Ollie was kind enough to offer a spanking story for posting here on Spanking Storybook. As he says in the story, this is a “tale about a tail.” I think you’re going to like it!
The Tale of Rosie Bottom
by Ollie
Are you sitting comfortably ? Then I’ll begin.
This is a tale about a tail, though not the tail you might initially suspect, but of another; however, I digress.
Long ago, in the days when men were men and women were, well, women, there lived a young woman called Rosie Bottom.
You have to understand that in those days there were no patronyms, people were named according to what they did or where they were from or what they were like. So the local miller might be called John Miller, a very tall man might be called Harry Longfellow. Children held a single name until such time as their character or occupation was agreed upon by some form of social osmosis in the village.
You get the general idea.
It was also traditional in those times to give girls the name of a flower. I’m sure you’ve heard of women called Daisy and Violet, well most of these are quite old women now. It isn’t the fashion to do this nowadays, more is the pity; for a pretty name befits a girl, and what is prettier than a flower? In those days the villages thronged as the hedgerows with Dahlias, Peonys, Pansys and of course, Roses.
Our tale involves a young woman called Rose. There were many Roses in the village, and she was generally known as Rosie Bottom. Now, how it became such common knowledge that our heroine’s bottom was often ‘rosie’ in colour I shall explain, for in her youth Rosie was if not a naughty girl, then one prone to mischief, which usually led to her finding herself prone in another way. Whenever a lightly crusted cow pat was found on a chair in a dark corner, a pair of britches went missing whilst some unfortunate fellow swam in the river or a pannikin of cream was spilled the cry would go up “Where’s Rosie!”, and her protestations of innocence would fall on deaf ears.
Needless to say, most of the goodwives in the village, and not a few of their husbands had experience of correcting her behaviour in the traditional way. I say ‘correcting’ but the strange thing was their efforts upon her becoming well-known bottom were not as successful as might have been expected; she continued in her ways almost as if she cared not about the ‘corrections’ she received. In fact, between you and me, she did care for them, rather more than anyone realised at the time.
Mischief surrounded Rosie Bottom like paparazzi round a princess as she sailed through childhood to adolescence and into adulthood. It might be observed that she became more cunning in her crimes; the more cynical would say that she contrived only to be caught by the most attractive young men of the village, and they were only too willing to oblige, to try their hands where their elders had failed albeit with enthusiasm, not too efficiently it has to be said, as even the most foolish amongst them knew when he was onto a good thing.
The only cloud in the summer sky of Rosie’s life was her father. A man of stern demeanour and strict opinions, he might possibly have been able to curb Rosie’s worst excesses, but sadly as with many fathers he had a weak spot for his daughter, and had tended to spoil her when she was little. Now she was grown into a woman with opinions and appetites of her own which did not sit happily with his view of the proper demeanour for a young maiden he was starting to attempt to control her, but it was, as you, dear listener will discover, too late.
She had gathered to herself a band of young men, playing them all along, giving to each everything she wanted to give, receiving with thanks and high pitched squeals everything she contrived to get them to give, never allowing any one of them to gain a monopoly over her charms, happily maintaining the rosie hue in her cheeks.
Rosie’s father was oblivious to this however, for which maiden allows her swains to treat her in the presence of her father? And so he was left with the impression of his daughter as a headstrong young maid in need of a good husband. The only problem, as the fathers amongst you will readily agree is that there exists no young man in the world remotely good enough for one’s dear daughter, and he saw off hopeful suitors with gruff rebuffs and threats with his crossbow. Many of her gentlemen friends risked much to meet Rosie, to sample her posterior and it has to be said, anterior delights, but slowly the ferocity of her father made the effort required only for the most determined.
Now among Rosie’s admirers, none was so determined as Billy, a young man who hadn’t earned a public eponym as yet; though some of the young women privately, amongst themselves, gave him one, but more about that later.
One day whilst Rosie’s father was out Billy paid a visit, and was busily engaged with his upended sweetheart, inducing shrieks and squeals, interspersed with momentarily meant promises to be good, when who should appear, fury-framed in the doorway but the fearsome father himself.
Whilst Billy was a brave fellow, and would ordinarily have defended himself and his belle’s honour admirably he also had some respect for his elders, and to put no finer point on it than this, he scarpered; leaving Rosie to her fate.
Whether Rosie’s father continued Billy’s work upon his daughter’s already reddened bottom but in an altogether different manner is not the subject of this story. Suffice to say that the next time Billy sought to meet his love he found the house and garden surrounded by a wall; eight feet high, rendered smooth on the outside to effect no hand or footholds.
It was a barrier to cool the most ardent of hearts, but Billy was a fine athlete, strong and fast. He took a run, a leap, grasped the top of the wall and hauled himself over, landing gracefully in the newly turned fragrant earth of Rosie’s father’s putative parsnip patch. He lightly trotted off to see his girl.
“Hello Rosie Bottom” he greeted her
“Hello Billy Broadcock” she replied, and before long they were engaged in their favourite activities to their mutual pleasure.
When Rosie’s father discovered that he had been foiled he was furious, and this time I have to tell you that he did indeed introduce his daughter’s bottom to a bundle of birch for seeing Billy Broadcock behind his back.
The following week Billy Broadcock returned, only to find the wall was now taller and topped with broken glass thus preventing ingress by his earlier method. This might have cowed a lesser fellow, but as I have said, Billy Broadcock was a fit young man, and the technique of pole vaulting was not unknown to him. A pole vault competition across the river was held annually at midsummer, when the young men would endeavour to span the river in a single leap to earn the prize of buns freshly baked by the single girls of the village. Many of them ended up in an embarrassing muddy wallow, but Billy Broadcock normally avoided this foolish fate, and thus he often sampled the girls’ warm soft buns as befits a victor.
He cut a long stave from a thicket and with a swift run, a powerful leap, and an elegant twist turning his body in mid air to face the wall he dropped lightly on his feet in the middle of a freshly planted bed of parsnips. Billy Broadcock swaggered off to Rosie’s room.
“Hello Rosie Bottom” he greeted his girl
“Hello Billy Broadcock” she replied, and once again she found herself inverted and her finest asset pleasured with the firm hands of a fit young man, before his own eponymous asset was pleasured in return.
They spent a happy evening, and Billy Broadcock left promising with the cockiness of youth to return the same time next week.
Upon his return the wall was yet taller, the glass sharper, but Billy Broadcock was young and confident.
Some would say he was filled with the recklessness of lust as he fetched his pole from where he had secreted it in the thicket, dusted his palms with dry dirt, marked out his run and made his vault. Some would say that he was merely foolhardy.
Up, up he flew, feet first fair to the sky, the twist, the turn, snagging slightly on the top of the wall he dropped; down, down, down. It was close, too close, but his athleticism and ardour spurred him on and he landed – not quite with his customary elegance this time – in the debris of the parsnip patch before limping awkwardly into Rosie’s room.
“Hello Rosie Bottom “ he said breathlessly – and who would not be breathless in the presence of one so desirable?
“Hello Billy” she said.
***
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