The Caning

She pulls into the empty parking lot, the sun just going down.  It’s a place she’s never been, even the address unknown to her until the hour before, the address, and the key code to the building’s door.

She circles the lot looking for the specified number, finds it, slows to a stop and, after a long pause, puts the car in park and turns off the ignition.  Shifts uncomfortably in the seat, feeling the thing inside her, thrusting up inside her, uncomfortably.  Sighs, opens the car door and gets out.  Slowly.

She walks to the entryway, dragging her feet the way she’s always done before an encounter she doesn’t want, reaches the door, enters the code in the keypad.  The light turns green and the door unlocks with a loud click.  She jumps at the sound, even though she’s known all along it’s coming, moves the door forward and enters the dimly lit corridor.

The door swings shut behind her, and locks.  Her stomach rumbles … fear?  expectation?  A certain knowledge of what’s eventually coming, even though the particulars of how it’s going to happen remain unknown?


She walks down the hallway, her heels clicking on the tile floor as she passes closed doors. It looks like a medical office, but she can’t really tell as only the exit lights are on, and she’s been explicitly told not to turn on any of the switches.  She’s sure he’d thought about making her close her eyes and feel her way to the right door, something he’d do just to add to her terror, but guesses he decided against it because it would add an element of uncertainly that he’d prefer to avoid.  Nothing ruins the aesthetics more than a twisted ankle, and besides, the hallway she’s moving down is upsetting enough with her eyes open.

She walks on, looking at the passing doors by the low red illumination of the exit signs … 25 … 27 … 37 … 53, that’s the one her instructions point her to, so she stops and tries the handle.  And sure enough it’s unlocked.

She opens the door enough to fit through and goes inside into the dark office.  The door swings closed behind her, leaving her in the pitch-dark, with not even an LED shining.


Inside the office she feels for the table she’s been instructed will be by the door, finds it, then dutifully undresses down to only her shoes, placing her clothes on the table in as tidy a pile as she can manage.  The combination of darkness and nudity is unnerving, and the preternatural quiet adds to her fears.

She stands there, naked, feeling the faint breeze from the building’s heaters flowing across her skin from an unseen vent.  Her skin puckers, her flesh crawls as she strains to see, struggles to hear … but nothing’s there, nothing at all, only the darkness, the quiet, and the feeling of the air moving over her flesh.


Now she gropes her way forward along the wall towards the internal door she’s been instructed to find.  She wonders why she hasn’t tripped over any furniture; her senses tell her the room is empty, and she suspects he’s found an unoccupied office for this scenario.  Either that or he’s taken the trouble to have the furniture moved, again a sign of his thoughtfulness, or of his obsessive attention to minute detail.

As she moves forward she feels the plug filling her behind slip, quickly reaches a hand back to stop it falling, pushes it back in until it’s reseated, the sensation of fullness and the accompanying dull ache returning as she thrusts it back in.

She’s wearing a medium-sized plug, not small, but not as large as the one her instructions promise she’ll be having later; she dislikes the sensation, but, as shameful as it is to admit it, its presence makes her very very wet between her legs.


She’s felt her way about 15 feet forward, and suddenly her hand runs across the doorjamb she’s been expecting.  She pauses, fumbles her hand for the knob, turns it, pushes the door open and goes in.

This room is also dark, but her senses tell her it’s much bigger, the drafts are greater, the clicks of her heels are more reverberative; it’s a *large* room.  And although it’s pitch black, she feels an intense itching of her skin as if she’s been watched by unseen eyes.

Whose eyes?  Where?  How, in this darkness?  She doesn’t know, only knows that feeling of surveillance, of heightened exposure.  Perhaps there’s no one there, perhaps there are cameras rather than people.  Regardless, the idea’s in her mind, and she can’t shake it out.

She recalls a meeting with him where he made her undress and turn away from the hotel window, which he then opened, pulling the shades completely back.  They were on the second floor and she hadn’t looked to see how visible she’d be, he hadn’t given her time, he’d just walked in and told her to turn, strip and stand.

She remembers how her flesh crawled then, imagining eyes, not knowing if there were any, not knowing if anyone in an adjoining building could see a damn thing.

But it didn’t matter then, the idea was in her mind and it stayed there throughout what he did with her.  Just as it’s embedded itself in her brain now, and can’t be shaken as she prepares for what’s going to happen.


Parking lot, entryway, hall, outer room, and, now, here.  A straightforwardly linear sequence, if it were a movie it’d be cheap to film.

She turns from the wall and heads off at a right angle, shuffling forward to avoid the obstacles her mind  conjures up.

A light suddenly comes on, very dim, but enough to reveal the outlines of a mostly empty room, larger even than she’s imagined, some sort of furniture in its center.  Is the light proof of someone’s watching?  Or is it automatic, she doesn’t know.  He’s all too adept at kindling these kinds of summersaults in her mind, there seems to be almost no effort he needs to expend to cause her to panic a great deal.  Is this because he’s so good at it, or is she just easily influenced?  Or, worse, is it that she *wants* to react to what he says, that it’s less him pushing her forward than her pushing herself, diving into the sensation — arousing, terrifying, and, always, intoxicating.


