The Spanking Writers

I am shocked to discover that Roman poet Horace wrote the most outrageous filth. So shocked, in fact, that I felt the need to reproduce my findings here:

When thirsty, do you need a golden goblet?
When starved, a turbot grilled or roasted peacock?
When your pecker’s stiff, why torture it?
A servant girl is there to serve

… and it avoids the panic that ensues should a noble lover’s husband return home at an inopportune moment:

The house in wild uproar, the woman pale
With panic jumping out of bed, her maid
Shrieking bloody murder, everyone in
Terror: one of being whipped, the other
Of losing dowry, I of losing life.

These Romans. Terribly licentious. I must read some more… Haron: get your toga.

I have fled London for another relaxing weekend with Abel and Haron, which give me the excuse to hijack their blog again! (You may recall that I posted some recollections during my Easter sojourn.)

My visit began with a relaxing evening in: good food, drink, kinky conversation and the right rugby result. It continued in relaxing style when the girls lay in till 11am this morning – mmmm, needed that! And then the relaxation clean ran out in the shower.

I let Haron go first: after all, that would be a few more minutes in bed for me, right? Wrong. No sooner was she safely in the bathroom then Abel came looking for another girl to chivvy into the queue. He was armed with an evil device that seemed to have something of an identity crisis, unsure whether it was a strap or martinet. The handle gave way to four leather tails, an inch or so wide, lying one atop the other which made it crack most satisfactorily on impact. So Abel thought. I wasn’t so sure as I was harassed from my pit, my appetite for disobedience having been extinguished.

So to the bathroom, which also signalled the end of Haron’s peaceful shower! Abel flicked back the curtain and flicked back the strap. She yelped delightfully. Hey, that looked fun! I asked if I could have a go too. Now anyone who knows me will also know that I lack a toppish instinct. Apart from the odd colleague, I rarely feel any desire to whack people.

I think Haron was a little miffed that I should choose this particular moment to fancy a crack at the other side! Abel was more than happy to share his wife, however, and cheerfully passed me the strap. I took aim and landed it squarely across her wet backside. Yep: definitely fun! I gave her another half-dozen or so, making her dance under the jets. Her protests became louder but I’m not as mean or as practiced as Abel so I’m sure she’s suffered plenty worse.

I sensed that my own shower would not go unmolested after this! Sure enough, the soap and hot water (see, it could’ve been worse!) were liberally added to by Abel’s reclaimed toy. I only got some respite after making a very amateur mistake: with him in full, rhythmic flow, I put my hand back to shield my rear. Unfortunately for me, the next stroke was already in its unstoppable descent, so I took that across the knuckles instead for my pains. And received as much sympathy as you would expect me to! Towel-clad Haron then glided back in with the digital camera to capture my fresh stripes for, um, posterity.

But this is a blog based on the written word, right? So you wouldn’t want to see that.

Startles – those moments when vanilla life generates a comment that excites one’s kinky interest – don’t have to involve spanking per se. Take two vignettes from a day out in London last weekend.

The first was in the new Household Cavalry Museum, on the caption describing a clock:

The time is set to 4pm commemorating the moment in 1894 when Queen Victoria, having found the Guard gambling and drinking, ordered a daily inspection at 4pm for the next 100 years.

Known as the ‘Punishment Parade’, it has become a tradition that continues today.

Later, lunching in Imli (our second favourite Indian restaurant), the next table was occupied by a gentleman with his much younger lady friend. She was just ‘my type’, with a lovely Northern accent. The dialogue as I overhead it went something like this:

Him: So how old is your mother?

Her: 42. She was only 17 when she had me. She got married in the September; I arrived in the December.

Him: Wow, she’s only two years older than me.

(Pause)

Him. And how old’s your sister?

Her: 17.

He didn’t say much for a minute or two, but I could see his mind on overdrive with all sorts of most inappropriate thoughts. As, indeed, was mine.

This snippet is from “A Yorkshire Boyhood”, a memoir by the politician Roy Hattersley:

In these comprehensive days of all-emracing jeans, it is hard to recall the social cachet which was attached to grammar school uniform.

Thanks to caps and scarves the difference between “passing” and “failing” was visible to every neighbour. Green, maroon and navy blazers were the railment of success. Second-hand jackets handed down from elder brothers and sweaters hastily knitted by grandma were the apparel of defeat.

The lucky parents regarded the weeks of outfitting as a period of public rejoycing. Close relatives were invited to the scene of the actual purchase as if it were a wedding or a christening.

I can only approve of such attitudes.

Actually, I remember the day I got my first uniform: the entire extended family showed up for a viewing. Over the course of two or three days I had modelled it to so many aunties, that by the first day at school the novelty had quite worn off.

The fussing was quite nice, though…

Haron and I spent a lovely week in Scotland on holiday last month. Neither of us plays golf, but we holed up in a resort that’s next to a very famous course. Needless to say, we were tempted out onto the putting green in front of the hotel.

I won. The margin of victory? Yep, you guessed it: six strokes. I’m not sure the hotel management are that used, however, to the victor collecting his winnings by bending his wife over next to the eighteenth hole for the necessary number of whacks with a golf club.

