The Spanking Writers

In the pre-blog days I used to file newspaper startles in a big ring-binder. I have a sizeable archive of kinky cuttings, which I’m going to transfer to the blog little by little. Are you glad?

Evening Standard, Thursday, 22 January 2004: “Serial cinematic villain Gary Oldman will soon be treading familiar ground as a hitman in Brit gangster comedy Dead Fish. ‘There’s a memorable scene where Gary gets spanked by a dominatrix while singing a tune written for him by Groove Armada,’ says my man on the set.

1. Damn, the play is long gone.
2. … Singing?

One of those news stories today that you just couldn’t make up:

‘German police discovered a truant teenager at home in bed with her boyfriend after a neighbour spotted a man climbing into her window and reported a burglary, authorities said on Wednesday. Thinking he had witnessed a break-in, the neighbour called police, who sped towards the would-be crime scene with their siren blaring. When officers arrived, the girl’s mother told them the room belonged to her 15-year-old daughter who was at school. Further investigation revealed the mother was wrong. “She wasn’t looking at school books, she was in bed with her boyfriend and was presumably learning something else,” Frankfurt police said in a statement.’

My kinky mind hardly knows where to start….

Newspaper sub-editors have gone to town – headlines including ‘Private Lessons’ in The Times; ‘Caught in the Act’ in the South African Mercury, and ‘Now that’s bonking, not bunking’ in the Pretoria News!

While I was browsing, I also noticed that Haron hasn’t yet posted to the punishment book (www.punishmentbook.org) about the spanking she received last night. She’ll be on her way upstairs shortly; I may have to hurt my hand before bedtime.

A nice bit of blatant generalisation from the papers today:

“Last week a survey of 1,022 undergraduates at 119 institutions indicated that cheating has become widespread in British Universities. In a poll carried out by the Times Higher Education Supplement, one in six undergraduates admitted copying from friends’ work”. So wrote Frank Furedi in the Guardian yesterday.

Apparently “students caught cheating are far more likely to feel a sense of irritation at being caught out than to feel a sense of shame, humiliation or remorse”.

You can imagine where this took me on a flight of fancy over the breakfast table: would our local University appreciate my help to ensure that future punishments are more apposite?

I’d expect suitable recompense, of course: it would be demanding work. I don’t know how many university students we have locally, but let’s guess 10,000. Fifty per cent female (others could deal with the boys!)? Let’s assume they’d only cheat once in a four-year University career (and believe me, if I were dealing with them, they *would* only cheat once). Thirty weeks in an academic year?

That’s one young lady a day needing to be disciplined, making well over a thousand strokes per year to be administered (at the usual tariff of six per time, which some readers may deem lenient for an offence of this magnitude). You can just imagine the risk of repetitive strain injury.

Uniforms. Some work for me; some don’t. School, yes. Military, quite often. Shop assistant, sometimes (I nearly fainted at the sight of the staff in the deli section of the main department store in Hiroshima, when I was visiting Japan last year. Swooned, perhaps, rather than fainted). Airline, rarely. Nurses, certainly not.

Hotel maids: oh yes! I stay in the hotel I used this past weekend fairly regularly, and they’ve been going through a period of improvements: the elevators, the restaurant, a new Club Lounge, better bathrobes in the rooms. Latest on the list for upgrade: the maids.

Gone are the old, surly, grumpy matrons. In their place – a sign of the political times, perhaps – a cadre of the cutest Polish lasses one could ever dream of meeting. Or spanking. Not that I would possibly ever think about spanking them, as they smile cheerfully to me in the corridor. Honestly. Nor about what an old-fashioned hotel manager might do to them if their work fell short in some inspection. That would be most inappropriate.

It reminds me of a post I once read about a spanko who used to leave a copy of Janus or some such spanking magazine on the desk every time he stayed in a hotel. His hope: that the room would be cleaned by someone who might be interested. I’ve never been so bold – and would never dare say anything to the cute maids here either. Which is a shame, as I’m sure there must be at least one of their number who shares our kink: it’s just the thought of harassing the more innocent ones that puts me off!

Watching the exuberant closing ceremony of the Commonwealth Games from Melbourne. (Note to American readers: the Commonwealth Games essentially involves all countries that used to be coloured pink on the map in the days of Empire. Except for the United States. We don’t invite you. You might win too many medals).

Lo and behold, arena fills with thousands of dancing Dame Edna Everage look-alikes, all waving gladioli.

Made me dream that the festivities for London Olympics in 2012 might feature thousands of schoolgirls holding crooked canes aloft, beaming a similar celebration of local culture around the world. The dance could involve them standing demurely with hands behind their backs, then bending over and touching their toes, then jumping slightly into the air at 20 second intervals, before momentarily pausing with hands on their heads and traipsing off-stage in unison holding their behinds.

