The Spanking Writers

It seems as though obscure folks of a certain age feel impelled to include spanking references in their autobiographies, perhaps to boost sales to the likes of us. A quick bookshop browse can invariably turn up a startle.

Take the following description of the tawses in use at the school attended by David Findlay Clark, taken from “Remember who you are”:

“Some were so hardened by soaking in brine that they could be used as pointers in class”

Now, I’m familiar with said technique for making birches more flexible; it’s fascinating to see that it has the opposite results for the tawse. I may have to experiment with one of ours to see if I can replicate the results.

The same book contained an interesting reference to the daughter of the rather fierce Headmaster being withdrawn from her father’s establishment. One wonders to what extent his strict approach at school was replicated at home.

An article in a Guardian magazing last weekend recommended that -

- to avoid paddling one side, try paddling over a short distance with your eyes closed.

Oh, yeah. It was an article on kayaking.

Please, Abel, do not try to paddle with your eyes closed. You won’t go much of a distance, anyway – though I might. Vertically.

Waking up with Haron in a rented apartment not long ago, I glanced out of the window to check the weather. (Europe, summertime: yep, it was raining).

Opposite was a large, imposing, austere–looking building – which, it being a Saturday – was completely deserted.

I imagined it as some educational institution – soon to be filled with students called in for a weekend detention. Inevitably, the morning would culminate with a queue of girls outside the Headmaster’s office, awaiting their five minutes of shame.

That room up there – top floor, far end of the corridor. That’d be the one. He’d draw the blinds, of course, but on a clear day the retort of the cane and the punished pupils’ squeals might well echo around the courtyard…

We’re at the tope of Sugasm this weeek. I can’t tell you how much this rocks.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
Fisted, first.
“And it was lovely, because the movements made by his fist inside me were so different to a cock.”

The Razor, the Tape and the Man
“He’s never known this lack of control, this unstoppable surge of orgasm, this wave of ecstasy soldiers crossing his territory.”

Sex Work And Religion: Monotone Man
“Religion comes up during calls more than I anticipated when I started doing sex work.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Masterlock Street Cuffs

Editor’s Choice
Watching my girl’s caning

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

As always happens, I was researching an unrelated, innocent subject – when I came across this cluster of American spanking jokes on Project Gutenberg:

1.

The little boy dashed wildly around the corner, and collided with the benevolent old gentleman, who inquired the cause of such haste.

“I gotta git home fer maw to spank me,” the boy panted.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the old gentleman, “I can’t understand your being in such a hurry to be spanked.”

“I ain’t. But if I don’t git there ‘fore paw, he’ll gimme the lickin’.”

2.

The little lad sat on the curb howling lustily. A passer-by halted to ask what was the matter. The boy explained between howls that his father had given him a licking. The sympathizer attempted consolation:

“But you must be a little man, and not cry about it. All fathers have to punish their children sometimes.”

The lad ceased howling long enough to snort contemptuously, and to explain:

“Huh! my paw ain’t like other boys’ paws. He plays the bass drum in the band!”

That last one actually touches on the question I often wonder about. Would a drummer make a particularly fierce disciplinarian?

I already know that golfers and badminton players have a superb aim and a scary swing. Drummers though, hmm.

Having been a prefect at a British public school in the mid-80s, I was intrigued to spot so many the similarities with the Prefects’ Charter at my new favourite educational establishment, the Victoria Institute in Malaysia, some thirty years before. Their “privileges” were described as follows. Some may think that the choice of the word “privilege” to describe point (b) is rather interesting:

a. Prefects shall have direct access to the Headmaster on any subject at any time.

b. Prefects shall have the power to punish students. Any student refusing to obey a reasonable order given by a Prefect or, breaking a school rule, shall brought before the School Captain, or, if the School Captain thinks it necessary, before the whole Board, when the offender shall be punished accordingly, either by having to write lines or by being sent to the Detention Class. The names of all students so punished shall be entered in a book together with name of the Prefect inflicting the punishment and the reason for its infliction. If the offence is very serious, the offender shall be brought before the Headmaster.

Interestingly, “Prefects shall not be sent to Detention Class without the authorization of the Headmaster” and “will normally continue in office as long as they are in the School but the Headmaster will remove a Prefect from the Board where this seems desirable or necessary”. I can imagine that such removal would have been a rather painful procedure.

As I mentioned last week, our friend Martha and I were summoned in front of the Housemaster for a uniform inspection, and to discuss the various sins that had been reported by other teachers.

We admitted to having been seen drunk and disorderly at a ball the previous term. Martha was sentenced to four strokes for this; I was a prefect, and thus got six.

Added to these were the strokes for our uniform infractions: I had a wrong hair grip (a genuine mistake: I’m not yet used to having my hair at a length that requires grips, so I didn’t think twice about picking up a rather ornate, inappropriate clasp), and got one stroke for that. Martha had some sort of complicated issues with her shirt – lack of button, messed up collar, things like that – and her socks were not pulled up properly. She got two additional strokes.

While Martha bent over for her caning, bravely taking the first turn, I caught myself on a completely inappropriate thought. You would imagine that I would be full of compassion for my friend. Right?

Or at least that, with seven strokes to come, I would focus on the painful caning I was about to get.

…Right?

Well, no. In fact, all I could do was look at Abel – dressed splendidly in a suit, an academic gown and a brand new, never-before-worn mortarboard – and think: “Oooh boy, that Housemaster is so hot. He’s hot, hot, hot. Will you look at that. Mrrr-eow.”

I might have day-dreamed through Martha’s entire caning like that.

