The Spanking Writers

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.”

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I have rarely, if ever, played so many intense scenes in such a short space of time! It may have been the final day of my stay with Abel and Haron but we still had one to go before I could be sent on my way. After all, Martha and Alice hadn’t yet been to school…

They found themselves, neat in their uniforms, hesitating outside the headmaster’s study, longing not to have to knock and announce their presence. Knowing that they had no choice. But knowing also that they had a plan! If they could only pull this off then it would be okay. Or at least, not too bad. They squeezed hands once more, conspiratorially, before Alice tapped.

“Hello?” Mr Jenkins called them forth, always approachable, quite genial even. They shuffled in and closed the door, thoroughly uncomfortable. Gradually he pulled their story from them; why they had been sent to see him by Mr Simmons. We, um, we borrowed a book from him, sir, and we didn’t return it on time…well we didn’t really ask to borrow it properly at all…and he noticed it was missing and…and he wasn’t very pleased. So he sent us to you to…to deal with it, sir.

I see. Hmm. Well it doesn’t seem too serious, although Mr Simmons is quite right to be annoyed with you. We can’t have girls taking masters’ books without permission, can we? No, sir.

Did they understand how the headmaster dealt with matters when pupils were referred by a member of his staff? They did. Not through personal experience, mind, but certainly via the school’s jungle lore. He caned them. Always. No wonder they had been so reluctant to approach his study!

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On my recent trip to London, I was glad to see that the city’s disciplinary regime is still active…

P.S. It’s a wine bar!

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Earlier in my stay with Abel and Haron, the three of us played an amazingly hot and prolonged scene where the girls at the reformatory were birched for their crimes.  Sunday’s roleplay was much shorter, perhaps no longer than 10 minutes or so, but was equally wonderfully intense, and with a seasonal theme.

Alice and Martha again, but this time sisters who had agreed that they would give up their computer game habit for Lent.  Had, in general, succeeded.  Except for one lapse, which their daddy had witnessed when coming home from work unexpectedly early one evening.  They spotted him approaching through the window and a mad scramble ensued: screen flipped over to TV, consoles hurled into the cabinet beneath, girls scurrying round plumping cushions and straightening magazines.  We were tidying up, daddy.  Ah.  I see.  He nodded, said no more and the matter was forgotten.  By the sisters at least.

Easter Day dawned.  A family day.  Eggs exchanged, relatives coming and going, roast lamb sending delicious aromas throughout the house.  And the end of Lent.  The end of the PlayStation’s banishment.  Girls gleefully settling down to a Quidditch World Cup battle to celebrate!

“Alice.  Martha.  Come upstairs please.”

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Last night we cuddled up to watch Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth”, and, as the final credits rolled*, my gaze fell into the two birch rods left over from our reformatory experience. This made me wonder about relative ecological soundness of birch rods and canes.

I suggested that the cane ought to be considered more ecologically friendly: it’s certainly a higher-mileage implement, and with proper care, may survive for decades. A birch rod is lucky to last for three sessions, before it’s off to the woods to pick a new one.

Martha offered a different argument: birches, she says, are sourced locally, and clock up exactly zero food miles. In contrast, rattan for our canes needs to be flown in from Malaysia, thus contributing to the global warming.

Abel reckoned to two of us needed some global warming.

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* The design on those credits was simply awesome. The coolest credits ever. Yes, it’s slightly sad to be this excited about movie credits.

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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
History: Marlene on the Wall (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
“3AM, showering, head, his hands soapy on my breasts, I’m thankful I’ve dropped weight, the water is warm and cool enough to feel like bed.”

Afternoon Debauchery (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“Occasionally he’d push it further inside me, from where it had involuntarily escaped due to slickness and enthusiastic vibrations.”

Too Many Choices (http://bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com)
“We’d been naked most of the time since getting here on Friday, so I wasn’t surprised when I reached under her skirt and found that she wasn’t wearing any panties.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Circumcision? Bullshit. (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Spanking Models Run For Charity, AKA Bums on the Run (http://adelehaze.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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What’s the worst thing that could happen in a spanking household to upset the natural order of things?

Illness can interrupt the best-laid of anyone’s plans I guess.  Similarly, work and travel often seriously get in the way of the important things in life.  But these are universals.

It would be hard to say which of the 3 of us was most distressed when domestic god Abel had a glass shatter on him whilst washing up this evening, resulting in a nasty deep cut to his hand.  His right hand!  Whilst he struggled to bear his terrible injury in a manner matched only by women who have lost limbs, surely it is Haron and I for whom you should feel truly sorry?

Here we were, primed by our reformatory scene for a holiday weekend of fun, and suddenly faced with the prospect of no spanking, no play – even no discipline: it was that serious!  Mournfully I traced the criss-crossed map of my birching with my fingertips, wondering if this was to be an end to my visit’s cumulative total of whipping?  Cursing Fate’s cruel roll of the dice in so protecting my bottom.  Considering how many would feel this a lucky escape, but knowing that others will understand such a disappointment entirely.

And at least I can report a happier ending here than might have been the case.  Brave Abel summoned up his healing powers and that sense of toppish duty soon rose back to the surface.  Even before I was put to bed that evening, he had managed to grasp a hairbrush with more than adequate dexterity, so his recovery seems to be well underway.

Haron and I are mightily relieved.

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A fascinating recollection of the daily routine of boarding school life in the early 1960s contains enough of interest to reproduce here in some detail:

“The day started with getting up at ‘rising bell’ then ablutions followed by making one’s bed. The breakfast bell would ring, and anyone who wasn’t ready would be awarded an hours working party by an irate prefect. Breakfast was followed by assembly in the chapel, except for Saturday’s when we had divisions in the school quadrangle.

Once assembly was over we headed to our respective classrooms for lessons which apart from a mid -morning break lasted until lunch time. Prep was next on the agenda, held in the common room, where we would spend a hour or so transferring scribbled notes in our rough books into our files or exercise books. Strict silence had to be observed during prep, which was supervised by a prefect. Transgressions of this rule earned the culprit four strokes of the cane, known as the “cuts,” which was administered in the boot room by the Head of House.

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The next day of my stay with Abel and Haron: a scene we’ve planned for weeks comes to fruition…

Good Friday dawned and that could mean only one thing: the day the birchings are administered at the reformatory.

Alice and Martha had both nearly completed their sentences; just this final act remained before their release papers could be signed. The Punishment Officer Abel summoned the pair of them to his office and laid out the procedure. Girls facing a birching were escorted to the local woods and made to select their own rods under close supervision.

Their behaviour during this expedition should be of the highest standard, for this, along with their conduct whilst serving their sentences, would be taken into consideration when the final number of strokes is calculated. Once back at the reformatory, they would then fashion their own birches to the required standard before having their punishments calculated and administered.

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I’ve posted before about the perfect kinky inspiration I get from “Antiques Roadshow”.

Well, it strikes again. On tonights programme a sweet young girl was showing off her great-grand-grand-(etc)-mother’s embroidery sampler. Careful stitches growing faint from the sun: the alphabet, numbers, a short devotional passage.

I could see that 18th-century girl bending her head over the canvas, licking a prickled finger, stifling a bored yawn. Her mind wonders, the progress hoplessly stalled. A governess frowns, picking up a birch rod…

I’d love to role-play this scene. I’m pretty good at embroidery (a Ukrainian girl’s necessary accomplishment), but I’d be willing to botch it up for a suitably strict governess. I’ve been going through the list of my female friends for the last half an hour, trying to imagine which one of them would be willing to take me in hand. Oh, to be a good 18th-century girl…

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