The Spanking Writers

A foreign airport told us that we could carry on one piece of hand luggage, plus reading matter and a:

Lap-top

Since Haron had been across my lap for a spanking shortly before the taxi arrived, we giggled rather more than the sign perhaps merited.

Of course, we’re now resigned to the fact that we’ll forever associate any mention of a “laptop” with a mental image of a girl being placed over her top’s knees. And we thought we should share that thought with you, so that you too will end up sniggering at inopportune moments.

My spanking radar, which allows me to figure out with some certainty when a person encountered under vanilla circumstances may be kinky, is a fine instrument that defies logic.
I thought about it yesterday, when I saw a guy who was my neighbour in the first year of my degree. Although I have many fine memories about our college kitchen conversations, what stands out about this particular youth is that he managed to fill any chat with tons of kinky innuendos.

Even so, my spanking radar refused to blip in his presence. For all his naughty talk, I remain convinced that he is not a spanko, or even a BDSM-er.

I mean, what BDSM player would seriously buy fluffy handcuffs they sell in supermarkets for Valentine’s day?

I’m still not sure about him. I mean, one day when he produced a photo from a “Spanish Inquisition”-themed college party wherein he was being bull-whipped by a man in a balaklava… But then I thought that not many spanko guys would allow themselves to be photographed under such circumstances in a vanilla group.

My spanking radar is not a fine scientific instrument, but it’s quite often proved right with those people it does identify as kinky. (With those I’m not sure about, there’s rarely a way to check.)

How is your radar these days?

A rare, as-ever-unpleasant foray into a McDonald’s the other night. (Hey, faced with a ludicrously overpriced hotel restaurant serving rubbish I wouldn’t feed to our cat, or a ludicrously unpleasant chain restaurant serving… Oh well, needs must, sometimes).

At the table in the window were two young ladies: sixth-formers, I’d guess. Happy, talking animatedly. Well spoken, nicely dressed. Not really in keeping with the majority of their fellow diners, shall we say.

One of them, I speculated, would be rather less cheerful before the evening was out. The front door would click shut on their return home. Her heavy bag of books abandoned on the floor, she’d wander into the living room. She’d smile at her father and give him a hug, as usual.

“How did you get on at Alison’s?”

“Really well. We revised a pile of vocab for French. Got through loads.”

His subsequent lecture would talk as much about the need for diligence in her studies as it would about her lies. She wasn’t to know he’d have driven past the burger joint – he never went that way, did he? But he had, and he’d seen her, and she’d not been at Ali’s, had she?

And no amount of pleading and apologising could prevent her jeans from coming down. He’d make her bend over his knee, and he’d hold her tightly in place whilst spanking her so unbelievably hard – for her “own good” – before sending her to bed in utter disgrace.

I don’t know what’s this about exactly, but doms were very much on the mind of newspaper journalists this past weekend.

First we found this:

And then this:

Hmm, becoming a non-dom… I don’t know, stop spanking people?

Anyone here ever taken one of those interminable long-haul flights to some distant land, which stop over for a couple of hours at some randomly-chosen midpoint for a change of crew? Take London to Sydney, via Bangkok, or something similar?

A conversation with a colleague who’s about to head off on some such journey inspired a naughty little fantasy. The girls of a distinguished Scottish* Academy would be heading around the world for an exchange trip to their sister school. School uniforms themselves being too impractical, the young ladies would dress identically in white polo shirts with the school crest, and navy blue tracksuits.

It would be a large group – perhaps the entire Lower Sixth would be travelling, say sixty or eighty girls. The Headmistress would travel with them, accompanied by a small number of staff trusted for their ability to maintain good order.

The young ladies would be in high spirits on the internal flight from Edinburgh to London. It would be on the first intercontinental leg of the journey that their conduct would get out of hand. Colonising an entire block of seating at the rear of the plane, they’d sneak alcoholic drinks from the trolley, clamber over chairs, the noise levels becoming intolerable to fellow passengers. The Captain would ask to “have a quiet word” with the Headmistress, as a result of the barrage of complaints.

Yet after the stopover, the young ladies’ behaviour would be immaculate for the final stretch of the trip. Silence would prevail amongst the cuddling girls, save for an occasional sniffle. Passengers would be astonished: what might have brought about the change? They’d look at the Headmistress in awe: the power of words, they’d think, amazed at the effectiveness of the scolding she must have given after leading her girls into a side room at the airport.

Few would have imagined the truth: the XH Lochgelly brought forth from her hand luggage; those tracksuit bottoms pulled down, the searing strokes across each girl’s backside (“eight, given the degree of misconduct I have just had to witness, and the shame you have brought on the school”) guaranteeing perfect conduct once they had returned, uncomfortably, to their plane seats.

* It’d have to be Scottish. A tawse fits neatly into hand luggage; canes do not.

According to Seattle Times, a judge in Alabama has just resigned amidst curious allegations:

“After the ethics charges were filed against Thomas, allegations arose that he had removed several male inmates from the Mobile jail and taken them to a private room in the courthouse, where he spanked them.”

I think I’ve read similar things in a story or three…

How strange. My spanking imaginings are usually full of light: girls are whipped in rooms filled with rays of sun shining in through large picture windows, or in dingy cellars illuminated by bright fluorescent strips.

I’ve obviously been looking at too many trendy black and white photos lately, for last night’s dream took on different hues.

The girl was tied down: bent right over, shaking, vulnerable. But the room itself was pitch black, save for three sharp white lights. The first was directed straight at her backside, marking out the target area. A pool of brightness illuminated the officer with his cane. And the final beam shone right into in her eyes, lest she be tempted to close them in a vain attempt to block out the experience.

This morning in bed Abel and I were lazily planning a possible scene later.

“You can be a schoolgirl who has done something really attrocious,” he said dreamily.

“Mmm-hmm. Like what?”

“Let’s say you threw stones at the Headmaster’s…”

I thought he would suggest the Head’s car, and was ready to agree. Instead, he finished the sentence:

“…the Headmaster’s cat.”

Yeah, right. I’m more likely to chuck a stone at the Headmaster himself. Or better yet, Abel, for suggesting something like that!

No imaginary animals were hurt in the writing of this post.

I can’t even go to a restaurant without kinky thoughts leaping to mind. That was certainly true recently in Browns in Edinburgh, a branch of one of my favourite chains, who describe their Minute Steak with the wonderfully-descriptive phrase:

‘Thin tender rump’.

For some reason, that made me snigger. I can’t possibly imagine why.

I’m presuming that the dish must be cooked by the same chef who batters the haddock and crushes the new potatoes…

Anyway, it’s a good thing I’m not a waiter. Picture me arriving at a table, laden with meals, asking “Whose is the thin tender rump?” or, worse, “Who’ll be having the thin tender rump this evening?”

I saw this picture in the Times yesterday, and got really excited about it. We thought it was just crying out for a caption competition:

So, go on. What do you think he’s saying, mmm?