The NCP Championships

Rate This Story:

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 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.

Purchase this story in print form!

Don't like reading on screen? This story is available in print form in Ultimate Archive: Volume 4 at the Flogmaster's Bookstore. Purchase your copy today to encourage the Flogmaster to write more cool stories.

The NCP Championships

(****, M/F, Severe, cons spanking, paddling, caning, whipping)

What if the Olympics were a spanking competition? (Approximately 9,855 words. Originally published 2007-10.)

"Hi there, folks! My name is Patricia Wells and I am reporting to you _live_ from the floor of the Sheuberg Center here in the heart of Fort Worth, Texas, where in just a few moments an extraordinary competition will take place."

I pause in my channel surfing. "Just in time," I muse. The pretty brunette announcer stands in front of a huge crowd of cheering fans and speaks into the microphone she holds in front of her face.

"For those of you living in a tunnel the past six months, I am talking about the most exciting and most talked about new competitive sport of the decade and one of the most anticipated competitions in history, the National Corporal Punishment Championships.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in just a few moments this auditorium will be filled with the unmistakable sounds of hard wooden paddles, the swishes and cracks of canes, the lashing of leather straps, the snaps of whips, and of course the slaps of the classic over-the-knee hand spanking.

"The competition will begin in just a few minutes, so don't change that dial! In a moment we'll be back for a brief examination of what these athletes had to do to qualify for the national championships, a look at what we can expect in today's events, and a few profiles of some of the most talented CPers in the sport. Later in the day we will bring you special reports on the history of CP as a sport, a look at past competitions, and an exclusive interview with two of the female volunteers of one of the most severe disciplinarians in the country, cane-master and two-time national champion, Sir Spanky. We'll find out what it is like to be caned by the best!

"So stay tuned to SMTV -- the _only_ channel you'll ever need! I'm Patricia Wells for OTK Sports. Back in five!"

The picture switched to a beer commercial and I muted the TV. I quickly got up and prepared for the big event: plenty of chips and beer close by, some fruit in case I got a healthy urge, a box of Kleenex, DVD recorder ready with a huge stack of blank discs, my laptop in case I wanted to jot down some story ideas, and a nice warm blanket to curl up under as I watched the show.

Just as I get settled I see the commercial is for Brittany Canes, one of my very favorite ads, so I hit the record button on the VCR. The ad shows two punked-out teenagers, a girl and her boyfriend mouthing off to her father and leaving despite his forbidding them to go. "You get back in here you little tramp or I'll cane ya!" shouts the dad. The kids laugh at him, the boy giggling and mooning the dad. "Go for it old man! Think you can hit the target?" The father's face turns blood-red with fury and animated smoke comes out of his nostrils and ears to the tune of a steam whistle. "I'll have you two know I just bought a _Brittany_ Cane..." he says softly. Instantly the faces on the two children turn to terror and meek submission. "I'm sorry, daddy," says the girl, suddenly very sweet. "You'll be sorrier in a minute," the dad answers grimly with a confident smile. The final shot shows the two kids bending over the back of a couch as the dad flexes his brand-new Brittany cane and winks at the audience. "Nothing like a Brittany to bring 'em in line!" Fine print at the bottom of the ad pointed out that the caning of minors wasn't legal in all states, and that Brittany canes were for "entertainment" purposes only.

The pictures fades and then we're back to the brightly animated logo for OTK Sports which is quickly followed by a cut to the cute reporter on the competition floor.

"We're back, folks! Thanks for joining us for the Third Annual National Corporal Punishment Championships! Today promises to be an exciting competition, folks. We've got over two hundred competitors out there in over a dozen different CP categories! We'll go down to our special correspondent Mr. Bob 'Buns' Parker, a former CP champion himself. It's all yours Bob!"

The picture switches to the face of a dignified man in his mid-fifties, gray hair and mustache, gentle smile, but with the firm jaw and lean body of an experienced athlete.

"Thanks, Pat. Welcome, folks. Believe me, you are going to be entertained today. We have not only some of the fiercest and most competitive athletes here, but some of the world's most beautiful men and women as well, volunteers who are willing suffer tremendous pain just to be a part of this competition. It's a sight you will not want to miss.

"But first, let's take a look back a few months." The picture switches to taped shots of a small auditorium with several dozen competitors walking about carrying paddles and canes and belts and an audience of several hundred cheering.

"Four months ago," Bob's voice continues as the TV shows various images of athletes paddling, caning, and spanking, "in competitions similar to what we will have today, in scenes like this one from the Arkansas State Finals, thousands of CP athletes in all fifty states competed in dozens of grueling events. These people trained hard for months and years -- many have devoted their entire lives to CP competition.

"Only the champions were chosen. Only fifty out of each category qualified for the national competition. Today those champions have gathered here, in Fort Worth, Texas, for the national championship. Soon we will discover who will receive the honors for the Grand Disciplinarian, Cane-Master, Paddle-Master, and other titles.

"We've got all the traditional categories plus a few new ones introduced for the first time this year. The traditional categories include: OTK Hand, OTK Hairbrush, OTK Paddle, Pledge Paddle, Martinet, Riding Crop, Scottish Tawse, Rattan Cane, Speed Paddling, the Relay, and the classic Triathlon and Decathlon. New events this year are Flogging and the Bridal Path, the latter named, of course, after the event in the classic 'Beauty' series of novels by author Anne Rice. We also have an exhibition category, Bullwhipping, hopefully to make its appearance as an official event in future national championships. Not to be missed will be a special presentation by renowned pain artist Julio Armando, who will demonstrate his fantastic artwork on a fresh volunteer canvas today at the competition."

I sat hunched in my chair, barely able to breathe after that last bit of information overload. As the announcer mentioned each category there was a brief (and I do mean brief) clip of the activity he referred to. My mind was flooded with dozens of gorgeous images of naked rumps being paddled, spanked, whipped, and caned. There was brief look at the flogging post, a pretty girl's back, bottom, and legs striped good, and then a wonderful four-second pan of an outdoor field of naked men and women being chased and paddled by men and women on horseback.

