Brodies Pages

The village schoolteacher adhered to traditional methods of education and was demanding of details in everything. Now, too, she was meticulously preparing to punish John for using obscene language toward girls.

Today, John is guaranteed 24 red stripes on his buttocks. Screams, squeals, and tears are also quite likely. She wisely invited the girls to hold John during his punishment. They promised to come and said that before the punishment, they would sit on John's back and legs to prevent John from breaking free and running away before he received his full punishment. She is convinced this is the only way to eradicate the boy's bad manners.

People want the advanced techniques. The hypnosis files, the conditioning protocols, the elaborate training regimens. And those work, don't get me wrong. I'm a fan.

But everyone overlooks the basics.

If you want to be a slut, start by telling yourself you're a slut. Out loud. Repeatedly. It sounds almost stupidly simple, but repetition rewires the brain. Affirmations aren't just self-help nonsense. Every time you say something about yourself, it becomes a little more true.

So let's practice.

I want you to say these out loud. Actually speak them. If you're somewhere you can't talk, then wait until you can. This only works if you hear your own voice saying the words.

Ready? Say it with me...

"I'm a slut."

My body needs to be used.

I get wet when I'm degraded.

I'm happiest when I'm being fucked.

I'm a desperate, needy fuckhole.

My holes are for cock.

I belong on my knees.

Watching this clip just for a few minutes, imagining myself in the place of the girl getting her bare bum smacked in that particular manner, invariably will make me squirm and my panties turn moist.

From Tara:

Spankings in our house were frequent, ritualized, severe and always a family event. The last part is really what made them so awful … and effective, I have to admit.

If my sister or I had been sentenced to a spanking, it would take place in the family room after dinner. We were always forced to watch each other be punished so it would be a reminder of what would happen. Even when I was annoyed with my sister I still cringed at every stroke of the switch or strap (my dad’s go-to implements). I knew what it felt like and I really didn’t wish it on anyone, though as I got to my teens I also experienced a rush of excitement that I didn’t understand at first (though I figured it out later!)

That excitement was limited to witnessing, as my dad made sure to make our punishments thorough and painful. First the one getting it would be scolded, then told to get up, and lower her pants and panties (or lift a skirt or dress) Then the dreaded “bend over.” Any hesitation was met with immediate smacks and added strokes. Clenching cheeks was also forbidden as it was considered disobedience. He never told us how many lashes or strokes we would be getting: “I’ll decide when you’ve had enough” he often said when I begged him to stop. After our ass whippings he walked us to the corner where we had to stand, hands on head and still bare, for an hour or more when everyone else went about their lives. If we moved we got our thighs slapped or, worse, bent back over for another 6 or so.