The Spanking Writers

Some interesting records unearthed in the archives of past court proceedings here in the north-east of England:

Durham Assizes, August 3rd 1782

Yesterday se’nnight the Assizes ended at Durham… Margaret Walker, to be whipped. Mary Hunter and Mary Gilhespie, to be privately whipped.

Newcastle Assizes, August 19th 1786

At the Assizes held in and for this town and county, before Francis Buller, Esq; one of the Justices of his Majesty’s Court of King’s Bench, and John Heath, Esq; one of the Justices of his Majesty’s Court of Common Pleas, which ended on Wednesday last…

Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Smith; Elizabeth, wife of William Thompson; Mary, wife of John Brown; and Frances, wife of James Atkinson; severally for grand larceny within the benefit of the statute, were sentenced to be privately whipped, and afterwards committed to the house of correction; there to be kept to hard labour for the term of one year.-

Jane, wife of Walter Clark, for grand larceny within the benefit of the statute, sentenced to be privately whipped, and afterwards committed to the house of correction; there to be kept to hard labour for the term of two years….

I’m curious to know where the public whippings took place in the area. I sense the need for a historical reconstruction.

The Sunday Times had this big (and otherwise incredibly dull) article about this derelict, completely neglected former stately home that’s just been sold for 42 million pounds.
Apparently, right after it was a stately home, it was run as a boarding school, and as nobody thought to do it up afterwards -

the trappings of boarding-school life are still apparent: the house has a muddled layout, with few bathrooms, while the classrooms, gymnasium and a woodwork studio have been left pretty much untouched

Well, that sounds good. I wonder if the property developer will rent it out as a venue for spanking parties? It could get him some of his millions back, right?

The lady opposite me on the train is using her bookmark as she reads, sliding it down the page line-by-line.

It’s made of brown leather. About six inches long by two wide. Its end splits into multiple tassles.

“OMG,” I thought, when I first glanced in her direction. “She’s reading with a tawse.”

It isn’t. Quite. But it might be rather effective. And it’s got me thinking. I wonder if I could get away with using the small, authentic hand-tawse that I bought for Haron in the same way, on some future journey?

I’m even picturing the conversation with a customs officer at some airport. “It’s a bookmark. A torze? No, officer, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

I’ve just had a guilty thought. In Atlanta recently, we noticed that when the bathroom mirror steamed up after a shower, the phrase “19″ emerged, having been handwritten by some previous occupant. (A lover aged 19? Their 19th lover? 19 notches on the bedpost during their stay? 19 strokes?)

Of course, we couldn’t resist: “SPANK” was scribed neatly onto the glass. Lo and behold, next time the mist appeared, our message revealed itself, as it did for the remainder of the trip.

… and as it still, presumably, does, as I forgot to wipe the word off before checking out. I wonder how many guests we’ve startled since? And the brat deep within me wonders what else we could have written had we known we were bequeathing a note to future occupants.

Some might say that the hidden text suggested an appropriate remedy for the hotel maid for not cleaning the mirror properly, of course. Mmmmm…. The duty manager inspects the rooms, notices the message, calls in the maid…

From the short story “The Interloper” by Ramsey Campbell.

The teacher (Scott) is calling on students one by one to read out answers from their maths homework:

Scott said “Norris!”

He stood. More moist pins stabbed. On the still air hung chalk and Scott’s aftershave. “Yes, sir,” he stammered.

“Yes, sir. The first time I have to repeat myself it has to be you. Question five, Norris, question five!”

[...] “34.5, sir?” he pleaded.

“Norris – Thomas I can understand, because he’s an idiot, but you – I showed you how to do this one on the board yesterday. Don’t tell me you weren’t here.”

“I was here, sir. I didn’t understand, sir.”

“You didn’t understand, sir. You didn’t ask, sir, did you? You were writing poetry about it, were you? Come out here.” Scott cast his robes back; chalk whirled into the air.

John wanted to shut his eyes, but that wasn’t permitted; the class was watching, willing him to represent them in the ritual without shaming them. Scott pulled John’s left hand straight, adjusted it to correct height with the strap. He aimed. John’s thumb closed inadvertently. Scott flicked it aside with the strap. The crowd hushed, tense. The strap came down. John’s hand swelled with hectic blood.

Oooh, yes.

This is actually creepily reminiscent of my own maths lessons. My maths teacher didn’t use the strap or wear academic robes, but I can still taste the fear and the chalk. I swear, I still have nightmares about that homework check.

We passed a lovely sunny afternoon recently at a local rowing regatta. Teams from schools, universities and rowing clubs from far afield chased each other down the river in the pursuit of glory and trophies.

Not a kinky outing at all, you might think. And so did I, until I watched a women’s “eight” in a line alongside their boat, simultaneously bending over its upturned hull.

