The Spanking Writers

If you’ve ever wondered what tops get out of punishing people (that is, other than the pleasure of smacking their bottoms), you could do worse than read a post about it by Pablo, who is one of the most insightful people who write about kink:

It’s a very cold universe out there, and to be needed by someone whom nature has made attractive to us is about as powerful an emotion as we’ll ever experience. When what they need from us is consistent with a kink that’s also fundamental to who we are, the pieces just fit. We’re not so far from cavemen that we – even the diffident and introverted of us – don’t get pleasure from being the strong protector.

Rather than considering that people of kink get close to each other so that they can express kink, it makes far more sense to consider that they express kink so that they can get close to each other. Kink isn’t an end in itself. The warm body beside us is the end. The happy, contented, safe, warm body beside us carrying marks that we’ve put on its skin, is a kind of belonging, a kind of home.

On behalf of warm bodies with warmer marks, I hope that’s true for everybody over whose lap I’ll ever happen to tumble.

Natty posted a funny entry last week on her always-excellent blog, describing how her caregiver found a cane under the bed. She continues:

“Thank god she didn’t notice the riding crop on the floor underneath the baseboard heater. Or the longer cane against the wall next to the bedside table.”

It reminded me of a great entry that I clipped ages ago from another blog, It Don’t Take Much to Please This Girl, about a visit from the author’s partner’s parents:

The… interesting side came with regards to the garage. Now, as neither Jade or I drive, we’re basically in the process of turning it into a playroom for the two of us. That’s not something we really wish to share with her parents, for obvious reasons. So we told hem they couldn’t park in there because it was being used for storage…

They seemed to accept that so we didn’t think anything more of it. Until we got home from work last night. It seems they’d decided to be helpful, to help sort out what was in the garage.

Oh dear. I felt like I was about 14 again when they sat us down to ‘talk to us’. Looking back its pretty damn funny but at the time oh my god it was humiliating…

*giggles*”

My parents are coming to stay at the weekend, and Haron and I have already started checking every nook and cranny for long-lost implements – and for books that might be hard to explain. (I don’t think I could find any legitimate reason for owning the guide to being an effective Headmaster that’s perched behind me on the bookshelf, for example).

It’d be so much easier to ban non-spankos from entering the house…. We go so far as being the only house on the street not to use the services of the local window cleaner, lest he peer in and see anything that might make him fall off his ladder.

I’m busily taking notes on this lad’s solution to the pain from a military school birching (found on the history pages of the Duke of York’s Royal Military School):

The Commandant nodded and the birch rose and swished down six times – once for each stolen stamp. At each stroke, the assembled throng expected to hear Flippant cry out in pain. But he never did. Even after the punishment was over no sound escaped his lips. The Sergeant-Major untied him and shook his hand. The Commandant declared how courageous he had been and gave him a half-crown… Speculation ran rife as to how Flippant had taken his punishment so well. Had he managed to cheat somehow?

He hadn’t cheated, of course. The six red-purplish weals were there plain to see and the next day he was racked with the pain of it all. But on the morning of his punishment, Flippant had managed himself very well. … The punishment had been in December when the temperature was below zero…

From the time Flippant got up until the time of his punishment he had taken his trousers down and sat bare-bottomed on the freezing lead. After an hour or so he began to lose all sensation in his buttocks. He persisted and continued to sit there until the very last moment just before noon. When the punishment was administered, Flippant felt nothing because of his self-administered local anaesthetic.

This all sounds very clever, until you remember that a spanking (or, indeed, a birching) hurts much more on a cold bottom. So if you don’t freeze your bum for long enough to lose all feeling, you’re in for an even worse punishment than what you’d originally get.

I wonder, how long it would take to anaesthesise myself that way?

I wonder, how do I come by a sheet of lead I could keep in the freezer without Abel noticing?

I giggled at a report from the “People’s Defender”, sharing news from the education authorities in Adams County/Ohio Valley School District. Apparently:

On August 28, at 6:15 p.m., a public meeting on the corporal punishment policy of the district is scheduled at North Adams High School. The regular board meeting will follow at 7 p.m.

Talk about pre-judging the outcome of a meeting: the 6.15pm gathering will presumably approve the use of the paddle, otherwise the later session will have to be cancelled.

“The Observer” writes today about young women in Britain going bankrupt at the speed of wired money, drowning in credit card debt and all that – because they want to have the look at the lifestyle of the so called WAGS (wives and girlfriends of the millionaire football players; such as Victoria Beckham, pictured below having her bum grabbed):

According to “Observer”, there are enough of these women

… sinking into debt-ridden despair to give pause for thought. So what to do: should Gordon Brown invite the lead Wags to Downing Street to administer a good Calvinist spanking for inspiring such spendthrift ways in the nation’s womanhood?

Gordon Brown is the Chancellor, in case you didn’t know. This is him, below.

Please don’t let him cane anyone. Please.

