time.

I have no idea what it means, if anything, but I do remember that it spurred me on to thrust into her harder and harder and faster and faster as she increased the seeming urgency of the cry. He nails raked my back and her hips were flung up in wanton abandon each time my cock penetrated her yielding body.

The speed increased to the killing velocity. I could feel my balls grow heavy with the weight of the hot, potent cream that lay inside them. I looked into Sylvia's face and saw that she had lost control as she entered the depths of her own satisfaction and at that moment my muscles relaxed as all the gates inside my cock opened at once to allow the hungry juices to flow upwards  into Silvia's inviting wetness.

We lay in each other's arms and began to drift off to sleep.

"I hope that you are on the pill," was all I could manage to say before sleep overtook me, and as I drifted off into the depths I could hear Sylvia's drowsy laugh by way of her reply.

To be continued.

Poking the Pole, Part One

Standing stark naked in the Polish girl's kitchen whilst she explained to the Pakistani shopkeeper who paid her bills that of course he was the onl;y man in her wolrd was not one of my finer moments. It feels ridiculous just remembering that incident, but not as ridiculous as I felt that bitterly cold January morning in 1994 as my thumping great hard-on  surrendered to the cold and I shivered in the damned kitchen whilst Sylvia, the Pole in question, smooched Ram, her meal ticket. I decided as I listened to her airy voice come through the wall that as soon as friend Ram took his hook that I was going to have a serious chat with young Sylvia.

It had all begun the year before when I mentioned in a letter to Tony, an old friend of mine who lived in London, that a trip to the UK was on the cards. I asked if he knew of any available females that I could amuse myself with, and he told me about Sylvia, a thirty-something insurance saleswoman.

"She's not the cheapest girl in town," Tony explained some weeks later as we quaffed a pint together in  a London pub. "She goes like a steam engine, though, which should ease the ache in your wallet," he concluded.

"On the knock is she? You said she sold insurance, or something," was my question.

"Naah, she's not on the game, but she goes with fellas who can help her out. She has expensive tastes and a lousy job."

"What brought her here?"

"Came over to study and then got political asylum when martial law came in back in 1981."

"And has blessed us with her presence ever since?"

"You get the picture," said Tony with a mirthless grin.

"I can't wait to meet her," I replied, drily.

"She can't wait to meet you - I told her that you were a professor at the biggest university in Mexico City. She probably thinks that you are loaded."

"Let's hope that I get a chance to give her one before she finds out that the peso isn't worth very much on the open market," I said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"Give her two, one for me as well," Tony answered over the ribald laughter from us both.

My chance came the very next night following a telephone call to Sylvia from the pub. Of course she replied in her thickly accented English - she would be delighted, no, honoured, to meet a distinguished expatriate academic who was paying a fleeting visit to the land of his fathers. I must be honest and say that my jaw dropped as I listened to this babble and I remember hoping that she would at least have the decency to be quiet when she was being fucked. Fat chance as it turned out, but it was an agreeable thought as I listened to her clumsy attempts to butter me up.

We met at a wine bar since Sylvia said that she hated pubs. She arrived more or less on time, all 5' 4" of her size 12 frame, an angular face and peaked nose, set below hair that had been dyed a dull red and which hung straight down to her collar. Not the prettiest girl in town, but you don't look on the mantelpiece when you are poking the fire, do you fellows?

We sat down and after the introductions were over Sylvia ordered an expensive cocktail. I contented myself with tonic water and did not begrudge her the drink. I reasoned that she would pay for it later on her back, which of course is exactly what she did. 

Sitting back with one black sheathed thigh crossed over the other, Sylvia cocked her head to one side and asked me the really important question which just about everyone from the Great Slav Wasteland that sits east of the Oder-Neisse Line asks: "Are you Joeish?"

I was used to this nonsense from the Russian whores who were already arriving in large numbers in Mexico, so I just shook my head.

"No, but I am circumcised, as you will see later," I told her.

