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When I decided to join this forum, the hardest part was coming up with a screen name. I didn't want a generic spanking forum name like "spank me." I didn't want a name that described me now but not necessarily always, like "novice spankee," since I might stick around for a while and my level of experience may change. I decided I should have a name that could be suitable for any kind of internet forum, but in the interests of privacy, I wanted to avoid any variant of any name I've already used online. Needless to say, it should not be anything close to my real name either.

Coming up with creative names is pretty easy for me (I'm not going to tell you what I named my first pet--sorry, identity thieves!--but suffice it to say, there's probably never been another animal with that name, and I was only 3 or 4 when I came up with it). Still, it took me a couple of days to hit on the perfect name for SN me: Bramblewine.

Having chosen the perfect name, I wondered what it meant. 

According to Google, it's a trademarked tea blend. But that's not what I am.

I thought from early on that Bramblewine must be a fairy. Perhaps the one Shakespeare forgot to mention. That name could easily belong to a cohort of Peaseblossom and Mustardseed and Moth and Cobweb and Puck.

But I still didn't know for sure. So I wrote a story to find out.


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I stay in the thorny bushes, hidden out of sight, as the amorous couple I’ve just worked my magic on turn their slap and tickle into, well, slap.

“Naughty girl,” he growls, landing a resounding spank on her backside.

She squeals and wriggles a bit, but presents her shapely bottom for another.

One spank leads to another, and another. Soon the bonny lass is howling at the moon, literally.

The new moon, that is, hidden under the sun’s rays. Not even a sliver of it emerges in the endless twilight of the white night. It is midsummer, and this is the land where there is no sunset at midsummer, only dusk turning into dawn.

I drink in the couple’s spanking as if it were my own. I am her, feeling the increasing, relentless sting of the spanks, agony and ecstasy, pain and pleasure as one, edging to orgasm or tears or both. I am him, aroused like nothing else at the satisfying smack of my hand on her rump and its satisfying reddening, longing in equal parts to spank her senseless and screw her senseless. I am both of them, spanker and spankee, lover and lover, giver and receiver.

I am….


The couple don’t hear Oberon’s call. But I do. My hearing is much keener than theirs, and he speaks in the fairy tongue. To them, if they could hear it, and weren’t too distracted to care, his voice would just be the wind rustling the leaves.

I hear him, but I pretend I don’t.

“Bramblewine! Come at once!”

He’s calling me by my full name. This must be serious.

I still ignore him.

“Bramblewine, by triple Hekate’s staff and crown, I order thee, come!”

Oberon has no real power to order me. I am not his servant. Nor am I Titania’s. I am a freelance fairy. But it usually suits us all to maintain some pretense that I answer to their authority.

Sometimes, though, I make them work for the honor.

“Bramblewine, if I have to hunt thy sorry hide down, thou wilt regret it!”

I don’t think so. I burrow deeper into the bramble bushes.

Oberon’s threats get a little more specific, and louder. But we both know he wouldn’t carry out any of them.

Except for one.

He isn’t really going to feed me to an owl or use my hide for shoe leather or swap me for a mortal changeling. Not even if he has to shapeshift to capture me.

But he can’t even do that unless I let him.

His footsteps approach.

I “accidentally” poke my head out just long enough for Oberon to catch a glimpse of me.

Then I run. Sticking to the brambles, which are my home. I can navigate them easily without getting pricked at all. Oberon cannot.

I could keep this up until midwinter’s dawnless night if I wanted to.

But eventually, I get bored with eluding Oberon. So I shapeshift into a rat and run out of the brambles, right across his feet.

He shapeshifts into a dog immediately. A rat terrier, wouldn’t you know it. Before he can move a muscle to catch me, I  become a bear and knock him sideways with one light swipe of my paw.

Oberon turns into a sparrowhawk and flies to the nearest tree, where he perches. Maintaining the shape of a bear takes too much energy to keep it up for long, and he knows it.

There’s a reason why big, fierce animals are rare even among shapeshifting fairies. Especially big, fierce animals that must constantly eat.