The final scene was the longest, a look at the exhibition event of bullwhipping, which featured a naked woman dangling with her arms above her head, and her punisher, a tall man dressed in black leather, who lashed at her from a distance of about ten feet. The sound was amazing and frightening, the whip curling around the girl's body dangerously and leaving a thick red welt. It sent shivers down my spine and I myself jerked when the body of the beautiful girl started at the impact of the whip.

" stay with SMTV for more from Fort Worth as the Third Annual National CP Champions begins in just a moment. First up: the classic OTK Hand!"

The commercials seemed to take forever, though there was one interesting public service ad for the Society to Prevent Child Abuse reminding viewers (with some graphic pictures) that CP should be reserved for adults and not children.

"We're back, folks! This is Patricia Wells for OTK Sports and I'm pleased to announce that the first event in today's competition is about to begin. Back to Bob 'Buns' Parker down on the floor with the details..."

"Thank you, Pat. Yes, it's the classic OTK Hand. What a way to start the competition! The rules for this event are simple. Each contestant is given a straight-back chair and that's it! Spanking must be exclusively with the open palm of the hand and judging is based upon style, speed, severity, and sound. We have fifty experts out here and the spanking will be swift and furious! There will be five rounds of two minutes each, ten contestants in each round. The top five will move on to the finals. Here come the first set of ten now..."

I moved forward to the each of my chair and stared at the television wishing once again I had a wall-screen. These wimpy 52" sets are ludicrous. But at least the camera-work was decent. The scene was from above and at an angle. A row of ten wooden chairs with no arms was in a long row right in front of half a dozen judges seated behind a long white table. Cheers from the audience in the bandstands started when the first contestants came out of the locker rooms.

There were ten men, each docilely followed by a young lady. The men were dressed in regulation white slacks and matching white shirts, each emblazoned with a large red competitor number. The women all wore simple pink frocks, open at the back like hospital gowns. (Seeing that, I remembered how early CP events ran into all kinds of complications when the punished wore jeans and girdles and skirts and other outfits. It wasted far too much competition time fussing with clothing.)

The ten men bowed to judges and each sat in a chair. The women lined up behind each man. At the signal the women quickly walked forward and spread themselves across the laps of their masters. With a simple gesture each bottom was exposed and I was already lusting after the ten delectable young ladies with such cute rumps. Then the buzzer sounded and Bam! the spankings began.

It was chaos, it was ecstasy. The cheers of the crowd were deafening, but even then I could hear the sounds of slapping, palms soundly spanking bare flesh. The camera panned in closer and slowly traveled up the row of reddening bottoms. The eyes of the girls being punished were wide and red and crying and some were fidgeting delightfully, kicking their legs and putting on a show. Bottoms were growing very red very quickly as the men expertly slammed their hands into that lush bottom-flesh.

Two minutes seems both short and long, depending on your viewpoint. I'm sure for those girls it seemed like forever, but for me it was just seconds. The buzzer sounded and immediately all spankings stopped. The girls were helped to their feet and guided closer to the judging tables, their bottoms turned so the judges could examine them properly.

The men stood by nervously, watching the judges frown and write down notes and nod and smile. Finally scores were marked and the computer added things up and produced a winner: contestant 57, nicknamed Barrister, had won the first round. The men shook hands and then the girls were excused and the men bowed to the judges and exited.

In a moment it all happened again, though this time there were two lady competitors with men as their victims, but they didn't win. A huge beefy guy from Connecticut won, his arms as big around as my thighs. His girl was still wiping away tears when they left, her bottom almost blistered!

There were three more rounds and I wasn't bored for a second. (I came twice, in fact.) Round four was won by a woman, a tall redhead that spanked with such stern grace and beauty I was really impressed and wondered what it would feel like to be punished by her. Her man was bawling like child when she finished and I felt rather sorry for him. He seemed really humiliated.

There was a slight controversy in Round Five as two of the scores were so close it was declared a tie and it had to be broken by increasing the weight given to the "style" factor. I was pleased when they gave it to number 131, a short, muscular young man with a pretty petite blonde who writhed wonderfully in his lap. The announcer said she was his wife and I watched them kiss passionately when he won.

Another round of commercials started at that point and I took advantage of that fact for a trip to the restroom. I was already rather tired and there were a dozen events to go!

When I got back the pretty news lady was telling about the schedules. "I'm afraid these events all overlap from now on," she said pleasantly, "so we will be switching from event to event and providing as much coverage of every event as we can. We will certainly bring you the highlights from the winners of various contests, and of course the finals tomorrow will be uninterrupted. Now we are going to switch to Miss Lily over in Field 17 where the riders are just getting ready for the first round of on the Bridal Path."

The picture switched to a pretty young lady dressed in a short, pleated brown skirt and light blue top. She grinned at the camera and nodded her head behind her. "Yes that's right, Pat, the riders are ready and so are the runners. The firing gun should go off at any minute. This event is taking place very early today because the runners need as much rest as they can get before the finals tomorrow. The top ten from today's runs will be competing tomorrow. I'm sure you won't want to miss that!

"We have ten riders for each run and -- " Boom! came the crack of a pistol. "Oh! There they go!"

The woman turned in obvious excitement and watched as a woman naked except for tennis shoes came trotting out of the gate and a tall man on a horse quickly rode up behind her. He was carrying a huge black paddle that gleamed in the sun. It was so long he barely needed to bend over as he swung it beside him and caught the naughty cheeks of the running girl's bottom with a furious smack.

The camera switched to a close-up of the girl's rump as she jogged, the paddle smacking her again and again, each stroke briefly leaving a rectangular red imprint on her jiggling ass. As the camera pulled back my cock was huge and incredibly hard. I had never seen such beauty. The woman was sleek and fit. Her hands were locked behind her neck, elbows out. A tiny chain with a small weight in the center joined her nipples together, the thing jerking wildly as she ran, her nipples red and sore. Her face was beautiful, round and open, hair pinned back to stay out of her face, her eyes wide and streaming with tears, her mouth open and gasping for air.

