The Spanking Writers

OK, so I might be just a tad biased with today’s selection from our favourite other literary spanking blogs – since both Haron and (occasionally) I contribute to the site in question. The Lowewood blog – set in an English public school – is a joint writing project, with a carefully-selected group of authors contributing to the on-going storyline on a day by day basis.

Take a recent post by Beth. Describing the aftermath of a recent caning by the Reverend Jenkins (erm, that’d be yours truly), she wrote that her stripes:

continued to burn through every assembly, every lesson, every mealtime seated on Lowewood’s unforgiving wooden furniture as the bruising flourished around the weals.

Owwww. But how evocative! Later, she was responsible for a disastrous baton-handover that caused Lowewood to be disqualified from an inter-schools athletics competition. Soon-to-depart deputy games captain Louisa, a prefect, decided to deal with it in a predictable manner:

Louisa’s whacked me, derided me, humiliated and abused me any number of times during this year. I guess that’s easier than accepting I out-perform her in pretty much every sporting arena at Lowewood though…And maybe she thought this would be her last opportunity to get stuck into me before she left for good?

She made the most of it anyway. After confiscating my towel for my obligatory cold shower, I had to go to her afterwards, dripping and naked, to ask for it back. Of course I didn’t get it; I got a paddling instead. She’s always favoured the paddle, must be a result of playing too many racquet sports at an impressionable age. Having one cracked repeatedly across my taut, wet buttocks whilst holding my ankles for dear life and howling is not really my idea of a good time though.

Whilst the content of some of the posts isn’t always entirely to my personal taste, the writing team’s achievement in maintaining a consistent, well-written storyline for so long time is quite something. As Lowewood comes to the end of its first school year, it remains one of the most distinctive and original blogging sites by and for spankos.

Well then, it’s been over two weeks since the last Harry Potter book came out, so I won’t feel bad about discussing it a little bit. I’ll be nice, though, and place my kinky dreamings about Snape and his cane below the fold. Don’t click it if you don’t want spoilers.

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Wanda’s blog, “My Journey”, is one of my favourites. Many of you will know that she’s a really good writer, with a great imagination, from her occasional comments here. An entry from April is next up in our sequence of posts we’ve enjoyed recently from other blogs, describing her first spanking:

Seriously, after Friday night, I’ve vowed to be the best behaved person on the entire planet, for the rest of my life.

… We got home, and I went straight to the bedroom as instructed, and sat on the edge of the bed, wringing my hands worriedly. I’m pretty sure I sat there forever. Literally. A million and one thoughts were going through my head. I had no idea what to expect, or how much it was going to hurt, or anything (I’d never ever been spanked before in my life!).

He proceeded to give her a long lecture:

It ended with a simple question, “Do you understand why you need to be punished?”

I understood. I did, and I told him so. “Why?” he asked.

He’s good! Wanda gave a rambling reply. He responded:

“Good. Well, as long as you understand,” he said. “Now strip.”

I looked at him blankly. “Do what?”

“Strip,” he said. “Now.”

I didn’t really know what to do, so I did as I was told. I slowly removed all of my clothing, and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of him as he sat on the bed, and I was stark naked.

“I know that this is the first time you’ve ever been spanked, so we’re going to start out slowly. Don’t expect this type of warm-up every time,” he said. He then guided me across his lap and positioned me how he wanted. I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life. There I was, naked and ass-upturned, across the lap of the man I love (something I had thought about many times before) and my mind was swimming.

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We took in a particularly beautiful library on our travels recently. A set of old, high-backed wooden chairs lined the room, as if awaiting a group of girls to be lectured – or, perhaps, scolded.

We pictured them there: freshly changed into their new uniforms, on the first day of their year of study. Competition for places in the Library College would be intense: only the very brightest, the most committed, would qualify for the honour.

They would each be seated, marvelling at the antique tomes and the magnificent ceiling. Then the grand wooden doors would swing open, and they would leap to their feet as the librarian came in: a tall, imposing figure in gown and mortar board.

