Ode to Rosaleen Young

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

Ode to Rosaleen Young

(*****, M/F, Severe, spanking, caning)

Frank describes how he'd spank actress and author Rosaleen Young. (Approximately 2,866 words. Originally published 2004-01.)


*** Author's Note: ***
For the uninitiated, Rosaleen Young is the most wonderful model, actress, and author who loves to be spanked. She's the star of several amazing spanking films. I only recently discovered her and this is meant to be a tribute to such an amazing young woman.

Frank
The Flogmaster
***

If I was to design the most perfect submissive in the world, I strongly suspect my creation would match closely with Rosaleen Young. She is, indeed, the ultimate fantasy in living flesh.

For most fantasy gals, I begin with their bottom. After all, that's the most important thing, right? I picture an expansive round bottom with flawless flesh and curves so achingly beautiful they just beg to be spanked. Eventually, after hours of thought and vain description, I leave the bottom and try to picture the girl's face and body.

But with Rosaleen, I must begin with the face. Or, perhaps, the body.

The first thing I think about her is that she's a petite girl. A mere 5'2" according to her website, and that is the perfect height for a young lady. I'm small for a man, 5'8", but I'd tower a full six inches over her. She's like a porcelain doll, a small, voluptuous sex toy.

Then we come to her face. How can one describe such exquisite beauty? You notice her luminous eyes first. They are large and almond-shaped, with plenty of white showing, especially when she rolls her eyes in fear as she looks at you over her shoulder when you approach with the long leather strap.

Then there's her fair skin, made fairer by her gorgeous dark hair that frames her face. Her flawless skin speaks of youth and health, and the pretty pointed nose doesn't harm that image at all. She's cute as a button, as they say (though I don't really understand what buttons have to do with anything).

Her mouth is small, like a little girl, but the lips and elegant white teeth are sensual. I've never seen her lick her lips but I can almost picture her doing it, running a pink tongue along her upper teeth and lip, sensuality and sex screaming from every pore.

She is the perfect little schoolgirl. She could be a mature twelve or a young thirty; it's impossible to tell from her face.

I love the way her hair is cut in an even line across her forehead: it's an extremely schoolgirlish look. But the long tresses behind can be shaped into all sorts of devilishly sexy appearances. She can leave them free to tumble down her back -- that's especially sexy when she's naked, as the hair doesn't quite reach her bottom, leaving it delightfully bare. She can also braid the tresses or put them in pony tails: that's just downright evil it's so sexy.

To summarize, she's the picture of innocence: wide dark eyes with schoolgirl hair and body.

I am in love.

Rosaleen's neck is narrow but long, and I want to caress her and kiss her there. I love the look when she leans her head back and exposes the taut muscles of her neck. A vampire would love her neck.

Not far below are her breasts, tiny little girl nubbins, almost absurdly small in this day of melon implants, but elegantly beautiful and natural, and utterly feminine.

Her waist is slender, but not skinny. She's no Kate Moss. She's got elegant curves and actual hips.

But it gets worse. Or better, depending on your point of view. Though she's small, Rosaleen's legs are a mile long. Slender with petite feet, just like the doll she is.

Her thighs, though, is where the magic begins. These are wider than you'd expect on such a little girl, stout beams that offer sturdy support. These make way to what is unquestionably the world's most spankable bottom.

While I've seen bigger bottoms, and even rounder bubble butts, I don't think I've ever seen the perfect combination that is Rosaleen Young.

The full cheeks look almost too large on her small body. It creates the effect that she's all ass. It's stunning. The buttocks themselves are beautifully round, and she even has a terrific "shelf" -- that's the outward curve of the buttock as it extends from the base of the spine -- unusual in caucasian girls. This shelf is most evident when she wears a dress or skirt as it causes the outfit to hang away from her thighs in a way that's naturally inviting.

Her cheeks are quite firm, as evidenced by the way spanks impact the flesh. They are well-divided by a long split. At the base are my favorite aspects of a bottom, the glorious underhang where buttock meets thigh, and the astonishingly beautiful "inner curve" at the bottom of her asscrack, which opens a diamond shape where she hides her most secret place. Each inner curve curves away from the other cheek, leaving the opening, and it is this curve I find the sexiest of everything. The curve reveals clearly the plumpness of the flesh of the lower asscheek, giving a nice ball shape that I want to grab and squeeze to make Rosaleen squeal. I want to cruelly sink the tip of a rattan cane deep into that curl of flesh, leaving behind a nasty imprint of bruise and weal. I want to flog that ass, spank those cheeks, stripe those thighs.

