Au Revoir to Laurent, plus the Fabulous Fart and Bacon Slicers

I was saddened to see that Laurent over at Le journal de la fessée has suffered from bloggers burn-out and is now closed for business. Still, the French nation remains well-represented by sites such as ‘la fessée conjugale’ and ‘Au Fils du Jours’ to name just two. If you’re out there, Laurent, and still reading blogs, all the very best of luck to you in the future mon ami.

This weekend’s Woody Toons’ played to packed houses and have attracted attention from such respected art houses as Underground Animations and Spanking Art Wiki (which is by the way a veritable Alladin’s Cave of Spanking Blogs and well worth a rummage). As a result of this successful foray into the world of international art I am considering opening negotiations with such esteemed institutes as the Smithsonian, the Guggenheim and the London Tate whose collections of spanking art are currently somewhat lacking in my opinion.

I have commissioned two more works from Dave Ell and they will hopefully be ready for posting next weekend. I have also posted the complete collection on Flickr which allows viewing of larger versions of the Toons (I think) and for them to be viewed as a slideshow (I’m not sure that any of this brought much to the party but I was experimenting!).

Over the weekend I redesigned the Woodettes Publications Page to give direct access to the five volumes from the Woody Back to School Unit saga that are available for download for the very reasonable sum of $4.99 each. I have included a brief synopsis of the content of each book and of course I have kept the free preview chapters available for your enjoyment.

And speaking of extracts today’s, which comes from Volume 2 – Operation Scorched Arse, recounts the unfortunate incident known in Woody lore as ‘The Fabulous Fart’. This somewhat unusual and rather unfeminine episode features Debs Morton. I feel rather guilty about showing Debs in this rather coarse and vulgar light (I get very attached to my characters) but due to the rather mercurial, reckless and often unpredictable nature of her personality she just seemed the ideal gal for the job. Oh well, she is after all just a fictional character.

By the way, the incident does have some kind of biographical derivation. Back in the day I remember this lad letting one rip in the classroom. We had an Irish gal in the class and for some reason this audible gaseous emission sent her into a fit of the giggles. I’ll always remember this incident as it was the poor gal who was made to stand up and hold out her hand so she could receive three whacks of the ruler. It struck me as somewhat unfair at the time but that was the classroom justice that we were brought up on (see also Bent over the piano stool and beaten with a violin bow).

The extract also brings the reader’s attention to a very specialized caning technique known in the trade as ‘Bacon Slicing’. The story gives the details but just for note this technique was introduced to RH from an extract in a rather famous British comedian’s autobiography (name excluded to protect the innocent). The cane is brought down vertically rather than horizontally and if delivered correctly the recipient will momentarily experience the alarming sensation that a thin layer of skin has been sliced off; hence the name. A word of warning. I have experimented with the technique and can assure you that it is very difficult to perfect and all training exercises should be tested on an inanimate object rather than a human bum!

So without further ado here goes … it’s the weekend so kick-back, pour a glass of wine or crack open a beer, or even fix a glass of milk and a plate of cookies … whatever you fancy … enjoy … Bottoms Up! … RH

Before the week was out Deborah Morton received another tough lesson in exactly how hard life could be when you had been declared Public Enemy Number One at the nation’s most austere Back to School unit. Midway through a music tutorial Ms Whitton bent her over the piano stool and beat her with a violin bow.

“Morton, fetch the violin bow and step up!” snapped Ms Whitton, who acted as the Music Dame around the facility.

As she trudged towards the front of the room Deborah Morton had good reason to be alarmed.

For the first few years as an inmate at the facility Debs had been Ms Whitton’s star pupil. Her exceptional talent as a clarinetist and her fine singing voice had won her considerable favor with the Music Dame. However, fatefully that favored relationship would all change with a sound of another nature altogether.

During the autumn term of Deborah’s fourth year at the facility, the early rehearsals of the upcoming Woodys Christmas production of Handel’s Messiah were progressing extremely well. Ms Whitton smiled to herself as she guided the choir into the beginning of the Hallelujah chorus. She was particularly fond of the piece and had taken inordinate time and care over the arrangement.

Ms Whitton turned to lead in the altos. As the choristers began to sing she was surprised to notice that Deborah Morton had missed the beat. Thinking it to merely be an uncharacteristic error from her musical star she turned away, but moments later when she turned her attention back to the altos she was aghast to see that Deborah was not only not singing at all, but appeared to be engrossed in reading something she had extracted from her blazer pocket.

Angrily the music instructor indicated to the choir to stop.

“Morton,” she barked. “Step up before the choir this minute.”

