Confessions of a Spanking Author Read online

  Now, if only someone could tell me how to control my sassy tongue. It is embarrassing to get a spanking at my age for snapping at Lar. It doesn't happen often these days, but I am still enough of a feisty woman to get my butt spanked once in a while!

  Joannie Kay

  I love writing and it is my dream career. I write in all genres, but westerns are my very favorite—plenty of romance, naughty ladies, and stern handsome men.,

  www.JoannieKayWrites.com

  Don’t miss these exciting titles by Joannie Kay and Blushing Books!

  The Viking and the Tavern Wench

  The Perfect Wedding Dress

  The Sheriff Wore Pants

  Hidden in the Wall

  The Sisters-In-Law

  A New Mam for the Girls

  She is My Sister

  Peppermint Sticks for Susie

  The Demure Bride

  A Christmas Duet

  Good-Bye to Mama

  Molly’s Cop

  The Neighborhood Prankster

  More Than Fireworks

  Walker’s Rules

  The Wallet

  The Intruder

  Santa Simon

  Unwilling Groom

  The Naughty P.I.

  The New Mrs. Jenkins

  The Easter Egg Hunt

  Holiday Heat

  Christmas Tales from the Old West

  A Scary Halloween

  Tucker’s Frustration

  Too Old for This

  The Christmas Prank

  Mrs. Winters

  Love Thy Neighbor

  Laurel and Joseph Book One: The Early Years

  Laurel and Joseph Book Two: A New Beginning

  Last Chance

  Hiding Miss Peaches

  But What About Me?

  An Unruly Tongue

  A Teabag Christmas

  A Christmas Medley

  Wifely Duty

  Hurricane’s Tempest

  Unwilling Bride

  Christmas Nurse

  The Preacher’s Dilemma

  Clifton County Fireworks

  Jake’s Secret

  The Viking and His Tavern Wench

  The Cutest Valentine Ever

  Anthologies:

  Joannie Kay Christmas Anthology

  The Joannie Kay Anthology

  Attitudes: A Collection of Real-Life Spanking Stories

  The Luck of the Drawers by Devlin O' Neil

  I have to think that anyone reading this collection of absolutely true tales of reddened tails understands that, for some people, getting spanked is one of the most desirable activities on earth. They enjoy it for a number of reasons and on several levels. Any motivation to spank them, any excuse, or none at all, is usually sufficient.

  That said, I will tell you about The Game. I have read that at some spanking parties, Crimson Moon, Shadow Lane, and other venues of that sort, there are organized spanking games on occasion. I never have participated in or witnessed one of these, but I understand that they can be board games or, perhaps, Jeopardy-like contests, with spankings awarded as forfeits—or prizes, depending upon one's point of view.

  The Game is one such spanking diversion. No one ever has bothered to give this ad hoc pastime another name, and we have been playing it within our small group for a couple of years. Still, everyone in our circle knows to what you refer if you simply mention The Game. It is the brainchild of one of my very good friends, a member of a small group of women who visit my neck of the wood—well, my stretch of the beach, I suppose—quite regularly for our own miniature version of a long weekends' spanking party.

  Spanking is not all we do, of course. There are home cooked meals in very nice seaside rental houses, lavish dinners at great restaurants, lovely romps in the warm surf that shushes onto sugar white Gulf sands, bottles of expensive whisky, and embroidered tea towels (dragons, mostly). These are just some of the perks that accompany the ladies' semiannual visits, and I am the first to admit to being utterly spoilt by the attention I receive when they are in town.

  The ladies do not come here with their eyes shut. They know who and what I am—that's why they are here. So one might think that the dozen or twenty-odd spankings that I routinely administer to these women throughout the course of a typical day—they are not well-behaved girls, let me tell you—would be sufficient. One would, of course, be completely mistaken. I do not hold back with these young women, either. More than once, a girl has mistaken my bare hand for a paddle after receiving a few serious smacks upon her bare sit-upon.

