The Spanking Writers

My dream last night, very vivid. A uniformed maid stands very upright, facing the wall, trembling slightly. Behind her, a long, polished dining room table - this is a particularly grand house.Her name is called; she turns, and sees the four girls who have been punished before her, bent in a line over the end of the table. Their skirts are raised: aghast, she sees their red, striped backsides.

She walks towards the master of the house. Despite this being her first punishment at his hands, she already knows the routine, having listened as her four friends were disciplined in turn before her.

She bares her bottom at his command, bends over the table edge, stretches out. She cries out as the whip cuts down, unbelievably painfully. Six strokes, just like each the friends who were now reluctantly observing her thrashing from their table-end vantage point.

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Our friend Catherine has recently shared with us her favourite spanking story, “Boot Camp” by D. Mox. After only a few paragraphs, I could see why it appealed to her, and I thought that more people deserved to know about it.

Set in a Boot Camp set up for a reality TV series, the story follows the adventures of recruit Emma Castille, who has to be one of the most memorable spanking story characters I’ve ever encountered. The plot and the dialogue drew me in, and the spanking scene was electric.

Here’s a taster for you. (And I’m posting this on Saturday morning, because the story is pretty long, and impossible to stop reading, so do avoid opening it when you’ve got work to do.)

His tone was hard and disapproving when he spoke, “Recruit Castille… I’d like to know if you regret slighting my character and inferring that I am stupid!”

Castille whimpered, “Oh, you really have no idea how much, Sir.”

His big hand cracked down on her unpunished cheeks and she yelped loudly in surprise and pain.

“That is not an acceptable answer, Castille!”

She groaned out, “I’m sorry, Sir. Yes, Sir. I am lousy with regret. Completely remorseful. I apologize deeply and offer amends to you and your family.”

McCafferty choked and tried not to laugh. God, the girl could not *keep* herself from being a smartass even when she was sincere! Tag and Schell turned their heads until they stopped chuckling. McCafferty’s voice was strident with his accent, “And what were you thinking today during that pathetic display, Recruit?”

She wished to God he would get on with it and stop torturing her, “I wasn’t, Sir.”

He growled, “Exactly! And it is totally unacceptable to me that a recruit of *mine* would act without thinking!”

He brought down his hand hard on the opposite cheek. A matching pink handprint flared up as the “Crack!” of his hand against her bottom rang in the room. She yelped loudly again.

“I want you to *state* why you are being punished, Castille.”

She squirmed with humiliation, they usually didn’t make recruits talk during punishment. She took a deep breath and murmured in her most official voice, “This recruit was insubordinate, aggressive, and insulting, Sir. This recruit deserves severe punishment for her unwarranted and inappropriate actions.”

He brought his large right hand down again, curling the fingers around her cheek with a loud “Smack!” and growled, “You bet your ass you do.” Then he started spanking her seriously.

I dare every one of the readers who are likely to be spanked some times soon to use the phrase “I’m lousy with regret, Sir/Ma’am”. After you do, please come ’round here and report the consequences!

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One of our occasional commenters here at Spanking Writers wrote to us recently, with a plea. She’d just plucked up the courage to invest in some canes for the first time – and had realised that neither she, nor her husband, actually really knew how to apply a caning safely and effectively. Did I have any advice?

Being keen to ensure that the canes didn’t gather dust in the cupboard for lack of suggestions, I threw together a quick twelve-of-the-best tips for them to consider. I thought it’d be fun to post the list here – and to get others’ comments on technique for newbie caners:

1. Practice first: get used to hitting the target by whacking pillows. (Yes, it may sound silly, but…)

2. Give a warm-up - say an OTK spanking first: it helps to make the cane strokes slightly more bearable (even though some think it’s inauthentic if you’re playing, say, a school scene).

3. Choose the right position. It’s easier to cane accurately, at least if you’re new to it, if the young lady is lying down (perhaps on a bed with a pillow under her hips to lift her bottom up - the top can then stand to the side of the bed). If not, having you bend over something (a chair back, a desk if you have one) is easier than touching-your-toes.

