The Spanking Writers

Wandering round central London earlier, killing time before a meeting, I stumbled on my new favourite wine bar: “The City Flogger”.

Honestly. It’s in Fen Court, if you don’t believe me.

It describes itself as a ‘traditional’ place, which sounds about right.

Yes, the subject line really does say “spankometer”. As in, a machine to measure your spanking frequency.
Yes, you can get one. From the product description:

Keep a year long record, it records time taken, number of strokes and use as part of your diet as it records the calories used.

Oh, great, I thought reading this, so now spanking will be encorporated into Abel’s exercise routine? And I’ll have to go along with this, because it’s a matter of his physical well-being? Gee, that’s just grand.

Luckily, the product is *actually* meant for the activity known as “spanking the monkey”, which just makes it overall less ominous. I don’t know whether you could adapt the thing for proper spanking. Because, who wouldn’t want to do that?

Anyway, maybe you can. After all, the up-and-down arm motion should be quite similar.

No wonder spankers rhyme with, ahem.

Lazing in the open-air at a music festival recently, Haron and I indulged in the “reverse Clinton” approach to naughty substances – we don’t smoke, but boy can one have a good time inhaling if one stands next to the right people!

During a gap between performances, we pondered the punishment tariff should the naughty young ladies around us transfer their festival smoking habits to their (presumably strict) scholastic environments.

We decided that the cigarette smokers would be best dealt with on a sliding scale: two strokes for the first offence, four for the second, six should they dare to return a third time.

And the young ladies smoking more fragrant substances? An automatic six with the senior cane, kept for the most serious offences, before a week’s suspension. Their daddies would not be best pleased with them on their return, either, one would assume…

Then we realised that the cigarette debate was slightly more complicated. Festival goers were wearing colour-coded wristbands, and some of those with tobacco in hand were duly marked out as being under sixteen (and thus too young to purchase cigarettes). So questions of legality crept in: should a fifteen-year-old receive additional strokes for her criminality?

We agreed that the fairest solution would be to punish whichever girl had purchased the tobacco. An additional four strokes (also to be meted out to any young lady who refused to disclose the source of her supplies) might act as a suitable deterrent, especially should said young lady already be qualifying under the tariff for consumption.

“So,” I asked of the team I was working with in their grand corporate headquarters today, “what’s the history of the building?’

“It was a reform school.”

Cue difficutly in concentrating for the next few minutes. We were working in what must have been the old reception: I pictured girls driven up the long, tree-lined drive; marched in by the scruff of their necks, their details recorded by the severe orderly behing an imposing desk.

Then on into the ornate circular hallway. That first room on the right must have been where they were taken to strip off their civilian clothes – and to shower, or be showered.

Thence, presumably, next door, to be kitted out in their reformatory uniform. Made to wait in the hallway, perhaps.

Then called in to the large room opposite, where the birching block was set up, for their court-determined whipping to be inflicted.

(Can I really believe that I wrote this during a meeting on my Blackberry?!)

I’m sure I saw one of the lasses at the back of the room squirm knowingly.

Checking a couple of bags into storage at a railway station en route home from holiday, I was reminded of my previous experience of said facilities.

They scan every bag these days using airline-style X-ray machines; I’d just returned from a weekend with a spanko friend.

“Do you have any electrical items in your bag, sir?”

“Yes, an alarm clock and shaver.”

And then the guy behind the counter looked extremely puzzled as he studied the silhouettes of my belongings on his screen.

“What are these items, then?” (pointing to X-ray).

Politely: “That one’s a cane, and that one’s a whip” (OMG I can just imagine having said *that* a few years ago. Not).

Shock on his face: “Can you open your bag for me to have a look, please?” (Was he asking out of sheer disbelief, or rigid adherance to company policy – ‘all spanking implements must be inspected’?).

“Sure,” I smiled back.

Cue very embarrassed-looking left-luggage attendant, especially as I took out the large paddle to get to the other two items and laid it on his counter.

Honestly, these vanillas…

Still, he accepted the bags into his store; it’s good to know that – in the words of their notice – spanking implements don’t class as “dangerous weapons”.

