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.

Raven and the world of BDSM

My plan was to start the blog up again early in the New Year, but I spent several hours chatting on the telephone to Raven yesterday, so I thought that I would return sooner than planned with this cautionary tale.

Raven is far kinkier than me, that much is obvious to both of us. I spank a woman when she has irritated me, and yes I fuck her afterwards, usually, because having a nice, subdued female is a delight, but at the end of the day I can live without reddening a female rump so long as madam behaves herself.

Raven, alas, has reached a stage where she cannot live without discipline. It is not the pain, which she hates by the way, it is the feeling that she has been punished and that feeling helps to calm her down. Even her voice changes after a spanking, as it and her both become very soft and gentle.

The problem is that the fellow in South Africa who takes Raven in hand is away on holiday and the lady became ratty and out of sorts and decided to dip her toe in the BDSM world, with consequences that made her shudder as she related the tale to me.

She met a man with judgement that she trusted and he put her in touch with a fellow, the idea being that this other man would take over Raven's disciplinary needs. The two met in a bar and Raven told me that she was uncertain about him, but would play it by ear. Yesterday, the two decided to meet in the same bar to continue the discussion, and that is when it all went horribly wrong for her.

To begin with his car had broken down so Raven drove to his house and the pair began to chat. The problem was that this man turned out to be a serious alcoholic who proceeded to down a whole bottle of brandy in the hour or so that she was with him. He became aggressive, and began to tell her how she would behave at all times - and it was at that moment that she burst out laughing.

Things became ugly at that point and Raven left. Now, she was never really in any danger, partly because this clown was too drunk to be able to coordinate his movements properly, but mainly because Raven is a tough bird who knows how to brawl if she has to. That said, the whole incident left her out of sorts and in need a several hours' conversation with me over the 'phone.

What can I say? Today is her birthday and if you are so minded you might want to leave a greeting at her blog or Facebook page - she would appreciate that, I know.

As for me, I am reminded of a conversation that I had over a decade ago here in Mexico City with some friends who enjoyed a good spanking. Each and every one of them was vociferous in their belief that they had nothing to connect them to the BDSM shower.

Given what happened to Raven yesterday, they maybe had a point?

Wanky Wednesday: Victoria's Double Punishment

Here is the second video that I made with Victoria, presented here as a downland for your delectation and delight. Just click this link to visit the storage area and start your free download.

How the video came to be made is an amusing story in itself, and one that you can read in A Spanking Good Life. At the time of writing, Amazon UK now onlyu have two copies left, but more are on order, so get over there and grab yourself one for Christmas.

The future of porn

Over the past few weeks I have been running a feature called Wanky Wednesday where you are invited to download a video free of charge. Yesterday's offering was one of the videos that I made in Mexico and I included a link to my book where you can read how it came to be made.

In a nutshell that's going to be the future of porn. The videos that everyone is pirating, anyway, will be given away free with the producers' blessings. The idea will be that a video will act as a kind of loss-leader that will persuade you to buy a product that cannot be pirated - in this case that product is my book. Sure, you can buy a copy and then pass it along to your friend, but that has always been the case with the printed word. However, the chain has to start with somebody forking out for a copy of A Spanking Good Life, as making a pirate copy is not cost effective.

This will be the future of the trade as Berth Milton, the head of Private, a major European porn company, now accepts. His plan is to give the basic stuff away free and monetise the exclusive material. So he plans to video the action in a swingers' club and offer it as pay per view to subscribers. A spanking outfit could conceivably offer the live feed of a corporal punishment session, then it could sell the edited highlights of that session. Obviously the highlights would end up being pirated, but the main profit would come from the live feed. The highlights would be a bit of cream in the coffee, and free publicity for the porn outfit. In other words the pirates would be helping the company out by distributing videos that are basically glorified adverts for the next live show.

