The Spanking Writers

So, day 4 of the (qute wonderful) ban on smoking in public buildings dawns across England..

The court papers for the first offenders will have been filed by police on Monday, the overnight print job generating piles of legal paperwork for despatch on Tuesday. They’ll have been landing on doormats across the country today.

“An official letter arrived for you while you were at school, darling. The envelope says it’s ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’. I wonder what it could be?”

Indeed. For they wouldn’t even know up to then that their daughter smoked, let alone that she would have been in a pub on Sunday night when she’d gone to her best friend’s “so we can revise together for next week’s exam.”.

Imagining the consequences is all too painful – although, dear readers, I suspect many of you will be doing precisely that.

An old sailor’s reminiscences of his training days in 1942 contain a fascinating anecdote- and one of those in which my imagination can readily substitute the idea of female trainees.

The group had feasted on apples from a nearby orchard. The Captain was stern at the following morning’s parade:

“A number of the local farmers have approached me and suggested that a number of boys from this ship have stolen fruit from their orchards. I have assured these gentlemen that no boy from this ship’s company would do such a thing. However, if any one of you had anything to do with this, let that person take one pace forward.”

The whole ship’s company took one pace forward. He looked at us with a wooden expression and said, “I suppose you think that I cannot punish you all. Well, you are mistaken. I can, and I WILL.”

We lined up by division and one by one went into the captains office. All of the officers were there to take turns to punish us. There were two posts attached to the floor and between them a brass rail. The miscreant had to bend over and grasp the rail with both hands.

Some officers would tap your backside lightly to make sure that no newspapers or other means of avoiding punishment were present. Then with a long birch stick they would deliver the first blow. At the instant of the first stroke your backside went numb but as the pain shot through the body down came the next stroke. When you had received six an officer would yell out, “Next”.

Time to purchase a couple of naval uniforms…

Apparently, at some county fairs you can get your horse riding equipment really cheap. Somewhat like this:

(source via)

Fifty pence for a riding crop?

I can just imagine Abel striding to the stall, whipping out a fiver, and grinning like a cannibal after a nice dinner.

Interesting test of kinky etiquette last month. We were in Coffee, Cake and Kink – which regular readers will know to be our favourite London hangout…

…when I spied a familiar face. A very familiar face: a good friend who I know through work.

Haron’s copy of Debrett’s Etiquette for Girls sadly lacks counsel on the protocol to follow in such circumstances. But what to do?

Now CCK is a relatively tame place: the emphasis is on the C & C, enjoyed by kinky and open-minded people, rather than on the actual practice of pervery. But, inevitably, some customers may not want to flaunt their real names and work-related identities. (Hey, we’re fairly open here, but I don’t link to my work website, do I?)

So, “Hello, —–” was out of the question, and we studiously passed by – before swapping giggly text messages a couple of hours later, starting with my:

Either you have a doppelganger in London, or you have very good taste in coffee and cake!

By coincidence, she and I had arranged to have dinner two nights later. It turns out that neither of us would have minded a conversation at all, but better no doubt to be safe than sorry.