The Spanking Writers

Going through old newspaper archives, you discover the most interesting things. For instance, the April 8, 1900 edition of “Washington Post” contained, apparently, an article entitled “Flogging in Europe”. (You never know when people in Washington may need to find out all about the whacking habits across the ocean.) The table of contents looks ever so enticing:

• Lash for Youthful Offenders Favored by England
• Russia’s retention of the knout
• Corporal Punishment in England and Germany Bids Fair to Be Extended to Minor Violations of the Law
• Great Men of England Who Have Been Whipped at School -Lord Salisbury Holds the Record in that Line at Eton — Gladstone Never Flogged.

Shame you have to pay $11 to get the copy of the article itself. I’m not that dedicated, I’m afraid.

But: “Gladstone never flogged”? Where on earth did he go to school, that he managed to escape it?

EDIT: But of course it was 1900, not 1990. Sorry, so sorry!

The library of out-of-copyright texts at Project Gutenberg throws up another find, from “Prince Zilah” by the nineteenth-century French author Jules Claretie.

A young Price is recalling stories told to him by his father, who had described:

“when the beautiful dark girls of Transylvania danced, their tears burning their cheeks, under the lash of the Osmanlis.

At first, cold and motionless, like statues whose calm looks silently insulted their possessors, they stood erect beneath the eye of the Turk; then little by little, the sting of the master’s whip falling upon their shoulders and tearing their sides and cheeks, their bodies twisted in painful, revolted spasms; the flesh trembled under the cord like the muscles of a horse beneath the spur; and, in the morbid exaltation of suffering, a sort of wild delirium took possession of them, their arms were waved in the air, their heads with hair dishevelled were thrown backward, and the captives, uttering a sound at once plaintive and menacing, danced, their dance, at first slow and melancholy, becoming gradually active, nervous, and interrupted by cries which resembled sobs.”

That must be the hottest (indeed, only) 126-word sentence I’ve ever read.

It takes quite a lot of spanking for me to feel it when I sit down. Even then, most of the time I have to squirm around, so that I feel the elastic of my knickers digging into the area of my bottom that’s red and sore.

When it does happen – when I do get spanked hard enough and for long enough to feel the shadow of pain over the next few hours, the pleasure is unique and exquisite.

How unfortunate is it, then, that to get this wonderful aftertaste I have to take a really, really hard spanking, possibly with a strapping or a caning on top? I like the idea of spanking, and the anticipation, and the ritual, and the afterglow, and can I even occassionally get into the right head to surf the pain and turn it into pleasure, but most of the time pain is pain. I don’t like being in pain.

But afterwards – oh, afterwards. Hard wood of a pub bench pressing against the pocket seams of my jeans. Tight elastic of my knickers across swollen welts.

I think, I’ll take the pain.

I like Brussels: I’ve worked here a fair amount over the past couple of years, and the city’s grown on me.

A stroll on Saturday stimulated several silly spanko snippets. There was the jacket shop, named “Leather Victim”. (Many tawsed, strapped or belted girls would presumably associate with that!).

Then came the advert in a recruitment agency window, seeking a “Frontdesk collaborateur (M/F)”. I can do the M/F bit: I wonder if that’d get me the job?

Next, the immacutely-uniformed group of girl guides, ever-so-well behaved in the Grand Place – possibly Europe’s most beautiful civic space. The group of slightly older girl guide leaders, chasing each other around the square, shrieking loudly. My hand was twitching… Oh to be a girl-guide-leader-leader.

And finally, the very distinguished shop in the very distinguished arcade, with the long stick in the window and the notice entitled “Canne Toulouse-Lautrec”. Apparently:

This cane is a replica of the famous Tolouse-Lautrec cane. The original is in Albi’s art gallery.

Wow! I must go and check some of his paintings… I didn’t know he’d caned his models. And then I read on, realising that absinthe was a more likely explanation: “Inside, you will find two glasses and a bottle with a silver-plated stopper”. 445 euros, if anyone’s interested.

I do quite like the idea of caning a girl, then pausing to unscrew the implement’s “silver-plated knob” and pouring two shots, one for me and one to help calm the thrashed girl!

Can’t remember where I found this cartoon, but it sure struck a chord:

A vote of thanks, please, for the crew from the leading airline who kept me entertained with their wonderfully indiscreet conversation at the table next to mine at dinner last night. I nearly choked on my moules and frites several times, and had to order at least two extra beers lest I finished dinner before their stock of anecdotes had run dry.

I loved hearing from the cabin attendant who had had to put out a fire in a plane’s oven mid-Atlantic on a previous trip. A colleague had put her shoes in the oven to dry, and was padding around the cabin barefoot. She forgot all about the shoes, and inevitably they combusted after a few hours.