  Then, too, I have given all the girls at least a swat or two in public. On one occasion, I stopped the car fifty yards down the street from our rental house on the beach. There were four of us in the vehicle, and she was sitting next to me. She began lipping off before I had even backed out of the driveway.

  I did not say, Do you want me to stop this car, young lady? I just did that and got out. Then I walked around, pulled her out, bent her beneath my left arm, and used my open hand to briskly swat her bottom at the curbside.

  She had been yanking my chain all morning, anyway, so I was determined that she feel it, though I did not lower her trousers. This turned out for the better, as we had an audience. I had given her a dozen or so good slaps when I heard laughter from inside the car, as well as applause from behind me. I had forgotten that the neighbors were out laying sod on their lawn, and the males amongst them were cheering me on. The females in the group, on the other hand, looked rather disdainful of my performance. In any event, I relented, at that point, put the girl into the car, and, with a courtly bow to the neighbors, got behind the wheel.

  That was far from the only spanking I administered that day, public and otherwise. There were a couple more in a parking lot, later on, though they went unnoticed, or at least unapplauded. But my point is that none of the girls, women, young ladies, ever go too very long between vigorous sortings-out, and on the bare, if we have relative privacy. By relative, I mean that, when we are at home, I upend a girl right then and there, at the point of the infraction, lower her drawers, and see to her, no matter who else is present.

  Group spankings occur sometimes, as well, like the time they made a strawberry and banana Jell-O salad of my favorite paddle and served it to me for dessert. I bent the lot of them over the back of the sofa, bared their bottoms, and made my displeasure known, in no uncertain terms, and for quite some goodly while. Thankfully, the paddle suffered no permanent ill effects from being congealed and refrigerated.

  I mention these issues and events to give you an idea of where my party-mates and I stand, vis-à-vis our favorite shared activity. However, I hasten to add, that activity is spanking, full stop. Yes, I write a lot of quite energetic and squirmy pursuits and pastimes that have to do with the same physiological locale, but, in our case, rear reddening is the primary and only goal.

  In fact, the ladies and I are careful not to expose anything in the way of Camera 3 views. To explain—when I did videos for Shadow Lane, we used three cameras: the face, the side, and, Camera 3, the bottom shot. If you ever have seen a Shadow Lane film, you know that, quite frequently, one may see more of the spankee than even her physician normally does. This is not the case at our parties, however, and I invariably sleep alone.

  So, then, we have established that I am a spoilt, somewhat arrogant spanking enthusiast with equally enthusiastic friends, ladies who like to visit, party heartily, and get spanked. As with most of the Blushing Books audience, these are intelligent, professional women. Well, they are until they wind up over my lap having their bare bottoms spanked hard like the naughty little girls they really are.

  It was one of these professional women, a fellow novelist, in fact, who invented The Game. The rules are somewhat complex, but quite straightforward, and the object of the game, for the contestants, is to lose. I am not a contestant in The Game, though, so I always win.

  My function during play is to take charge of everything and everyone, and to direct and control th
e process and the players, which sounds exactly like what my toppy protagonists do in every one of my stories. I also ask the trivia questions and mete out the spankings. This must sound, to some readers, like a fantasy I invented for my own amusement, some warm, self-serving, rapidly aging schoolboy daydream. But I swear on a stack of Dave Barry books that I am not making this up. Someone else wrote the script for this comedy series and handed me the lead role.

  Now, as to The Game, itself—there are dice; there are regular, according-to-Hoyle playing cards; there are boxes of Trivial Pursuit questions. Everything is left to chance, apart from the fact that, sooner or later, and usually sooner, every girl is going to get spanked.

  First, a player rolls a single die; that number determines the category from which I will ask the trivia question. If she answers correctly, there is no penalty. However—you knew that was coming, right?—if she answers three questions in a row correctly, she automatically loses the round.

