The Spanking Writers

Browsing a spanking personals site, searching for phrases that might trigger my kinky creativity, I giggled at one particular entry:

“Lad in need of the can”

Each to their own, of course, when it comes to fetishes. But I did wonder whether he has any particular type of can in mind - “it must be Heinz for the punishment to be authentic”? And picture the dread when the disciplinarian tells you that you’ve been especially naughty and are to be spanked with a full can, rather than one emptied of its contents…

I shouldn’t be mean. Anyone can make a typoh. And I just feel sorry for those young ladies commuting into London from Canning Town: should their tube trains be fitted with extra-soft cushions?

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Christmas finished at the weekend. Because we were away, the exchanging-presents thing didn’t really happen on time this year, and we’ve been swapping away ever since. I’ve rather enjoyed the month-long gift-fest.

We finally caught up with two of our dearest friends on Saturday: presents each way are inevitably kinky. And how they excelled themselves this year: a fabulous leather razor strop, filling an important missing link in my collection of implements.

Inevitably, it was mere moments before Haron was over the side of the settee, the strop proving to be quite as effective as one might hope. (Or, to be more accurate, as I might hope – my young lady’s language made it plain that it was rather too effective when experienced from the receiving end!).

Scenes of fathers despatching daughters to fetch the strop are flooding through my imagination, whilst I try to decide whether I can get away with hanging it in the traditional manner from a hook in the bathroom even when vanilla friends visit…

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As I was drifting off to sleep last night, I came awake with an involuntary jump.

“What happened, did the bad men get you?” asked Abel.

“I fell off a tree,” I complained. “I was stealing apples… and fell off.”

“You were doing what? Bad girl, come here!” He swiftly turned me over onto my tummy and gave me several crisp smacks. “And that’s just from the owner of the orchard. Wait till you come home, and your daddy whips you with his belt.”

I wouldn’t put it past Abel to get out of bed and fetch an implement, but luckily it was too cold outside our nice duvet, and we were too tired. So instead we fantasised.

…The girl would be too scared to go home after being discovered; this was a small town, and daddy would surely find out. She would wander the streets for a while, and then spend the night at her friend’s house.

Only, she couldn’t avoid going home forever. Her father would meet her silently by the door, where he would hand her his pocket knife, and motion towards the trees in the yard.

Under the curious gazes of the neighbours she would cut a switch for her whipping. An apple switch for an apple thief.

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I cuddled up to Haron as she stirred yesterday morning, and whispered my night’s dream to her.

I’d been a gentleman visiting the local Workhouse, to select a girl. Not for any illicit purposes, you understand: I needed a bright young thing to help with some work in my country house.

I’d interviewed a selection of their inmates: one girl stood out, shy but sharp. On payment of the appropriate fee, the Master of the Workhouse brought her to me. Only there was a slight hitch: “You see, sir, she’s due a whipping at the end of the month with some of the other girls, and I’m not sure whether we should let her leave before then.”

A compromise was reached. The flogging block was brought into the room, the trembling girl stripped naked and tied tightly down. I watched – she was my property now, after all – as the Punishment Officer did his harsh duty.

And after it was done, she was made to dress. The final signature was added to the paperwork, discharging her into my care; we journeyed home in my carriage, every bump in the road bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

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Abel came home for a little while, and brought me a magazine of spanking coolness, also known as last Sunday’s “Observer Music Monthly”.

Have a look at the cover:

So, the school is progressive enough to have done away with uniforms, but traditional enough to still have canes. Cool.

I wonder if the dude with the cane is a prefect about to start dispensing punishments, or whether he’s stolen the cane from a teacher, and is about to get a caning himself when he gets caught. Both options work for me.

Further into the magazine, you find the following headline:

Oh, no, of course it hasn’t. And making this point is crucial when you’re writing a music review.

Dear Observer, just give up one of your free monthly magazines in favour of a spanking almanac, you know you want to.

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To Edinburgh on business for the past couple of days - a place so austere in its beauty, its people seemingly so stern.

Combine those characteristics the prevalence of tartan (by far the most appealing material for school skirts) in shop windows everywhere one turns…

….mix in with my fondness for the tawse as an implement of correction…

…. and I find myself wandering the streets in a permanently kinky reverie. Picture the maids of bygone eras, punished in the strict households behind those doors. Dream of fearsome governesses; picture hands upheld for punishment in school classrooms; imagine serious fathers chastising their daughters.

