The Miscreant Prepares Herself For First Punishment

You’ve never been disciplined before — unless you want to call a lackluster smacking by a boyfriend followed rapidly by a “there, I’ve punished you … let’s fuck” to be correction. And now you’re faced with the prospect of real punishment, from someone who really does know what he’s doing and who won’t stop just because you think he should.

In a short time you’re going to find yourself experiencing all the things you’ve thought about for so long, experiencing the things you dread and desire, that you try to push out of your mind but find yourself thinking about at great length as you masturbate. In a short time you’re going to find yourself having to go over my lap, having to lie there to wait until I raise your skirt, lower your panties, and proceed to do to your behind what you’ve only fantasized about, the things that start with the shaking down and Vaselining of the rectal thermometer … but that only start there, and end somewhere else entirely

Your excitement is unquenchable; so too is your terror. For fantasy is one thing but reality quite another. To help you bridge that divide, I’m setting you a number of tasks to focus on as the time ticks by to your going across my lap. Tasks that tie up your mind in a series of mundane acts, so that your mind falls away and the mindfulness of what you’re going to receive ensues.

In this post I’m revealing the first of these tasks to you.

1. You’re going to go shopping for the clothes you’ll wear for your first punishment, an otherwise mundane task but one you’ll be experiencing in a completely different way this time, because of the new meaning that lies behind your routine actions.

We have to think carefully about how you’ll be dressed for the first time. Should I make you come to me as a schoolgirl about to be chastised by her teacher, too-short skirt ready to be pinned up in back, puerile white panties tight to reveal the curves of your buttocks, white blouse to testify to your inexperience at such humiliating matters? Or would it be better to skip the preliminaries and have you in a hospital gown, open-backed for the reasons you already know but that I’ll have you repeat to me even so. “Why is the gown open in back,” I’ll ask, and after you’ve told me you don’t know, can’t figure it out, I’ll repeat the question, with equally calm a voice but with much greater severity behind the words.

“Why is the gown open in back, sweetheart?”
“Because … because that’s the part you want exposed.”
“And what part is that, please tell me exactly what part of you I’m dealing with.”
“With my ass …”
“Yes, with your bottom, sweetie. With your bottom, and it has to be bare to my eyes, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, it has to be my bare bottom. Always my bared bottom.”
“And you have to wear the gown to show me your bare bottom?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“And your bottom has to be bare the entire time so that it’s easily available to me?”
“In more words, sweetie.”
“Yes … yes, Sir, it does. Yes, my bottom has to be bare and available to you Sir.”
“For whatever I want to do with it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes Sir, for whatever you want to do with it.”
“And whenever I want to do it?”
“Yes Sir, whatever you want to do to my bottom, and whenever you feel you need to do it.”
“You’re a very good girl, sweetie. And now it’s time to put your gown on and come out to me so that I can put you across my lap …”


At some later point I’ll have you buy a gown; for this first lesson I want you to go shopping for the lingerie you’ll wear beneath your school skirt, the panties, stockings and garters you’ll wear to frame your behind as I prepare it for correction.

Think carefully about that image as you pick through the choices — you’ll be revealing yourself to me for the first time, and it’s important that I see you’ve been a good girl and thought hard about how best to please me. Everything you’ve chosen tells me a great deal about you, reveals a great deal to me about your mind, and what you’ve been thinking, so there’s no selection you make that doesn’t have consequences associated with it.


Let’s start with the stockings and garter belt. I’ll be absent-mindedly adjusting them as you lie over my lap listening to me lecture you, so they should be pretty for me to look at, sensuous for me to touch. Will they be black, to show me what a naughty girl you are, or should they be white, to demonstrate to me that it’s your first time and you’re filled with the purity that comes of inexperience?

Your underpants — the plain white cotton of a schoolgirl, modest cut to reveal little of your bum? Or high-cut lacy panties that are sheer in back to show me the target area even before I lower them to reveal your about-to-be-chastised cheeks?

You’ll want to shop carefully, these thoughts running through your mind as you browse. Although you’ll hold each garment in your hands, in your mind you’ll imagine me feeling them, or rather feeling you through them, cupping your buttocks through the fabric of your panties, gently smacking your upper thighs through the film of the stockings.

With each wisp of fabric you’ll find a mental image, and a sound to go with it. I cup your ass through your panties — you feel me doing that — and then, as you stand there in the store holding the garment up, you hear the loud SMACK that soon follows. A single impact of my hand against silk-covered flesh, and then, after a pause as the underpants are pulled down, another louder smack of hand against bared female skin.

You examine the stockings and think about me seeing you kneeling on the bed, head down, behind up, the nozzle inserted into your behind, the stockings forming part of the frame of fabric that accentuates your about-to-be-filled backside. Perhaps I’m running my hand up and down them, feeling the smoothness of the silk and the warmth of your legs underneath, letting my hand stroke your legs to soothe you as I reach my other hand up to grasp the clamp on the hose and open it with the CLICK that you’ve been dreading to hear.

You pick up the garter belt and realize that it’s going to define the top of your behind, the portion where the redness I’ve caused to your buttocks ends and the whiteness of your back begins. Or perhaps you’d rather think of it as a band of fabric around your waist that I can look down at and enjoy as my cock begins to push into the tight Vaselined intimacy between your sore cheeks?

The chemise that completes the ensemble — you are buying one, aren’t you m’dear — how will it look on you when you stand in the corner, your underpants down to your knees, one of the lights in the room shining on your red bum? Will it come down to just above your ass? Or will it go lower, so that I have to make you hold it up in back to expose your cheeks to my gaze …


These are the the first thoughts I want running through your mind as you prepare yourself for our meeting. The first thoughts … but only the first.

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Expulsion Without Privacy: Enema Punishment, Maximized

A large number of readers have asked what the most severe form of enema punishment is: large nozzle? high volume? cramping? long retention? While all of these certainly do produce intense physical sensations, truth to tell punishment is greatest when control is the least. And there is one setting above all others that maximizes the loss of control — having to expel the enema in front of me, with no privacy, with maximum exposure.

Or, as these stills show, expulsion into a bedpan, facing the corner, misbehaving bottom fully on display. And videotaped, in order that we can watch the correction later. Or she can watch, since as she’s viewing what she did, I’ll be refilling the bag for another dosing of soapy correction.


In these first two images, you see the culprit in position over the bedpan, her eyes on the wall, not sure if I’m watching her trying to keep control of her bowels or not. It’s amazing how much the absence of sensation can *increase* sensation; think of John Cage’s 4’33″ as a perfect example, a musical composition of four and a half minutes of no notes played, the “music” all the more provocatively provided by the sounds of the musician trying to be quiet and the audience reacting to the lack of stillness that occurs even so.

In this case of course, the absence of sensation for the culprit is the isolation of facing the corner and the uncertainty of my presence or absence. And the music of the culprit’s unusual performance? Well, obviously her bottom plays a rude little tune as she voids, as she releases into the stillness of the room in which I may or may not be watching her.


Now we need to be clear on one thing: I’m emphatically *not* a coprophile, a lover of sh*t. Not in the least. What I do emphatically love — and indeed *demand* — is the control I obtain by giving an enema and by watching the recipient expel it in front of me. And I love the loss of control that recipient experiences by having to do both of those things at my hand or, if by phone, under my direction.

But again, it’s not what comes out, it’s the process of releasing it, the giving in to the urges of the body and my steadfast refusal to let those urges be satisfied in private. It’s *regressive*, pure and simple — a very real, very immediate return to early childhood, when bowel control was not guaranteed, when an adult’s presence was common, or even required.

And let’s also be clear that there’s a prior purge or prior purgings to ensure that the process is, while loud and rude, otherwise merely humiliating and not positively and overwhelmingly degrading. For I’m *not* a fan of degradation, whether by verbalization of words like “slut,” “c*nt,” “bi*ch,” or by physical means that go beyond the release that humiliation — of a very confined and specific kind — causes.


We now move on to consider more carefully the usually private activity of the girl’s behind as she holds her position over the bedpan. Again, the camera is running by itself, so she doesn’t know whether or not I’m even in the room — but regardless, I’ve given her explicit instructions to be good and keep still, so that her bottom is well-presented to me or, in the event that I’m absent or otherwise occupied, to the unblinking eye of the videocamera.

The close-ups you see are artfully manipulated to show the presented bottom in excruciating detail while minimizing the view of what the presented bottom is doing. I’ve done this for several reasons, one being decorum, the other the simple fact of knowing that what ends up viewed by others will be less than *could* be presented. And the fact that I could make it worse if I choose acts as a powerful goad to better behavior, and an enormously power stimulant to the imagination of what else I could do, even beyond what I’ve threatened. Could do. Would do. Or, as I choose, *will* do.


What you now see is a series of stills showing the changing positions that inevitably occur as the enema works its way down and out. How high its gone in the first place is dependent on positioning: shallower penetration if she was over my lap or face-down on the bed; deeper penetration if I had her kneel with her head down and her behind raised high in the air; and, in the event that I made her kneel on the seat of a chair and put her head down to the floor, a very deep penetration indeed.

Looking at these stills I wonder at the reader’s reaction: interest? revulsion? shame? arousal? As I say, the process is revealing, not revolting, humiliating without being degrading. The physicality combines with the mental to create enormous intensity — but my voice is always calm, my tone always soothing, my point of view always that this is *necessary* and not elective, and that therefore the culprit kneeling in front of me has no say over the process that I control. No job but to be good and obey me, no matter what the command, no matter her incredible embarrassment at having to *be* good, and do exactly what I tell her to do.

