The Spanking Writers

Vasco Da Gama was a cruel, cruel man, according to author K.G. Jayne’s description of a 1524 expedition to Goa:

Before his flotilla put to sea, he had posted at the foot of the masts an order that any woman detected on board after the ships had passed Belem would be publicly flogged. If she were married, her husband would be sent home in irons ; if a slave, she would be sold and the proceeds given to charity ; while any captain wilfully conceahng such a stowaway would be cashiered.

The fleet arrived at Mozambique on the 14th of August, and halted for the flagship to repair a sprung yardarm. As it lay hove-to, three women stowaways were denounced to the Viceroy, and placed under arrest…

The three unfortunate women who had been detected in his ships were sentenced to be flogged through the streets while the town-crier intoned: “The Justice of the King our Lord ! It orders these women to be flogged because they had no fear of his justice, and crossed over to India despite his prohibition.”

Subsequent colonialists were rather keener for their overseas representatives to enjoy female company, it seems, according to another article:

It was much later that single virgin Dutch girls were dispatched to Cochin… Such ships bringing in Dutch virgins were called maiden ships. Eligible virgins were recruited from orphanages in Netherlands. They were then made available to higher ranked officials…

Punishments for misconduct were still strict, though, both aboard ship on the long voyage from Europe and from the girls’ new husbands. Or, at least, I assume they still adhered to at least some of da Gama’s principles, the article in question sadly neglecting to discuss the disciplinary arrangements.

I was right to worry about the implements Abel had bought on his trip away. We got to test them out and… ouch.

The wooden spoon has a remarkably long handle, which makes it more of a ceremonial implement than your normal rapid-fire spoon. It’s almost a paddle. And it hurts like the blazes.

What really made me howl, though, is the new olivewood brush. It’s tiny, probably smaller than the palm of my hand, and looks deceptively benign. I wasn’t too worried about it – and what a mistake! The first stroke made my eyes water, and the second (and all the subsequent ones) had me howling. This being a test spanking, Abel probably only smacked me a dozen times, but I was as sore and wrung out as if I’d had a lengthy punishment.

“Wow, your bottom is so red,” Abel marvelled when he let me up. He sounded very surprised.

Yeah… my bottom had kept colliding with wooden household items.

So, we’re chatting late one night with friends, bemoaning the state of the educational system. Seems, for example, that some very bright young things aren’t able to locate certain major countries on a map of the world. Disgraceful!

Yet we proceeded to confess, we older types, that we ourselves might struggle to pinpoint some states that accurately. Where exactly is Guatemala, for example? Guinea? Bhutan or Brunei?

Or Paraguay?

Actually, I asked, does Paraguay even exist? Who’d been there on holiday? Who amongst us owned a CD or book by a Paraguayan artist? Who’d been to a Paraguayan restaurant? Who had Paraguayan friends? If a Paraguayan fell over in a forest, would anyone notice? Anyone shagged a Paraguayan? Spanked (or been spanked by) one?

This final point was deemed to be conclusive by the rather seasoned spanko company present. So I’d like to make the official announcement: Paraguay does not actually exist!

PS I’d love it if someone could post and say hello from a Paraguayan IP address, disproving our theory and telling all about the no-doubt thriving spanking scene there!

Yesterday I was playing with the satellite maps on Google, and found that on the closest zoom not only can you see our house and garden pretty clearly, but also our cars parked out front, and a little blur that could be Abel standing by the car, talking to a neighbour.

This got me thinking. Our garden is not very private, so you couldn’t really spank anybody there, or frolic naked, or anything, but some people consider their gardens private hedged fortresses. If you had 5 metre tall trees all around your lawn, you wouldn’t have a problem sunbathing naked, would you, or maybe giving somebody a moderately quiet, but very stingy whipping with a freshly cut apple switch?

What you wouldn’t reckon on, is the Google satellite passing overhead, zooming in onto your wholesome spanking fun.

Oh, dear.

Mind you, I assume that Google somehow magics people out of the maps, because you usually don’t see any, but if the job isn’t automated, there could be some very amused programmers with a very fun collection of satellite images.

I’d like to share a very modest proposal, written in a book of”Essays in Socialism” back in 1907 by one E. Belford Bax. The author opens by stating the general principle that “equality before the law, as it is termed, is the first condition of liberty”.