I believe that they were actually about to manoeuvre it towards the river, but the thought of the coach walking along the line with a paddle (of course) to address the team’s poor performance in a race was far more enticing.

Later, I marvelled at how efficiently the whole event was run. Race upon race, starting on time, crews and boats always in the right position at the right time. Yet what if one participant lost track of the hour as she socialised with friends: the cox for a leading men’s eight, for example. She’d suddenly see her boat zooming past on the water, a substitute at the helm steering with wild and inexperienced inaccuracy.

The team would lose, of course: the gentlemen in the boat would be most unimpressed with her lack of diligence and dismissive of her apologies. A discussion would take place; consensus would be reached; the young lady would find herself bending tight over the boat as each rower in turn expressed his displeasure in a manner both traditional and forceful.

For the last 13 years soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup has held a spanking story contest over the summer.

This year’s contest is starting tomorrow. Flare up your creative engines, people!

Although the exact rules belong to each year’s Dictator (i.e. the volunteer who organises it), the general format has been the same: each entry has to be no longer than 500 words, and must belong to one of the categories listed in the rules. The entries are judged by a panel of volunteers, and in the end the winners get – well, lots of praise and recognition.

Here are the rules for SSC-2007, freshly posted by this year’s Dictator Mija.
And here is an archive of entries and results for the last six years.

Don’t know about you, but I love that there’s a tradition of the online spanking community that’s 13 years old. Online anything that’s 13 years old is quite cool, right?

(Yeah, Abel and I have both entered stories at one time or another, and have both won categories at one time or another. Just thought I’d mention it. Because I’m modest like that.)

Can I really be the only person to have glanced at a poster for ‘Real Simple Travel’ magazine on a newstand in the States and marvelled at its feature on:

Kink-friendly travel.

Closer inspection revealed that I really should wear my glasses when tired, as the article was actually intended for travellers with kids. Shame, really. I was beginning to picture their review of my ideal hotel:

Maids stand demurely in Victorian uniforms, curtseying in the reception area as one arrives. Large suites each contain a four-poster bed, with an interesting array of other furniture. Staff take particularly care when matching guests to rooms, ensuring that each gentleman is allocated a suite in which the furniture is at just the right height for any lady/ladies who may accompany him to bend over.

In an unusual touch, a selection of rattan canes hangs, ready for use, over the fireplace in each bedroom, with a further collection available in the hotel’s library for more public use. The nearby forest is available to guests should birches be required; one could take a brisk stroll, or ring the concierge to ask for fresh rods to be cut and delivered.

The rooms are, of course, immaculate in every respect. This is entirely to be expected, given the neatly-typed letter handed on arrival to gentleman “requesting and requiring” them to “deal promptly and severely” with any housekeeping errors. Indeed, many guests are known to conduct a full room inspection each morning shortly after breakfast. Beware, though, that many a Sunday morning lie-in has consequentially been interrupted by the sounds of correction being administered in neighbouring rooms, despite more than adequate sound-proofing.

Meanwhile I did pick up a copy of Travel + Leisure as light reading on my flight home last week, and this offered up a genuine kinky startle – our friends in Japan appear to be heading in the right direction with their leisure facilities:

Sadly there was no explanation of how staff who provide poor service might be admonished in said establishments, but I’m sure we’re all thinking along similar lines…

Sunday’s Observer magazine was on its “ethical issue”. I prepared to yawn my way through it, but luckily for those of us with a one-track mind they’ve included a “green sex” column.

Which informed me that, apparently, there are people in the world who would “only wish their rump to be ‘struck by a paddle’ if made from sustainably harvested timber”.

I wouldn’t mind my rump to be made from sustainably harvested timber, either…

I can just imagine the conversation. “No, no, sir! I shan’t bend over! That cane’s carbon footprint offends my green sensibilities!”

Now that my mind’s started to ponder matters Roman, toga-clad fantasies keep popping up at inopportune moments. Sitting eating breakfast in the hotel Starbuck’s in Atlanta last week, for example.

A noble girl had been brought before the court for some heinous offence. The evidence had been heard: her guilt had been proclaimed.

The distinguished judge was a friend of the young lady’s equally distinguished father. He understood the impact that the usual punishment – of banishment from Rome – would have on their family.

He decided to be lenient: “I know that you come from a good home. I know that your father has served Rome well. I know that your behaviour, whilst totally unacceptable, has been out of character. I believe that you should be offered a second chance.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“On this occasion, I will therefore replace the customary sentence of banishment with a flogging. Lest anyone feel that I am favouring the nobility unduly, your whipping will be in the public square, where it is common criminals who are usually punished. Guards: take her away, strip her, tie her in position, and see that every stroke is laid on with all due diligence.”