The Spanking Writers

An edgy dream last night…

I had a stepfather who was nearly the same age as me, not even thirty. I had to call him Dad. He was some sort of artistic genius, and thus the whole family had to concentrate on indulging him and creating perfect conditions for his work. Whatever he wanted, happened.

He was unpredictable and inconsistent in his punishments; I was terrified of him.

In the bit of the dream I remember, I dropped a nearly finished jigsaw puzzle on the hardwood floor of our livingroom, and immediately went on my knees trying to assemble it. I hoped my posture and my whole being showed how sorry I was.
He laughed: “Will I whip you for this or not? Hmm. Of course I won’t. I’m not crazy.”

I remember relief flooding over me, although a bitter voice inside was whispering a thousand cheeky things I could have said in response.

I think it was relief that woke me up.

Oh yeah, another creepy thing: my stepfather had a younger brother who lived with us, who was as sweet as his brother was unhinged. He was about 5 years’ my junior, but within “Dad’s” hearing I had to call him “Uncle”, or else.

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Some Google searches that lead readers to our site are easy to understand. Take the following recent examples:

spanking stories
real life public spankings
reformatory canings
judicial corporal punishment
husband wife discipline spanking  (aka Haron’s been naughty again?!)
mason pearson spanking  (ooo, what good taste in hairbrushes!)
school uniform caned bare  (ah, so she’d have to strip first, right?)
birching
whipping bench
six of the best schoolgirl
girls tawsed on the bottom
enid blyton spanking  (!)
doctor who spanking tardis  (!!!) 

Almost every phrase could inspire lovely kinky reveries. But as for the following, shortly before Christmas?

girl whip bestiality or impale or horse or breast stories -gay –lesbian

We’re not sure whether to apologise to the enquirer – our site must have seemed very tame - or panic as to why their search term linked to us…

Should we have a contest - who can come up with the weirdest search term that gets Google to recommend our humble little spanking blog?

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One of the Christmas presents I got from Abel was a book called “Girls in Their Prime: Scottish Education Revisited”. For the most part it has more to do with history of education than spanking, but it does contain a number of interesting anecdotes on the use of the tawse.

Here’s my favourite:

Some teachers belted girls as well as boys and certainly a number of my female respondents remembered being belted. But… some teachers would not belt girls. Nina’s teacher took this a step further…

Nina: “Girls didn’t get the belt very often… if a girl was to be punished he [teacher] used to ask what boy wanted to take her punishment.

Oh my goodness, can you imagine a brisk trade in sweets, homework assignments and perhaps even shadier goods and services that went on behind the teacher’s back, when the students figured out among themselves who was going to take whose punishment?

Of course, one particular girl would be the envy of the whole class, because her boyfriend would selflessly and generously take her punishment every time, out of pure puppy adoration. She would smugly refuse to endear herself to anybody else.

And then one day the boy’s father keeps him back to help out in the shop, but it’s the very day when she hasn’t done her homework properly…

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Malaysia’s New Straits Times entertained us at breakfast one morning during our holiday with a scandalised description of students paying “phantom writers” to draft their term papers and theses.

Over our orange juice and yoghurt, we imagined two young women called before their college principal. He’d pass each the other’s assignment, and ask them to read it carefully. They’d study their friend’s work, looks of alarm crossing their faces as they realised the similarities. He would fetch the cane from its hiding place as they read, then wait until they had both finished.

“Now, I shall have to punish you both, of course. But I’d like you to tell me which of you wrote the original piece, so I can bear that in mind when determining the appropriate number of strokes in each case.”

Panicked looks between the girls. One spoke up, nervously, to deny that they had copied from one another.

“But I have just shown you the evidence! Am I going to need to punish you for lying as well as cheating?”

The story would then spill out. The “small piece of paper glued to the wall” (as described in the newspaper story). The payment of the going rate - the local equivalent of £10 per page, for a two-day turnaround of the emailed text. The claim that they had not thought that they were doing wrong, meeting raised eyebrows and a stern, disbelieving demeanour.

A stern rebuke would follow. He would award them each four strokes, this being a first offence for both girls - asking one to step outside to wait (and, no doubt, to overhear) whilst he punished the first. Duly corrected and tearfully apologetic, she would be despatched on her way, before he called in the second miscreant to take her turn bent over his desk, the stripes administered firmly across her tight uniform skirt.

