The Spanking Writers

Knowing my fondness for pretty female legs and bottoms, Abel brought me this leaflet from Geneva:

Aaah, lovely.

Am I wrong for wishing she was holding a cane?

Sitting on a train home from London last week, we found ourselves next to an amazingly posh couple. The gentleman’s suit had quite clearly cost more than our car, and the lady’s silk skirt had evidently been magicked together by the fingers of a hundred naked virgins working solidly for at least four months under the stern eye of a cruel, whip-wielding supervisor.
Of course, the upper classes are past masters at retaining as much of their wealth as possible, and so their first-class tickets came with a senior citizen’s discount. Her Ladyship left her railcard out on the table – and I wasn’t a little surprised to see that she really was a ‘Lady’.

Google is a wonderful thing, and the train’s wireless internet connection was working for once: our curiosity led us to details of Baron B—’s public school education, service in the Guards, grand stately home and elevation to his (hereditary) peerage.

We particularly smiled at the thought that, although he was in his 70s, their daughters were younger than Haron. She sat for the reminder of the journey with “called into daddy’s library to be soundly punished for being naughty” fantasies etched quite plainly across her face. I rather fancied the idea of inviting his Lordship to take her home to punish – for dunking her shortbread in the tea, perhaps – but I wasn’t sure that that would really have been the done thing…

“Time Out” last week previews an exhibition “Old Skool, New Skool”, which is going to be on at the V&A Museum of Childhood in November 2007:

Kids have always been adept at adapting and accessorising their school uniform. In helping to create this exhibition, they’ve been allowed to go a stage further by becoming ‘clients’ for students from London College of Fashion.

Taking on board suggestions… LCF students have designed uniforms from a child’s perspective, exploring the potential of new materials and technologies to produce clothing that might improve the health, education and well-being of children.

Ideas explored include jackets with solar panels, bags with homing devices and shoes that enforce physical activity.

Excellent! Now I would like somebody to create a uniform with a Kevlar panel over the seat area. Put it in the skirt pleats or straight in the knickers. Thanks.

I know we don’t usually post more than once a day, but we’ve just been browsing our site stats before going to bed and we thought we ought to say a big hello to the person who found their way here a few moments ago by googling the phrase “Spanking Helena Bonham Carter”. That so has to win the prize for the hottest search term so far this year!

Sometimes I marvel at the level of detail in my kinky dreams – and wonder at some of the points that get skipped over. Take last night’s reveries.

A 30s style suburban semi. Slightly grubby net curtains, in the big bay window overlooking an overgrown front garden.

Rays of sunlight, filtering through, onto dated furniture that might have been fashionable in the late 1970s.

The vicar, visiting for afternoon tea, perched politely on the sofa.

The startled gentleman (guardian, father, uncle?) admonishing the young lady for swearing (although I had no idea what she’d said). “Just because you’re at College doesn’t mean you can use foul language when you come home. Go upstairs and fetch the cane.”

The girl returning, shame-faced.

“Would you mind moving down a little, vicar?” so that the girl had room to bend over the arm of the settee. (Wearing trousers? Skirt? Bared? No idea!)

The vicar taking the lass’s face quite firmly in his hand, lifting it so he could look directly into her eyes as the strokes fell. (Four strokes? Six?)

The girl standing, rubbing her bottom, being handed the cane and disappearing to return it. (To a wardrobe in her bedroom, maybe?)

The vicar being offered another cup of tea…

Sometimes, the most bizarre stories pop up on my news-reader. Take this gossip column about Prince Harry:

Last week, it was claimed Harry had spent the night in bed with a blonde barmaid after getting drunk in a sleazy club. Katherine Smith claims the 22-year-old prince took her back to his rented house before dressing in a blue and orange sarong, taking off his underwear and spanking her bottom.

Hang on a minute. He was wearing a sarong? His underwear came off? But it was her bottom that got spanked?

Somebody shoud tell him that when people talk about a bare-bottom spanking, they usually mean the spankee’s bottom.

Hold on. It’s still term-time. Yet as I sat in Top Shop last week waiting for Haron to try on a small selection of trendy garments (think, enough to clothe a small village), I must have been passed by several dozen young ladies who should instead have been sat in demure uniforms at traditional wooden desks, pencils sharpened, listening intently to the pearls of wisdom being passed down by their teachers.

Sadly, the shop assistants went about their business as if oblivious to the disciplinary crisis unfolding before their very eyes.

I was minded to take a roll call; pass on names to the appropriate Headmasterial authorities. But if the store would like to adopt a more immediate solution, in the interests of restoring its reputation, I’d be happy to wander the floors on their behalf, wielding a cane or tawse.

I liked the slogan I saw on the side of a local ice-cream van:

Often licked but never beaten!

I’m so stealing it for personal use.

We were listening to Wimbledon-related TV chatter the other day, when Abel asked: “Would you like to be spanked by John McEnroe?”

I considered it for about two seconds.

Yes, actually. Yes, I would. I imagine, he’d have quite a swing.

And don’t forget the back-hands. Mustn’t forget the back-hands!

Obviously, if Messers Federer or Agassi wished to apply instead, I wouldn’t refuse them either.

I know that many readers first discovered our writing via our stories. Although my stories site hasn’t been updated for way too long (have patience, dear friends), I do continue to write longer pieces fairly regularly. Let you feel like you’re missing out, here’s my latest – comments welcome!

FROM LEFT TO RIGHT
By Abel

To each girl, a number. No names, from here on. One to six, read out, the order decreed by the sheet of paper pinned to the top of the punishment officer’s clipboard. No need for differentiation. The offences that had brought them to this point, here, in this narrow corridor, were almost irrelevant now. All they had in common was their sentence: today’s was a fifty-stroke parade.

“Line up in order!’ A scrambling, as girls half-pushed, half-politely-stood- aside-lest-they-were-being-watched.

And then the cold instruction to strip, in the officer’s clear, clipped voice. Some had felt the nudity to be unnecessary, when the law had been before parliament. Its proposers had been adamant: anything that might offer a clue as to origin, class, wealth was unacceptable. ‘Equality of punishment for all’, they insisted resolutely.

Hands trembling, the girls complied. The more sensible of them had worn T-shirts, jogging pants, slip-on shoes. The wiser; the ones who’d done their research; the ones who’d dared to anticipate what it might actually be like. The terrified fair-haired lass at the end struggled with the buttons of her well-pressed designer blouse, regretting her choice in the same way her neighbour’s choice of snugly-fitted trousers would later seem profoundly ill-advised.

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