(My) collection of spanking short stories and observations of the spanking/BDSM lifestyle has been both a pleasurable experience – and one of great sadness.
I am a disciplinarian, first and foremost. I spank women for a living, and do quite well for myself. I have flown all over the country to administer spankings and to counsel on spanking and its preconceived notions with those who are not as comfortable in their own skins as I am about the subject.
As a true “Old Guard” master, a staunch traditionalist when it comes to my practice, I decided very early on in my training that I wanted to specialize in just one aspect of the lifestyle/scene. That specialization was, of course, spanking.
I have chronicled in two very powerful and fetish-laced screenplays, the hows and whys of my knowing by age eight that spanking would be such a strong and vibrant force in my life.
I have often been asked, “How did you get into this line of work?” I usually pause for a moment and give an incredulous stare and then respond by saying that I was predestined to do the unique work I do with women. That many who come to me find they can trust me like no other dominant they’ve ever encountered.
I go on to tell the person that what I mean by predestined is that I lived through many countless sets of circumstances which prepared me for the grueling, relentless training I undertook to receive my mastership. Circumstances that most encounter, but which I used advantageously to strengthen not only my self-esteem, but my innate, God-given talent to be dominant; to control and shape people into the realm which is my world.
My parents – Japanese on my father’s side, and Irish Catholic on my mother’s – worried more about how to please me than how to shut me up and keep me under control. This was, in retrospect, a high all its own – and very frightening all at the same time!
It is my eternal hope you are able to walk away with something tangible from the tireless compositions represented here.
Mark E. DeSade
Los Angeles, California
March 20, 2001
(Editor’s Note: Mark E.DeSade provided a preface to the seven stories he sent to us. The text shown above contains excerpts from that preface. We will serialize the story you are about to read, “Friday Night Discipline” in three parts over the next three weeks. After that, we will post each of the Mark E. DeSade’s remaining six stories at the rate of one per week until we have posted all of them. We hope you will enjoy them as much as we have.)
Friday Night Discipline Part 1
The Stephenson family on the beautiful ridge crest portion of Sea View Lane – overlooking the beautiful Pacific Ocean in Huntington Beach, California – was known throughout the neighborhood as a no-nonsense type of disciplinarian family.
No-nonsense was really putting it mildly when it came to dispensing corporal punishment to their children.
There were Katie and Richard, the parents, each in their early forties – both brought up in the Bible Belt of the south and parishioners of one of that part of the country’s strictest churches, which advocated good, old fashioned corporal punishment as a means for child rearing.
The Stephenson’s were originally from Nashville,Tennessee (loosely known as the “buckle” of the Bible Belt), and migrated west when Richard’s job as one of the country’s top cardiovascular surgeons opened up a career opportunity of a lifetime – chief of surgery – at a small, but prestigious, hospital in this well-to-do beach community known as “Surf City, USA,” just south of L.A. down the coast.
The Stephenson’s lived on a newly built, six bedroom, four bath home overlooking Pacific Coast Highway atop a beautiful hill – where fabulous sunsets and morning fog were daily amenities for living in such an affluent neighborhood. In fact, on a good day, when it was sunny and clear (and there wasn’t any fog rolling in from the ocean), their son – a star outfielder on the local high school baseball team – could hurl a pebble from their backyard to the shimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean. In the summers, the family enjoyed those divine, gloaming sunset barbecues in the huge back yard, which were, at times, simply breathtaking.
The family never wanted for anything. They were well off, but yet the children, Tammy, 19, and Tommy, just past his eighteenth birthday, were anything but spoiled by having money. In fact, they were two of the most well behaved children (really adults) that any two parents could ever ask for. Richard Stephenson attributed this to his array of corporal punishment techniques he’d used on the two since early childhood. Techniques that included picking your own switch and being paddled – the way he learned his lessons growing up. Tammy rarely ever got the switch. Being the apple of her daddy’s eye, she was usually meted out for an over-the-knee hand spanking by her mother first (hairbrush if serious), followed up by a few symbolic and light swats of the paddle by her daddy which rarely, if ever, left even the slightest sign she’d been punished. The boy, however, was a different story: Dr. Stephenson felt that what was good enough for him growing up was definitely good enough for his son. This meant having his bottom bared and his cock exposed during punishment, either by himself or his wife. He felt that humiliation along with a “burning” memory of the punishment session itself were the only ways to teach a wayward offspring a lasting lesson.