"Your family is Joeish? I do not go with Joeish men," Sylvia explained, as if I had not already figured that out for myself.

"I am English," I said, simply, not wishing to get involved in a debate with a woman that I only wanted to take to bed.

"Good," said Sylvia. "Now where are you taking me to dinner?"

I took her to a rather nice bistro and let her chatter on, contenting myself with just a nod or a grunt from time to time so that she would know that I was paying attention.

"Of course, my family were very wealthy before the Communists arrived," explained Sylvia. "None of the Polish people ever supported them, of course," she continued, pausing only to lift her fork to her mouth.

What about the Jews?" I tried to ask the question as innocently as I could, even though my stomach was already shaking at the answer that I knew was coming.

"I said Polish people, not Joes."

"Of course you did, and I do apologise," I said, in my best decent English manner.

"Of course you were not to know such things, being English," replied Madam, in her best, patronising tone.

Do not worry, as I had not taken leave of my senses. I had figured Sylvia out as an intellectual and social snob, so giving her a chance to put me down made sense. As did encouraging her to patronise the waiters and leaving a healthy tip for them at the end of the meal. I saw Sylvia's eyes widen slightly at the sight of all those notes on the table, and was pleased that she took my arm and nuzzled her head into my shoulder as we left the bistro.

Climbing into her car I reached over and pulled her towards me for a long, lingering kiss. Breaking away, I left my tongue gently flicker on her neck and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

"Wait until we get to my flat," she said, her voice slow and heavy.

I sat back in my seat as my cock began to strain against my trousers. The rest of the night was going to be a delight, I reasoned. I mean, what on earth could go wrong?

To be continued

Wanky Wednesday: Marina's Spanking

Marina's Spanking was the first video that I made back in 1997. The quality is not the greatest, but it is still worth watching, especially as Marina wriggles like an eel to escape my hard hand as it cracks across her bare bottom.

If you want to read the full story of this spanking then please go to my Amazon page where you can buy A Spanking Good Life. That first volume of my memoirs has all the information that you need on this naughty young lady.

Click here to download Marina's Spanking.

On being stood up for a dog

I was due to meet Marina yesterday, but as I fell out of bed a text arrived to say that she was cancelling as her dog was ill and needed to be taken to the vet. Following a brief exchange of messages, which left us with a plan to meet on Monday, the good moose did write thus:

Tell me that u understand and that u are not thinking that I am a fucking bitch.

Let me think about this for a moment: I was left with my dick in my hand for a dog, and Marina is worried that I will be in some way angry at this.

I am, quite simply, speechless.

Will the porn trade abandon LA?

About ninety percent of American porn is shot in Los Angeles, and it looks as if the city council will pass an ordinance forcing actors in the trade to wear condoms. Many of the bigger producers have already threatened to leave the city if this measure is passed, and more than one porn merchant has speculated about how the city plans to enforce the new regulation.

Enforcement will probably be quite easy to arrange. The USA is not really all that different from Britain and we have our army of traffic wardens, council inspectors who ensure that only the metric system which nobody really understands is used, and fat, grotesque harridans who spend my taxes in the social work industry. What all these creatures have in common is a level of stupidity such as to ensure that the private sector will not touch them with a bargepole, a pathetic poly degree and a puerile desire for status. Nothing would give these maggots more of a thrill than going around porn studios ensuring that cocks are clothed.

Hopefully they will be entering empty buildings as most producers shift their facilities to other parts of the country.

Meeting Marina

My recent posting about Marina has proven popular, so I have decided to tell you some more about her, starting off with how we met. I did cover this briefly last year, but now is a good time to fill you in properly.

It all started with my wife and a cousin of hers that I was fucking back in 1996. The wife found out about my extra-curricular activities and went slightly hysterical as women tend to do at times like that. I remember having a beer with my father-in-law who advised me to get a well paying job pretty damn quick and then give the wife my credit card and let her run wild with it. That is what he always did when his shagging came to light, and I was grateful to him for passing on the pearl of wisdom to me. He lent me his car - a top of the range Ford Grand Marquis so that I would look the part of the prosperous man about town - and I went off to do as he had suggested.

