The Spanking Writers

Nightmare!

Haron is away. I am technically illiterate. Our wireless network stops working; I can’t access any of the files from my laptop.

I try the usual tech support trick – switch the PC and router on and off. Still no joy.

I haul myself out of my seat, and wander downstairs to check on the laptop.

There, stretched out, a picture of contentment, lies our cat – soaking up the heat from the laptop. Darling animal had managed to switch off the wireless connection.

If the cat were Haron….

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Eeeek. That’s all I have to say in relation to the below. Eeeeek!

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I got home last night. Easter Sunday. Plenty of chocolate waiting to be demolished. And no heating.

You may know that Haron is one of the posters on The Punishment Book, discussing those occasions on which she is on the receiving end of real-life discipline. She’s a good girl: really, she is. Absolutely decent, honest, hard working – but occasionally she has lapses that need correcting. Never anything malicious; she’s just a little prone to letting herself down.

The punishment scenes that merit entry onto the site aren’t usually kinky, or hot, or fun when they take place. But that are an important strand of the twine that binds the two of us so tightly together.

One of her responsibilities is keeping the gas meter topped up with cash. (I’m away for work so often that I’m not around enough to keep a regular eye on it). She forgot once, as one might: that met with a scolding but no more. She forgot again – and, as I was feeling generous, she was given a final warning rather than the spanking that she probably deserved.

The third time (for inevitable there was a third time), she was caned. However, the poor girl was so mortified at her mistake that I was convinced that even a light punishment would resolve the issue. Four gentle strokes, plenty of cuddles, and it was dealt with – problem solved, once and for all.

And then, last night. Back home, to an icily cold house, the gas meter flashing away at “£0.00”.

Haron’s not here, which makes it worse: she knows she’s in serious trouble, yet has a week to wait before facing the consequences. My mind keeps debating how to deal with it: I so want to be lenient, especially as we’ll have been apart for a couple of weeks. Lines? Corner time? Yet I’ve been very far from severe on three occasions now and it’s simply not worked.

I don’t think leniency is what she needs. Nor do I really feel that it’s the most compassionate option.

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Today, over a cup of coffee to celebrate mourn the end of Eurocon, a friend shared with me a great piece of salacious gossip about one of the grand-masters of Ukrainian fantasy. (Remember when I said that writers were sick bastards? Well.)

The gentleman guy in question spent part of last year’s convention trying to convince my friend to - quote - Lift the curtain of dark passions - unquote. At the end of the conversation, says my friend, the two of them were surrounded by a group of this writer’s fans, to whom he preached about the joys of (reading) de Sade.

This friend’s taste in men doesn’t include either drunk middle-aged fantasy writers who lack in muscles, or de Sade. Thus, she declined.*

“Did you ask what passions he meant, though?” I’d always found the guy interesting in a “he sends me kinky vibes” way; there are plenty of tasty references in his novels.

“Not really. I wasn’t interested either way.”

“Damn. If he ever tries it on again, can you say ‘no, but my friend wants to know what passions exactly you mean to lift the curtains off’?”

So, I probably wouldn’t have taken him up on it either - kink and talent is all very well, but a pleasant personality helps, too, and he doesn’t have one of those - still I’ve spent the rest of the day wondering what he’d meant to do.

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* For those who are wondering: I do like middle-aged fantasy writers. Muscles are optional. Inebriation is out of question.

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To Germany – having conveniently scheduled a business trip there for the day prior to the Easter holiday weekend, giving me the excuse to stay over with a similarly-minded friend for a few days.

We returned to the hotel one afternoon to find my brand new wooden spoon ever-so-neatly placed on the bedside table: so thoughtful of the hotel to leave it in easy reach! I do wonder what our room maid thought when she saw it – whether it was “I wonder what they were eating” or “I wonder whether it hurt”?

No wonder the hotel staff were being so polite to us for the remainder of our stay.

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Today I walked home past a row of beautiful weeping willows, fresh and green. I thought of Abel, and of the switches he would cut before he dragged me up the hill by the ear.

Or maybe he wouldn’t bother taking me home. Maybe he would whip me right there in the street. I mean, maybe I was particularly bad, you know?

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I’ve been meaning to write about an article from last Friday’s Evening Standard magazine, headlined “Hello Mr Chips”. It describes the new British International School opening in New York in September: “a haven of studiousness” in which the girls will wear tartan skirts.

Being New York, it would appear that state laws will prevent this being a *fully* British educational experience - in respect of their disciplinary policy. But can I be the first to apply for a Housemaster’s job should they open a second establishment in, say, Arkansas?

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This morning I was steeling myself for two vanilla weeks: I was flying off for a stay with my parents in Kiev.* The taxi was due at 4:14 am, the alarm was set for 3:45.

There was a birch rod next to the bed - still more or less functional after our scene last week.

Last night Abel said that he would birch me just before I left, but this morning, seeing me on edge with flying nerves,** he offered to scrap it.

“No, I want a birching,” I said.

I didn’t want the pain, I never do, but I needed the intimate connection we develop through the pain, and I needed some stripes to take onto the plane with me.

I lay over the pillows he stacked in the middle of the bed, and clutched the covers. The strokes were sharp, precise, and each one hurt more than I can easily cope with, but that was what I needed this morning.

I got twelve in all: a mass of red in the middle of my cheeks, runaway twig marks on the edges.

We kissed, and held each other, and then I left.

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*Of course, my time there won’t be completely devoid of kink, because

a) my dear friend t’Larien is there, and he’s kinky as they come
b) I’m actually going for the science fiction convention Eurocon. Writers are sick bastards on the whole.

** Hate flying; hate flying anywhere without him.

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It’s the turn of “The Independent” newspaper today: John Walsh, commenting on “That’ll Teach ‘Em”:

“Ah yes, I remember it well. Schooldays, a time of humiliation and fear, of pure and applied sadism. The only false note in the programme is the glaring omission of corporal punishment… I would not, of course, be such a shocking old buffer as to recommend its reintroduction in schools today. But I’m afraid I might have enjoyed seeing the blood drain from the students’ faces had they been told they must go to the shouty headmaster’s study and be whacked extremely hard on the extremities…”

So would I, Mr, Walsh. So would I.

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Congratulations to NumberSixValverde, for winning the Grand National (the UK’s premier horse race) on Saturday. The Sunday newspapers were thus able to emblazon “six of the best” across the victory photos.

Today’s Guardian, on the other hand, focused on jockey Niall Madden, nicknamed ‘Slippers’. Their headline? “Slippers goes back to work punishing the bookmakers”.

Our media is spanking-mad. Which is a good thing, if you ask me.

Reminds me that I haven’t used the slipper on Haron in a long while. I must fix that. Actually, I prefer the gym shoe – very reminiscent of school days, when the last boy to get changed back into his uniform after Physical Education lessons used to get one whack with the PE teacher’s plimsoll… (Woolworth’s sell wonderful plimsolls, very cheaply, if you need any implement-shopping suggestions).

(Haron just peered over my shoulder to see what I was composing. And frowned. Frowning at someone’s writing must be worthy of a slippering, surely?)

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