The Spanking Writers

A lovely day out in the sunshine last Saturday saw me exploring historic sites in Warwickshire. First, the magnificent ruins of Kenilworth Castle – then on to a pair of neighbouring National Trust places (Baddesley Clinton and then Packwood House).

The former owners of the middle one of the trio – a C15th moated manor house – were clearly people after my own heart. In the kitchen, I found perhaps the finest example of a carpet beater I’ve seen in a long time, alongside a maid’s uniform:

(Most carpet beaters tend to be too large, and too flexible. It was a shame that the shop didn’t sell replicas of this more compact version!)

The entrance hall continued a theme, with a prominently displayed [and admittedly very-badly photographed!] whip next to what was surely (!) a cane rack:

And then upstairs, a rather wonderful set of library steps in the owner’s study – perfect for bending a girl over. But sadly I couldn’t get to photograph those – although it does remind me that I need to share some snapshots of my own recently-acquired library steps!

An evocative photograph on Tumblr the other day showed a serious, smartly-dressed, middle-aged woman sitting on a chair, hairbrush in hand.

Studying it, I pictured myself as a housemaster, talking to one of my girls and discussing her misconduct. I was seated at my desk; she stood next to me, nervously clutching the hems of her school sweater in her fingers.

Propriety dictated that the male members of staff could not administer corporal punishment to the pupils, but her fate was sealed when I took a form from my desk drawer and started recording details with my fountain pen. “Take this to the deputy headmistress, and then come back here once she’s talked to you.”

‘Talked’, indeed. For the girl who returned some ten minutes later, the deputy head’s counter-signature on the form, would be tear-stained; apologetic; ashamed; holding her bottom. She’d avoid my eyes. She might even deserve a comforting hug before I sent her on her way to her next class…

A Google news feed the other day pointed me to a story of a school which had uncovered a pile of rather fascinating document in its archive. (As the newspaper concerned is one I dislike intensely, I won’t honour it by linking to its site, I’m afraid).

To quote:

The punishments dealt out in the 1970s and 80s were detailed in a book entitled ‘Record of Corporal Punishment’ found by [the] headmaster… as he looked for artefacts to help with his primary school’s centenary celebrations.

Said book was duly photographed (badly), along with (perhaps more interesting) the regulations from the local authority regarding the administration of corporal punishment:

The final sentence of point (d) is particularly fascinating: “if delegated” [my, slightly surprised, italics!].

A search of old documents online pointed me to something of a curiosity, from a newspaper account of the 1914 end-of-year assembly at a school:

During the ceremony Miss Bella Jarden, on behalf of Standard VI. pupils, presented Mr F.T. Evans, the headmaster, with a handsome travelling cane.

On closer inspection of the actual article, it appears that the scanning software got it ever-so-slightly wrong – for Mr Evans became the proud owner of a rather lovely new case. But I prefer the mis-transcribed version, don’t you?

Ever read my Fetlife profile? Here’s how it begins:

“You stand in front of me in your school uniform: nervous, unable to meet my eyes. You can’t quite believe that you’re here in the Headmaster’s study; that you’ve been caught. You’ve tried to explain, but to no avail. You’ve listened with dread as I’ve explained that girls who break the rules need to be punished, knowing what that must mean. I stand, open the cupboard and take out a cane…”

Roleplay, you see, has always been at the heart of my kink. I’ve written about it extensively on Spanking Writers over the years; others have described scenes on their blogs on numerous occasions. And you’ll have seen the most recent entry here – a lovely guest piece by Lily Bolane based on a scene she and I played together.

There was another fabulous piece of writing about roleplay just last week across on Leia-Ann Woods’ blog – a superb account that captured perfectly the thrill of an extended scene, which she’d played with my dear friend HH. It’s genuinely the best piece of writing about roleplay that I’ve read in a long time – and reminded me of the thrill of planning and playing long scenes.