It was actually not all that difficult. A private university had only recently opened fairly close to my home and I made an appointment to see the head of humanities. Security at such institutions in Mexico is usually very heavy, but the goon at the entrance just lifted the barrier as I drove up and I manoeuvred the car in as if I knew exactly where I was going. I saw a sign which advised visitors that a small car park to the right of the entrance was reserved for the university's directors and I pulled in there to ask its guardian where I might park. To my delight he stepped back and waved me in so I was able to park right next to the main building with its large cupola dome. I realised there and then that the day was going to be mine.

I was supposed to meet the head of humanities, but found myself talking to a women from languages. She explained that given my degree in American History I would be perfect to teach that subject in English - and that all teaching in that language was done under the auspices of the language department. Well, it is Mexico, when all is said and done.

Actually I fitted right in, much more so that most of the other foreigners who barely spoke Spanish and were under the ludicrous impression that they were labouring in a legitimate institution of higher education, instead of a money making machine for its owners. Of course, once they realised that Mexico was not going to change to please their sense of western, bourgeois correctness they tended to flee back to the United States, much to the amusement of the rest of us. In fact, I remember a fellow who ran a book in which people could bet on how long an American would last in the country before he ran screaming back to el norte.

Within hours of starting work on my first day I had discovered that the people who ran the computer where the students' marks were collated ran a nice little sideline in increasing those marks for a suitable consideration. I also discovered that instead of giving the students a reading list, it was the practise - as it is throughout the country - to put together a compilation of readings, photocopies of which were then sold to the students. At a normal institution the profit to the lecturer is not all that great, but at mine the students were in the habit of paying for the material with high value notes, and then forgetting to collect their change. It was an easy way to ensure that the bribes arrived at the start of every semester, as well as at the end.

What I did not know was that there was a considerable amount of competition between the female students to decide the correct pecking order between them. For instance, a girl who carried a Burberry handbag with the design that was only sold in London was a step up from a girl who had bought her bag in New York. A girl whose family had a summer home in Spain would become rather sniffy at the mention of a girl with a flat in Miami.

However, the main competition was between the girls who had foreign boyfriends and those who did not. More importantly, between those who managed to snag a foreign tutor, especially a European, and those who had to settle for an American. Needless to say, hardly anyone was interested in a Mexican boyfriend unless he was one of the dozen or so senior figures on the campus, the mere mention of whose name would make the bulk of the Mexican sphincters clench.

I still wonder if I chose Marina or if she chose me. I suspect that it was a bit of both as she was the girl who used to sit on the floor, chatting to a Mexican tutor and eyeing me up, and I was the one who shouldered my way past a group of leering adolescents that first week, patted her firmly on the rump in front of all of them and staked my claim to her.

In doing that I committed a grave sin because what I did not realise was that there was a pecking order amongst the men as well, and that one of those senior figures on campus also had his eye on her ripe young flesh. Alas for him I got in first, thus leaving him to have a wank, or something. He got his revenge a couple of years later when I stuck my neck out in some dubious deal or other and he used that as an excuse not to renew my contract, but we both knew that it was Marina that was at root of the matter. 

I was never sure which man it was, but I knew that it had to be one of that incestuously small group, so on my last day of work at that institution as I walked down the main stairs for the last time I saw one of them coming up. I paused to light a cigarette because I knew that he loathed the smell of smoke, bade him a fond farewell, and then told him that Marina was going to suck my cock that night - and that she was going to swallow every drop as she always did. He did not reply - types like that are only brave in the dark - and I knew that the message would get passed on.

Sure, I lost my job, but it was only work, and I was not the sad arse left having a wank, was I? Looking back, I still reckon that I got the best of the exchange.

And I got to keep Marina as my number one mistress for many years to come!

