The Spanking Writers

Yesterday I had to go down to London on my own; Abel is due to join me this afternoon. He teased me on the phone about being in trouble for running away from home, and I can’t get the idea out of my head.

I would be a new bride, freshly delivered to her husband’s estate. I had no wish to marry him, I hardly know him! But my parents insisted. Well, I have a better idea: I steal a boy’s suit from a page, and set off to London: to audition for a theatre troupe, perhaps, or even to join a convent. Anything is better than being married off against my will!

However, I haven’t reckoned on my husband’s connections, or on his determination. He has me followed, and comes after me personally, austere and magnificent, cutting across my way on his horse, as I run along an unfamiliar London lane. Oh no! he is clutching a riding whip. Whatever will happen to me now?

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I’ve been studying this afternoon. Not the work documents I should have been reading, you understand, but the 54 pages of Mr Justice Eady’s Judgment in the Max Mosley vs. News of the World case. This is an important case for the spanko community – the consequences had the judge ruled that Mosley was an evil pervert, and that the press should have the right to “out” as many participants in S&M activities as possible, would have been just too scary.

But Mr Justice Eady ruled for Mosley, awarding him £60,000 in damages. The Judgment is wonderful stuff – written with real panache. I’m sure other blogs will dissect the document in great detail in the coming days, and I’m no lawyer. However, I thought I’d share a few choice paragraphs that caught my eye in case you’ve not yet had the time – or don’t have the inclination - to read the whole thing. I’ve highlighted a few of my favourite lines towards the end in bold.

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The herd of baby elephants in the hotel room directly above mine had been practising their gymanstics for far too long, far too late at night. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone to the reception desk, to ask whether they might be able to ask my fellow guests to quieten down.

Silence descended within moments, and I was able to fall asleep at last.

To sleep, perchance to dream… Two girls in the room: best friends, on a trip to London. The father of one, staying further down the corridor, oblivious to the post-lights-out misbehaviour. The hotel manager, knocking on his door to mention the problem, accompanying him to the girls’ room to order them to quieten down.

The door shutting behind the manager, the girls’ apologies too late to save them. They’d be told to bend over the ends of their twin beds, to lower their pyjama bottoms. He’d whip his own daughter first – she’d be used to the taste of his belt. And then to her friend, who’d agree quietly that her own parents had told her that she should behave impeccably during the trip, and that they had asked her friend’s father to punish her soundly if she did not. The same dozen strokes, the same tears.

And the same order at the end of their punishment: to put on their dressing gowns and go downstairs to apologise to the gentlemen below for the disturbance they’d caused; to explain that they had been dealt with; to promise that there’d be no repetition.

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Long Acre is one of my favourite London streets - the road from Leicester Square to Covent Garden full of lovely shops, like the quite wonderful Stanford’s (the travel bookshop), Muji or - a stone’s throw to the side - the London Graphic Centre. It’s also perhaps that I associate the walk with heading towards the delights of Belgo, to top up on mussels and frites, or the soon-to-be-gone CCK.I now have quite a different image in my mind, after walking back late-ish the other night from the aforementioned hostelries. Passing one of the clothes stores - Next, maybe? - we noticed a young shop assistant inside the door. On the floor before her were two huge bags, from which spilled garments galore. And, sifting suspiciouly through the garments, receipt in hand, was the uniformed security guard.

It didn’t take much to imagine where this was heading. “You’ll need to accompany me to the security office” would follow the discovery that her late-night working had seen a few extra items slip into her bag. There, they’d discuss the options: “I should call the police, but they’re awfully busy at this time of the evening. And then the management would need to know in the morning, of course - assuming you’re out of the cells by then.”

She’d readily agree to the alternative. A dash round the shop would see the almost-stolen items returned to the racks. By the time she returned, a chair would be positioned in the middle of the room, a cane on the desk.

“Lift your skirt and bend over.”

She’d comply. He’d tug down her knickers.

He wouldn’t offer her the solace of knowing the number of strokes in advance, so that she could find comfort from the nearing end of the caning. Rather, he’d punish her until he was sure that she was suitably repentent. And then he’d stripe her more, to be doubly-assured of her penitance.

She’d stand on the tube journey home, of course. Other passengers would notice her discomfort: observing her smudged make-up, watching sympathetically as she wiped away her tears.

And the following morning, after a painful and restless night, it’d be back into the store - where the security guard would be waiting, barely acknowledging her as she walked in, keeping true to his word that the incident would never again be mentioned.

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Our recent trip to Windsor turned up another opportunity for our kinky minds to corrupt the scenes around us.

