gatheringdusk
gathering dusk
I'm sorry if you followed my previous blog (postlyricalnothings), which I deleted. Here find cute butts, beauty, drawings, evocativevignettes and images: strictly 18 plus. Images not my own; attribution given where available. Some "disciplinary" fantasies are a bit intense and won't appeal to everyone. Any real life activities at all resembling those described should be completely consensual and between adults. Misogyny and neo-fascist groupthink will not be tolerated.
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You could see it on her face. She was a connoisseur of the different ways a belt whipping could feel.
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When the need comes upon Svetlana, it's always been the belt or nothing, facedown on the bed, her pajama bottoms tugged in one swift rough motion down to her knees so she knows she's really in for it and almost starts to plead.
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In a (consensual) old-fashioned disciplinary ass-whuppin' like she gets about once a month, she takes her pants down as ordered, down to her knees, panties too, and before she's at all ready, whatever readiness would feel like when you're getting punished, really punished, that sizzling hot doubled belt snaps with a blur across her pretty girlish butt so hard, so very hard and fast and stingy she remembers it now, what it really feels like, and with a hint of desperation wonders if she can possibly take it...
...but before she's even completed this thought it goes on, that unerring disciplinary belt snapping across her tender cheeks over and over, searching out her most sensitive spots, sometimes to her amazement and distress nearly the same spot two or three times in a row and then up an inch or two or down but never stopping, not for a second stopping, please please stop just a moment I'll be good she says but it doesn't, it wouldn't be a punishment if it did, if she could control it, modulate it,
it just goes on hard and fast snap snap snap snap snap
until her beautiful sensitive girlishly-womanly ass is the burning unbearable center of the universe
and she's about to cry, really cry,
and the supple, well-worn leather feels stiff and pitiless now, intent on its sole task, her ass so bare and
exposed and stung and bruised and hot and red, and all that matters
is obedience in offering her butt for the next stroke wherever it
will fall, for however long it has to be...
...and this is exactly the price of admission for these few exquisitely wild moments when she feels totally real and alive and seen, really seen, however crazy that might sound to someone who just doesn't get it...
(source of clip?)
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Everyone later wondered what the source of her sultry and enigmatic song "White Leather Loveseat" had been, but she never told.
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All afternoon, Hadley had been going through boxes of old belongings in her girlhood bedroom, having taken a train out from the city with the plan of spending the night. It had been Hadley’s idea for her mother to rent out her old bedroom to a nice, polite college girl, not so much to bring in money but so her mother would be less alone in the empty house.
Going through the many familiar objects her mother had gathered into boxes, Hadley hadn’t meant to sink in so deeply to childhood associations and emotions. But a part of her had let it happen. And then in the bottom of a box she'd found a book she remembered well, an old novel about a smart, plucky, shy girl in boarding school named Catherine. Just the sight of its rough faded orange cover made her feel 16 again instead of 31. As she knelt on the floor and opened the book, it fell open, as she had long ago trained it to do, to a passage she had read many times. A very short passage, but how often she’d lain in this bed at night and embroidered on those few spare lines.
Holding the book, Hadley listened for her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. Hadley might be 31, but her mother still had a way of reading her mind. Still, she couldn't help rereading at least the short dialogue exchange that was the culmination of a long dramatic scene set in the home of the strict but beautiful headmistress Audrey Coverdale:
“I know you have already learned your lesson by seeing the negative effects of your well-intended intervention in your fellow student's life," said the headmistress. "You may be smarter than the rest and have a good heart, but no one can or should play God. And just to make the lesson a lasting one, I’m afraid I am going to have to punish you, Catherine.”
The headmistress set her tea cup down and rose from the chair. “It’s a matter of principle, you see. And then perhaps we may consider all accounts settled. Perhaps, who knows, punishment will help ease your conscience as well.”
Catherine too put her teacup on the table and stood. She had a tremulous feeling. Punished? Could it really be so? Just like the other girls? Oh, why had she let the headmistress down after all the extra kindness she’d been given? She would do anything to make it up to her.
And then Catherine noticed the smooth wooden hairbrush in the headmistress's hand. Where had it come from?
"This hairbrush was my mother's," said the headmistress. "It hasn't been used for many years. We will see whether or not you prefer it to the cane the other girls feel when they misbehave. Now come, young lady, we'd better go to my study and get this over with."
The passage had ended there, with the next chapter picking up the story a week later, that scene never mentioned again, the crisis resolved, all culprits unmasked, Catherine redeemed by a particular act of self-sacrificing bravery, the headmistress full of stern but loving smiles again.
Now, startled from her revery by hearing her mother call her name from the foot of the stairs to come down for dinner, she stood up quickly, smoothed her dress, closed the book. Looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser, a slender fashionable young woman, she watched herself place the book at the bottom of a small stack, knowing that later tonight she could read it at her leisure.
She could already picture it, lying snugly tucked into her old narrow bed in her old flannel pajamas, the old familiar warm reading light on, her mother asleep down the hall. She wondered what new worlds her imagination would discover in the scene, now that she had so much more knowledge and experience. She could hardly wait…
The American Girl (September 1931)
Cover by ?
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