The Spanking Writers blog: 2006-2014

And so, all good things come to an end.

Every other day, rain or shine, for nearly nine years: personally writing some 1,900 posts in the process. Queuing them up; editing and tinkering with them; moderating lovely comments; dealing with the occasional troll. I’d guess, more original, free ‘literary spanking erotica’ than just about any other non-professional writer out there.

Recording wonderful scenes. Capturing my fantasies as I’ve merrily ‘perverted reality’. Processing my thoughts about kink, and tracking my kinky life and the evolution of my kinky tastes. Observing the wider world’s often disparaging view of those of us who indulge, for real or purely mentally, in these interests that fascinate us so. Believing, now, that society is slightly less kink-unfriendly than it was the best part of a decade ago .

In the early days, I merely wanted – needed – an outlet for the ideas that preoccupied (and threatened to overwhelm) me. A side-effect of publishing my stories, and then this blog, was that it led me to connect online with like-minded folks – and, then, to meet so many very wonderful people. Many of those closest to me met me via this site – indeed, met or bonded with one another via its comments pages in the early, pre-Twitter, pre-smartphone days when ‘SW’ became something of a forum for a growing circle of friends to keep in touch. And most of those friendships are now founded so deeply that our initial kinky connection feels almost incidental.

And it’s the people that, deep down, have kept me going. The thought of a post bringing a smile to a friend’s face – or, even, turning a lass on at perhaps the most distracting of moments. The thought that someone, somewhere might take comfort from knowing that others share their fantasies, or variations thereof; that being kinky isn’t (as I believed when I was growing up and starting to realise the extent to which this fascinated me) something shameful or wrong. That was especially true when the blog became a solo effort a few years ago – when writing here helped me maintain a degree of continuity and confidence in my life, in the face of such adversity. And, despite blogging being something of a dying art, over 600 of you each day still come here to read the site, in addition to those who follow it via RSS. It’s had some 4.7 million hits in all; you’ve contributed some 14,000 comments.

But life moves on, real-world responsibilities (including the demands of running an ever-growing business) consume more and more of my time, and the blog has started to feel like a struggle. Although I’d always aimed to reach the ten-year milestone, I’ve been finding it ever-harder to summon up the energy and creativity needed to maintain the routine. I’ve not even, for example, been able to find a way to capture one of the most magical scenes ever, played a few weeks ago with two maids being punished and, rather delightfully, abused – or of the latest of the wonderful Regency house party weekends, which we were so privileged to attend. The magic, for me, of writing here has waned – even though kink and sexuality are so intrinsic to my being that they remain hugely important to me: necessary and essential, even if meeting new play partners isn’t now the priority it once was for me.

And so the time has come to draw a delicate (black, sexy, lace?) veil over the pages of The Spanking Writers blog, and for me to move on. I’ll keep writing – less blogging might, actually, free me up to write more longer pieces for my Abel’s Spanking Stories site (which is fast approaching its fifteenth birthday). And I’ll keep adding to the now 13,000+ images on my Tumblr, too: after all, I need something to distract me during my coffee breaks when I’m working from home! (And as a friend commented recently: “I don’t need to search for porn online any more: I just look at what’s on your Tumblr!”). I just won’t be posting again here, after today – although I will leave my writing here online indefinitely, along with “No Mercy”, the free eBook containing my favourite posts, published here yesterday.

But the decision regarding the blog feels right; feels liberating. Even if it feels like it’ll leave something of a gap, and if the change from “Abel writes the Spanking Writers blog” to “wrote” takes some processing. There’s a sense of loss, too. Not a choice taken lightly.

Thank you, dear readers. It’s been great, and you’ve been a huge part of that. I hope you’ll remember the SW blog with fondness, and occasionally look back and re-read and remember. I certainly will – and with a degree of pride, too.

Over and out…

Free book – “No Mercy” – the very best of the Spanking Writers blog

See, I’ve written nigh on two thousand posts here, and scrolling through to find my favourites is tough. Similarly, anyone coming afresh to the blog would struggle to find its best content without a laborious trawl.

So it feels like time for this:

No Mercy - the very best of the Spanking Writers blog - Abel Jenkins


Click HERE to download the free eBook in PDF format – three hundred or so pages, with the posts I’ve most enjoyed writing here on the blog. Consider it a belated Christmas present – and have fun reading.

The book’s sorted by theme. There’s a chapter of school-related posts; one about maids in country houses; another for girls in reformatories and prisons. There’s a collection of my favourite scene accounts. And there’s a chapter I particularly like just called ‘Bad Men’. Hopefully, you’ll find something to enjoy.