Deborah was jolted to her senses and hurriedly stuffed the paper back into her pocket. Slightly red faced she made her way up before the enraged Dame.

“You’re not singing, gal” Ms Whitton snapped. “Explain yourself immediately.”

It would have been an easy matter for Deborah to have made up an excuse that she had a sore throat and didn’t want to strain herself, but instead what followed would earn Debs a place in the annals of Woody lore forever.

With perfect comic timing Deborah Morton farted.

It was not a small, secretive girly grunt but an enormous fart. Enough wind to make a gals skirt flap and to strain the seams of her bumbags. It was flatulence on a fantastic scale. It was a fart that swooped and soared and echoed throughout the hall.

T’was a veritably gargantuan guff.

For a moment the hall was quiet. Then Deborah Morton began to laugh. She rocked back on her heels and tickled her ribs with mirth. She was quickly accompanied by the hysterical tittering of the rest of the choir as they celebrated the sheer majesty of the fabulous fart.

Momentarily Ms Whitton stared at Deborah Morton, an incredulous look on her face. For a hefty lady she moved with remarkable speed. She grabbed Deborah Morton by the wrist and in a fluid movement sat back on the piano stool and dumped the helpless inmate face down over her knee. With even greater speed she had turned back Deborah’s skirt and to the amazement of the assembled choir she yanked Deborah’s bumbags down until they were concertinaed around her ankles.

At first Deborah had been winded by her dizzying downward journey but she quickly regained her breath and started to struggle. However, fit and athletic though she was, Deborah was no match for the brawny Dame.

“Leggo of me,” Deborah wailed, “Lemme up!”

The indignity of having her bare bottom displayed to the choir was just too ghastly and Deborah kicked and struggled and squirmed with all her strength.

“Lemme go you bitch!” she screamed.

Ms Whitton had a tight hold on the squirming inmate and an even firmer hold on the conductor’s baton, which she had raised high in the air. She brought the baton down with terrific force.

“Lemme go I tell you,” Deborah wailed as the baton flailed at her naked bottom. The baton rose and fell with startling speed. Deborah Morton vainly tried to escape from Ms Whitton’s vice-like grip but the Dame just kept on whacking. After six whacks Ms Whitton showed no inclination to stop, after a dozen she merely seemed to be warming to her work, and the blows continued to rain down.

Deborah Morton was no newcomer to having her butt whipped, but this was a thrashing without precedent. Deborah’s legs were kicking frantically; her body was twisting, her head shaking violently and Deborah Morton, amongst the toughest gals at the unit, started to howl.

The authority to administer punishment to the bare bottom was limited to the Grand Dame and the Red-shirt. Members of the Brass were strictly limited to administering six strokes during any single punishment. However, Ms Whitton seemed oblivious to these rules, her arm pumped up and down and Deborah’s bottom was being slashed to tatters. The skinny baton was only a light implement but administered with such purpose made it an instrument of stinging torment.

By now Deborah’s howls were changing from indignation to genuine distress. The baton continued to slice across her arse and the frenzied Dame was showing no signs of letting up. Deborah’s cheeks were criss-crossed with angry weals and her struggles were becoming frantic. Her legs scissored through the air, her buttocks squirmed and wriggled to escape the onslaught, she tried to put her hands back to protect herself to no avail, but still the beating continued.

The members of the choir watched in horrified awe. Ms Whitton was thrashing Deborah with the fervor of a frenzied zealot. Her arm was pumping up and down at a frantic pace.

Debs Morton had a reputation for inspiring ire in members of the Brass and the Elite but even by her unfortunate standards the untimely release of wind had pushed Ms Whitton over the brink. It appeared to the choristers that she was literally frothing at the mouth.

Finally after the baton had slashed across Deborah’s backside three dozen times or more Ms Whitton began to slow down. With three last swipes the whipping finally drew to a close.

The hall was suddenly silent. Ms Whitton dragged up Deborah’s bumbags and smoothed down her skirt. Debs remained sprawled across the Dame’s lap as if uncertain of what to do. Roughly Ms Whitton yanked Deborah to her feet. Debs, normally so self-assured, stood in front of the choir with her head bowed looking shell-shocked.

Ms Whitton pointed to the door. “Get out of my sight,” she snarled, and with a heavy tread Deborah Morton left the hall, tears trickling down her cheeks.

There was an enquiry of course; Deborah was given the opportunity to report the matter to her Court Appointed Guardian and to file a complaint. However, she knew that if she filed a complaint it would become a matter of public record. Four years earlier she had suffered the humiliation of her public arrest and the subsequent castigation in the press. Debs Morton was less than enthusiastic about returning to the public eye in relation to a fart, fabulous or otherwise. She elected to keep Woody business as Woody business. Ms Whitton was given a six-month ban from beating Deborah.

