How to become a Saxon-Web Guest Author
Most of us are fearful of putting pen to paper lest we are derided by all those other accomplished writers. We probably have vivid memories of school essays being returned over-written with oceans of red ink. But in truth, we all harbour our own special fantasies, and other people love reading about them! The other writers here are just ordinary people who took a chance, and you can do the same. Saxon is here to help out with layout, punctuation and spelling if you request it.
Send your spanking story, long or short, to: firstname.lastname@example.org
...memories in pictures, and our minds conjure the images in their truest form bringing forth smiles, tears, all the emotions that they can evoke. We keep them, close to our hearts, to delve into when we need to, or sometimes, they appear without reason. A sound or a smell, a tune can take us unawares, stopping us in our tracks whilst the memories and scenes wash over us and then fade, allowing us to continue with our lives and the time to make more. This is how we live our lives, indulging in these precious scenes, to escape and to remember. ~ Megan
A room, much like any other. The furnishings don't matter, they are 'things' without feeling or conversation. Useful, needed, but simply there.
The two people in that space are enough. Their feelings and actions create the 'snapshots'. They generate a cocoon that protects and absorbs, a cloud, not made of water, but actions and words, the particles encourage and support, giving leeway to explore and nourish their actions.
The First Snapshot.
Eyes, the initial point of contact, and with them an expression, without words, the expectancy is clear. The stillness and thoughts mingle and, wordlessly, the roles are defined. Gladly, and with relief, the control is given, leaving in its wake a sense of peace and the sense of a beginning. Without it, there is no basis. It might take only minutes, or longer, there could be pretend conflict to resolve, a game to be played, feigned reluctance and denial to be overcome, but the outcome is always agreement.
The Second Snapshot.
A lap, a man's thighs, firm and strong. Always the same picture burned into the memory without change or diversion, it is the basis. A resting place for a willing body to lay across, safe and secure in its resting place. No pretence to mar this memory because the body is willing to meet this refuge and to welcome what is to follow, this is what they are there for, nothing less. And as it lays over, no printed memory can capture the feeling.
The Third Snapshot.
There is no picture that can capture feelings, only expressions. There isn't a printer that can speak the feel of a gentle hand stroking and teasing a body, the legs, back and the bottom. One cannot see the the nerves tingle in reaction or the muscles slacken with pleasure. It can't paint the sighs or soft moaning, or describe the groin tightening with desire and the wetness that seeps. A warm hand meeting a curving bottom rising in a plea for the hand to stiffen and punish with burning slaps that warm the core with heat. And as the intensity grows and the pain flames, what camera can capture the thoughts and responses as the skin is soothed gently, caressed by the hand that changed the colour into scarlet glow. As the spanking continues the body sinks further wallowing in the muscles beneath, the rigidity that never wavers. Questions are asked and answers are given with agreement and the flow continues.
The Fourth Snapshot.
A sound, the hiss of a belt being slowly and very deliberately removed. For a few seconds there may be an image that captures satisfaction and gratitude in a request granted. And as the first slice breaks the silence, a small smile might be seen, a hiss in throat could be heard and the eyes close in contentment as the sting is remembered, suddenly and precisely as it meets the target. With each bite, unity grows until the pain pales by comparison. Only knowing that this piece of leather is nothing without the hand that wields it. The room echoes with the sound, joined by the moans from deep inside, joining together into one. How could it be any other. The mind begins to sink into peace, closed in submission and movement is stilted, time passes and slides softly into the next picture.
The Fifth Snapshot.
Now the cocoon is complete, it has encapsulated these two people inside as they move into the poses that will form another picture. The furniture is brought to use, a chair to lean on, hold tightly on to whilst the cane watches, lying in wait to play its part in this slideshow of memories. Reassurance is in the touch of two bodies swaying gently against each other. Maybe a kiss or a smile, cupping a breast, the contact not broken. In position and waiting for that first agonising stroke that never eases with time, the shock shuddering through the body, spreading, leaving and returning to remind the brain of its existence and the rest to follow. Those hard burning welts rising into red stripes, a neat pattern of pain proudly displayed. If only a snapshot could explain the reaction and the feeling as the cane arcs through the air, the sound before the contact that join together in warning. And yet, the bottom still rises to invite it, the back arching in request for more until the mind is lost and the body is nothing but a shell.