It is not just the porn trade that is working with the pirates. A major games producer accepts that people will copy his work, so what is is doing is offering exclusive content that a pirated disk cannot contain. The idea is that people will get the game however they like, but will then have to go the the company for the interesting bits. It is pretty much the same deal that the porn trade is working towards, and leads me to conclude that giving away my video was not such a bad idea.

So, I hope that you enjoyed yesterday's free wankfest and I sincerely hope that some of you were inspired to know the story of the shoot. To get that you need to read the book!

Vintage Spanking Clips!

Wanky Wednesday: Victoria's Spanking

Say what you like about me, but I sure know how to smack a bottom as Victoria found out some years ago. The video has been presented on here as a flash movie, but I figured that it was time to let you have it as a free download.

If you are interested in the story behind the shoot then all you need to do is click on over to Amazon and buy a copy of A Spanking Good Life and read the chapter dealing with my Mexico video experiences.

Click here to download Victoria's Spanking absolutely free!

A Spanking Good Life sells out again!

As you may remember, Amazon UK sold out their entire stock of A Spanking Good Life on the first day that it was published. Guess what? They have sold out again. I suppose I should count myself lucky that they are only quoting a seven to ten day waiting period this time, but that is not the point. Likewise I should be pleased that the book is selling so well, but for some reason all I can think of doing is screaming at the cack-handed way in which the Amazon book buying department operates.

Click here to put in your order.

What's the best way to spank?

Do I have a favourite spanking position to recommend? That was the question asked of me by an American correspondent, and I must confess that it set me thinking. He went on to ask if I used the cane a lot, and for a moment the seeming switch from spanking to caning puzzled me. Then I remembered that what Americans call spanking is actually corporal punishment, so I replied that I tend to avoid the cane.

I understand why some men like it, as the sight of a nubile female, bent over submissively with her skirts around her waist and her panties down to knee level, is a gladdening one to behold. The fact that the girl has obeyed the order to take up the traditional posture of submission says a lot about the man who gave her that order, but and for all that, I still dislike the cane.

It isn’t the aesthetics that I object to, rather it is the pragmatic awareness that a girl can stand up at will, and thus ruin the whole effect. She submits because she wishes to, in effect, and it is that small element of power which needs to be stripped from her along with her dignity, panties and ability to sit down in comfort for a while.

A good spanking is usually administered across the knee, but there are also other positions that can be adopted. One that I find effective is to bend the recalcitrant one over the back of a sofa or easy chair. The waist can then be encircled with the left arm to hold the kicking, squealing little madam in place, and her skirts can be lifted and panties lowered. The spanking may then proceed with no danger of the girl being able to rise until such time as her chastiser decides that she has been punished enough.

Leading on from that I once spanked a girl along a country path with the help of a rail fence. The top of the fence was only about four feet off the ground, so it was the work of a moment to lift the girl up and literally dump her over the top rail. I can remember yanking her panties down to below her knees and the way that she lay, quite submissively across the rail with not a murmur of protest. I could even remove my belt, which I then used to remind her of her place, and during the whole of the discipline, she did not make a sound, nor did she move. I asked the girl afterwards to explain what had gone through her mind and she replied that a feeling of utter helplessness had swept over her and made it impossible for her to even think of moving.

All that aside, why change what is the most time honoured and effective means of putting a girl in her place, namely a good, bare-bottomed, over the knee spanking? Think about it for a moment. By laying the girl face down over your knee you can immediately lock her no doubt scissoring legs down by putting one of your thighs over both of hers. You can then hold her body in position and at the same time tuck one of her arms behind her back and grab the other one in your free hand. The skirt can then be lifted and the panties lowered, and all the while there is nothing that the badly behaved young madam can do other than spit and howl in helpless frustration. She is in position for the correction that you have awarded to her and will remain there until you allow her to rise.

Practical considerations aside, the effect that such discipline has on the female mind cannot be forgotten. One women told me that a traditional spanking left her feeling like “a little girl,” and knowing that fact alone should be almost worth its weight in gold to any normal man.