However, he finds the judicial system to be remarkably biased in favour of women, quoting various examples in support of his proposition:

“From the beginning of the nineteenth century, of course, whilst flogging, the tread-mill, and other brutal forms of punishment have been retained for male offenders, they have been abolished for females…”

–

“Mr. Labouchere made it his business in Truth to hunt up every obscure case of girl-flogging in the country, and to trumpet it forth in his journal as though it were a crime compared to which common murder were a venial affair. But now, had Mr. Labouchere one word for the brutal floggings of boys, not by private individuals, but in national institutions, such as reformatories and training ships? Not one. What he expressly denounced was not flogging, but girl-flogging.”

–

“A little while ago fifty women refused to carry out an order made by the Governor of Wormwood Scrubbs for bringing coke into the laundry. If men had refused to obey any regulation they would most probably have got the lash till they yielded. But what was the lot of these women. The Governor at once politely cancelled his regulation and ‘order was restored’!! Such is the farce of penal discipline in the case of women.”

And so, he demands equality for all.

“I am met by this argument – ‘Are you not in favour of abolishing all forms of brutal punishment?’ I say yes, in common with most Socialists and Democrats, I am… It is then argued: – ‘But surely the abolition of these things in the case of women is better than nothing’; it is at least a step. My answer is that in the first place it is not a step, but generally a shirking of the whole question.”

Indeed. And how refreshing to read such a forward-thinking feminist tract!

I’m slightly worried this morning, because yesterday Abel phoned from the foreign city he’s working in, and gleefully informed me that he’d not only found the craft market within the first millisecond of being in town, but he’s also bought a hairbrush and a giant wooden spoon.

Hand-made, I suppose. Um, yay. Go us for supporting local crafts.

Something in his voice told me that I’m going to either hate these things, or loathe them, or maybe despise them.

I woke early, as usual. Haron was still sound asleep, curled up next to me.

I couldn’t resist: who could? My hands wandered, reaching to rub her bottom. Sore, clearly, from last night’s whipping with the crop – she winced, murmured, wriggled away, shuffled back closer.

Inspired, I whispered into her ear. I’d been kind, I explained, to take her in the night before: I’d watched her flogging in the market place that morning, noticed her wandering from door to door during the day. I understood that her landlord would have thrown her out of her lodgings – and that no-one else in the town would take in a criminal who’d been publicly whipped.

But I was a kind gentleman. I’d seen her standing, disconsolate, in the market square as darkness fell, her few belongings in a small bag at her feet. I’d taken pity on her: brought her back to my house. And she couldn’t object now if I woke her by running my fingers over her weals…

Reformatory spankings are never a gentle thing, but one particular punishment session from last week’s reformatory weekend stands out in my mind. Other than her final birching, my character Audrey had one last punishment remaining, and she was informed that for this punishment she needed to report to Mr Jenkins.

Part of me rejoiced at seeing Abel, as we hadn’t played one-on-one for the whole weekend, and frankly, we barely saw each other. I was also apprehensive: Abel isn’t known for his light spankings – particularly when he’s playing the devious Mr Jenkins. by this point I was extremely sore, particularly having just emerged from a punishment session with Dr Grimace.

I knocked on the door of the Punishment Wing. Mr Jenkins ordered me to enter, and I saw him assembling an armful of evil-looking implements. He handed these to me, like a heap of firewood. “Come with me,” he said curtly.

This was ominous. As far as I knew, every room in the house was taken right now, with girls in their final punishment sessions. He led me into the kitchen and headed towards the back door. I had a dreadful feeling I was about to be spanked outside, but I followed him with only a little squeak of protest.

“Go ahead,” Mr Jenkins commanded. “Towards the outbuilding over there. Go on!”

Turned out, our reformatory cottage had a games room in a shed outside, and Abel had a key. Shivering with cold, but very happy that I wasn’t staying outdoors for my spanking, I followed him into the games room. There wasn’t much there: a couple of desks of indeterminate purpose, and a big pool table.

“Put the implements on the table over there,” said Mr Jenkins. “And take off your clothes.”

The part of me that was Audrey was mortified, but I scampered to obey. Other girls had whispered about the reformatory staff taking unimaginable liberties, but I had mostly avoided anything more terrible than a flogging here and there and a few little humiliations. Undoubtedly painful, these things seemed insignificant now, as I willed my trembling, numb fingers to work faster on the buttons of my tidy Sunday dress. Mr Jenkins’s sneer told me loud and clear that my good luck had run out, and he intended to have his fun with me.