The Sixth Snapshot.
Completion. Satisfaction and submission completed in the next picture. An erection eased by mouth or body. A bottom high in the air, breasts pressing down on the bed and legs spread widely, waiting for the deep thrusts, rhythmic and strong, driving and dominant. The groin igniting the soreness with each lunging movement. Thighs quivering with pleasure, juices mixing and flowing, sticky and sweet with luxury. A snapshot? Certainly. Two figures indulging in sex, nothing more. The dominance is hidden, the submission untold.
The Final Snapshot.
Two naked bodies laid on a bed. A red and sore bottom might be noticed, but laughter would not be seen or the murmuring be heard. It might look 'sweet', it is, sweet in its meaning that's known only to the two lying there. The final snapshot speaks of recognition of the part each played, seals an agreement. And that one joins the rest, in memory, a slideshow, one following the other without change.
Monday morning, eight years old, 3rd year infants school. Don't want to go today.
"You're going," says mum, "now move!"
Dragged out of the door. Up the road, across the main road and up the long winding lane to that horrible place (School). Yuk. Mum's not let go of my hand no matter how much I pull back.
Now at the school gates, kiss mummy good bye. Oh fuck there's John the bully, "Hold still" says mum "what's that on your face, dirt?" From nowhere out comes 'The Tissue'. Up to her mouth, saliva already at the corner.
No fucking way! I pull my arm back as hard as possible. 1/2 a second to realize I'm free! Legs don't fail me now. I'M off running down the school lane, mum in pursuit yelling "come back here you little bugger, you just wait till i catch you!"
No chance, end of the road. Bloody hell, the world and his dog driving on it, a gap in the traffic, about to run across. Feel a hand yank me back, dragged over to the bench. Mum out of breath. "You're for it now, you little bugger!" Trousers and pants pulled down and over mum's knee before I know it.
*Smack* *slap* *smack*
"Ouch - whaa - ow - whaa!"
"Be silent or I'll give you something to really cry about!"
"But *sniff* whaa, it stings!"
*slap - slap - slap* The smacks keep raining down.
"Of course it stings, it's ment to!" At last she stops, stands me up. "Now pull those pants and trousers up. You just wait till I tell your Dad tonight, then you'll be for it!"
The vice like grip of her hand on my arm. 'The Tissue' in hand (yuk!) rubbing at my face. Dragged still sniffling up the lane bottom stinging.
9:02 dragged in to classroom by mum. Now go and sit down. Sorry he's late Mrs Brown, but he didn't want to come today. If he gives you any trouble give him a good spanking." says mum, in a very loud voice.
Shit. Please ground, open up and swallow me...
A true story - Well, most of it.
Will She? Won't She?
She left the tube at Warwick Road and walked to the address she knew so well. 15 minutes later, after checking her watch, she knocked on the door to the flat and after a few seconds heard the door unlocked.
She waited, as instructed, then walked in, closing and locking the door behind her. She walked into the study and removed her skirt and knickers, put on the obligatory mask, and then stood in her position.
It had been 4 weeks since she had replied "NO" to the weekly text she received which asked if she had been "a good girl", and subsequently received instructions to report at this time and date and not to pleasure herself or cum in the meantime. There had been no further contact and here she stood, awaiting her punishment from a woman she had never actually seen.
The instruction not to cum had meant that over the 4 weeks she had become frustrated, bad tempered, and worst of all, short and snappy with her staff and aides. She could feel her tummy churning now and tension was rising as she waited for her spanking. She heard the door open and felt the firm hand grip her wrist and pull her over anunseen lap.
"So, you've been a naughty girl have you?" A voice asked.
"Yes ma'am. I'm very sorry and i know I need to be punished." she replied.
She felt the first burning spank on her left buttock and then one on her right. Smack, smack, smack, smack, the steady flow of spanks continued on her reddening bottom cheeks and she felt herself getting wet as the pressure for release increased. For minutes they continued to fall and she started to squirm across the the lap, after 5 minutes the hand spanks stopped and she clenched her buttocks as she waited for the hairbrush to start painting her bottom a darker red. Whack, whack, whack and on it went and still she felt the pressure building and her thighs itched as little trickles of oily fluid slowly ran down them. She was at point when the dam was about to break when she heard a voice tell her "stand up girl" and she stood.
The tension within the pit of her tummy was so great, she needed release urgently.