Suddenly there was another gunshot and the camera switched back to field view. I could see the first girl was maybe a quarter of the way around the half-mile track, the horse trotting easily beside her, though she was running full out. A second runner was now introduced, this one a tiny little thing, looking far too young for such punishment. But her eyes were bright and glowing and she ran very fast, the paddle chasing her petite bottom.

In just a moment the track was filled with runners, naked men and women, each paired with a stern master or mistress on a horse that ran beside them and urged them onward with sound smacks of the paddle. I was very impressed by the OTK Sports camera crew. They zoomed and panned and caught all kinds of glorious shots of hot bottoms and bouncing breasts and pretty gasping faces. It was chaos but they managed it well.

At the end all the contestants lined up, riders standing beside their horses and keeping them still, runners kneeling on the ground at the riders' feet, their red bottoms facing the judges. To my delight the first rider was considered the winner and I saw the face of the beautiful lady runner filled with elation and fear at the news. She would have to ride the path again tomorrow!

But suddenly the camera zonked to somewhere else, a neat young man with British accent introducing himself as Percy-something and indicating that Speed Paddling was about to begin. This is one of my favorite events, of course, so I leaned forward eagerly.

Percy explained the rules quickly. Each contestant had 30 seconds to paddle the crap out of a saucy bottom and the top five with the most strokes would go to the finals. The trick was that each stroke had to travel at least six inches for it to count, so there was videotaping equipment set up to record every smack and the judges would watch it and disqualify any short strokes.

There was talk of a potential new world record. That honor was held by a young man of Korean decent who went by the name of "Buttbreaker." His goal was to break 60, a target widely though impossible, as 58 was the current world record. But his form was off lately, said some, and a local from Texas was a strong favorite. There was also a woman that some said could beat Buttbreaker on a good day, but that was a long shot.

The first contestant was a man named the Tamer. He was tall and lanky and looked at everything like he owned it. He was good, however, winning the New York finals three years in a row. He took the regulation paddle from the judges and took a few test swings and limbered up. His target was a beautiful woman, a bit older and larger than many seen at the competition, but she had a nice ass and seemed very content, stretched out on the table.

At the signal the Tamer took off rattling paddle smacks like a machine gun. An electronic audio-counter totaled up the spanks on the screen right next to the little timer ticking down the seconds. At ten he'd already done eighteen which was a world record pace. The woman grunted but didn't move. At twenty Tamer was up to a blistering 37 but he couldn't keep up that wrist-breaking pace and slowed down slightly during the final ten seconds, giving him a very decent total of 54. The woman got up very stiffly and shivered, her bottom a bright shade of fuchsia.

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Percy, the announcer. "A very good performance by Tamer and his Tamee, I must say. There's a question of one or two spanks that the judges want to review so while they do that we are going to take you to Buddy Lighter who is watching the start of Triathlon."

An animated wooden paddle came out and "spanked" the screen, wiping Percy off the TV and replacing him with the bright skull of a short balding fat man with a big grin. One could hardly hear his booming voice from the spanking sounds behind him.

"Thanks, Perce! Yes, it's the Triathlon, one of the most grueling events of the NCPC. Each contestant competes in three categories. Contrary to the Decathlon, where the main purpose is mastery of a variety of skills, the Triathlon is about endurance. The OTK Hand is the first round, and as you can probably hear, has already started behind me. All fifty athletes go at the same time and the winner will be selected after the final round tomorrow. So here we are with Round One, a full twenty minutes of sound, bare bottom hand spanking. Let me tell you those palms are going to be as swollen and sore as those bottoms! Look at them go!"

The camera panned across the huge room, spanking going on everywhere. Hands rising and falling all over the place, the loud slapping constant, naked, red, wiggling bottoms quivering everywhere the eye looked. There were a couple of good close-ups of beautiful red rumps and several neat shots of teary faces and stern punishers.

"Well, I just got word that Speed Paddling is back on. The Triath will be continuing throughout the day -- we'll show you all the highlights." The television immediately switched to a naked rump being paddled at about ninety miles per hour. I couldn't even see who was doing it but I didn't care, the butt was so round and firm and took the hard paddling so graciously that I found it very exciting. The numbers on the screen showed it was just twenty seconds into the punishment and the paddler had racked up 42 swats! But then disaster happened. The docile girl on his lap was vibrating so much from the hard spanking she began to slide off his lap. His left hand caught her immediately, but the precious momentum was lost. The spanker, a weight-lifter named the Hunk, finished with a disappointing score of 49.

I watched a few mediocre speed paddlers, including two women, and none could break Tamer's 54. But the amazing Buttbreaker was coming up soon, and I wouldn't dare change the channel. After a few more commercials, SMTV was back with Buns Parker calling the shots.

"This is it folks! Buttbreaker is about to compete in his best event: Speed Paddling. If you're just joining us, the current leader is Tamer with a score of 54. Here comes Buttbreaker now!"

The camera zoomed in on a stocky young man with thick forearms and a massive neck. Behind him trailed a tall woman at least six inches his superior. She was slender but with big hips and when she went across his lap I gasped in delight. Her buns were magnificent, large and graceful and snow white. Buttbreaker gripped the paddle in his right hand, his left holding the woman in place.

"And there's the gun!" cried Buns Parker excitedly. "Look at that form! Less than ten seconds and already a full dozen wallops. Ouch! Looks like his spankee can take it, though. I've never seen such a full bottom. Look at that strength. Every blow is just a cracker! Twenty seconds approaching... Buttbreaker's at world record pace -- 44 and counting. Now he's past fifty. There's the five second warning bell. Can he do it? Fifty-four, -six, -eight! SIXTY, right on the buzzer! I can't believe it, folks, but it looks like Buttbreaker has done the impossible! A new world-record! We'll have to wait for the official decision of the judges as they evaluate any questionable spanks, but it looks like, barring a miracle, Buttbreaker is the new champion speed paddler!"