But it also made me realised that I’ve ignored the core part of my kink for far too long. I’ve been playing pretty extensively lately – three times with different friends in consecutive evenings last week alone. I genuinely am a lucky man, in so very many ways. But the scene with Lily, back in November, was my last pre-planned 1:1 roleplay.

I’ve enjoyed some wonderful scenes of a more spontaneous nature in recent months; I’ve had great fun exploring different styles of play (beating girls because I can; for fun: to make them submit; to turn them on; because they want to be beaten); I’ve played one of the hottest group scenes of my life, with EJ and HH on our weekend away in March; I’ve taught at a most enjoyable kinky school. I’m delighted at how my play has evolved and taken me in new directions: exploring new things has been fascinating and rewarding. I’ve listened to others describing their play plans, and (sometimes having to suppress a lurking degree of envy) taken vicarious pleasure from those.

And yet. And yet…

Oh the joy of a carefully planned scene with a play partner one trusts absolutely. Of swapping notes in advance: characters developed, backstories filled in. Those emails back and forth: the joy of plotting, conspiring, refining… The thrill of anticipation as the scene looms; of disappearing completely into role as one plays; of hugs (back out of character) afterwards.

You know, nearly six months is a long time for me to have gone without getting to enjoy the aspect of spanking play that I crave the most, that gives me the greatest thrill. Don’t get me wrong: I’m amazingly happy with life right now. But it does feel rather as if the core of my kink – and, hence, my sexuality – has gone missing in action somewhere en route. I’d like to rediscover it. I need to.

Back last November, I played a great scene with the lovely Lily Bolane, who comments here on a fairly regularly basis. She subsequently wrote a story inspired by our little encounter. With her permission, and rather belatedly (mea culpa!), I’m pleased to publish it here for your delectation. Enjoy!

Unrepentant

Kitty looked down at the neatly printed letter again, still wondering, several days after receiving it, how anyone had managed to find out.

Katherine Granger,

It has been determined that your conduct of late has fallen some way short of the standards that you are expected to uphold. Particularly, our attention has been drawn to the number of ‘cheeky’ emails, verging at times on insolent, that you have been sending. In addition, we understand that you have been spending a considerable amount of time reading erotic publications and websites, and encouraging others in reckless behaviours via a number of internet forums.

An appointment has therefore been booked for you with a Disciplinary Officer at 10.30am sharp on Tuesday, 22 November in Belgravia. You should report to the Victoria Disciplinary & Correction Centre five minutes before the time stated above.

You should ensure that you are dressed smartly, although please note that you may be required to remove certain garments (or have them removed) during the morning. To avoid possible confusion, you should understand that corporal punishment will be administered to you during your appointment.

Please confirm receipt of this note by return. Tardy responses or ones with an inappropriate tone may result in an increase to the tariff already being considered for your correction.

Yours faithfully,

A. Parks

HM Disciplinary Services

South-East Division

Kitty frowned at it again as she pushed open the door to the Disciplinary and Correction Centre, then put it back into her pocket. Someone must have snitched. It was the only explanation. Time to figure that out later. For now she just had to get out of here, take it, and escape. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, and she wasn’t going to let the fascist bastards break her down.

A dried up looking matron –type pointed her too a hard wooden chair in the foyer, and picked up the phone. “Mr Parks will collect you shortly.”

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Wandering near St Paul’s cathedral on Tuesday, I was intrigued to discover the following organisation:

As any students of the history of corporal punishment will know, the primary line of business of the Scottish tawse makers (John J Dick, McRostie and others) was saddlery.

I’m given to wonder what emphasis the Worshipful Company placed on their sideline: were there hushed sub-committees debating the ideal dimensions of school straps, discussing what types of leather to use? Did they, perhaps, have an annual celebratory dinner in the Hall – with a toast: “To hands chastised and bottoms sore”?

A little while back, I finally got to meet the lovely Poppy St Vincent – an online friend for what seems like the longest time, and even more delightful in real life. Within moments of meeting, I felt completely relaxed and happy in her company – and comfortable chatting openly about life, the universe and Anything Of Mutual Interest!