  If she answers incorrectly—surprise, surprise—she gets a spanking. At that point, she chooses the nature of her spanking by drawing cards from the Hoyle decks. She takes the top card from one of two regular packs on the table. This card determines both the number of strokes, one through thirteen, and the manner of delivery—red card, panties down, black card, knickers in place. Skirts always are lifted and trousers downed.

  The card she draws next, from the other Hoyle pack, indicates the means of delivery, that is, the implement she is to feel, as well as whether or not the other contestants are allowed to watch her spanking. Each of the thirteen card values is arbitrarily assigned a corresponding implement from the toy bag, which is quite full of ouchy toys. There are straps, sticks, and paddles, as well as household utensils such as wooden spoons and spatulas, bath brushes and hairbrushes—paddles, by any other name. The list also includes my titanium hand, as well as the belt I'm wearing at the time.

  We play on only one evening out of the three or four that the girls are here, and it is always a very special night. As I mentioned, the girls would have been spanked, more or less strictly, several times throughout the preceding day or days before The Game takes place.

  In the world where I live and write prose, girls, young ladies, women, see spanking through an approach/avoidance lens. They know they need it and want it, but they will fight, tooth and nail, throw their sisters under the bus, whatever is necessary not to feel that awful, wonderful sting in their tails. The upshot is that we all are a bit giddy with excitement as we set everything in place.

  The girls roll the dice for first go, and already I can see them nervously wriggling, biting lips and fingertips. Electricity fills the air, and I am far from immune. They have told me, several times, that they have never seen me smile and grin as much as I do during The Game. This is not at all surprising. As much time as I have spent onstage and on-screen, I have to think that the role of the perky, gregarious game-show host would not be a big stretch for me. I would kill to have Wink Martindale's teeth, though.

  So, The Game begins. With a great deal of nervous laughter from the ladies, we go through the motions. The question is missed, the forfeit determined, and I hold the losing/winning girl's hand and take her to meet her fate-of-the-moment. The girls love each other deeply, but they do so adore watching one of their own being strictly sorted out. Each forfeit/reward is a new experience in sisterly badinage. The others cheer and offer me advice as to how I should most effectively and stingily see to my current charge. More than once, a girl has answered back to these jocular jibes with most unladylike language, which, of course, earned her quite a lot more in the way of ouchy swats than the cards she drew indicated.

  How I position the pseudo-miscreant is left entirely up to me. I like to have a straight-backed wooden chair handy for over-the-lap work, of course, but, very often, I prefer to stand while the girl bends across a sofa back or arm. As noted in the description of play, I have only a limited number of swats available to make my point, so every one of them must count. These ladies are no lightweights in the spanking-shock absorption department, so I need all the backswing I can get in order to make an impression and not waste the girl's turn with a less than eye-popping application.

  But, as I said, I do have quite a range of helpful tools available, if only the girl's turn of the card will go in my favor. No one loves the bath brush, except me, even though one of the girls gave it to me as a gift. It is even more effective than a flat-backed hairbrush, since the longer handle imparts a significant amount of torque to the stroke. Neither is the rattan cane ranked high on the preference chart, although it is somewhat a badge of honor to take several of the best across her well-bended backside, just like a naughty English schoolgirl.

  Leather is, far and away, these girls' spanking material of choice. We have a very nice oval leather paddle from London Tanners. The cross stitching round its edge leaves marks on a girl's bottom like a dragon's teeth. Then, too, I have several belts. The one I used on Erica Scott in the Stand Corrected video several years ago is a favorite. It always is included in the implement list, even though it shows signs of hard usage. This is not surprising, since I bought it at the Mall of America thirty years ago. But it does have that aura about it of stardom, and I never use it without reliving that wonderful experience. I have to think the girls feel the connection, as well—we all watched the video together once—so it never will fully retire from spanking service.