"Thanks, Buns," said the cute Patricia Wells as the TV screen filled with her image. "Fantastic action from the Speed Paddling arena. But there's plenty of action all over the floor during this competition. We're going live to the Pledge Paddling, already underway. Take it away, Mr. Spraycan!"

"Thanks, Pat. Mr. Spraycan here with some of the most amazing paddling I've ever witnessed. If you aren't familiar with this sport, let me briefly describe the rules."

The TV filled with a spinning three-dimensional computer graphic of a huge fraternity paddle. According to the diagram, it was 24" long, the blade being 18", six inches tall, and an inch thick. A dozen quarter-inch holes were drilled in two parallel rows down the length of the paddle.

"A regulation paddle weighs thirty-four ounces and can travel upwards of fourteen feet per second. At that velocity, its impact is more than painful: it will literally move you. And that's the point in the Pledge Paddling. Every contestant starts out on the same level floor with their spankee on a rolling skateboard like this."

Here the man on the screen pointed at what appeared to be an ordinary skateboard. At his gesture, a young woman in tight white shorts leaped onto the board and knelt, her prominent rear high in the air.

"Each contestant has sixty seconds in which to give a maximum of ten swats in which to move his or her spankee as far as possible. Distance wins. To keep things fair, weights are added to the skateboard so that every spankee weighs exactly the same amount.

"The current national champion is Roger Redbuns, and he also holds the world record of 56.23'. Can he beat his best score? He's up against some fine competition. Hawaii's powerhouse Ramrod beat Redbuns' score in the trials, and we can never leave out Handyman, who's amazing Bronze performance at last year's competition puts him in contention for a medal this year."

While Mr. Spraycan spoke the TV showed me glorious highlights of current and previous Pledge Paddling action. There were dozens of fire-red bottoms, most of them female, kneeling awkwardly on skateboards as they rolled along. The faces of the spankees were always faces of intense pain, for Pledge Paddling is a strength event, and all the spankers were built like Mack trucks.

"In a few moments Ramrod will compete," continued Mr. Spraycan, "but we had some excitement earlier. Take a look at this!"

The screen showed a beefy young man who looked like a shrunken Arnold Shwartzenegger. Next to him was a petite blond girl wearing nothing but a pink thong, looking a little too much like Alicia Silverstone. I inched closer to the TV. In his massive hand the man waved a monstrous paddle and girl knelt on the skateboard. At the whistle, the paddling began. The girl was kneeling with her legs spread wide to give as large a target as she was able, and the wide paddle caught her entire ass and much of her thighs with every screaming blow.

"As you can see," said the narrator, "Wellington starts off wonderfully. His form is impeccable. Look how much force he generates with every wallop! That board is really rolling and he's got half a dozen swats left! But here's where he runs into problems. Look at poor Vashti, on the board. The paddling is coming so hard she loses her grip right here."

The screen went to slow motion as I watched the girl on the skateboard teeter precariously. Then the paddle slammed into her backside with enormous force and literally knocked her off the board! She rolled away and stood up ruefully, rubbing her rear and weeping. The young man quickly grabbed her up in a forgiving bear-hug, tears dripping from his eyes, too.

"Wellington's been eliminated!" cried Mr. Spraycan. "Yes, it was a sorry day for those two, but there's plenty more. In a few minutes we'll have the battle between the champions Ramrod and Redbuns! Stay tuned and don't go away!"

The commercials gave a few minutes to recover from that last bit of action and perform some much needed action of my own, and when the animated OTK Sports logo came back, I was ready. Patricia Wells, the cute announcer, was back.

"Welcome back, folks. There's been a bit of a delay at the Pledge Paddling arena -- a controversy has developed where a certain 'bottom' named Summer refuses to believe the official measurement of her weight. She insists she's two pounds lighter, and she's being quite a brat about it. In the meantime, we're going to take you to Janus Hall, where the Caning Competition is underway."

As she spoke the TV switched to pan across a large auditorium where a couple thousands fans sat in the stands and stomped and cheered loudly. On the floor were dozens of competitors, each deep in concentration, swinging thin rattan rods through the air in practice. Away from the competitors was a group of what appeared to be uniformed schoolchildren -- girls in short pleated skirts and white blouses, and boys in tight trousers and vests. Obviously they were the canees. They looked remarkably calm, considering the position they'd take in a few minutes.

"Hi, I'm Mike from London," said a bright voice in a sharp British accent. The image of a young, nattily-dressed man filled the screen.

"Welcome to the Caning Competition. As you can see, we are just seconds away from getting started. In the meantime, I want to introduce you to a few of the champions of the sport. Over there, that's Hans, who's won several international competitions. On the other side of him is Charles Payne, C.P. for short. He's a world record holder in Speed Caning, an event that hasn't yet made its way across the Atlantic. Over there, near the wall, is H.M., initials every schoolboy knows to avoid. He won last year's contest and has been performing well. Oh, wait a second -- it looks like we're about to begin!"

The camera shifted to the right and zoomed in on a couple -- a petite young schoolboy, fit and wiry, and a tall, stern-faced woman brandishing a long brown cane.

"That's Mrs. Wailer," said Mike softly, as the boy bent over and grasped his ankles. "She's an excellent caner. It will be interesting to see how well she performs today."

The woman stepped behind the boy, raised the cane high above her shoulder, and stepping forward as she swung, delivered a gunshot-like cracking blow across the boy's tight rear. The sound was ferocious, echoing around the auditorium, but the boy barely flinched. The woman raised the rod and swung it again.

"Excellent form," said Mike. "Look at her stance, the way she moves in to gain momentum. Her strokes are solid and well-placed. She could be a contender if she can keep this up."

Swish-CRACK! interrupted the cane.