Order of the Burning Buttocks: Sophie, Countess of Wessex

An Order of the Burning Buttocks is hereby awarded to Sophie, Countess of Wessex. Alas we have no idea why we are awarding her this distinct honour, but she has been nominated by Aristotle, one of our regular readers and he thinks that she deserves it, so there.

Come here young lady: you know that you deserve this!

My next project

Sales of A Spanking Good Life seem to be coming along nicely, with rather more people purchasing the Kindle version than the paperback. That surprised me, but I suppose that it is logical since an awful lot of readers will not want to have my book on their shelves. The advantage of an e-reader is that the reader can perv in private. . .

This being so, why not self-publish my next epic just as an electronic download, I thought? My actual publisher has given me no help at all in publicising the existing book, so the sales that have been made have come from my efforts, and surely I could repeat the process with the next epic? Preparing a manuscript as a Kindle ready file looks simple enough so I spent a happy few hours last night planning my next offering. And then I read the bad news.

The American government grabs thirty percent of all royalty payments unless the writer jumps through an incredibly complicated series of hoops to show that he is a non-resident of the USA. Basically I would have to get a letter from Amazon which I then send to the American version of the exchequer along with a form that I have filled in. They then send me a number which I put on another fucking form and when I get a letter back from them I pass it along to Amazon and can get my payments in full. Needless to say, all the documentation that I must submit to prove that I do not live in that country has to be notarised at my expense.

I shall have to do it, but it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.

A warm welcome to the good time girls

A couple of weeks ago I wrote that the prostitutes here in Mexico seem to be getting cheesed off at the competition from the amateur good time girls who now seem to abound all over the place. The economy has tanked in a major way, so Mexico's secretaries and the like are on the look out to supplement their diminishing incomes and a tourist seems like a good bet.

Britain used to have large numbers of those girls and they are making a comeback over there. Back in 1993 I ended up with a Polish girl in London named Sylvia who fitted the good time girl profile to perfection, and as the UK economy sage we can hope to see a lot more girls taking up the role.

Basically, a good-time girl is not a prostitute, and would resent being thought of as one. The Mexican version probably has a job such as shop assistant or hotel receptionist that brings her into contact with businessmen and tourists, and she may even speak a bit of basic English. Her wages will be low and in her mind you, the fat, balding plumber from Rochdale, are very exotic. Let's face it, you can afford the flight over here, so by her standards you are a good catch.

She will be your girlfriend during your time in Mexico City. You take her to dinner at a decent restaurant and maybe let her run wild one afternoon in a department store. If that is a bit rich for your budget, just tell her, because she is going to know all the little street markets where the bag that she has been dreaming about for ages is on sale. I think that honesty really is the best policy with one of these girls - if she thinks that you are a City of London banker, then she will want you to spend accordingly. By telling her the truth about yourself, you can stay within budget. Of course it also gives her the chance to politely decline your advances, but if that happens another good-time girl will be only too happy to take up where the first one left off, so don't worry. Staying on the theme of honesty, she is not going to care if you are married or not, but if you are, you should tell her. Otherwise she might start thinking about making a little love nest with you back in Rochdale...

How do you find these good-time girls? Well, the quick answer is that you don't: they will find you. By staying at a decent hotel along Reforma you will meet any number of chambermaids and receptionists. By taking a stroll any evening in the Zona Rosa it is virtually guaranteed that someone will stop you and ask directions. Yes, of course she knows where the street is, but it gives her a chance to pretend that she is not picking up some strange bloke on the street, which is what the whores do. However, a more usual place to meet a girl is in a bar, especially the nice ones that are in hotels or attached to a Sanborn's restaurant. Be warned that not every Sanborn's has a bar, but most do and they are safe, comfortable and reasonably priced.

The chances are that your girl will be sitting with a friend, but don't worry. They will either come over to you on some pretext or other, or you can give them a smile and get waved over to their table. At some point after having chatted to them for a while, especially if you are showing an equal interest in both, one of the girls will vanish to the ladies' room, and this means that they have decided who is going to get you. You can then make arrangements for later with the one who is left, and when the friend returns give her a fiver for her taxi fare home. Of course she will use the metro and pocket the cash, but you can afford it, so don't be cheap.