When Rosaleen's ass is steaming from hard spanking and the flesh is blistered and raw, I want to bury my face into the base of her bottom. I want to feel the heat of her cheeks against mine, smell the feminine scent that is the core of her being, and lick away the pain of that whipping.

Simply put, Rosaleen's body is breathtaking. Her buttocks are flawless, perfect beauties for beating. I cannot imagine a more perfect bottom. I cannot imagine a more perfect body, so delicate and petite, topped by that fragile face of priceless porcelain.

But again, there's still more to this dream girl. She's intelligent, a gifted writer and actor. If having the most delectable face and body on the planet wasn't enough, she's actually capable of having a conversation. More than a conversation, a discussion!

My orgasm is near already. But then I read that Rosaleen is a virgin. Like me. She grew up in a religious household. Like me. And she doesn't believe in sex before marriage. Like me!

But she does believe in being spanked. Hard. And often. On her luscious bare bottom. She loves to be spanked. She's fantasized it since she was a child. At six she used to lie in bed and create spanking stories in her head.

At six, I used to do the same. I had a teddy bear, a ratty old thing, and I'd pretend it was a sweet and beautiful but sadly naughty little girl who had to go to daddy and tell him what she'd done knowing that though he loved her more than anything in the world, he'd still give her a long, hard, and extremely painful spanking. She was terrified, and she'd delay and hesitate, but in the end she'd go, because she knew deep down it was right, that she was a naughty girl and deserved her spanking, and because she wanted nothing more in the world than for her daddy to love and be proud of her. And after the tears, he was there, this time his hand gentle as he wiped her eyes dry and kissed her forehead, telling her how proud she made him, and what a good girl she was, and that all was forgiven and she was clean and whole again.

My God, is Rosaleen my female twin? The thought of meeting her feels me with desire. The thought of talking with her is almost too much: I swoon in delight. The thought of spanking her -- of baring those glorious cheeks and slapping that flesh until it's a delicious hot pink -- that I cannot begin to hope. It's too amazing to imagine.

Oh, I want to see those eyes swell in excitement and alarm when I approach. I want that sweet mouth to open in an exclamation of fear. I want to see those eyes trickle delicious tears as the tender thing sobs in pain as I flog her.

She deserves to be beaten raw. That such a young thing, a seemingly innocent girl barely beyond puberty can possess such a naughty, sinful body is a crime. She ought to be spanked daily, a good hard hand spanking to wake her up in the morning.

And after her shower, when she's all wet and dripping, she goes over my lap for dozen swats with the bath brush.

Later she's dressed in a cute little girl's dress with pig tails and ribbons, bare legs exposed as she flits and dances her way to school without any knowledge of the terrible power she has. But her teachers know. Especially the men. They can see it in her. Her innocence is only pretend. It's an act. She must be punished.

It's time for the paddle, hard wood against those smooth, perfect orbs hidden under her dress and tightly held by pure white panties. The blows come harder and harder, the buttocks quiver and shake. Rosaleen's tiny voice squeals and protests in vain, for she deserves this paddling, and a paddling she's going to get!

It's corner time. The spanking is over, but the humiliation's just begun. Little Rosaleen is standing in the corner, forced to hold up her skirt from behind so everyone can see the crimson, punished cheeks swelling out from her lily white panties. Tears of shame glisten in her eyes and a single drop trickles down her pretty face. This is so shameful, exposed like this in the corner, all eyes on her spanked bottom, but she can do nothing about it. She must suffer and endure. She is a bad girl, and that's what bad girls do.

At lunch the old Rosaleen is back: a funny, mischevious, bright-eyed girl who talks with her mouth full and doesn't notice Mr. Peeper standing behind her as she giggles with her friends. He is not happy. He knows what she's thinking about. Sex! It's always the same with the slutty ones. He can smell them a mile off. She needs a good whipping, that's what she needs.

She's in his private office, whimpering as her knickers descend. "Oh, but I don't need a whipping," she protests, but she knows it's in vain. Worse, she knows it isn't true. She does need a whipping, she needs it badly, a really bad whipping, one that will make her cry. Oh she's a bad girl and a liar, and she's going to get it now.

Rosaleen is upended over the sofa arm, her skirt tumbling forward exposing her pantiless rear. The smooth, slightly swollen buttocks moon the ceiling, and she buries her face in the seat cushions, knowing there's no way to stop the inevitable.

The belt arrives, thick and heavy, the leather stinging impossibly hard. Oh, it's too much, it's too much! But no. She can take it. Her bottom was made for whipping. Besides, she's a naughty girl. She deserves it. She deserves much worse. She sobs into the cushion as the belt lands again and again, her buttocks dancing wildly, the pain intense.

