The Spanking Writers

It makes me smile when people reminisce in the mainstream press about being spanked when growing up. Particularly when the memories are as detailed as this:

30 years ago, virtually all moms and dads were proficient in the fine art of corporal punishment. In response to our exceptionally obnoxious deeds — pugilism in fine dining establishments, shooting out windows with BB guns, destroying our sisters’ property — my folks promptly grabbed a belt and lashed our buttocks into the middle of next week.

Mom was dreadfully proficient and would deliver a lecture in the midst of the festivities, each word accentuated by a withering blow to the bum. The result was a highly effective, sadistic symphony with a danceable rhythm. “Don’t (whack!) you (whack!) ever (whack!) let (whack!) me (whack!) catch (whack!) you (whack!) doing (whack!) that (whack!) again (whack!). And dance we did. Involuntarily. My brother and I quickly learned not to say anything in response, or to ask a question, because every word of Mom’s retort would be buttressed (so to speak) by another resounding smack of the belt.

As much as I dislike the spanking sound effects in stories, somehow they improve an otherwise silly newspaper feature quite a lot.

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‘Thai singer denies affair with Thaksin’, proclaimed a local paper in Singapore last week. The story was helpfully illustrated with a photograph of Saranrat Withustthithada, the amazingly cute 20-year-old in question being hugged by the gentleman concerned. (Miss “…-hit-harder”? Really?!!!).

The report explained (my italics):

‘A popular Thai singer denied yesterday that she had any sexual relations with former prime minister, and said she calls him “Dad” because of the moral support he gives her.’

ROFL.

Any speculative comments would be entirely inappropriate. (Billionaire former prime ministers doubtless have very good lawyers).

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On Sunday I got well and truly startled in a cab home from the train station.

In the usual chatty manner the driver wanted to know where I’d been, where I was going, and whether I had any time for chasing boys.

I didn’t tell him that I’d just spent a whole day in London dressing up as a schoolgirl and being spanked. I only said that I was away, but now I was looking forward to seeing my husband, who had also returned from a long trip a few hours earlier.

We pulled up in front of the house.

“Has he got a kettle on for you inside, then?” asked the cabbie. “Are you training him proper?”

I grinned: “Oh, aye, working on it.”

“If you need help like, I’ve got a whip in the boot.”

I don’t think my jaw dropped too far. I thanked him politely, and said I had plenty of whips of my own.

And then I went into the house, to have Abel’s purchases from Singapore tested on me.

If only the cabbie knew…

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A quite remarkable location for a startle while I was in Edinburgh for the Festival the other week… I wandered past the “Police information centre” on the Royal Mile - a police station, but with an added museum to make it seem friendlier to the passing masses strolling from the Castle to Holyrood.

I peered through the window, knowing from past experience that judicial museums often feature *interesting* exhibits. And there it was! In full view of the thousands of festival-goers: the original 19th century whipping bench! We tracked down its photo on a travel website:

Offenders lay along the low bench - around six feet long, two feet wide, only two feet or so high. Two leather straps were tied across their bodies to hold them down during their flogging. Further stout leather ties on the legs at one end would hold their feet firmly in position as the blows fell.

I nearly pointed out that their birch rod looked rather inauthentically stiff, although I’d guess it was made to the original design. I was minded to suggest that they soaked it overnight, but decided I didn’t want the friendly police officer questioning me too closely as to how I knew such things…

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The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
The Manifesto of the Cuntcentric Hedonist
“I’m not being selfish, I’m being altruistic when I open my legs and offer my body up.”

No reservations, part 4
“By this time, said balls felt twice their normal size and very full.”

Sex Work And Religion: The Violent Priest
“We were to seduce one of the young ladies in the church’s choir.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
JBS Underwear

Editor’s Choice
The Top 10 Reasons to avoid “Pregnancy & Sex” bulletin boards

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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Whilst we’re on the topic of things we’ve posted elsewhere, you might enjoy a couple of short pieces I’ve just posted for the soc.sexuality.newsgroup’s SSC, the Summer Story Contest – which has been running each year since the mid-90s.

There’s word limit of 500 words per entry, which makes it an interesting writing challenge. My two pieces, ‘Her Red Hands’ and ‘Equally Culpable’, are both online if you fancy a quick read. (The links take you to Google Groups, but if you get to newsgroups by other means and want to search for them, they both went up on 15 September).

I am deeply flattered by the amazingly generous feedback that they provoked from Alex Birch, himself a renowned spanking author and blogger, hugely respected within the scene. He described them as “Two fabulous short stories by the supremo of very British spanking stories.” Wow. Thanks, Alex: hearing that from you really does means a great deal.

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Those of you who feel like offering me condolences - or maybe simply revelling in my misfortunes - may want to check out my “Punishment Book” entry today: “The Repeat Offender”.