I’ve presented six stills here as an encapsulation of a good long passage of time. Perhaps ten minutes in real time — in her subjective time, crouched with behind outhrust, certainly an infinity. But as you see, although she moved a considerable amount, often thrusting her rump out to her certain shame (and my avowed arousal), she was a good girl and did as she was told. Until she was completely cleaned out of the soapy water I’d administered.


It seems appropriate to end with the empty room, the culprit of this little session having been allowed to the bathroom to shower and freshen herself up. I need not dwell on the bedpan; suffice it to say she took it with her, and, after emptying and cleaning it, put it back where I had first laid it, in the event that more such treatment should be required.

It also seems appropriate to note that the stills I’ve shown here are actually from a commercially available movie; I videotape sessions, but I’ve chosen not to reproduce this particular aspect of them — yet, in any case. And Stonefox ( does such lovely work, it seemed worthwhile to reproduce some artful manipulations of their creative output (with permission) here (I believe this is from “Deborah’s enema”).

But rest assured, the reality that I videotaped — and have chosen not to show — correlates quite well with the stills I’ve reproduced here. Like a rear-view mirror, the reality actually exceeded the view I’ve given you; if I showed you the original videotape, you’d see what I mean.

M.R. Strict

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The First Night of Punishment (A Story in Parts)

As always, we start with a view from the pavement looking up to the hotel window, the view into the room through the opened shades, the lamp in the room dim, but, even so, the girl’s face towards the windowglass clearly visible.

A second look, and it’s clear the girl isn’t standing; instead she’s over the knee of a man who is also clearly seen, he’s sitting on a chair — armless, unusual for a hotel, did he bring it? — and although the light isn’t bright enough to reveal all the details in technicolor clarity, we can tell he’s fully dressed and she isn’t, she’s over his lap with her pants pulled down. And presumably her panties too, although the only evidence of this is a quick flashing of bare thighs in the dim light as she squirms back and forth over his knees.


As fixated as we are on the scene unfolding above, we stop for a moment to look around to see if we’re the only one watching; the parking lot we’re in is large enough, but there are no other cars nearby and, as far as we can tell, the scene above is unobserved. As are we.

Even so we move out of the bright spotlight of the lamppost we’re under to a darker spot, a spot where, we note, we’re still likely visible to the girl up above if she looks down. Which she hasn’t done, yet, since she seems rather preoccupied with what’s happening to her. Or at least with what’s happening to her lower half. Her bared lower half. Her bared bottom, to be exact about it.


We aren’t an intentional observer of course — we were getting out of the car to go into the hotel when the lamplight from above caught our eyes, and, having gotten a first look …. well, it’s like looking at the accident you pass on the highway, you don’t want to see, you know it’s not your business, that the rubbernecking at the scene of someone else’s misfortune isn’t something to be proud of.

Still. This isn’t a highway accident, and although it’s clearly the girl’s misfortune, it’s the kind of misfortune that excites, rather than repulses. The view is indistinct, but it’s clear she’s an adult, not a child, the teary-eyed face is that of a young woman, and the curves of her buttocks, obscured by the angle of observation though they are, are shapely and round, upthrust, not in any way juvenile.

She’s obviously adult, she’s clearly suffering and we shouldn’t be watching. But we are.

And you, dear reader, are too. And none of us are going to change that.

I don’t think we want to. And you do agree.


From the spot of shadow we occupy we watch the actions of the pair in the hotel room above. The girl is still shifting, the man’s hands aren’t visible but it’s likely he’s steadying her from slipping off his lap onto the floor. Or is he holding here there? That’s more likely the case since her motions have grown just in the last minute or so, and she can’t be in a stable position, bent over like that, head to the window, backside raised, feet on the carpeting.

Perhaps she’s better secured by way of her lowered pants, they’re as indistinct as the man she’s bending over, they’re probably pulled down to her ankles though, perhaps her knees? Can she stand if she wanted to, assuming he’d want her to of course? Assuming he’d let her.

But he would let her if she wanted to, wouldn’t he?

Wouldn’t he?

We know the answer, don’t we. No. That’s the answer, and we know it. Quite well.


How did they get there? Not in the meaningless way of meeting at a chosen location, of renting a room. No, how did they get there in the sense of how did they meet, and how did they agree to meet? Did she look for him? Did he look for her? What did each of them say they wanted, and are they getting it now? Is her being bare bottomed over his lap in front of an open window the extent of it, or is there more to come, a scene that will continue to unfold?

Again, we already know the answer.


Perhaps she posted a note somewhere, “Wanted, someone to give me the discipline as an adult I know I shouldn’t need — not in this very juvenile form — but, even so, I do need it.” Was that the total of it?

And even if that’s all she said, why would she say that; why, more to the point, would she want that? It’s clear what’s coming, is this a new thing for her, did she have it as a child and, if so, is that experience rekindled in her as an adult? After all, childhood is a time of strong emotions where feelings are forged and then forgotten, only to reemerge later on. Is that what this is?

Was she given this as a child, corrected the way children often are, punished for … talking back, perhaps, throwing things, cursing? For the child the actions had consequences, and not pleasant ones. But perhaps they were pleasant in some strange way, or at least reassuring. Children need structure, is being put over a parental knee for the administration of discipline on the bared behind a reassuring sort of structure, no matter how horrible when it happens and bittersweet when remembered decades later?

Does that memory drive the desire as an adult? For after all, she’s not there from having fallen across his lap. She’s there because she wants to be. Even though the experience isn’t going to pleasant.

But we doubt she wants it to be pleasant. The only question we really have is: how unpleasant does she want it to be?

We’ve no doubt she’s already told him, we’ve no doubt he’s more than willing to give her what she wants.

And as we watch we’re sure to find out exactly what that is.


A car pulls into the parking lot, followed by several others behind it. A party probably, there’s a large ballroom we know is inside the hotel. We step back further into the darkness, looking up we realize our view to the window’s now blocked by the trees on either side of the hotel. With the view obscured we can still make out motion behind the glass, it’s a rising and falling motion of a hand being raised and then descending, hard and unrelenting.

From our new position the girl’s face is completely obscured, but we can see her jerking her head back and forth, shaking it from side to side and — if we use a bit of imagination — we can almost see her mouth twisting up into an expression of pain, her lips opening so that she can yell out for it to stop.

The cars pull into spots in front of the hotel, their doors open and a number of people get out and begin unloading their belongings. There’s a lot of commotion and it’s clear they’re going to be slow about their business.

The motion above us continues, our view is still frustratingly blocked.

There’s a solution, though.

We can see the room’s on the second floor, the position likely halfway down the length of the building. And so we abandon the darkness and hurry past the parked cars into the hotel’s lobby to the elevator, which is just opening as we approach.

We enter, push the button for the second floor. The doors close and the elevator beings to rise. The heart pounds; the lips are dry; we hope our hearing is acute and that the doors to the rooms are thin.

Thin, so that we can hear the sounds of heavy hand on shapely bare flesh. To hear the sounds of pleading, and then, of crying.

The elevator doors open. We’re alone in the corridor as we begin to walk rapidly down towards the halfway point. Towards the muffled sounds of the sobs and the hand falling on the girl’s bare behind.

The doors are indeed thin. Thin enough. A point that’s emphasized as we come up by the door, pause and kneel to pretend to tie a loose shoelace on our velcro-closing shoes.

“Let me feel your hand,” we hear, followed — after a long pause — by the words “ah, I see it’s wet, is it. I’m glad I had you check. Well as you know, I don’t tolerate arousal during correction, so you’ve earned yourself a strapping, bent over the end of the bed with your behind facing the windows.”

Well, what can we do but hasten away back downstairs?

And as we scuttle off we hear these final words against a background of muffled sobs: “And take off those lovely red high-heels of yours. You can put them back on after I’m done with you, when your bare bottom matches their color …”

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The Bicycle (2)

The chest was surprisingly light; even so, Brittany found it impossible to move quietly. Whether or not the resulting sounds carried to the other room she didn’t know; still, even the thought of being heard — unlikely as it was over the screams and the noise of the machine as it operated — filled her with dread.

Once the chest was moved, the peephole was exactly where she’d been told to expect it. Crouching down, well aware of her pinned skirt and the sight she presented of her full behind in her too-small panties, Brittany squeezed herself as close to the wall as she could and peered through the hole in the plaster to the scene on the other side.

Much to her surprise, there were two girls in the room; a situation not unheard of, but still one that she found distressing, for it suggested the punishments the Head was administering that day would have witnesses, something that every girl in the school particularly detested. The view through the peephole was too narrow for her to see the girl astride the apparatus of correction; however, she was able to see the girl kneeling with her nose in the corner well enough.

Her uniform was the usual black sweater and pleated skirt; the underpants white and, as she could clearly see, positioned far south of their usual location. That too was normal; when you waited for correction you were invariably bared, and the Head apparently preferred the underpants down to the thighs so that the “target area” (as he liked to call the tight fleshy buttocks of the young ladies) was nicely framed.

And then there were the white kneesocks, fine for the more juvenile girls but dreadful for the older ones, whose fashion sense — while still puerile — had nonetheless matured to the point of detesting anything they had worn as mere children.

But there it was — or rather, Brittany corrected herself, there she was, the girl on the other side of the wall, head down, bared-behind up, quivering at the sounds of the machine as it operated behind her, out of Brittany’s view, the girl shaking as she knelt, waiting her turn.

The girl knelt, Brittany watched. Who was it, she wondered, but the girl cradled her head in her arms — sobbing quietly, Brittany was sure — so there were no clues that would provide an identity. It didn’t look to be one of the usual miscreants, who were legendary for their determination not to show fear (although there could be no doubt that at some point they broke; but not, Brittany presumed, at the point of merely waiting to be chastised).