Have a look at the awesome science-fiction startle Chris has posted over on his Firehouse. It’s not just any old SF whipping, it’s consensual kinky play, portrayed in a positive light:

“For a brief moment, Victor gave thanks that Thandi Palane enjoyed being sexually submissive. If she hadn’t, he’d probably be a corpse. ‘Dominating’ her had been like a mortal ‘dominating’ a goddess – a feat which was only possible because the goddess willed it herself.”

From “Crown of Slaves” by David Weber and Eric Flint

And then there’s more…

Grrrrrr: back at work, swapping sun, sand, sea and some spanking for the same-old manic lifestyle.

Holiday startles? Perhaps the best was flicking through the local TV channels, and catching a marvellous ditty entitled ‘Hello Spank’, the theme music for a cartoon of the same name. If anyone knows where to download the tune as a ringtone, I would love it on my phone.

And then there was the fascinating conversation with one of the lasses working in our hotel’s executive lounge, discussing low crime rates in the area. Misbehaviour is rarely reported to the police, it seems, but rather to their fathers, to be dealt with at home. You can doubtless imagine the whispered fantasies that *that* provoked every time we walked past one of the local cuties…

One thing about taking holidays with vanilla company is that you don’t get to play quite as much as you’d like. Also, hanging out by a hotel pool in a bikini kind of demands a bottom that doesn’t look like it’s been chewed by a toothless lion. I like to think so anyway.

Why, yes, we’re back, and I’m glad you missed us. We’ve picked up some startles along the way, and have mentally blogged all the while, so there’s no stopping us now – until the next holiday.

Anyway, we didn’t play a whole lot, but we did get some time alone. For instance, on our last night away I climbed into bed, exhausted by travel, and no sooner did I settle in, than Abel said: “Turn onto your stomach.”

Oooh, really, I thought, and happilly flipped over – only to discover that a backside that had hardly been whacked all week felt every little smack particularly accutely. Abel began slapping me with his hand, and it felt like it was the hardest spanking I’d ever taken. I know for sure that it wasn’t, in fact, my hardest spanking ever, or even, like, my tenth hardest, or anything. It just hurt so much. One little break, and my tolerance had completely vanished.

Abel gave me about ten swats, and then stopped and waved his hand in the air with a plaintive expression on his face. “Enough of this,” he said. “You’re hurting my hand. Ow.”

Maybe it’s not just *my* tolerance that can be affected by a spanking hiatus.

We’re off on holiday for a week. Everybody please behave while we’re gone… because we won’t.

Picture taken here.

Every magazine, every newspaper is a source of potential kinky ideas.

Take a travel magazine I read on a plane last week. Good thing parents have articles on “how to deal with your kids on vacation”: without the insights of this particular journal’s erudite contributors, children everywhere would no doubt have been abandoned at the edge of the hotel pool in the blazing sun without protective cream, left to wander the streets of the city alone late at night, and fed leftovers from the dodgiest food stalls in town. I mean, really.

One section of the feature did catch my attention, though. “HELP! My daughter’s formed an unsuitable relationship with a local youth.” The advisers opt for the cool advice: “invite him on a family day out” and encourage them to keep in touch afterwards via MySpace. I jumped instead to mental images of the young lady bent over the end of her hotel-room bed, as daddy’s belt punished her for disappearing without permission and drove home the importance of chaste behaviour.

And then they recommended a new hotel in Boston – the city in which I administered my first-ever real-life spanking back in 1999. (Oh, what wonderful memories!). I travel there on a not-too-infrequent basis for work, and this establishment sounds like my sort of place: “rooms are immaculate, modern and bright”, yet it’s relatively central and cheap.

The publication then qualifies its recommendation:

“The only thing guests might object to is the YWCA downstairs, which brings a touch of ‘youth hostel’ to the lobby.”

Object? To the presence of lots of cute young American lasses – away from home; needing guidance and discipline? My goodness, that’s the best thing about the hotel. Guess where I’m going to stay next time I am in town.