4. Aim at the right spot. Be careful not to whack too high (watch out for the tail bone, particularly) or too low (the crease between the buttocks and thighs is usually seen as a sensible lowest point). Some tops mark the boundaries - the first stroke at the top of the “range”, the second at the bottom, which then it makes it easier to land the remainder on target.

5. Don’t hurry. Twenty seconds or so between strokes is good, to let the impact of the stroke reach its maximum point and level out, before applying the next one.

6. Don’t “wrap”. The worst marks come if the cane tip doesn’t land on the buttocks, but goes right round onto the hips or front of the thighs. Making sure he doesn’t stand too close will help.

7. Don’t be tempted to whack too hard, or too many times, especially the first time. I know I was tempted to give my first spankee 30 of the best. Six, slowly, well-done with cuddles afterwards can be far more intense. And the cane doesn’t need to hit the ceiling on the backswing! (Whilst getting used to wielding the cane, it may also be easier to hold it some way along, thus effectively shortening its length - that can help with accuracy until he’s confident).

8. Close the windows, and put on the TV if you’re at all worried about noise travelling. You want to enjoy it together - not have a worry at the back of your minds about the neighbours hearing and calling the police to rescue the poor woman being beaten next door.

9. Have an appropriate safeword. Sounds obvious, but “no”, “it hurts”, “owwww” and “stoooopppppp” may well come out naturally - yet you may actually be enjoying it (deep down) and wanting the scene to continue. Traffic lights work well (amber = OMG it hurts, so be careful, but keep going; red = stop now).

10. Don’t panic if the odd stroke does go astray. It may well do so - even with experienced players, the odd one does!

11. Have some arnica cream handy (if you can find some), or aloe vera if not, or decent moisturiser if not, and rub it in afterwards.

12. Don’t book a session at the local spa, or in the local swimming pool with vanilla friends, for the following morning! You may have marks that might take a couple of days to fade!

And finally - have fun!

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So, what d’ya think? Any other advice?

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We found a picture of this wonderfully designed customisable clock in “The Guardian”, and decided that every kinky household needs to know about it.

See? The numbers are held in the jaws of tiny crocodile clips, and you can replace them with your own thing.

Such as pictures. Of bottoms with cane stripes.

With a stripe for each hour.

That would be a thing of beauty, right?

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No sooner than I posted an off-hand remark about the number of rounds we girls managed to down in a lovely Welsh pub, Abel’s pervy side of the brain went into overdrive. When I next opened my email, I found this:

Young lady,

If you’re going to write to your friends about your drinking exploits at the weekend, you should be careful not to include me on the distribution list.

Seven alcoholic drinks is most certainly not acceptable. Excessive drinking is not something to be proud of, or about which to gloat.

I’d like to see you in my study as soon as you’ve read this, so that we can deal with this. Thoroughly.

Daddy xx

I gave a silent whoop, punched the air, and raced upstairs straight away.

I regretted this at once, because Daddy was not amused with his girl’s drinking exploits. Even my most earnest explanation that when people are buying you a drink, it’s impolite to refuse, was rejected at once.

He sat on the bed, easily tipped me over his knee and pulled down my jogging bottoms together with my knickers.  I dug my fingertips into the carpet, preparing to feel a crack of his palm, but instead there was an unmistakeable touch of cool wood against my skin.

“Not the hairbrush!” I wailed. “Please, I’m sorry, not the hairbrush!”

The pleading didn’t help very much. The pain of the brush is astonishing, even when it isn’t used very hard. I howled and begged as it cracked down, and apologised most sincerely. I felt Abel throw the brush aside, and rejoiced for a second, before I felt him reach into a bedside drawer for some other implement. Although I couldn’t see it, I soon realised it wasn’t much of an improvement, as its wooden side printed into my skin. (Further inspection revealed this to be a spaghetti measurer, which is effectively a small paddle with variously sized holes.)

After all the spanking and yelling and pleading and wriggling was done, I was sternly ordered onto my feet and into the corner.