During the six months that followed the incident of the Fabulous Fart Ms Whitton sent Deborah to Coventry, limiting their relationship strictly to choir and orchestra business.

However, the night that Ms Lawton announced the implementation of Operation Scorched Arse and branded Debs as Public Enemy Number One was coincident with the end of the ban period. The Grand Dame took the music instructor to one side.

“Your thrashing rights over Deborah Morton have been fully reinstated,” the Grand Dame informed Ms Whitton. “I’m sure should the opportunity arise you will do the right thing.”

“Yes, Grand Dame,” grinned Ms Whitton. “It will be my pleasure.”

“But one thing, Ms Whitton,” said the Grand Dame. “Everything must appear one hundred per cent legitimate.”

“Of course Ma’am,” smiled the Dame, “I’ll take care of everything.”

Ms Whitton was considered to be a power-beater. She was large framed and extremely strong. She didn’t punish gals with the prolificacy of Patty Hodge, the Wart or Katie Beck but on the occasions she did choose to wield the violin bow the events were memorable.

Deborah Morton was stretched out across the piano stool with her bumbags sitting up proud. Above her the music instructor had the violin bow raised above her head. The low lie of the stool meant that by the time the tip of the bow reached its target it was moving at terminal velocity.

Deborah’s chums watched sympathetically. It was evident to everybody in the room that this was not a regular punishment. Ms Whitton was swiping the bow down with all her might, the sound of the wooden stick rebounding off Deborah’s bumbags literally echoed around the room.

The bow whistled through the air, colliding with Deborah’s defenseless bottom with unmitigated force. Debs bucked and wriggled and kicked. Her chums watched anxiously as Ms Whitton prepared for the last and probably most formidable swipe.

“Get up gal!” snapped Ms Whitton.

Deborah couldn’t believe her ears. The Dame must have miscounted. She was going to get off with five. Painfully she pushed herself up and smoothed her skirt down. Stiff-legged she slowly started back towards her desk.

“Where do you think you’re going?” barked the Dame.

Deborah turned and looked plaintively at Ms Whitton.

“Bend over,” the Dame snapped.

Deborah grimaced.

“Turn around Morton and bend over and touch your toes.”

Slowly Deborah turned and faced the seated inmates. She bent forward at the waist and reached down towards the tips of her shoes. Ms Whitton turned back the hem of her skirt.

The tension in the room was palpable. They watched Ms Whitton take careful aim, raise the violin bow in the air then slice it downwards. Involuntarily Deborah stood bolt upright her hands clasping at her cheeks, a look of anguish on her face. It was a perfectly executed bacon slicer.

Ms Whitton tapped the floor in front of Deborah’s shoes.

“Touch them Morton,” she snapped, “you know the form.”

With trembling fingers Deborah reached down.

Bacon slicing was a highly specialized technique. Instead of swiping the cane across the buttocks horizontally it was brought down vertically, aiming to make only the slightest contact. When executed perfectly it made a gal feel as if a layer of flesh had been sliced off. The sensation was short lived but instantly agonizing.

Ms Whitton slashed down a second perfectly executed bacon slicer. This time Deborah’s shoulders jolted back and her fingers raised six inches from her shoes. Despite her anguish she pushed forward and got her fingers back in place. She could hardly hold back the tears.

“Stay down,” ordered Ms Whitton.

“That ain’t fair!” growled Nicola Jane at the back of the room.

“Silence! Silence in the room!” bellowed Ms Whitton.

She slashed the violin bow down. For the third time Debs jerked up.

At the back of the room Jojo, Nix and Rosemary watched in horror. Debs fingers had hardly left her toes for a second but still the music instructor was calling it as a bad strike. Technically the protocols said that if a gal was touching her toes during punishment then she should not rise from position until given permission. However, even the harshest of Dames realized that the toe-touching position was extremely difficult to maintain and if a gal recovered her stance promptly the strike was called good. Ms Whitton was using the most ruthless interpretation of the protocols possible. Deborah only had two chances. She either had to stay down so that the six was complete or otherwise Ms Whitton had to miss.

The violin bow slashed down perfectly. The pain was almost insurmountable but somehow Deborah found the will to keep her fingers on her toes. Ms Whitton looked furious, but she had no choice, the beating was finally street legal.

“Get up gal,” she snarled. “Go back to your desk and stand on your chair with your hands on your head for the remainder of this tutorial.”