The Spanking Writers

The ground floor of the office in which I’m working at the moment has large, expensive TV monitors switched for most of the day to the BBC’s News 24 channel.

It’s fascinating to pause and watch the real-time subtitling on these rolling news channels. Their high-speed misinterpretations can be quite wonderful to behold: last week, for example, I learned that “Tony Blair has been killed this morning by MPs - correction ‘grilled’.”

Anyway… A notice has appeared recently, announcing that:

“Only the secretaries that have been trained are allowed to use these screens.”

I’m torn in two directions. First, I wonder where they keep the untrained secretaries: wild women, fighting, flinging computers across the room, hurling abuse at their bosses.

And then I picture the secretaries in training. Collared; demure; obedient; their trainers instilling the necessary discipline with regular cracks of the whip.

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Flicking through channels on Friday night, we caught a History channel documentary about schools. Mostly it talked about the division between grammar and secondary modern schools, and interviewed people who had gone to each, and showed archive materials of exciting things they taught girls in home economy classes.*

But it wouldn’t have been a programme about British education if they hadn’t mentioned corporal punishment.

And here came a surprise.

One of the interviewees, a woman who had gone to a secondary modern school (though we’d missed which - damn) claimed that when somebody was particularly bad, they got called onto the stage in assembly and got given six of the best.

You mean, this isn’t just a scenario from a kinky fantasy? This actually happened? I would have found it hard to believe if I read the claim on a spanking message board, but hearing this spoken out-loud, unprompted, in an otherwise vanilla documentary, made me re-assess what I’d thought of the practice before.

I’m feeling an incredible urge to write a story along these lines.

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*Serving tea doesn’t strike me as something I would particularly want to be examined.

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Fascinating quote in a travel magazine I picked up a while ago, about Shakers in New England.

“I heard many rumours and half-truths about the sect. Local farmers, suspicious of the Shakers and their strange ways, used to call the ceremonial site in the woods above the Tyringham settlement the Devil’s Playground. Bizarre rituals, drunkenness and debauchery were said to have taken place up there. Rounding up the intriguing tales, there were rumours that on a freezing January night in 1858, 23 children averaging 14 years of age ran away from the Tyringham Shakers, never to be seen or heard from again”.

I just wondered how they would have been dealt with had they been caught and returned home…? (And then I started to wonder what had caused them to flee, and what might have happened to them in real life, and suddenly the whole thing started to feel a little less kinky).

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Occassionally I do some work for Abel’s business. Yesterday one of the guys wrote to him wondering why I hadn’t sent him a file he had supposedly asked for a week ago. Having never seen the original request, I just shrugged and mailed the file - but in the meantime, Abel and The Guy had the following conversation:

ABEL: Just checked - she hadn’t had the note. Good thing: I don’t like having to flog the staff…

GUY: Fibbing as well as ignoring requests from colleagues…someone is having a bad influence on her!

ABEL: A flogging it is, then…

Can you sue your own husband for sexual harrassment in the workplace? Or would this just lead to further corporate corporal punishment?

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To a lovely hotel earlier in the week, where I’ve stayed for work a couple of times before. Unlike the nondescript, albeit comfortable, chain hotels I seem to live in for half of my life, this is family-run and wonderfully friendly: a real home-from-home. The owner was in the reception area as I walked through the door. “Abel,” he said straight away, “how lovely to see you again.”*

Dinner is always excellent: very traditional, with excellent ingredients from local farms. The waitress was lovely – petite, friendly, desperate to please, delightful in her old-fashioned black uniform. Despite there being only five diners, she was rushing from table-to-table with alacrity, to the extent that it was hard for guests to relax. The inevitable happened, and in her haste she dropped a tray of vegetables.