It was never a big deal for the Stephenson’s to be hosting a formal dinner party on Friday evenings and, without batting an eyelash, clear the living room floor for a public switching. Once, their youngest, Tommy, had run down the stairs haphazardly in an attempt to rush out the door for a date and knocked a lady neighbor flat on her back, necessitating Dr. Stephenson to tend to her injuries. Unfortunately for the youngster, dad had been just a few steps away with a serving tray and watched the whole, pathetic debacle; a sour frown quickly overtaking his usually good-natured features.
“Excuse me,” Richard Stephenson announced with a commanding voice that always elicited immediate attention, “would everyone adjourn to the living room. We have some family business which merits quick attention – and my wife and I would very much appreciate your attendance.”
The guests, knowing all too well what was in store for them, rushed the living room as if a fire had broken out – each trying to get a front row seat for the beating.
It was Friday night, all right.
And this meant one, and only one thing: “discipline night” in the Stephenson home.
But more than that, this was a long-standing tradition Richard Stephenson used to “wipe the slate clean” with his children’s wrongdoing throughout the week. Ever since he could remember, he had created what he called a “transgression list.” This consisted of a week’s worth of misdeeds, written down in painful detail on a blackboard, which stuck to the refrigerator magnetically. There were two columns: Tammy’s and Tommy’s. Tammy’s was hardly ever filled. And if it was, the demerits were so minute they were hardly worth mentioning. Tommy, on the other hand, was always getting into his share of trouble, being a freshman at San Diego State University as a pre-med student. Once, Richard Stephenson had found his son removing the corpse of a barely deceased beautiful, 38 double-D blonde, with lovely, full lips – who looked more as if she were sleeping than deceased. Tommy was with a few of his classmates and all were heavily intoxicated. Dr. Stephenson was furious that his son could be so irreverent towards the dead. What his son was doing with the corpse – and, moreover, what he was intending to do with it Richard Stephenson didn’t even want to know. His stature in the community as a leading surgeon got his son and his friend off the hook with the med school’s dean and the body was returned rightfully to the school’s morgue – where bodies are sometimes donated after death for medical research. Dr. Stephenson surmised that the boys must have been present during the intake of the body as it was late and simply took it for perverse sexual reasons. The deceased was very striking. And rigor mortis had yet to set in, so the body was still very pliable and usable for sexual acts – which were what the doctor surmised this whole eerie situation was about. The idea haunted Dr. Stephenson for a long while and it was no coincidence that his son would someday become a famed pathologist in Los Angeles, where he conducted numerous autopsies on Hollywood celebrities. Needless to say, Tommy’s punitive measures for that evening stretched a whole month’s worth of whippings. Nary, however, did it dissuade him from his chosen specialty as a doctor. Death had always fascinated young Thomas.
Tommy was amazed as the living room was being cleared by his sister, wearing a shit-eating grin knowing she was going to watch her brother’s whipping – and get to see his cock sway from side to side as he wailed from the cuts his father leveled with uncanny accuracy with the switch. A surgeon’s hands are deft; and highly skilled in their art. But place a switch in them and it’s like child’s play to dispense an artful whipping with mere stripes covering just the prime punishment area of the bared buttocks.
Knowing instinctively what to do, Tommy walked out into the huge expanse of the living room, now cleared by his loving sister who stood by grinning at him. His father nodded at him, which was his sign to go out into the yard’s shrubbery and pick three good switches for his father to break over his bottom. If his father had to come out and pick the switches because they didn’t meet his scrutiny, it would be a switching to remember – and everyone to watch and gossip about throughout the neighborhood for weeks to come. Dr. Stephenson’s switching sessions were already legendary, much to his son’s chagrin. Tears started rolling down Tommy’s cheeks as his soft trembling fingers felt over the small vegetation of greenery that would deliver his salvation in just a few short minutes. He hated it when the Church’s congregation got together like this on Friday nights in their home – the nights the weekly punishment sessions were doled out. Partially because the fantasy lady of his life, Miss Theresa Genovese, a 34-year-old, gorgeous Italian lady for whom his bell definitely tolled, would surely be taking up her usual front row seat to watch his shameful ordeal. If he had a nickel for every time he whacked off to Miss Genovese gong to sleep, he’d have his own apartment, lavishly furnished, as well as the sports car of his choice – and he definitely would not be in this predicament now.