She moves further out away from the wall towards the room’s center.  It’s likely only 30 feet, but the dark and her nudity telescope that distance, or maybe it’s time that her mental state’s altered.

That’s a concept she’s fully familiar with: the distortion of time by dread, or anticipation, or desire, or a combination.  It’s not something she’d like to admit, that he can do that to her, but he can.  A well-placed threat, a seemingly offhand promise of a dreaded event to be … implemented … they leave her suddenly reeling, time slowed down.

The way she’s feeling now standing there naked in this room, in the dark, with wafts of air blowing over her skin.  Time’s slowed down, the walk to the center and the thing there — whatever it might be — an eternity.  She knows it isn’t, but her brain doesn’t know anything other than triggers from its most primitive portion, spikes of fear and desire from down in the brainstem, from the hindbrain.  She’s got air blowing on her, and she’s still sweating. Why?


If you asked him — and if he were to answer you — you’d learn that anticipation is an art form, and that merely doing things isn’t a trigger for anything other than a check against a list of things to do and then done.

If you asked — and if he answered — he might tell you the story he heard once from a friend who visited a “dungeon” south of Los Angeles in Orange County, and how he laughed at the thought of an above-ground “dungeon” (no basements in the earthquake zone) in a garage, with pegboards with “toys” arranged on the walls, as he’d expected.  That’s admirable creativity about working in limited circumstances, but it’s hard for him to think of it kindling much of anything other than respect for a can-do attitude.

If he wanted to answer, he’d probably say that anticipation and desire and dread are packaged together and delivered to the hindbrain by a delicate pulling of triggers, by knowing what makes the other person jump in the dark, and also knowing what makes her reach between her legs.  And then using those triggers, deliberately, so that she knows, so that she feels the manipulation, and so that she feels safe with it enough to be terrified by it.  And aroused and eager for more.


(to be continued)

The Plug

What I’d really like is a harsh disciplinary scene where you have the time (and toys) to redden my bottom say with a strap and or paddle, give me an enema with the double bardex and then cane me while I am retaining it.  In short, I’d like you to put me through the wringer.  Where in the end I am just begging and pleading with you.


She’s sitting at her desk, ostensibly doing work. But as much as she tries to stare at the papers in front of her, her mind is fully occupied elsewhere, focused on the thick rectal plug she inserted into her behind that morning. Feeling it move inside her as she squirms in her seat, hearing the faint sounds of the lubricant popping as the plug shifts back and forth inside.


It’s purple, that plug, he was very specific about the color when he sent her out to buy it. “Get a purple one,” he said, “I know it’s your favorite color and, although I admit you won’t really be looking at it that much, I’m sure it’ll make you happy to know it’s a color you like. And not, say, human-flesh-tone, which used to be the go-to color of all toys back before manufacturers discovered that even sex toys can be pretty.”

Indeed. This is one of the things she likes about him, the attention to small details, no flourish too insignificant to pass up. Not that she particularly appreciates that specificity when it applies to disciplinary matters, although if she were honest with herself she’d probably admit that, even in matters of correction, it’s the fine details that count.


For a moment her mind shifts from the plug uncomfortably filling her to those details he seems to obsess over. He’s always careful to dictate exactly how she’s to prepare herself, for example, the exact course of action in the mornings he’s decided she should wear the plug. He has her leave it out by her bed where she can see it, think about how it’s going to feel; he prohibits her from masturbating the night before she has a session with the plug; he encourages her to squirm and shift on it, actions that always leave her on the brink of orgasm, which of course he denies her.

She thinks about how he disciplines her when they meet, how he makes her watch as he unbuckles his belt and draws it slowly out through the loops of his pants. How he rolls up his sleeves, slowly, sits down in the armless chair and pats her lap for her to go over his knees.

How he lowers her pants and panties, baring her for correction, how he makes her wait like that as he scolds her, leaving her wondering if he’ll proceed directly to the spanking or if he’ll have something else in store for her, the Vaselined thermometer for example, or a large punishment plug for her to hold during the spanking.


He’s instructed her to wear the plug for 2 hours in the morning and then another hour before the end of work, told her to keep it there to help her focus on her behavior, on her need to live up to the standards she sets for herself, and the standards he sets for her as well.

“Wearing the plug at work isn’t a punishment,” he tells her, “it’s a reminder, it’s a tool to focus yourself on being controlled, and on why you need and want that control. You’ll be punished too of course, but there’s release that comes from my control apart from my punishments.”

She agrees with this, although finds it hard to explain to others. It’s a matter of being held responsible for her actions – sometimes because he detests what she’s done, more often because she’s the one who hates what she’s done or not done, and wants to have to account for things.