“You may stay there and think about your behaviour, and when you feel suitably chastened, you may come and find me,” said Abel in Daddy’s voice before leaving the room. I shuffled into the corner, carefully feeling the hot surface of my bottom with my icy fingertips. My fingers warmed up before my bottom grew any cooler.

“Well?” asked Daddy from the corridor.

“I’m really sorry,” I whimpered, and peek cautiously into the crack in the door. There stood Abel, himself again, and grinning at me like a recently fed cat. I wrapped my arms around his neck, angling my face up for a kiss.

Only then did it occur to me that pulling up my pants first might have been slightly more dignified. Ah, well.

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“The question of how I might be educated loomed larger and larger, prompted partly by our regular visits to the Loreto Convents. These institutions are scattered across India. There is a Loreto School for Girls in every city, some towns and all the major hill stations. At that time they offered a most exclusive and very expensive education to the daughters of the British Raj and the aristocracy and civil servants of India.”

Oh, how my mind was already leaping to conclusions as I turned the pages of Felicity Kendal’s autobiography. But before we reached any disciplinary matters, there was the important question of uniforms. The young lady travelled the country with her parents, as they put on plays to entertain the local populace, and it was therefore decreed that:

Wherever we stayed anywhere for more than a few weeks, I would go to the local Loreto… There was, however the question of school uniforms. Each school had a completely different outfit to adapt to the wildly varying climates and conditions….

We set off for the shops in Bangalore’s Victoria Crescent and retuned an hour later with a big silver trunk… Into this wonderful shiny box, I lovingly packed my new uniforms: the red and white woollies for Simla; the grey and blue pleated skirt for Naini Tal and the navy gymslips for Darjeeling, with tie, blazer, woolly gloves and beret. A horrid khaki cotton dress for Karachi was joined by a sweet gingham job for Bangalore; Bombay was smart beige and yellow; and so on. I padlocked my treasure and hid the key in my luggage, feeling very grown up and the proud possessor of so many important things.

Felicity Kendal Gymslips. Oh my…

Where was I? Oh yes. Discipline. For it appears that she was a rather naughty girl:

I would lead my gang out into the hot dusty playground at break and we would chant ‘BSBG’, which stood for ‘Banging “B” Side Girls’. ‘B’ side girls were taken from poor families who couldn’t pay school fees. They had their own classrooms and a different uniform. The teachers and facilities were the same, and some of the bright girls joined the ‘A’ classes, but they were identifiably different by their dress. Three or more of my gang would like arms and, chatting away, accidentally on purpose ‘bang’ into a ‘B’ side girl.

Eventually, this regrettable behaviour was noticed by the staff, and my prefect badge removed. As well as undergoing the shame of losing my status, I had to stand in front of the entire class to have my hand hit several times with a wooden ruler. My teacher was, quite rightly, livid, and the force of her third stroke broke the ruler in two. The pain was dreadful, but nothing compared with the public humiliation.

As I said early: oh, my…

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I didn’t misbehave on the trip to Wales. Well, not much, and certainly not enough to be punished for it.*

I did, however, learn a bit of Welsh from bi-lingual signs. Specifically, now I know that Welsh for “microwave” is “popty ping”.

I did giggle at first when I read that, but then I had an attack of linguistic geekery. Our Welsh hostess explained that “popty” means “oven”, so evidently, when the time came to make up a word for an oven that goes ping, it was conveniently named “oven ping”. Genius.

Imagine, then, making up your own language, and having to name spanking implements. I have several suggestions.

Cane: stick-crack.

Switch: branch-swish.

Paddle: small-oar-crack.

Hairbrush: just hairbrush, duh.

This would work, I think.

Any other suggestions?

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* Seven vodka-lime-and-lemons? What about that?

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Oh, how conscious I am that for English gentlemen of a certain age, today’s must be the most wonderful post title ever. And, what’s more, it is a true story that I must bring to your attention. (US readers and the younger whippersnappers out there might need it pointing out that Miss Kendal was by some way the cutest actress on TV in the seventies and early eighties. And would still be so were she to appear today, I have no doubt).Haron and I were sitting in our local pub a little while back with Sarah, and I commented that their bookshelves were invariably a source of kinky inspiration To prove the point, I grabbed a copy of “White Cargo”, our heroine’s 1998 autobiography, which deals extensively with her upbringing as the daughter of travelling actors in India.