  Then there is the flexi-ruler. This is a deceptively harmless looking bit of plastic, though universally abhorred by girls who have felt its sting on their bare behinds. It is light, supple, and, somehow, sometimes, the ouchiest implement in the arsenal. This, perhaps, has to do with how I use it. I do love wielding it, possibly because I know that surface shock is all that it is capable of, regardless how strictly I lay it on. I have powerful arms, so I have to be careful, especially with anything heavy and wooden. With light plastic, however, I am free to swing for the fences, making the girl feel the ouch all the way from the hair follicles on her head to the tips of her pedicured toenails. I am very obliging in that regard.

  The Game is a two-way street. The girls get to feel the force of my physical strength in the area that most appreciates that sensation, but, in this case, within the confines of a game with rules other than the ones that I, personally, set and enforce. There is no scolding in The Game; no one gets told off and sent to the corner before having her bottom blistered with so many strokes of the belt she loses count.

  Such things do happen at these weekend gatherings, because they need to happen, and the girl and I both know it. She does not relent, she does not give me the enough indicator until she is far past her endurance level. And that is as it should be, because that is what she needs. That is what all of them need, in one form or another, at one time or another, the girls who come to visit me. But the midst of The Game is not the time for that.

  This is a fun time. Getting her bottom spanked during The Game is a respite from the other games she plays with herself and with me. I know these girls, as much as they will allow me to, and give them as much as they will let me. This includes bruises, stripes, and frightening amounts of paddle rash to take home with them at the end of their stay. You will not be surprised to know that this, too, is quite all right.

  And this is my fun time, too. I love these girls dearly, I do. But you can only just imagine the stress of seeing to a handful of young ladies whose fondest wish and primary focus in life is to seriously pamper me whilst, at the same time, behaving in such an outlandish manner as to guarantee that my Toppy hormones periodically erupt like Vesuvius and my wrath rain down upon their bottoms like hot lava.

  That goes on every waking moment they are here. I am ever so glad that I have no day job and can visit the gym for a sweaty hour or so first thing every morning between their visits. Without that additional energy, stamina, and muscle tone, I would wear out long before I could wear them out.

  So The Game is a pressure-release valve for me. I ca
n be Devlin O'Neill Lite for a while, the funny Devlin, the carefree Devlin, the Devlin who is in charge, but who lovingly stings the girls' behinds rather than roasting them like lamb and rosemary in a slow oven.

  Do not misapprehend—whether in real life or in literary fantasy, I will forever be the guy who will not stop until the girl across my lap, over my couch arm, or bent with her elbows on my desk has signaled me, unmistakably, that she has what she needs from me. She has reached a point of contrition and expiation of her fault, real or imagined, and wants nothing more than a warm, forgiving hug and a tender, it's all right now.

  But, during The Game, those issues are not on my mind. Of course, as our play proceeds, hugs, kisses on the cheek, and soft, ameliorating squeezes to well warmed bottoms are very much in order.

  Because I just love a sore loser.

  That is all.

  Devlin out.

  Devlin O’Neill

  Devlin O'Neill is a lifelong vagabond and student of the human condition. He has been writing and publishing erotic spanking stories and novels for over a decade and a half, and apparently intends to continue doing so. He also muses, mutters, and pontificates on spanking and whatever else happens to be on his mind at his web log,

  devlinoneill.com.

  Don't miss these other exciting books by Devlin O'Neill and Blushing Books!

  Ripple In Still Water

  Feyrie Song: Volume One

  Feyrie Song: Volume Two

  The Cheeseboard by Alta Hensley

  "I write spanking smut."

  "I write erotic romance with spanking."

  "I'm a spanking erotic romance author."

  "I write spanking stories."

  "I write dirty books… with spanking."

  No matter how I announce what I do as a profession, those simple words can make a grown man giggle like a schoolgirl. It's possible to sugarcoat what I do and say that I write romance, and at times, I do. But for my friends and family, I want to make sure that they don't pick up one of my books expecting a Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele. Can you imagine? Fair warning is my motto. An Alta Hensley book is not your average romance.