No, it had to be someone new to the process, perhaps as new as Brittany herself, for Brittany could see that the girl’s shaking had become more pronounced, perhaps rising in synchrony with the pitched cries that were now coming from the culprit being forced to ride astride the mechanism.

The kneeling girl shook; the noises from the girl on The Bicycle reached a fever pitch; and then, suddenly, the handle on the door to Brittany’s waiting room began to turn.

Brittany looked up, frozen in her crouch, unable to move as the door swung abruptly open and several faces looked in at her from the dank corridor outside …

(To Be Continued …)

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The Bicycle (3)

The Headmaster stared unhappily at bared behind of the girl standing in the corner. The new girl, the unexpectedly early visitor; well, he’d known the peephole was there, in fact he’d been the one who’d seen to the rumors of its presence. So in some sense he’d only himself to blame for the discovery of the girl in flagrante delicto, and for the consequences of that discovery.

But the Head was used to being in control of the school and everything in it, including particularly the psychological warfare that he waged on the schoolgirls. To purposefully administer discipline in his office knowing the culprit waiting her turn in the other room was likely listening and watching, that was what the Head appreciated. And now, to have that control taken away by the presumably well-meaning but still unexpected and unappreciated intrusion of his own secretary and one of the teachers into the outer sanctum of his office where the girl — Brittany, that was what she was called — waited to be punished? The Head found no pleasure in it.

Nor in the almost instantaneous results of that intrusion. He’d had to put an abrupt end to the ride of the girl he’d been dealing with, and just at the point where her exertions were becoming most mortifying and poignant. And then after disconnecting her from the horse and, after the dismount and a bit of tidying, seeing her out of the office, he’d had to hurry to get the equipment readied for the next girl, and at the same time get Brittany into the corner where, he hoped, her inability to see what she heard would combine with her vivid imagination to push her terror to some sort of pinnacle.

That, at least, was all well and good; not part of his original plan, but still within the broad theme of how he maintained his iron grip on the school and the schoolgirls within it. But rushing broke his concentration and — if he had to be completely honest about it — also spoiled his fun. And the thought that the actions of his secretary and the teacher would force him to arrange for the handyman to plaster over the hole in the wall … that was a dismal thought indeed, so much so that the Head almost wanted to cancel the proceedings altogether and spend the rest of the afternoon by the river for a good sulk.

But he took pride in his little rituals, and was optimist enough to find a silver lining in the blackest of clouds. So there could be no doubt that the discipline session would go on; and as the Head contemplated Brittany’s behind and the thing he’d found cause to insert into the middle of it, he found that the sight had unexpectedly stiffened his resolve. It was amazing what a freshly carved piece of ginger could do, along with a little of that newly invented wonder material, Vaseline.

And soon enough the Head had turned back to the girl astride the horse, bent forward waiting for her ride, or rather for the little ceremony that always took place before the ride began.

It took only a few turns of one of the adjustment wheels to the side of the mechanical beast to cause the girl’s position to change, to cause her buttocks to spread and present themselves widely separated, upthrust and ready for the correction that preceded the prolonged purgative ride. The Head checked that he’d gotten the fresh length of hose ready, and that the thick nozzle on its end was correctly secured and well lubricated.

The reservoir was filling nicely, and the heavy soap content in the water was plain to see. The head picked up the reformatory strap that he always used to prepare the buttocks for the subsequent caning and reflexively swished it through the air in a practice swing.

If he’d been listening he might have heard Brittany draw a deep breath behind him, although the noises she’d continued to make as a result of the fig’s action in her rectum would likely have drowned out her intake of breath.

The Head raised the strap again, this time reorienting himself so that the descent of the heavy length of leather would end on the girl’s buttocks rather than empty air.

A moment’s pause, and the then the downward arcing of the strap towards its target began …

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Discipline Enemas, With More Than One Person To Help Give Them

I debated whether or not to present these images en bloc or one-at-a-time; as you see, I ultimately decided it was better to let them stand together than to present them separately. These are from a videotape of a session I conducted some time ago (some of the hands you see are mine); what you’ll immediately be able to tell (if you can count) is that I had help in the enema-administration.

There are some very interesting effects that can be accomplished in a setting with multiple hands; in this case, the effect was even greater because the person actually giving the enema is a woman friend of mine — here doing her “mommy” best to make sure the recipient is cooperative during her washing out.

There are a variety of ways to ensure cooperation — have no doubt that there was a spanking that preceded what you see here. But we’ve also adopted a more soothing method of keeping the patient still, as you’ll see from all the frames that have one or more warm hands between the legs to counterbalance the nozzle firmly planted between the cheeks. And I think no one could doubt that being rubbed while taking an enema is comforting … if you were to hear the audio from this session you’d hear a lot of nice girlish moans, and not the kind that come just from that increasing pressure in the backside.

I hasten to add that, since this was a discipline enema, masturbation wasn’t allowed to continue to the point of release, making the entire experience somewhat bittersweet for the recipient. Also, as I’m sure all my female readers know, women are much stricter than men — they can’t be swayed by a lovely behind (as we have here) or soaking wet girl parts (as were also present). So those later stills that show the culprit in a more upright position — mommy had to give quite a lecture at that point about staying down like a good girl and taking the whole bag.

Perhaps most interesting to me was the whole sensation of being unusually peripheral to the activities taking place — usually I’m in the thick of things, not just helping out. But watching is actually quite nice, not that I had nothing to offer in the way of opinions, and I certainly remember walking with the enema recipient to the bathroom and making sure she was releasing before I left the room to find the Vaseline for the sodomy that followed.

Well that’s another story, for another occasion.

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To The Basement Room Of The Reformatory, Where Punishment Enemas and Sodomy Are Performed

I often wonder to myself how few words it takes to craft an image of sufficient power to arouse and terrify. While I most often practice this art of conjury by phone as part and parcel of preparing someone for discipline or release (as I choose), I thought it would be worthwhile to see how it comes out as writing instead of talk. What you read below is the result — since this is the kind of short piece that really lends itself to reader participation, I invite comments, or additions, which I’ll have my webmaster pick from to put up.

She’s taken from the classroom by the matrons, they come to get her early in the afternoon just after lunch, just after she and the other girls have taken their seats and the teacher has begun to write on the blackboard at the front of the class.

They come in through the doorway of the classroom and make their way down between the rows of desks to where she’s sitting, the room going suddenly silent the moment they enter, the two of them, the two matrons, black-clad, silent and grim.

She has no idea they’d come for her, no idea what she’s done. Only the certain knowledge as they raise her to her feet and march her out of the class that she’s going to the place she’s heard so much but never visited: the basement room the other girls whisper about after the lights are out in their dormitory. The basement room with the heavy door and the soundproof walls from which not the slightest whisper will escape. Not the sound of the underpants being lowered, not the sound of the cane applied to bared cheeks.

Not the sound of a greased nozzle penetrating past two blistered buttocks into the tight aperture between, or the pleas and cries that accompany a larger entry, as the headmaster bends forward behind his charge and places himself at the entry to her schoolgirl rear.

She’s never experienced any of that, only heard about it with the lights out and the other girls whispering to each other in their beds around her. But now, as she’s escorted out the door past the watchful eyes of her fellow students, the images are in her mind.

There are butterflies in her stomach and her head is light as the door closes behind her, the other girls disappearing as it swings shut, only the long stretch of the usual corridor before her, the stairs at the other end marking the descent into the darkness beneath the school building that she’ll soon be dragged down into.

The basement room of the reformatory waits in the gloom, the door already opened, the punishment stool that stands bare and alone in the middle of its emptiness waiting to receive her.

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Having To Kneel For The Soapy Discipline Enema, The Punishment Administered Without Pause

I admit to having a longstanding enjoyment of a female bottom suitably presented in a frame of stockings and garters (or “suspender belt” as our relations across the pond put it). While a hospital gown has the advantage of emphasizing the accessibility of the bottom without playing up its attractiveness (“your bottom isn’t here to be admired, it’s here to be *used*”), stockings and garters not only emphasize availability, they also help accentuate the *desirability* of making use of that which is so conveniently presented.

As a case in point, consider this first picture of an enema I gave some time ago — or rather, of the culprit that I gave the enema to, suitably presented on her side displaying her spanked bottom to my view as she waited for me to open the clamp on the quite full bag. The nozzle was the hard plastic barium nozzle, the bag full of plain water for this first enema — but note how lovely she looks with her behind thrust out, her underpants artfully arranged (by me) just below her cheeks, thereby further delineating her bared backside and the nozzle thrust deep into it.

A photo is only a momentary glimpse into a continuously unfolding tale, and not long after I’d taken this one, I’d sat down behind the miscreant you see here, put one hand between her legs and, while I flipped the clamp on the hose on and off, began to rub her between her legs, all the while promising that she wouldn’t get to orgasm until she’d taken — and held — the entire contents of the enema bag.

Now I’m sure there are those of you out there who wonder why it might be that I’d masturbate the culprit — surely that’s adding pleasure to what ought be an unpleasant occasion? Well, thing is, having an orgasm while being given spurts of water up the behind isn’t so easy, even for the most orgasmically inclined. And so the *promise* of release (which you’ll note I never made) and the *reality* of that release are, almost inevitably, divergent. Or to put it another way, rubbing alone wouldn’t bring her to climax, and, the more full her bowels, the less inclined to orgasm she’d be. So whatever promise of pleasure I might have made, it was, at the very least, punishment tinged.

