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Friday 7 February 2014

Saturday Spankings Love Spanks

Weeooh Weeooh Weeooh. Unauthorised Entry alert. Call security.

I want to make it totally clear there is absolutely no need for anyone to read, or comment on this entry. I just took a notion I would try a little F/f in honour of Love Spanks. Feel free to hit that lovely liberating X button on the top right hand corner because what follows it totally experimental. Equally to the one or two who do take the time to read it through, thank you - you're my heroes.


"Student Nurse O'Hara, report to Sister Lucia's office."
Those were the words that greeted me as I rushed through the door. There were times that I really despised myself and this definitely counted among those times. I’d already done the hard part but now, when it was getting easier that’s when I started to screw up. The feeling of self-loathing permeated my very core.
I had been brought up in a different faith to my peers, with a different set of values. From I was knee high to a grasshopper, I’d been taught that my role in life centered around three things; being a good wife, a good mother and spreading the Lord’s word.
Education was only important insofar as it promoted these things, and was actively discouraged if it meant I got too big for my boots. At the merest sniffle, I was kept home from school. Most of my friends thought I was lucky to have parents like that. And if my homework wasn’t done before we went on our rounds of spreading the gospel, I got a note saying I was unwell and couldn’t complete it. Soon I learned to finish off my work under the duvet with a torch and I became sharp as anything at hearing my parents’ footstep on the stair and flicking off the torch. I had one ambition. I desperately wanted to be a nurse.
Getting the results needed in my leaving certificate was tricky for me as I had to study in secret but I managed it. I was elated when the results came through. I got accepted to the best Catholic nursing hospital in the country, despite my religious persuasion. My parents were raging, of course and told me that if I accepted the offer, I needn’t come home again. But that didn’t deter me. It was 1978 after all. Used to a very subsistence existence, I knew my trainee nurse’s salary would be more than adequate. Fuelled by the triumph of achieving my ambition, I happily took leave of my safe cocoon, accepted that in my family’s eyes I had never existed, and embraced the freedom and joy of an unknown world.
For the most part, my training was on the job training, which meant on the wards. There were two shifts, the day shift, from 8 am to 8 pm or the nightshift, from 8pm until replaced by the day shift at 8 am. I had no problem with the night shifts. Years of secret study had meant my body was trained into the late hours and I could easily stay up all night if I had to. In fact I’d been relieved to see my first term was mainly night shifts. Even the college days were fine, my lectures only started at ten a.m. In my second semester however I was switched to day shifts, and it in the first week of the switchover I had earned the ward sister’s disapproval three times out of a four day week.
 I really tried to do better the following week, and only had one late, and that was only by five minutes. I really thought that had kept me under the radar but on Friday, I was surprised to be called to Matron’s office.  Nervously, I knocked on the door and waited for the call to enter.
“You wanted to see me, Sr. Lucia? I hope it’s not an inconvenient time for you?” I asked in my meekest voice. Although not Catholic, I had attended the local schools which had been run by nuns and was well aware of the correct address and the deferential behaviour that was expected from subordinates.
“Come in, my child, take a seat.” I didn’t hesitate. I knew better than to wait to be told twice. Besides, I, like all the other student nurses, held Matron in awe. She was young for a matron, only in her mid to late thirties.  I watched her carefully. She exuded confidence and competence, but still she managed to appear personable. At that moment in time, there was nothing I wanted to do more than please this woman who had taken the time to see me.
“Leila, I have to admit I’m worried about you, my dear. After our intake interviews I had to go to great lengths to convince the board to accept you on our programme here. You’re very bright and diligent. Your reports are excellent except for your punctuality. I’d hate to lose you over something as trivial as that.”
As a mere eighteen year old, I couldn’t help feeling flattered. This person I admired almost above all else had fought for me, even only after a brief interview. And she’d remembered me. Of course I had remembered Sr. Lucia too, but so had all of the students. I felt special, singled out.
“I know from your counsellor that your family have renounced you for being here. You’ve made such a great sacrifice. Maybe it’s too much? It might not be too late to reconcile with them if you want to leave us. Is that what you want?”
“Oh no, Sister. Being here means everything to me. I just got in the habit of working nights and the early shift is difficult. I promise I won’t be late again. Honest. I’ll do anything to stay. I love it here.”
“You’re still such a child, my dear. But already you’ve been forced into adult decisions. And now I’m going to force you into another. There are many here don’t want to see you succeed. I however, do want you to succeed as I believe you have a lot to offer and I want to take you under my wing. One day I think you too can be matron, with your brains and ability to sacrifice for the greater good. I can be a harsh taskmaster but I think I can help if you’ll give yourself over to my guidance.”