Do let me know your favourite entries, and feel free to pass on the full link to the book to any friends or social media followers:

(And if you’re in voracious reading mode, a reminder that my collection of short stories – “The Punishment List” – is also still available here for you to download free!)

The note

I picture a prefect, monitoring girls in the library as they do their prep. He notices one of their number slipping a note to a friend. “Bring that here!” he commands.

She hesitates. “Now!”

She still hesitates. “Then you have a detention, to serve on Saturday, even before I’ve read the note.”

Tears come to her eyes: she’s not the type to be in trouble. Slowly, she stands, and takes the note back from its recipient. She brings it to the front, and hands it to him, blushing and avoiding his eyes.

He opens it. A sketch, clearly depicting him. A note: “Don’t you think he’s cute?”

“I’m not sure whether to be complimented or slightly mortified, Miss Watson, much as I am impressed with your artistic talent. Now, back to your seat, and back to your work.” It’s his turn to blush.

Five minutes later: a whispered conversation between the two girls. He walks to the back of the room, stands behind her, whispering softly: “Last warning, Miss Watson. Don’t push your luck.”

And then the next note. How could she have been so careless? “I’ll see you in the prefects’ room after prep.”

Being made to stand outside, waiting, for an eternity. Her heart pounding. Her heart pounding still faster when he finally emerges and calls her in.

Taking in the room. Five, six of the prefects – reading; in conversation. Falling silent as she entered.

Watching as he takes a cane from the rack. “Go and bend over the table in the corner, and lift your skirt.” No negotiation; no room for persuasion; the sentence inevitable.

All eyes on them, as he positions himself behind her and to her side. “I would have expected better from you, Miss Watson. You’re not the sort of girl we expect to see in here. You’ve let yourself down rather badly.”

Tears in her eyes, even before he confirms: “Six strokes.”

She does not take the caning well.

He dismisses her – sending her back, in shame, to the world outside and the prying questions and teasing taunts. Is that sympathy in his voice? “I’m sorry to have had to do that, Miss Watson. Let that be the last time.”

And later… does her heart pound again as she mounts the stairs to his study-bedroom, in her regulation pyjamas and dressing gown, shortly before lights-out. As she knocks on his door. Takes in his surprise as he sees her standing there. “I… I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier.”

Does he invite her in? Does he hold her, as she sobs?

Does he lift her face gently to his? Does he kiss her?

Does he lead her to his bed?

The battle

A dark, windowless room.

She’s fallen asleep, at last, curled up on the bare concrete floor – exhaustion finally conquering the fear and the pain.

She cries out in her sleep, her dreams dark and disturbed. Well, they would be, wouldn’t they? She has lost track of how long she’s been here, since they snatched her from the street. No idea how many times she’s been beaten. How many of the men have taken her.

They wake her with a jet of cold water. As she comes to, two guards seize her, lifting her to her feet by her hair. They drag her, still only half-awake into the corridor, with its stark strip lighting. Into the end room: that room, which she has come to dread.

She switches off, mentally, as they strap her once more over the whipping bench. Nothing they do can break her.

A voice. His voice. That voice she once trusted so totally. The one she had dreaded hearing in this place, her sole consolation being that he couldn’t know what they were doing to her.

“I’m tired of this game. So, it’s time for you to finally tell us what you know. And then we can take you home.” He turns to the men: “Pass me the heaviest of the canes.”

The first, excruciating stroke cuts home. The battle begins… and she feels the will to fight weakening, and the need for comfort and forgiveness taking over…

She strengthens her resolve. Nothing they can do will break her.

“Abel’s Spanking Stories” – new updates

You know that stories site of mine… the one I tend to forget about, never remembering to post new stories?

You might enjoy a look over there today for three little festive reading gifts. Merry Christmas!

And thinking of Christmas – did anyone see the Evening Standard’s article about the company offering to use 3D printing to make lifelike images of people to use as tree decorations? You stand very, very still; the photograph you from all angles; they then produce a wonderful “mini me” figure. Next year I want a tree full of naked girls touching their toes – plus some, hands stretched high above their heads, the string tying them to the tree fixed firmly like rope. I just wonder how clearly stripes will show up on the models…

Flirting with Mr Darcy

Sometimes, even I’m pleased with scene ideas I come up with. Take this, from a rather lovely weekend recently:

Two pretty young girls, best friends, are dining with their respective fiances. The staff have been stood down for the evening – the ladies have been told that this is to allow the couples to relax.