In the instant case, enough time has gone by that I don’t recall whether she came or not; if she did, her orgasm didn’t change the fact that I wanted her to have a *good* retention, i.e., at least 10 minutes on her side with her bottom out and the warm water working to purge her bowels. In this case a good retention was all the more important because I intended her to have a soapy enema immediately afterwards, and it’s much easier to retain soapy water if the bowels are already mostly cleaned out.

So, if she did come, she still had to lie there and try to balance what would otherwise have been the warm afterglow of release with the fact that I was still introducing water into her behind, and insisting that, regardless of the pressure, she wouldn’t get to go potty until ten minutes had passed.

Ten … very … slow … minutes. At least for her.


Now we move on to the second enema, in which I’ve positioned her on her hands and knees with her head down and her bum raised well up in the air. A lovely exposed position, I get to see everything between her legs as well as between her cheeks; and its also a position in which the soapy water rushes in much faster than if she’d been on her side.

Looking at this particular photo brings back quite a few memories. Closing my eyes I can smell the odor of KY that filled the air as I applied it to the nozzle — at that time I was partial to KY, now it’s Vaseline or, for naughty girls, Vicks. We all change our favorite wines as we age, why not lubricants as well? I can also recall how warm her cheeks were from the spanking I’d just given her, and how resistant her bottom was to the entry of the lubricated nozzle. And how I made her have it even so, pushing in slowly, but ignoring the little pleading noises she made as I pushed.

Once the nozzle was in, I made her wait, head down bottom up, waiting for me to open the clamp and let the soapy water surge into her. I don’t honestly recall how long I made her kneel, but I do remember enjoying every moment of that wait, my hand on the clamp, her cheeks tensing every time she mistook some background noise to be the opening of the clamp.

I’ve given many enemas in this particular position; in every case I’m told (in pleading tones) how quickly the water runs in, and how deep. Certainly I can vouch for the fact that the bag empties quite rapidly, and I can also attest that the pleading begins almost immediately after the CLICK of the clamp.

It’s really quite unfortunate that there’s no audio to accompany these photos; if there were, you’d be able to hear all that I describe. Oh well, you’ll just have to imagine it. But the imagination is an underrated sexual organ.

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The Schoolgirl’s Cup Of Tea

The young woman sits at the table in the hotel room holding the cup of tea, trying her dutiful best to keep her hand from shaking and any of the precious liquid in the cup from spilling.

For this is not an ordinary young lady, nor an ordinary cup of tea, and there are serious consequences to be had should any of the contents of the cup she holds fall to the expanse of white linen covering the table at which she sits.


The man across the table from her watches her calmly as she sits holding up the cup, hearing the ticking of the clock on the wall behind them as she sits there, working hard not to move, her fingers squeezed unnaturally tight on the white porcelain.

She’s such a pretty thing, he thinks, long hair, fine features, fresh healthy face. Pretty looking and prettily presented, as she’s dressed in the white blouse and checkered skirt of a schoolgirl half her age, her legs attractively encased in kneesocks, with girlish Mary Janes enclosing her feet.

Although he can’t see them now, he’s sure her legs are trembling, and that her feet are moving from side to side as she struggles to keep herself still, struggles against the needs that are building in her body as she sits there, holding the cup aloft for him to see.

As she sits there trying to control herself, trying her best to be a good girl for him.

And he wonders how long her goodness can last, given the circumstances.


When they first talked she’d had no experience, only the years of desire that make the need to learn unceasing and unbearable. No experience whatsoever, and at first she was unsure if she could submit to everything he told her she’d receive, that she’d have to have if he was to tutor her. But with talking came a receptiveness that surprised her, perhaps because she couldn’t imagine becoming so comfortable with real events that she’d never experienced but only heard about from him, as the talked on the phone about them.

And he’d made her listen, only his voice at first, for she found herself mute at what he described; and then, as time passed, he’d had her participate, repeating the words and then phrases that he dictated, “I need to be spanked, I’ve been a naughty girl,” and, “I know you have to sodomize me as further punishment for my misdeeds.” And with each repetition she found herself pulled further into the images he’d painted for her, found it easier and easier to visualize herself going over his lap, feeling her panties being pulled down, feeling him do to her the things he’d only talked to her about over the phone.

And now here they sat, in person across the table from one another, with her holding up the cup of tea to his inspection. Trying her best not to let her hand tremble, trying her hardest not to let any of the tea slop out of the cup. Watching his smiling face and his hard eyes as he scrutinizes the cup, looking to see whether any of the tea has spilled.


He’d promised to start by spanking her, the way a headmaster of the Victorian age would a schoolgirl called from the classroom to his study. He’d told her he’d make her come to the room dressed in a school skirt and white blouse, kneesocks and the appropriate shoes. That he’d treat her as a naughty pupil, and that, after he’d scolded her he’d proceed to a more physical chastisement, with her bare bottomed up across his lap. Feeling the flat of his hand across her juvenile cheeks, and then, after time spent with her nose in the corner, back over his lap for a long session with a school paddle.

He’d promised her those things, and then he’d talked her through the events he’d described, made her repeat what he’d said, made her listen as he detailed how he’d enjoy pinning up her skirt in back, how he’d look forward to pulling down her plain white knickers once she was bent across his knees. Made her listen as he told her how he’d make her wait as he slid a finger slowly down the waistband in back, tickling her down the crack between her cheeks as he made her wait for him to yank her underpants down, made her wait for him to bare her behind to his eyes and, soon enough, to his hand and then the paddle.

And now, as she sits at the linen-covered table in the hotel room, holding up the cup to his gaze, she feels the after-effects of that discipline, feels the red hot fire of her nether cheeks, feels how hard it is for her to sit on her spanked behind. And is grateful for the occasional gust of cold air across her bottom, still bared, skirt still pinned up, air gusting across her backside as she sits holding up the cup, trying to keep her hand steady, trying not to let anything spill.


“You’ll get spanked, but that’s not all you’ll get,” he’s said, “for we have to clean out your schoolgirl bottom properly before we bend you over the sodomy stool to feel the thick masculine gristle fed slowly up your bowels.” And, having introduced her to the principal of a washed-out behind, he’d driven the thought home as, night after night, he’d described to her in excruciating detail how he’d give her the enemas that would prepare her virgin ass for the sodomy he intended to impose on it.

Over and over he’d described the sequence of events, having to stand in the corner and wait, or, if he chose, having to bend over a stool or lie face down on a bed in a similar period of unbearable anticipation. Not being able to see what he was doing, but her imagination working overtime even so to connect the noises he made to the events she was sure must be unfolding. “The sound of water running in the bathroom,” he’d told her, “and you with your nose in the corner wondering if I’m only washing my hands or if it’s the sound of the enema bag being filled to overflowing.” He’d repeated those words to her so many times that she’d gotten to the point of visualizing a filled enema bag every time she’d washed her own hands, a Pavlovian response he’d created in her, and only one of many such reflexes he’d built up inside her over the months he’d talked to her about their meeting.


She’d never had an enema — never had anything in her behind — but, with his words, the thoughts of her backside being cleaned and taken came to obsess her. What does it feel like, she’s wondered, the finger heavily coated with Vaseline, the moment when the nozzle is presented, the moment before it’s pushed in? What does it feel like to have to lie there impaled like that, trying not to squirm if he chooses to move the nozzle before the enema is administered?

How does it feel when he snaps open the clamp and the water begins to flow? Will it be warm water? Will it be cold? Will it be soapy? Will she be able to take it like a good girl, or will she squirm and cry and tense her buttocks on the nozzle to stop the water from going in? And, will that make the slightest bit of difference?

She knows the answer to that last question — no, it won’t matter, not the slightest bit at all. However much she tries to stop the enema going in, she has no choice in the matter, and no ability to resist what he chooses to do with her behind.

For some strange reason, she finds that complete loss of control to be incredibly comforting. Whatever happens, whatever he chooses to do, her job is simply to be a good girl and submit to it.

Her hand is visibly trembling now as she tries to keep the cup still, tries to maintain calm in her trembling body. Tries to fight the urges that are beginning to overwhelm her.


“There will be an obedience test,” he tells her, but he won’t tell her exactly what form that test will take, only that he’ll expect her to do her best to pass it. “It might be a circle in the middle of the room that I’ll expect you to stand in and not leave, whatever I might do,” he says, his voice calm over the phone as she shivers thinking about what he’s describing. “Or it might be my instruction to keep your hands gripping the rungs of the sodomy stool and not let go no matter what happens, no matter if I plunge my Vaselined finger into your bared behind, or if I strap you until you cry, or if I choose to spread your cheeks to insert a large nozzle and then administer a soapy punishment enema.”

“I expect you to be obedient, I expect you to submit. Not the kind of submission that comes of actual restraints; no, the submission that’s more profound, the kind that comes from your desire to please, and to be pleasing. The kind that comes from within rather than being something I impose. I expect you to submit, but I won’t tell you what form the test will take, only that there will be one.”

His voice trails off into silence each time he talks about the obedience test, gently trailing off so she can think about what he’s said. And then, to drive the point home, he makes her masturbate while he describes her loss of control and the intimate humiliation he’ll have her experience.


She sits at the table holding up the cup, her hand now trembling violently, the Irish Breakfast tea in the cup sloshing back and forth, drops beginning to rain over the rim as she holds up the cup to his forgiving eyes.

He looks into the mirror he’s set up behind her, sees her bare behind positioned on the bedpan he’s set on the chair, sees her cheeks spread, sees the marks of the strap across the reddened buttocks, knows that, when he gets her up, there will be a round circle on her bottom to mark the mouth of the bedpan she’s been sitting on.

