Friday, 21 September 2012

Glowing Globes Gazette - Real Dreams

An intrepid reporter does an in depth report on a company offering to turn spanking fantasies into reality.

Glowing Globes Gazette

Real Dreams

I’m sure many of us remember the 80’s TV show Fantasy Island, starring Ricardo Montalban as the urbane Mr Roarke, along with French midget and actor Herve Villechaize, playing his wisecracking valet Tattoo. The premise of the show was that we all have secret fantasies, and Mr Roarke would invite carefully selected clients to his island and make their dreams come true.

A new business has taken that idea and applied it to spanking. Many of us in the spanking community have fantasies and Real Dreams do their best, for a fee of course, to make these dreams a reality.

We at Glowing Globes Gazette were very intrigued by this idea and decided to have one of our reporters become a client, and pay for him to use their services and see how well they could make a spanking fantasy into a reality.

Here is his account of the experience:

It’s a dream job for a spanko really, isn’t it? Your editor comes to you and says we’ve got a new story for you to work on. We want to pay you to visit a company called Real Dreams and have them tailor an experience you’ve dreamt about for years.

Real Dreams isn’t all that easy to contact. Due to the nature of what they do they only take appointments over the internet, and they’re very choosy about who they do business with. It’s not a one step process either.

First you register on their website and fill out a questionnaire. The questionnaire isn’t that much different from what you’d expect to find on an internet dating site. Initially, that is. Name, age, language spoken, marital status, and then it starts getting into the specifics of what you want, and why you’ve decided to contact them and get them to tailor something for you. Some of the questions may seem intrusive, but it’s in your best interests to answer them as thoroughly and as truthfully as you can, so you get the experience that most closely mirrors your dreams.

Once the questionnaire is filled in and sent way, they also do a credit check, you’re contacted via email and an appointment is arranged with a consultant. This is a face-to-face meeting, and the consultant can generally arrange to come to your work or home if that’s what you want or it’s not convenient for you to come to their offices.

The consultants often double as participants in the fantasies, although it’s not general practice for a client to have the consultant perform both roles. A good many of the consultants also have psychological qualifications. The company does it’s best to match the consultant to the gender specified on the questionnaire. Someone who wants an M/F experience will probably get a male consultant. My experience was an F/M one, so I was assigned a female consultant.

She saw me here at the office, given what we report on, it seemed to be entirely natural. Once she had a cup of coffee, she actually confessed to being a reader with a gentle blush. She was a very attractive woman, in her early 30’s, blonde, dressed in a business suit, and with a lovely slim figure. She put me at ease right away because I was nervous. Again the interview, like the questionnaire, is fairly exhaustive, but it has to be, and you’ll see why later.

My particular dream concerned the mother of a school friend. This may have been where my lifelong interest in spanking first began. One of my best friends in primary school and the first couple of years of high school before my family moved and I switched schools was a boy called Andrew Stephenson, although all his friends called him Andy. Andy’s mother was Amanda, when I was small I called her Aunty Mandy, but she became Mrs Stephenson as I grew older.

Amanda Stephenson was an example of what these days is referred to as a ‘Yummy Mummy’, she was tall and willowy, with long wavy brown hair, a gentle face and gorgeous hazel eyes. I doubt I was the only one of Andy’s friends who had a bit of a crush on Mrs Stephenson, although I’m sure I was the only one who wanted her to spank me.

Occasionally Mrs Stephenson used to threaten to spank. She always said it with a smile, and no one took it seriously. Play may get a little out of hand, and she’d say “You’re not too old to go over my knee, young man.” It usually stopped the misbehavior, but she rarely ever raised her voice to Andy and us, let alone her hand. I did ask him if his Mum and ever spanked him, but he laughed, and reassured me that she was joking. It still fuelled my fantasies, even though I knew it would never happen.