"You have been so naughty that i am going to give you 20 strokes of the senior girls' cane, bend over."
That was it. She shuddered, and a gutteral sigh escaped her lips as she felt the dam burst open and the flood ran down her thighs. Hands reached forward and steadied her as her knees bent so she didn't fall.
An hour and a half later she boarded the tube on her way back to Westminster, her bottom throbbed from the caning she had received and she thought of the meeting she had tomorrow morning. She would have to turn down the position she knew she was going to be offered in the Cabinet reshuffle, how could she have her police protection officer guarding the door of the flat while she received her release every three or four months, could she?
One For the Cane
"Bend over." His voice held a calm authority.
Her head bowed, she looked at his waist, as close to his eyes as she dared get. He could read her inner turmoil, wondering if she dare disobey and what would it cost her if she did, wanting to delay as long as possible but wanting it over.
She needed to be spurred. "Bend..." His voice still calm but increasingly determined, "... over."
The cane provided the remainder of his instructions, pointing at the carefully positioned pile of pillows at the end of the bed.
She bent, slowly but inevitably. After all, her skirt and knickers had already been removed expressly for this purpose. The pillows gave a little under her weight and then pressed reassuringly back against her stomach. It felt right. She gave herself over to the overpowering sensations, stretching her arms out, presenting herself...
A small town cafe in a very small and muddy town. It was spring, and the snow was in the process of melting, leaving it's dirty pants behind. The wind blew off and on, mostly on.
She came to our table bringing menus, dressed in black, tall, with dark hair in a pony tail. I looked up to answer her question and inside I froze. Her eyes told me she was Dom.
I had never encountered someone of my same sex who was Dom. I managed to answer, but not quickly enough. She didn't seem at all irritated, just. . . very insistant. Asking the question again. I answered and she was gone.
I felt as though the wind had been knocked out of me. I quickly chose something off the menu so that I could go back to my shock and awe. To meet a stranger that had that personality so strongly in the middle of nowhere!
I am very straight, and know at least enough to know I like being dommed. It's happened very seldom and was a wonderful experience. But I never even fantasized of being dommed by a woman!
When she brought our food I sat so still, holding myself frozen. I didn't feel fear, just a very sharp awareness. I didn't dare look up at her.
When we finished the meal I went to pay, which I usually do not. I had to be close to her again. What was it that she had? The transaction was quick and normal, and again, as our eyes met, I knew! She was so Dom! I felt as though I had a strong drink. Or sucked down some helium. Or something. I don't know how I walked out of the cafe. I wasn't watching where I was going.
To this day I remember her, how she was dressed, her movements, her eyes. And I wonder. Lady who lives in a small cow town in a western state, I hope you have a rich life with a partner who appreciates your natural inclinations.
I am sitting at the back of the classroom; there are about 30 other boys and girls. I know I am in trouble, I can see the head mistress at the front of the class talking to sir. My stomach is doing summersaults as they call me to front of the class. I stand up with shaky legs and slowly make my way to stand in front of them. I see a row of boys all laughing at me as I pass, they know what is about to happen. I have never had to do this before but I have seen it being done to others, so I know what will happen. I get to the front of the class and sir asks me if I was the one who was smoking in the girl's toilet. I say no, but they know that I am lying. I have just got myself into deeper trouble by lying about it.
I am told to bend over the desk, pull my skirt up and pull down my knickers. I am burning with humiliation as I get into position. I hear some girls giggling and some boys whistling as they are shown a perfect view of my bare arse.
Sir picks up the paddle and gets into position behind me and lifts up the paddle. It bites into me hard and I cry out in pain and shock. I hear sniggers around the room as I cry out again. This is too much to take, I am openly crying now; my tears are falling into a pool on top of the desk. I cry harder as the paddle lands on my burning arse again and again and again. It feels like it is on fire and by the twelfth stroke I am sobbing.
I am told to stay in position as sir steps away. "That is what you get for lying Natasha." He tells me. "Now you will be punished for smoking."
The headmistress steps into position behind me with the mean looking school cane and swishes it down hard on my already tenderised posterior. I yelp loud and it takes all my strength to stay in position. There is another crack and a few seconds later that stripe of fire is flooding through me again. Another crack like a gunshot and another burning pain. I cannot take any more but if I don't stay still it will be a lot worse.
