The Spanking Writers

My dream last night was really unusual, in that I didn’t wake up just before my dream-spanking could start, but slept quite happily all through it.

But here’s the full story.

Abel and I were spies. We had infiltrated some sort of uber-religious camp, for whatever purpose. Our cover story was supposed to be that we were husband and wife, but somebody in our spying organisation had messed up with our fake papers, and they came out saying “father and daughter”.

Now, this was a challenge, because he’s only 12 years my senior, so we had to make him look somehow older, and me look younger. And, obviously, we had to live like a single dad and his college-age daughter, complete with the traditional discipline that the cult encouraged.

Now, Abel wasn’t going to actually spank me (it was a dream, OK?). But the leader of the cult suspected something, and when I did something that in his view deserved a punishment, he showed up in our hut, and demanded that I be spanked there and then.

Abel made me fetch a wooden spoon from the kitchen, pulled up my dress, tugged down my knickers and turned me over his knee. Because in my dreams I don’t have the sense of touch, and a spanking doesn’t feel like anything, this would be where I’d normally wake up from the sheer wrongness of a wooden spoon not hurting at all. But I didn’t; I just pretended it did hurt, and performed like a good little spy for the cult leader’s benefit.

I woke up quite frustrated at not having had a proper spanking, but I guess you can’t have everything…

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Browsing the archive of the “Time” Magazine, we hit upon a report of an interesting 1926 court-case:

Curious spectators crowded into a courtroom at Melun, last week, as two men and ten women, all members of the Sadistic Bordeaux cult of Notre Dame des Pleurs (Our Lady of Tears) were arraigned on a charge of having stripped and flogged the Abbé des Noyers at Bombon.

The Abbé appeared in court, although still suffering from the strokes which had been administered to him with knotted rope ends by his Bordeaux assailants.

The article goes on to talk about the testimony of the assailants, and why they thought their abbot deserved a whipping. (Something to do with him being the Devil.)

But wait. What? There was a sadistic cult in Bordeaux? What was that about?..

“Time” doesn’t give any details about the cult itself; it’s like everybody in 1926 is supposed to know what a sadistic cult might be up to. I did some googling, but all the sites I can find are in French.

Oh, well, I’ll just have to make up all the details myself…

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It was only four swats into her punishment, and yet he was ordering her to stand. Surely he couldn’t have finished already? Not that it didn’t hurt: oh goodness, how it hurt. But when they’d discussed it earlier, in his office, she’d somehow imagined the punishment lasting longer.

She staggered upright, brushing down her oh-too-short nightdress before her hands reached back to rub, to cradle, to soothe her backside. Her knickers were on her desk: would he let her put them back on now?

He stood too, looming over her. “Let’s get the nudity thing dealt with, shall we?”

“Sir?”

“Did I tell you that I would punish you on the bare?”

Reluctantly: “Yes, professor.”

“And did you agree to that condition?”

Blushing, she confirmed her consent. He’d been very clear: when he arrived at her dorm room, she would be wearing her nightie. And only her nightie. He’d already informed her that the knickers would prove to be a costly mistake.

“And yet you persist in trying to cover yourself at every opportunity.”

“It’s embarrassing, sir.”

“Being punished isn’t meant to be anything but embarrassing, Elisabeth. And you agreed, did you not, that you wanted me to punish you like this? To spank you.”

Blushing again: “I did, sir.”

“So why is it that every time I try to bring down my hand, I find you reaching back to pull down your nightie?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do it again.”

“Indeed not.” He walked around her. “I’m not used to my students disobeying me. But this particular matter should be remarkably easy to stop.”

“Sir?”

“Take off your nightdress…”

–

I can rather guess where this might go next, but sadly that was as far as my dream went last night. Now, I need to find a girl to spank. And to strip, for that matter.

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I have frequently heard tops complain that spanking makes them tired, hurts their shoulders and bruises their palms. All I can usually say to that is, “Cry me a river”. Not that I actually say anything like that while in their reach, you understand.

It appears, injuring yourself while dispensing punishment is not unknown in history. I came across this account in “The Book Hunter” by John Hill Burton:

He had beheld, though he had never undergone, the old-fashioned process of flogging by heezing up the culprit on the back of the school-porter, so as to bring his bare back close to the master’s lash. The trembling victim, anticipating such punishment, used to be sent to summon the porter. He frequently returned with a half-sobbing message, Please, sir, he says he’s not in.” The fiction did not lead to escape.

