Abel's spanking blog & stories
A girl being caned must surely, after a few strokes, recognise a pattern in the disciplinarian’s approach to beating her. The subtle shift in his position, as he steadies himself to apply the next stroke; the sense that he’s lifting his arm high. The measuring of the cane across its intended target; a gentle tap, tap, tap marking the spot. It’s as if we tops wish to remove any element of surprise, to forewarn the girl and allow her to prepare mentally and brace herself for the impact.
On the one hand, that – from a top’s perspective – is a good thing, anticipation being part of the punishment. But what if the caning was administered more out of the blue – the bound girl blindfolded so she couldn’t see, deprived of her hearing (ear plugs, noise-cancelling headphones? – not terribly elegant or sexy, but effective!). The strokes could be inflicted at more random intervals, so no discernible pattern emerged, and the first she’d know of each was when the rattan cut home. Mmmm, I’m interested to experiment; I’m half thinking that a soft silk gag might, whilst not adding to the element of uncertainty, also add a certain something to the proceedings.
Ideas for blog entries occur to me at any hour of the day, in sometimes the least appropriate places. Needless to say, I can’t always then write the post in full at the time – so I note the thought down onto my phone, ready to be written up in full when I get a suitable opportunity.
Tidying up my BlackBerry at the weekend, I came across a list of ideas from the past couple of months. Some I remembered clearly; others were merely intriguing phrases giving no clue as to what the more detailed post idea had been. Rather than merely delete them, I thought I might as well share them with you. Here goes!
Girl in pub
Prison – favours
Football, snow, insolence, M&S
I can probably guess what sort of favours a girl in prison might have been expected to offer in return for (relative) leniency. Manx spanking vaguely rings bells about some phrase that made me ponder what punishments the residents of the Isle of Man might doled out for less serious offences not meriting the birch. But who was the girl? What went on in M&S? And what kinky thoughts were the other phrases supposed to bring back to mind?
A documentary I saw recently on a rare evening home alone featured the work of US border control agents.
An older woman arrived at an airport with a younger lass in tow. When their baggage was inspected, they had £1/4m of fake merchandise with them. The tearful young woman was questioned: yes, her friend had paid for her ticket and hotels. No, she hadn’t known that their consignment was illegal: in fact, she’d specifically been told when she asked that it was absolutely fine.
In practice, the manipulative smuggler was fined; her friend was released without charge. But I could see an alternative ending – whereby the cute lass was made to realise that breaking US law of course had consequences. The reality TV cameras would be positioned so as only to show her facial reactions as the customs officer paddled her on the bare as she bent over a desk, followed by images of her wincing tearfully as she sat gingerly down on the next flight home.
There’d be no pictures of her bare bottom; none of the hard impact; no record of the marks and bruises they inflicted whilst applying the full force of the law. But the severity of the punishment would be evident anyway from her sobs, and would be broadcast in full to discourage others from committing similar offences in future.
Two apparently-innocuous vanilla sentences have made me smile recently. The first was on the tube – an ad for a dating agency, that read:
“He texted me before the date and my tummy got the good sort of butterflies.”
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the journey thinking about a girl with the wrong sort of butterflies – called out of class because “the headmaster wants to see you in his study”; walking nervously along the empty corridors, realising she’d been caught; waiting outside his office, dreading the inevitable punishment; the door swinging open as he told her to come inside…
On Saturday, my vanilla email account received an email:
“Exclusive Offer To See The Governess For Just £15″
It’s a play, apparently. But I can’t help but hope that some young ladies on the theatre’s distribution list might have squirmed nicely at the prospect of being called to see a strict governess, and of the sound over-the-knee hairbrush spanking that might have resulted…
Killing time in Camden Town recently, waiting for EJ to meet me after work to head off to London Zoo’s tiger enclosure for a late-night open-air showing of the very wonderful “Life of Pi”. I’d started sneezing that afternoon, going down with the dreaded man flu – or, more accurately, a cold that lasted less than 24 hours but permitted me to feel sorry for myself for at least a week.
I popped into a chemist to buy some efficacious medicine. The pharmacy counter was hidden at the back of the store, behind swathes of doubtless-more-profitable beauty products – amidst which I passed an ever-so-cute lass eyeing up the make-up. She looked terrified, though, and I wondered why.
The answer, it struck me, was obvious. Daddy didn’t approve of the boy with whom she’d become so friendly these past weeks. He didn’t approve of his girl wearing make-up. He certainly hadn’t approved when she’d sneaked out without permission at the weekend, when she’d been supposed to be studying for her exams. And when she’d returned home – was that alcohol on her breath? – she’d faced the consequences: a stern lecture, before a sound thrashing with his belt – “for your own good”. He’d forbidden her to see him again; tonight was their next date, and hang the consequences…
A leading travel company recently upgraded me to ‘VIP status’, promising a plethora of indulgent benefits befitting a customer who’s clearly spent far too much with them in the past year.
