The Spanking Writers

As created last night…
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Ingredients:

• One young lady
• One cane
• One tube Deep Heat muscle cream

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Instructions:

• Several hours in advance, warn young lady of impending scene.
• Remove cane from packaging.
• Instruct young lady to hold out left hand. Administer three sharp whacks with cane.
• Repeat previous step with right hand.
• Check hands display stripes. Repeat previous steps if not.
• Open tube of Deep Heat.
• Rub into caned hands.
• Watch as girl squirms.
• Cuddle girl.

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(Poor Haron! Or lucky Haron, depending on your perspective. Lucky me, either way)

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Hot spanking email is so nice to wake up to when your husband has been away overnight. Here’s what Abel sent me this morning to try and distract me from hard work to inspire me for the day ahead.

The Morning Line-Up.

An imposing country house. The servant girls are lined up each morning, before starting work. The butler walks down the line-up, inspecting every girl. Is their hair neatly brushed? Is their uniform perfect?

Before checking the first girl, he takes a thin, whippy cane from its hook on the wall. The girls tremble slightly as he draws near, knowing that the slightest deviation from perfection will lead to a punishment.

“Hold out your hand”, for two strokes, always one on the left, one on the right. Two? Sometimes more, if the butler feels that the girl is too poorly turned-out.

Sometimes he’ll walk to the end of the line, adjusting uniforms as he goes, and then turns: “Elizabeth, Alice, step forward” for their canings.

Occasionally, he’ll turn with thunder in his face. ”Your standards of appearance this morning insult his lordship. You will all be punished.” He’d patrol from one end to another, a stroke for each outstretched hand, then instruct them to swap hands and walk back, dealing with the girls in reverse order.

Or the girls will be dismissed to start their daily duties, “Except for Sally” - a repeat offender, particularly untidy that morning, who’d be ordered to follow him along the narrow maze of corridors to his office, where she’d be bent over to be thrashed on the bare with his heavy cane.

—–

See you tonight (hands outstretched?)

Given that we’ll have a guy from his work staying over, this promises to be a particularly interesting and *quiet* scene.

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So, I’m watching a western here called “Outlaw Josie Wales”,* and Clint Eastwood threatens a young lad who rides with him:

“I’m going to whomp you with a knotted plow-line.”

1. Ouch! Ouch, ouch, that sounds painful. Who on earth has come up with that? Has anybody tried it, seen it done, read about it, heard about it at all? A plow-line? Knotted, too? Ouch.

2. Mr. Eastwood? Yes, please.

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* My first one ever, actually. My education has been very deficient where westerns are concerned.

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Dipping into Mr. Brooks’s pervy anthology of 1886 again (see my recent post if you’ve just joined us). I could well imagine playing a scene based on the following:

It seems to have been quite common at one time to sell prisoners. At the Supreme Judicial Court in Salem, in November, 1787, “Elizabeth Leathe of Lynn, for harbouring thieves and receiving stolen goods, was convicted and sentenced to be whipped twenty stripes and to be sold for six months”

This practice of selling convicts was nothing more or less than making slaves of them,–for a limited period, of course; but perhaps it was in many instances a punishment more to be desired by the victims than being confined in prison, especially if they were well treated.

In the fantasies that flicked through my mind on reading this, my purchases would be longing for the sanctuary of a prison cell by the time I had to return them to the authorities.

Haron??? I have a little scene in mind.

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Girls didn’t share those juicy sex dream tidbits in high school - nor did the guys - but by University we were open to telling all, so you can imagine my surprise when I first heard tell of others nighttime dalliances. I was shocked, I had assumed that everyone’s sex dreams were as bizarre as mine, but unless everyone else was holding back and sharing only the choicest tales, it seemed I was in the minority.

I adored this quote, from Maya’s “Curious Confection” blog. Scarcely a night goes by without Haron or I having a kinky dream; I love little more than lazing in bed early in the morning, sharing the fantasies that have occurred to us since we whispered our goodnights a few hours previously. Little more other than playing out said nocturnal fantasies straight afterwards, of course :-) 

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I have managed to summon up enough interest in the football* - to discover that there’s a player called Stern John.

I wonder. Does a strict footballer, like, kick a ball at you until you’re really sorry? It’s not like they use their hands very much in the course of the game.
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*If you can beat’em away from the TV with a stick, might as well join’em on the sofa for warmth.

3 Comments »

I found an art review for something that might have been worth seeing:

Julie Farstad uses stark imagery to convey a nightmarish reality, placing painted toy baby dolls in compromising positions; the slightly grotesque, shiny baby fat in her paintings is indelible. In “Bad Bad Girls,” one doll lifts the dress of the other for a spanking against an austere, glowing-red background.

Why, that’s a nightmarish image indeed.

One thing that’s puzzled me is that the piece is described as an “art capsule”. Does anybody know what one of those is? Wikipedia has failed me, as has the rest of the Net.

Anyway, I used to make my dollies spank each other, too. And even spanked them myself. But only if they were really bad, of course.