Cromar was the name of the chief executioner in these scenes. Detested by his pupils, he was a victim to every sort of petty persecution from them, so that cruelty acted and reacted between him and them. On one memorable occasion he flogged John Burton with such violence as to cause to himself an internal rupture.

Oh, boo-hoo. I’m sure the schoolboys of old were full of sympathy.

By the way, I’ve never before heard “horsing” called “heezing up”. Have you? The events took place in Aberdeen in about 1820, so this may be very, very localised usage.

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We had guests for dinner, so Abel made a pie.

It tasted delicious, too. But frankly, with design like that, it didn’t need to.

P.S. I helped. I made the letters and the crossed canes.

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Sex workers had it tough in the time of Emperor Charlemagne:

Should a prostitute be found in a man’s home, he should be made to carry her, on his shoulders, to the market place where she would be whipped. Should he refuse to carry her, then he was to be whipped with her.

I’d hazard a guess that the carrying option would have been the more popular. As would have been skinnier working girls.

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I’ve been reading about The Red Lodge, Britain’s first reformatory for girls.The enlightened founder believed that the girls could be educated without regular recourse to corporal punishment. But I can imagine one resident pushing her luck too far: absconding for a third time, perhaps, having been given a very clear final warning.

She would be brought before the Governors. That, in itself, would cause her to quake: any bravado would have been long abandoned by the time she was led into the room. They would ask for an explanation; she would have none. They would warn her of the dire fate that might befall a homeless girl wandering the streets of Victorian Bristol. They would ask whether she recalled her previous warning:

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we cannot allow this to go unpunished.” They would confer amongst themselves, before the Chairman of the Governors turned back to her. “We intend to make an example of you, girl. We cannot allow the staff her to be undermined, and you were given very clear warnings.”

“Please, sir. Have mercy…”

“You are to be birched at nine prompt tomorrow morning.” The Chairman would turn to the warden: “Please make sure the girl is washed and put into a clean dress tomorrow morning, and bring her to the Oak Room at five to nine. Now take her away…”

–
A small group would gather in the Oak Room the following morning: the Chairman, with birch rods in hand. A governor or two. The warden of the reformatory. And the girl.

She’d be ordered to remove her dress, before being tied over the end of a long oak table. The Chairman would stand back: “I think we should wait until nine, gentlemen.” And so they’d pause, listening for the bells of the neighbouring church. Counting each of the nine peals. Knowing that the other girls in the reformatory would also be counting, would also be holding their breath.

Pausing, once silence reigned.

And then beginning her thrashing: hard, measured, teaching a lesson that even the most tolerant of reformatories knows how to punish when punishment is due.

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The Evening Standard, that bible for Boris-worshippers, reported on Friday that there’s a new service at trendy hotel Andaz.

“There’s a book menu in each room… You choose a novel - anything from Dickens to Jackie Collins - and they send up a man or woman dressed in pyjamas who will sit in your room and read it to you.”

Oh, where to start? The choice of book would be important, the young lady blushing deeply as she read out the account of a girl’s spanking.

And then there’s the manner of her reading. The gentleman raising an eyebrow, as room service read from a favourite novel. “I don’t think it does go quite like that, does it, young lady?”

“Er, well, sir…”

“Did I ask you to skip paragraphs as you read?”

“No, sir, I mustn’t have been concentrating…”

…and down would come her pyjama trousers as she was taught her lesson: over the knee, a hard hand-spanking.

Actually, forget the hotel: sounds like a wonderful scene!

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Gerrard sent us this YouTube link, about the singer Carly Simon’s interesting cure for stage fright:

[youtube] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EftIUYNEtdA [/youtube]

I wish all the kinky celebrities were just as open about liking a bit of spanking. This would really save on the shocking newspaper exposes, wouldn’t it?..

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Whilst ogling a particularly cute young lady the other day, I started to wonder: what do vanilla people get up to in the bedroom?

I mean, for spanko couples, a romantic night in behind the closed bedroom door might start with the partners discussing kinky ideas. The girl might end up over one’s knee, being warmed up with an initial spanking - gentle at first, then increasing in intensity. There could well be some role-playing next: stern lectures to set the scene before (say) a measured caning.

There’d be cuddles after the whacking – calming a punished girl, applying soothing creams – before moving on to intimacy (even then, perhaps, allowing time for the odd pause to tie an occasional rope).

But vanillas? I guess the whole process is just accelerated: shut the door, and move straight to cuddles (without even the need to rub in some arnica). It must be so boring. I guess they must just fall asleep earlier at night…

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