The Spanking Writers

To Scotland, a couple of weeks back, to host an event in the Old Library of a once-grand hotel near my spiritual home (Lochgelly, of course!).

The shelves were lined with an undistinguished collection of cast-offs from the local library: “Disasters at Sea”, “A Doctor’s Life”, “I Heard the Owl Call My Name” (this last incident presumably being shortly before the nice medics in white coats arrived….)

There was a smattering of risque romances, in which “the dashing captain entered Emma’s chamber”. And then there were the self-published local autobiographies, quickly skimmed, telling as they did of girls spanked with mother’s hairbrush, and fathers who took off their belts to ensure a “disciplined upbringing”.

Meanwhile, the shelves boasted a biography of Roald Dahl, well known for his accounts of public school floggings. It explained that the most feared master at Repton in Dahl’s day was one J.T. Christie, who on one memorable occasion administered an especially sound thrasing to two pupils for “stealing the batteries out of his wireless set”.

It continued:

“Some selected offenders he invited to pray with him before he beat them. One, to my knowledge, refused.”

What became of him was not recorded, but I suspect that the rod was wielded with particular enthusiasm.

Later, over dinner, a delightful young waitress took orders. One of our party didn’t want dessert. “Can I put you down for a chocolate cake, then?” she asked. “I really like that.”

Later on, she looked dismayed. I asked why. “Chef caught me with the chocolate cake.” I did wonder whether she might have ended the evening receiving a taste of a local product of a somewhat different nature.

One of those “Huh?” news stories for you. The Chinese are building what’s effectively a FemDommeLand: a town in which women are in charge, and disobedient men are spanked:

Shuangqiao district in China’s Chongqing will have a motto proclaiming its philosophy: “A woman never makes a mistake, a man must not refuse a woman’s request.”

Li Jigang, the town’s director of tourism, said: “In any tour group entering this town, female members would play the deciding role concerning shopping and other items of the itinerary … A disobedient man will be punished by kneeling on an uneven board or by washing dishes in a restaurant.”

…Tour groups? There are to be tour groups?

I do try and keep Haron entertained while she’s away – after all, she’s as starved of spanking action as I, and my fast will be broken before hers. This was this morning’s account of last night’s kinky dream, a variation on one of my favourite nocturnal fantasies:

A schoolmaster has a favourite student (as ever) – a sixth-former, getting personal tuition. They’re close – he’s almost a surrogate father-figure. An unsympathetic guardian type lurks somewhere in her background. There’s the occasional chaste hug to re-assure and support her, in their 1:1 tutorials.

Someone has misbehaved in his class. The master fills in the standard punishment form, expressing his displeasure as he does, and announces that the culprit will be sent straight to the Headmaster for a caning.

And then he asks who was responsible, before finding it was his favourite. As she takes the form from his outstretched hand, she notices that he’s ticked the box for ‘serious’ in the section that asks about the level of the offence… and knows that will mean six or eight strokes on the bare.

She reappears 20 minutes later, tearful, every eye in the room watching her reaction as she sits down painfully behind her desk, on the hard wooden chair…

That should have kept my darling girl entertained for a little while

I’m spending much time hanging out with my childhood friends. It’s the first time in months that I’ve been around vanilla people for days at a time.* I’m not used to this any more.

Obviously, when I’m with kinky friends, spanking isn’t the only thing we ever talk about – yet, it’s always there, like a comfortable background tune. This has been the only type of communication I’ve known recently. Coming to the UK to study, I needed to make a whole new set of friends, and I’ve consciously stuck to the spanking scene.

Thus, returning to Kiev, I find that I’ve forgotten how to communicate with people who are not only vanilla, but also chaste, fresh and unknowing. Even the saucy japes we throw at each other are of an innocent kind. We blush when we swear; we don’t talk of sex, but whisper. Most of the time, conversations are not just vanilla, but sexless: life, memories of school, work.

When you make a living writing erotica, it’s kind of hard to discuss work with your childhood friends. They know, but they don’t really want to know the details.

I love my friends in all their chastity. They do baffle me, though.

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* Note to t’Larien: of course, I don’t mean you, dear. But you really are the only kinky childhood friend I have!

So, which scene was the hottest? I’ve just been re-reading our friend Martha’s accounts of her weekend chez nous, reminiscing and reflecting. Wow, but she writes well – each phrase takes me straight back, and conjurs up the most wonderful, intense images.

There’s nothing quite like a well-planned scene. The ideas for the reformatory birching, for example, had been evolving for weeks, occasional mentions of walks in the woods sending shivers down Martha and Haron’s spines. That one had the added benefit of the passing cyclist observing Martha, hands on knees, being switched – much to our amusement. Not that Martha could laugh, of course: the reformatory officer was far to stern to tolerate giggling in the ranks. And there’s something about the birch – it certainly makes Haron howl like nothing else, even when used lightly, and Martha wasn’t far behind.