Obviously, my own punishment, which followed in due course, woke me right up: there’s nothing that makes you remember your priorities like seven slashes of the cane over your white cotton knickers.* Still, I was quite surprised to have become so distracted.

Oh, well. If spanking play brought no surprises any more, what would be the point of following the same familiar tracks?

————————
* Except maybe those same strokes delivered on the bare, but the knickers were hitched right up anyway, so I don’t know about that.

I love writing blog entries with Haron around. We spark ideas, toy with phrases – and sometimes moderate each other’s ideas.

Take my recent musings on the strict Master Librarian. I ended up writing a line in which he, rather menacingly, explained how rarely a caned girl returned for a second punishment. I’d originally toyed with a slightly different phrase:

“I always present a girl with her cane at the end of her punishment. It acts as a reminder and a deterrent. It is rare that she has to bring it back to me to be applied a second time.”

I rather liked this – especially combined with the idea of a nail above each dormitory bed, on which the canes were to hang: an ever-visible mark for the girls who had been thrashed.

So did Haron, but counselled that a librarian with a seemingly endless supply of new canes might just possibly be seen as a tad pervy. And, as that wasn’t at all the impression I was trying to create, the lines came out. I think she was right, but it was a close-run thing.

Last week we noticed that one of our local attractions, Alnwick Castle, was topping the list of UK’s ‘must see’ sites. We were very proud. We always take our visitors there – and don’t you know it, spankings sometimes happen.

One of the most interesting things in the castle gardens is the poison garden, the pet project of the Dutchess of Northumbeland, who has built the whole Alnwick Garden from scratch. The poisonous plants look pretty innocent to the botanically challenged people like me, but I love the idea of this little corner of the garden where there’s enough poison to wipe out a small town.

On our last visit to Alnwick with a pair of our guests, in the gift-shop Abel picked up a book called “The Poison Diaries” by Jane, Dutchess of Northumberland. Printed in an increasingly chaotic inked script, it’s densely illustrated with pictures of plants, people, plants-turning into people, people suffering deaths by plants – grizzly, pretty, and very much a sort of a fantasy book Abel thought I might like.

What we didn’t expect as we thumbed through it, was to find something so thickly populated with spanking references, that per page of text it has to be the kinkiest mainstream book I’ve ever set my eyes on.

Purporting to be an old text from the library of the Alnwick Castle, the text is a diary by Weed, an apothecary’s apprentice. The starting point of his adventures is his master showing him the way into a secret poison garden:

Today my master, the stinking old apothecary, ordered me to follow him. I obeyed, because I didn’t want another whipping.

There we are, a reference in the first paragraph. It gets better: the wicked plants begin to talk to Weed, seducing him with their stories.

Belladonna tells him:

“Consider that horrible old man who comes here. We see how he makes you suffer and for daring to lay his hands on you, he must die. All of us here are agreed.”

Initially, Weed is horrified by this suggestion, but curiosity draws him into the garden every night, and every night the plants try to bend him to their poisonous will.

As though to help them along with their plan, the master punishes Weed pretty much every night. Some references are only a few brief words, and some are a bit more detailed. The plants’ idea of revenge is ever more tempting:

…the next thing I knew, I was woken by the belt of my master across my back. … All I could think of as he lashed me, is how good it would be to watch him fall asleep, never to open his eyes again.

The book’s sheer kinkiness culminates in a chapter where Weed meets the Nux Vomica plant. I can’t help but quote a big, juicy chunk:

Before I could say anything, she began to talk in a stern voice that demanded obedience.

“You will use the seeds I will give you to make Strychnine, and you will poison this apothecary person. If you fail to do so, I will be greatly displeased. Do you wish me to be displeased, Weed?

Would you like to be punished?”

It must have been only a branch, but it seemed that she swished a cane, as though longing to whip me with it. Quickly I said, “No, Miss, umm…”

“Those who satisfy are allowed to call me Strict Nina, or Mistress Strict. For now you will call me Mistress, but when the vile man is dead, we shall see. If, on the other hand, you fail me,” she said with another swish of her cane, “you will find that I like to inflict exquisite pain, young Weed.”

[...]

“Stiff and thrashing, Weed. It’s a fine sight.”

I clapped my hands. “Mistress, I cannot wait to begin.”

“Good, you must not disappoint me.” She swished her cane one more time and then asked me in a hopeful voice…

“Before you go, would you like a little taste of agony?”

A dominatrix plant. Whatever next? I wonder how a talking rattan plant would behave.

I would have probably enjoyed “The Poison Diaries” even without all this spanking stuff – it’s a beautiful book – but the belt-wielding master and the domme plant make it so much better.

Abel, who has long had a crush on the Dutchess of Northumberland, would like to know whether she has a really kinky ghost-writer… and if not, whether she frequents the same web-sites that we do.

How we must shock people sometimes. Take dinner last night, in a local hostelry, with kinky friends.

Quite shameless, we started to discuss Haron’s recent hard caning from a friend. I was surprised when she piped up that, severe as it had seemed from my vantage point, it had been a less daunting thrashing than many I’d given her.

Why, I’d wondered? Were a stranger’s blows less intense than a lover’s?

Pace, it seemed, was part of the answer. Our friend had laid on his improbable number of strokes metronomically, in very quick succession. My canings are typically much slower – more calculated, perhaps: allowing a girl to savour each stroke to its peak, mentally and physically, before she takes her next stripe.

And there was another dimension. With our friend, the silence had been broken only by the swish of the strokes, and by Haron’s shrieks and sobs. He himself had remained silent. Whereas I, of course, talk incessantly: commenting, counting, scolding. The voice, it seems, is the harshest implement.