By putting your girl across your knee you can not only correct her misbehaviour, but you can also alter her perception of herself. A few moments earlier, she would have thought of herself as a grown woman, but you have taken that away from her and left her feeling like the naughty child that she is. She will sleep on her stomach that night and probably cry herself to sleep. More importantly, though, is the knowledge that deep inside her soul she will accept that she had been naughty and naughty little girls get sent to bed with a spanking.

Only a traditional spanking can do that to a women and that is why I unhesitatingly recommend it to all good men who have difficult women who need to be kept in line. Without doubt, it is the only spanking position that works almost without fail every time.

Blog Announcement

Why the lack of postings, I hear you ask? Actually, I did not hear anything at all, but never mind - I shall answer my own rhetorical question.

I have been travelling for the past few days, which is why there have been hardly any posts this week. Looking ahead, I will be travelling over to Mexico the week after next, so putting the blog on Christmas hiatus from the 15th of this month strikes me as a good idea. For the next two weeks there will be some postings, but not as many as is usual, and then we shall go into clover until the end of month.

Now you know...

Order of the Burning Buttocks: Lisa Snowdon

This is Lisa Snowdon, and who is she, you may ask? Well, I had never heard of her but I see that she is famous for being famous, and will hit her fortieth birthday in January so is pretty close to her fuck-by date. Other than that her only claim to fame is that a fellow left a comment and recommended her for a prestigious Order of the Burning Buttocks.

Be it hereby awarded, but only because I am sloshed.

Wanky Wednesday: Crying Eyes 2

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Pippa's Posterior Bare?

Is this really Pippa Middleton, admiring her own pert posterior in that dress? The photo plopped into my in-box this morning with an assurance that it is.

Dear old Uncle Nick has his doubts, but the fuck it principle applies at times that this. So settle back and put your doubts to one side as you stroke one off, all courtesy of your favourite blog.

Janus: the end of it all

To everything there is a season, a time to be born and a time to die... As you can see from the photos that illustrate this posting, for Janus it is the time to die.

The outfit had a good run and when the magazine was edited by Alan van Ocker it led the field, partly because there was not much in the way of competition, but also because the owner, having picked the right man for the job, then left him to run the little gold mine as he saw fit. Sadly, the death of van Ocker at the end of the 1970s marked the beginning of the slow decline of the Janus behemoth.

Like many a tired empire before it, Janus carried on losing a bit here and there to competitors, until eventually the internet put the outfit into its death spiral. It managed to keep going because of the shop and the company's willingness to sell pirated copies of everyone else's videos. On my trips back to the UK I would always go into the Janus shop and see which Moonglow videos were being pirated that year - it was truly one of the highlights of my England trips.

I remember in about 2005 asking one of the Chuckle Brothers who worked behind the counter if they ever planned to put their back catalogue on-line? I was amazed to learn that Janus did not keep its catalogue and nobody actually knew what had happened to the old photos, artwork and stories. Probably for this reason the new Janus website is reduced to offering overpriced PDF scans of the magazine in the hope of pulling in some cash from the nostalgia brigade.

Certainly looking at the website with its broken links and content that would have been cutting edge twenty years ago, but now appears sad and lifeless, I think of the final spin of the roulette wheel on a table that nobody is playing on anymore. The words of  Shelley seem appropriate:

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Still Rocketing!!!!

Yesterday I posted that A Spanking Good Life had reached to about the number 47,000 spot on the Amazon Kindle rankings. I was pleased about that to put it mildly.

Well, today the book has clocked in at number 16,593 and I am seriously ecstatic!

Just to remind those of you who live in London that I will be signing copies of the book on the 30th of this month at the Central Station bar in King's Cross. Be there, or be seriously square.