I was flattered beyond belief. This nun I admired so much had faith in my abilities. Without hesitation I accepted her mentorship, thanking her for caring.
“You might not be so keen to accept when you know what’s involved. I intend to use corporal punishment as I do with all the novitiates that enter here. You however are the first lay nurse I have ever felt it was appropriate for.  I think you need discipline to guide you and one day I expect you to make me proud. Don’t let me down, Leila.”
“I’ll do my very best, Sister. I really appreciate your interest. I’ll try not to let you down.”
“If I didn’t believe in you, I wouldn’t trouble myself. Now bend over my desk and hitch up your skirt into the belt and lower your underwear to your knees. This is for your appalling performance last week. I have left orders on the ward that if you’re not at the nurses station five minutes before your shift, you have to report to me, every time.”
I wanted to run away, right there and then. I really thought I’d left the humiliation of bare-bottomed chastisements behind me when I had thrown up my family in favour of a career and yet here I was, facing more. It didn’t even occur to me to refuse as at home that would simply have doubled the punishment. I felt the heat rise to my face as I stood and automatically followed the instructions.  From my vantage point I had the opportunity to see exactly what Sr Lucia had in store for me as she opened a cupboard on the wall behind the desk. There was an array of canes and straps that would send shivers down any spine, even without the threat of an imminent spanking. I felt a huge sense of relief as Sr. Lucia picked out a simple leather belt. I had more experience of corporal punishment than most and I knew that while leather smarted like hell, the effects of the thin belt being chosen would soon fade.
My stupid damn body let me down as usual. Dammit, I hated this part of the spanking, the part that confused me. Fear gripped me but just as I was caught in it’s ugly grasp, my body craved it. Needed it. Oh, I knew for sure that I’d be late again. I couldn’t help my tardiness and a promise of a thrashing was almost an incentive.
Humiliated or not, I longed for that bite, the fire and the belief that someone truly cared for me enough to give it to me. With no difficulty whatsoever, I held my prone position as Sr. Lucia brought the belt down again and again. By the twentieth stroke I ached all over but I had often experienced twenty strokes and more from my father’s cruel hand and I was the equal of it. I was even disappointed that I had been let off so lightly. The disappointment didn’t last though; Sr. Lucia told me to hold my position as she switched over. She took out a long bamboo cane and told me to count each of her six strokes.
Only six, a piece of cake, I thought. But after the first I lost my cockiness. I had never before felt anything like it. At first it was a dead thud and the initial sensation was not so bad, I can take this. Less than three seconds later though the burn set in. Sr Lucia was clever, she didn’t strike again until I had felt the full impact of the first. Even as I heard the swish through the air, I was clenching, trying to steel myself against the impact. It fell just below the first, and I couldn’t help but cry out. Three was lower still but the next was the killer; it hit that really sensitive spot where my fatty butt gave way to my slimmer and less resilient thighs and I’m ashamed to admit I cried like a baby. Still I had to call the number through my sobs. Numbers five and six criss-crossed my already scorched behind. I did not jump up, and for once I was grateful of my training.
Sr. Lucia allowed me stay in her office until I had gathered myself, but there were no words of comfort. “Bear up, girl,” she admonished sternly, and I tried to gather control of my emotions. Only when I was fully clothed and calm had she anything kind to say.
“You show great promise, Leila. I don’t wish to see you here again this month. If I do, it will be twice that, do I make myself clear? You will qualify, and you will do me proud, do you hear?” Her voice was crystal clear, but her last sentence had a softer tone, encouraging almost.
With the knowledge of what was in store, I seemed to have no difficulty making my shifts for the rest of the month, six weeks even. Sr. Lucia had told me many times that she was pleased with my progress and I blossomed under her kind attentions. But soon the marks and the memory had faded, and each morning I was cutting it finer. A trip to Sr. Lucia was looming; one day in the very near future, I was going to cut it too fine. By then my ordeal had almost been romanticised in my, and I longed for her firm ministrations again.
I watched her do her rounds of the wards, a stern look for some of the student nurses, a kind word for others. Even one or two of the staff nurses seemed to flinch as she approached. I knew their secret, I knew they had felt her swift discipline and I was jealous, greedy for the same attentions. Anxious not to let my beloved Sister down though, I wondered how I could find my way back to her office for some other offence. Something new so she wouldn’t be so disappointed in me. She looked over my shoulder, and her proximity made me tremble, nerves mixed with excitement. She had noticed me. Her breath on the back of my neck distracted me as I filled in my medication chart and I inadvertently filled in the wrong dosage. I could feel her disapproval fill the entire ward.