Her subsequent (imagined!) punishment would have served perfectly to illustrate the advantages of taking things nice and slowly. Once the final diner had retired to the lounge, she would have been bent over one of the dining room tables. The owner would have delivered a long, slow caning: plenty of pauses between strokes, allowing the impact of each to tell its full story, each whack plainly audible to the guests next door. He’d have talked to her throughout – calmly, sympathetically, explaining that it was better to take one’s time; that rushing was rarely the most effective way…
*Actually, she used my real first name, rather than “Abel” – it’s not quite that much of a home from home!

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This morning we lazily imagined a group of schoolgirls who send their teacher a rude card on Valentine’s Day. Something cheeky, perhaps. Something witty, but what none of them would have said to his face.

We imagined the discovery: first, the English teacher would identify the hand of the girl who’d written it out, and then the rest would admit to the deed, because they wouldn’t be willing to let their friend answer for all of them.

And then I remembered that in my last year at school, my friends and I did, in fact, send a cheeky valentine to a teacher we didn’t like. My school had a tradition of a few younger students walking about with small mail-boxes, where you could drop your cards during the break, addressed to “Schwartz, Max, 5a”, or “Maria Ivanovna, physics classroom”. During the lessons the messengers would knock on classroom doors to deliver the cards amid the giggles.

My friends and I weren’t bad girls, so the note we sent to our maths teacher was actually a rather complicated puzzle, which we’d hoped he would spend much of his spare time solving. Just like we had to spend much of our spare time on his ridiculously difficult homework.

And of course, he thought it was hilarious, and had the answer by the end of the lessons.

This was exactly 11 years ago, and I haven’t thought about it since. But of course, girls who send their teachers cheeky valentines should get punished. Shouldn’t they?

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I posted recently about Edith Durham’s 1909 account of her travels in High Albania. She included a wonderful local fable, entitled “The Tale of the Man Who Could Understand Beasts and Birds.” It’s quite long, but I rather like the punchline.

A certain man was gifted with the power to understand the talk of beasts and birds. But on condition only that, should he ever tell that which he heard, he would drop down dead.

One day he overheard the donkey talking to the horse. The donkey’s remarks were very funny, and, as he came from the stable, he laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” asked his wife.

“At something the donkey said.”

“What did the donkey say?”

“You know I cannot tell you. I should drop down dead.”

But she was wicked, as all women are, and she only answered: “What did the donkey say?”

And all day and all night she gave him no peace, and he had neither sleep nor rest, for still she asked: “What did the donkey say?”

Worn out at last, he could bear no more: “To-morrow I will tell you,” he said. He called his little children and said good-bye to them, and told them he must die tomorrow. They cried bitterly and begged, “Oh, mother, do not kill our dear father!” But she answered only, “I want to know what the donkey said.”

So the poor man went out to take a last look at his yard, and there he saw the cock standing on tiptoe, flapping his wings and crowing as loud as he could.

“Oh, you wicked bird!” cried the dog, “How can you laugh and sing when our dear master, who is so kind to us, must die to-morrow?”

But the cock only crowed the more: “Laugh!” said he, “I shall die of laughing! Look at him – the silly fool! He has only one wife, and cannot manage her; while I have fifty, and keep them all in order!”

The man heard this. He picked up a large stick, and went back into the house. “Do you want to know what the donkey said?” he asked. “Yes,” said his wife. Then he gave her a good beating. “Do you want to know what the donkey said?” he asked. “Yes,” said she. So he beat her again. “Do you want to know what the donkey said?” “Yes,” said she.

So a third time he beat her till he was quite tired. “Do you still want to know what the donkey said?” “No,” said she, and they lived very happily ever afterwards.

LOL it’s the “he was quite tired” that makes it for me. Haron, c’m here and be spanked until I’m quite tired…

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While we’re on the subject of whips, here’s a piece of news that has gladdened my heart. The Guardian reports:

Flat race jockeys in the United Kingdom will be required to use an innovative new whip when the new season starts in April, it was revealed yesterday. The shock-absorbing whip which helps protect horses from injury is being made mandatory by the Horseracing Regulatory Authority.