“Pretty young thing,” he purred as I awkwardly stripped out of my undergarments. “I’ve had my eye on you from the first evening. Take off your shoes, but you may keep your socks; wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

My nudity was all the more mortifying for his smart outfit: the suit, the cravat, the watch chain snaking across the front of his ornate waistcoat, the fancy, dark malacca riding whip he was using as a walking stick. I was acutely aware of our difference in height, which seemed particularly drastic that morning. I cringed under his appraising gaze.

“Mmm,” he said. “Very nice. Bend over the pool table.”

I leaned forward, stretched as far as I could, held onto the sides. My breasts pressed into the green fabric. Behind me, Mr Jenkins was picking an implement.

“I think I’ll give you six with each of these,” he said, swishing a leather riding crop through the air.

There were five implements in the heap: the crop, a couple of straps, a cane – and his knotty walking stick. I’d been hurting even before the first stroke landed, and the first half-dozen licks re-ignited the fire Dr Grimace had started earlier. I yelped pitifully.

“You can cry all you like,” said Mr Jenkins. “They won’t hear us in the house. And even if they did…”
They wouldn’t care, I knew. I looked through a window towards the reformatory building. In an upstairs window I could see a man’s form, his arm going up and down rhythmically. Mr Murdstone, I thought, giving somebody one of his methodical thrashings; I’d had one of those the day before.

Mr Jenkings slapped my bottom with an open hand. “Spread your legs,” he said conversationally.

A few days before it might have occurred to me to argue, but I’ve had all fight beaten out of me by now. When I felt questing fingers between my thighs, I didn’t try to wriggle out of the way, and only whimpered, “Please, sir, my modesty…”

He laughed a genuinely amused laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl! I know your sort.” He smacked me again, and I heard the sound of his belt buckle behind me.

The other girls had whispered it was better not to resist. I could well imagine this getting even worse. I squeezed my eyes shut, and sobbed, and gave in.

So we proceeded for the next long while. Six cracks of an implement turned into punishments of more intimate, invasive kind. Audrey was methodically destroyed, to the point where she raised no more objections to any of the exotic urges Mr Jenkins sought to satisfy with her.

When we finished, I buzzed with pleasure, as Audrey retreated into a deep corner of my soul to curl up in the dark. Abel and I hugged and laughed. Somehow, throughout the punishment he’d managed to stay almost completely dressed, which entertained me a great deal.

After a short break, however, it was time for Audrey to come back. In character again, he ordered me to dress and make myself look decent, before marching me across the yard back to the main reformatory building.

There was still a birching to come, but then the reformatory weekend would be over.

For the lovers of black humour, we found this comedy sketch on YouTube. Not for the faint of heart!

In my vanilla life (I do have one!), I was interviewed recently for a business magazine. They asked me to complete a short questionnaire for inclusion in a sidebar next to the article. And somehow I rather struggled, as I couldn’t quite respond truthfully. Here’s what I wanted to say:

Nickname(s): “Unstable Abel”

Avocation: Spanking

Favorite Place (and Why): Does The Spanking Writers count as a ‘place’? It certainly feels like a ‘community’, so I hope so. Why? Because I’ve met so many wonderful people there. If not: Scotland Street school museum, Glasgow – because it’s the kinkiest place in the world!

Favorite Hobby/Hobbies: Writing and roleplaying.

Favorite Word: Spanking.

Favorite Smell: Freshly-cut birch.

Favorite Sound: The swish of a cane, just before it makes contact with a girl’s behind.

Favorite Time in History: The early 1800s. (Dear friends invite us to the most wonderful weekend once a year, in which we spend three days dressed in early nineteenth century costumes eating wonderful food and playing Regency-era games!)

Favorite Quote: “Young lady, bend over and touch your toes!”

Future Ambition(s)/Goal(s): To stay close to the wonderful friends I have in the scene, and to make new ones; to continue to write spanking erotica that people love; to start our “spankingcasts” (podcasts) and through them reach out to new folks who may not yet be enjoying, or comfortable with, their kink.

Now, one of the above answers did actually end up in my response. (You’ll have to guess which one). I have no idea whether they’ll use it, but it’s worth a try!

PS ‘avocation’ is such a lovely word: as Wikipedia puts it, “an activity that a person does as a hobby outside their main occupation. There are many examples of people whose profession was the way they made a living, but whose activities outside their workplace were their true passion in life.” Yep, I think that’s me.