The Spanking Writers

I’m wondering about the best way to mark 29th of February. It has to be worthy of some interesting spanking goings on, seeing as you can only repeat the events once every four years…
Abel and I don’t have any particular leap year traditions yet. Four years ago our friends had picked this day to get married, so we were too wrapped in our duties of best man and bridesmaid. Four years before that, there was no “Abel and Haron” yet.

So, this must be the tradition-establishing year. No idea what we’re going to do, but whatever it is, I’ll be sure to report it.

I don’t suppose any of you have spanking traditions for this day that you fancy sharing?

My darling wife and I were struggling to fall asleep the other night, what with the cat (a born hunter of toes) nibbling at the fringes of the duvet, and the wind howling around the house. A spanko conversation became inevitable…

I started to picture the lovely pub-restaurant-with-rooms in which I stayed in Hampshire a couple of weeks back. A businessman – not me, although it was certainly the same place – had been staying for three nights, his waitress for each meal a delightful lass. Long dark-hair; elfin looks; witty and well-educated: a student, maybe, or a recent graduate learning the hospitality trade. Conversation between them flowed, even when she should have been attending to other guests.

On the final evening, disaster at the dinner table: wine (or was it a plate of food) spilling everywhere. The girl was mortified; the gentleman calm (worried only that she seemed so upset). And then the manager appeared, with profuse apologies, drawing the girl to one side.

The gentleman was unable to hear the lecture, but the body language and tone made the scolding plain. As did the demeanour of the waitress when she re-appeared.

He tried to intervene with the manager: how good she’d been, how professional, how he’d caught her arm accidentally. (He hadn’t, but he could try…).

Soon after, she disappeared upstairs, following shortly by her boss. As the guest sipped his coffee, footsteps could be heard on the wooden floor above: the manager’s office, at the end of the corridor of bedrooms.

Footsteps. Followed by silence. Followed by a familiar whack, a pained yelp, echoing down into the restaurant below.

Six strokes, as befits a traditional sort of establishment, each leaving the diners below in no doubt that pooor service would not be tolerated.

The businessman finished his coffee, and headed upstairs, back to his room. As he unlocked the door, the waitress emerged from the manager’s office. She looked down, trying to avoid his eyes, but his whispered words of reassurance led her to him, to a hug… to his room, as he bundled her inside when the office door started to open (“He’ll sack me if he finds I’m still here”).

And there, dear readers, we shall draw a veil lest our thoughts of what subsequently went on between them corrupt you. It was all very chaste, I assure you. At least to start with…

Rationally, I know that a spanked bottom needs moisturiser: both straight after the spanking, and in the intervals between sessions. Moisturised skin is more supple, less likely to break, more likely to heal quickly.

Although I know all this, and although I have plenty of lotions on hand, I quite often forget to do the deed. Right after a spanking, this is less likely to happen, because the application of soothing cream is often a part of scene-play itself. Putting lotion on a spanked bottom is a great way to wind down after a scene, as well as a not-too-subtle seduction technique. Between two spanked girls, it can be a lovely bonding experience.

Day-to-day moisturising is, however, not a part of my routine, though I really think it should be. A few days before a spanking event (like now) I suddenly realise: oooh boy, my bottom could really do with some softening before I have lots of delicious damage inflicted on it. Unfortunately, at this stage it’s a bit late to start, and I know that if I have play more lightly than I’d like, I’ll have nobody but myself to blame.

Here’s a public service announcement: Don’t follow my example, people: take care of your bottom. You’ll thank yourself for it.

(Before anybody asks: my favourite lotion is Palmer’s Cocoa Butter, which you can find in any supermarket for not very much money. But really, any moisturiser will do.)

Weekends aren’t supposed to be like this. Weekends are supposed to be for lazing in bed, rolling over to cuddle girls. For wake-up spankings, leading to quickly-improvised scenes.

Unlike this past Sunday, then: to our local airport at an ungodly hour, to spend the morning flying to Brussels, via the delights of Heathrow,  ready for a Monday morning meeting.

Escaping with hand luggage only (for, after all, there’ll be a girl to spank when I arrive back in London, and I don’t want to delay her thrashing), I had to stop in the airport chemist’s to buy a tube of toothpaste small enough to fit into one of the ghastly clear plastic bags that have taken over our travelling world. (How many hands do they think we have: ‘Before arriving at the scanner, please take off your coat, shoes and belt, and take out your toiletries and laptop’?).

As I queued, I noticed a sweet young thing at the make-up counter, trying on as many of the samples as she could. Before long, her father appeared – irate even in his relief at finding her at last, and whisked her swiftly away to rejoin the rest of the family.

They’d have missed the flight, of course. There are no quiet corners at the airport where a daddy could put a girl over the knee, so “I shall deal with you when we arrive at the hotel.” Their wait for the next one would be long, silent, apprehensive; not even her sister’s hugs could make things better nor help her to forget the not-quite-imminent-enough punishment.

As far as spanking-related dreams go, this was one of the scarier ones: I spent last night being whipped by Forest Whitaker. While I imagine he’d probably be a fine spanker as himself, unfortunately, in my mind he is irrevocably tied to his Oscar-winning role of Idi Amin.

So yes: Idi/Forest was doing some evil dictatorial plotting in London, and I was sent undercover to spy on him, while pretending to be his loyal follower. To prove my love, I had to submit to all sorts of things, and to look like I was enjoying them. This included being spanked and whipped, and I also remember having to wash his feet (eww!)

Dear subconscious: if I must be abused by Oscar-winners, please make it Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch, Rex Harrison as Professor Higgins, or even Adrien Brody as that pianist guy. No more whippings from evil dictators, OK?

A poster for an amateur production of some play or other sparked the kinky fires…

I pictured a school play. The audience was packed for the one-off performance – the Headmaster and Chairman of Governors sitting proudly in the front row; staff, students, proud parents packing the hall.

I can tell you little of the plot, other than it being a rural scene, set in the distant past. Yet I do know that the lead girl – a tall, strikingly pretty lower sixth-former – had rather a thing for the lead boy, one of the school prefects.

The climactic scene called for her to be whipped; the director had pondered the staging long and hard. It needed to look authentic; clearly a real flogging was out of the question.

So she would bend over the chair facing the audience. As her skirt was lifted and drawers parted, the shorts underneath would be invisible to the crowd. As the hero took up the rod, the music would blast out so loud that the absence of the crack of wood on skin as his strokes fell short would be barely noticeable.

Only neither hero nor heroine felt that the scene was quite right. And after the dress rehearsal, they walked, they talked, and she finally plucked up the courage: “I want you to whip me for real…”

I’m glad I don’t believe in Hell, otherwise I’d certainly be going there. Because the quote I’m about to give you is from an online sermon. Yes, really!

My brother and I were sitting on the opposite ends of the couch. I can’t remember what we had been fighting about, I just remember that we had been fighting and it must have been bad because we were sitting there waiting for my dad to come home. Man, I hated to wait for dad to get home.

When you were in trouble, time didn’t pass very quickly. In fact, it seemed to last forever, “wait for your dad to get home.” When my father would get home, I knew that there would be real trouble. I might get a spanking. I would get a lecture, for sure – all because of my brother. Funny, I bet my brother was thinking about the same thing.

Isn’t it funny how people’s mind make completely different things out of the same memories or experiences? I mean, the pastor who wrote this got a sermon on loving one another.

I got a nice fantasy of having a fight with my sister and waiting for Daddy to get home to deal with both of us.

Admittedly, the latter also has a lot to do with love. A spanking relationship is much improved by love!

I unearthed a quite fascinating account of the life story of one Sophie Dawes, born in 1792 on the Isle of Wight, who became known as “The Queen of Chantilly.” It reads rather like a straight version of some Sarah Waters novel!

Her father, a smuggler, died and left his family destitute. Sophie’s family, including her elder sister, were destined for the House of Industry – the local workhouse. Our heroine, a pretty girl in her mid-teens, instead found a job as a chambermaid at the George Hotel in Portsmouth, before making her way to London. Unfortunately, she was dismissed from her first post there, as a milliner, but “was dismissed after an affair with a young water-carrier”. Soon, she was taking to the boards as an actress – and by 1812 she “was the concubine of a wealthy gentleman at Turnham Green”.

Things then took an interesting turn:

When he tired of her she became a harlot in a Piccadilly brothel, it was here that she first attracted the attention of a certain Monsieur Guy, the personal servant of an exiled French nobleman. He thought that the young St. Helens girl would make an excellent companion to his master. Louis-Henri-Joseph. Duc de Bourbon…

Graciously, she played the part of the adoring mistress, submitting to his every whim; even allowing him to play cards with the Duke of Kent, using herself as a stake. In his turn, the infatuated Frenchman lavished money, gifts, and affection upon her. He had her educated at vast expense. She was taught French, Greek, and Latin, Music, dancing and deportment.

The Duc returned to France in 1814 after Napoleon’s death, succeeding his father as Prince de Conde four years later. However, because she was of common blood, Sophie could not be seen to be his official mistress. An ingineous solution was devised:

Instead, it was decided that she was to be known as his “illegitimate” daughter. She was introduced to a Monsieur Adrian de Foucheres, an officer in Louis XVIII’s Guards. The unfortunate dupe fell in love with her. They were married, and allowed to live in the Prince’s palace. The masquerade of respectability was complete…

The Prince was happy, and so was her husband, unaware that his loving wife was also the former’s mistress. With petulant vanity, Sophie lived in the lap of luxury. She staged her own private theatrical, playing all the leading parts herself. She travelled the length and breadth of France, visiting the Bourbon estates and becoming known as the Queen of Chantilly.

However – and this is where this merits a mention on “The Spanking Writers”:

At length, Sophie’s real relationship with the Prince reached the ears of her trusting husband. In thunderous rage he horse-whipped and divorced her.

She then conspired – with the co-operation of the French king – to kill off the Prince, eventually having him murdered by her latest lover. The King’s influence meant that the court’s verdict was suicide, and “Sophie had narrowly escaped the guillotine.” She lived on until 1840 when, in her will:

To her much-wronged husband Adrian de Foucheres, she left 10 thousand pounds. The memory of his cruel whip had not destroyed the sense of guilt she felt for the way she had used him. The proud officer refused to receive a penny of it, however, and it was passed on to a niece of the deceased named Sophie Thavaron.

My Valentine’s Day gift from Abel was a set of new calligraphy pens, nibs and inks. Having not found a home for them yet, I keep them on the table next to my laptop. For some odd reason, the thoughts I have most frequently when I look at them are not about practising calligraphy, but about writing lines.

When I was a kid, it was the one type of punishment I could give to myself. It didn’t get corrupted by my being unable to spank myself hard enough, or lacking a play-partner to physically interact with me. I could simply sit at my table and write lines, pretending I was at school.

As I think about this, I marvel at how diverse line-writing can be. You can use them in several different ways:

1. A punishment in themselves. (A naughty girl is given masses of them to write out in an evening. With a dip pen. When she could be reading or watching TV.)
2. An addition to spanking. (As above, but the naughty girl writes her lines with a tender bottom, or perhaps, with her hands sore from a strapping.)
3. A prelude for further punishment. (As above, but the top checks the sheet for neatness, mistakes and miscounts, allocating another spanking for these.)

I enjoy all three, though the third is my favourite. As long as the top can bring himself to be fair, and not pick on my writing excessively. Not that I’m implying that anybody ever would.

Which do you like best?

Another instalment in our occasional series of court reports from the archives of the Old Bailey, the English criminal court.

Young Elizabeth Conner, aged 23, incurred the wrath of judge Mr Recorder on 20th February, 1799. She:

was indicted for feloniously stealing, on the 4th of January, two neck handkerchiefs, value 12d. a pair of cotton stockings, value 6d. and a ball of worsted, value 1d. the property of George Combie.

Elizabeth was caught in the act by Mrs Combie, who handed her over to the night watchman, John Cowell. A further witness came forward. The young woman confessed to having pawned the handkerchiefs, whilst, “the stockings I thought were of no value to any body, and therefore I put them on.”

Not surprisingly found guilty by the second Middlesex jury, she was “whipped in the jail, and discharged”, presumably to face a long, uncomfotable walk home.