Is this the world’s best city for a spanking aficionado? Oh, how I wish Haron had been able to come on the trip with me. Then again, it’s probably a good thing for her that she couldn’t - the train journey back would have been a painful one.

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The topic of spanking your dolls and teddy-bears has come up several times in the comments recently, and it seems like something a few of us had in common growing up. I wonder, just how similar were our experiences?

When I was a kid, I never imagined myself on anything other than the receiving end of a spanking - my sympathies were always with the punished girl or boy. Yet, getting a doll to spank you is a bit more difficult than turning it over and slapping its bottom yourself.

I played out lengthy scenarios with my toys; they always had a chance to be good and avoid the punishment. I taught my dolls to juggle (moving their arms with mine), and they wouldn’t get smacked when they caught the glass marbles I threw in the air (which, given they had plastic hands with non-opposing thumbs, never happened, but the theory was there). I had my bear in training for the gymnastics team, and only punished him when he wasn’t very good.

Yet, at the same time, I never wished there was a human girl or boy I could put through these exercises instead, and spank them when they failed. Instead I wished somebody would show up out of the blue, and do all these things to me.

What about you? Were your dolls very bad?

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We’ve had the pleasure of knowing Alex Birch online for a good while now, and have swapped dozens of interesting mails over the years. His ““A Taste of the Birch” is one of the most enjoyable blogs out there, with regular posts of spanking stories drawn from various sources.

Today he kindly featured one of my stories, “The School Alternative”, with some very flattering comments. If you’ve not read the story before, or seen Alex’s blog, you might enjoy clicking over to his site.

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I’d like to apologise to customers of the northbound service station on the M1 at Northampton last Sunday afternoon, for any shock you may have suffered as you were forced to witness Haron bending with her palms on the side of the car, having her backside spanked.

I am so sincerely sorry for any distress I may have caused you.

Not for any I may have caused her, of course.

*She* deserved it… We’d been listening to a song on the radio that samples the old Supertramp lyric, “Not much of a girlfriend… She’s the only one I’ve got.” I’d remarked that my then girlfriend hated me singing along when the original tune had been on the radio in our University days.

“I hadn’t realised the song was *that* ancient,” commented Haron.

And she was surprised when I pulled over and made her get out for a spanking?

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I wonder whether young Martha’s work colleagues noticed her squirming uncomfortably behind her desk the other morning? If so, then I must record my confession…

She’d emerged from her shower to find an Inspector from The Party’s police force waiting in her dorm room. He enquired after one of her friends “since we are somewhat concerned for his welfare.” Reluctantly, she confessed that she had been with the young man in question into the early hours of the morning.

The inspector was grateful for her confirmation of the former part of her friend’s story; he challenged her with the latter. “Your Comrade tells me that during your time together, you made various disparaging remarks about the Party leadership, in direct violation of section 7.3 of Party rules. He therefore visited us this morning to notify us of the offence.”

The girl knew the potential consequences, of course: fortunately for her, the Inspector seemed minded to be generous.

“Do you recall the punishment detailed in sub-section 15.3.2 of the rules for such an offence?” He paused momentarily, before continuing. “Comrade Martha, you may count yourself lucky that I do not this morning intend to impose the more serious punishment available to me, of stripping you of your Party membership. You will understand that that would inevitably result in you being expelled from the Party University.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Instead, I will administer the lesser penalty of a thrashing. Can you recall, Comrade, the number of strokes of the cane specified for breaches of section 7.3?”

“Six, sir?”

“Between ten and fifteen. So I shall start by administering ten, and we shall then see whether you are suitably repentant, or whether I need to continue to the higher total.”

–

So, dear readers, you will understand Martha’s discomfort. The inspector applied the heavy dragon cane with some considerable vigour; one of the ten strokes had to be re-applied as the girl failed to take it appropriately. When instructed to stand afterwards, her silence resulted in further punishment: “If you are not yet ready to express your remorse, then I shall see if two more strokes loosen your tongue.”

And then it was time to leave for work, the young lady wincing all the way, much to my enjoyment.

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