He would welcome them. Outline the syllabus, inform them of their responsibilities. They’d learn the finest calligraphy; to transcribe, to catalogue, to illustrate to the highest standards. Positions in the finest libraries in the world would be theirs for the asking at the end of their study. If they met his standards.

He’d invite questions; none would be forthcoming, the newcomers too scared of this daunting figure.

“There is one other thing,” he would add, and they would all know what he had in mind. “You’ve probably heard tale of the disciplinary regime here.” Girls shuffling nervously. “Yes, I do cane girls. And yes, I do cane them hard. Of that you can be sure. But you need to know. my two golden principles in relation to punishing my students. I presume that most of you were flogged at your previous school?’

Embarrassed nods, murmurs, red faces.

“I can’t hear you”.

A chorus; “Yes, Sir.”

“Much better. So, my principles. The first is very simple:: a girl will never be punished for an honest mistake. But those of you who are repeatedly careless; who choose to be disrespectful or dishonest; *you* should fear the consequences.”

Gulps; nervous clenching of fists. Staring at the carpet. Mental vows all round to uphold the highest standards.

“And the second is that I punish girls very infrequently. So much better that you live without the constant threat of the rod, so you can concentrate on your studies. But rest assured: when I do need to punish one of you, I shall do so with all due severity, in front of the rest of the group.”

He would pause, speak more quietly. “It is rare that any girl is foolish enough to earn a second punishment during her time under my supervision.”

And then he would walk down the line, looking each girl in the eyes. On reaching the end, he would turn – “Any further questions” met with an inevitable silence, before “Might I wish you every success.” And he would walk through the still-open doors, closing them firmly behind him.

More of our favourites from other kinky blogs. Back in May, Jujubees reproduced an email that she’d sent. The scene she describes is rather hot, and one I could certainly imagine playing with Haron…

I arrive at the classroom to answer for cheating on an exam, a very important exam. You lecture me sternly about what I have done and tell me I am going to be expelled from school for this infraction. I beg you not to do that. You tell me you have no choice and you will have to tell the administration about what I’ve done, and you expect that I will be expelled in short order. I beg you not to turn me in and to keep this between us. You think for a minute and then give me an alternative, the option of taking some “old fashioned” discipline. You inform me that if I take it well you will consider not turning me over to the administration.

I have no idea what you mean by “old fashioned” but you explain you mean using corporal punishment like they used when your grandfather was in school. You pull out a chair in the middle of the room and motion for me to get over your lap. I hesitate momentarily and you take my wrists and help me lower myself over your lap. Then you begin to smack my bottom.

The scene continues with her bent over the desk – and then gets, ahem, a little ruder…

This is an episode from “Life Begins”, an autobiography by Jack de Manio.

Before breakfast we had to draw our bed clothes back so that the beds aired. But on this particular morning I waited behind, carefully concealed. Then the terrible vengeance was enacted. I got jugs and jugs of water and went round two of the other dormitories and made sure that everybody else’s bed was absolutely drenched.

There was a terrific row, of course, when the headmaster came back, and I got a minor whacking. It was not very severe, as he was a rather humane man. I also had to write out a hundred times: “When the cat’s away, the mice won’t play.”

It isn’t often that you hear about people being so deliberately bad, despite knowing the consequences. It’s one thing to be caught doing something illicit, but pleasant (such as drinking, or skipping lessons), but it’s so very different to engage in this sort of mischief.

I very rarely think of any interesting schemes for our school scenes, but reading this has made me wonder what it would be like to have done something so calculated.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’d get away with a ‘minor whacking’.

I’ve only recently discovered “Beauty in Darkness”, another literary blog – this time with a little more of a BDSM flavour than our own focus on all-things-spanking. I really enjoyed a recent post inspired by Kathryn Hughes’s biography, “The Short Life & Long Times of Mrs. Beeton”.