"Another smart one! Jack's going to be sore tonight! There she goes again. Each caner has sixty seconds to deliver six strokes, so there isn't a lot of time for presentation. Remember, caners are judged not only on force and effectiveness, but also on style and most of all, consistency. Ooh, that one looked a little low. We'll have to check the marks and see, but that might have put her out of the medals. Sad, for she was doing so well. She's got one left, let's see what she does -- oh, not bad, right in the crease. The judges will have to like that, though I doubt Jack appreciates it right now!"

The boy was rising up stiffly from his caning, his face a mask of pain. Gingerly he stepped to the judges table and dropped his trousers, revealing a naked bottom covered with stripes. The camera zoomed in close as the judges studied his backside and wrote notes.

"Yes, as I thought," said Mike. "See the second stroke from the bottom? It's crooked, and there's barely any mark on the left cheek. All the force was on the right buttock. That will cost the 'Wailing Team.' "

A moment later the judges excused the boy and posted the scores: a total of 44.2. Not a bad score, but well below what would be needed to win. A disappointed woman and boy left the stage.

Next up was a beautiful brunette who looked like an over-mature fifteen-year-old, and a man who might have been her father. This man put on more of a show than Mrs. Wailer. At the whistle he mimed scolding the girl. He bent the cane menacingly, to the cheers of the audience, and the girl looked sad and sorrowful and wonderfully pouty as she bent over and touched her toes with her fingertips. The man quickly flipped up her skirt, exposing a slender figure and a set of full, white panties. Without hesitation the man proceeded to lash the cane down in a series of brutal blows. The girl stayed remarkably calm, though occasional close-ups of her face showed she was straining to remain in position. The cane bit hard into her bottom, every stroke temporarily denting the white cotton briefs.

"Remarkable!" cried Commentator Mike. "That was an amazing performance from Sternhand, from Boston. He's a newcomer, but wow, what style!"

The caning concluded, the girl didn't move as the man carefully took down her underwear, the livid marks telling the true story of his aim. There were six parallel weals, each nearly identical in thickness, color, and length. Even more astonishing, the marks appeared to be exactly a quarter-inch apart. It was a work of art. My body saluted it in grand style.

"Looks like the judges have made their decision... let's see, wow! An amazing 49.4 for Sternhand!"

After that, I was a bit distracted during the next couple of canings, both which, while they'd weren't bad, lacked appeal. Neither of the bottoms were half as pretty as Sternhand's girl, and one of them made quite a fuss as she was beaten. Perhaps it was just show, but I didn't enjoy it as much. I preferred bottoms to show their pain in more subtle fashions, not yelping and wiggling and carrying on. It lacked dignity.

Another pair, two men, followed, but were disqualified when one of the cane marks bled. Mike was particularly scornful of the caner's skill, declaring him "worse than terrible," and reminding the audience that true skill comes in inflicting harsh but not extreme pain and certainly not breaking the skin.

After a sixth caning, we broke for yet more commercials, and sure enough, we came back to Patricia Wells in the studio. She indicated we'd pause in the caning coverage and get an update on the Triathlon.

"Whoever scheduled this competition ought to be caned!" I shouted at the TV in outrage. "Can't you guys just focus on any one event for a solid ten minutes without changing the subject, going to a commercial, or doing one of your silly 'profiles' of contestants?"

Apparently not. As if in answer to my question, Buddy Lighter, the Triathlon commentator, cut away from glorious visuals of the fifty athletes in the grueling "hairbrush" portion of the Tri, to do a profile of Willy Whacker, one of the competition's favorites.

It wasn't a bad profile, telling us about his childhood, showing "reenactments" of him as a nine-year-old, spanking a neighbor girl, and later, when he became a famous Dom in New York City. There a few whipping scenes, and highlights from some competitions he'd won, but I wasn't really interested in him -- I wanted to see more of the Triathlon!

But of course, a moment after returning to the scene, we switched back to Patricia, who then sent us off an update of Speed Paddling, which lasted only as long as one spanking, and then we were off to Tawsing, followed by more commercials, and then a brief focus on the finish of the Martinet competition.

I drained two beers and grumbled to myself, wishing for interactive TV were I could control the camera and choose what _I_ wanted to see.

Actually, the Martinet event wasn't bad at all. The bottoms were mostly women, kneeling on all fours as the spankers whipped their behinds with the long, nine-tailed martinets. The contest was one of coverage -- all fifty contestants went at the same time, each delivering fifty strokes at whatever pace they wanted. When everyone was finished, all the bottoms were lined up and judged on redness, coverage, number of distinct stripes, number of overlapping stripes, and consistency. The winner was an Italian man named Alex, and her poor bottom looked wore out from his whipping.

The commercial came at just the right time, because the beers had made me require a break, and when I got back the TV was showing the conclusion of pain artist Julio Armando's presentation. What I saw was amazing. He had apparently selected a volunteer from the audience, a tall young woman with a large backside, stripped her, and now he was carefully tattooing her body with red blotches and stripes from various instruments: a thin little buggy whip, a crop, several paddles, a leather strap, a long single-tailed whip, and many others I couldn't keep track of. The girl was in agony the entire time, moaning and wiggling at the slightest touch, for apparently Julio knew just how to wring the maximum pain from any instrument. When he finished, the camera pulled back and I saw for the first time the entire scene he had been creating across the woman's buttocks: a detailed "painting" of a gorgeous desert, complete with orange setting sun, flying birds, several desert blooms, plenty of sand and rocks, and of course, the inimitable Grand Canyon. It was amazing. Photographers rushed to capture the event permanently on film, for the marks wouldn't last long. Like sidewalk chalk artistry, its temporariness made it more precious.

The new flogging event was featured next, and it was exciting. Like caning, it was skill and style that counted, not brute strength. Competitors were evaluated on speed, consistency, effectiveness, power, endurance, and even sound. Unlike all other events, there were no preset limits to flogging: competitors were instructed to perform within the five minute window at whatever pace they desired. Some seemed to think that more was better, nearly thrashing their bottoms to ribbons, while others favored a conservative approach, preferring art and skill to sheer brutality.