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By the time you read this, I should be well and truly en route home to the UK. So, what else has been going on during my Singapore sojourn?

Well, for one thing, I have a New Favourite Drink. Cane juice (with ice and lemon). Seems kinda appropriate. That said, although it’s sugar cane, there’s something about the sight of a cane being fed inch-by-inch into a grinder that’s vaguely upsetting.

I’ve been past my New Favourite Shopping Mall. It’s called ‘The Malacca Centre’. (Didn’t bother going in: the name conjured up enough images of canes made from interesting wood, and I like the idea of girls being sent to report there).

There’s my New Favourite Hotel Maid. I’ve only just realised that the pile of canes I bought at the start of the week were left lying on the side where I unpacked them. The darling girl who was looking after my room said nothing. What a soul of discretion! LOL I did noticed that my room has being cleaned and tidied especially thoroughly, mind!

My New Favourite Rotan Fantasy concerns a daddy who canes with such gusto that the sometimes fragile rods inevitably break. His daughter is punished not with a set number of strokes, but a set number of sticks: a particularly serious offence may see her thrashed until three rotans are no more…

Finally, my New Favourite Punishable Offence is easy. The Singapore Sunday Times featured an article describing how girls are increasingly commissioning local tailors to make their uniforms. Cloth specialists increasingly ’stock uniform materials in more commonly used whites and blues’ for students who ‘dislike the patterns if official issues’.

I’m imagining the inevitable clamp-down: girls called to the school changing room a class at a time on the first day of term; made to strip to their underwear. The Principal walks from girl to girl; each is made to present the label of her uniform shirt, sweater and skirt. Any whose garments do not come from the official source are made to turn around and bend over placing their hands on the bench, feet apart. Their knickers are pulled down, baring their backsides. Two very sharp strokes of the cane follow for each rogue item.

They’re instructed to report back one week later, having had time to purchase new supplies from the proper source, with the threat of six strokes per item should they fail to comply. And more than a few young ladies might find themselves in a very uncomfortable position at home later whilst asking for more money, trying to explain why they disobeyed their parents and failed to go to the official stockist the first time around.

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“The New Yorker” briefly reviews an interesting sounding book: “The Headmaster Ritual” by Taylor Antrim:

Set at an exclusive Massachusetts private school, this début novel addresses the angst—both teen-age and adult—that percolates on a prep-school campus. Dyer Martin, in crisis after a disastrous foray into real estate, has taken a position in the history department; one of his pupils, James, is the timid son of the formidable headmaster, once tenured at Harvard and now determined to shake up the conservative and complacent privilege of his new domain. James and Dyer, beset by the outrages of bullies and the bewildering behavior of women, triumph, inevitably, over both.

No mention of the paddle, but hey, I’m not picky. I’ll read school novels that don’t have any corporal punishment. Witness me digging into Enid Blyton.

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The online records of the Old Bailey, London’s criminal court, inevitably contain some interesting material in the transcriptions of past trials. Any government archive that permits users the ability to search specifically for ‘whippings’ has to be a good use of taxpayers’ money!

Rather than overload you with fascinating anecdotes, we’ve downloaded a few cases of interest, and we’ll post them over the next few months. And here’s the thing – each court record shows the date of the original trial: we’ll post the entries accordingly, so that you’ll be able to squirm at the fates of the young ladies concerned on the very anniversary of their punishment…

Here’s the first, a case dating from 14 September 1791 in which “SUSANNAH DRAYTON was indicted for feloniously stealing, on the 27th of July, twenty-eight yards of printed callico, value 20 s. the goods of Thomas More.” Aged 19, she was tried by the Middlesex Jury before Mr. Justice Grose.

One Richard Birkitt was the main prosecution witness:

I am servant to Mr. More, linen-draper, Oxford-street; on the 27th of July I was in the shop, the servant with me, Sarah Hobbs came in and told me that a person had taken a piece off the box at the door; she described the person to us, and told us which way she went; we went in pursuit, Thomas Tindal and me, of her, and overtook her; the person was the prisoner, she gave a piece of printed callico to Thomas Tindal .

Said Mr. Tindal confirmed the account, and the incriminating piece of cloth was produced in evidence. Susannah’s defence was less than convincing:

I was going by the door at the very same time, a young fellow was standing at the door, and he asked me to take the bundle for him to Oxford-road, and he told me he would pay me for my trouble; I turned up Newman-street, and his young man here followed me, and asked me for the bundle, and I gave it him, and the servant maid when I came back asked me where the young man was? I told her I did not know; she asked me if I knew him, I told her I did not.

The prisoner called two witnesses “who gave her a good character”, before the jury’s deliberations. The court records starkly confirm the outcome of the case for posterity:

GUILTY , (Aged 19.)

Privately whipped .

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