By the end of your stay she may have decided that she is madly in love with you - and she could very well be telling the truth. Remember that this is a country where wealth is largely inherited and hard work most definitely does not carry its own reward. Making a good marriage, as women once did in Britain, is a smart career move for a Mexican girl. For your part you get a hard working, traditional wife who will give you all the children you want. The fact that you will want at most two or three is a blessing to your new love: her mother will probably have given birth to at least double that number.

On the other hand, it is more than likely that you will want to say goodbye at the end of your stay. If you decide to do that, please don't let her build her hopes up that you may return and claim her. Mexico City's good-time girls are a sentimental bunch, but they are not totally stupid. If she understands the score she will have a little cry over you and the next night she will be sitting in a bar chatting to her friend and hoping that another tourist will look her way.

That is how it works in Mexico and pretty much the same thing applied in Britain, until post-war prosperity put an end to the practise. Now as the government cuts bite deep we can expect to see any number of young things seeking to supplement their income with a generous boyfriend.

On Empathy

Some people believe that a dominant fellow has to experience what it is like to be a submissive so that he can empathise - that's the latest buzz word - with his future victims. Hmm, so when Bonnie the pooch next does something daft and I roll up a newspaper to smack her over the muzzle, I must then walk on four legs and whimper? Empathy, innit?

Gentlemen, bugger empathy, because the rule is very simple and is summed up nicely in this bit of doggerel verse:

A woman, a dog and a walnut tree: the more you beat them the better they be.

Spanking a Moose, Part Four

I spanked her with all the force that my arm could muster and each smack resounded throughout the room as if a gun was being fired. I counted each one silently in my head as my hand bounced down, first on one cheek and then on the other. By the third smack Marina was wriggling like an eel and by the seventh - yes, I really did make these mental notes - she was screaming like a scalded cat.

The battle to keep her in position meant that I had to slow down the rate at which my hand smacked against her bottom, but any relief she got from that was outweighed by the fact that I began to swing my shoulder as I brought my arm down, so the smacks became even harder and Marina's bottom began to turn a fiery shade of red under the onslaught.

I reached twenty-first and paused for a moment. Marina was still screaming at the top of her lungs and she took the opportunity of the respite to roll over with all her might and fall onto the floor.

"I hate this fucking country! I hate it! If I was in the United States someone would have come to my rescue, but here they just ignore everything so long as they have been fucking paid!"

She rubbed her bottom, but made no move to rise. I saw the look of utter fury on her face and decided that this spanking was far from over, so I grabbed her around the waist and quite literally hauled her back into position.

"No, please, I've had enough! Please, I'm sorry," she wailed, as I lifted her skirt for the second time.

"I decide when you have had enough," I told her, bringing my arm down in another great retributory arc down upon her sorely tried buttocks. I remember smiling as I admired my existing handiwork: Marina was about to find out just how much she could take, whether she liked it or not.

I gave her, all told, another fifteen hard smacks, each one with the full force and weight of my arm behind it, each one meant to teach Marina her place so that it would be a long time before she ever needed to be corrected again.

She probably should have received more, but it has to be admitted that my lungs are shot from a lifetime's smoking, and I had only been in Mexico City for less than a week, so the altitude was getting to me, anyway. As I gasped for air and struggled to hold the Moose in position for the next hard smack, something happened inside me and I decided that I had had enough at least, and Marina slithered off my lap for the second time.

"I'm sorry," was all she said, very softly, as she rubbed her bottom.

I nodded by way of reply, but I do not think that she saw me. Her head was down, as she sat on her side, making sure that the carpet did not touch her well spanked rear end. There was silence in the room, other than the panting of two people trying to draw breath.

It was over. For that day at any rate.