He looks at her hand shaking, knows that the punishment enema she’s retaining is causing cramps that she can’t fight much longer. He smiles at her, inviting her to choose between spilling the contents of the cup of fine white china and voiding the contents of her bowels as she sits in front of him.

He sits there, inviting her to pass the test by loosening her bowels in front of him. He sits, waiting for her to choose the path he’s set her on, waiting to hear her bottom misbehave, the sacrifice that will allow her hand to steady.

All of her pride and self lost in that delicious release he’s helping her to experience. And the cup of tea mostly complete.

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The Second Meeting

She prepares herself for the second meeting, changing into the pencil-skirt and the demure white blouse, watching herself in the mirror, thinking how subdued she appears, how professional. Only the high-heels are anomalous, the only overt sign of the battle inside, the war raging between her desires and her reluctance to admit to them.

“But he’ll see my shoes and know I want this,” she thinks, turning in the mirror for a third or fourth assessment of her backside. “The shoes will do it, he won’t need to see the stockings and garters and see-through panties underneath,” she thinks, even though she has to admit that it’s been a long time since a man paid that much attention to her shoes.

As she turns before the mirror her watch falls; reaching down to retrieve it, tottering slightly on her absurdly high heels, she catches the sight in the mirror, her ass presented beneath the thin fabric of the skirt, the outline of the plug she’s wearing almost visible.

She straightens with a start, feeling worse for the attractiveness of the view, feeling her shame at preparing herself for this, for what might come if she wants it to, for what she desperately wants to have, even though he’s reassured her that she need not have it. “It’s your choice,” he’s told her, and she feels her shame and desire spike at the words, for she knows that, as much as she might deny it, she’s already made up her mind about what it is that she wants, and “choice” is something that’s long since ceased to exist.


As far as why you’re more nervous, it’s because you could pretend to yourself last time that you were just going to have coffee and nothing more. Now you know that, although we absolutely could just have coffee, you want more. And admitting that want to yourself is very … intrusive, revealing. Scary, perhaps, because it’s you admitting that you want it, not just me taking control and giving it to you.


She’s finishing up her preparations, feeling the plug in her behind, wondering why she’s choosen to put it there, it’s certainly nothing he’s asked her to do.

She feels the plug inside her as she attends to her appearance, feels how empty her bowels are, for she’s spent the last few days taking enemas every evening — something he’s explicitly forbidden her from doing. “I want to you to be clean there,” he’s told her, “but I want the cleaning out to be at my hands, not yours, and I want you to fear the possibility — however remote — that I’ll demand to see the state of your bowels as we progress to that purity.” She knows she’s forbidden to take them, but, even so, every night she’s knelt in the privacy of her bathroom, head down, behind in the air, feeling the water filling her. Feeling relief at the fact that she’ll be immaculate there when they meet, even though she knows she’ll be spanked for disobeying him.


She checks herself in the mirror again, sees herself dressed, imagines herself unclothed — or rather partially unclothed, for she’s had fantasies about what he’s told her about having to wear the hospital gown.

“I’ve decided you might have to wear the gown,” he’s said, “but when you do, it will only be to be sodomized while you retain.” She’s thought about what she’ll look like, having seen the pictures of other women dressed that way, behinds bared, cheeks red, sometimes with a plug in, sometimes with the nozzle inserted. Several times she even took a nightgown and put it on backwards so that she could see what view he’d see when it was her bared backside before him, knelt on one of her chairs to match the pose of one of the girls in his pictures, knelt bending with her ass up and her plug in, imagining having to do that before him.

She’s terrified of actually having that happen, of taking him back there while holding an enema; she’s not even sure when she’ll be ready just for sodomy, as much as she desires that. She knows that the choice will be hers, that he’ll have the gown hanging in the bathroom when they meet, but that it will be up to her to put it on. The thought doesn’t comfort her, she’d rather not be able to choose, she’d rather it all happen at his hands. For choice reveals desires, and having to admit to those desires shames her, even though she knows he’s aware of what she wants, knows what’s inside her head as well as she does, perhaps better.

But the option of choosing … he’s given it to her, and now she carries it like a curse. Each night she’s taken an enema, each night she’s expelled imagining voiding in the hotel room, sitting on the commode feeling the relief of her body emptying, imagining expelling and having to look at the gown hanging there as she does so, having that choice presented to her each time she’s finished taking the water and he’s given her permission to use the toilet while he refills the bag …


She doesn’t even know if they’ll go to his room, and, if they do, if anything will happen there; he’s already told her it’s all up to her. But each night she’s knelt, slipped the nozzle inside and let the water flow while imagining what might happen, whether he’ll make her kneel on the bed again or over the back of the couch, or if it will be different this time — perhaps on a side-table with her head down on the floor so the water can rush higher into her bowels, perhaps with the curtains opened this time so that she might be seen …

She takes the enemas and wonders if they’ll be warm when he gives them, or if they’ll be colder so that she’ll feel the intrusion of the water deep into her. Will they be plain water or soapy — perhaps she should ask to be given punishment enemas to make up for her taking ones without his permission?

She returns to the picture of the girl’s reddened bottom with the plug in it, scrutinizes the view between the legs of the victim, trying to see if there’s arousal. She wonder’s if she’d be aroused; should she be, would he allow her that? Would he want it, or, if it’s to be punishment, should that be forbidden. She’s not even sure what she wants; in her own fantasies her thoughts are always on the exposure of the events, at the shame of having to be undressed, of being penetrated in that secret place “against her will,” of having to be good and cooperate when the enemas are administered, of having to stay in place as she’s told she’s going to be fucked in the ass while she keeps her behind tight and keeps what she’s been given inside …


She uses the commode, and as she does she thinks about having to take him in her behind and hold the water as he uses her ass. She looks over at the tub, thinks about how he’ll position her for the final enema, the one he’ll make her hold during the sodomy — will he bend her over the side, or will he make her kneel on its rim, head down against the cold floor, behind obscenely high and spread to his view? Will he make her stay like that while he fills the bag and hangs it from the curtain rod high above her, will he scold her and make her wait with her cheeks spread and her rectum Vaselined while he attaches the large nozzle, brandishing it behind her before he puts it in?

Will he make her bend over the tub and wait for him, behind striped from the strap, having to wait like that as he walks around in the other room, occasionally passing by the open door to look in and see her, ass-upwards, waiting for him? Will he enjoy that sight of her bare-bottomed, legs spread, ass greased? Perhaps he’ll make her wait like that after he’s given her the enema, make her wait, bending, clenching her behind to keep the soapy solution in her bowels until he’s ready to come in and fuck her ass. Perhaps …


She’s finished with her preparations in front of the mirror, it’s time to go to meet him. Perhaps for coffee, perhaps for more; the choice will be hers. There’s so much she’s wanted to ask him, but she hasn’t because she know he won’t answer, because he’s told her quite explicitly that this time it’s going to be her choice, and that there’s nothing that they need to discuss.

As she closes her car door behind her and turns the key in the lock, she feels the plug pressing into her behind, feels her arousal and her dread. Well it’s only coffee, and nothing need happen; the choice is hers.

As she drives off, she realizes how much she hates those four words.

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The Punishment Enema

I’m frequently asked what the difference is between a “regular” enema and one administered for punishment since, however threatening a regular enema might be, the prospect of a punishment enema is much more so, even to the uninitiated.

The short answer is that a “punishment” enema is one that I administer as the concrete physical manifestation of my disapproval, to correct the culprit for her misdeed – or misdeeds, since it’s usually an accumulation of bad behavior that earns a punishment enema. And, because the enema is for a real sin, not something make-believe, the effect on the recipient is severe regardless of the discomfort caused by the enema, the length of retention, the possibility of privacy for expulsion … or indeed the real question of whether there will be merely one such punishment enema administered or more than one, in order that a “thorough” cleaning out be obtained.

It’s true of course that a punishment enema is in general of larger volume than a “regular” enema; it’s also true that a punishment enema is invariably soapy. But a soapy punishment is appropriate not simply because it’s likely to cause discomfort (cramping) but, more to the point, because it *must* contain soap in order that the recipient be thoroughly cleaned out of her crimes, both literally and – equally as important – psychologically.

As am example consider a current member of the “discipline project” who, as of the time of my writing this is due to receive a series of punishment enemas for the continued commission of a number of behaviors that we’ve previously discussed, and that I’ve already warned her (repeatedly) must stop or there will be real consequences. In this case, these consequences will take the form of a strapping to tears followed by a *thorough* cleaning out while I discuss her behavior with her. In other words, she’ll be receiving a series of punishment enemas as the central part of a corrective session that will also include spankings and, undoubtedly, disciplinary sodomy at its ending.

I don’t as yet have a clear outline in my mind of the exact sequence of the events, and in fact I don’t script discipline sessions, as I’ve found over the several decades that I’ve been doing this (actually I guess it’s closer to three decades than it is to two) that it’s far better to let the circumstances control. But, for illustrative purposes, let me paint at least a plausible scenario of what may transpire over the coming weekend when we meet. Again, please remember that the the specific actions are not critical – what *is* of central importance is the catharsis, the achievement of spiritual cleansing. The punishment enemas cause cleaning out, but are only a convenient (and rather effective) vehicle to the cleaning out that I’m really after, which is psychological.


