The Spanking Writers

Just because the adjoining door separating our rooms is locked, it doesn’t mean that your room is soundproof.

Yes, I have heard the slapping noises at regular intervals over the past 48 hours. Very clearly.

No, I don’t think you’re clapping something on the TV: it’s too regular, too drawn-out, and the plaintive little feminine yelps after each smack leave little to my experienced imagination.

Yes, young lady: when we emerged from our rooms at the same time and found ourselves waiting for the elevator together, I did think you’d look good in school uniform.

And yes, he is a lot older than you, isn’t he?

No, please don’t stop. I’m sure she deserves it.

And no, I’m sure she didn’t sit at all comfortably at dinner last night. And the restaurant had hard wooden chairs, you say? What a shame…

No, I’m sure you’re not enjoying being spanked. You doesn’t look like one of those perverts…

You know, I can recommend just the place in Chinatown if you want to find a nice authentic local implement with which to stripe her – or I have a plentiful supply if you’d care to send her next door to ask politely for a caning.

And don’t worry: I won’t tell a soul.

PS We’re having great fun commenting on the drawing that Haron posted the other day – do click on the link and tell us what *you* think’s going on in the sketch!

This conversation happened between Abel and a very cute barrista at a Starbucks last week.

Abel: Can I have a fork for my cake?

Barrista (nodding at her helper, a sweet-looking girl): Why, hasn’t she given you one?

Abel: No. (To cute helper) Sorry, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.

Barrista: That’s OK, I’ll give her a smack later.

Abel (returning to my side, whispers): That’s OK, you can give her a smack while I’m watching!

Do you get a feeling Abel is a spanking conversation magnet?

Singapore’s a fascinating city, with plenty to keep visitors from indolence. Like, for example, the Chinatown area – a fascinating mix of old and new, local and touristy, temples mixing with mosques interspersed with restaurants and souvenir stalls.

And then there are the local shopping malls, where few western visitors seem to tread. Yet when hunting for hardware shops yesterday, my spanko intuition suggested that – other options having failed – these might be fertile grounds. And so it was, a display of washing up utensils giving way to a far more interesting basket of products.

Do you want the good news or the bad news? OK, dear readers, let’s start by being positive. Urged on by numerous comments on my previous post, I had located the famous local rotan, beloved of Singaporean parents. Even better, they’re far meaner little implements than I’d expected – a little over two feet (60cm) long, very whippy but with sufficient bite to cut home their message.

But bad news, too: they only had three canes on offer, and one of those was cracked (provoking most inappropriate thoughts about daddy breaking the rotan in mid-use, and sending his daughter to the neighbouring store to buy a replacement, before continuing her punishment).

Not to be deterred, I continued to the next mall, the mammoth People’s Place Complex. After much frustrated wandering, I spied the metro station, and was about to give up. And then, there in the distance, glimmering in Xanadu-like splendour, I saw it: the outdoor hardware stall.

Twelve canes, my friends, with their kaleidoscopic plastic handles: reds, yellows, greens, blues*! (I imagined a schoolgirl, squirming uncomfortably at her desk after her caning, as her teacher read the freshly-delivered note to the class: “You are to return to the Headmaster’s office. Apparently he used the wrong-coloured rotan, and needs to correct his error.”). The poor girl on the cash desk positively trembled, putting on her very best behaviour as she wrapped my purchases.

And even more good news! Praise be to the Singaporean finance ministry, for prices have remained at the levels quoted in 1999: the equivalent of two pounds sterling capturing my entire hoard. (More inappropriate thoughts at this point, of a local girl given her weekly pocket money by her father, minus the “50 cents deducted for the cost of the rotan I had to buy”). I wonder how much I’d get on eBay for an “Authentic Singaporean rotan punishment canes, as used for parental discipline”?!

I view it as a matter of public service, really. Think of all the local cuties who’ll be spared the rods that I’m exporting… And think of the painful pleasures awaiting those of you who put in requests…

* No purple rotans, alas, for those who wanted them. I’m wondering whether two canes, one red, one blue, tied together might do the trick?

In a recent review of a new car, the journalist expresses his bafflement with the position of the button for the seat-heater:

…the idea of placing seat-heater controls where little fingers can turn them on over and over again as a hilarious joke to see Mummy getting a hot bottom smacks of sadism. Or is that the point…

Yes, I wonder.

Though actually, I’ve always found heated seats really nice for a freshly smacked bottom. I know you’re *supposed* to want to sit on ice, but having my bottom and thighs warmed gently and gradually takes the edge off the sharper sort of pain.

Leaning against the radiator accomplishes the same thing, but I get spanked for that.

A mixing blessing with my job is that I end up travelling fairly extensively. That’s good, in that I have a deep-seated wanderlust and love exploring. It’s bad, very bad, in terms of the amount of time it keeps me away from home.