And then we had the two daughters, with a sound parental thrashing. That was intense, especially observing the two girls holding hands across the bed during their punishments. Indeed, as each of them took their whipping, it was the other girl who seemed closer to tears – watching her friend’s reactions to each lash of my belt.

Or there was the school scene – the product of an over-fertile overnight imagination; much more spontaneous. A hard caning, that: the last scene of the weekend, so it needed to count. After all, Martha had a long train ride home, and she needed something to help her to reminisce. The girls’ faces when I swapped over to the dragon cane for the second part of their punishment were wonderful to behold.

This was undoubtedly my best Easter weekend ever! And it’s been made even better by seeing so many new readers join us – our record for the most hits per day has tumbled again and again. We’d love it if you said “hi”, and it’d be great to hear which of the scene descriptions you enjoyed the most.

One of the fantasies to which my mind constantly returns is that of a young woman – a university student or a recent graduate – living in a situation where her actions and choices are controlled as though she was a child. Strict rules, etc. The discipline may be enforced by her parents (“As long as you’re under my roof, young lady!”), or somebody who she’d asked to provide the structure for her. It’s a hot idea. I always think about it, and sometimes write about it, and seek out spanking stories that deal with the subject.*

Funnily enough, this is not a fantasy I enjoy returning to very much when I stay with my mother. “No, you’re not going out, it rained earlier!” “Wear your coat! No, the winter coat!” “Why didn’t you phone you were going to be out until 10?” “You ought to chew your food properly; you eat too fast.” If I ever felt like writing another of the girl-returns-to-parental-home stories, I’ll have had lots of practical research to fall back on. Minus the spankings, obviously.

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* Though I’ve never found a story that convincingly explained to me why the girl submits to the childish treatment in the first place, unless she’s already into spanking.

As a spanking aficionado, especially with last Friday’s floggings still fresh in my mind, there was one horse that I had to back in this afternoon’s Grand National. (For non-UK readers, that’s the biggest horse race of the year).

“Silver Birch”.

Yep, I bet on it. Yep, it just won.

Just proves that it pays to be a spanko

I think I might just have to invest my winnings on a new implement. Just to celebrate, you understand.

A museum in Leicestershire outlines a lesson plan on “Crime and Punishment”, for its school visitors:

Aim:
To aquaint children with Tudor methods of keeping law and order in the land.

Objective:
To make the children familiar with a variety of crimes and measures used to deal with them in Tudor times.

Resources:
Replica Tudor coins, imitation stocks, flogging stick, etc.

I have a feeling that proceedings might get rather out of hand!

Now, when can I teach a history lesson? Anyone want to join the class?

I’ve been very bad, and I’m going straight to hell.

I’m typing this from my ancestral home in Kiev.* On the plane on my way here I was surrounded on all sides by smiley American missionaries. They were going to Ukraine to convert the savages. I was the first real-life savage they’d encountered, and they had a go at converting me too.

The nice missionary lady was very enthusiastic about the idea of converting me – but then she tried to sneak a glance into what I had on my laptop screen. There she saw something along the lines of:

“Oh, Dora,” Michael moaned against her mouth, and tried to kiss his wet way down her throat and into her cleavage. She felt his hot hand make its way up her thigh again. She deftly slapped it down again, and wriggled her chest out of his way, locking her lips onto his. He moaned again, making her lips hum pleasantly. She wished she didn’t have to be so demure, but Dora was a virgin, and to allow him a proper grope would make the whole world think otherwise. You didn’t have to actually go all the way with a boy to get a reputation of a slag, and Dora planned to make sure that any reputation she acquired was well deserved.

She smirked, though Michael didn’t notice. He was busy trying to position himself so that he could discreetely rub himself against her thigh – as though he could ever do this without her knowledge. She allowed him a little squirm, enjoying the feel of his hard-on through his thin school trousers and feigning complete innocence.

I always try to use long flights to do some writing.

Obviously, the missionary lady thought I was too far gone on the way to depravity, and bothered me no more.

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* Poor, poor Abel; all the girls have abandoned him. First Martha went home, then I left for Kiev; all the spanking’s dried up for Abel. I’m a little worried for the well-being of our cat, alone in the house with a frustrated spanko man.

An article I read recently about the unbelievably posh Rocco Forte hotel chain commented that:

“Staff not only unpack your luggage but also pack it again, layering your undies with tissue paper.”

Where would they place certain travel accessories, I wonder, whist unpacking? The cane hanging on the door, the hairbrush on the dresser, the tawse in the desk drawer? Everything laid out neatly on the bed?

Would they smile a knowing smile throughout one’s stay? And would they inspect how well-used the implements had been before they cossetted them in tissue paper prior to departure?

Owner Mr. Forte sounds like something of a character, incidentally. According to the article, his family approved when he found his bride:

“At 36, he met the 16-year-old daughter of a Roman neurologist… She was sort of, I suppose, suitaby virginal from their point of view – although she wasn’t that virginal.”