The Spanking Writers

A paper at a 2002 conference in Turku, Finland, quotes an interesting report from 1937:

There was something they called Good Friday whipping. Crazy youngsters in disguise with masks and ugly clothes went around the whole neighbourhood in big groups…

They went into every house and everybody, especially young women, were supposed to get whipped with a big birch rod or with twigs. Some were satisfied with beating over the fur rug on the bed. Others took it more thoroughly.

Old people told that one or the other who had an especially bad tongue got a spanking on their bare bottom. But otherwise this was usually done just for fun.

Girls, bent over fur rugs on beds to be birched thoroughly on their bare behinds? Sure beats handing over chocolate eggs as an Easter tradition!

Day 1 of my stay in a spanking household and, as you’d expect, it didn’t take long for the action to commence! My arrival allowed Abel to test a hypothesis which had been exercising his mind recently, and which now allowed him to exercise his arm too: is it possible to cane two girls simultaneously?

Determined to investigate, he had Haron and I lie side by side, bare bottoms snuggled close together, and tapped experimentally with a particularly long cane, selected specially for the purpose… then let fly. Two girls simultaneously yelped! More strokes followed as Abel warmed to his task and persisted in the name of thorough research.

I had ended up furthest away so my near cheek was bearing the brunt for me, whilst Haron’s far cheek bore the force of the cuts for her. We squirmed and squawked our way through eight or so strokes and then he swapped sides, just for a couple to finish.

At which point I concluded that I may’ve had a rough deal, since being the near girl didn’t seem so bad. Or maybe that was just cos I was already well-striped – prettily-striped – by then!

Content with his efforts, Abel allowed us to redress and we walked over to some local friends’ for dinner. Abel wore his new jacket which has a particularly pleasing feature: a tawse pocket! Or at least that’s what we’ve concluded it must be for anyway – why else would a jacket have a pocket which runs horizontally all round the bottom hem? A leather tawse indisputably fits it nicely anyhow, and was duly put to good use on our return journey!

I managed to get it snapped briskly across my hands several times for trying to run off when the pocket was unzipped, and was then treated to my – I think – first open air bare bottom spanking, to help me behave for the rest of the walk back. Fortunately the weather was clement for the time of year so this warming effect was not instantly cancelled out by chill surrounds! Also fortunately, it was very dark and in the middle of nowhere!

All in all, a lively start to my visit! I wonder what the rest of the week will have in store?

We’ve got a friend staying over the Easter weekend

Yes, folks. A kinky friend.

Spanking’s on the menu, of course. And, what’s more, she’s going to be telling you all about it. So you’ll find us interspersing our usual posts over the next few days with news from the front line. If she can sit down comfortably enough to write, that is

“Thank you for being so kind and considerate.”

Haron’s such a polite girl. I was in my suit, about to leave for work, leaning over to give her a kiss. And I’d just shared my pre-waking dream…

A Housemaster, observing two girls sneaking back into the house late at night… Recognising one of them…

Sending a prefect to wake her shortly before the usual reveille, and to bring her to his study…

Coming straight to the point… That he’d seen her return and would cane her. That he’d observed a companion: “Who were you with?”

The six strokes for the offence itself would be repeated, even harder, for her refusal to name her fellow truant. She’d will herself through them, knowing that her suffering was protecting her friend.

I shared my little story with Haron, as I say. Told her that I thought it had been very kind and considerate of me not to drag her, sleepy and naked, from the bed to enact the scene in my office. It was a good thing that she thanked me, really. Playing safe, I call it…

The most recent Sunday Times’ “Style” magazine had a neat little feature on a new type of a lifestyle consultant: the guy moves in for however long you can afford him,* detoxes your life, whatever that involves, – and moves out.

You can tell what I’m thinking, right? I’ve written and read lots of stories where a girl in need of discipline is sent to live in a structured, strict environment, but I haven’t come across a scenario where the discipline and the person who wields it comes to stay at the girl’s house.

I could have tons of fun with this idea. “What’s this in your drawer, young lady? Last year’s laddered pantyhose? Out it goes.” A tick on the clipboard to mark a stroke of the paddle to come at bedtime. “It’s October. Why is your wall calendar still on August?” Another tick. And so forth.

Obviously, seeing how an appropriately strict husband is a good lifestyle guru substitute ( ), I don’t feel an immediate need to experiment. Even if I did, though, I don’t think this regime will work for me very well. And here’s why:

• I couldn’t accept discipline from somebody who didn’t care about/for me. Having to pay somebody to take an interest in my doings would smash my self-image all to pieces.
• Acquiring self-discipline is a long, terrible, ongoing process, a battle with no end. Any disciplinarian needs to pay me constant attention, even when I’ve been doing well for a while. Simply moving out when a semblance of order has been achieved would be no use.
• Even if the disciplinarian worked out of charity, the moving out thing would undoubtedly shatter any progress we might have made. Because being cared for/about somehow involves the disciplinarian person not leaving.

I don’t think I could even write this as a story: I can’t imagine a girl for whom it would work well enough that she hired such a person.

On the other hand, if she were sentenced to receive “live-in guidance” (as it would be called by the courts) – as a form of house arrest, I suppose…

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* The article quotes 350 – 500 GBP and hour, plus travel. Eep!

I’ve long loved St Pancras station, that incredible neo-Gothic London landmark that’s soon to become the new Eurostar terminus. During my recent Tate Modern trip, I picked up a slim volume in their bookstore, in which Simon Bradley describes the history of the remarkable building.

Built to contain the then-wonderfully posh Midland Grand Hotel, accommodating passengers arriving into town, the comfort of the guest rooms contrasted with the ‘bleak” dormitories provided in the attics for the staff. Male and female employees were, of course, separated – to the extent that the dorms were ‘reached by separate staircases to prevent improper intercommunication’.   Whilst staff were generally looked after well, it’s noted that there was an ‘omnipresence of hierarchy, discipline and petty regulation’.

I filled in some of the gaps, the book being sorely short on colourful anecdotes. Young Beatrice, fresh from the country, would have been one of the most promising maids in the hotel. That she’d fallen for Albert, one of the footmen, was regarded with good humour by the management. That a visiting dignitary, staying in one of the top suites, should stumble across them canoodling in the guests’ corridors late at night, was a matter for rather less lenient treatment.

Footmen were two-a-penny: Albert was, of course, dismissed in a blink. But bright, polite, conscientious, pretty young maids were hard to find and expensive to train. Whispered discussions the following morning resulted in the whisp of a girl being led by the wrist through the corridors to the General Manager’s imposing office.

Lectured about the perils of irresponsibility, Beatrice was given a choice: follow her paramour, penniless, onto the streets, or bend over the gentleman’s desk and have nothing more said of the matter after her punishment had been duly administered.

Her choice was easy, if painful: well-paid positions with training were hard to find, and homeless poverty was an unappealing option in Victorian London. Now, some 125 years on, staff working on the hotel’s rennovation tell tale of those still nights when the swish of the birch and the yelps of the penitent girl can be heard echoing through the corridors of the near-deserted building.

Beatrice would have gone on to a life of great prosperity, no doubt – whisked off by a famous gentleman who fell for her charm as she delivered fresh flowers to his room. But Albert would never have been forgotten, and nor would the painful consequences of that innocent first love.

“Reality TV Magazine” quotes a contestant voted off American Idol:

As soon as they gave me the spanking that they did, I kind of knew that I was going home.

I haven’t been following the show at all. What on earth have I missed?