My current trip sees me in Singapore thanks to a customer who booked flights and hotels for me, then cancelled the event I was supposed to be running. As the travel was non-refundable, it seemed rather a shame to waste it!

I’ve already had one of the biggest startles ever, on the way in from the airport yesterday morning. The breakfast presenters were discussing a news item about some teenagers who’d misbehaved. “Last time they were naughty, they were locked in their bedrooms”, commented the female half of the presenting duo – somewhat to my horror. She continued:

“Do you think it’s now time for the rotan? It’s still the school holidays, so call us. How do your parents punish you?”

Then, she turned to her co-presenter, asking, “Did you used to get the rotan when you were growing up?”

He didn’t, and quickly played the next song rather than asking her the same question. Drat! And the cab arrived at my hotel before the phone-in began

The rotan – the local name for the cane – still appears to be in surprisingly wide use here for parental discipline. According to one report from the Singapore Sunday Times, hardware stores are the place I need to head while I’m here for my souvenir hunting:

Cane facts

COST: 50 cents, made in China and guaranteed to last a lifetime.

WHERE TO BUY: At neighbourhood shops selling household items. Usually found stacked with the brooms and mops on sale or hanging, tied together, from the ceiling of the shop.

NEW LOOK: Rotans today have a plastic hook at the end, which comes in a variety of colours.

At that price, pennies per cane in UK currency (even if the report is a few years old), I may have to purchase a bundle. (And if there’s anyone reading in Singapore, do please recommend a suitable shop)!

For the most part, we make a point of not posting too many spanking pictures: this blog is about expressing ourselves with words, through words.

Then again, sometimes you just have to. Abel has come across a blog in German by Strenger Lehrer,* who posts lots of spanking drawings.** Now, I find drawings even more attractive than photos (and I love spanking photos), so I had a good dig-around in his archives.

…I remember, when I was at school, we regularly had this type of homework where we were given a picture, and had to write a story based on it. What is happening here? What has happened before? Why are these people acting the way they are in the picture?

I suggest a similar excercise. Here’s a picture:

What do you think is going on? For one thing, is this a school? I think it is, but it might be a governess punishing her charge with the help of a butler, or somebody.

What do you think the girl has done? Do you reckon all the other girls are here to watch, or are they waiting for their turn on the whipping bench?

I leave it to your imagination, folks.

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* “Strict Teacher”, if my German has not entirely abandoned me.
** Though he never links to where he’s found them in the first place, which is annoying if you’re trying to find more by the same author.

I really don’t understand young people today. There we were, at a perfectly respectable event over the recent Bank Holiday weekend, when the group of teenage girls next to us in the crowd of 50,000 started misbehaving in the most disgraceful way.

Their game involved one girl being hoisted onto the bent-over back of another, then held tight whilst the remaining young ladies in the group spanked her backside. Hard. They then swapped, ensuring each of their jean-clad bottoms ended up being soundly swatted in turn. Their shrieks filled the air.

Shameful conduct. I was so taken aback that I had to watch carefully, to take in the horrifying scene in full so that I could report back to you. What is the world coming too?

Abel and I live in the sort of conditions that any spanking enthusiast would call priviledged: we have the house to ourselves, its walls are thick, the neighbours are quite deaf, and there is space enough to swing a cane in pretty much every room.*

From time to time, however, we go to visit our respective parents.

This is where we get a glimpse of what other, less fortunate spankos with big families have to deal with. Zero privacy, other than in our bedroom; the walls are made out of paper,** and it’s easier to forget about real spanking altogether for a few days, than to attempt a little bit of play.

Except we can’t forget about spanking, or limit ourselves with whispering stories to each other. I mean, I guess we could, but we refuse to be limited by the circumstances.

Our recent parental home adventure was a couple of weeks ago in Abel’s parents’ house.

It was all rather spontaneous. One morning, before everybody else woke up, I was lying on the bed reading. Bottom-up, as one does; still dressed for bed in my knickers and his shirt.

Abel was dealing with his email. He must have read something exciting,*** because he walked over to me and landed a big ol’ swat on my behind.

“Take those knickers down,” he said.

“Oh?” I said. “We’re, um, not alone?”

“Don’t care,” he said. Boy, that email must have been really good.

I wriggled my knickers down, and waited to find out what he would use. A hand-spanking was out of question: the naked-skin-slapping-naked-skin noise is quite loud, even if you don’t know what exactly it is. We hadn’t packed any canes. The nearest birch tree was way out of reach. As far as I was concerned, he was stuck.

Not so, it appeared. He picked up the electric cord from our camera, doubled it up, and told me to brace myself.

Now, headspace-wise, electric cords don’t do anything for me; they don’t feature on my fantasy horizons. However, when we’re talking about pure physical side of spanking, I don’t mind what an implement is, as long as it produces the right sensation.