The session is likely to start with a discussion of the misdeeds, in order to put the culprit into the correct mental space as rapidly as possible. I don’t yell – in fact the members of the Project are always surprised to discover that I actually *never* yell. Why should I, though, even if I were so inclined; my being in complete control is at the same time more terrifying and more reassuring. Which again serves to build that delicate balance of dread and release that must occur in order for the correction to be effective.

So, a discussion of behavior, calm, low voice, no harsh or demeaning words. The goal is to achieve release, and calling someone a bi***, a c***, etc., will not achieve that even if such words were otherwise acceptable – which they emphatically aren’t.

And then the disrobing, and the donning of the gown. Yes, it’s unflattering, but that’s the whole point, the reduction of the culprit to a behind to be dealt with. And a vulnerable behind at that, as the part to be disciplined is now completely exposed through the open back of the gown. Available for my hand, the nozzle, and my cock, as the situation demands.

So now the march to the corner, to wait while I prepare the bag. Anticipation is a huge part of the process and having to wait while the punishment enema is being mixed, having to listen while I run the water in bathroom (will it be warm or will it be cool and therefore crampy?), having to strain to hear whether I’m just mixing in plain white soap or – as a much more severe correction – using one or more pre-mixed packets of special enema soap … that waiting is almost punishment enough, almost enough that I could dispense with the trips over my knee for the injections of the soapy water, the time in the corner retaining, the expulsions, the sodomy.

Well, perhaps not. It’s important to understand that, while my goal is catharsis for the culprit, I’d be lying if I were to claim to be the Mother Teresa of enema-givers, a truly disturbing image for a large number of reasons, not least of which is the obvious aesthetic one. No, I’m hardly a pure altruist with only the interests of the recipient in mind. The truth, of course, is that I find enormous enjoyment in the control I wield over the person I’m correcting; I am usually sexually aroused when I have her over my knee with the nozzle in her behind, when I casually open the clamp to release the soapy water into her bowels as I continue to scold.

But on the other hand, it’s also important to realize that I keep myself neat and tidy and in my pants until catharsis is achieved, and in fact I frequently keep myself in my pants through the whole session, so that there is nothing sexual at all that occurs. The only ending being cradling the head of the exhausted recipient – now well punished – in my lap, and rubbing her hair as I tell her that the crimes have been dealt with. And will presumably not be repeated.


The time in the corner can be varied with the circumstances, and with the culprit. I have to say, though, that as appealing as the idea of 15-30 minutes there may be, the reality is that after about 10 minutes the waiting stops being the productive kind of agony, and instead quickly transitions to boredom and then resentment, at least when the culprit is merely waiting to be given the punishment enema, rather than standing in the corner retaining it. Under the latter set of circumstances there may be a variety of emotions experienced while facing the wall with the reddened bottom on display and the hose hanging down from between the martyred cheeks like an obscene tail, but boredom is rarely – if ever – one of them.

So, the ritual of changing into the gown and being put in the corner to wait while the first punishment enema is prepared. And then, when sufficient time has passed, out of the corner and over my knee, behind bared, for the first spanking, and then the insertion and administration of the first enema.

At this point it is probably worthwhile to point out that under many circumstances it may be better to make the first enema a plain water cleansing, rather than a soapy water punishment, as a pre-cleansing allows the punishment enema to be retained longer (purged bowels) and also is wise preparation against any less aesthetic aspects that might occur should the penitent be unable to retain the soap solution for the requisite time, i.e., should the penitent leak. I often leave the choice of such a preliminary cleansing up to the culprit herself, which both provides her the relief of knowing she’ll do better at the retention, and the misery of knowing that she’s asking – of her own accord – to be given that additional enema, which of course does not count in the total number that I have already decided she is going to have.

Now between administration and expulsion is of course the period of retention, and the question that I’m sure the alert reader will wish to have answered is, quite simply: how long? How long *can* she retain; and, as a rather different matter, how long should she be *made* to retain? As for most other things in life, there’s no simple answer to this – of the many enemas I’ve given (and believe me, there have truly been *many*), in some cases the recipient has managed 20 minutes, in some cases only 30 seconds, but I think it’s fair to say that 5-10 minutes is obtainable, especially when the enema is plain water (soapy water is usually much harder to hold).

And those 5-10 minutes are likely to be a fascinating display of self control – or the lack thereof. Should she stay across my knee, squirming and shifting as the pressure in her bowels builds, as he discomfort and need increase? Or would it be better to get her up and march her to the corner, to stand there with her nose against the wall and the hose hanging down from between her red cheeks, swaying back and forth as she does an increasingly vigorous version of the potty dance as the pressure builds.

Or perhaps head down behind high in the air, either kneeling in this position on the floor or, for maximal exposure, on a table? Or if the punishment is to be particularly severe, will I have her walk up and down the stairs to the second floor, tube hanging, bottomhole tickled with each motion of the hose, tummy cramping as she climbs to the landing, pauses, ascends to the second floor, waits, and then descends to repeat the process over and over.


Finally, the expulsion. For most people this is the part of the process that’s most terrifying, especially if I plan to be in the room to witness it or, worse, insist on having the culprit look me squarely in the eyes as her behind misbehaves. The Expulsion really deserves a completely separate discussion, but suffice it to say that I invariably allow the first voiding to occur in private (although there may well be a video camera pointed at the girl’s bottom as she does so, and an audio recorder too, in order that the process can be recorded for her to listen to afterwards to remind her of what had to happen), and that thereafter she’ll use the commode or a bedpan or a special “expulsion chair” that I’ve designed for the purpose, and that, because its a punishment session there will be no privacy allowed at any point in the process.

I should also add that I’m a great believer in humiliation, as it refers to the process of taking the culprit outside herself, but *not* in the sense of degradation. So while I may scold her the entire time she’s releasing the punishment enema, while I remind her that “we’re not done with just one” while her bottom empties, indeed while I may refill the bag with yet more soapy water while her sits gingerly on her paddled behind on the expulsion chair with the timer ticking down the minutes she has to void before she gets the next volume of water forced up her bottom – all of that should be considered humiliation with the goal of mental release, and not degradation.


Finally, after the spankings and the punishment enemas, I give the girl the chance to apologize to me for her crimes. This is always her choice and I leave her a period of time for solitary reflection before I come into the bedroom to see what decision she’s made.

And I have to say that I am almost invariably pleased to find that the girl, having been punished and purged, has now reached the decision that she does indeed wish to make amends in the way I prefer.

And so I enter the room to find her bent over the sodomy stool, her hands perhaps trembling a bit as she holds her sore cheeks apart to present me with her Vaselined bottomhole, waiting to receive my cock deep in her now clean bowels, waiting to endure an additional scolding, waiting for the discomfort of penetration there but also the pleasure of knowing she’s thanking me in the way I most prefer for the time and energy and caring I’ve expended to take her to task for her sins.

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An Illustration

Over the years I’ve come to discover that there are many women out there who self-administer enemas. Perhaps for the vast majority that’s done under the excuse of “preparing for anal sex,” but I rather suspect the underlying reasons have more to do with the sensations enemas produce and the headspace they cause the recipient to enter.

I’ve also found that a lot of that cleaning out is occurring with some heavy self-pleasuring going on, and that it’s not uncommon for the woman so engaged to manage to view herself as she does so. Certainly I require that self-viewing when I’m punishing a miscreant; the view she sees is the view I see, or the view I intend to see. The nozzle she sees in her backside is the one I see or intend to see, the goosebumps on the cheeks (preferably red cheeks) are hers to display and mine to survey.

Below I’ve reproduced an image from a set of watercolors that were done c. 1930, I found them many years ago while perusing the ‘net, you’ll note that the originals are all in color, I’ve redone the image as black and white because … well because the absence of color invites the mind to fill in the blanks, for example, is her behind white, or is it bright red? They’re done by done by “Julie Delcourt” … see down towards the bottom of this page:

I’ve also done some cropping, so you, the viewer, can use your own imagination to consider whether the girl in the illustration is, perhaps, not alone? And if she’s not, is the watcher there in the room with her, or peering through a keyhole or window? And what is that watcher thinking? Is he (she?) just there to watch, or to engage in some more active role? Is he (she?) empty-handed, or perhaps holding a cane, a strap or a double-bardex? Is …

Ah, the mind is such a lovely thing. Enjoy!

The Bicycle (1)

This is a multi-part story which I put up on the website probably 10 years ago.  I've now lost the final chapter, if anyone out there on the internets would happen to have that conclusion to the story, PLEASE send it on to me.  Otherwise I'll have to recreate the ending, which could end up being even better ... or it could be a disappointment!

M.R. Strict

Since it lacked two wheels it was not strictly a bicycle. Everyone knew this, including the headmaster — who had constructed it after all — but, even with that knowledge, the term “bicycle” stuck.

Or rather, The Bicycle, in capital letters, always whispered from one girl to another in hushed tones. “He says I have to ride The Bicycle in his study this afternoon …” or “I heard she was in his study for a long ride on The Bicycle,” with a quick turn of the head to indicate the spent recipient of the machine’s infernal mechanism.

How the headmaster came on the design was never clear, and, whatever the actual source of his inspiration, the hoary antecedents of the mechanism was something that no one had ever dared to discuss with him. Opinions varied as to its likely origin. One camp held that, being a man of science, the bicycle was sui generis, and had, like Athena with Zeus, sprung forth full-blown from the head’s overstuffed cranium. To the contrary, the other camp posited, the headmaster was a man of history as much as of science, and was a scholar of the art of the thorough correction of the sweeter sex — as was amply evidenced by his other methods in that direction as well as the two locked shelves of moldy tomes in his study with suggestive titles such as “Wholesome Methods for The Discipline of Females,” or “A Panoply of Implements for Application to a Girl’s Un-Knickered Posterior for Chastisement.” Therefore, this camp concluded, there must have been some historical antecedent for the head’s design.