Soon, she is describing how the family’s maid, Mary, “would smack my bottom, before the kissing and cuddling would break out.”

Before long, she recounts how her mother “reigned over us in cool, crisp cotton.”

“I never disobeyed her; no sensible person would dream of questioning her gentle commands. She never raised her voice and there was no hysteria, just quiet control…. She rarely lost her temper, and only once did she do so with me, when she took a Mason Pearson hairbrush to my bare bottom. Whatever it was I did, I never did it again.”

Oh, how Mason Pearson owe us for that little advertisement!

Stay tuned, dear readers, for coming soon is young Felicity’s account of her schooldays, which certainly do not disappoint.

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It was ten years ago today that I took the amazing, brave, scary step into the unknown and delurked on the internet, posting a story to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. The comments were kind; the police didn’t come knocking at my front door, so more stories and posts followed.

With them came the emails, and with them the new friendships that started to form. Before very long, I started to realise that I didn’t need to feel guilty about those guilty secrets I’d been keeping. (And how was I to know that then-eighteen-year-old student in Ukraine would be downloading my writing, and what that would lead to?!) .

I’ve been re-reading my stories over the past few weeks – 67 of them, remarkably, not counting my writing for the Lowewood blog. Many published, some shared only with friends. (I’m trying to narrow the list down for an anthology of my favourites – watch this space! And we do keep meaning to update our stories site online).

Some things remain the same. The build-up is often the point of the story – I love creating a credible scenario, explaining the background, setting the scene. My girls aren’t usually incurably bad, used to regular punishment, but rather good girls who’ve suddenly fallen from grace.

They certainly don’t enjoy it – and neither do the gentlemen wielding the rod. I’m writing about punishment, not pleasure – set in the schoolroom rather than the bondage club. And there’s little or no sex, even though there may be dark hints of entanglements to come…

But what interests me more is how my writing’s changed, matured even. And it certainly has, not surprisingly – when I wrote my first stories, I was a spanking virgin, writing purely from imagination. (LOL and I wasn’t far off being a virgin in other regards, too!).

Four changes really strike me. First, nudity. OK, I confess – I like, love the sight of naked women. In my early stories, girls were regularly stripped for punishment – now, that’s rarer and more appropriate to the scene being played out.

The offenders had it harder, back then: twenty strokes and a girl got off lightly! Not that some of my more recent writing hasn’t featured harsh punishment – but that tends to be the exception rather than the rule, and more likely to be in a judicial setting that anywhere scholastic.

There’s the description of the individual strokes – now less onomatopoeic: I’ve found more creative ways to describe punishments than with a “WHACK! CRACK! THWACK!” repeated a dozen times.

And the girls themselves rarely get described in physical detail. Not because I don’t have a vivid picture of them in mind when I’m writing: I usually do. But I want my readers to relate: sometimes, to put themselves in the shoes (or bare feet) of the young lady being thrashed. And if a reader’s short and fair, and the main character’s described as being tall and dark, that could be alienating, off-putting.

Does that mean I don’t enjoy my older writing? Not at all – I’ve been delighted in my re-reading to find how much I like it. There are some hot scenes in there, waiting to be resurrected in real-life play. But ten years on, life’s improved so much for the better, and I’d like to think that my writing has, too.

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The next few days promise to be bags of fun, as I’m joining a few of my female spanking friends for a girly weekend away. LittleNic has stopped by our house to pick me up, and we are Thelma & Louise-ing off into the distance as Abel waves sadly from the doorway. Woohoo!

For the most part, I intend to be good. Because we’re good girls, all of us. However, I can’t help thinking that coming back on Sunday night may involve having to explain to Daddy why my friends’ parents are refusing to invite me for sleepovers again.

I haven’t mentioned this idea to Abel yet, but I don’t think he’ll object too vigorously.

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