Postscript. On the 10th January 2010 I spoke briefly to the dear lady on the telephone and I took the opportunity of asking her how long her bottom had stung from my ministrations?

"Four days! I could feel it for four days!" The Moose was clearly in a moaning mood, so I let her ramble on, secure in the knowledge that she will remember that spanking for a long time to come.

Spanking a Moose, Part Three

As we waited for an attendant to fetch Marina's car from the coffee shop's car park, the Moose ran her hand up my sleeve and gave me a quite superlative pout.

"Which hotel do you want to go to?"

"The usual one, from the good old days," I replied.

Marina nodded at the memory and we climbed into her car and she began the short drive down Tlalpan to the hotel.

She was deathly quiet as she manoeuvred the car through the light traffic, and I noticed that she was gently biting her lower lip. Obviously something was troubling her, and white man that I am, I leaned over and spoke softly into her right ear:

"Want to tell me why you look so worried?"

"Oh - shut up - you know what's wrong!"

She almost lost control of the steering wheel, such was her panic, and a car screeched past us, its driver leaning out of his window to flip one of those delightfully obscene gestures that Mexicans are so good at in Marina's direction.

"Be careful, Moose," I admonished her. "You really need to give the road your full attention and not worry about what is going to happen to your bottom."

Marina chose to ignore my well meaning advice and began to complain in a high pitched tone about the unfairness of it all. She really should have thought about that before she went off the rails, do you not agree, gentle reader?

We reached the hotel and Marina swung her steering wheel to the right so that the car swept through the outer portal in and came to rest inside the underground car park. Without a word we both climbed out and walked to the door that led to reception.

I booked a room on the second floor and up we went in the lift. As it reached the floor Marina began to make little mewing noises in the back of her throat, and to avoid a debate as soon as the lift door's opened I simply grabbed her by the arm and marched her to the room. A chambermaid was busy in the corridor, but if she saw me half dragging Marina to her fate she gave no sign of it.

The door to our room was already open and Marina walked in without having to be pushed. I closed the door with a thud and made sure that I clicked the locking bolt as firmly, and loudly, as I could and was rewarded by the sight of a shudder passing through Marina's frame.

There was really no point in wasting time. I grabbed Marina's arm and pulled her towards me, stepping backwards as I did so and then sitting down when I felt the bed against the back of my legs. As I sat down, Marina was hauled across my knee and lay helplessly in position, her wine-red knee length skirt providing ample protection for the area that would be the target of my correction. Thus it had to be raised and I grabbed the hem with my right hand and quickly swept the garment above her waist.

"I am wearing tights," Marina announced in a very quiet tone. "They hold my bottom" she went on, "and help shape it."

I almost burst out laughing at the ludicrousness of the comment, but common sense kicked in and I stifled my laughter. I could have pointed out to her that whether she likes it or not, at 33 she is fast approaching her fuck-by date, and once a woman passes that milestone the days when men will fight each other for her attention are over. All the fancy foundation garments in the world cannot hide that inexorable march of time, which means that once a woman reaches thirty then the sands really are running out...

 Instead I hooked the fingers of my right hand into the waistband of her tights and hauled them, and the pale cream panties that she wore underneath, down to knee level in one swift, practised movement. I lifted my left thigh up ever so slightly so that there was space between Marina's stomach and my legs, and thus the garments came down without any fuss or bother. You can tell that I have done this before, can't you?

Marina began to make those mewing sounds as she felt the fresh air on her upturned bottom, but other than that she made no sound. Normally I would pause for a moment to let the reality of the situation sink into the mind of my victim, but this time I just could not be bothered. We both knew that she had behaved appallingly and that this was her well-earned punishment. I raised my right arm high above my head and brought it down in a great swinging arc to crack across Marina's helpless,  and totally bare, bottom.

To be concluded.