I’m all in favour of being nice to horses, though I would mostly like to find out what a shock-absorbing whip would feel like when used on me.

These new whips are specially designed by Old Mill Whips, though they aren’t listed on their site yet, as far as I could tell.

Amusingly, the same company also makes the so called Tuff Whips: “A robust whip that is built to withstand lots of work and wear.” The images I get when the phrase plays in my mind have nothing to do with horses, either.

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Gosh, where to start with this lot.

On the left - a Mulberry belt. They must have someone kinky in their design team - this is more whip than belt: beautifully made, incredibly intense. They made the belt one in from the right, too. Amazing what you can find on the high street!

There’s the metal flogger, a couple in from the right: lovely if left in the fridge and draped over a freshly-whacked behind. There’s the light brown hair flogger in the centre - from the amazing Coco de Mer in London - perhaps the most sensual implement in our collection. At the bottom right: the oddity in this photo (but there was nowhere else sensible to include it). A small, weighted leather strap, astonishingly effective when used on a girl draped over one’s knee.

PS You understand that I’ve only included belts specifically purchased for their disciplinary attributes, of course! There are several others in my wardrobe that have made their acquaintance with the young lady’s behind!

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I don’t know about you, but when I hear that a book is set in a British boarding school, my ears immediately perk up. Particularly when the school is described as strange or sinister. Or strict.
Now, all accolades for the following discovery go to Kessily, who has typed it all up and posted about it on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup, but I can’t help telling everybody that a fantasy book “Orphans of Chaos” by John C. Wright is filled with spanking references and detailed descriptions of spanking like a scone with sultanas.

Consider this:

Headmaster Boggin stepped around me and seated himself on the rail. My elbow was still in his fist. I was pulled half-turned around, not quite facing him.

“In fact, to throw a monster who tries to escape into a dungeon is a good policy, but it is clearly not the right thing to do to a girl who breaks her word and tries to break open a teacher’s head with a rock.”

“What are you going to do?” I said. There was a gleam in his eye. Call it a Grendel gleam, but I have seen it in Colin’s eye too.

I knew from the gleam what he was going to do. But there are some things that just come out of your mouth, no matter how dumb they sound, whether you want them to or not. The only thing possibly stupider to say in a situation like this is something like, “You wouldn’t dare!”

Boggin looked deeply into my eyes, as if pleased at the uncertainty he saw growing there.

“Miss Windrose, our agreement was not that you would not make me ashamed of you. Our agreement was that you would do nothing to make me regret my decision. I have a terrible headache because someone hit me in the head with a rock. Surely, I am right to regret that?”

I would have had as much chance resisting the force of a wild stallion as I did resisting the strength of his arm.

He pulled me facedown across his knees. The railing he sat on was high, and I could not reach the floorboards with my feet. My hands flailed in midair a moment, and then I grabbed the poles of the railing, which were to my left. “I must see to it that you regret it, too, and in a fashion which will bring home to you quite forcefully that you are not as old as you think you are.

I was breathless; a shy feeling was actually sending tremors through me. All my skin trembled with goose pimples as all my little hairs stood up. This made my skin more sensitive; I could feel every nuance of the texture and fabric of my skirt, which suddenly seemed quite flimsy and thin on my bottom. I could feel the air on my exposed upper legs. I could feel the muscles in his legs beneath my stomach.

I said the dumb thing again, “What are you going to do–?!” It did not sound any better the second time around. Higher-pitched. More girlish.

He did not bother answering that, but he held one hand on the small of my back, and waited while I kicked my legs in midair. There was nothing within the range of my feet to get a purchase on.

What was he going to do? I knew what he was going to do.

Et cetera. There’s much more to this quote, and there are plenty others in Kessily’s write-up.

Dear John C. Wright… are you on Laura’s Spanking Corner too?

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