“Nurse O’Hara, report to my office after your shift has ended,” she said and she left me, awaiting my fate.

Saturday spankings is a blog hop and be sure to visit all the other entries.

Tuesday 4 February 2014

Patrick Rossi Author of a brilliant new black comedy Three Men on a Bender comes to visit

It gives me great pleasure to welcome a brand new author, Patrick Rossi to my blog. Just over a year ago, we were both on a BETA reader site together, gleaning what advice we could from more experienced hands and polishing our scripts. Like many of the crew, we aided, abetted and encouraged one another and seeing Patrick’s book published is just as exciting for me as it was to see my own. Patrick has also the distinction of being the first non erotica or spanking fiction writer that has ever been featured here.  Three Men on a Bender is a dark comedy, and when I first read it I laughed ‘til the tears ran down my face. I even woke up laughing a couple of mornings when I had been reading before going to sleep. It’s a book that will keep you laughing all the way through, while still sucking you right in with a thrilling and gripping story of murder and intrigue.

Welcome, Patrick. It’s so great to be hosting you on your first release.  Perhaps you might like to tell the readers a little about Patrick Rossi and how you came to write your first book?

Well, Patrick Rossi was born in Ireland, then lived in Belgium, Paris, Torino, New Jersey, South Africa and Switzerland THEN I turned 21..and found myself in Italy (native country).
Now, I was born an author. The only question was: What language should I write in.  For example, when I was in Italy the first years, I figured let me write in Italian...then only after I finished the book did I realize there are only 5 humouristic publishers in Italy. So then I wrote a completely new one in English but thought it would be too much trouble sending a full manuscript to America. So, then I decided to write in Italian, but in the Italian language there are 17 verb tenses..etc.etc..
In a nutshell, finally, when I decided I'd write it in English, I did. And here it is.

The dedication at the start sets the tone of the whole book.  So are you willing to share who the chick called Mila is with the readers? And has “the wife” forgiven you yet?

            The wife, as of now doesn't know about it. BUT rest assured she will.
By the way, I'd like to say her behalf, that she's an excellent wife, and now that I'm writing my second book, she's super cool with giving me time.

            But on “Three men on a bender” being the first one, she was suspicious. Suspicious, of something I still can't put my finger on.
            I had to take a job in Milano, while living in Torino, JUST so I could write on the commune train with some continuity.

 I’d like to say, I do love her very much, and she me.  And I think it's this type of non-complicity which makes our rapport all the more spicy.

            Like when an author thanks his wife to bits, saying stuff like “If it wasn't for her help, I couldn't have done it. She's not only my wife, but my best friend, and my editor...” then I know for sure... she has to have at least five lovers, cause between those two, there's no spice...you know what I mean?

Why did an Italian choose to set his first book in Dublin and the wilds of Donegal above all places?