There was one incident that could have resulted in that threatened journey over Amanda Stephenson’s lovely thighs. Andy and I were 14 years old, and his Dad had a bottle of scotch where we could get to it. We were both curious about alchohol, and one afternoon Mrs Stephenson was out and Andy’s sister was at a friends house, so we were home alone. We tried the scotch. Unfortunately we managed to spill some of it as well. Andy thought he’d get in trouble if his parents worked out he’d been drinking. The level of alcohol in the bottle had been considerably lowered by what we ‘d done. I suggested dropping the bottle on the floor. and saying that I’d pushed him into the wall and it had fallen off the shelf and broken. We did that, and Mrs Stephenson fell for the story. She wasn’t happy with either of us, but disappointingly for me, did not spank us. She didn’t even threaten this time. I was sent home and not allowed to see Andy outside of school for the next week. Andy was grounded for the same period.

It was less than a year after that incident that my family moved away from the neighbourhood and I never saw Andy or his mother again. Pamela; my consultant, didn’t just ask about the incident or Mrs Stephenson’s physical appearance and manner, she also had questions about the neighbourhood, what the houses looked like, how they were maintained, the feel of it all. What I was like at the time, not so much what I looked like, but more how I behaved in general, and what sort of things I thought about. If it hadn’t been for the fact that it wasn’t company policy to not have the consultant participate in the fantasy, I would have loved for Pamela to take the place of Mrs Stephenson. She took copious notes, and promised that the company would contact me about the rest of the fantasy.

True to Pamela’s word I received instructions a day after her visit that gave me an address and a time.

Pulling up in the quiet suburban street I was impressed. Genuine notice had been taken when I described where Andy lived. The house wasn’t an exact match, but it was close, and I got a nostalgic feel as I looked around, this was very like where I had grown up.

I got out of the car and took a deep breath. I opened the gate of the neat picket fence, and strolled up the path through the colourful garden. My heart started to beat quicker as I stood on the verandah and knocked sharply on the door. I moistened my lips with my tongue as I waited for my knock to be answered, I also desperately hoped I hadn’t misread the address I was given and was at the right place.

My breath caught in my throat as a lovely, willowy brown haired woman appeared at the door. Her hazel eyes sparkled, and her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at me. She wasn’t exactly like Amanda Stephenson, she was younger for a start, although she would have been approximately the same age as the Amanda Stephenson I remembered from my youth.

Real Dreams version of Amanda Stephenson.

“Hello, Phillip,” she greeted me warmly.

“Uuhhh hi Mrs Stephenson,” I managed, just remembering to call her that in time.

“Come on in, sweetie,” she invited, standing aside and ushering me in.

I looked around, I hoped they were paying Pamela well, because of her descriptions the décor was nearly spot on from Andy’s house all those years ago.

“You’re here for Andy?” Amanda Stephenson’s stand in asked.

Why else would I have come here? What fourteen year old boy would turn up at a friend’s house to see his mother?

“Yes, Mrs Stephenson,” I answered politely.

“He’s at a soccer game, Phillip,” she informed me.

“Oh,” I was stumped here. What other plausible explanation could I come up with to extend the visit?

My hostess rescued me “I’m glad you’re here, though. I wanted to have a little chat with you. Sit down,” she motioned to the couch. “Would you like a glass of milk?”

“Yes, please.”

“You just get comfy, dear. I’ll be back in a moment.”

I sat nervously and wondered how this was going to play out. I didn’t have long to wait before Mrs Stephenson (I had begun to think of her that way) reappeared in the living room. She had a glass of milk in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. It would appear that she had been having afternoon coffee when I arrived. She set the milk in front of me. and settled herself next to me.

I took a quick sip of the milk, feeling rather silly at being treated like a young teen, when I was in fact a grown adult with my teen years well behind me.

Amanda Stephenson regarded me carefully, her hazel eyes sparkling, and then she asked “Do you remember the incident with the scotch, Phillip?”

I nearly choked on my milk, and then answered “Yes, Mrs Stephenson.”

“What actually happened that afternoon?” she pressed.

“Ummm…we told you. We were mucking around, Andy pushed me into the wall and the bottle fell…”

I was interrupted “Andy pushed you? I could have sworn he said you pushed him.”

I felt a flush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. The story my friend and I had agreed to at the time did actually have me as the aggressor, nerves had made me get it wrong. “We were both kind of…” I started.

“Phillip,” Mrs Stephenson said firmly. “Tell me what happened…and I want the truth this time, young man.”

It was the ‘young man’ that did it. I couldn’t tell you why but those two words have a profound effect on me and always have. I melt when a woman calls me that in a stern voice. “I…uuuhhh…I…” I stammered. “We sneaked some of the scotch…”

“And you didn’t want Mr Stephenson or I working out what you’d done, so you smashed the bottle deliberately and concocted the story about rough housing.” Mrs Stephenson finished, eyeing me over the rim of her coffee cup.

I put my milk down, and swallowed hard “Yes,” I confessed in a small voice, dropping my eyes to the floor.

Mrs Stephenson nodded “I got the same story from Andy.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

She smiled “I wanted to hear you tell me the truth and confess.”


“Do your parents know the truth?”

I shook my head “No, Mrs Stephenson.”

“So beyond the ban I put on you seeing Andy for a week you haven’t been punished at all?”

I shook my head again.

“Do you know what happened to Andrew?”

“He was grounded for a week, he told me,” I supplied helpfully.

“The grounding was for fighting in the house, it covered the nip of alcohol he took when I found out about that. I bet he didn’t tell you what I did to him for lying.”

I felt the colour drain from my face, and I could barely speak as I croaked “No, he didn’t.”

“I can’t imagine too many fourteen year old boys who would admit to their friends that their mother spanked their bare bottom over her knee.”

I felt a shiver go down my spine at her words, and my penis grew erect, pressing painfully against the zip of my trousers.

Mrs Stephenson watched my face, then sipped her coffee, and asked “Do you think that’s fair, Phillip?”

“Fair?” I asked.

“That Andrew was grounded and spanked, but you got off scot free,” she clarified.

“I wasn’t allowed to see Andy for a week,” I pointed out.

The beautiful brown haired woman seated near me laughed “That wasn’t really much of a punishment, sweetheart. I think even you would have to agree with that.”

“I guess so,” I conceded.
“So what are we going to do about the lie?”

“Ummm… I dunno.”

She shook her head, and sighed “Boys. Do you want me to call your Mum and tell her the truth?”

“No!” I insisted.

“Will she spank you?” the woman I now thought of as Amanda Stephenson probed.

“No,” I replied. “My parents don’t believe in hitting. She’ll probably ground me or give me more chores.”

“Would you prefer it if I dealt with it here and now, and your Mum and Dad will never know about it?” she offered.

“Could you?” I asked, half with gratitude and half with excitement, knowing what was coming next.

“I could,” she said, playing with a strand of her soft brown hair. “You may not like it, though. I’ll do the same I did to Andy.”

“A spanking,” I said dry mouthed.

Amanda nodded.

I swallowed hard, I really couldn’t breathe properly, this was a long held fantasy, and it was about to come true. “Okay,” I said eventually.

Mrs Stephenson put her coffee down, and said “Take your shoes off please, Phillip.”

At my quizzical look, she explained “You may kick and I’d prefer you didn’t hit me with a shoe.”

I unlaced my shoes, took them off and set them down side by side next to the couch.

She sat back, and ordered “Stand up and come to me.”

My legs were a little wobbly, but I managed it without embarrassing myself. That was when she unsnapped my buttons and started to unzip me.

“What are you doing, ma’am?” I asked in concern.

She clucked in annoyance “You can stop that ma’am right now, young man. I’m Mrs Stephenson to you,” she stopped and considered something, then said “Better yet call me Aunty Amanda like you used to when you were little.”

Despite the situation I was in I was still impressed by the thoroughness of the research, and how well they’d drilled my spanker. If it was possible to somehow tip Pamela I’d do it.

“Down they come,” she announced as my trousers were lowered to my ankles.

I’d wanted to hide my raging erection, but once all I had was my underpants that was next to impossible, it strained at the thin cotton of my briefs.

Aunty Amanda’s lips pursed, and her eyes hardened, but all she said was “Maybe we’ll wait until you’re over Aunty’s lap before removing the underpants.”

I thanked God she had said that. I doubted I could have kept it under control if she’d insisted on taking them off then and there. I was still a little concerned about what may happen with my member anyway, but the less time it had to become comfortable before the spanking the less likely I was to let go. The pain of the spanking generally chased away the arousal, during the chastisement. It was ready for action before and after, but not during, and while this woman looked like a suburban housewife I had no doubt she was an experienced disciplinarian who could administer a very memorable spanking.

She lifted her skirt, so that I got a good look at her firm, nyloned thighs. This sight did nothing for my desperate erection, and I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to try and hide it. As it was, it was nearly popping out the top of the waistband of my underwear.

With Aunty’s help I was maneuvered over her lap. My erect member wanted to nestle against those silken thighs, but this woman knew her stuff, and before I could lower down I heard a crisp command of “Lift up.”

I raised my hips and felt fingers in the waistband of my underpants, lowering them to my knees, a deft twist once they were there fastened them and ensured that kicking would be kept to a minimum. “Back down,” she commanded, and I eased myself over her lap.

“Nice and cosy,” she murmured.

My erection was throbbing against her thigh, but before it could become intolerable a loud CRACK sounded in the stillness of the pleasantly appointed living room, and thoughts of what was happening in front were chased away by a stinging behind. The pain of the first blow had barely registered before the palm smacked smartly down across the other cheek and the sting on one was joined by an accompanying feeling on the opposite side.

“Think it’s clever to lie?” Amanda asked, as she sprinkled crisp hard slaps all over my buttocks.

“No Aunty!” I yelped.

“I’ll teach you to tell fibs to me!” she vowed, applying a blistering volley to my upper thighs.

I roared and bucked. I hadn’t been spanked there for some time, not everyone does them, and I’d forgotten just how much that stings.

Amanda reddens our reporter's bottom. From Clare Spanks Men.

Aunty Amanda stopped scolding as she concentrated on the fire she was kindling on my bouncing bottom. The only sounds in the room were the almost metronomic slapping of her strong, hard palm and my answering noises. I squealed, yelped and grunted my way through an extended hand spanking. I was proud of myself that at least I didn’t cry. I know I was kicking and squirming, although she seemed to have no real difficulty in holding me in position, and continuing to spank away steadily.

When I felt like my rear end was ready to burst into flames, and I was experiencing a lot of difficulty holding the tears back, Amanda stopped. Her hand rested lightly on my inflamed bottom, and she cooed “Oh goodness, you’re very hot down there, dear. I could just about heat the dinner on these.”
I took a deep shuddering breath and tried to relax.

“Up you get,” she commanded.

I stood in front of her and started to rub my hot sore bottom.

“Stop that!” Amanda snapped, her eyes blazing.

My bum was aching so much that I continued to rub even after the comment.

“Don’t make me say it again, Phillip,” she warned.

I gulped and with an effort withdrew my hands from my backside.

“Now you go stand in the corner like a good little soldier,” Amanda ordered.

I limped to the corner and pressed in, as I knew was expected of me.

I stood there, listening to the sounds in the room. I heard Mrs Stephenson leave, and my brow furrowed in consternation. Was it over? I sighed and started to massage my battered hindquarters. I was concentrating on soothing my rear, so never heard Mrs Stephenson re enter the room. The first I was aware of that was when her hand closed around my wrists, and she slapped my backside soundly, scolding “You do not rub your bottom unless I give you permission to do so. I did not go to all the trouble of bringing it carefully to the boil, only to have you rub it away. Such a disobedient boy!”
The next thing I knew she had taken a firm grip of my ear between thumb and forefinger, and was dragging me back to the couch. Before I could say anything I was once again upended over her lap.

I shivered as I felt something flat and cool, also fairly heavy on my bottom. At the age of fourteen I probably wouldn’t have really known what it was, but now I did. I had also told Pamela that part of my fantasy was to be spanked with a hairbrush, because it was to me the ultimate item of maternal displeasure. Pamela had taken that down while she smiled and nodded in agreement. They took their business seriously at Real Dreams, and I was about to get a good old- fashioned hairbrushing over a maternal feeling lap.

“You know what this is don’t you, young man?”

“A hairbrush, Aunty Amanda,” I replied in an unsteady voice.

“Yes, it is,” she confirmed. “Normally I use it to brush my hair, but when a little boy has been naughty and lied to me it has another use. Can you guess what that is, Phillip?”

“To spank,” I stammered.

“What a clever boy you are! Andrew felt the back of my hairbrush after he’d confessed to lying to me, so I don’t think you should escape that either. I’d advise you to hang on tight, because this will hurt, darling. I notice you haven’t cried yet, and that’s fortunate because you are going to need all your tears during the next few minutes, sweetheart.”

She had not been lying. My backside soon felt like a volcano had exploded on its surface as Amanda unleashed the brush. I doubt the real Amanda Stephenson had anywhere near her stand in’s expertise with the hair care implement. She spanked me long and hard with it. She varied the tempo, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, other times in between, this never let me relax into working out her rhythm. She was careful to give my buttocks even all over coverage, including ordering me to spread my legs so that she could roast the sensitive tender areas in between the cheeks, she also gave me a concentrated volley on my upper thighs and sit spot. I broke partway through and the tears just started to flow, my nose started to run too, and by the time the brush was laid down I was a blubbering mess, laying limply over her firm thighs.

From Clare Spanks Men. Amanda administers a good old-fashioned hairbrushing.

Amanda helped me to my feet, and held me while I bawled, she even gave my abused seat a much wanted rub, before installing me in the corner. There was no need to tell me not to rub, I had learned my lesson on that count.

I don’t know how long I stood in the corner, but I don’t think it was anything over ten minutes. Some of the heat had gone from my bottom, and it was just a dull pulsating throb. She called me over, and I was told to lie back over her lap. Although I had booked this session and some part of me wanted the torture that had been the hairbrush I didn’t want any more, and I even doubted I could take it. I was pleasantly surprised when she massaged cold cream into my aching hindquarters, then washed them with cool water and powdered them, before gently patting the cheeks dry.

Amanda watched me dress, seated on the couch, one shapely leg crossed over the other, a smile playing across her placid features.

I gave her a hug, she returned it, bussed my cheek and wished me a good afternoon, with a whispered promise that any time I felt the need for some maternal discipline Aunty Amanda was only a phone call away.

I’m sitting on a pillow to write this report up. I can heartily recommend Real Dreams to anyone wanting an authentic fantasy spanking experience. The fees are steep, though, so unless you have an extensive budget it would be best to make it for something really special. I’ll be saving up my pennies for another experience, maybe I can get Pamela or maybe I can investigate the dreams I used to have about one of my babysitters.


  1. Wow! Quite an experience! I wish there really was a service like this, except I probably couldn't afford it... :-(


  2. So do I but wonderful story about a wonderful service....

  3. That's the thing about the services written about by Bared Affair and now In Glowing Globes, they sound plausible enough to be real, but sadly aren't. Glad you both enjoyed reading it.

    1. Agree Aunty, and nice pics and wow, Jennifer Aniston!

  4. As usual a great story, I know I hate it when my Wife starts out on the backs of my thighs, gets my attention really quick. Too bad we don't have a service like this here in the states.

    Sorry for being late posting this Ma'am, but I just read the newest story, and saw you were disappointed at the lack of response. I certainly am glad I'm not with in hairbrush range of you!! LOL

    Enjoy your holiday.