Reddened Rebels by A.B. BurnzGirls just wanna have fun, right? But in this collection of sexy spanking stories, girls who disobey when they play pay the consequences - bare bottom spankings.
Girls just wanna have fun, right? But in this collection of intriguing and sexy spanking stories, girls who disobey when they play are forced to pay the consequences by submitting to painful, humiliating bare bottom spankings.
In ”The Bermuda Rebellion and How it Was Suppressed,” two 21–year–old women learn that they are not too big to be put a strong attorney’s knee and spanked until their bottoms are red and they are sobbing with hurt and embarrassment. But maybe they should have considered that before defying their host by drinking in Bermuda bars after he’s asked them not to. A fun, sexy story with lots of tension building up to artfully–written spanking scenes.
Who doesn’t love stories of professors spanking lazy students? In ”Strict Accounting,” Kelly Prichard had months to do the research requested of her by Professor Jordan, so when deadline looms and she only has four hastily scrawled pages, the angry instructor threatens to pull her financial aid unless she submits to some corporal correction. Yes, this story has been told so many times before, but the detail in this adaptation is so rich and descriptive that you’ll find yourself squirming with anticipation, desire or both.
Back in the day, the military wasn’t as PC as it is now. In ”Getting to Delores,” a pretty clerk typist for an army officer doesn’t get the message that her work isn’t isn’t passing muster until he upends her over his lap and spanks her bottom smartly with a paddle. If you love your spankings hot – and with a side of military nostalgia – then you’ll want to go back and read this one twice.
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Reddened Rebels (Sample Chapter)
Collection of spanking stories, girls who disobey pay the consequences - bare bottom spankings
© A.B. Burnz and CF Publications, 2013
The Bermuda Rebellion & How It Was Suppressed
Perkins College's spring vacation didn't come until the end of April. Today that sounds weird, but the leisurely academic calendar of the fifties insured that we'd still have at least five weeks of school to get through when we came back.
Ordinarily I wouldn't have looked forward to it especially, except as a temporary escape from school. Neither Christmas nor semester break had been much to shout about. This changed, however, at about 6:30 on the first Sunday of April, when Joan came into my room.
She found me lying glumly on my bed, trying to get inspired by the Romantic poets, on whom I had a paper due the next week. ``Jenny," she shouted, ``I've got the most wonderful news! Mother and Ted are going to spend spring vacation week in Bermuda, and they want me to come and bring a friend! You can come, can't you? Oh, sure you can!'' She was as excited as a kid.
My heart leaped up a good deal higher, I must admit, than if I had beheld a rainbow in the sky. But then it fell at least halfway back. I could imagine my mother raising all sorts of objections. She disliked the idea of airplane travel, for one thing, and for another she was very likely to be influenced by the fact that our chaperons were not exactly man and wife. Joan argued, however, that they were practically as good as engaged; by this time, Ted had outlasted all other suitors, and I felt that I could refer to them as ``Mrs. Paolucci and her fiancé'' with a reasonably clear conscience.
So I went to call my parents. To my great surprise, they raised relatively few objections, took the matter soberly under consideration, and the next day granted their consent. I found out much later that what really did the trick was that my father had known Ted's older brother when they were students at M.I.T.
Mother even drove up to Manchester the next Saturday and met me at the bus station. She brought all my decent summer clothes with her, and we went shopping to fill the gaps. ``Remember, dear,'' she said as we were parting, ``Joan's-Mrs. Paolucci and, ah, Mr. Chadwick will be responsible for you, just as if they were your parents. Be a good girl, now, and don't embarrass us.''
``For Pete's sake, Mother, I'm 21 years old, and so is Joan,'' I said impatiently. Riding back to Perkins with my suitcase and shopping bags, however, I had some time for sober reflection. Ted Chadwick, as I knew, was not a man who took foster-parenting lightly. One night when a bottle of wine had loosened her tongue, Joan had confessed that a couple of years ago, Ted had given her a face-down, over-the-knee, and bare-bottom hairbrush spanking for not taking her summer math assignments seriously. And this was at a time when he was just one of her mother's boyfriends.
Joan said the spanking had hurt, and been terribly humiliating, but that it did her no permanent harm and it had made her concentrate on her math. I also suspected, from the way she talked about it, that she found something sexy about the whole idea of being bared and spanked by a strong, determined, good-looking man. That was something I could understand. My own fantasies had often edged in that direction, though it was a secret I shared with no one.
The first time Kelly Prichard found herself in a situation she couldn't charm her way out of was a bright Saturday morning in May, not far into her twenty-second year. The place was a dingy academic office in an old brick building on the far side of the Whiteside College campus, where Kelly sat without comfort in a heavy wooden office chair, squirming her bottom nervously as she watched Professor Jordan shuffle the sheets of yellow, lined notebook paper she had just handed him. The expression on his face was somewhere between impatient, disgusted, and just plain incredulous, none of which boded well for a student assistant whose primary work skills were blonde good looks and a giggly, good-humored manner that lasted as long as she managed to get her own way.