Spanking a Moose, Part Two

I pushed open the door to the coffee shop and looked around for Marina. There she was, her Blackberry and some papers on one side of her, and an expensive handbag on the other. Give the lady credit, but she had made an extra special effort with her dress and make-up, not that she needed to do much, being naturally lovely. Still, I was pleased to see that she was wearing a skirt, something which she told me last year that she rarely wore, and which was obviously for my benefit since she knows that I like them.

However, the most delightful aspect of her appearance was the way that she fidgeted nervously in her seat, glancing at her watch, before picking up her mobile, only to put it down again a moment later to cast an anxious glance at the door.

As soon as she saw me strolling towards her she let out a yelp of delight and got to her feet with her arms held out for the obligatory hug and load smacking kiss.

"Hamster Face," she warbled at length, her voice catching in her throat.

"Hello, Moose," I replied, quietly. "What have you got to say for yourself?

"Nothing... I need to go," she indicated the ladies' room with a shaky index finger.

"Off you go and I will get myself a coffee," I replied. "Do you want anything?"

"I haven't had anything all day - I'm so nervous."

As Marina went off to do whatever it is that women spend so long doing in toilets,  I enjoyed my coffee and reflected on the fact that one of the nicer things about women is the way in which when nervous, their fears travel at the speed of light from their brains to inside their panties. It is not that they become aroused, exactly, but they do tend to become nice and moist and that is manna from heaven to a man like me. I resolved that when the Moose returned we would spend a happy few minutes chatting about her immediate future, just so that I could enjoy the sport of watching her squirm in her own juices, as it were.

The Moose returned and took her seat across the table from me. She cocked her head to one side and fixed me with one of her dazzling smiles, and then when I did not respond she resorted to pout mode, sticking her lower lip over the upper one, a form that had given her the the nickname of Moose in the first place.

"Please don't be too hard on me," she pleaded.

All I did by way of reply was smile slightly and leave her to babble; something which she then proceeded to do. Women, no matter what nationality they are, always babble when they know that a fire will soon be ignited underneath their skirts and inside their knickers.

She fidgeted in her chair as I knew that she would, because most women do at times like that, and I sat back and enjoyed the show. Her hands fluttered like butterflies, and she crossed, uncrossed and the recrossed her legs again and again, constantly changing her position in the seat as if she wanted to remove her bottom from the unyielding surface of the chair that was beneath her.

"Is there any reason why you cannot sit still for more than a few seconds?"

"Evil rat! You know why I am being like this, don't you?

"Remind me," I said, in a voice that I kept deliberately low and even.

"You are going to torture me," said the Moose, never one to miss an opportunity for hyperbole.

"No, but I am going to put you across my knee and smack your bare bottom until it is the colour of a ripe tomato," I replied.


"Please let's get it over with," she pleaded.

"Of course. Just as soon as I finish my coffee," I told her with a smile.

A cry broke over Marina's lips as she realised that retribution was going to be delayed by a hot cup of coffee. She was in the worst possible bind, not wanting to be spanked, but wanting to get it over with.

To say that the Moose fidgeted and squirmed in her seat as I slowly drank my coffee is putting it mildly. She put on a display of terror that was a joy to behold, and behold it I did as I swirled the remaining dregs of my coffee around the cup and took a final swallow of the delicious brew. Looking at Marina I kept her in my eye as I stood up and told her calmly and quietly:

"Come along - we are going to a hotel."

To be continued.

Spanking a Moose, Part One

How time flies... Back in September I reported that Marina, AKA the Moose, was down for a spanking, and it came to pass that on the 21 December that backside was duly bared and roasted.The reasons for the spanking are contained in that earlier posting, and I spent a pleasant few months getting the Moose into the correct from of mind to go across my knee. Put another way, but the time the 21 December 2011 rolled along she was shaking like a leaf, and almost ready to wet herself. I would like to report that I had a great deal of sympathy for the poor dear, but sympathy was the last thing on my mind as Retribution Day drew near.