As Tommy collected the best switches in the yard, or so he thought, Theresa Genovese was taking up her usual place on the expensive, plush sofa that stretched in a half circle around the corner of the room – a perfect angle to see everything. He thought about the switches – they looked mean, and knew they would be painful – as his father always used each one until they were a broken pile on the floor at his feet. The switchings, according to Dr. Stephenson, who was asked once by a curious neighbor after one such episode, were always meant to be the most painful of all punishments. He never owned a cane – thinking they were too hackneyed a correctional implement as far as the old school of corporal punishment was concerned. A switching wasn’t a switching unless the bottom was covered with a mass of criss-crossing weals, bleeding and emitting a clear-like weeping substance down the legs. Once completed, the bottom itself was truly a piece of artwork. Not a single miscalculated stroke. Each red line perfectly within the frame of the prime punishment area of the bottom itself – truly a testament to his eye-hand coordination as a prominent surgeon. Assuredly, each of his patients received the very finest care a surgeon of his caliber could offer. Now his son was again going to be the (unwilling) recipient of his uncanny demonstrative whipping technique.
Yes, young Tommy was sure Miss Genovese – with her youthful, almost bizarre Sophia Loren looks – would be watching with wide-eyed lust as she always did – probably soaking her panties in the process. Or so he fantasized. There was something strange about each whipping he received in front of the onlookers; Theresa Genovese was always front and center – never off to one side or the other. Once, Tommy swears, he caught a glimpse of her underneath her skirt as she uncrossed her legs after making direct eye contact with him. No panties, just pure brown beaver staring him in the face! Somehow he sensed she enjoyed watching him get punished and even delighted in the event. The reasonfor this was she always asked him over the next day to do some odd job or another. Run an errand. Cut her grass. Wash her car, or fix something with it. And she always insisted he come over in just his cut-offs and tennis shoes, as the weather year round was always mid 70s to 80s. Tommy had a body like Brad Pitt in “Thelma and Louise,” hard and with well-defined pectorals that showed definition well beyond his years. Tommy worked out regularly at a local gym and was proud of his G.Q., muscle-toned body. His sandy hair was always cut short and styled off to one side with gel, which did make him look as if he were the perfect candidate for plugging “Bugle Boy” jeans bare-chested – with his slim, 29-inch licorice-twisted waistline and flashy million dollar smile. If he wasn’t already going into medicine, he could easily be a Chippendales model. Yes, there was something strange, but sensual, about this lady. And now she was gong to witness yet another whipping. And although frightened at the thought of his father’s vicious cuts, he was somehow excited knowing she would be where she always was sitting with those firm, silky, sexy legs of hers in the center of the couch – sipping her coffee with her pinkie extended – as if she were at high tea with the Queen of England.
Tommy always had a hard time making eye contact with the dozens of neighbors in attendance on these nights gathered to witness his plight. But, occasionally, he’d grab a glimpse of Miss Genovese through tear-stained eyes at those long, shapely legs which would be crossed over ever so sexily, with a wry smile overtaking her lovely features as if she secretly wished she, herself, was delivering his punishment. How he wished she were giving him the switch, instead of his father.
Tommy boy creamed his jeans right then and there at the thought; spraying his thick hot jism all up and down the length of his Fruit of the Loom’s. He could feel the reservoir. God, it felt as if he were carrying around a glass of water in his shorts – they were soaked! His dick was still hard. His mind still racing. This was definitely going to give being whipped into a frenzy a whole new meaning. And then thinking about his fantasy lady with her lovely, rosy-red thick lips – coated with only the finest Chanel lipstick – sent him even further into the insanity only an eighteen-year-old boy could feel. If there had been time he would have, without hesitation, pulled his eight-inch throbbing cock from his Levis and flogged the dolphin as it had never been flogged before, finishing the job and gaining at least a modicum of relief before the storm. At least he would be relaxed when he went back in there. Tommy had remarkable resilience and could masturbate over and over after cumming. This, however, was not a time to be showing his prowess at how much semen he had in reserve. At least this way, maybe, he wouldn’t have the desire to look into Theresa Genovese’s eyes before receiving the rod – as he almost always did. If his father had caught him looking at her the way he did – in the midst of such a severe whipping to come – that would be the end for him.
Tommy quickly took the switches and re-entered the house through the patio’s screen door.
Once inside, Tommy wasn’t shocked at what he saw. The house that just a few minutes previously was bustling with over forty dinner guests, mostly female – from the patio to the kitchen – and all other parts of the ornate, mansion-style home, was empty. At least upon first sight from Tommy’s point of view going back in. But he knew where everyone was all right. They were unquestionably gathered together in anxiously awaiting symbiosis and wide-eyed attention in the oversized living room. Chairs were being put up by Tammy and her mother and everyone was getting ready for Tommy’s show. After the chairs were put out, Tammy fired up the popcorn machine, which she’d wheeled out on a cart, handing out bowls every few feet to hungrily awaiting guests. How fucking embarrassing Tommy thought to himself as he watched the whole sideshow charade from the darkness of the kitchen. They would be whispering amongst themselves about such things as how many strokes he’d get; or how much of his manhood they’d get to see before his bottom was turned for their viewing pleasure. This was better than an evening movie at matinee prices.