I wonder whether the organising authorities are taking suggestions from the public yet?

(And by the way, in the unlikely event that anyone in Melbourne stumbles across this blog: what a truly fantastic job your city did with the Games).

and I’m now wondering about someone in the future googling “Commonwealth Games Closing Ceremony Melbourne” and stumbling across this blog!

PS not that I’m using an old version of Microsoft Word to type this, or anything, but the spell-checker didn’t recognised either “blog” or “googling” in this entry. Time to upgrade?

Wandering round Greenwich this afternoon, being silly at the Royal Observatory. Jumping back and forth across the prime meridian line (“now I’m in the east, now I’m in the west, now I’m straddling the whole world”); ogling John Harrison’s original timepieces (if you’ve read “Longitude”, then you’ll realise just how awe-inspiring these marvels really are).

And we wandered into their wonderful souvenir store. Now if only I had £1,800 to buy their top-of-the-range orrery…. I always adore unusual shops like this – and they usually throw up something that can be misused for fetish purposes!

This time, I focused in on a display of egg-timers and hour glasses. Now three minutes may be long enough to soft-boil an egg, but one can hardly make an impression on a girl in three minutes. And an hour might be deemed excessive.

But they had a device called a sermon timer – the grains slide through in exactly fifteen minutes. I had to buy one, of course: a visual tormentor to support “you may wait for fifteen minutes to think about your misbehaviour before I administer your whipping”, or a quarter-hour with hands on head to “reflect on what you’ve just learnt”.

Or, of course, to time a fifteen-minute punishment: an unusual form of ‘sermon’ to correct a girl’s misguided approach. Haron was horrified at the thought, of course.

And what a nice image of a demure maid in some Victorian rectory being called before the parson for a carefully-timed punishment, using his sermon timer….

Signs that my husband is fundamentally unruly and childish, #138:

When I showed him the design of our future blog, fresh as it was and unspoiled by posts, he immediately started playing with the search box. “Abel fucking Haron up the ass” he typed. Obviously, the search returned: “Sorry, no posts matched your criteria.”

“Aha!” Suddenly very excited, he typed: “Haron being right, Abel being wrong.”

No posts matched his criteria.

He was happy for about five seconds. And then he asked: “Are you going to blog about this?”

Why, yes, sweetie, I am.

The Guardian started it this morning, with a page titled “Eight of the best. Statement belts.” Given I was wearing a whip with a buckle (one of a couple of very kinky belts purchased from up-market retailer Mulberry, of all places), I decided I was making more of a statement than any of the belts they featured. (In fairness, there was one hideous thing that cost £150, that very successfully made the statement: “I am rich and I have no taste”, but that’s by the by).

Then a marvellous line from A.N. Wilson, writing in the Evening Standard: “Ties are a badge of servitude, no doubt.” He wrote of office workers, forced to wear them, whilst those “who have the money swan about in open-necked shirts”. I, of course, thought about school ties being a sign of submission to the scholastic authorities.

And the BBC went spanking-mad this evening. First, a drama about fraudsters. A group of posh merchant bankers played a game of forfeits with a client, that resulted in said gentleman bending over the boardroom caning to receive several cane strokes on his besuited posterior. A few days later, after the disciplinarians had presumably attended a customer care course, the client had the bankers lining up over the same table for their canings. Sadly, though, he declined the offer to cane the one female member of the team who was looking on with interest.

This was followed by a programme about celebrities’ atrocious school reports, littered with more references to strict discipline than I would have thought it possible to fit into thirty minutes.

Come to think of it, I’ve seen spanking movies featuring less corporal punishment than the BBC had in that one hour. Must be the start of spring, bringing out the short skirts and high libidos.

Haron earned a spanking, too. She’s away this weekend (as am I – but we’re at opposite ends of the country) and there’s neither email access nor a phone line in the place she’s staying. So it’s mobile phones all the way. Apart from the fact she forgot to take her phone charger. That’ll be dealt with when we’re both next at home, on Wednesday; another punishment book entry. (Given the Guardian’s title, and the fact that this belt is her least favourite of all of my implements, I’m wondering whether she needs eight of the best. But that might be a little severe for the offence!).

Hi! (Wonder how you’ve found us? Do tell…!)

Here goes…Putting on posh voices, in unison:

“We name this blog….” .

Really looking forward to meeting you, whoever you may be.

PS if you’re at all confused: as well as this blog, you can still see Abel’s stories at their original home. We’ll be moving them over to this site (which will still be free), and adding in Haron’s writing too, before very long. We’ll post to let you know when we do so!