A Spanking Good Life Rockets up the Amazon Rankings

The Kindle version of A Spanking Good Life has rocketed up the rankings to number 47,551 on the British site. That is a long way from the top, but the book is still less than a month old. To put it into some kind of context, I am behind Niki Flynn's Dances with Werewolves which ranks at 33,034, but I am already way ahead of Peter Jones and his True Confessions of a London Spank Daddy which is languishing at the 55,079 spot. Remember that both those book have been out for several years, and in less than a month I can leave one eating my dust and am within touching distance of the other.

Mother and son

I was in the local Tescos the other day and a youngish mother was having an off day with her toddler.

"You want your bottom smacking, don't you, David? That's what you are after, right here in the shop, and over my knee. Shall we go and let mummie sit down on that chair so she can get herself comfortable for her bad little boy?"

On and on it went with the mother laying it on with a trowel and the little brute just grizzling by way of reply.

The though occurred to me that thirty years down the road he might be paying out good money to hear a speech like that, and there he was getting it all for free, but was he grateful?

Of course not!

Wanky Wednesday: Unbridled Youth

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Bradley Richard: Plod Pincher

You have to admit that there are certain actions that deserve maximum respect and pinching a policewoman's bum is certainly one of them. OK, she was not a real copper, rather one of those Mickey Mouse types that they call dirties - 'cos they are not real filth - but the principle still holds.

So maximum respect to Bradley Richard, 27, for his actions earlier this year. Also maximum respect to him for his refusal to plead guilty to the ludicrous charge of sexual assault that could have seen him forced to sign the sex offenders' register! When the case came up yesterday the prosecution managed to talk the plodette into accepting the lesser charge of common assault, by pointing out to her that the "global perception" of a pinch is not that of sexual assault. Very well, the language may have been convoluted, but in simple English it was pointed out to the brainless bitch that no court would convict a man on such a serious charge for nipping a rump.

We at Urzodwn Hall firmly believe that there is only one thing worse for a pretty girl who has had her bottom pinched, and that is for a pretty girl never to have her bottom pinched.

As for Bradley Richards: nice one mate!

The day Mary Churchill was spanked, part two

A couple of weeks ago I ran a report of Mary Churchill's July 1942 spanking at the hands of an American soldier at a dance. The Prime Minister's 19 year old daughter was in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, the forerunner to the Women's Royal Army Corp, where she served in an anti-aircraft battery. The spanking was seen by an American journalist who fed the story to the New York Times who ran it on the 1 August 1942 and from there it went out on the wire services. The Churchill archives are held at Churchill College, Cambridge, and there is a box of files relating to Mary's paddling - so I contacted the college and arranged for copies of those files to be sent to me. They make fascinating reading...

On the 3 August, the British embassy in Washington sent a long cable to London giving a summary of the account. At the bottom of the cable are the words "Unseen elsewhere so far." That cable was passed along to the Prime Minister's office by the duty officer at the Ministry of Information, with a handwritten note which read:

Herewith the answer from New York. It does not appear to have had much publicity.

Obviously someone in London must have asked the embassy to check the New York Times report, which means that they must have known about it, but those files are not in the Churchill Archive. Equally obviously, given the replies, the question must have related to the publicity that the story was attracting.

The information that London was getting was not entirely accurate since the papers were picking the story up all across the USA, but they were printing the report and then letting the story die - it wasn't attracting all that much attention.

Why the government was worried appears in the final note that went out from the Prime Minster's office on the 6 August. The reason why the government was worried had nothing to do with saving Mary's blushes and everything to do with the war effort. Put simply, if the story acquired wings, then "it might have a discouraging effect on mothers of possible recruits for the A.T.S."

The Ministry of Information did not feel that they could ban the story, and were worried that a request to ignore it could just lead to newspapers deciding to dig it up and ran with it. The best that the ministry could offer was to keep an eye on the papers and see if anyone ran the story, then call the editor and try and have it removed from later editions. Compared to the way that news is managed these days, it was a  curiously amateurish approach to controlling the news, but it worked. The British press did not pick up the story, and to quote from the final line of the note:

No further action is required and the papers may be put away.