We lunched in a newly-opened, trendy Mexican place in Soho – feeling, it must be said, very disloyal to long-standing favourite Wahaha. Our waitress was quite lovely – not, of course, that I’ve ever in the past been attracted to cute, short, curvier, dark-haired girls…

Now, Mexican cooking comes with a health warning for me – in that I’m hugely allergic to avocado, a fairly common ingredient in this style of cuisine. As ever, I mentioned this when ordering; as so often is the case, one of the dishes arrived with the ghastly evil green adornment.

Said waitress was hugely apologetic; she took the item back and brought a fresh portion a few moments later. And, of course, I couldn’t help but speculate to Poppy that the young lady in question would be soundly spanked later by the maitre d’ for her mistake.

A couple of weeks later, and I’m back in the same place for a quick pre-theatre meal. I order – from the same waitress – before even sitting down at my table. She looks at me and says: “No avocado, right?” Clearly, I thought, my theory had been spot on – her painful bare-bottomed lesson having firmly imprinted my dining preferences on her mind. Poor thing…!

So, “Fifty Shades of Grey”. BDSM-themed fiction, currently a the top of the mainstream fiction chart… Hands up who’s read it? I finished it late last night, determined to reach the end, and I thought I’d share my views.

It really is wonderful to realise that so many people are encountering a taste of our world through E L James’s work. It’s great to see some crossover – to be able to read such naughtiness unashamedly on a train or in a coffee shop, for example. And (trying hard to avoid spoilers here) there’s much to commend the book: some sections that are very hot indeed, some great epistolary exchanges. It’d argue that it’s a must-read novel for people like us.

Of course, the premise is far-fetched – young, fabulously-wealthy businessman falls for virginal student when she interviews him for her University newspaper – but this is fantasy, right? Yes, it’s perhaps a little long and a tad repetitive at times, but I can live with that. It can feel a little clinical – the ever-so-careful mention of him putting on a condom each time before they have sex, for example. There’s little real empathy with kink – the descriptions of his play room feel like the sort of thing a slightly-freaked-out vanilla would write if they’d been taking notes on a guided tour during a field trip; would an experienced top / dom really complain that his hand was “very sore” after administering a short spanking?

More concerning than that, though, is the motivation of the two characters. Ana’s rationale for her kinky experimentation is purely to please Christian; it’s really not her thing. He’s only into BDSM because he’s damaged by a relationship he had as a teenager with an older married woman. When he “hits” her, it’s because he wants to; she tolerates him doing so because she wants to please him; she wishes fervently that he was “like her” instead.

Oh for a book in which the young woman explores kink because that’s what she enjoys; for a top who’s not into it as a means of processing past bad experiences. Yet again – rather as was the case, to an extent, with ‘Secretary’ – the outside world gets a glimpse of our interests, finds it fascinating, yet is left feeling that kink is fundamentally unhealthy. And that saddens me. Yet if it does inspire some readers to understand and explore their previously-kept-secret interests, then the book is fundamentally A Good Thing. I just wish I could say so wholeheartedly, without reservation.

Oh, how I hate dreams that finish too early. Take the prison or reformatory of which I found myself Governor in my sleep on Friday night.

An inmate stood before me in the dining room. (All very Oliver Twist, although I doubt she was asking for more). I was, frankly, astonished and outraged at whatever had just happened: “No girl speaks to me like that. Guards: take her to the punishment room.”

I followed some minutes later: she’d already been stripped, and strapped down over the whipping bench. She was crying. “Has she been flogged before?” I asked. “Twenty strokes on admission, as per the court’s sentence,  sir. And another twelve last week for arguing with an officer.”

“Then we’ll see whether fifty will teach her some manners.” And I reached out my hand to take the proffered implement – the Governor’s Cane, so dreaded by the girls.

…and then the dream faded. I so want to know the rest: how she took it, how she marked. Interesting, though to have a dream in which I was one of the characters: it’s more usual that I’m observing the goings-on, as a viewer not an actor. Maybe it’s been a bit too long since I gave anyone a sound caning?