The Spanking Writers

There is something about this empty road through the fields at the back of our house that whispers to Abel: “Spank your wife, now.”

The emptiness of the road is really open to chance. Plenty of people drive there and back along the unevenly paved track, and it’s a great quiet spot for joggers, dog walkers and riders. But not, as we have often found, at eight o’clock on a Saturday night.

We were at a drinks party at our friends’ house, and I was flagging.* We were lazily gearing up for the walk home, when Abel leaned close to my ear and said: “You’re getting your bottom smacked when we’re in the lane.” The promise gave me a pleasant chill, and sure perked me up enough to go looking for my boots and coat. I would normally feel apprehensive about this, but we’d had a few vanilla days before that, and the evening had been mostly vanilla too, so I quite fancied a reminder that I was, in fact, kinky.

There are no streetlights along the road. When we turned into it from the village green, the first few paces were still lit from behind our backs, but all the rest was darkness. The trees ahead were obscuring the lights from our village ahead, and the town that lies across the fields was curtained with mist. We walked and held hands. I was still warm from wine and anticipation, but Abel was shivering.

“I think, I need that spanking now,” I said, without adding: to warm you up, mate.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Bare your bottom.”

“Huh? What? It’s February!” I can’t pretend I hadn’t counted on this, but foregoing the haggling part is like cheating at spanking.

He heaved a very put-upon sigh and reached under my short coat to unbutton and unzip my jeans. Rolling my eyes,* I wriggled them down together with my panties.

Abel’s hand pressed into my back, and I bent down with my hands on my knees, while he swept my coat up onto my back. His other hand cracked down onto my cooling behind; the pain was startling: bracing, like the cold of the evening. I couldn’t help dancing around a little as the smacks descended. Slightly out of breath, Abel ordered me back into position, and spanked on. I yelped, but there was a wide grin on my face.***

“Right, this is enough. You may dress,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “Ouch, this hurt!”

“No. Really? Poor you.” I pulled my jeans up again with a hiss, and gave Abel a hug and a pat on the head: “Aww.”

We walked on. He rubbed his hand, and I rubbed my bottom. We weren’t cold any more.

P.S. The next morning we had to walk back again to collect our car, and I got a few licks of a switch while watching out for joggers and riders, but that’s a different story.

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* My switch-off time is 9pm, after which I turn into a pumpkin, or some sort of vegetable, anyway; it was nearing eight.

** Which I’m sure he didn’t see: it was dark.

*** Which he also didn’t see.

Vivaldi, to be filmed shortly with Joseph Fiennes in the lead role, tells how the composer is ordained as a priest, before he…

…realises he is not suited to the profession and is moved to a school for abandoned daughters of Venetian courtesans.

Gerard Depardieu is to play “a French aristocrat seeking to place the girls in the care of wealthy French families.”

Vivaldi gave them a thorough musical education, the girls joining a choir and orchestra:

Completing the cast is London-born actress Zuleikha Robinson as a ‘twenty-something’ orphan girl. Heavy hints are dropped that she and Vivaldi have a romantic liaison.

Haron is swooning already at the very thought, and at the plethora of kinky diversions that the movie could inspire. Apparently, the institution concerned, the Pio Ospedale della Pieta, still operates today, taking in eight pupils a year. However, the building is also home to an hotel: I wonder if they offer themed weekend breaks?

We’ve enjoyed the new advert MTV is placing in the papers.

Nice to see them buying in the whole spanking aesthetic. Now they just have to introduce a spanking channel, and we’ll be happy.

As Hollywood steps centre stage for tonight’s awards ceremony, let’s pause and contemplate the movie that that captured the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay sixty years ago.

The wonderful Internet Movie Database describes “The Seventh Veil” as a “Pygmalion story about a concert pianist and her cruel guardian” and a review goes on to provide further commentary:

As for Ann Todd, a pretty wooden doll, her performance can be judged by the awful scene at the beginning of the film where she is caned by the headmaster of the school…

Francesca retells the story of her life, from when at the age of fourteen, she was caned by her headmistress, to when she was sent to live with her “uncle” Nicholas, an abusive and domineering guardian who forced her to practice the piano for four or more hours a day.

Note to any Hollywood types who want to be walking up the red carpet twelve months’ hence: a few good canings seem to find favour with the academicians.