For the girls who had been required to ride, the inspiration for The Bicycle seemed clear: a direct communication with Satan himself. And, if you were to see a recent recipient of its attentions you would likely agree that — even without viewing its mechanism acting on the rider — there had to be something diabolical about it, given its effect on the poor girl or girls who had recently been subjected to that mechanism.

In this regard there was, foremost, The Gait, best described as a markedly slow walking speed, legs unusually far apart and spine curved somewhat to cause the posterior to protrude, as if there were some intense pain in that region that could only be reduced by keeping the cheeks as far from each other as was humanly possible. Those most knowledgeable in these things — the senior girls (who had more years of risk of experiencing discipline) or the habitual miscreants (whose experience was great regardless of the passage of time) — claimed to be able to distinguish a recipient of The Bicycle from someone who had received a caning alone; and could certainly tell both categories from a girl who had experienced the less painful but still humiliating experience of being hand spanked on her bared behind while bent across the headmaster’s ample lap.


Whatever its origins, and regardless of the likelihood of her later identification as having had a ride on it, Brittany stood waiting in the small changing room outside the head’s study for her turn on the dreaded mechanism. There was complete consensus as to why the head had the changing room; indeed, there could be no doubt as to his determination to have its being there, since he’d had it built almost immediately upon his arrival at the school.

And standing there waiting, listening to the noises from the other room, trying not to look behind the corner of the chest against the wall to the peephole she’d been assured was there, Brittany was under no illusion as to the purpose of the room — to increase the terror of the culprit as she waited to be corrected, plain and simple.

This was something else the girls debated: how the headmaster, otherwise such a sweet man, could go to such lengths to make the anticipation of correction as excruciating as the correction itself. There were teachers who wouldn’t hesitate to administer a rap on the knuckles in the classroom; there were instructors who would, without compunction, take a girl into the corridor for the application of the school paddle over a skirt. There were even faculty members who had a predilection for more public humiliation — to whit, skirt up, knickers down and bared cheeks whacked in the classroom while the other students watched (or tried not to watch, especially if they were next). But for all the awfulness of these corrections they lacked the element of anticipation that the headmaster seemed so delighted to emphasize.

Standing in the waiting room, feeling the cold air blowing on her knickered behind, trying not to hear the shrieks of agony from the other room, Brittany felt herself the paradigm example of the effects of that anticipation. She’d been taken out of class by the head himself — something that happened only infrequently, even with the repeat offenders. She could replay each moment of that humiliation: the droning on of the teacher (it was etymology, her most abstruse and therefore least favorite subject) terminated by the abrupt opening of the door to the corridor, the head’s entrance and progression to the desk at the front of the room, the sounds of his shoes against the old wooden floor the only noise in the otherwise dead-silent room. The conversation between the head and Mrs. McGregor (for aren’t all such figures Scottish?), and then her exit from the room, the Head’s left thumb and forefinger firmly grasping her ear.

And now, alone in the waiting room, hearing the sounds of the mechanism as it rocked forwards and backwards, and the groans of the girl on the machine as she was stretched from one position to another as it moved, Brittany stood frozen, waiting for her turn on the device.

“Kafkaesque” would have been her thought, had she known of Kafka; although truth be told the sentence was delivered by the headmaster and not by the action of the machine. But the head was almost certainly familiar with the reference, and would have appreciated it, were he not currently engrossed in the action of the machine, soon to be completed on the culprit astride it, sooner still to be reengaged on Brittany’s bared posterior as she pushed the pedals forward over the mechanism, its shafts turning, its pistons rising and falling, penetrating and punishing and purging as they did …

(To be continued …)

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Case Study: B__, Where Regular Spankings And Punishment Enemas Were Never Enough

I’m often asked about the effectiveness of my methods — after all, while I admit I take a certain selfish pleasure in administering spankings, punishment enemas and the occasional session of unrelenting sodomy, punishments should fundamentally be for the recipient’s good, not just my enjoyment at administering them.

I’ve now been doing this for almost 40 years, so there’s no general answer to the question of effectiveness. So I’ve decided that the easiest way to answer the question is to give what might as well be called “case studies” of some of the young ladies I’ve had under my tutelage. What follows is one such case, that of a young lady I dealt with some time ago, who I’ll call “B__” in the rest of this recounting.


I met B__ through a personal ad I’d placed regarding spankings; when we met I was very pleasantly surprised at her attractiveness as well as by her obvious receptiveness to being spanked (in fact I vividly recall smacking her backside over her skirt when, on our first date, we’d stopped in a deserted region of an otherwise busy area).

B__ was pretty, bright, and ambitious, but she also lacked focus. Or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that she had considerable focus, but that that focus disappeared as events pressed down on her. That’s hardly an uncommon situation for any of us: we function well when we have one thing to do, less well when there are five things we have to deal with and, in the full-blown adult situation, not at all well when we’re juggling perhaps 50 such critical things.

B__ was like all of us in that regard, but with one key difference — for her the easiest and most effective way to break the log-jam was corporal punishment, at the very least of the underpants-down-bottom-on-fire variety. That’s hardly exceptional, the need for regular discipline not necessarily for any particular thing, but just for things in general. The need to let go, to submit to someone else’s control, to be punished and, along with the pain and humiliation, find the release that only that pain and humiliation can bring.

And soon enough I found myself involved with B__, administering regular corporal punishment to her bared behind. She’d been spanked growing up — paddled in fact, and so the adult discipline I gave her inevitably consisted of similar paddlings, although I chose to apply a Spencer spanking paddle to her backside, rather than whatever lesser instrument her father had used.

Different implements, but I’m sure the effects were similar: first, the unending stream of self-justifications and “truths” which were, on analysis, only barely deserving of the term; then, once the underpants had come down, and I had her across my lap, a great deal less talk and a great deal more pleading, as I crisped her bottom with the Spencer paddle until it was, quite frankly, blistered.

But it was the aftermath of the spankings that was most moving to me — an effect I first saw with B__ but now realize is fairly common, the calming down, the letting go, the change of energy that occurs under correction. As I spanked B__ she changed, her pupils dilated, her argumentativeness stopped, she submitted herself to something that, only moments before, she had been resisting.


It should be clear from what I’ve just written that I truly enjoyed spanking B__, but from the outset I’d told her that our relationship would also necessarily involve enemas. At that point in my life I’d already given a few enemas, but they were preparation for anal sex rather than discipline, and I told B__ that, if she wished to be involved with me, she should expect to get enemas for punishment whenever I felt that was appropriate.

It’s still amazing to me how quickly things moved: the first time I had her to my apartment I dropped her shorts, bent her over a stool and made her hold her position while I spanked her and then spread her cheeks for a fleet’s enema. I’m pretty sure I took a picture of the occasion — it was that momentous for me — and in all likelihood I have it somewhere still. But I don’t need a picture to recall how excited I was to have her bottom spread for the insertion of the fleets, or how much I enjoyed sliding in the pre-lubricated tip, or how hard I was as I squeezed the little bottle of fluid into her ass and made her wait there until she pleaded with me to use the toilet.

And, finally, I allowed her to do so.


If the relationship sounds perfect, there was one major fly in the ointment: her refusal to have anal sex with me. Needless to say I wasn’t happy, but I soon found ways to transfer my displeasure to sacrifice on her part. Specifically, I began to insist that, when we made love, she would have to take and hold an enema, as a way of making up to me the refusal to take me in her behind.

Soon I had developed a standard procedure for dealing with her: we would meet at my apartment, and, after listening to the newest set of sorry excuses for bad behavior, I’d sigh, make her bare her behind and then, with her panties down to her knees, waddle to the table where I had set out the Spencer paddle. Back to me she’d come, and, after bending over my lap, I’d apply the paddle to her cheeks, usually 50 strokes, sometimes 100, until she was red and sore and very sorry.

And then to the bedroom, where I’d make her watch as I filled the enema bag to bulging, hung it from a stand by the bed, and attached the double bardex inflatable nozzle. I’d bend her over the bed, spread her cheeks and slide the KY-coated first balloon into her behind, and inflate it and the second balloon. Then, after she’d sucked for a little while to prepare me, I’d lie on my back and have her lower herself onto my cock and, as she rode up and down, I’d open the clamp and let the water flow into her bowels.

She submitted, quite willingly, something that never ceased to turn me on — in fact, she put a nail into the wall over her own bed in order to facilitate my hanging the bag. I’m still not sure that she enjoyed the enemas, but I do know that she responded to the loss of control, to the submission to me, particularly after I’d spanked her.

As for me, I made sure the sex lasted as long as possible, in order that I could prolong the enema and her retention of it. I know she begged to be allowed to expel; I also know that I denied her pleas. Those enemas were always plain water, but still, given the length of time I made her hold them, there were still punitive; I don’t think she or I would have wanted it any other way.


Over time I discovered other aspects of B__ that I really liked: one of these was her exhibitionism. One of the hottest scenes I’ve ever carried out occurred when I picked B__ up from the airport only to find her in the company of a stewardess friend of hers; later that night I shaved her friend and then fingered her friend’s bottom as she (the friend) administered an enema to B__. Perhaps that’s too short a recounting of what happened, but it sounds so much like a fantasy from a men’s magazine that I’m loathe to tell the story for fear it will be treated as lies rather than fact.

