Ms. Harriet Marwood

Professional Disciplinarian and Spankologist

New York City


About Ms. Marwood





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Here are various stories contributed by friends of Ms. Marwood....


Please note: Ms. Marwood is NOT responsible for the content of stories she has NOT authored. DO NOT ASSUME that the activities fantasized about and depicted by other people are necessarily a part of Ms. Marwood's personal spanking sessions. These stories are meant to provide a diversity of entertainment for Ms. Marwood's loyal fans.   


...And stay tuned. More stories coming soon!


A Story by Patrick:

  A warm, loving governess, Miss J also knew that the proper admixture of corporal and bathroom bottom-discipline gave a young man the kind of structure and security that he needed. 

She was warm and loving but resolute and she would make certain that young Mr. Patrick got precisely what she knew he needed.

Miss J’s system was tried and true.  She knew that, at any age, 10, 15, 20 or older, boys and young men, often could be properly motivated only by means of prolonged, sound, and sometimes rather rigorous and intimate attention being paid their naughty bare behinds.

Patrick had been placed in her charge and Miss J was determined that she would do her duty and he his!  She would give this young man a series of proper lickings.

To her mind, it was a veritable shame that he had been denied this kind of loving, intimate discipline when he was younger.  She knew from her own experience, the sense of caring and well-being that can be derived from a very thorough spanking applied one’s naked seat.


Patrick was now over the spanking bench.  With pillows supporting and elevating his middle, Patrick “presented” his buttocks for her.  He had assumed this position only after Miss J had inserted a suppository up his behind, which was followed by  a very prolonged preliminary session over her knee, for a very thorough bare-bottomed hand spanking.

Now, however, with his heated behind raised high on the pillows, Miss J would use her supple leather strap, designed to cover the entire base of a boy’s behind, both cheeks and fanny crack.  This would be a forceful, enthusiastic, proper licking—for that is what Patrick needed: A good, old-fashioned licking!

Yes, Miss J would insure that Patrick learned his lesson and did his duty … in more ways than one!

As she thrashed and thrashed Patrick’s naughty, dancing behind, he bawled his distress.  Yet, he devotedly continued to “present” his rump to her ministrations, proud to be accepting her attentions.

After castigating his behind, Miss J had him assume the head down and bottoms-up position on the floor.  Watching him, with his head down, legs spread, and his reddened rear opened wide, sticking up high in the air, she surveyed her domain.  To help reinforce the point that it was she who was directing and controlling this special therapy, Miss J had selected the large cylindrical enema nozzle. 


After carefully lubing both the nozzle and Patrick’s behind, she inserted the nozzle into his straining bottom vent.  When it was deeply and fully ensconced between the cheeks of his heated, rump, she slowly unclamped the hose.  She walloped his behind as the water began to fill him.  This naughty-boy behind, which had been thoroughly reddened with a proper spanking, now seemed to be hungrily nursing on the large black intruder which rudely protruded from its breach.

Besides the traditional bottom discipline, Miss J knew full well the cathartic effect of having a well-disciplined young man spend some time in healthy contemplation sitting on the toilet. The suppository, the spanking, the licking with the strap, and now this enema/spanking left no doubt that Miss J would soon be escorting Patrick to do his duty, and she would listen as the liberating cascade effusively gushed from his purged behind.


After he was thoroughly cleaned, he would again be taken over her lap for a continuation of this first stage of Miss J’s motivational bare-behind therapy.


A Story by Frank:


My friend Frank was looking to find a naughty girl who might be interested in getting her comeuppance from a stern father figure. He posted this story / ad on the internet and I thought that you, dear reader, might find it rather evocative and quite fun to read. I know I did.  --HM