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It’s time for Sugasm again - a link list compiled by sex bloggers, full of sexy bloggery content.
AnnouncementsGet Asia Argento’s Panties (sugarbank.com)
For The Girls Launches Erotic Fiction Competition (msnaughty.com)
Win the Cheese (nyc-urban-gypsy.blogspot.com)
Black Ball 14 giugno 2006 (deboratravslave.erosblog.it)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Time of the Month (edinerotica.blogspot.com)
To Caitlin’s Tits, and Well Beyond (totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
A Fantasy Story, by Me (dontwakethekids.blogspot.com)
Thigh Highs, No Panties and Red Wine (wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
Look Through Any Window - Part Five (theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
I Want… (easilyaroused.co.uk)
The Best Sex I Ever Had (dawnndirty.blogspot.com)
Fiction: Compromise (erotiterrorist.blogspot.com)
Temptation (pleasinglydebauched.blogspot.com)
Nightdreaming (gentlygently.blogspot.com)
Coming Upside Down (alwaysarousedgirl.blogspot.com)
Waking Sleeping Beauty (aliferestarted.blogspot.com)
Naughty Night with Stiletto Girl and K (darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
Assignation (talktovanessa.com)
Watch Him (by Super Secret Guest Author) (domequeen.blogspot.com)
Last Night’s Fun (seanandmel.blogspot.com)

More Sugasm…
Join the Sugasm

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A little while back I mentioned the magnificently quirky book “Lost Worlds” by Michael Bywater. And yes, for those of you who wondered, there is an entry under ‘Cane, The’. It’s way too long for me to quote in full – which in any case would risk veering towards copyright infringement (not good) rather than respectful author-worship (which might make you buy the book, therefore good).

Bywater tells tale of the History teacher with his ‘Walking Stick of Damocles’, the gym master with his plimsoll, the Headmaster (nicknamed The Duke) who “managed to put his shoulder out caning the entire Classics Sixth whom he had caught in a pub one lunchtime”.

The author himself “copped six stingers from one of The Duke’s whippier accoutrements for ‘pulling faces during prayers’”. Interestingly, for those who wonder whether teachers recall the punishments that they administer:

In later years he admitted that the memory had stayed with him ever since. “You’d have been all right,” he said, “if you hadn’t tried to claim that you were not pulling faces but were moved by religious ecstasy. “Right”, I thought, “I’m going to cane the bugger.” And I did. Marvellous. Spring in step. Quite set me up for the Governors’ meeting. Absolute despotism: one of the great perks of the job.”

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On Friday night I found myself standing naked in front of a glass-top table in a London hotel room, wondering how I would lean over it without freezing my chest and tummy right off. Behind me, my husband was unbuckling his belt.

“Cold,” I complained when my skin touched the icy glass surface.

“I’ll warm you up,” Abel promised with a carnivorous grin, folding the belt into a loop. I’d guessed he might say that.

Why was I about to get a whipping?

The simple answer would be “just because”, or even “why not?” - which in many cases is good enough.

The more extended answer is that we had just returned from a gig by our favourite band Keane.* We had agreed beforehand that for every song they played, I would get two strokes of the belt. Admittedly, Keane - bless their little public school socks - were very generous with their set list, so that in the middle of the concert Abel put his lips to my ear and shouted over the noise of the crowd belting out their favourite songs: “I think I’ll have to use discretion over those strokes!” I would have been the last person to object.

Thus, the glass table in the hotel room, a chair in front of it for me to grip, and Abel’s voice behind me:

“I think twenty is a fair number. You can count them.”

Before we started, I had decided to try and take this whipping as stoically as I could. Normally I don’t bother, but Abel likes spanking motionless sacks of flour stoic people, so I gritted my teeth, and gripped the back of the chair really hard.

I think, my resolve lasted until about the eighth stroke. The pain had been building - not gradually, like with a hand-spanking or even a caning, but in great jumps. It grew manifold with every lash. I remember the eighth one particularly, because my mouth refused to wrap around the count, and when number nine came, I suddenly found myself upright, clutching my behind, with Abel’s arm around me. I honestly don’t remember how I got there.

“Shhh, good girl,” he was saying. “You’re very brave. Come on now, it will be over soon.”

I allowed him to help me back over the desk. Funnily enough, I didn’t object its coolness any more.

It wasn’t over all that soon: each of the following strokes was memorable for its particular little ways of hurting me more. Finally, Abel ended my suffering by delivering the last five strokes so fast that I didn’t have time to freak out about them separately - I just howled the place down from their cumulative effect.

I don’t know if I’m still into being whipped with belts - maybe it’s just that particular belt that should be urgently shredded and recycled. I’m definitely into going to gigs, though.

Being stoic and stuff? Forget it.

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* A special, non-advertised, kill-for-tickets pre-album-launch gig in London’s “Astoria”, which we’d got into because I happened to be online at the moment when the tickets went on sale. (Pats self on back.)

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