Now, “Mrs Beeton” is a phrase synonymous with strait-laced, sensible, middle-class Britsh, Victorian housewifery. But it seems that Mr Beeton was something of a pioneer in publishing kinky material:

The Beetons’ Englishwomen’s Domestic Magazine was launched in 1852 and ran for 25 years. It could be seen as an instruction manual for women of the new middle class, on how and what to think, act and buy…

Beeton also figured out the importance of reader participation. In 1855, he started a correspondence column in EDM called Conversazione, which encouraged people to respond to each other. It was largely unremarkable stuff…

Then the flagellation letters started, from both people who spoke in favor (and in great detail) of the whipping of maidservants and young girls, and from women who had been flagellated with gratitude. Correspondents even wanted to be put in touch with each other.

I would imagine that they did. Or with one another’s maidservants, at least.

PS apologies to any of you who saw this pop up out of order on our RSS feed the other day

We were discussing foot-caning, as one does, when a kinky friend used the word ‘falaka’. I have to confess that this was new to my vocabulary, so I had to do my research. The marvellous Agony & Ecstasy site threw up some context.

The falaka, it seems, originated in Persia and refers to a traditional form of punishment on the soles of the feet in much of the Middle East. The ‘falaka’ itself:

is actually the name of the device for immobilizing the feet, equivalent to the European stocks. It is a thick and long pole with a rope tied at its ends… The bare feet of the punished are put inside the rope and the pole is turned, making the rope tighten, until the ankles are firmly pressed against the pole.

Persian schools apparently adapted the technique:

The culprit could be restrained by the falaka, or could be made to sit at the teacher’s desk, take off his/her shoes and socks, and put his/her feet on the desk, with a pupil holding each ankle. It also could be given with the pupil laying on his back on the floor, and two others holding one foot each in the air. The punishment instrument, in this environment, could be a stick or a wooden ruler. Sometimes the pupil had to go back to his/her home barefooted (probably receiving there some additional punishment).

It’s that final sentence that really stuck in my mind. “Oh look: Haron’s walking gingerly up the drive, barefoot. She must have been in trouble…” I’m mentally unbuckling my belt even as I write.

Next on our daily journey through our favourite recent posts from other blogs comes a story from Roger Thornhill, whose “Confessions of an English gentleman” are a joy to read. Haron’s long had harem fantasies; this post rather struck a chord:

Prince Khan walked slowly down the line of naked kneeling girls. Each had their arms outstretched, palms turned down, their faces pressed to the floor, their backs arched, their bottoms lifted.

‘Are these all the slaves you captured?’ he demanded of his vizier.

‘All the pretty ones, your highness. Do they not please you?’

‘There are one or two possibilities,’ the prince replied, having noticed one particularly round, luscious bottom.

He made a sign and the vizier barked out a command. The girls sat back on their haunches, hands clasped behind their heads, their eyes cast downwards, breasts uplifted. The Prince walked back along the line, then paused at one and gave a slight nod of his head. At another command from the vizier two guards hurried forward and lifted the girl to her feet.

She’s led away, to be washed by the Prince’s handmaidens – before being returned to the royal chamber:

Prince Khan walked around her slowly, looking closely at her beauty. Then he took the point of her chin between forefinger and thumb and lifted her face, bending his to meet it with a kiss. The slave bit him hard on the lower lip. The Prince recoiled with an oath and struck her full across the cheek, so hard that she staggered and nearly fell. He called out loudly to the guards, who came running and seized the poor girl.

‘Tie her to that post,’ he snarled, pointing to one of the stone columns that supported the richly ornamented ceiling.

Roughly they bound her hands and feet to the post.

‘Now whip her until I say stop,’ said the Prince.

The largest of the guards left the room and quickly returned with a long, single-tailed whip made of black leather. Advancing to the terrified girl, he ripped the flimsy tunic from her back, then stepped away. Measuring the distance, he raised the whip above his shoulder and brought it cruelly down upon her tender naked flesh.

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A notice in the Guardian talks about a former headmaster of a grammar school, ‘a rather traditional establishment where the cathedral, the cane and the class curriculum loomed large’.

I thought it was a charming turn of phrase. “The three Cs of traditional education’. Or would that be the four Cs, seeing how the class curriculum is really two C words? I’m also almost as fond of cathedrals as I am of canes, but I’d never thought of uniting the two in one sentence.