Unfortunately the flogging competition was going to take most of the day, so I didn't get to watch more than a half hour. After more commercials, OTK TV decided for me that I really wanted to see the conclusion of the Pledge Paddling, which turned out to be worth watching, as Roger Redbuns set a new world record of 57.02'.

We came back for a peek, and only a peek, at the delightful Round Three of the Triathlon, the most difficult Razor Strop phase. Here the buns of the bottoms were neglected to concentrate on the thighs and legs -- after all, it's supposed to be an endurance contest for the spankers, not the spankees.

But then it was time for a live report from Rosy B. Goode on the start of the Decathlon. She was a brightly smiling pink-faced woman who was even more excited than me. "I'm here in Slapper Hall, and the Decathlon is about to begin. But first, here's a quick reminder of the rules."

Video clips from previous Decathlons played as she explained: "The Decathlon consists of ten separate spankings given in sequence. Each spanking has it's own rules about how it must be performed: the spankee must adopt the correct position and the requisite number of spanks must be given. A single mistake and it's disqualification, so there's no unfair advantage by someone omitting a spank or adopting a faster style. For example, the Pledge Paddle requires the paddle be held with two hands at all times and the spankee _must_ clearly ask for each swat with a polite, 'Thank you, may I have another?'"

The video showed a buff young man paddling a cute coed on her hands and knees. She endured the tremendous swat and squeaked out the required phrase only to be rewarded with another hard swat that made her eyes bulge.

"This is a speed competition, so the first one finished with all ten spankings is the winner. It's a tremendous challenge as you must be an expert with ten different methods of spanking, not to mention a talented -- and tough -- spankee who's capable of enduring ten spankings in a row!"

We switched back to live video of Rosy as she stepped aside so we could see the gathering of the contestants behind her. There were fifty, each with a naked spankee, and the line went the entire length of the long hall. Grim-looking judges with clipboards were checking each contestant's collection of implements to make sure nothing was missing or non-regulation. My heart pumped as I saw hairbrushes, wooden spoons, paddles, martinets, riding crops, tawses, canes, and bundles of birch rods. Oh, this was going to be awesome!

"We'll take a quick break now, but we'll bring you the entire Decathlon uninterrupted, from start to finish, and we'll see if last year's world record time of 11:17 will be broken!"

The screen dissolved to a nice table showing the current world records in each portion of the Decathlon. Also indicated was the number of strokes required for each implement, which was a helpful reminder.

Hand (200 per cheek): 61.73 seconds (Handyman, 2011) Wooden Spoon (100 per cheek): 54.24 seconds (Mama Mavis, 2013) Hairbrush (50 per cheek): 24.68 seconds (Mr. Blister, 2013) OTK Paddle (100 per cheek): 42.44 seconds (Mr. Blister, 2011) Pledge Paddle (20 swats): 44.67 seconds (Fratboy, 2012) Martinet (30 lashes): 33.72 seconds (Mr. Blister, 2013) Riding Crop (20 from each side): 43.13 seconds (Painmaster, 2012) Tawse (30 slaps): 36.98 seconds (Ms. Lasher, 2013) Cane (20 strokes): 28.82 seconds (Swisher, 2012) Birch (24 strokes): 34.46 seconds (The Headmaster, 2010) Overall Decathlon World Records (ten events): 7m 9.33 seconds (Mr. Blister, 2013)

After a disgusting advertisement for diarrhea medicine, a tampon commercial, a fast food company's newest biggest burger dripping with grease, and a humiliating ad for male erectile disfunction pills, we were thankfully back to lovely Rosy.

"We're back live in Slapper Hall and the Decathlon is seconds away from starting. I'll just point out a few of the key athletes to keep an eye on: first and foremost, of course, is Mr. Blister, the current world record holder. He's number 17. A few places down from him in number 21 is a young up-and-comer, Hotbottom. In qualifying his times were among the best in the country. Over here is number 33, known as the Headmaster, and the world record holder in the Birch. Next to him is Mama Mavis, a lady that's known for her hard spankings and the record holder with the Wooden Spoon. Uh oh, there's the starting bell... and they're off!"

What followed was an amazing cacophony of spanking sounds. Fifty contestants seated on armless chairs with spankees over their laps began slapping away at the presented bottoms with fantastic speed. The camera panned up and down the gallery of bare reddening bottoms blurred by hands slapping down over and over. In seconds, it seemed, it was over, with contestants reaching for wooden spoons and cracking them down across wriggling rumps. Then it was the hairbrush and at this point we started to see some separation from the contestants as some fell behind and a handful took an early lead.

Rosy commented as the camera continued to pan along the contestants: "Wow, what a competition, folks! Mr. Blister is looking awesome, going at a world record pace. His split times are incredible, but I don't know if he can keep this up. Hotbottom is right on his heels, too. They are both ready for the paddle... there they go. Oh, their spankees are really feeling it, aren't they. What spankings! I'm sure glad that's not me under there. Wowee! Look at Mr. Blister go!"

The sound of various implements smacking at a blinding rate all over the room was deafening. Rosy had to nearly shout to be heard. "We're getting some of the unofficial event times in and they are amazing, folks! It looks like Captain Spank has set a new world record in the Hairbrush! And Mama Mavis has broken her own Wooden Spoon record with a new time of 54.12! There's bad news for some, though. It looks like Crimson Flesh has been disqualified. I'm not sure what happened, but a judge spotted some infraction and he's out. And look at that: Naughty Natalie has broken her wooden spoon! She hadn't finished the event yet, so she's done. There's no way to continue without an implement. Very sad.

"But we've got a tight race at the top. Mr. Blister and Hotbottom are still leading, almost finished with the Pledge Paddle. Look at that form: Mr. Blister and his sub have been working together for years and they are gaining on Hotbottom. I don't know how she endures those swats so calmly."