Well, I've decided to do it in Ireland, cause in a sense, it's the closest European and non-European country to Italy. Let me elaborate. If you merged Anglosaxon DNA with an Italian he'd become Irish.
That's one reason, but the main reason it's because I think Ireland is beautiful and underrated, Underrated for what it's really worth.  I always figured, if I ever get the chance, I'll put it in the spotlight.

What’s next on the agenda? Have you any more books planned?

Yes, I'm currently working on my next one. I'd like to keep the whole story secret. I can't give you the details.  I'll give you a broad-stroke - it's about three twenty year old youths trying to master to a tee, the art of pick up chicks.  Obviously, the story is tighter than you'd think.
And I am DYING to read Tara Finnegan's next book...Cause, between you and me, that second book of yours Mastering Maeve mixed with the first one... opened my “mind” to a whole new world. 

Would you like to share a sample of the book with the readers now?

OK, quit mucking around and give us a damn sample…we’re dying to see it.  And you know what happens on this blog if people don’t behave :D

Thanks a million for coming along and sharing your new book with me and my readers.


So let me get this straight. The whole world wants to visit New York, after the Irish countryside and Galway, but you LADS…”

I forget what he said afterwards. Bubbles of uncontrollable laughter silently and rapidly started boiling inside me. I tried to put a lid on them, but it slid off with extreme ease. The bubbles were reaching my throat and the blood rushed to my face. I quickly peered at Bradi and Marco, who through some sort of telepathy were looking straight at me.
The bubbles I had were contagious.

They stopped looking at me, bowed their heads, and squinted their eyes, concealing an equally dangerous urge to laugh.
I started piercing them with my eyes, which caused them to shake uncontrollably, and their faces were getting redder by the second.
The bartender’s gaze hovered heavy on us.

Bradi and Marco, and I started chewing our lower lip, and focusing with unusual intensity at our shoelaces.
The bartender’s heavy breathing betrayed his irate and anxious curiosity. He was probably wondering, ‘what the fuck are they sniggering about?’

I couldn’t resist.

I spun to my friends and from the corner of my mouth said, “LADS?... Who the fuck is this guy: THE BEATLES?”
A violent visceral laugh burst out. It was uncontrollable. From over the counter, the bartender snorted furiously. “Hey LADS!” The laughter grew in intensity. The bartender persisted, “Hey JUDE!”
In retrospect: I think he said ‘HEY You.’

The laugher increased exponentially. My hand flailed across my stomach as if to control myself.
The bartender then yelled, “Would you LOVE ME WHEN I’M SIXTY-FOUR?”
Again... In retrospect, I think he said ‘Would you love 6 beers more’.
Marco fell to one knee in genuflection and held his arm up in a gesture of apology to the bartender. I’d swear he was suffocating. After several minutes of suppressing and unleashing laughter, I finally mustered up all my self-control, stood up straight, looked the bartender deep into his glazed eyes, and in a VERY constrained voice said, “Sorry, we’re just laughing…”

THIS IS A FUCKING STICK UP!” a voice thundered from the entrance.

Blurb and reviews:

“Belly twisting laughs aplenty in this black-as-night comedy romp.” Ronald Chipper 

“A thriller, a satire and a laugh-out-loud comedy. A great book.” Mark, Leicestershire 

“A real cracker. Makes you giggle like Jerome K Jerome, clearly an influence.” Sean, Dublin. 

In Three Men on a Bender, with cruel sardonic wit Patrick Rossi recounts the story of cuckold Marco, morally superior and short-tempered natural leader Bradi, and himself as they witness a murder whilst on vacation in Ireland. In a series of drunken mishaps, Italy’s finest young stallions are enlisted by the killers themselves to hunt down the witnesses to the murder, becoming embroiled in an ever-deepening game of deceit. Yet it is only a matter of time before the sticky situation they find themselves in, alleviated only sporadically by the appearance of the beautiful Maylea, results in an even stickier outcome for the intrepid travelers in this hilarious story told with a unique brand of self-deprecating humor and sharp observation of man’s follies. 

  Buy on Amazon.Com       Buy on Amazon.co.uk