(Me? With my reputation? In a hotel whose female staff all wear kilts? Scarcely a moment passed without reveries of their predecessors being tawsed, in presumably stricter times when the hotel opened 100 or so years ago).

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. (And look who’s Editor’s Choice!)

This Week’s Picks
Anal, her perspective
“This entire anal sex episode had started some months earlier, on a theoretical level.”

When the Muse Wants to Fuck
“Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

Chef
“He’s already at work, but he’s left an order behind on the scraps of ordering paper that we have all over the house.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
The Secret Diary of a Callgirl

Editor’s Choice
Whipped on this day: 1791

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Harry Potter spanking fanfics are surprisingly difficult to find (as we’ve discussed a few times). Well, no more: there’s now a Yahoo group dedicated exclusively to that elusive subject.

Yes, really.

I give you Harry Potter Discipline. Don’t read it all at once!

(Hmm, funny how the front page is decorated mainly with pictures of Snape. Puzzling, really… Not!)

My eyesight’s definitely going. (No comments about age, please. OR ELSE!). I didn’t take my glasses with me to Singapore, as I don’t really use them other than for driving and to look authoritative in scenes. That led to me discovering an interesting benefit of being increasing short-sighted, via a couple of interesting startles as my brain inserted the phrase it instinctively thought should be there into the words I was actually reading.

First up, a shocking discovery in the hotel’s club lounge, when I spied an astonishing magazine:

“Spanking and Finance”.

(“Banking”, obviously, as my eyes adjusted).

And then – admittedly not spanking-related, but what the heck… One of the subways on Orchard Road, the main shopping street, is plastered with adverts showing an attractive naked woman. The slogan? “Brazilian waxing.” Only yours truly quite genuinely read it the first time as “Brazilian wanking”.

I tried to find said advert on the web for you, but without success. Instead, I did happen to discover one of the wittiest sites ever, promoting said waxing services to Singaporean women. My favourite heading? “250,000 Bushes Pruned”!

Our UK readers who don’t mind staying up late may want to watch ITV3 tonight, at 12:25. As a part of their Roald Dahl weekend, they are showing Galloping Foxley, as part of “Tales of the Unexpected”.

ITV’s website sums it up thus:

A man is haunted by an unhappy childhood and taunted by school bullies – and a stranger on a train could be responsible for his misery. John Mills and Anthony Steel star.

Like this sort of misery:

When Foxley disappeared I knew he was walking down to the far end of the basin-passage. Foxley always did that. Then, in the distance, but echoing loud among the basins and the tiles, I would hear the noise of his shoes on the stone floor as he started galloping forward, and through my legs I would see him leaping up the two steps into the changing-room and come bounding towards me with his face thrust forward and the cane held high in the air. This was the moment when I shut my eyes and waited for the crack and told myself that whatever happened I must not straighten up.

Anyone who has been properly beaten will tell you that the real pain does not come until about eight or ten seconds after the stroke. The stroke itself is merely a loud crack and a sort of blunt thud against your backside, numbing you completely (I’m told a bullet wound does the same). But later on, oh my heavens, it feels as if someone is laying a red hot poker right across your naked buttocks and it is absolutely impossible to prevent yourself from reaching back and clutching it with your fingers.

“Foxley” is showing seriously late for me, but I don’t know if I can resist staying up for it. This short story is one of my childhood literary experiences responsible for the fact that out of all the flavours of spanking fetish, I’ve ended up with a British boarding school kink. I’ve got to see it on the screen.

Also, I love John Mills.

(Thanks to Gerrard for a heads-up on the TV programming.)

To the surprise of passers-by, I burst out laughing in the middle of Singapore’s Orchard Road shopping area last week. The reason? A sign outside Swensen’s, a family restaurant, that read:

Student Happy Hour! Check out our special SSS treat and be happily indulged.

I’m used to the concept of frequent flyer points, hotel loyalty schemes and the like. But this has to be the first time I’ve seen promotions specifically targetted at members of the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup.

“Would you care to choose your waitress for the evening, sir? Here’s a little notepad and pen to keep a tally of any mistakes she might make. The canes are kept behind the front desk – just ask when you need one.” (I have no idea whatsoever what they were actually promoting – it could only have been disappointing, so I didn’t stop to enquire!)

It seems it actually stands for “Soup, Side, Sundae”. Like I want to believe that?

Talking of Singaporean restaurants, how come it was only as I sat reading a magazine at the airport waiting to leave that I discovered ‘Barracks’? This posh new dining spot is set in (yes, you guessed it) a converted army barracks, where “the over-attentive wait staff were all dressed in school unifors and looked about 15 years old”. I’m feeling quite faint at the thought of discipline being meted out to the serving girls back in the days of the colonial officers’ mess…

Meanwhile, the recently-refurbished National Museum had one particularly evocative display: an old desk and chair from the Singapore Chinese Girls’ School, together with two school reports from consecutive terms in 1936. The second stated that there was “considerable improvement shown this term” by the young lady concerned; my rotan explorations made me wonder what had led her to become more focused, and left me concerned about her “rather untidy” report for Arithmetic.