The Spanking Writers

It’s well known that the smallest things can throw me into a fantasy mode, particularly when I start work when it’s still dark outside.

This morning, it was the sight of ink on my fingers. I have been writing long-hand (a fetish of mine), with a fountain pen I haven’t used for a while (also a fetish object - not that it hadn’t been used, but the pen itself, the sort my mother’s generation used at school).

When I took a break and saw the peacock-blue ink stains, I was a girl held back after school, to write an essay I hadn’t handed in on time. When I finish, I will have my hands strapped: two strokes on each. There will also be a note to take home.

I will carry it carefully in my inky fingers, praying that the first person to read it will be my older brother, who takes care of me if my parents work late. He may spank me with a hairbrush, but at least he never makes me go outside to cut a switch: that’s my mother’s prerogative.