Kelly, a slender young woman whose blonde hair looked fresh and pretty despite being permed into a fluffy poodle-mop, was dressed in the height of Whiteside College fashion: a baggy green Michigan State sweatshirt that looked about to fall off one shoulder, a short, nondescript black skirt whose dingy fabric looked as if it had swaddled generations of Iranian grandmothers, a pair of tight, bright purple leggings, white sweat socks, and a pair black high-top sneakers that would, a few years ago, have been considered unbearably dorky by the nerdiest freshman computer science major. It is a tribute to Kelly's fresh good looks that she managed to look lovely in this outfit. Unfortunately, however, she was fully aware of how lovely she looked, and had never been reluctant to capitalize on her attractiveness.
At length the professor looked up at her. "This is all?" he demanded. "You are collecting work-study checks for—what is it, eleven weeks now, and a whole semester almost—and this is what you have been able to produce?"
Kelly tried her sweetest smile. It died a horrible death on her lips as the man glared back at her, the expression on his lined, craggy face losing none of its indignation. Her nervousness increased. That smile had seldom failed her in the past. "I, um, I really tried," she said, untruthfully, "but, Golly, Professor Jordan, this semester has just been so busy! I never realized how many other things I'd have to do!" She considered itemizing these, but realized in time that the list was unlikely to impress him, most items on it being social in nature. She settled for the helpless, wide-blue-eyed stare that, together with Gollies and Goshes and other outdated teenage-girl expressions, generally served to melt the heart of adult authority and get her off with a pat on the shoulder and an admonition to try a little harder.
Anton Jordan seemed unmoved, however. "You have—putatively—been working on this bibliography for eleven weeks, twelve hours a week," he said, in the accent he had brought from somewhere in Eastern Europe. "That is what you have been telling me, and that, in turn, is what I have been telling the bursar's office and the Larrabee Student Aid Fund, which is the source of this money. One hundred and thirty-two hours of library research, and you are bringing me four pages of references—you could have done that much in one evening!"
"Oh, no, Professor Jordan, it was much more than that!" Kelly protested, and this was correct—it had taken nearly two.
Getting to Delores
It was September 1943, and Lieutenant Orville Guthrie, United States Army Quartermaster Corps, had just been assigned to duty at Camp Myles Standish, a huge installation in Massachusetts where personnel and equipment were assembled for shipping out to Europe. Some German and Italian prisoners were also being held there. "We get 'em coming and going," said Captain Wilson, who showed Orville around.
To manage the paperwork involved in this gigantic undertaking required a vast and highly organized staff. Orville, to play his small part, needed the services of a clerk-typist. He had to wait a week or so, but at length he was assigned a WAAC private, a leggy, slightly bucktoothed blonde named Dolores Brown.
Orville soon discovered that despite Private Brown's twenty-two years of living and sixteen weeks of Army training, her office skills were negligible, her attention span brief, and her intellectual faculties apparently strained by any activity more complex than giggling. She was so nearly useless, in fact, that he began to foresee grave difficulties for his military career unless he could find some better way to get Private Brown's work done than doing it himself. He inquired discreetly about having her replaced, but was told that clerk-typists were hard to get, that he was lucky to have one at all, and that the most skillful were generally snapped up by higher echelons anyway.
This was all very well, but Orville had a problem on his hands. He simply could not do all his own typing and filing; that would leave no time for his proper duties. It occurred to him at that point to ask Captain Wilson's advice.
Orville's hopes were high, for Wilson had charge of a bevy of clerk-typists, and seemed able to run his show quite efficiently. The captain's own secretary, Corporal Boynton, was a petite, sandy-haired, freckle-faced young woman, with a snub nose and humorous brown eyes. On his visits to Wilson's office, Orville had admired her businesslike and efficient air, so different from that of Dolores Brown.
Over lunch at the Officers' Club, Wilson listened to Orville's tale of woe, and then, sitting back, outlined his options. Orville could warn Private Brown and, if this got no results, put her on report. She might be restricted to the base for a weekend. But in his own experience this process was imperfect; it might make the WAAC unhappy, but seldom brought about any consequent improvement in her performance. Moreover, one couldn't use it often without getting the girl in more serious trouble, which was not desirable: she might be transferred to some less attractive duty and not be replaced for weeks, and the replacement, which would of course have to be trained, might be no better. So, unless this measure was effective the first or second time, it was unlikely to solve the problem.
Orville sighed. It would take more than that; he was sure, to get through to the redoubtable Dolores Brown. "The whole thing about the Army routine," said Wilson "is that it doesn't get their attention. That's really the problem with your girl, isn't it?"
"That's right," said Orville. "I don't know what it might take to get her attention, short of a mortar round on her desk."