I somehow make it through, sobbing and jumping up and down trying to lessen the pain. I am told to go to the corner for the rest of the morning, with the others in the class watching my sore red arse which will remain on display for the rest of the morning. I can feel all eyes on me as I stand there humiliated by my punishment, my face burning as red as my hot bottom is.
I hear the bell ring and the class empty as the rest of them go outside to play. I am alone and quietly sobbing through pain and humiliation. I hear a noise behind me but daren't turn to see who it is. It is a girl from my class, and she comes up behind me, reaching round in front of me and lifting my skirt. Her fingers find my clit and she slowly starts to circle it feeling myself getting wetter and wetter. She has expert fingers and she is slowly making me hotter, the pain in my arse is forgotten as all I can feel is pleasure from her fingers. I turn to face her, and she smiles, leaning in to lay a gentle kiss on my lips before sinking to her knees and finding my clit with her tongue. I open my legs wider and thrust forwards, giving her better access to my pussy and throbbing clit as her tongue rolls round and round the bud. I close my eyes in ecstasy as she gets faster and faster flicking her tongue across my clit, making me cry out in pleasure. I can feel myself building up and hear the classroom door open but I am too far gone to care who it is. My legs start to wobble as I orgasm squirting my juice into her face. I fall back against the wall and open my eyes to see the entire class watching me with open mouths...
Alison gave a gentle knock on the headmistress's office door. She had been summoned by Miss Harris, the geography teacher, from her bed in the dorm and told to report to the Head. She had been sent to bed early because of a complaint from the owner of the local sweetshop owner who had caught her shoplifting.
Now here she was, wearing only her nightdress and dressing gown, waiting to hear her fate from the head, Miss Marks. A very stern, middle-aged spinster, Miss Marks showed no compassion. "Enter!" yelled the head from inside her office.
Alison slowly opened the door and entered. She approached the Head, sitting at her desk. Opposite her sat Mr. Thomas, the owner of the sweetshop.
"You wanted to see me, Miss?"
"I most certainly do! Mr. Thomas has shown me his CCTV video of your crime. So don't try to deny it. You have brought the school into disrepute. I shall have to expel you!"
"Please, Miss, no!" whimpered Alison. "My parents would never forgive me."
Miss Marks looked at her coldly. "There is one alternative. I could give you six strokes of the cane."
"No, Miss! You can't cane me. It's not allowed." Miss Marks shrugged. "Very well. Expulsion it is."
"No, Miss, please." sobbed Alison. "There must be another way."
Miss Marks snapped at her, "You must choose. You must say 'I want you to expel me' or 'I want you to cane me'. Which is it to be?"
"I... want you to... cane me." mumbled Alison.
"Speak up, girl! Say 'I want you to cane me very hard on my bare bottom.' SAY IT!"
Alison took a deep breath. "I want you to cane me very hard on my bare bottom."
"Good!" smirked Miss Marks "I shall be happy to oblige. Take off your dressing gown. Mr. Thomas, you may stay as a witness."
Alison removed her dressing gown.
"Bend over the desk!" barked the Head. Alison complied. Her bottom was now facing Mr Thomas. Miss Marks now took a cane from the cupboard and returned to her desk where she lifted Alison's nightdress to reveal her milky white bottom. Eight feet away sat a wide-eyed Mr. Thomas.
The first stroke came down hard. Thwack! Alison yelled and stood up. So doing, her nightie fell back down to her knees.
"This won't do," grumbled the head. "Take the nightdress off!"
Alison's protestations were met with the threat of extra strokes.So, biting her lip, she removed the nightie.
"Now stand beside the desk with feet wide apart."
"Now bend over and grasp your ankles."
Alison's face went scarlet at the thought of what Mr. Thomas would see. But to avoid extra strokes she did as she was told. The witness could now see her bottom, her pussy area and her heavy breasts now totally exposed between her legs.
Thwack! The next stroke anded on her reddenng bottom. She yelled and cried with the searing pain but didn't dare to try and get up. Four more to go. Thwack! She gritted her teeth. Three more. Thwack Two more. Thwack! One more.Thwack! It was over.
"Get up!" ordered Miss Marks.
Alison rose and rubbed her sore bottom.
"Now turn around and stand to attention. Hands by your sides."
She slowly complied but her face was now the same colour as her burning bottom. Mr. Thomas' eyes were ogling every inch of her naked body.