Or, should I say, the wrong sensation: the infernal burning, the branding pain, the flaming cuts… It was quite horrid. And, of course, I had to stay absolutely quiet throughout the ordeal: we didn’t want people to come running to my rescue, did we?

Although Abel normally insists that I stay as still as possible for my whipping, we had to get rid of the rule here: I can be either still or quiet, but not both.**** If I couldn’t yell, I had to wriggle, a lot. I enjoyed the freedom, though it took me a lot not to howl at a couple of particularly evil cuts.

The stripes afterwards were quite pretty, and I squirmed all the way through breakfast, but there was nothing to show for it only a couple of hours later. Other than our big grins, I suppose.

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* Not very high, mind you. It’s not a very big house.
** In my parents’ place you can hear the neighbour three floors up praciting her piano. Every note.
*** Which one of you correspondents has been getting me smacked? Hmm?
**** And frequently, neither.

A final trip to the wonderful Victoria Institute. The Ross family were posted from the UK to Kuala Lumpur, despatching Rosemary “to a boarding school in the Scottish border region until she was nearly 16″. Thereafter, she was completed her education in Malaysia, where as a sixth former at the VI in 1960-61 she “was the school’s first and only British girl”.

Rosemary describes how she slapped a prefect who had taken her “to task for loitering in the Sixth Form Block at recess. I claimed I hadn’t known the rule which had come out the day previously (in my absence) and he called me a liar! I asked him to repeat it and he had the cheek to do so and I saw red! I was summoned by Dr. Lewis who was sympathetic to the aspersion cast on my honesty and integrity, but was obliged to hand me over to the prefects.”

“The School Captain, Chung Choeng Hoy, gave me Detention and 1000 lines – each one an apology for my sins. With several younger boys keeping me company I began them in Detention Class in some classroom near the prefects room but had to finish them elsewhere. I squeezed all of them on one side of A4 paper in the tiniest writing possible! How childish was that? Choeng Hoy was certain I had missed some and I told him to count them! I don’t think a girl had ever been sent to DC before and possibly no one from the Sixth Form! But it was true that the prefects were to be feared more than the Headmaster or the Senior Assistant!”

I have a rather different outcome in mind: “Miss Ross, how would a girl have been dealt with for such behaviour at your former school in Scotland?”

“With the tawse, Headmaster.”

“Indeed. And you will doubtless realise that we use corporal punishment here, too, for the most serious incidents of misconduct.”

“Yes, sir.”

And then she would have been told to bend over the desk, for four strokes across her skirt with Dr Lewis’s whippiest rattan. By far the most effective form of lines, methinks. Mr Ross might well have been rather displeased when she returned home from school, too.

Haron and I are due to visit Malaysia on holiday before very long. I think a browse round a bookstore or two (Educational History Section) may be in order.

It’s September. Can you smell freshly-sharpened pencils? That’s because it’s the start of a new term in Lowewood Academy.

It’s a new term, a new school year; new characters are starting the Lower Sixth. Last year’s prefects have graduated, and the girls are now prefects themselves. The new Head Girl Jessica promises us -

Spanking, cold showers, games, short skirts, gorgeous girls, illicit drinking, evil Masters, sneaking out of school, leather straps, vigilant teachers, Lochgelly tawses, sweets, handsome and horny guys, girly gossip, standing in the corner, stockings, medical examinations, sadistic prefects and of course, the dreaded cane, are all in plentiful supply in this modern version of St Trinians (although the behaviour is probably worse!)

I’m quite proud of what we’ve done in Lowewood so far, you know. Each of the permanent writers has written enough for a small spanking novel, and with all the storylines put together, it looks like quite an epic.

When we started, I certainly hadn’t expected the level of detail we were going to go through, or the elaborate plotting that goes on behind the scenes. Or the gossip whenever somebody writes something outrageous, and the authors call each other up to say: “Have you heard? Gina snogged Laura!” Considering that neither Gina nor Laura are represented by a real person, the level of excitement this produces is rather amusing.

I’m looking forward to the next year. I hope you are, too. If you like Lowewood, tell your friends about it, OK?

Just as last year, when I was starting to write as Sylvie Barnable, I invite the readers to try and guess which new Lowewood character I have taken up. We’ve been blogging as the new pupils for a few weeks now, so go ahead, have a read, and take a guess.

EDITED TO ADD: It’s Ned Corwin. I decided it was time to follow the footsteps of Roald Dahl, and indulge myself in writing some M/m school stories – one of my guilty pleasures. I’ve never written F/m, but I’d like to give that a go as well. Lowewood is a very accommodating universe.

(Abel will continue his occassional posts as the school chaplain, Reverend Jenkins. Until he gets struck by lightning, I expect.)