Once I had arrived in Mexico City I wrote to the Moose and reminded her of what lay in store, and I reminded her of why it was going to happen. I also asked her if she understood what had led up to the moment and requested that she give me her full, uncensored feeling on the matter. Her reply, which used her old pet name for me, came in four texts which for the sake of clarity I have edited together as if they were one:

Dear Hamster,

I am writing this message as a response to your request. Last year I was very bad because I did not do as I had promised. I was too much in shock after seeing you and as a result, I failed to keep my word. I am deeply sorry for acting in such a way. You did not deserve it.

However, I do deserve to be punished for this action and I am willing to go through this ordeal if that is what you decide. I am sincerely sorry for my behaviour. Thank you for being here and for giving me the chance to make things right.

Moose

Let's just pause her for a moment and reflect this this is not my translation, those words are exactly as the Moose wrote them. Not bad for a girl who speaks English as her second language, eh? Quite how I managed to let this one slip through my fingers is still something that baffles me, by the way.

Enough of this idle chit-chat - I replied suggesting a time and place for our meeting and the Moose replied accepting both. This was my final text that day:

"Good, now think on this: I am going to smack your bottom until it is the colour of a ripe tomato."

The following day I decided to see how the girl was considering her fate so I texted her as follows:

"Is the time flying or does it hang heavy in your mind as you ponder tomorrow?"

This reply came shortly afterwards:

"I am working at the moment, but I have had a headache for several hours now. I think that it is due to tomorrow."

"The lot of a poor Moose is not easy," was my only reply.

As noon drew near the following day I wandered from the metro station to the coffee shop where we had agreed to meet. A few texts had passed between us, but I was not thinking of Mooseish matters as I strolled down the broad avenue called Tlalpan in the direction of coffee and Marina. If I thought about anything at all it was probably how nice the weather was compared to the cold damp country that I had left behind a few days earlier. The vibration of my mobile phone shook me out of my day dream. It was a text from the Moose who was waiting for me at the coffee shop:

"I have a horrible stomach ache, I am nervous and I hate it!"

The hour of retribution was at hand.

To be continued.

Order of the Burning Buttocks: Louise Mensch

Louise Bagshawe was known as Barker at Oxford because of her predilection for doggie-style sex. The story is told that every time she wandered into the bar at the Oxford Union the drunks would start to make growling noises at her. The story is also told that she was too fucking retarded to figure out what they were up to.

In spite of the fact that she is an MP, Louise Mensch, as she now is, still has problems in the comprehension department, a fact which should be clear to anyone who saw how she managed to misinterpret a journalist's words and then accused him of hacking telephones. A cursory reading of Piers Morgan's paragraph will allow for no such interpretation and eventually Barker had to make a grovelling apology - but not before Morgan had made her sweat a bit.

Her latest bit of idicocy is to wonder aloud why she has never been promoted from the backbenches? The answer is quite simple: Prime Minsiter David Cameron may be many things, but stupid he is not.

As for Barker, all we can say, more in sorrow than anger, is:

Come here you silly girl: you know that you deserve this!

The view from Mexico

The Mexican economy lurches from crisis to crisis and has pretty much been that way since the country became independent - not that it was all that great as a Spanish colony. However, this time around, Mexico seems to be entering one of those moments when things go seriously out of whack.

I was chatting the other day to an old friend of mine who complained that enthusiastic amateurs are undercutting decent, hard-working prostitutes who have families to feed, etc. Basically Mexico has always had more than its fair share of good time girls, but now the country seems to be overrun with them, at least according to my old friend.

Wages have fallen far behind inflation, and many a Mexican girl is now chancing her arm with a reasonably well set-up boyfriend in the hope that he will buy her the glitzy things that appeal to the superficial female mind. Needless to say, his marital status is not important.

Perhaps it is time that kindly old Uncle Nick started hanging around the nicer bars, instead of the usual dives that he usually frequents? The thought of having a young shop girl as entertainment is appealing. You never know, she may not be all that obedient and may have to be taken in hand. Given that goodly Nick only arrived here on the 16th December and has already administered one rather sound spanking, the omens look good.