It should be noted that nobody in all of this seems to have cared all that much about the fact that the Prime Minister's daughter had recently had her backside warmed up in public by an American soldier! The matter just was left to rest, presumably with everyone thinking that mouthy young 19 year old girls really do need to be taken in hand as and when needed.

Love Our Lurkers Day

Today it seems is the sixth annual Love Our Lurkers Day, when spanko bloggers post something to reassure the ninety-nine percent of our readers who never comment that we really do care about them...

Now comes the tricky bit: writing that I love you all without cracking up.

Sorry, folks, but I cannot manage it. To all you lurkers out there, leave a comment from time to time to let me know what you like and don't like about the site. Second guessing you all the time based upon a fluctuating hit counter is not the easiest game in town.

Other than that, as you were!

On Multitasking

Contrary to the received wisdom, men are actually rather skilled at multitasking. It takes an incredible amount of skill to fuck anything in skirts and keep all the women blissfully unaware of each other.

Wanky Wednesday: Inmates 2

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A Spanking Good Life: Availability

I have good and bad news on the book availability front. If you are in the USA then relax as Amazon have stock in hand and can deliver in the usual time. In Britain things are a bit more complicated. Amazon UK are quoting up to eight weeks for a delivery, but never fear because the Book Depository have 130 copies in stock and can deliver in just a few days.

What has happened is a technical problem with the presses, and when that is fixed a small order like this one will just have to wait its turn as the big boys get their orders delivered first. An American firm has been contracted as an emergency, and Amazon UK will ship in stock from them.

I am trying to sort out my supply of books to sell at the London munch on the 30th of this month. All being well, people should be able to pick up a signed copy at that event.

A request from kindly old Uncle Nick

I looked at myself in the mirror, turned my head from side to side so that I could consider my features from every angle. Although I am no oil painting, try as I might I cannot see myself as a cunt. It is obvious that other people do see me that way, because cunts are there to be fucked and they are trying to fuck me. This posting is a gentle plea for them to cease, desist and generally nark it.

It all started last Thursday - yes, it's as recent as that - when a girl rang me up and we ended up having a spot of phone sex. Well, she had the phone sex, as I was having a shit, but never mind that now. The thing that turned her on was A Spanking Good Life, which is fair enough, since it was partly written as pussy bait. Anyway, she had her climax, I got a posting for the blog, and both of us were happy with that. However, since then no fewer than three girls have been in touch, all seeking discipline and all expecting to get away unfucked from the experience.

Part of me thinks that this is all rather sweet, and then the realist in me kicks in and a nasty voice tells me that the little mingers are trying it on. One little darling even had it in her little mind that I was going to drive all the way to Nottingham, rent a hotel room, smack her bottom for being the naughty little girl that she is, and then leave having done my paternal duty. This whole concept of Uncle Nick as a cunt that all and sundry can fuck is so double plus ungood as to be unbelievable.

Girls, what can I say? Just nark it, OK?

Getting the priorities right

What is left to be said? For most people it was a major crisis meeting, but  Silvio Berlusconi managed to lighten the atmosphere with his obvious admiration of the rear end of Argentina's President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner at the Cannes summit on Thursday.

The delights of phone sex

Every morning I perform my ritual of breakfast, newspapers and then heroic shit. I take both my mobile phones, the house phone and a book to the lavatory, settle myself down with the handsets splayed around, read the book, and let whatever is inside me pass freely forth. I am sure that all men would agree with me when I say that a good crap is the second best bodily function that a man can have.

So there I was, patiently waiting for my thing to happen when a text arrived on my kinky phone:

"R U the writer of spanking good life?"

I replied that I was and a flurry of texts were then sent backwards and forwards, with the girl on the other end eventually announcing that she felt "really sexy" and did I want to play? Before I had time to answer another text arrived with a number and the words "call me." Nice guy that I am I did just as I had been asked and got to speak to Sophie, who sounded like a mid-20s type of girl.

