The Spanking Writers

In one of the Yahoo groups we read there was a discussion about public spanking. A guy called Jonc101 talked about spanking a girl in front of a statue on Karl Marx’s tomb.

A typically cold, wintry London afternoon, we were wandering through the cemetery after a few beers at a Hampstead pub. We were already into a spanking relationship so it came as no surprise when I took her OTK, whipped up her long woolen skirt, slipped down her panties and started spanking her. Two elderly ladies walking a dog heard the sounds and had a glance before moving quickly on. We didn’t stay too long in case the bobbies might arrive, but the thrill was apparent in her cheeks for the rest of the day…all four cheeks, that is.

And, would you believe, old Karl Marx’s face never moved a muscle. Bloody humourless Commies!!!!

I’m afraid, this gave me some wholly inappropriate ideas. When I was a kid in Kiev, sometimes on holidays there would be a parade in what is now Independence square. The identical towers facing the square would each be decorated with an enormous portrait of Marx, Engels or Lenin, white faces on revolutionary-crimson background. These were truly gigantic sheets of fabric, covering the entire facades from the roof down. They came up a few days before the holiday – it was fun to watch them unroll, the faces uncrumpling, becoming human, becoming familiar.

If there was any smacking going on in the square, I’m sure the portraits would have seen it really well. They had pretty big eyes, and all. However, it would have been pretty inappropriate for them to start expressing their opinions on the subject of people being spanked in front of them, so just as well they didn’t start winking, or poking out their tongues, or laughing their fabric heads off.

I’m sure the statue of Marx on his tomb would have loved to have a giggle about what it saw, but it was simply too dignified for things like that.

A big ‘hello’ to all of you in tiny Thames Ditton. Yes, we know you’re reading. Let me explain.

Google’s cool new “Trends” page lists the leading locations from which people enter given search terms. (If you’re concerned that this may be a little “Big Brother”, then I’d tend to agree).

Searching on “spanking” gives the following Top Ten locations for the spanking-curious:

1. Thames Ditton – United Kingdom  
2. Milton Keynes – United Kingdom  
3. Brentford – United Kingdom  
4. Birmingham – United Kingdom  
5. Manchester – United Kingdom  
6. Dublin – Ireland  
7. Edinburgh – United Kingdom  
8. London – United Kingdom  
9. Philadelphia – United States  
10. Zurich – Switzerland

I giggled at the inclusion of Philadelphia. A few years ago, a US Immigration official checking my passport looked up at me and asked, “Have you ever visited Philadelphia.” I hadn’t. “You should, it’s lovely,” she told me, before allowing me into the country. Only now does the conversation – at last – make sense, although I am surprised that my proclivities are that obvious!

When one changes the search term to “corporal punishment”, suddenly Auckland (New Zealand) appears at number two, followed by three Australian cities in the top ten. South Africa is the top searching country. Are you southern hemisphere folks not into mere “spanking”, then?

Sitting in a café with Haron one morning last week, eating breakfast.

Pretty young lady, late 20s, standing at the counter waiting to pay her bill, her elderly mother next to her. Daughter makes a cheeky comment in a broad Scottish accent; mother whacks her shoulder; we look up.

Daughter to waitress: “She may only be wee, but she’s always had a hard smack on her.”

Old lady: “Aye. I think it’s biological: when you become a mother, your hand just develops the reflex.”

Any scientists out there able to point us towards the relevant research?

I’m used to seeing newspaper boys pounding the streets in the early hours. Heading to the railway station at some ungodly hour on a surprisingly-cold morning yesterday, I saw my first ever newspaper girl.

Oh, how cute. How adorably cute. Wrapped in a big, colourful woolly jumper. Trudging along, straining to drag a trolley of heavy papers. Looking cold. Downright miserable.

My mind wandered, as it is wont to do. Mr. Hawkes at number 43, telephoning to complain of yet another delivery of The Guardian rather than The Telegraph: Julie (for that was the name I imagined), trembling hands outstretched, taking her whacks with the strap that Mr. Borthwick the newsagent kept for the purposes in the back room of his shop.

Mr. Finch, her father’s friend, in the big house next to the park. Four papers as usual, tearing as she pushed them through his letterbox. The door opening, and the gentleman appearing, fierce, formidable. A time being agreed for her to return after school to be punished, lest he tell her employer (“again”) or her father. Her nervous day at school. The grand drawing room in the fading early-evening light. The switches, freshly cut from his garden.

Rushing through the streets, cursing her heavy load, glances at her watch confirming her worst fears. Dashing into the classroom, just as her teacher closed the register. The master re-opening it, picking his pen back up, inscribing: “That will class as ‘late’ again, young lady.” A plaintive “Please, sir…” Please, sir: that’s my fourth ‘late’ of the term; that’s an automatic caning…. The classroom door swinging open during the second lesson of the morning; the Headmaster’s secretary escorting her to meet her fate. Three strokes – “because you’re one of our best girls, but the rules are plan for all to see, and I can’t make exceptions now, can I?”