Remember when you were a kid and you heard those dreaded words from your mom: "Just wait until your father gets home!" You spent the rest of the day dreading your dad's return, knowing that after mom filled him in on your misbehavior, he was going to come storming into your bedroom with that familiar look of profound disappointment on his face. He would sit down on the bed and talk softly about your unacceptable behavior.
The worst part would be him telling you how disappointed he was. That was almost worse than what was about to come. You would stand there scared, trembling, as you watched him roll up his shirt sleeve. Then the dreaded moment comes when he reaches out, never breaking eye contact, and begins to unzip your jeans -- and together with your panties -- lowers them to your knees.
The cool air is hitting your fanny for the first time and you know that in a few minutes it will be on fire. Then, firmly, he grabs your hand and guides you over his knee -- still not breaking eye contact till you are completely in place. A tear is beginning to run down your cheek. He then places his cold palm on your vulnerable, bare fanny and continues to lecture for a few moments. You can feel your exposed bottom begin to tremble a bit. My god, you are so embarrassed --- at this age ! The first SMACK of your well-deserved spanking made a ringing sound through the house.
You try to maintain composure, remembering that you are an adult. But finally, the increasing pain in your naked behind and the complete and total embarrassment of being treated like a 5 yr old kicks in and you start balling like a baby. "Please daddy stop, I'll be good -- just stop spanking me -- I can't take anymore". Naturally he doesn't stop until the room is obscured through a veil of tears and your pleas are reduced to blubbering.
Then as quick as it began -- its over -- but you can't believe its finished because your fanny is almost numb. Gently, firmly, your dad helps you get to your feet and gives you a big hug and tells you how much he loves you.
You can't seem to stop rubbing your burning fanny. Why does it keep stinging so much? Then, just as firmly he conducts you over to the corner of the room and directs you to stand there -- burning fanny exposed to the room -- for thirty minutes to reflect on what just happened and the reason for it.

Here's a story by Brook

This story is Brook's fantasy. I'm sure there are other out there who are enthusiastic about things such as this and will be suitably entertained by it.


It was a rainy Tuesday morning, 7:02am. Like ever y Tuesday, I had woken up two hours early and traveled out of my way to see her.  As I raised my fist to knock on Madam Stenner’s door, I briefly wondered why I had come back again.  The door swung open.
“You’re late.”
Her voice was calm but stern.  A s I muttered something about the subway, she grabbed me by the hair and pulled me into her apartment.  “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” she said as she shoved me down on my knees.  Thwack! I felt a stinging slap across my face. I looked up at her towering above me.  Thwack!—another slap, this time harder.  She was exquisite.  Her hair was soft and wavy.  Her body was slight, but perfectly toned.  She exuded supreme confidence and not the least bit of amusement. “Get started with the kitchen,” she said before turning away. 
I got up and scurried to the kitchen.  As I had many times before, I began by scrubbing the countertops until they sparkled.  Then I cleaned the grime off each stovetop burner.  With the smell of lemon Pledge filling the kitchen, I got out the Swiffer and began to mop the floor.  
“I want more coffee,” Madam Stenner stated.  She was on her couch reading a novel.  On the end table next to her, an empty mug.  I took the mug and filled it with coffee from the carafe.  As I returned, she extended her hand and I handed her the mug.  She never once looked at me. 
I returned to my chores.  After mopping, I scrubbed her bathroom floor and cleaned the windows.  An hour after I had begun, I approached her, fell to my knees and bowed until my head reached the floor: “I believe I’ve finished, Ma’am.” She rested one foot on my back, then the other.  When she finished the chapter of her novel, she gently put the book down and surveyed the apartment.  Satisfied that it had been cleaned to h er specifications, she sat on a kitchen table chair and motioned me over.
I draped myself across Madam Stenner's lap and felt her roughly tug my pants down, exposing my behind.  As the first slap of her hand hit me, she asked “Didn’t I tell you to move the chairs instead of just mopping ar ound them?”  I knew that I should not speak.  “Are you really that stupid?” She spanked me many more times, each blow harder than the last.  Her legs felt wonderful against my stomach, but soon I could think of nothing but the pain I was feeling.   When she was done correcting me, she pushed me off her lap onto the floor.  As I pulled my pants up, she grabbed my hair and dragged me toward the door.
 “Next week don’t be late,” she said as she shut the door.  There, on the floor of the hallway, used and discarded witho ut so much as a “thank you,” and my behind still in searing pain, I knew why I had come back: my Tuesday mornings with Madam Stenner were the happiest hours of my week.  Already, I missed her.