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My arm was fairly tired as well, physically aching from having just administered similarly punishing punishment – forty or so medium-to-hard slaps – to the bare bottoms of Miranda, Julie and Sharon, all of whom had been equally in need of some stern discipline. The only slight clue to his deviancy was the length of his straggly grey hair.
By now, I was all spanked out, even more beat than the girls were. At least that was the only clue until you got into his cluttered living room, where the framed spanking pictures on the wall and wide selection of bottom-beating implements scattered around the place left you in absolutely no doubt as to the occupant’s abiding interest in life.
“i’m not saying what we do at our parties is normal but it’s not abnormal either,” he’s told. Robert greeted me at the door of his apartment and welcomed me in, explaining that Paul would be along shortly, as would one of the girls.
Olaf Tyaransen travels to london to find out why spanking is as quintessentially english as roast beef and yorkshire pudding. Having checked into my London hotel on the day of the party, I made straight for an address in Islington to meet the Actually Spanking organisers (I’d meet the actual spankers later).
Sadly, despite my exhaustive efforts, the bold Sara – a lithe, petite and darkly pretty Eastender in her mid-thirties – obviously still hadn’t learnt her lesson. He cracked open a bottle of wine and apologised for the mess, explaining that there had been a small party held there the previous night.
When she finally got up off my lap, she continued behaving in a somewhat rude and truculent fashion, despite her tanned and tingling behind. Her bum was glowing more brightly than a neon sign in Soho, yet she was still being a pain in the arse. ” Like an oversized and underfed bird of prey, Bill was perched expectantly and excitably on a chair to my left. Although most of Actually Spanking’s events are held in the upstairs function room of a nearby pub, they occasionally hold smaller parties for “old hands” in the flat.
That's how she was convinced by photographer Tom Kelley to pose nude. Kelley's wife, Natalie, present to calm her nerves, Marilyn laid against a red velvet backdrop while nearly naked, staring sensuously into the camera.'You must promise to never tell anyone about my posing for you in the nude,' she reportedly told him.
'I want you to promise me that you will take the pictures so that I wouldn't be recognizable in them.'Mr.