Her father. Seated at the dining room table, as she cleared the dishes after dinner. Mumbling her story, hoping he might not mind: “I’ve finished at the newsagents.” His lecture, instructions that she had to go back. Her terrified explanation – that she couldn’t, that Mr. Borthwick didn’t want her back. That he’d had one complaint too many. That she’d been fired. The long, lonely, familiar walk upstairs. The wait in her bedroom – always a wait. Father unbuckling his thick belt as he entered. Face nestling in her soft duvet, as she took the thrashing. Tears afterwards. Hugs.

Poor girl. I hope she wasn’t actually as miserable as she looked in the early hours of yesterday.

Another of our oh-so-occasional non-kinky entries. I mentioned yesterday that we’re off to a wedding tomorrow. Coincidentally, I’ve just been browsing the website of Suzanne Vega (a brilliant singer-songwriter, and a truly awesome performer) in the hope that she might tour the UK later this year.

Her home page shows a picture of her, looking radiant, at her recent wedding. There’s a formal announcement:

New York City, February 13, 2006: Suzanne Vega of New York City and Paul Mills of Los Angeles were married on February 11th, 2006 at her home in New York City. She is a singer-songwriter, the daughter of Richard Peck of Irvine, California and Patricia Vega of New York City.

Not just “a” singer-songwriter, Suzanne. One of the greatest. Her modesty sums up her brilliance.

But it was the final line of the announcement that tweaked the heart-strings, and made me want to share this with readers here:

“This is the bride’s second marriage and the groom’s first, the last for both.”

“The last for both”. How touching is that? I’m sure that anyone like me who’s been married previously, before meeting the true love of their life, will cherish that phrase forever.

We’re going to a wedding on Saturday. The friends concerned are decidely vanilla. His parents are certainly not. Let me explain.

Said parents were away when we first visited their house. Son sits us down, disappears to fetch drinks. And our eyes simultaneously come to rest on the huge plant pot in the corner of the living room.

We wandered over, as if in shock: yes, it was stashed with the most impressive collection of crook-handled school canes that I have ever seen: junior, senior, in every conceivable degree of whippiness.

Our friend came back in. “Camel whips,” he explained. “Dad collected them when he lived in the Middle East.”

We – just – managed to surpress our giggles. Later research confirmed that camel whips don’t come with crook handles. Not that either of us are likely to mistake the traditional school rattan, in any case.

I’m just looking forward to the speeches at the wedding reception at the weekend: “We’d like to thank my parents for their kind gift of a camel whip from their priceless collection.” I promise not to laugh out loud.

We have surfed upon this beautiful entry over on Tea and Oranges

I heat the iron and test it.and my mind wanders to last night – on my hands and knees… trying to calm the giddy longing rising in me… giggling and fidgeting… twisting for a glimpse of you behind me

I shake out your shirt and lay it across the board.

“stay still” you say in your serious voice, and I do… I close my eyes and hear the sound of your watch unclicking from your wrist, the clack of it when you place it on the table and then… the sharp flick of a first light slap of leather across the back of my thighs

I flatten one sleeve and stroke the fabric down along the board with my palm.

And so she continues, making the most ordinary household job sound deliciously sensual.

I found myself nodding as I read the entry, because I too always daydream my way through domestic chores. I don’t think I’ve ever made it through five minutes of washing-up without getting two spankings and a good talking-to.

Abel irons his own shirts, though. I bet he doesn’t think about getting thrashed at the time.

I’ve just found that Google has a “Scholar” site that searches academic papers. A search on “corporal punishment” serves up more than 10,000 papers.

Whilst I suspect that the majority of these aren’t in the least bit kinky, the ideal of turning up in the office in the morning and researching spanking has a certain appeal. (NOT that these days I ever go into my office in the morning and research spanking rather than doing the work I’m supposed to be doing. Honestly).

I do so love unearthing learned reports on the web that explore historical corporal punishment. This, for example, was published on a Canadian government site:

“Punishments were meted out frequently for simple disciplinary offences, often of the most innocuous kind, and whippings were administered before an assembly of the inmates…. In the prison’s female quarters young girls experienced similar treatment. The records show that one 14 year-old was whipped seven times in four months.”

Haron, c’m here. Role play ahead…

Our friend Molly B sent us this picture, under the above heading. She found it on the BBC News website.

These youngsters are celebrating their last day at school, apparently.

Something tells me that if we were playing a scene, and if I showed up with my uniform graffitied like this, I’d be leaving school in a very sore state. Even if it was supposed to be my last day at school.

This sounds like a good idea for a story. (NOT for a scene! My shirts are too nice to mutilate like that, though maybe I could steal one of Abel’s?)

Joyous celebrations after watching Liverpool’s famous FA Cup final win. You know the sort of thing: I mean, I can’t be the only fan to have tied his wife up in bed with his Liverpool scarf last night.

Can I?