"Now go over to our guest and tell him how sorry you are."
Utterly humiliated, Alison padded over the carpet and stood directly in front of Mr. Thomas. While she apologised, he studied her breasts more closely. When he looked up, he saw the look of hatred in her eyes.
"She's glaring at me!" complained Mr Thomas.
"Then you must punish her yourself." said the Head.
Quickly Mr. Thomas grabbed Alison's arm and pulled her across his knee. If she thought her bottom was sore before, it was nothing to how it felt after five minutes of hard spanking from this man's rough hands.
When he felt she'd been punished enough, she was allowed to get dressed and return to her bed. She cried herself to sleep, but not before she'd sworn to herself to get revenge... but that's another story.
My hand cups and caresses her bareness, softly squeezing each cheek, testing its resilience. The tension in her stomach seeping away as she settles more firmly across my thighs. Her back, once arched upwards in protest, now relaxing, accepting of her fate.
I lift my hand away. Her breath catches. Her buttocks tense. I pause. She waits...
I let my finger tips trail up the back of her thigh, all the way from knee to cheek. My fingers tap the back of her thigh, just below where she creases. Her breathing quickens, she hates to have her thighs spanked. But this is merely a warning. Take your punishment, or else...
I pat the waiting rump repeatedly. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek. Right cheek. The rump responds, shyly at first. It seems to expand, pressing outwards. It wants it. It wants to feel that first stinging slap. I make it wait. I am in command here, my pretty bottom. Its whispers turn to screams. Spank me! Spank me! It thrusts rearwards, as if to force itself hard against my palm. Her head lifts, arching her neck, arching her spine, thrusting her rudely spreading crevice...
Dr John Maitland knew that a reckoning would come sooner or later, but he hadn't thought it would happen so early in the term, and in such a brazen manner. He glanced once again at the huge oak desk, worn with age and smoothed by the rumpled clothes of countless boys who had found themselves bent over this very desk for a thrashing. The desk which had been so disrespectfully marred by the scratching of the initials "S J", and over which the perpetrator was now summoned to bend in like manner.
Though countless schoolboy pranks and japes had met an inevitable painful consequence in this very room, few would have dared to deface such a venerable object; if they had, his predecessors would have had no qualms about marching the offender down to Great Hall for a bare-bottomed birching in front of the entire school.
An imposition which, in modern times, he was no longer at liberty to lay upon such a miscreant; even in traditional British public schools, corporal punishment had been somewhat curtailed and hedged about by guidelines. But not quite abandoned; Dr Maitland went to his tall cupboard and selected the swishiest of the canes why lay within its deep recesses, he wanted this to hurt!
He went to the other size of the desk and surveyed the taut buttocks presented for chastisement; the contours of the thin cotton trousers and undergarments did not betray any bulky padding. Good!
Dr Maitland raised his cane, and swung it down with a final wristy flick which caused the rod to sink into the fabric and rebound, and a shocked gasp came from the further end of the desk. But he didn't hurry the punishment, knowing just how long it took for the agony of the cane weal to reach a peak, then laying on a second searing stroke just below the first before the initial pain had a chance to fade. The gasp became a groan, the left leg made to kick slightly, then settled down. The third stroke elicited an agonised yelp, and the fourth a howl, followed by a snuffling. Well, there was no shame in being driven to tears by a full-force six of the best! The fifth stroke landed sweetly on the sit-spot, that junction of buttock and thigh which would ensure an uncomfortable time in the classroom. Make that a VERY uncomfortable time … he caned the miscreant again, hard on the identical spot, and was rewarded with a shriek, and an uncontrollable hopping around in anguish, tears flowing freely from those eyes, those pretty blue eyes which had fluttered in faux innocence barely ten minutes previously.
"Sign the punishment book, Susan Jenkins, then stand in the corner" he ordered, allowing the girl to retain some composure before returning to face her shocked classmates.
Start as you mean to go on, was his motto.
And going co-ed could prove to be very enlightening.
You are welcome to read all the stories published on Saxon-Web, but they must not be copied or used elsewhere as the authors hold valid copyright on their own material. Any breach of copyright is actively pursued, and offending web sites closed down. If you would like to use or reference any of the material or stories published on this site it is most important that you contact the Saxon-Web by email prior to any such action.