On the screen, Mr. Blister's spankee, a stunning blonde with a nicely full bottom, was gritting her teeth as the big wooden paddle slammed into her ass and then she'd promptly say, "Thank you, may I please have another?" In contrast, Hotbottom's girl took time to gasp and writhe and shake off the pain before she grunted out the critical phrase, and thus Mr. Blister was partway through the Martinet before Hotbottom started it.

"It looks like Mr. Blister is tiring folks. He's been going an a fantastic pace. But you can see he's breathing heavily and his riding crop time is well behind the world record. He's nearly five seconds behind now and Hotbottom is closing the gap. The rest of the field is closing as well. Right on the their heels are Captain Spank, Ms. Lasher, a pretty young thing from Alabama, Miss Terror, and Mr. Grouchy's not too far behind either. The Headmaster and Mama Mavis are still in this, too. This is by no means over, folks. There's still lots of race left.

"It looks like Mr. Blister's ready for the tawse, oh, and so is Hotbottom. Their spankees have to get in the correction position with hands on the chair seat and there they go! Listen to those leather tawses wallop those bottoms! Ouch!

"At the back of the race it looks like we've got a few more disqualifications and a few quitters. Look at the furious Prince Cee Pal -- his sub just up and quit on him in the middle of the Pledge Paddle. She couldn't handle the breakneck pace of all these spankings. She either hasn't been practicing enough or too much; either way her bottom just wasn't ready.

"Look at this, folks: Captain Spank is making incredible ground. Ah! A new world record! He's broken Fratboy's Pledge Paddle record by nearly a full second. Wow. And look at him go in the Tawse. He's not letting up for second and he's catching up to Hotbottom and Mr. Blister, who has a slight lead.

"It's the riding crops for our leaders, the spankees getting into push-up position and holding it for twenty strokes from each side. Mr. Blister and Hotbottom are neck and neck. Wow! Both of them are under world record times! But several seconds, too! Can they keep this up?"

The camera kept jumping from bottom to bottom so much that it was confusing, and smorgasbord of spanking entrees was overwhelming. Everywhere on the TV was spanking: hairbrush, paddles, martinets, riding crops, and so on. It was awe-inspiring.

I was cheering for Mr. Blister as he lashed in the final few cane strokes and urged his sub over the back of the chair for the birch. One, two, three, I counted. "Go Mr. Blister!"

But Hotbottom saw he was trailing and picked up his pace, drawing energy from hidden reserves. By the time Mr. Blister was on his sixth strike, Hotbottom was picking up his own birch and using it. He was certainly faster than Mr. Blister, gaining a stroke or two every three or four strokes. But would it be enough with Mr. Blister's commanding lead?

"It's the home stretch!" called out Rosy. "This is it: Captain Spank has made a valiant effort, but he's too far back. Look at Mr. Blister go with that birch! But Hotbottom's gaining on him... it's going to be a tight finish. Oh dear, Mr. Blister's slowing way down now. He looks exhausted. He can barely swing that birch. Hotbottom looks as fresh as when we started. Amazing.

"And there he goes! Hotbottom pulls into the lead. Just a few more strokes... there! He's done it! Hotbottom has done it! A new world record!"

The crowd was going wild a jubilant Hotbottom was dancing and punching the air in triumph. All around him exhausted spankers were collapsing, many abandoning the race to spare their bottoms the pain of finishing.

"Hotbottom is from the great state of Tennessee, and I'm sure everyone there is proud of him. Look at that: a new world record of six minutes, 58.39 seconds. Wow! Mr. Blister looks crushed that his record has been broken and he's stuck with a silver medal.

"Wait a second. Wait a second. There's a red light by a judge. It appears there's something wrong with Hotbottom's race. Oh dear. This could be a repeat of last year's disaster when the promising newcomer Hanky Spanky was disqualified after thinking he'd won. The judges are reviewing the videotape right now. What will they find?"

Rosy cocked her head, concentrating on listening to her earpiece. "I am being told that the problem for Hotbottom is in the Tawse portion of the race. It seems like he may have miscounted. Oh no, it's true! The judges are shaking their head. He's disqualified! Oh, what a disaster for Hotbottom. Here's the video folks. Watch via our exclusive CountSwat motion sensor. You'll see here he's doing well and note that count in the upper right: 'Nineteen.' Just eleven more to go. Nine, eight, just a few more. He's doing fine. But there it is: after just twenty-nine swats, he's moving on to the cane: he never finished the Tawse! Oh that's a shame."

There were shots of a furious and dismayed Hotbottom, crushed to learn his moment of triumph was an illusion. But that was contrasted by Mr. Blister's reaction which was pure joy. His pleasure was contagious and I loved the way he hugged and congratulated his partner, the lovely Mrs. Blister, unlike the way Hotbottom had ran off leaving his spankee to cope with her agony alone.

"Look at this... Mr. Blister's just been told he's won the gold. And his time is also a new world record: seven minutes five-point-two-one seconds! Wow! He's broken his own record. Incredible. Mr. Blister is 2014's Grand Disciplinarian! It's his unprecedented third time winning this award. He's the reigning champ having won this event last year, and now he successfully defends his crown. He also won the Decathlon in 2009, the inaugural year. What a champion!"

Rosy rushed over to get an interview with the exhausted champion, but I was much more interested in admiring his lovely and stoic partner, who whipped the tears from her eyes and proudly showed off her purple buttocks.

"What's your secret, Mr. Blister?"

The man laughed and said, "Simple: practice."

The blonde woman nodded. "I can attest that he gets plenty of that!"

The interview continued, but I had to make another pit stop and when I returned, the network had gone to a commercial. But soon it was back and time for the exciting relays. First up was the four-by-four, an affair where four spankers each used a different implement on the same poor bottom. It contest was easily won by the team led by Handyman, who excelled in the hand-spanking portion, and his teammates Mr. Blister (Hairbrush), Fratboy (Paddle), and anchored by Captain Spank (cane) who set a new world record of one minute and 34.61 seconds.