Only later would it occur to him to ask the college’s technicians to look back through the incoming email logs to both girls’ accounts. They would call him back within the hour, confirming that the fake essays had indeed both arrived from the same sender. “Could you identify the name of the faker?” he would enquire, to be presented with the startling news that one of the more recent recruits to his own staff – a recent graduate herself - appeared to be the source.

She would be handed a note as she taught, requiring her to report to the principal’s office as soon as she had finished with her class. There, she would escape dismissal, by dint of agreeing that it would be appropriate in the circumstances for her to receive the combined tally of eight strokes doled out to her two customers. The senior cane would be taken out, and this time – given the gravity of the situation - the punishment would be applied on the bare.

Our canes made it home safely from Malaysia: perhaps Haron should take on the role of the young graduate?

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One day before our holiday we were driving around with the radio on, and the presenter Scott Mills* had come up with an interesting phone-in game.

He wanted people to come up with the best phrase to make somewhere fall silent. And then to call him up from a public place, shout it into the phone, and see what happened.

The experiment we heard? “But I’m not wearing any knickers!” A brave post-office worker shouted it out for the entire Christmas-time queue to hear.

It didn’t work though, because somebody in the background shouted: “Woohoo!” - and somebody else clapped.

Of course, Abel and I busied ourself with coming up with better phrases. Like -

But I’m going to get a spanking!

But the cane really hurts!

Please, don’t punish me, sir…

But it’s too dark outside to cut a switch!

Don’t spank me on the bare this time!

If I [xxx], will you let me off the spanking? (Where xxx stands for any sexual favour.)

Any more ideas?

—————————
* Who is really quite cute

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“Would Abel Jenkins please report to the information desk?”

I feel sorry for tannoy announcers, tracking down customers with incomprehensible names in airports, stations, stores, shopping malls around the world.

But let’s make their job just a little harder still. Here’s the challenge, that Haron and I devised whilst bored waiting for a connection back from our holiday: who amongst us dares to ask someone to page their missing friend Saul.

“Saul Bottom”, to be precise.

Said fast enough, especially with certain accents, I would love to know how many folks with sore backsides would answer the call – or, at least, how many would stop and do a double take.

Other variants on the theme are welcome. The surname Caine offers potential; the first name Rod, too. And one could surely get away with an oriental Miss Ow.

PS the shock to the system of being back in the cold UK, fighting off the jetlag, was bad enough without finding that the heating in our house had packed up while we were away. At least Haron has ways she can get warmed up, before the engineer comes out today to save us!

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As promised last week, here is an extract from one of the book we unearthed in the fine private library where we are members.

This comes from “Public Schools for Girls”, ed. Burstall and Douglas; 29 June 1911.

It is hardly too much to say that, apart from orphanages and certain schools of restricted scope, public boarding schools for girls did not exist in England before 1870. Private boarding schools, of every degree of merit and demerit, were plentiful, and offered almost the only alternative, before 1850, to home education.

In most cases, the training provided by these private schools was, intellectually, an extension of the teaching by governesses and masters at home: manually and physically an extension of family discipline.

Aaah, yes. I can well imagine a girl’s parents having long conversations by the fire about how they should like to find a school for young Millicent that would keep her under the firm control she is used to at home.

The dormitories, it seemed, were particularly strictly governed:

“The rule that no girl is to enter another girl’s cubicle is very strictly enforced; in some cases it is the only rule…

In many instances, absolute silence is required in all dormitories; in others, speaking is restricted, for example after all girls are in bed, conversation is allowed for a fixed period, which is rarely exceeded…

The enforcing of rules and order in the dormitory is in most cases entrusted to elder girls, specially appointed for this purpose.”

I imagine, these elder girls would be exempt from the rule that proscribes entering another girl’s cubicle. A curtain would be drawn after she entered, and the whole dorm would hear, but not see, the cane cracking down onto their friend’s bottom.

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I’ve been a little tardy of late in catching up with other sites I love, and so I nearly missed a truly marvellous post from November by our friend Natty, whose blog is always so wonderful. She starts:

A few months ago my best friend T. and I were talking about the process we each went through in discovering our core sexuality (homosexuality for him, spanking for me). At one point we began comparing when this exploration took place and he suddenly exclaimed, “oh wow — you came out the same time I did!”