"I am wet," she told me without any preamble.

"Good," I replied. Have you got a toy?"

"Yes, my bullet vibrator - want me to use it?"

"Yes, imagine it's my cock, driving home inside you."

So off she went and from the sound she was making she was obviously having a great time.

"Can you hear me? I am doing it, " she squealed. "Are you playing with yourself?"

It was not my fault, ladies and gentlemen. It was the Devil's fault! He was sat by my side whispering wickedness into my ear, and doing things to my bowels. For just at that moment, a sphincter wrenching turd of monumental proportions began to leave my  innermost workings and make its way out to the open air. I took a deep breath and prepared to experience the nearest equivalent that a man can have to the act of giving birth:

"Aaaah!"

"You are doing it! I can hear you! Me too!"

"Yeees," I roared as gravity took over and the arse widening turd began its descent into the bog bowl.

"I am loving this,"  Sophie yelped. "Tell me what you are doing."

" I am with you," the Devil made me mutter. "With you all the way, and ready to shoot."

"Come with me! Come with me! Let me hear you!"

I exhaled deeply and Sophie took that as a sign that I had shooting my load, and a minute or two later, and accompanied by a lot of squeals, she reached her moment of joy. Then without further ado she hung up and that was that!

To be honest I don't mind a bit - just so long as Sophie doesn't object if she reads this and discovers that instead of shooting my load I was actually dumping it.

A Spanking Good Life, sells out!

Amazon UK  managed to sell out their entire stock of A Spanking Good Life on Monday, the first day that it was available in this country. Don't get me wrong - I am seriously chuffed that people are buying my epic of amatory and disciplinary delights, but having to answer e-mails from people who want to know when it will be back in stock is difficult because I don't know myself.

What seems to have happened is that the printers ran off a preliminary lot of books which everyone assumed would be enough to meet demand until the full run could be printed, collated, packed up and sent off. That was not the case and everyone is now standing around, waiting for the new copies to arrive.

The best bet is early next week, but if that changes then I shall immediately report the news here.

Wanky Wednesday: Crime at St. Thomas' School

 

Today's totally free Wanky Wednesday download is The Crime at St. Thomas' School, a real trouser-tightening, zip-busting, cock-throbbing piece of spanko porno. Download the video, unpack the lube and settle back to stroke one off courtesy of your friendly old Uncle Nick!

The day Mary Churchill was spanked

The Daily Telegraph reports that Mary Soames, the last surviving child of Sir Winston Churchill, has finally written her memoirs. I wonder if the spanking she received in the summer of 1942 from a certain Bill "Feets" Adams features in the work? Bill was the proud owner of an enormous pair of hooves and Mary teased him about them at a dance, so Bill put her across his knee and administered a spanking. By all accounts it was not the soundest spanking a mouthy young madam has ever received, but thirty or so smacks, in public, is not something that she is likely to forget - so does it feature in the book or not?

We know about the event because a New York Times reporter was on hand and his story was picked up by the news wires and ran across the USA. The story features what must be the best quote of all time when one of the participants stated the bleeding obvious that Mary "seemed embarrassed" by being put across the knee of a man she had only just met and then having her bottom smacked in front of a cheering crowd of onlookers.

Funnily enough, the spanking even reached British government circles, with some quite senior civil servants discussing whether Mary's paddling should be kept out of the British press or not. I have not seen any accounts of the event in the British papers, so it probably was censored. Quite why they wanted to do that is unclear, so I shall contact the library at Churchill College, Cambridge, and have the files photocopied and sent up to me. Stay tuned for further details.

In the meantime, according to the review of Mary Soames' memoirs, the lady has been assiduous in keeping a diary since she was 12 years old. If the book does not refer to the spanking then it must be that the authoress is still embarrassed by it almost 70 years after the event - a spanking that served its purpose, obviously!