My wonderfully-organised PA was having none of it. “They don’t do VAT receipts,” she informed me. So there went my treats…
I replied – and you need to know at this point that she’s very much one of us! – saying:
I might forgo the VAT for a luxury suite with free alcohol, beach club, and a plentiful supply of misbehaving hotel maids…
And then I spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating other benefits. A girl waiting in your room, tied face down, naked, for me to beat? “No problem, sir, you’re a VIP”.
Would you like a cane providing? Or maybe a selection of nice tawses? And does sir expect to fuck her afterwards? We can offer some very experienced girls, or some newer ones who really are still rather shy…
Here’s an issue that’s only tangentially related to spanking.
Clearly, if one’s to deal with a girl, one’s likely to – at some point in the punishment – lower or remove her knickers (or to instruct her to do so). But what’s one going to find underneath?
Actually, I always find it a rather enchanting surprise to discover whether a young lady is, ahem, trimmed down there or not. Whilst it’s clearly all about what she is most comfortable with, and what makes her feel best, I’m not personally a huge fan of the bare approach – which seems the preferred option for so many in the scene. To me, that looks perhaps a tad unnatural; even, maybe, too innocent in some of the scenes I play. Countering that, it can be very sensuous indeed to the touch, presents a beautiful target for (let’s say) the riding crop, makes a girl look very naked – and making someone shave herself in a scene is a hot thought indeed. And a full untamed and unkempt bush is perhaps even more of a surprise.
Oh well. Just wanted to share. I’ll go back to thinking about spanking now…
Blearly-eyed one morning recently, I glanced at the notice in the hotel lift as it took me down to check out. It advertised their ‘social hour’ – a neat idea, for lonely travellers far from home who wanted to connect with other guests.
Join us in the lobby to compare world-renowned wines and other premium porn.
Premium pours, it turned out. I’m not sure there’s any such noun, so I think my misreading was entirely justifiable.
But what would constitute ‘premium’ porn? In the UK spanking world, that would surely have to be anything by Northern Spanking, who’ve long led the way with high-quality, often witty movies – whilst at the same time setting the standard that other producers dream of attaining when it comes to the ethical treatment of all those involved. Hugely recommended, if you don’t know their stuff.
Our new place is split over three floors, with bathrooms on the top and bottom levels of the apartment. And, whilst we adore the quirky layout, I was forever finding myself on the wrong floor of the house to the one on which I last used my prized hairbrush.
The solution? Buy another brush, of course. And a kinky person really can only own one brand (if they’re fortunate enough to be able to afford it) – the very lovely Mason Pearson.
The model I purchased was a “Junior”. And when Bambi and The Hunter happened to visit that very evening, an experiment comparing my new purchase to its sibling hairbrush was inevitable.
The Hunter duly christened the new brush, before sending Bambi upstairs to me. I whacked her with the old one (the “Popular”), which she pronounced to be the more painful. But that wasn’t the whole story, of course: we each had to then take our turn with the other brush before we could be satisfied with the scientific robustness of our conclusions. Hence a cute girl found herself scampering up and down stairs, a different hairbrush in hand each time, until we concluded that it’s the new brush that is actually the more effective.
So if you’re purchasing a Mason Pearson for the purposes of discipline and punishment, it’s a “Junior” brush that you want for the young lady bent over your knees. Appropriate, really, I think…
Soon after the cruel housemaster scene with EJ, I played another dislikeable character in a scene with The Hunter and our willing victim, Bambi.
I’d placed an advert in the window of the local post office:
Rosemary – or Rose, for short – had spotted it with a friend, Francesca. The latter had decided to give it a try, and Rose was now following in her footsteps. We welcomed her into the house; made her feel welcome, explained that photography was our hobby; told her she was pretty. Offered her a glass of wine – even though, strictly speaking, she wasn’t old enough to be drinking. And all the time, snapped away as she posed – relatively relaxed – in her school uniform.
We then took her through to the study, where she looked surprised to find an old-fashioned desk and a selection of school canes. “Props,” we explained, and encouraged her to pose with them. But before long, she was proving unwilling to follow our instructions; it was determined that the cane needed using for real; the photographs became more revealing as we inspected her marks. She protested; the mood darkened.
We led her upstairs, and there she was duly humiliated as the camera continued to snap. Forced to strip; tied to the bed; intimately abused; strapped severely. And then, when we were finished with her, she was allowed to dress and was sent on her way – warned not to tell anyone what had happened, unless she wanted us to send the photographs to her family and school, and publish them online.
Oh, how evilly abusive I felt. And oh what a fun scene it was! But no, I won’t be publishing the photos – thank you for asking!