When I look back on it, there are of course things that I regret. I think I let B__ get away with far too much — perhaps I was too eager to make love and therefore willing to overlook transgressions that I’d not now let go uncorrected. And, even when I did punish, there was more I could have done. I know I only gave a few punishment enemas, soap to cause cramping, time in the corner, no privacy to expel. I wouldn’t make that mistake now.

I often wonder what ever happened to B__; we lost touch years ago and I have no idea if she’s still in the same place, doing the same things, exhibiting the same behavior and in need of the same regular correction. Given the chance I’d renew the interaction, although I’m sure it would be long-distance; still, I’ve given enough enemas by phone to feel that I could probably provide at least a modicum of the guidance I once afforded her.

I also wish I had recorded at least some audio of her corrections, since there’s no way to convey the change in her mood without at least hearing the changes in her voice as the discipline proceeded. But that’s something else that I didn’t do, although I would do now.

And that’s enough for this case study. At least for the moment.

M.R. Strict

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The Pitcher

He comes back into the hotel room from the bathroom carrying a pitcher and puts it down beside her. She knows what’s in it without looking, can smell the Ivory soap in the water, a lot of it. She knows what’s coming; even so that knowledge does nothing to calm her.

“What is this,” he says, pointing at the container he’s just set down.

“It’s a pitcher,” she says.

“No,” he replies, smiling, “‘pitcher’ is just a name. What *is* it?”

“A container for my enema solution,” she says, already imagining the water rushing in, already feeling the cramps, already knowing how he’ll enjoy watching her distress, how he’ll savor it and, at the same time, prolong it.

“No,” he says, moving forward to tap her face gently with one of his hands; not a slap, but the sudden contact makes her jump as if it had been. “You just gave me a description of what I’m going to do. What I’m going to do, or what I might not do … or even what I may wait until later to do. Try again.”

“It’s a tool for my correction,” she says, “a way of reminding me of what our relationship is, what happens when I need to be corrected, how you won’t hesitate to punish me in the most intimate possible of ways.”

“No, sweetheart,” he says as he reaches forward and knocks the pitcher over onto the pile of towels he’s already put down under and around her, the towels he put there to fix her mind on what’s coming and the consequences of failing to take all of it and hold it to his satisfaction.”

She jerks as the pitcher falls, watches dumbly as the soapy water runs out onto the towels, puddles, and then slowly is absorbed.

“I just showed you what it is,” he says, “in a way that words never could. When Hyakujo put a water vase on the ground and asked `Who can say what this is without calling its name?’ only the cook knew the answer and kicked the jug over, spilling the contents.”

He smiles at her, gets up and picks up the pitcher and disappears back into the bathroom where she can hear him running the water.

She pulls down her pajama bottoms and climbs on the bed, head down and behind up, legs spread wide. She waits like that, trying to calm herself, trying not to listen to what he’s doing.

Finally he comes back to her, now carrying a full enema bag, which he hangs from the pole he’s set up at the bedside.

She watches as he vaselines the thick nozzle, closes her eyes so that she can focus on him pushing the nozzle into her behind.

“We discussed the pitcher,” he says, ” and what it is. Now, sweetheart, I ask you, what are *you*?”

She’s caught off guard by the question, then after a moment begins to think about why she’s there, how much what he does affects her, how it cuts to the core of who she is and what she wants, even though she has no idea why she’s made that way, why she has those desires and needs.

She turns her head to look up at him as he stands by the side of the bed, puts her hand out and puts it on the clamp on the hose.

She looks at him, he sees her pupils dilate, she opens her mouth to answer his question but no words come out.

Instead she opens the clamp and lets the soapy water flow.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!


To her intense humiliation she was made to bend over one of the schooldesks to wait for her mistress. Bending, her bottom stuck up and pointing towards the door while the tutor finished grading the lessons of his pupils.

Wondering if the tutor was looking at her, bent that way, waiting for correction; or if the administration of discipline was such a common occurrence to him that he was indifferent to the sight of another female bottom about to be unveiled for the strap.

The tutor was young, in his early 50s, she thought, wrinkled a little around the eyes and with a touch of gray in his hair, but still virile, potent, and she could not look at him without blushing, even under ordinary circumstances.

And now of course the circumstances were not ordinary, to her at least.

For him they might have been, for she knew that other servants had been brought to the schoolroom for punishment, had seen various of her friends led there. Had watched them taken inside, and then, as she rushed between the kitchen and the dining room serving the courses and then as rapidly clearing them, had heard the sound of the leather strap applied to bared cheeks , had heard the cries and admonishments by the tutor to keep still, had imagined the agony of the strap across the bared bottom. An agony she had never experienced.

She knew that the tutor frequently administered correction, or assisted in its administration. She had heard other servants being disciplined. And, more than once in the course of her duties, she had seen the two young ladies of the household undergo chastisement at his hands.

She recalled that first time, when she had gone to the schoolroom at the close of lesson time, discharging her usual duty of removing the tea plates and half eaten pasties that the girls were allowed between geography and latin, the last – and most dreaded – subject of the morning.

She had passed the older girl, Christine, in the hallway, and had pushed the door to the schoolroom open without thinking, only to see the younger sister, Katie, in disgrace, bare bottomed and over the tutor’s lap as he sat on a chair he had arranged in the center of her room.

The tableau was interrupted for a moment by her presence; the 17 year old twisting her pretty head back to gaze in misery at the unexpected and unwanted witness to her bare-bottomed humiliation; the tutor too looking at her, quizzically, his expression clearly indicating that it was, after all, only a spanking – a common enough occurrence – and that she’d need pay no attention to it and get on with her duties, while he got back to his.

And what choice did she have in the matter, other than to obey? She had proceeded into the room, making several trips to remove the piles of dirty plates and half drunk cups of tea, all the while hearing Katie’s correction, hearing the tutor scolding, punctuating each comment with a loud hard smack on the poor girl’s upthrust rear end.

Although she knew she should not watch, each time she passed near the strict tutor and crying pupil she found her eyes straying to take in the scene: the young girl bent across the older man’s lap, the delicate frock hoisted, and the round young buttocks bright red, rather than the normal pearly white of the rest of the girl’s perfect skin. The buttocks martyred across his knee, two round globes of throbbing pain and the tutor’s muscular hand descending time and time again to meet them, the loud slaps of his palm against her hot sore flesh echoing through the room as the spanking proceeded.

Although she did her best to look away, she found it impossible not to witness what was occurring. And, as she saw that hand descend on the bared behind, as she saw that girl contort with pain each time the hand slapped her crimsoned bum, her own buttocks tensed and twisted as much as those of the girl being spanked over the tutor’s lap.

As she watched the young lady being punished, her buttocks tensed at the realization that the servants too were corrected, and that in other circumstances it could be she – would be she – bared and spanked over the tutor’s lap.

For months that thought had pursued her. And now, the fear had come full circle, and it was she bent over the schooldesk, waiting as the tutor finished grading the work of the two daughters of the Master.

The sounds of voices in the room died down, and she heard the scrape of the tutor’s chair, as he dragged it back, got up, and slowly walked towards her.

At that moment the door to the schoolroom opened and the mistress of the household entered, leaving the door wide behind her.

The first part of the young maid’s correction was about to begin.

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Pure Discipline (“Non-Fiction”)

As I’ve written elsewhere, I started this website c. 1999 as, then migrated it to when Greenery Press engaged me to write the book of the same name. A mixed bag of stories, also as I’ve noted elsewhere, and one I’ve not gone back to re-read in all the years since.

In the years that this site has been up I’ve had it go down multiple times and, until recently, thought that stories that disappeared into the vacuum at those points couldn’t be reclaimed. But someone pointed me to the Way Back Machine, which, in a fit of inspiration I recently searched and — lo and behold! — most of my stories were there. Yay me!

Or yah-ish me anyway. Reading your own old writing is like looking at pictures of yourself from High School, youthful and hyper-cringey to the older eye. You see all the things that were part of you then but that you didn’t mind, and that are still a part of you now and that — from the perspective of age — you mind oh so very much indeed.

So it is for these stories, 40-odd in all and I’ve posted nowhere near the whole set as of today (Thanksgiving -1 2022). The very old ones were spankings, enemas, anal, but perhaps less restrained than the ones that followed in the mid-2000s, which were similarly so inclined but reflected my mid-pervy-career transition from “dom” to “daddy.”

And now … well, I’m suspicious my bent is back to my disciplinarian roots, although dom and daddy certainly tie in to those roots. For the stories at least I feel the need to re-emphasize discipline over the sexual components that are inevitably part of discipline at some level; I’ve always been a loving sadist but I’m back to feeling that this long-persisting fact’s gotten a bit … well, perhaps muddled by the bottom sex and so forth and so on. Although I’ll say I do distinctly enjoy that so forth and so on.

What does all of this mean for this website and the chance of my writing more stories? I can’t predict with certainty, but I think there may be more of “conventional” severity to the extent that I’m capable of writing without getting carried away beyond the conventional.

I’ll also say that my writing parallels the inspiration I’m drawing from life, so if there are any readers out there (female only please) who’d like to provide inspiration, feel free to write!

M.R. Strict

B__’S Punishment Diary

I’ve previously discussed the cathartic effects of punishment; to better illustrate those effects I’m reproducing two diary pages of B__, who I’ve previously discussed.

A fairly large number of people have asked if the events I’ve been writing about are recent or if they’re drawn from what one person termed my “extensive historical archives,” and a few have even wondered if there’s no historicism at all and I actually invent everything.

The questions are good ones. And I have two answers. The first — that of William Burroughs in “The Naked Lunch” — is “Nothing is true. Everything is Permitted.” And the second — my own — is “does it matter?”

I hope that one or the other answers the questions.

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