The Spanking Writers

A conversation with colleagues reminded me of a business trip to Hong Kong at the height of the SARS crisis a few years back. They’d installed scanning devices at the airport, testing for anyone with a high temperature (a possible sign of infection).

I suddenly thought of an alternative trigger for the machines: young ladies with glowing backsides. Daughters who’d been spanked mid-flight, misbehaving super-models in first-class who’d been thrashed by the captain, stewardesses who’d been disciplined for leaving their aircraft in an untidy state… punished miscreants one and all causing panic as the heat-sensitive alarms rang out…

Our cat is looking very interested, and is taking notes.

According to The Times’, Tuesday night’s Champions League nail-biter left Liverpool ‘beaten but unbowed’, with fans suffering ‘exquisite agony’.

Each phrase rang kinky bells. Girls thrashed, sorry, apologetic, but composing themselves: recovering their dignity, retaining their pride….

And I do hear rumours that some young ladies even (shock horror) derive pleasure from the experience of being spanked.

“Soccer spectating as a form masochism. Discuss.”

Meanwhile, the Army has issued “the pocket guide to instructional behaviour” to NCOs. It ‘lists the maximum penalties that instructors can mete out to recruits who fail to achieve their exacting demands’.

The ‘punishments allowed’ include:

• 200 metre run
• 15 sit-ups
• 25 press-ups
• 12 strokes of the cane

(OK, I’ll be honest. Guess which one of these I added to the list?).

It will surprise nobody if I say that Abel and I rather like school stories. We don’t only ever fantasise about spanking in school settings, but it’s very much a favourite fantasy for both of us. It’s also the framework within which we role-play a great deal.

Despite this compatibility, Abel’s fantasy school and mine are different in certain ways, some of them major, some of them not so crucial.

I should really let Abel speak for himself if he wants to (sorry, sweetie) but when I think about the differences, I can’t very well describe them without putting some words into his mouth.

Both of us see ourselves in a British school, and we’ll both research the education system and histories of famous public schools with great interest. We both enjoy enriching our fantasies with authentic details. Authenticity is important to both of us.

To an extent. And there has to be this limitation, because, of course, in a real, authentic British school under no circumstances would a male teacher cane a schoolgirl on her bare bottom. Or her clothed bottom. Or at all. And of course, the caning of the (pretend) schoolgirl on her bare bottom by a male teacher is the single act which we love to re-enact and describe in many guises, and so reality must be stretched a little.

Other instances on which we are happy to compromise with reality – and where we resolutely draw the line – can be used well to describe the similarities and differences in Abel’s fantasy world and mine.

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BBC radio played straight into my hands in its morning broadcasts yesterday. I’d already started fantasising when they reported that store managers are outraged at the lenient sentences being doled out to shoplifters: one commented that thieves deserved “the ultimate sanction”.

Later, a government spokesperson, commenting on the same story, spoke of the need for “swift and effective justice.”

Strange how one’s mind works: it’s not any old store that I pictured, with the young woman bent over the flogging block, wrists tied, for a very public meeting with the rattan. No, it was specifically the branch of Woolworth’s in London’s Edgware Road, the thrashing taking place just inside the front windows! (I’ve not even been there for a year or more: strange how the mind works).

A small crowd had gathered: they gasped as her buttocks were bared, and winced collectively as the strokes fell. No gentle spanking, this: full-bodied blows, red stripes clearly visible for all to see…. Swift and effective justice, indeed.

And then the sobbing offender was untied, and was free to go, pushing her way tearfully through the crowds and out onto the street.

P.S. Will the girl who got two very hard smacks from her boyfriend by the chocolate stand before the Keane gig in Newcastle Arena yesterday please delurk?

How about this hilarious article: the writer has discovered that “golf” spelled backwards is “flog”, and continues to write the article substituting one for the other at every turn.*

Particularly juicy quotes:

And yes, I flog. I have been doing so for a year and a few months. It was a 50th birthday present to myself. Take up flogging, old girl. How hard could it be?

Just as hard as you like it, madam!

Given a few lessons and a modicum of athletic ability, the flogger is able to flog off the practice tee with pretty good results.

Never underestimate athletic ability in flogging! You can’t afford to get tired after a few whacks, you know.

I’ve been flogged by golfers, and they have a perfect aim and an admirable swing.

Shame the sport is so dull.

—————-
* But not, I notice, where it concerns golfing balls. Because “flogging balls” sounds a little iffy for a respectable newspaper.

At a recent wine tasting, I listened to a fellow taster describing a trip to the Pyrenees. He’d visited a leading Armagnac producer, whose staff adopted a novel sales technique at the end of the tour. Rather than proferring a small glass to taste, the young lady in the cellar would pour a drop into her hands, rub them together, then offer them so that that client could absorb the aroma of the brandy.

Needless to say, the sales girl in my mind immediately had freshly-punished palms: bright strap marks or vivid cane lines, maybe.

And perhaps her hands would be trembling slightly, eyes pleading with the visitor to make a purchase, knowing that failure to make a sale would lead her imminently to yet more   strokes in the back office.

A friend was heading to the gym in the hotel we were staying in.

“I could come with you,” I told her. “I’ve got gym kit with me.”

She looked puzzled, realising that I’m not exactly the gym-going type.

“A plimsoll,” I clarified…

I love it when vanilla friends utter hot comments, completely inadvertently. One such was recently trying to decide whether a particular young lady’s failure to complete some task or other resulted from her being:

“stubbornly disinclined or pathetically incapable.”

I rather hoped it was the former, and felt smug knowing that I’d be rather ahead of my friend in my ability to correct the situation. And, of course, I memorised the phrase: so perfect for a future scene.

I’m all covered with black shoe polish.

But my school shoes don’t look any more polished than they were an hour ago.
Why? Why?

*sigh*

And I haven’t even started thinking about ironing my shirt yet.

I think, I’ll just take the risk of a spanking.