It appears that young Kimberley, the stewardess concerned, was dismissed. I imagined a different outcome, in which the stern, older captain sat quietly at the end of last night’s table had taken matters into his own hands. The crew had arrived safely at their destination in some far-flung land, and checked into their hotel rooms. Kimberley emerged from her post-flight shower, and slipped into casual clothes for a night on the town – before spying a note that had been slipped under her door: “Captain Watson would like to see you immediately in suite 2505.”

He’d still have been in his uniform. He’d have been unimpressed to have been kept waiting. An uncompromising of lectures about flight safety would have followed. “Do you realise the possible consequences of your actions today, Kimberley?”

She did. She apologised, swore it would never happen again.

“It certainly won’t, young lady.” He proceeded to outline his three options for the return journey, having total responsibility for the plane and the crew. “I can dismiss you now, and you can find your own way back to the States. I can take you with us under suspension; you can travel as a passenger and be taken to Human Resources as soon as we touch down. Or I am allowed under airline rules to use my discretion to address any disciplinary matters as I feel fit, so we can deal with matters now.”

“Please, sir,” she pleaded. “Let’s deal with it now. Whatever it takes.”

‘Whatever it took’ involved a conversation about how the captain had punished his two daughters in their wilder teenage years and through into their recent times at college.   “They’re your age: good girls with good jobs. We’re all very close. It worked for them, I think.”

It involved a shamefaced Kimberley responding to the query as to whether her father had dealt with her in the same way in the affirmative.

It involved her sitting at the desk in the captain’s suite, taking out a sheet of the hotel stationery and writing a letter to him asking him to punish her.

It involved her taking off her tight designer jeans and folding them neatly over the arm of the chair; the captain looking at her sternly until, as agreed, her underwear followed.

He’d have cleared his desk of the usual hotel paraphernalia – the leaflets advertising the spa, warning of the exorbitant phone costs, forms seeking feedback that would inevitably be ignored.

He’d have removed his jacket, braided with so many stripes. Unbuckled his thick, airline-issue belt and doubled it over.

He’d have had her bend over the desk’s cold wooden surface, reaching over to grip the far side.

He’d have punished her. Not one of those a-few-gentle-licks-will-be-enough, it’s-the-very-act-of-punishment-that-will-correct-a-girl type corrections. Not a daddy-dealing-with-Kimberley-for-a-bad-report type admonishments. A full-blown lesson in airline safety, in the risks she’d caused for the captain’s aircraft, an if-this-is-the-alternative-to-dismissal-it’d-better-be-hard type thrashings.

She’d have fought not to cry; he’d whipped her ’til she did. And then he’d have had her stand, pull on those too-tight jeans with a wince, told her how brave she’d been, confirmed that the incident was now closed. Offered her a hug, gratefully received, holding her tight as she sobbed and her tears dampened his captain’s shirt.

The saga of morning canings continues, except now it has passed from the realm of Abel’s fantasy to the realm of ‘Haron’s bottom is too sore to sit, because she’s just had a week’s worth of caning in one morning’.

(To recap: first Abel fantasised about a girl getting caned just before school, then Pandora on her blog posted about a girl getting 12 of the best every morning for a week; Abel, inspired by the latter, fine-tuned the ritual to his own taste, incorporating the counting of strokes that continued from the previous morning. Unsatisfied by the effect of all of the above, he then threatened to give me to the milkman introduce a dawn punishment service.)

Anyway, this morning Abel was going away to Brussels for 4 days. His taxi was due to pull up at 6am to take him to the airport, but a good hour before he had to get up, we both found we couldn’t sleep. We cuddled and talked of perverted things, and at some point he decided it would be a good idea to give me a caning to remember him by.*

“I wonder how many strokes I should give you,” he said, warming my bottom with a few initial smacks over his knee. “Six of the best, I think. For every day I’m away.”

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Excavations in my office; I found a scrap of paper from the hotel Haron and I stayed in on honeymoon, some time back now. Awwwwwwwww

I’d scribbled down three story ideas, with which I’d entertained my new bride. Just snippets, no more. There was the school that worked on the principle of demerits for any misdemeanours: ten demerits would get you send to the Head. Girls on eight or nine would clearly be impeccably behaved.

Then there was the school groundsman, responsible for tending the sports pitches. He lived on a cottage in the school grounds, alone with his bright young daughter. The school staff had all known her since she’d been a little girl; she was almost ‘one of the family’. When she reached an appropriate age, she was awarded a scholarship to the school – and then fell immediately in with the ‘wrong crowd’ and had to be caned for misbehaviour in her first week…

And we speculated about a two-part punishment form. The teacher would fill in the top half with details of the offence; the girl would be despatched to the Headmaster, who would complete the remainder, to be handed back to the original teacher by the girl when she returned, caned, to the classroom.