Commenting on one of our recent posts, one of our readers observed that she was:

…going to a BBQ tomorrow evening where I’m sure to be passed around as an entree for the delights of the other spankers in attendance

“As an entrée”. What a wonderful phrase, and what a great concept. I’m just imaging ladies and gentlemen turning up for a very formal dinner party (all candles and silverware and black ties and posh dresses). They’d be handed the menu for the evening, listing the pleasures to be expected from* and with each course:

Starter
Pan fried Scottish lobster tail with aubergine gratin, black truffle and coriander bisque
Wine: Riesling Grand Cru Schoenburg, SGN, Marcel Deiss 1988
Spankee: Niki Flynn
Implement: Senior School Cane
Strokes: Six, hard, per guest

Main course
Fillet of Angus beef with braised cheeks, creamed potato, salsify, baby girolles, truffle and barolo sauce
Wine: Chateau Beychevelle 2eme cru 1990
Spankee: Adele Haze
Implement: Hand
Smacks: One minute per guest, of increasing severity

Dessert
Lime parfait with melon sorbet, honeycomb and chocolate sauce
Wine: Tokaji Aszú 6 Puttonyos, István Szepy 1999
Spankee: Bailey of Real Spankings
Implement: Mason Pearson hairbrush
Whacks: A dozen on the bare, over the knee of each guest.

Or we could choose vanilla personalities that we’d like to spank….
Starter: Helena Bonham-Carter, birch
Main course: Billie Piper, doubled-up leather belt
Dessert: Suzanne Vega, velvet flogger

…plus writer and comedian Meera Syal being slippered with the petit-fours.

Then again, we could opt for a menu of famous folks who we don’t particularly want to spank, but who might (cynically) bring traffic here from Google:
Starter: Paris Hilton caned
Main course: Olsen Twins paddled
Dessert: Keira Knightley spanked.

(OK, we lied about not wanting to spank Keira Knightley).

* Thanks to controversial British chef Gordon Ramsay for putting his menus online. Actually, they’re as pornographic as anything on this site, in their own way.

I was walking home from the library today – it was closing time, and only the most dedicated (or desperate) aspiring academics were still there – when I had to step off the path to avoid getting run over by a cyclist. I found myself standing in the branches of a weeping willow.

Well, I know what weeping willows are for: you send a girl out with a knife, and make her fetch a few switches – one for now, and a couple more in case the first one breaks. Then you peel down her panties, and make her bend over the arm of the old sofa in the living-room, and you cover her bottom with even pink stripes. That’s what whipping willows are for.
I parted the hanging branches to look on the groud under the tree, and there I found a switch, just lying there, as though discarded by somebody who’d just stopped for a minute to deliver a quick whipping. I picked it up – the passing aspiring academics looked at me funny – and headed for the bus home.

“Hey,” I said to Abel when I walked into the house. “I brought you a stick to beat me with.” I held up the switch like a flower.
I think he liked it.

As you may well have noticed, Haron and I tend to alternate posting to this blog. It’s her turn tonight; she’s sitting next to me on the sofa whilst I (mindlessly) watch TV. Suddenly she passes the computer to me:

“Can you post tonight. I’m too trashed to write anything.”

So, folks, here I am.

Hi.

With apologies to Haron’s fans.

You can all rest assured that “being trashed” classes as grounds for a spanking. I’ll let her post tomorrow (which should be *my* day) – if she’s able to sit comfortably enough to type.

PS “too trashed” for Haron equals one medium-sized glass of red wine; she’s cheap, as wives go…

I don’t often get the chance to listen to Chris Moyles, the entertaining-if-slightly- outrageous breakfast show host on BBC Radio 1. This morning’s long drive reminded me what I’m missing.

Within fifteen minutes of starting the show, he was fantasising about being an elderly billionaire and hiring a cute nurse so that he could “smack her bottom regularly”. “Like you do to Jocelyn,” one of his co-presenters commented…

Later he moved on to torturing one of his female assistants live on air, until she was shrieking in discomfort and begging him to stop. OK, he was only tickling her until she read out various untrue confessions, and tickling isn’t my kink – but the very idea was rather nice. Is this sort of thing allowed? (Presumably so. And perhaps that’s why he has over six million listeners every morning).

In “Shaman’s Crossing” by Robin Hobb, young Nevare looks back at his tutors:

One was a wizened old man with severely bound white locks and yellow teeth, who taught me tactics, logic, and to write and speak Varnian [...] all with the liberal use of a very flexible cane that never seemed to leave his hand.

This isn’t much of a startle – we’ve all seen more explicit caning references – but it sent me into a little daydream. “A very flexible cane” – is this better or worse than if it were less flexible? Would Nevare have preferred that?

I doubt it. In my experience, stiff implements (paddles, rulers, wooden spoons, stiff canes) are this much more painful than something supple and whippy. I’m sure there’s Newtonian physics involved in this.

…On the other hand, a less whippy cane might have broken, where this very flexible implement was able to continue doing its work. And of course, a sight of a cane flexed in the tutor’s hands – until its crooked handle meets the tip – is heart-stoppingly terrifying. A stiff cane just isn’t as dramatic.

It hurts more, though. Or does it?

Any thoughts?