Searching Google earlier, as one does, for spanking references, I uncovered a sweet little tale on a vanilla blog of a narrowly-avoided school paddling.

Cute author Melissa describes an incident at school in Florida:

“When you got in trouble you got sent to the principal’s office and you got whooped on the butt with a big wooden paddle.

Fortunately, I never got whooped. I came very close. This creepy little boy named Shane constantly bothered me everyday. One day I got pissed off and, for some bizarre reason, took it out on his sidekick, Timothy, by tearing up his classwork. Well, our teacher, Mrs. Garvin… sent us all to the principal’s office. Fortunately, the principal asked us if we thought we should get paddled and our protests saved our little heinies.”

Talk about asking a question with an obvious answer. I shan’t be adopting that approach with Haron, rest assured.

Despite one other entry where Melissa complains about an incorrect weather forecast as being “another case of a weatherperson that needs to be severely flogged”, the blog is vanilla – but very, very sweet.

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
First Orgasm (http://deliciously-naughty.typepad.com)
“His thumbs begin to stroke my nipples, and I watched my breath, coming out in little puffs of air, quicken.”

It’s in the Genes (http://www.sex-kitten.net/home.html)
“I found old magazines disguised as photography and drawing magazines but were actually full of nude women and some men […]”

Why You Should Never Sit on Hotel Bedspreads (http://brooklynrake.blogspot.com)
“We are looking for someone who can get a bit rough. Is that you?”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Why Porn’s Already Decided the Next Generation Video Format (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Take Your Sick Fantasies to the Shrink (http://adelehaze.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

We’ve quite accidentally happened upon an advert for this rather interesting brush.

Apparently, this Paddle Brush “incorporates the following advanced benefits: heat-resistant, anti-static, ionic”.

Heat-resistant, huh? Ionic, too? I wonder, how useful this makes it for disciplinary application? Does this make any difference for naughty bottoms spanked until they’re red-hot?

Do I really want to find out for myself?

I doubt the good folks across at Marxists.org would expect their musings to end up on a kinky blog, but Lynn Beaton’s “Shifting Horizons” definitely merits a mention here.

She interviews the wives of various miners who joined the “Great Strike” in the 1980s. Pauline was born in Derbyshire in 1959.

One day my parents went to Mansfield and left us out playing. I had a best friend I always used to play with, her name was Pauline too and somehow we felt it was very special that we both had the same name. This day we stood in the street looking up at my bedroom window. I said, ‘Look, the curtains are moving.’

‘Oh yes, I wonder why?’

‘Do you think there’s somebody in there.’

‘Could be, I think I can see something.’

We went on like that, just staring up at the bedroom window until we were convinced somebody or something evil was there and we were scared to death. We went into the house and stood at the bottom of the stairs, both petrified… but I screamed and ran out of the house and wouldn’t go back in.

When my Mum and Dad came back they wanted to know what was wrong and I told them that I wouldn’t go into the house ‘cause there were ghosts in it. I got the biggest thrashing I’d ever had. Afterwards my father dragged me around the house, room by room, saying, ‘Look, no ghosts.’ Then he chucked me into my bedroom saying, ‘I hope this’ll teach you to be so stupid as to imagine bloody ghosts in the house.’

According to yesterdays Times, in Spanish carnival tradition there exists a mask of peliqueiro – a tax-collector from the 18th century. It’s escribed thus:

“Their painted faces are mute and macabre under the street lamps, their leather whips punishing whoever fails to leap out of their way. The authority they exude bores through the revelry like a hot iron.”

They also, apparently, had a habit of chasing people through the streets.

I know what costume Abel is wearing if we ever end up at a Galician carnival.

A rare musical interlude here on Spanking Writers. Caught a wonderful new song on a music channel last night by a band called Passenger, and – thanks to the wonders of YouTube – I’ve been playing it non-stop ever since.

It’s not even about spanking, but the title – “Wicked Man’s Rest” – and some of the lyrics have a nice kink-friendly tint, such as the chorus:

“I rise to meet you as your trust dissolves to shame,
Oh this innocence has turned & lost its way,
Retrace the footprints off the path from which I came,
I’m the beast in you, the beast in me.”

The video’s well worth a look on YouTube. (Were I more technical, I could probably embed it here. But I’m not, I’m afraid, so you’ll just have to click on the link!)

Remember, when they’re famous – you read about them first here. Spanking Writers: number one for kink, number one for cool music. Or something like that.