More exciting was the four-by-one, in which only the paddle was used, and four bottoms. The tricky part of this was the handoff, because dropping the paddle as you passed it to a teammate was a fatal mistake. The world record of 38.62 had been set by last year by a team led by Mr. Blister, but he was challenged this year by Hotbottom. It was a close race, with each team member whaling away their allotted twenty whacks as fast as they could and passing the paddle to the next. The teams were neck-and-neck going into the final set, but Painmaster's handoff to the Headmaster was poor, requiring an extra grab, and Hotbottom, who was anchoring his team, pulled away for a narrow but triumphant victory.

It was such an exciting finish I was dancing and screaming at the TV and splashing beer everywhere, and I felt a bit embarrassed at my enthusiasm when it was all over. Like my private cheering from two thousand miles away was going change the outcome! But there's just something about these competitions that brings out the crazy fan in me; I guess I'm a sucker for such underdog come-from-behind stories.

After some more advertisements, Patricia Wells was back and quickly sent us for brief updates from various venues, the most exciting being another all-too-short look at another round from the Bridal Path. What was it about men on horses chasing naked women that was so fascinating?

Then there were some boring award presentations and medal ceremonies. The only one that intrigued me was the "Best Bottom" award given to a gorgeous Texas girl who had such a stunningly pert and round booty my jaw literally hung open and drool oozed out. She'd taken a few spankings, so her butt was nicely reddened with some gorgeous purple cane welts.

But then it was back to Patricia who was beaming with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen, we now bring you a terrific exhibition event, Bullwhipping! This is not for the faint of heart, so take your heart pills and get ready for some really vicious action. Take it away, Buns!"

We switched to 'Buns' Parker in the exhibition hall where a whipping post had been set up and several contests where milling around snapping long bullwhips in warm-up. Next to him was a stunningly naked young woman with wonderful cut upturned breasts and little bells dangling from her nipples. She grinned happily at the camera.

"Thanks, Pat! This is exciting, folks! For the first time ever at the NCP Championships, we have genuine bullwhipping. I have with me Lady Karma, a sub who is one of the volunteers in this competition. Now tell me, why are you doing this?"

"Why? Why the hell not?"

"Isn't the bullwhip incredibly painful?"

"It's incredible, that's for sure. There's nothing like the experience of being whipped by a master. It's terrifying -- that huge blacksnake whip cracking across your bare back, your buttocks, or wrapping around your torso. It's pure agony. But it's also unbelievably stimulating."

"Thanks, Lady Karma. I know you need to go now so we wish you luck!"

The woman turned away and the camera followed her rolling asscheeks as she sauntered off to join a collection of several other nude ladies. All were beautiful and I was getting excited.

"For those new to Bullwhipping, here's how the competition works. The object is to make the sub orgasm, or as near to that as possible. That's a challenging feat from ten yards away! Each contestant has three minutes and a maximum of twenty strikes with the whip to achieve the goal. As you can see now, the first contestant is getting ready and the judges are connecting the sub to the monitoring equipment. There's some subjectivity in this event, but the judges do use the scientific data gathered to determine the degree of the target's orgasm."

Behind Bob I could see a pale-skinned woman in her early thirties being bound to the whipping post. Her wrists were connected together well above her head as she was stretched to tiptoe, and then her ankles were fastened at the base of the post. Electrodes and a few other sensors were connected by wires to her chest and pubic area. A bank of laptops nearby showed real-time graphs of the girl's heart rate, blood pressure, moisture level, and other details. I could see that already her heart was at 92 beats per minute and rising. I couldn't blame her: mine was too and I wasn't about to be bullwhipped!

The whipping itself was magnificent. Bob introduced the first contestant, a man named The Executioner from the great faraway state of Alaska, and he was awesome. Three quick strikes across the girl's rump had her screaming and squirming, and then it was slow measured whips across her back. Then he expertly struck a wraparound stroke that curled just beneath her right breast and the girl went into spasms of trembling. The judge's computers showed plenty of physical reaction from the girl as all her numbers were spiking. She was shuddering to orgasm within two minutes and to great applause from the audience. The man's score was an impressive 87.24 out of a hundred.

The second contestant was more of a brute, flogging his girl neatly but leaving her with thick weals like ropes across her back. She did not seem to come at all, and I wondered if the man even understood the goal of the game. His score was a lowly 57.34.

The third contestant was a man in a black mask going by Darth Torcher, and his target was the lovely Lady Karma. She looked stunning as she was fastened to the whipping post and all the medical equipment connected. The camera zoomed in on her striking blue eyes already glowing with the thrill of what was about to happen to her. I inched forward in my seat, wishing desperately I was in Fort Worth instead of thousands of miles away in Twin Falls.

The bullwhipping Lady Karma suffered was magnificent. Darth alternated between buttock and back, and he gradually increased the severity until by the tenth stroke he was leaving thick welts behind. Lady Karma screamed and moaned, especially when a strike left a huge purple weal across her right breast. But then, for the twelfth strike, Darth amazingly managed to sneak the tip of the whip between her legs for a sharp sting to her sex.

Lady Karma's reaction was amazing: she opened her mouth but didn't make a sound and instead started shuddering wildly in what was unmistakably a powerful orgasm. She didn't stop at one, either, orgasming twice more before the three minutes were up! It was incredible. Later, when Darth accepted his award (not a gold medal since this was merely an exhibition event), he graciously gave her the credit, which I loved.

That was the peak of the competition for me. I was drained emotionally and physically, and I was completely out of Kleenex! I set the DVR to record the rest of the event and went to bed where I dreamed about the NCP Championships. I dreamed I was a gold medalist, winning the coveted Cane-Master award, and stunning beauties in their late teens and early twenties were tearing off their clothes, throwing themselves at my feet, and begging me to do them the honor of thrashing them.

"Please sir," cried a heavy-chested blonde. "You can cane me fifty strokes!"

"I'll take 75!"

"No! Pick me! I'll take a full hundred!"

"Ladies, ladies," I said in my dream. "There's plenty of me to go around. I'll cane you all!"

And I did.

The End

Rate This Story: