The Spanking Writers

Wow – that title on an email this morning from the wonderful Coco de Mer, my favourite kinky shop, was guaranteed to catch my attention!

If any of you are reading this in time to get to London this evening, you might want to pop along:

We invite you to be a part of the audience and watch as two wonderful women meet for the very first time… Both women have insatiable appetites- one who so loves to bind and the other who loves to be bound – the stunning dominatrix Midori and our highly talented corsetier Sian will meet at Coco de Mer to spank, to tie and to satisfy each others desires… Please bear witness (for free!) to the sensual creatures in their public displays of admiration…

5.30pm at 23 Monmouth Street on 5 May, if you’re interested. And if you do go, please let us know all about it.

The Evening Standard yet again (2 May) came up trumps with a story designed to spark kinky creativity. They told how “A shamed Navy Wren who was jailed for stealing thousands of pounds from her ship’s safe has been given a job as a senior NHS (National Health Service) manager.”

In 1994 at the age of 27, the undeniably very attractive lady sailor in question was court martialled after the incident on HMS Invincible, and became “the first Wren to be sent to prison”. The case had come about just three years after Wrens were sent to sea for the first time to serve alongside male sailors.

My mind wandered… Had Wrens been allowed to serve on board in 1894, what punishment might have been inflicted? Images of women in sailor’s uniforms being flogged in front of the assembled crew come to mind.

Last night was “That’ll Teach’em” night: modern teenagers made to go through a term in a 1950s school. They don’t use corporal punishment in the programme,* but there is usually still a lot to sink my pervy teeth into.

Yesterday, for instance, one girl was goofing off in choir practice, and so the music teacher made her sing solo in the morning assembly, in front of the whole school. She was visibly worried beforehand, though she did try to brazen it out that morning in the dorm. When the time came to sing, she quickly found her voice, and in the end managed to give as reasonable a performance as her vocal talent allowed.

I was watching this, and imagining a story I would write. The main character is a frustrated musician, whiling away his still-not-famous days teaching music in a school. He can’t find a way to approach his pupils; whatever he does, they seem to mock him.

There is one girl in particular who spends the entire lessons whistling the tunes instead of singing them. The teacher would love to send her to the Headmaster, but he wants to make her submit to his will without external help. And so, he makes her sing the school song in assembly, expecting that embarrassment will subdue her, and he would come out on top.

Far from it: the girl is enjoying her time on the stage, and proves quite a performer. She makes the whole school sing the chorus with her, and gets a standing ovation from the pupils.

The Headmaster is now aware that this teacher has no control over his pupils, and is not impressed at having been kept in the dark.

The girl gets caned after all, for not treating her punishment with the seriousness it deserved. The teacher gets fired. The end.

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* Obviously!

I got paddled last night for no other reason than to try out a new implement Abel bought for us a few weeks ago.*

It’s an enormous tyre paddle.

More specifically, it’s a large piece of tyre rubber (complete with tracks) on a pretty metal handle. It looks very industrial, something out of a steampunk novel, or perhaps a post-apocalyptic movie. In fact, if Judge Dredd dispatched judicial paddlings, this would be exactly the sort of implement that would be used to deliver them.

A guy who makes these things blogs over on Burning Rubber.

Anyway, we felt like playing last night, but I was too tired to come up with a role-play, so it was going to be a good old just-because paddling with a gigantic chunk of rubber.

My impressions of this beautiful implement? It hurts like nobody’s business. With the first stroke Abel must have intended to imprint tyre tracks on my butt, because he whacked so hard I couldn’t even scream for about three seconds. He didn’t get the tracks, just some redness (as he informed me), so he decided to hit even harder. This time I screamed alright, and also danced about the room, saying nasty things about the paddle, its wielder, its maker, and the postman who’d delivered it. After this Abel lightened up – not by much – and I got the rest of my six swats with just about bearable strength.

Man… it was horrible. The burning feeling afterwards was really nice, though.

Abel spent the rest of the night being quite pensive, and in the end declaired that, perhaps, to get those tyre marks he’d have to get another of these paddles, only smaller.

Do you think this would be a good time to call a spousal veto over how our budget is spent? Or maybe I should bribe the postman?

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* Yes, weeks. What can I say? We’ve been busy.

I should work in advertising.

I’m in the departure area at Heathrow earlier this afternoon, off on another dreary business trip. I find myself standing in front of an advert for Philips’ new electric shaver. Their slogan: “Make every stroke count.”

The illustration? A boat crew rowing up a river.

Here’s my alternative suggestion. A blazered schoolgirl is bent tight over the Headmaster’s desk. Wearing a gown, he administers a hard stroke with his crook-handled cane. The photographer snaps at the precise moment of the rod’s excruciating impact across her pleated grey skirt.

It would get the ad noticed more, right?

I just wandered past an old-fashioned hardware shop, one of a dying breed. A carefully-hung selection of mops and brushes fluttered in the breeze; peering inside, I spied a veritable treasure-trove of household essentials.

The friendly proprietor of a neighbourhood store such as this would know everyone, be at the heart of the community. Children would be despatched by their parents on errands; smiling down at them, he’d check their order, wrap their goods with brown paper and string, and teach the youngest how to count out their change.

He’d have a special drawer, of course. I imagined one young lady, in her smart school blazer, nervously perusing the shelves inside as I walked past, sniffing the shop’s distinctively clean air, waiting for the coast to clear of other shoppers. He’d welcome her warmly: he would have known her since she’d been a little girl. He’d have heard of her successes – the scholarship to the Grammar School, the prize-winning poems.

And now she’d be telling him, under her breath, that her daddy had sent her to buy a strap from the special drawer. He wouldn’t hear the first time: she’d have to repeat herself louder, glancing over her shoulder lest anyone had entered the shop.

And he’d shake his head sadly. He’d know that she was an only child: there could be no confusion as to her imminent fate. And he’d reach into his drawer, and rummage around for the lightest strap he had left, and parcel it up carefully as a tear trickled down her cheek.