Slowly, for such things take time to do properly, her buttocks are welted. From the top of her crack to the bottom, and all along the sides, her bum is painted scarlet with scores of hard lashes. The beating is hard and brutal. It's impersonal. It's like she's not even a person, just a big-ass piece of meat designed for whipping. The belt just flogs her on and on, and she can only cry.

It is after school. Rosaleen is in trouble again. Her buttocks throb and tingle as she stands outside the headmaster's office. Her belly flips nervously. The headmaster will cane her, she knows. It will happen as surely as breathing. Yet she still hopes it's not true. Somehow, perhaps a miracle, something will spare her. Yet she knows nothing will. And oddly, there's a satisfaction in that. Deep inside she's content knowing that the world is working the way it should. She should be caned. She's a naughty girl. Though her bottom was well-whipped a few hours ago, it wasn't enough. She deserves more. She deserves to be caned severely. And she will be.

The headmaster opens his door and Rosaleen steps in. She feels so small, so lonely, so afraid. This is going to hurt. This will not be fun. This will be impossible to endure, yet endure she must.

Slowly, she gets undressed. Naked, except for her white knee socks and black pumps, she gets into position. She bends at the waist and touchs her toes. It is a difficult position to hold even when not being caned, but she must hold it. She must. Her buttocks are huge behind her, naked and vulnerable, and she can hear the headmaster swishing his cane in test swings through the air. Oh Lord, how will she endure?

"Six," says the man, his voice as deep and implacable as thunder. The cane swishes and she feels the sharp bite as it impacts her bare bottom. The intensity builds and she's dizzy with the pain. She holds her breath and freezes, willing time to stop just so she can catch her breath. After a long pause she can move again, gasping for air. Her buttocks quiver mindlessly, a thick pulsing weal blossoming across the twin hemispheres.

Again the rod comes down and it's all Rosaleen can do not to scream. This one is even worse, she can't imagine how. The weal is longer, wrapping around her hip slightly, the impression stinging horribly.

Another stroke. She's really feeling it now. Her palms are sweating, her body aching, and her bum smarting misserably. She quivers and dances in place, wiggling her bum and praying this to be over with soon.

The fourth cut is low, just above her thighs, and it feels like someone's placed a burning brand there. She cries out in spite of her resolve to take her punishment silently, wiggling her arse frantically in every direction at once.

The fifth is angled across her buttocks, top left to lower right, the tip implanting itself horribly against her thigh. The pain makes her want to swoon, but somehow she doesn't. She must endure.

The final stroke is full across the summit of her cheeks, the rod sinking impossibly deep into her flesh, the agony supreme. Tears flood from her eyes and she is stammering out pleas for mercy.

"Rise," says the deep voice, and Rosaleen does, not even aware that she is obeying. She is in a different world, in a world of buttock and pain, a world of ceaseless throbbing and mind-blowing intensity.

"I hope you have learned your lesson, young Rosaleen," says the voice. "I should hate to see you in my office again tomorrow." There's a hint that he's not being honest, that he'd very much love to see her in his office again tomorrow, and Rosaleen, despite the fierce burning across her bum, detects it, and wonders with despair if he'll get his wish.

"I will now telephone your parents and let them know I had to cane you. I'm sure they will be very disappointed to learn what a naughty girl you were today."

Fear hits Rosaleen in the belly. Her parents! She squirms in speechless horror. She already knows what her parents will say. Or more precisely, what they will do. When she arrives home her mother will be waiting with the hairbrush, a grim expression on her face that will have little Rosaleen wanting to pee in terror. And when her father comes home, he'll order Rosaleen out to the back yard to cut herself a birch. At least a dozen branches, he'll command sternly, and they'd all better be good ones. She'd have to do it in the nude, of course, to remind her what it was for, and she'd be so embarrassed, dreading the thought of a neighbor noticing. Of course once the birching started the neighbors would surely hear her screaming as her father birched her right there in the back yard where anyone could see, but by then she wouldn't care if they saw, concerned only with her burning behind.

It makes Rosaleen sick to her belly to think of it. She can almost hear the birch swish in her head and see the neighbors pointing and giggling. It's going to be agony. But there's nothing she can do about it. It will happen just like the sun will rise tomorrow. And on that morrow will be a painful wake-up spanking, another challenging day at school suffering under the discipline of teachers and the headmaster, followed by strict parental chastisement at home. It's the way of the world. It is Rosaleen's life.

Besides, doesn't she deserve it?

- 30 -

The End

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