The Spanking Writers

A remarkably detailed spanking dream last night, inspired by my lovely new cane and an even lovelier new friend!

Said friend – “one of us”, you must understand – had come to stay with us. (I’d been typing a note to her with dates for just such a visit immediately before going to bed; the cane’s hanging next to my desk. Oh how strange the sleepy sub-conscious can be!). We’d just finished eating dinner – a dinner throughout which she and Haron had misbehaved; a stern final warning had been issued, but to no avail. Whether something got broken or spilt I can’t tell you, but the switch flicked: two giggling girls were suddenly still, silent.

“Go to your rooms.”

Serious, worried now as they walked upstairs.

I let them wait. Gave them time to contemplate. Knew that each of my belated footsteps on the stairs would make their heart beat a little faster.

To the study, first, to pick up the cane. Malacca; incredibly flexible; incredibly effective. Then I opened the door to the spare room. Our friend stood up, biting her lip, eyeing the cane. “I shall deal with you in a few minutes. Put on your pyjamas and get ready for bed.”

Next I headed into the main bedroom, where Haron was waiting. She’s often quite contrary when she knows a spanking is in store. Quick-witted, as if her arguments might find a chink in the case for the prosecution.

Not tonight.

I scolded. At length. Knew that the tone of my voice would carry to the next room, if not the words themselves.

Twelve strokes. Hard. Hard enough for a brave girl to struggle, for the tears to flow.

Knew that the sound of the strokes would carry to the next room too. That someone there would be counting, Haron’s tally inevitably her own.

And then hugged my tearful girl; told her to get into bed.

I headed along the corridor. Discussed a girl’s misbehaviour. Considered how it had fallen short of the standards that I would expect. Explained to a girl that she was now to be punished: not some play spanking, but for real. Watched the tears well up as I told her to bend over and touch her toes. Pulled down her pyjama bottoms.

Twelve strokes. Hard. Hard enough for a brave girl to struggle, for the tears to flow.

Knew that the sound of the strokes would carry to the next room too. That someone there would be counting, recalling her own thrashing, feeling her own stripes, willing her friend through.

I held her afterwards; let her snuggle close. Comforted, re-assured.

Here endeth the dream. I wonder when she’ll be able to come to stay?!