Word has reached the gentlemen that their b‎eloved had behaved badly at a local ball the evening before.

Both had clearly imbibed too much alcohol. Both were overly loud and outspoken as dinner progressed, expressing forthright opinions on matters that should not trouble young ladies. And, most concerningly, both had spent the evening flirting outrageously with a Mr Darcy – being over-familiar, and also distracting him from dancing with a Miss Bennett, whom he seemed curious to get to know better.

Clearly, both girls need to have their behaviour discussed – and perhaps to be brought down a peg or two…

I shall spare my own blushes by drawing a veil over the evening’s proceedings. And that in itself might tell you all you need to know…

“It didn’t hurt”

Favourite fantasy of the moment: a girl gets into trouble at school; she’s caned by her housemaster – not hard, touching her toes, over her skirt, a mere three strokes.

She writes an article for the student newspaper: “It didn’t hurt… but disgraceful that we let pervy teachers indulge their fantasies in the supposed name of ‘discipline’.”

She’s called before the headmaster. Asked to explain herself. Lectured about showing such disgraceful disrespect, and told: “I cannot let this go unpunished. And trust me: I intend to make absolutely certain that it hurts this time.”

Bent over his desk. Skirt up, knickers removed. The senior cane, applied at full strength. Twelve strokes. Tears after three.

A very well beaten, very chastened girl. And a public apology to be written for the paper the following week, too…

The slightly open door

What a lovely quote, from a reminiscence of school life in the 1930s:

“On the way [to class], we passed Dr Hare’s office. Dr Hare was a mystery, seen only on ceremonial occasions. The door of his office was always slightly open, and the only thing visible was a cane standing in the corner. It was an inner sanctum never to be entered, we hoped.”

It makes me think that the headmasters in my fantasies are too familiar to the girls. I think they need to be more aloof, more formal…

A girl knocks lightly on the “always open” door. “Come in!” calls the headmaster. “And close the door behind you. Now, why are you here?”

“I’m Anna Leonard, sir. Upper Four A. Mr Watkins sent me. To… to be punished.”

He consulted a paper on his desk: “I see!” – before looking up at her: “And why are you to be beaten, Miss Leonard?”

“Please, sir. It was out of character. I promise…”

He cut across her. “The issue here is not how you’re to be punished. It is merely to make sure you learn your lesson…”

“Yes, sir.” Downcast. “I… was caught copying another girl’s work in my History essay.”

“Then your housemaster was entirely correct in his judgment that you should be thrashed. Now, let’s get this over with: take off your knickers, and bend over and touch your toes.”

The cane taken from its corner. The trembling girl’s skirt lifted. No announcement of the number of strokes: just the first, cutting home, and her sob. The second, the third. A long pause. The fourth, fifth, sixth. A longer pause: surely, now it was over. But the next descended, and the next, before the instruction to stand was given.

Before she was sent on her way. Before, as she opened the door, he stopped her in her tracks with one final question: “Who was the girl whose work you copied?”

“I… no, sir, I mean…”

“Do you need me to cane you again, Miss Leonard?”

“No, sir. Please, sir…” Realising that the other girl’s identity was no secret, their work having been compared. “It… it was Joanne Thompson.”

“Then when you get back to class, send her to me, would you, so I can discuss her role in this matter?”

Quelling her defiance

Random hot phrase, that struck me the other day:

“I will break your spirit until I can quell your defiance with a single glance.” He smiled: “Indeed, I will break you to the point where there’s no defiance left to quell.”

And I can’t help reflecting on the different in that phrase between the singular and the plural. “We will break your spirit…” sounds so much more threatening, I think. Although a group might include one person who’d take mercy on her, a possible means of escape – whereas the singular gentleman concerned was clearly focused on what needed to be done.

The same chair

A photo on Tumblr fascinated me the other day. A girl, tied to a chair, faces a TV screen showing an image of a different naked girl.

Oh, to play with this idea. Dragging a girl into a room, hooded. Tying her in place.

Removing the hood, before leaving her alone. Her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark. The monitor flickering into life. A naked girl, tied to a chair, pleading for mercy.

She realises it’s the same chair in which she herself now sits.

The video continues. Uniformed officers force themselves on their victim against her will, taking turns to use her mouth. Unbind her from the chair and force her to the floor. Abuse her, most thoroughly.

Pick her up, and lead her to a bench. Tie her face down. Whip her until she begs for mercy: until there is no begging left, only sobs. And then take turns using her once more.

The same chair.

And the door opens. And the officers walk in…