I do hope that the schoolmaster in charge of the group of French students gathered in a gang on the benches beside the castle noticed their behaviour. Specifically, that is, that one of the young ladies had reached into her bag to bring out a packet of cigarettes, lighting two - one for herself, and one for her friend.

They’d not have realised that he’d been watching from the window of the Starbucks opposite. They’d have been surprised later that evening in the hostel to be told to stay behind, when the rest of the girls had been sent to bed.

He could send them straight home, he explained. Ask them to report to the Headmaster, who would inevitably have suspended them for a week with a letter sent to each family. Needless to say, neither girl’s parents knew that she smoked - that she did, and that she’d lied about the fact, would be a matter of grave concern. And the two best friends had confided enough secrets in the past to know that the consequences would be swift and severe.

Alternatively, they might like to know that the hostel’s manager understood that girls on school trips sometimes misbehaved. A leather strap was kept for just these circumstances: would the girls prefer to take their punishment now, and save any mention from being made of the incident on their return to France?

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While writing about birching of juveniles, W.A. Elkin (whom I quoted recently), shares an anecdote that made me giggle:

“Aldershot: Boy got away from an Approved School; stole food for a wigwam where he played at Red Indians. Birched! A fortnight later up for the same offence with two others. Birched. Fortnight later two of them broke out again.”

This episode could be so appropriate if copied for a role-play scenario. When I play a reformatory girl, I quite often struggle to find an offence that would be both appropriate to the era, not so terrible that I couldn’t imagine myself committing it, and serious enough for a birching.

Thank you, unknown Aldershot boys. I’ll think of you when I’m repeating your trick.

Elkin suggests that the boys kept breaking out because -

“…most boys are terrified of being thought cowards. The one way they can keep up their prestige and prove to their friends that they are “tough guys” not to be intimidated, is by committing another offence.”

That may well be true, but in this case I think that they simply decided that the adventure was totally worth the trouble they were going to get into when they’re caught.

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Realism matters, when it comes to role-play: one has to be able to able to relate to (and feel confident in) whatever character one’s assuming for the scene. In school scenes over the years, therefore, I’ve always played a Housemaster – in my thirties, it would have been unrealistic to yet occupy the Headmasterial chair. (And yes, Smudge, I am now getting to an age where promotion could probably beckon).

Now, today, Haron’s heading off to play a scene with friends. A prefectorial scene. Which also wouldn’t work for me at all. Although I was a prefect at a public school myself (’back in the old days’!), and the group who are playing includes many dear friends, I can’t reasonably relate to the character of an 18-year-old schoolboy. The beard doesn’t add to my credibility in the role either. (And, in any case, I shall be delightfully otherwise engaged during the day).

So Haron will be dressed neatly in her school uniform; called before the prefects; dealt with most severely. Twenty miles or so away, I shall be thinking of her during the day – wondering at what point my girl is being disciplined, deriving vicarious pleasure from the thought of the cane strokes that may be being applied at that very moment.

And then she’ll return to the hotel. Where her guardian will be waiting. He’ll quickly realise that she’s been in trouble at school. Will be astonished and disappointed to hear that she’d been so badly behaved that corporal punishment had had to be imposed. Will send her to get ready for bed. Will expect an explanation, before reminding her: “You know the rules.”

And she will: that a caning at school inevitably results in a thrashing at home. His belt will come off; she’d lift her nightdress and bend over the end of the bed. He’ll observe her marks, before adding his own…

… hard…

… before we flick out of character, and my girl is back, and we hug while she spills out her secrets from the day’s scene.

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A kinky friend’s introducing me to another of her pervy acquaintances one evening next week. It was only logical that we should arrange to meet in Coffee, Cake and Kink.

What I didn’t realise when we agreed our plan for the evening would that this would prove to be my last visit to CCK. They’ve been locked in a battle with their landlords for the past two years, and finally announced yesterday that they’ll soon be closing the doors of their café and gallery.

The wonderful team at CCK have touched the lives of so many in the scene over the past few years. They created a wonderful space which became a natural focal point for those with kinky leanings, and their friendly welcomes have helped so many to feel at ease with their preferences. (”Hey, we can’t be that odd if there’s a café for people like us – filled with all of these nice folks”).

And now we’ve lost our safe haven: London life will be much the poorer without them. I mourn their passing, and know already that future walks down Endell Street will be bitter-sweet – smiling at the memories of so many wonderful visits with cuddles enjoyed, confidences shared, inspiration found - whilst wishing they were still there.

The CCK team will still be online, though, and hope that the café may be back in the future:

Whether or not Coffee, Cake & Kink comes back as a social space depends largely on the success of the online shop, and how well we are able to demonstrate that the loss of the premises has not diminished your faith in us. So far you have voted with your feet, now you can vote with your mouse! With every order placed online, a deposit for new premises builds up and our customers show that they want us back.