I love this application of the concept of “coming out” to the path so many of us tread as spankos – brave steps, albeit often tinged with (perhaps irrational) terror. I’m not sure it’s a simple one-stage process, though: it has facets of evolution, not overnight revolution. So let me build on Natty’s idea and postulate my own theory of the five stages of ‘coming out’ as it applies to those of us “into” spanking:

Step 1 – coming out to oneself. This is what I like. There are other people like me. This is not unusual or sick. This is an important part of who I am.

Step 2 – coming out to the virtual kinky world: delurking online, perhaps via comments on blogs like this, a contribution to a spanking forum or (in my case) a post to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. (”Oh my goodness will the police arrive at my door within minutes? And what if someone I know reads this?”)

Step 3 – coming out into the real-life kinky world. Meeting another spanko in the flesh for the first time – possibly to chat, eventually to play. (Will they be safe, sane, ‘normal’? Will we get arrested, be on the front page of the newspapers?)

Step 4 – coming out to carefully selected real-life vanilla folks: sharing that one has kinky interests with a very few friends / relatives / colleagues. (Soliciting promises that “you won’t tell anyone, will you?” And finding that they are completely unfazed, yet often somewhat curious - and impressed at your self-awareness).

Step 5 – coming out to all and sundry. Reaching the point when frankly, my dear, you don’t give a damn who knows - and if they have a problem with it, it’s their problem.

I’m through levels one to four, but leaping to that fifth stage still remains a step too far for me – as it does for many, most of our kinky friends.

I wonder: where are you on the path? Did you work through the process in the same order? Where do you want to be on your “coming out” journey by the end of this year?

(And if you’re not yet at step 2, but are feeling bold enough at the start of this new year to embrace something so important to you, why not say comment or email to say “hi”?)

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Abel and I are members of a private library: a venerable establishment over 100 years old, with an archive of books on social sciences and arts. There are wooden desks with lamps and chairs, rows and rows of bookcases, and a winding metal staircase to a gallery up top.

That’s where the education section is, in the opposite corner from the staircase. When I go up there, the steps clang under the soles of my shoes, and then, no matter how daintily I walk, my every step on the old creaky boards announces to the readers downstairs: “Here’s another pervert going to the education section!” (Or, to the readers who go there as often as I do: “Here’s that pervert going to the education section again.”)

Obviously, not every book has anything interesting to say about corporal punishment; some are just really dull memoirs of dull educators with dust in their wigs. And yet… there is plenty for us to sink our spanko teeth in.

This looked like a good source of posts for the new year. In the future I’m going to post the juicy extracts from this glorious archive. You’ll like it, I promise.

P.S. And we haven’t even really started on the prison records yet. Or naval history. Or the Romans. Some of those books are less embarrassingly located, I hope.

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We were upgraded at the resort we’ve been staying in to the most fabulous suite – really, quite the most amazing hotel room I’ve ever seen. The main balcony (we have two, see) stretches the entire width of the top floor of one of the wings of the hotel, with an uninterrupted panoramic view across the sea. The sun’s just risen on the New Year, quite spectacularly, behind one of the islands to my left; a couple of fishing boats are moored in the bay. It’s warm – the cloudless sky hints at another of those almost-too-hot-to-sit-outside days to come. (I have very pale skin, see: I mark easily).

From the left hand edge of the balcony, one can see down to the hotel’s main pool. It’s deserted at this early hour – well before breakfast, well after even the boldest of the skinny-dippers have fled back to the safety of their rooms.

Deserted, that is, save for the four young ladies in hotel uniform standing in an evenly-spaced line on the boardwalk next to the pool. They’re facing the sea, backs to the hotel. A manager stands behind them, cane in hand; at his order, the girls simultaneously lean forward to grasp their ankles. (I pause to wonder how many other early risers are watching the scene from their balconies).

He strolls along the line three times. First, he lifts skirts neatly out of the way. Second, he walks back down, lowering their knickers. And on his third trip, he punishes each girl for the previous day’s misdemeanours with four sharp strokes of his cane. Each swish, each crack resonates through the calm morning air, the harsh sounds of punishment mingling with the crashing waves and twittering birdsong.

Then they dress, and disappear to start their day’s duties, and the poolside is empty once again, as if nothing had happened.

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