A shapeshifted bear needs at least twice as much caloric intake as a real one. Not going to happen, even if I eat every berry on the bramble bush and tear up every log for grubs.

So I turn into a lithe, quick field mouse and start scurrying through the grass.

Just as quick, Oberon has swooped down and caught me.

In only a minute or two, Oberon has set me down inside the fairy ring where he holds court, and we are both back in our natural forms. His grip on my arm ensures I won’t escape. 

“What hast thou to say for thyself, rascal?” Oberon demands, giving me a shake. “I come back from a triple wedding and reunion with my wife, who finally consented to share my bed after several months and find… this.”

He points to his throne. Which can hardly be called a throne at this point.

“Nature takes its course when you neglect your kingdom, my lord,” I say, giving an ironic twist to the words “my lord.” “You were away for many months, attending to the important business of futilely seeking her ladyship’s attentions and at least a half dozen wanton wenches….”

“Silence, knave!” Oberon thunders. His eyes have narrowed ominously. “It would take tens, nay, hundreds of years of disuse for my throne to turn into naught but a pile of briars, but a certain bramble fairy has been known to make such things happen overnight! And well thou might remember, Bramblewine, I was last here but two days ago, and this entire ring was in pristine condition then. As it is now. Except for my throne.”

“I know nothing, my lord.” I affect an air of innocence and just a slight mocking twist to my words, especially the last two.

“Then thou art a liar as well as a cheeky, insolent scoundrel.” Oberon shakes me again. “I’ve a mind to stuff thy mouth full of thorns…” 

I make a show of licking my lips. Thorns are my favorite delicacy, as he knows. Not for me the dainty, honeyed blossoms that the fairies of the court prefer. Making them eat thorns would be cruel punishment indeed. I’ve heard Oberon threaten his courtiers with that on more than one occasion when he suspected they were lying to him, but for me, it would be fine dining.

“...but that would have no effect on thee. Nor would feeding thee to the clamorous owl, much as I’d like to. Thy bones would just rise from the pellet to torment me more. No, Bramble, there’s just one way to get to the bottom of this.”

So saying, he flips me over his knee and pulls up my tunic in one fluid motion.

Though I’m as old as the hills, I’m much smaller than Oberon. Next to him, I’m no bigger than a child of four or five next to an adult. My tunic is the only clothing I wear. Exposed, my bottom is as sensitive as any mortal’s.

But the fairy king’s hands are not sensitive at all. His arm is tireless. He could spank me for months on end if he wanted to and not cause himself any discomfort.

He gives me several hard swats to start with, making me yell and writhe. It’s been months since he spanked me last. I always forget how much it hurts. 

And I always forget how good it is, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts just right. Oberon makes it hurt just right. Not too little, sometimes almost too much, but never completely too much. 

He spanks me steadily for quite some time, varying the rhythm, varying how hard, although none of the spanks are light. With his other hand, he keeps me pinned down securely. When my hands instinctively fly back to cover my bottom, he deftly catches them and pins them to the small of my back. He pushes me to the brink of breaking down, then eases off and spanks me less intensely, almost gently, even, then rains down such blows that the fires of Hades could never be worse.

The spanking doesn’t really go on for months, but it sure feels like it. My bottom is burning, my eyes are pricking with tears, and still the spanks come crashing down. Sometimes he lands the heel of his hand, making a hard thud. Sometimes he snaps his fingers against my bottom like a whip. 

I am spanked senseless. That is to say, I know nothing but the fire in my bottom, which has become all of me.

I hate it. 

I love it.

I need it.

Eventually, I’ve had all I can take and I do break down. That’s when the spanking eases up, becomes downright gentle, and then stops.

“Enough, dear one?” Oberon asks tenderly.

I nod through my tears.

He helps me up and wraps an arm around me. “Many thanks for the welcome home, my friend. I’ve missed our games these last few months.”

I hug back, as best I can with my small arms. I think I am the only fairy besides Titania who ever hugs Oberon. 

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