I’ll be heading over to www.coffeecakeandkink.com once I’ve finished writing, to find something to order as a gesture of support. I’d urge you, if you can possibly summon up the spare cash, to do likewise. At the very least, why not make a mental note that if you’re buying kinky Christmas presents later in the year, you’ll look at CCK’s site first?

But I can’t help but feel that visiting them in Endell Street next week will bring a tear to my eye – rather like writing this post just has.

To all at CCK: our love, our thanks, and our very best wishes.

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It’s a very good thing that Her Majesty didn’t wander down from Windsor Castle into the town the other Sunday to do some shopping in her local department store. For, much to our amusement, the shop was adopting a somewhat novel approach to promoting its new range of men’s underwear: two young hunks, strolling around the menswear section floor naked save for a pair of trendy boxer shorts.*

Fortunately, the experiment was also being tested in the women’s lingerie department. (We had to check, of course, in the interest of research). But the cutie they’d selected for her semi-naked parade was rather more covered than the boys, being permitted the modesty of a white nightdress.

We immediately realised why: when she’d changed that morning, the department manager had noticed a fresh set of weals, clearly visible beneath the skimpy knickers that she was supposed to model. He’d questioned her; she’d blushed: daddy had only given her permission to stay out until eleven the evening before, and her post-midnight return had not gone down well.

She’d been sent straight to bed, his “we’ll deal with this after breakfast” ringing ominously in her ears. And after the morning’s marmalade had been carefully tidied away, the china washed and dried, he’d accompanied her upstairs. Her protests would be ignored: “You should have thought of that before you chose to disobey me last night.”

He’d unbuckled then slid out his thick leather belt; she’d slid down her jeans and knickers, and adopted that oh-so-familiar but thankfully-irregular posture: bent over the end of her bed, face buried in the soft duvet, which absorbed her tears as the sharp strokes seared.

The store’s general manager would be less sympathetic, of course: “We’ve paid her to model the new underwear” would be his refrain, and the nightdress would have to be removed. The afternoon’s clientele would be quite united, both in their curiosity at the mortified girl’s marks and in their murmured agreement that she was fortunate to be corrected so by her loving father.

* As a means of improving sales to their male customers, this did have a fatal flaw – most guys heading straight in the opposite direction as soon as the two semi-naked Adonises approached!

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I stayed with Abel in a London hotel yesterday, waiting for him to do his day’s work before we could do something cultural (or kinky, or both) in the evening. He departed at his usual (ungodly) hour, and I delayed going out to get breakfast until the rush hour crowd finished rushing.I went out at about 9.15, and the street lined with office buildings was pleasantly empty. As I cut across a courtyard towards a cafe, I saw the last of the office plankton running for the glass doors and faux-marble vestibules.

In the middle of the courtyard there in a nest of stone benches. They were empty but for one young woman in a smart grey suit. She sat with her legs crossed, dangling one of her sensible shoes off her toes and sucking on a cigarette. She had the glassy stare of somebody far, far away, and a frown of somebody who…

…was waiting for her punishment, actually. Well do I know that look.

It was all law firms and financial companies around there; the woman’s clothes looked expensive enough that she could have worked in any of those. Perhaps, she had screwed up on a big case, setting it back through an avoidable mistake. Maybe she’d miscalculated on accounts.

Whatever it was, her immediate superior - perhaps, the CEO himself - was summoning her to his office this morning. She had a 9.30 appointment, and was told to clear her diary for at least an hour.

She knows what this means. Their company is notorious for their cutting-edge management practices; she had signed a release when they took her on. She knows that all managers have a particular implement of discipline in their desk drawer. What it is, depends on personal preference and physique, but she knows that her own manager keeps an old razor strop with fraying edges.

When she goes in, she will have a stern lecture. She would have to take off her jacket, raise her skirt and bend over his desk. Her underwear would stay chastely on - nobody wanted to be sued for sexual harassment here! - but even the full cotton knickers she wore specifically for the event, would be no help when the strop cracks against her bottom.

She would get six strokes in the first instance. After that, she would be ordered into the corner, where she would have to gather her thoughts before sitting down at the desk and typing out what she thought she had done wrong, and how she would avoid similar mistakes in the future.

Finally, chastened, embarrassed and still in pain from her whipping, she would be back over the desk for the final dose of the strop: six more, to make sure the lesson has sunk home.

So you see, she knows exactly what’s going to happen as she sits there on the bench, alone. The company makes no secret of the discipline procedure, and she has studied it very carefully. There is no way out.

But in the meantime she sits in the courtyard, alone. She is counting minutes. In too short a time, she’ll be counting strokes.

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