Her behind tenses on the plug as she thinks about this, it’s a momentary surge of intense discomfort, and oddly enough that discomfort fills her with a distinct sense of relief.


The sensation of the plug filling her brings her mind to a focus on the discipline he likes to administer after or between spankings — a punishment enema.  Here too he’s not lacking in specificity, and he usually makes sure to put her nose-to-the-corner in a quiet room just so that she cab obsess on what he’s doing behind her, what he’s preparing for her behind.


A punishment enema is a draw-out affair, it takes her outside herself even before he turns her around and she sees the big plastic bag and the heaving soapy water inside it.  It’s always extra soapy so that she’ll be in distress before even a third of it goes in; always very soapy so that she’ll be thoroughly cleaned out for his cock afterwards.  Always very soapy, and the bag is always very very full.

Again she tenses on the plug, again her eyes flick to the papers on her desk and then away; as much as she’d like to concentrate, she can’t.  Before it was difficult; now, it’s an impossibility, for her stomach is heaving as if her bowels were being filled with the enema solution, and her rectum is convulsing on the plug.  Which she’s pushing on as hard as she can as she sits firmly down on her chair.


He likes to make her stand in front of him as he explains what’s going to happen, how he’s going to make her have the inflatable nozzle in, how he’ll pump it up inside her so she’ll have to hold it for exactly as long as he says, not at all the time she wants.  Makes her stand there with her behind already bared and red, lecturing and scolding as he explains what he intends, fully aware that she’s dripping with arousal, fully aware that he’s not going to allow that arousal to be satisfied, but also quite aware that the spasms she’s feeling in front add to the mental state she needs to be in for the punishment that’s about to occur.

She sits hard on the plug, there in her office, her mind now completely drawn to the scene she’s imagining, drawn to what someone would see if/when they watch, watching her have to stand there bare-assed as he inflates and deflates the nozzle, as he opens the tube of KY and lubricates the large rubber balloons, as he pats his lap for her to come over.  And as he makes her reach back and spread her own cheeks to expose her tight little hole to the pressure of the nozzle pushing in.


More than once he’s recorded a session in order that she can watch it, so she can “think about what had to happen” as he succinctly puts it.  She thinks about that, how she looks with her red cheeks spread, across his knees as he pushes the nozzle in, blushes at the thought and at the recollection of how that feels, the abject humiliation of being exposed like that, of being completely vulnerable; of being completely under his control even before he inserts the nozzle, before he inflates it.  Before he opens the clamp and lets the soapy water surge into her backside, as she squirms and cries and pleads with him for it to be over.  And in response he merely directs her attention to the emptying bag over her head and the fact that she’s not done until it’s completely empty and her behind is completely full.

Several times he’s punished her after disciplining a friend, and she recalls how that’s even worse, watching him administer first the spanking and then the soapy water as she stands and watches, and how he looks at her as he’s administering the punishment, directs her attention to the red sore cheeks and the soapy water and points out that what she’s going to get is going to be much worse.


Sometimes he treats her like a schoolgirl, or a reformatory inmate, makes her dress up in a skirt and knee-socks, the costume ludicrous but, at the same time, humiliating in the extreme.  On these occasions he spanks her over his lap and then canes her as he gives her the soapy water, with her restrained over a stool, her panties down at her knees and the bag with an added helping of lemon juice to add to the cramping.

On such occasions he invariably sodomizes her as she retains, pulls the nozzle out only to replace it with his cock, while she struggles to keep the fluid inside her as he uses her backside, hard and without hesitation.


And then of course there’s the cane, his favorite method of correction apart from the bag and his cock.  He’s unsparing in it’s application; she doubts that any English headmaster could have been more severe, or any reformatory discipline longer, harder, or more harsh.

He’s a sadist, and quite proud of that fact, although he’s quick to point out “sadist” does not mean mental sadism but rather sexual pleasure (for him) from the infliction of pain (to her).  “Algolagnia” is the better word, a fine distinction that she’s sure he believes, but that she herself finds less important in his easy ability to be unyielding.

She’s always caned bare bottomed, bottom stuck up so that he can apply the stick to the tops of her thighs as well as her spread cheeks.  He’s an expert with it, and he likes to leave marks, parallel tramlines that last for a week, that turn from a bright red to a bruised yellow.  Not something that she can talk about to any but her closest friends, the ones who truly understand her need for discipline, for harshness, for emotional outreach but a hard stop on what she can get away with, and on what the consequences are for trying to evade his control.


And this brings her back to the plug intruding in her behind, and on what it’s purpose is, to remind her of her commitment to him, to stay on the straight and narrow, and on the consequences for deviation from that commitment.

That thought makes her involuntarily squeeze on the plug, which sends a shiver of discomfort through her.  Which, surprisingly, is exactly what she wants, and is comforted by.






The Ritual of Punishment

She reads his instructions to her and, having done so, takes her clothes off and, completely naked, walks from her bedroom to the couch waiting in the living room.  Places a pillow on the arm, imagining him doing it, and bends forward, imagining him standing behind her, watching.

“Am I correctly presented, Daddy,” she says, “my behind up, my virgin bowels available to you, my tight asshole waiting to be penetrated. My Vaselined behind waiting to be sodomized, hard, and fast, and deep.”  The words excite her; it’s the kind of thing he’d have her say, both humiliating and arousing.  “My virgin bowels, waiting for your thick cock in them … after you’ve smacked me hard with the wooden paddle, after I’ve sucked you while you make me kneel, waiting for the ass-fucking, the punishment enema surging in my poor, red, greased heinie.”

She feels the familiar butterflies in her tummy, the familiar wetness between her legs.  Bending forward, she feels humiliated, imagines him watching her as she waits like that.  Imagines other people watching, seeing her presented, her face hidden, her privacy preserved, only her bare raised ass on display.


Wonders how long he’ll make her wait like that before he takes his belt off and straps her. Making her turn to watch as he unbuckles, shaking his head at what a bad girl she’s been, his hand between her legs to confirm his suspicions. Making her watch as he unbuckles his belt, pulls it out through the loops of his pants, folds it, applies it to her bare behind. Hard. Making her kick, and squirm. And cry.

She knows he won’t stop when she bawls, knows he enjoys hearing her act like a little girl over a parental lap for a spanking. Knows he’ll turn her behind bright red before he’s satisfied, that he’ll want see her face wet with tears before he’ll even contemplate putting the belt down.


And when he does, she knows her punishment won’t be over; instead it will be time for the enemas, for the humilation of having him unceremoniously grease the nozzle — Vaseline if she’s lucky, Vicks if she isn’t — and then abruptly spread her cheeks and push it in.

She knows she’s wet thinking about that, about him making her come with him into the bathroom where the enema bag is waiting. She closes her eyes and imagines what it looks like, full, the soapy water waiting to be adminstered, the humilation of having to have it. Of having to hold it. Until he says she can expel.

It will be there waiting for her, and he’ll make her kneel down to receive it. Kneeling, so that he can enjoy the sight of her behind submissively stuck up; kneeling, so that he can get the enema solution higher into her bowels, maximizing its cleansing effect. Maximizing the penetration of the solution.

Maximizing her submission.


She dreads what comes next, the expulsion, hopes he’ll let her do it in privacy.

He’s reassured her that he will, of course; but he’s told her in the same breath that the privacy he gives will only be for the first expulsion. For all the other enemas he’ll be there to watch, be there to look into her eyes as she does it, as she voids herself while he watches.

She prays he’ll allow the bedpan; she’s seen the pictures he’s taken of her on the potty chair, shrinks into nothingness whenever she thinks about them, about him seeing her like that. He’s threatened to show these pictures to others, a promise that terrifies her, although she knows he is careful to preserve her privacy. Terror; but an odd kind of terror that drives her hand to her crotch.

She feels her hand there now as she thinks about the expulsion, as she thinks about the only slightly lessened humilation of the bedpan. Will he let her look away to the wall when he’s placed her on it, or will she have to face him? Will he talk to her while she uses it, or will he keep still, letting her bottom do the talking, as he likes to put it, much to her utter shame.

She rubs between her legs thinking about that shame, wondering how she can be so excited by it. She thinks about the ring on her behind that the bedpan leaves, thinks about how it turns him on to sodomize her and look down to see that mark on her, the mark of his control, the mark of her further submission to him.


Her desire for orgasm grows as she lies there, thinking about him sticking the nozzle up her ass, makes her take the enemas, making her use the bedpan, the potty chair. Having to watch as he takes his pants off, has her hold her hot rear cheeks apart for the first thrust of his cock deep into her tight virgin ass.

Lies there, waiting, wondering how long it will be before she gets the sperm enema shot deep into her resisting bowels, feeling his weight pressing down on her, feeling his cock discharging into the depths of her deflowered behind.


She rouses herself from her reverie, recalling the last part of his instructions to her.

She gets up, goes back to her room and returns with the camera.  Sets it up in the spot where she images he’ll sit; when it’s ready she starts the timer and quickly returns to her position over the couch.

There’s a long wait before she hears the click of shutter firing, and as she waits she thinks about him looking at the pictures, excited at her naked behind stuck up and waiting.  She wonders if he’ll get hard when he sees the pictures, wonders how she should position herself to maximize his excitement, his desire.

She hears the click, waits a moment, then gets up and resets the camera.

Goes back to her room, returns with the rectal plug.  Something she knows he’ll find exciting; something that makes her think of him entering her behind.

She Vaselines the plug, starts the camera, quickly resumes her position, pushes the plug in.

Feels her hand slipping between her legs as she waits for the click. Thinks about him sodomizing her, forcing himself between her cheeks after paddling her, after putting her over his lap for the indignities of the enemas. Thinks about his cock entering her bowels, his weight pressing down on her as he slides in.

The camera clicks again. She hears it and, pulling herself back from orgasm, gets up to reset it for another humilating exciting shot.


She finds the site by accident; and, having found it, finds herself returning to it, over and over again, her fascination and arousal growing stronger with each viewing.

During the day she finds herself thinking about it: about the stories, the descriptions of the punishments. So humiliating. It can’t be real, she thinks, only another example of online fantasy, of vivid imagination without any accompanying basis in fact.

And yet, as she sits at her desk, the images replaying in her head, she feels her body accepting the reality that her mind works to reject. Betrayed by her own reactions, her body responding to the words she’s read on the screen.

“The baring of the behind, the panties yanked down abruptly, the cheeks chastised”; her body responds to the words. “The trembling hands of the miscreant spreading the sore buttocks after, the Vaselined finger probing deep inside the virgin anus, preparing the bowels for the nozzle, the cleansings, and the cock.” Her mind denies; her body reacts.

“The culprit in the corner, the gown open to display the strapped bottom, the hands holding the cheeks apart to display the thick coating of Vaseline shining on the little hole deep between. And then, when the behind has been thoroughly and humiliatingly displayed to the satisfaction of the chastiser and the audience, the agonizingly slow insertion of the thick nozzle into the red posterior, up the Vaselined anus and deep into the tight resisting bowels.

“The long wait, in the corner, the hose hanging down from the red rump and then ascending to the enema bag over the head. The long wait, mortified, waiting to be told it’s time, cheeks blazing, waiting for the loud click, and the sudden spurt of the enema pouring in, filling the bowels.”


The words, echoing round and round in her head, and she feels her desire grow. She wonders if there will be pictures to accompany the words, wishes she could be the girl displayed in them. Wonders if there will be videos, and spends the evening rubbing herself between her legs imagining being filmed with her panties down, her behind being spanked as the camera records the scene.

She lies in bed with the lights out and imagines the unblinking eye of the camera recording her punishment, the trip over his knees and her panties yanked down. She imagines it running as her temperature is taken, her cheeks pried apart and the cold thermometer inserted between them. She lets a finger slip back to her behind and into its tightness as she wonders what she’d look like with the thermometer sticking out of her, a rude flagpole protruding for anyone to see. Anyone who happened to be watching the video …

As she moves her finger she imagines the spanking, her legs kicking as she lies submissively over his lap. She wonders how she’ll feel after, listening to him scold as he lubricates the nozzle, his hand spreading her cheeks as he lectures, holding them wide as he inserts it. How calmly he describes to the running camera the resistance her rectum offers, how easy it is to overcome. How badly she needs to feel the penetration of the thick object between her cheeks, how badly she needs to feel this violation of her behind. Violated, before she gets it washed out.

She wonders if she would really do that, allow the camera. Her face shown? Or just her bottom? It excites her to think of being watched, so she imagines her face hidden but her behind completely exposed, the men watching the tape hard, engorged as they see her like that.

She feels her arousal grow, feels herself wet between her legs. When the site is in front of her, the arousal is instantaneous. Like Pavlov’s dog, at the first sight of the opening screen she feels herself aroused, finds her mind swirling. But even away from her computer she feels that persistent itch, as the images conjured by the power of the words swirl through her.


The desire grows. On a routine trip to the drugstore she finds herself looking at the suppositories, wondering if, as he’s described, he’d really give her one to retain while she is paddled. Sees the rubber gloves and flashes to an image of her body bent over a tall stool, hearing the loud snap of the glove on his hand, and then the jar of Vaseline being opened.

She rushes down the aisle, but the sensations are unavoidable, the feeling of the slippery finger between her cheeks, pausing for a moment, and then driving forward, into her bowels. Her heart is pounding when she reaches her car; in it, she finds herself masturbating before she’s even left the parking lot.


She discovers that he’s written a book, that the site is named for it. She orders it and, when it comes, and she reads it in one sitting. Her throat is dry when she finishes, her hands trembling.

She goes to the medicine cabinet, retrieves the thermometer she’s bought. Lies on her tummy with the lights off, her pajamas down, thinking about his hand on her bottom, spreading her open. The thermometer slides in and she would swear it is his hand doing it.

She masturbates. And, as she does so, she thinks about the contact information she’s seen on the site.

She orgasms as she composes the first letter to him in her mind …

That night, he has mail.

His reply comes before morning.

Thinking …


“I have been thinking about you as well … and what is in store for my bottom.  To go over your knees for a spanking like a bad little girl – the vulnerability of being in that position.  I would not easily see you – only feel and hear you.  Feel your lap under me, your hands steadying me … hear you scolding, while my tummy churns at the thought of the spanking to come.  And then the moment when you pull down my panties …. the shame of knowing the sight I present to you – a vulnerable bare bottom, still soft and white, still innocent.

“I cannot fully imagine the spanking itself … while I have been spanked more than a few times, I am sure those spankings are nothing like your spankings.  Whenever I have mentioned a pink bottom, you have corrected me by saying `red’ –  something that makes my heart skip a beat.  I am both frightened and excited by the thought … how will my bottom feel?  How will that make me feel?  What will daddy witness … the loss of composure of a bad little girl?

“`Enema’ … just the word makes my bottom clench and my tummy flip.  I have never, ever, ever experienced anything like it.  Having my (red) bottom invaded by a nozzle … the anticipation of the dreaded `click.’  The fear of how it will feel physically to have my bowels filled and stretched and cleaned.  The embarrassment of the sight  will present to you … an uncomfortable girl who desperately needs to go potty, a bare red bottom with the telltale tube extending from between my cheeks.  Most of all, the knowledge that you are in control of it … that daddy is control of what happens in my bottom.

“And, ohh daddy … a punishment ass fucking.  Sodomy.  Feeling and hearing you approach me.  Feeling your hands on my spanked bottom, your fingers parting my cheeks to expose my shy little bottomhole.  Knowing you are seeing a part of me that is so private and secret, and that you are going to gently but thoroughly violate that private place.  Feeling the head of your cock against my sensitive opening … the initial pushing, resistance, and then, ohhhhh … the yielding of my bottom.  Your cock pushing in, opening, spreading … my bottomhole stretched around the shaft as you push deeper and deeper.  The knowledge that your eyes see all of this, your ears hear every gasp or moan … and your cock feels every twitch my violated bottom makes.  To feel you spread my cheeks to push into the very depths of my bowels.  To know I am impaled on your cock.  daddy is inside my bottom.  I have been a bad little girl and daddy has to sodomize me.  He punishes my bottom because he cares … he will use my bottom long and hard … and he will see, hear and feel all of my reactions.

“No secrets from daddy …”

Disciplinary Sodomy

She stands in the drugstore, in the middle of the aisle she fears most, stands there, feeling that familiar sensation of fullness and growing need in her bottom. To her left and right the usual patent medicines, cold remedies, aspirins; the profusion of brightly colored bottles and jars that would be familiar to any shopper.  She stares at them, trying to keep her eyes away from the display directly in front of her, fixing her mind on the aspirin bottles she sees in order to keep her attention away from the tightness she feels in her rectum, and the pressure she feels more and more with each minute, further and further up her behind, deeper and deeper in her bowels.


“When you get home, I’m going to sodomize you.” She stands there in the drugstore, hearing his words, recalling what he’s told her, and how he made her dress and come into the room that morning and stand in the corner for the “preparatory” lecture.  Made her stand there in the corner with her skirt pinned up and his hand down inside the sheer seat of her panties, moving constantly as he explained what was going to happen that night.

“I’m going to sodomize you.  A long, deep, hard ass-fucking.  My cock, far up your rear end.”  His words, so soft and calm in her ear, but she heard the certainty behind them, and felt butterflies in her tummy as he spoke, as he let one finger of his hand probe down the deep crevice between her cheeks to tickle her, to make her wonder how far down it would go before it stopped.

“I’m going to sodomize you. You’ll feel me pulling down your panties, and spreading your cheeks and entering your behind.”  She felt his finger probing deeper, sliding down and down until its tip came to rest on the tight little dimple between her cheeks.  “They’re going to come down, your panties, and then I’ll spread your cheeks and slide my cock in.  Slowly.  Gently.

“But not so slowly or gently that you won’t remember you’re getting it for being a bad girl.  That it’s not for fun, its for punishment,” he added, letting the words envelop her, fix her attention, so much so that it took her a second or two to realize that he had removed his finger from her bottomhole, and was pulling her panties down in back to bare her bottom, to expose her quivering white cheeks to the cold air that blew across them, to the heat of his eyes, which she knew were fixed on them.

“A punishment ass fucking.  Disciplinary sodomy, which you’ll feel for a few days after, despite my gentleness, despite the care I’ll show when I fuck your tight little heinie.  She had to stand quite still and listen as he “explained” her fate to her, had to stand still as he moved his finger back down, entered her, moved it in and out of her now bared bottom, punctuating each major point with a forceful insertion.  She recalls having to bend and separate her cheeks for even deeper penetration when he thought her focus had slipped, recalls the humiliation of his vaselined finger deep in her bottom, of the greasy feel of the lubricant and how her bottom felt as it gripped his finger, almost of its own accord.


She stands there, in the grocery store, recalling him saying the words to her, stands in the store, feeling the plug in her behind, remembering his finger there as he spoke to her, moving his finger in and out of her tensing bottom as he delivered the lecture.

She tries to focus on the other medicines, but her eyes stray, and now they’re looking at the rack in front of her. At the disposable enemas.  And at the bedpans on the lower shelf.

Her tummy flips as she recalls what else he told her that morning, what he instructed her to buy, what he told her the punishment would be if she came home empty handed.  She stands there, recalling what he said, describing her return to the drugstore in his company, the short skirt, the tight stockings, the thin panties, the plug and the suppository in her bottom.

She recalls what he said about the strap, and how he’d set her bottom on fire with it before he took her back; how he’d give it to her there in the living room with the window open, and then take her back to the store, make her go to the aisle and wait, feeling the plug and suppository working, feel the fire in her cheeks. Make her wait until he returned and told her to bend over and reach down to get the bedpan, knowing as she did so he’d see her skirt rise in back like the curtain rising at the theater, rising up to show her red martyred bottom through the translucent fabric of her panties, rising up to show the base of the plug, rising up to show her cheeks tensing and gripping it as the suppository melted and her bowels tightened and filled.


She stands there in the drugstore waiting, feeling the plug filling her bottom and the suppository working.  Waiting … waiting to hear his footsteps coming back down the aisle.  Waiting for the punishment – suspended for a brief moment – to resume.

From “Birch In The Boudoir”

This time it is Noreen, on hands and knees, who plies the cloth and bucket. No one denies that this nineteen-year-old strumpet is a suitable object of disciplinary zeal. See her straight, strong back and bold, young breasts in the clinging singlet. Observe the impudence in her strong, pale features and brown eyes, in the flick of her dark fringe as the straight hair brushes her collar. Observe the pale-blue jeans cloth, drum skin-tight, over firm, muscled thighs and the sturdy statuesque cheeks of Noreen’s bottom!

Dr. Jacobus observes her too. He watches her at her task. Noreen shakes her level fringe clear and stares back at him with contempt. She squirms in the grip of the two valets as they place her on her belly over another fixed stool on the tiled floor, securing her so that Noreen too is conveniently and tightly strapped on all fours over the apparatus.

Now Jacobus is no imperialist tyrant. He believes in the virtues of discipline and purity. Noreen shakes back her dark hair and cranes ’round at him. Jacobus squats, admiring how the tight jeans seat moulds the firm, big cheeks of Noreen’s arse. He undoes her belt and lowers the jeans. Now he can tighten extra straps ’round her thighs. His long, learned nose approaches the dividing cleft of the pale, sturdy mounds of Noreen’s buttocks.

“Ever had a punishment enema before, Noreen?” the sage inquires. “No? You’ll get one every day from now on until your manners improve. Two quarts. Three, if your insolence persists.”

He takes a penis-shaped nozzle, soaps it, and threads it deep into Noreen’s behind. A tube runs up from it to the stand above, the stand as yet empty. Noreen’s impudence falters, for her ordeal has the dread of the unknown.

Dr. Jacobus leaves her for a moment, during which Noreen squirms her head desperately to see the apparatus of punishment. He returns with a large, two-quart glass jar, made for this purpose. Grinning at her, he makes Noreen look as he adds the contents of the liquid soap bottle at the hand basin.

“One quart, Noreen, to begin with. Then the birch for ten minutes. Then the second quart. Then the birch again. The nozzle to remain in place for quite half an hour.”

At nineteen years old, Noreen is a quite tall and strongly made girl. Yet the straps are stout enough to render this vain. Jacobus places the jar on the stand, attaching the rubber tube with a clamp upon it. He pauses, having leisure to kneel and fondle his culprit. Under the pretext of adjustment, he buggers Noreen with the nozzle while his other hand tickles her love-pouch.

“Now you shall be punished, Noreen,” he says at last, “with a bellyache to drive the insolence from you!”

He releases the clamp and the noxious flood surges down the tube and up Noreen’s bottom, into her tripes. She cries out in dismay, and laments her aching guts. Jacobus grins with moral gratification. Seizing the triple-switched prison birch, he thrashes the back of her knees and up the rear of her strong, young thighs. Despite the tube running out from between them, he can birch the pale sturdy cheeks of Noreen’s bottom with great vigour. He raises a weal with every swish, continuing until the two mounds of Noreen’s arse are birched raw. Then the clamp is removed a second time and Noreen screams even before the effect of the surging flood makes itself felt. Groaning under the labour pains of her double arse-load, she endures a second prison birching.

Noreen, a strapping young wench of nineteen, is strong enough to eject the nozzle by arse contractions before the time is up. With what results! Maddened by the birching, she emits a fountain gush from her rear, soaking her seat, her legs, and the floor around her. As she lies forward on her belly over the stool, thrashed and exhausted, the fruit of Jacobus’ zeal peeps rudely out from Noreen’s behind! In his triumph, he thrashes dementedly with the birch until the proofs of his victory lie in a lewd curve down Noreen’s bottom-cheeks. How the moralist clutches himself at this! The thick and juicy salvos of his passion add a further adornment to the state of Noreen’s backside.

One of my favorite sections from the 1905 classic “The Birch in the Boudoir,” available at

Enforced Masturbation

She’s bent over the side of her bed, her panties pulled down to just below her buttocks, one hand deep between her legs, the other moving the rectal plug in and out of her behind. In and out the plug moves, and as it does, she images its his cock moving there, his cock using her in her bowels.  Sodomizing her.  Unrelentingly.   It’s only her hand moving it, but she does her best to push in and pull out hard, as if it were the weight of his whole body thrusting himself in to penetrate her, withdrawing himself in preparation for a renewed assault on her bowels, into the tight portal of her rectum.

In and out the plug moves, not by her choice, although it’s her hand moving it.  Instead, she’s doing it because he’s instructed her to; instructed her to assume the humiliating position she’s in, head down, bared behind upthrust to his view, moving the purple plug into and out of her bowels as she bends.  Rubbing herself between her legs as she fucks her ass with the plug.  Rubbing herself, feeling her desire grow with each motion of her fingers, with each hard thrust of the plug into the tightness of her Vaselined behind.


“It’s what we have to do before discipline.” he tells her.  “Masturbate you.  What we have to do to get all those distracting urges out of your mind, so that we can focus ourselves on what’s coming, on the paddle, the bagenema, your session on the potty chair while you suck, and Daddy’s cock deep and hard in your tight misbehaving backside afterwards.” She prefers to focus on those last words, finding comfort in the prospect of the upcoming sodomy.  Knowing that, although humiliating to have to take him in her Vaselined bowels, his presence there will be reassuring, a physical contact she needs, a sign to her that she’s loved and desired.  The sodomy will be long – at least half an hour, he’s told her – but, despite the discomfort of the violation, the use of her behind will be her way of giving him pleasure, of thanking him for correcting her.  Her way of atoning.


She moves her hand between her legs as she feels the plug in her backside, aware that she’s being watched as she masturbates.  Sometimes he sits behind her, watching her like that; usually, though, it’s the unblinking eye of the camera recording her.  In either case, she knows he enjoys her exposure, and so she does her best to keep her legs apart and her behind high.  Does her best to move the plug forcefully, does her best to keep her cheeks spread so that he can see the purple plug spearing in between them.  So that he can see the plug penetrating her ass, and think about his cock there.

He tells her that he enjoys watching her move her behind on the plug.  That as he does he grips himself and thinks about it being her.  Imagines the tightness of her ass on him, imagines himself slowly pushing in, scolding her while he does so.  Imagines himself entering her bottom, thrusting himself into the depths of her bowels, looking down and seeing her red cheeks spread and his cock between them, thrusting in and out of her. The thought of his excitement makes her wetter, makes her pussy throb as she rubs.  The thought of being the object of his desire arouses her, distracts her from the punishment to come.  She rubs herself harder, lost in her arousal.  Chastisement is a distant memory now; at the moment only her approach to release is real.


She knows he shows the pictures he takes of her to other people, that it’s part of the humiliation of correction.  Never her face; instead, it’s her bared bottom with the purple pl ug in it.  Or the nozzle.  Or his cock.

He encourages her to think about this exposure, knows that it will heighten her arousal, hasten her release.  Often he’ll have her masturbate bent over a stool in his office, panties down, facing away from him but towards the video monitor replaying her last chastisement, her last punishment session.  As she watches she thinks about him seeing her like that, feels herself getting wet at the thought.  She thinks about him showing the tapes to others, selling them perhaps, and finds herself wetter still. Sometimes he puts her over the stool, her panties carefully arranged at her knees, and has her look at a computer monitor he’s set up to display the comments of the watchers.  Comments on the tapes of her they’ve seen, suggestions of what he should do again, what other things he might do the next time he takes her panties down.

On a few occasions he’s positioned her like that and had her watch tapes of other women masturbating to the videos he’s made of her, other women coming to orgasm watching her being punished.  He’s not content merely to have her watch though; instead, as the tape plays itself out and the woman on the screen rubs and writhes, he slides a nozzle into her behind and makes her take an enema, making her hold it until the woman in the video orgasms.   The enema is always very soapy, the cramps starting early, but she knows she’s required to hold it until the other woman comes; knows that, should she leak, he’ll calmly move the potty chair into position and, as she expels in front of him, refill the bag and rewind the tape.

And so she lies there like a good girl, watching the woman on the tape and feeling her bowels fill, feeling the cramps begin.  At first he goes back to his desk and leaves her to lie there like that, her panties down, the nozzle penetrating deep into her behind, the hose rising to the emptying bag over her head.  Eventually, however, he comes to her and slides his hand between her legs to rub her while she watches the screen.  Rubbing her, timing her orgasm to coincide with the orgasm of the woman on the screen.


She’s ashamed to admit that the whole process arouses her, leaves her soaking.  She bends over the side of her bed, her fingers deep between her legs, the plug deep between her cheeks, her pussy soaked as the thoughts swirl through her mind.  She knows he makes her masturbate to “clear her mind” for correction, knows that, when she orgasms he’ll punish her.  But she can’t help herself, can’t stop rubbing, can’t stop moving the plug.  And so she lies there, her behind impaled by the plug, her fingers buried deep in her sex, rubbing, approaching orgasm.


The punishment that follows release is only a few moments away.