The deafening silence was almost too much for him to bear. He kept his eyes trained on the well-lit living room, just off the corner of the kitchen where he could hear Miss Genovese carrying on a conversation with his father – clear as a bell. Tommy stopped, dead in his tracks and listened:
“What is the offense Thomas is being punished for, Richard?” she said, her sexy Italian accent wafting through the air like one of Shakespeare’s sonnets to the sweetness of Tommy’s ears.
“Roughhousing,” Richard Stephenson said, through clenched teeth, matter-of- factly – frowning as he stared at his watch. He was a man of very few words.
Tommy loved the way Miss Genovese spoke; slowly, as if choosing her words from behind some disabling aphasia – but always … always very proper and correct in her grammar. Tommy loved her accent and, in fact, it endeared her to him the very first time they met over two years ago at a party similar to this one (sans spanking).
Dr. Stephenson continued: “Where is that boy?! You’d've thought I’d asked him to cut me down an entire tree. Or saw me a fresh paddle and drill holes into it, for crying out loud!”
The room erupted into a chorus of laughter.
“Are the whippings always given on the bare bottom?” Miss Genovese asked further.
The good doctor nodded in the affirmative. Then paused briefly before answering in full.
“Yes, “he said, “and having you all here to witness my son’s whipping will allow him to learn his lesson that much quicker. For he has to face all of you in the neighborhood at one point or another and he’ll remember you witnessed his tanning. The shame remains long after the pain subsides. You know what they say, ‘spare the rod, spoil the child.’”
Everyone nodded and began chatting over what Dr. Stephenson had just said.
“I see,” said Miss Genovese. “Very interesting. I’ve never had children, so I’ve never been in your situation – but as a member of this church, I wholeheartedly endorse this type of discipline.”
“It seems to work quite well, ” Dr. Stephenson muttered to no one in particular.
Tommy wasn’t laughing at the exchange, even though he sensed Miss Genovese was pressing for more information on the disciplinary techniques used on him. He even dropped one of the switches as he felt a cold sweat break out all over his face. He wiped his forehead with his shirttails, picked up the switch and hurried best he could into the living room – not wanting to keep his father waiting another second more than he already had after the exchange he’d just heard with his fantasy lady.
“Here I am, father, ” Tommy said, dutifully. He handed the three green switches to his father, whose face quickly dissipated from calm to sour and then to just plain old angry. Tommy looked at the switches, which now looked infinitely smaller in his father’s huge, masculine, oversized hands.
“Is something wrong, father?” the boy queried, knowing full well what the matter was.
“I think you know what’s wrong, Tommy,” Dr. Stephenson said, his voice remaining calm but an octave higher than before while voicing his displeasure.
Tommy knew this meant the switches did not meet his high standards and that his father, himself, would now go find the greenery to apply to his son’s backside.
Dr. Stephenson caught eyes with Tommy.
“Son, bring the dining room chair out and place it in the center of the room. Sit in front of our guests and face them. I’ll be back in a few minutes after I’ve cut some fresh switches to teach you your lesson.”
Tommy’s eyes began to well up with tears. He went to the huge dining room table and retrieved one of its ornate, old-fashioned chairs that had been handed down in his family for generations. These chairs, because of their sturdiness, were always used for the punishments. Made of solid oak, they were strong and well built and could handle the thrashing about of the two youths. Although his sister’s punishments were almost always carried out in the privacy of the basement by the two parents, Tommy’s were always public affairs if anyone was in the house on a particular Friday evening.
Tammy’s spankings were almost so low-key they were hardly worth mentioning. Down to the basement at exactly six p.m. carrying down her chair as her mother and father followed closely behind – dad with a fierce-looking paddle with holes drilled into it. It was always a verbal dressing down by Mrs. Stephenson, followed by Tammy being draped over her mother’s knee. Nightie would then be hiked up onto her back, exposing her creamy-white, plump bottom cheeks. Then five minutes (never any more) of hand swats (followed by five additional minutes with the hairbrush, if the offense merited it). After this, her father had her kneel on the chair, much like Tommy would be doing in a few moments, and bend over for a few symbolic (and never hard) swats from the paddle. Tammy always cried, even though she and her parents knew nothing came even close to meriting tears except, perhaps, the hairbrush. Then all three hugged and the evening progressed as planned, “slate wiped clean.”
Continued Next Week