The Spanking Writers

Clearly there’s nothing like an online opinion poll to bring out the natural sadist who lurks within!Thanks – I think! – to all of you who contributed yesterday to deciding my fate after the alarm clock debacle. More of the outcome in a moment, but first I should say a few words about what led me to end up in such a thoroughly ignoble situation.

I really was distraught at what I’d done – I’ve never forgotten to change my clocks before! My only (and poor) defences are that I’d been away all weekend (I would normally do them before bed on the Saturday night) and, by my return on Sunday evening, I was shattered after being dirty stop-out the night before and clearly was not thinking straight. Although I’d changed my watch when I got up on Sunday, the thought of altering all my home clocks never entered my head until what turned out to be 7.33am yesterday!

The one – and only – saving grace in the whole affair was that Abel didn’t have any early morning business meetings. It’s one thing to make yourself late through your stupidity, quite another to cause someone else to be. Had that been the case then I doubt any spanking or caning could have assuaged my guilt. As it was, the tube had a rare and exquisitely-well-timed trouble-free morning and I also made it to work on time, albeit after a mad panic! Thus the dye was cast for a readers’ poll to decide my fate!

Whilst I agree with Rob and Evie that an option D – none of the above – would’ve been nice, I’m aware that equally D could have meant ALL of the above, as advocated by littlenic (cheers m’dear!) so perhaps the choice was best left as just A-C! I’m also pleased to report that Simon’s unpleasant “no supper” twist was avoided – a particularly nasty thought! In fact, there are so many potential variations of punishments that I’m sure A-Z could be achieved with the help of SW readers, but that would be something of a pain to adjudicate!

As it is, by totting up the scores and then adding in a couple of verbal votes cast by friends over dinner last night (thanks friends!), the decision of the panel was B: 60 spanks otk. I wasn’t really sure whether to feel relieved or horrified, to be honest. Had I been granted super-delegate” status as Elizabeth suggested then my main concern would’ve been to try and veto C. The thought of a sound telling-off from Abel is, I think, even scarier than a sound thrashing! Anyway, you voted for me to be spanked, so spanked I was.

Abel waited till I was ready for bed before inviting me over his knee. There was no lecture to be given and no clothing to be removed, just a bare bottom presented by a very sheepish girl. However, before he started, Abel added a pertinent little twist, to help make the punishment even more memorable: “You can count them for me, beginning with 6.34.” As in 6.34am. Neat, I had to admit. And really quite humiliating.

So Abel began to rain his hand down at a steady, unremitting pace, and I counted obediently back to him: “6.34, 6.35, 6.36, 6.37.” It wasn’t the hardest spanking he’s given me – not by some way. I’m sure it took account of how bad I already, genuinely felt over the whole affair though, and perhaps also of the particularly dire day at work I’d had since my so-timely arrival that morning.*

A good top will, after all, dispense discipline which fits both the occasion and the individual sub, as well as the crime itself. I certainly felt my spanking, but I wasn’t brutalised or traumatised by it. For some reason, the smack accompanying 6.47 was particularly nasty though! Thereafter, those which marked the quarter-hours were also made deliberately memorable! My whole bottom was covered as I counted, minute by minute, through the hour by which we were late getting up, and by the time we reached 7.33, I was well-reddened and glowing hot!

My apology, having been allowed to rise, was heartfelt, and I doubt very much that I will ever forget to change my clocks again! In fact, I suspect the onset of a certain paranoia in that department from this day forward! I hope that you will also consider my penance to be duly paid – and thank you all, readers, for the part that you played!

* To cut a long story short, I’ve been made redundant just a few weeks after starting my supposedly wonderful new job

The girl waiting our table in a London cafe was sweet, cute and efficient, but extremely shy. Every time she came by to set down a piece of cutlery or a plate of food, she blushed and apologised with no real reason for either.”Sorry,” she would say putting down a napkin.

“I’m so sorry,” there comes a cup of coffee.

I just wanted to scream: “It’s okay! Honestly! Feeding us is fine, you don’t have to apologise!”

Just we set about demolishing our cake, a young man walked into the relatively empty cafe, and strode moodily to the bar. (In the interests of full disclosure I must say that he was extremely good-looking in an arrogant sort of way.) He showed no interest in ordering, and instead he leaned onto the counter, and stood there, silent and glaring, until our sweet waitress had a spare moment to come and talk to him. When she approached, he spoke to her in Portuguese, his tone harsh, his features frowning. She replied with a blush noticeable even from where we sat, and darted away to serve somebody with their coffee. He frowned, and waited for her to come free again.

This dance continued in front of us. She would spare a minute to talk to the guy, he would glare and growl, she would respond pleadingly, and flit away with a plate of food.

Not understanding any Portuguese, I had to supply my own story.

The moody guy was the girl’s brother. She was supposed to be at home, studying at her local university. She had always wanted to travel and see the world, but her parents said she had to finish her degree first. Then, last Christmas, she announced she was going away with her girlfriends for a few days: a short hop over the border to Spain, that was all.

Except, when the girlfriends returned, she was not with them. Shamefaced, they reported to the girl’s father that she had suspended her course at uni, and has gone travelling. None of them knew where exactly; she had carefully kept her plans to herself.

Not wishing to involve the police, the father hired a private detective, who carefully followed her trail as she travelled around Europe, taking on small jobs to keep cash coming in. Finally, after a few months, he discovered her in London, waiting tables in Soho by day and soaking up metropolitan life at night. The girl’s brother was promptly dispatched to fetch her home without raising a scandal.

And here they were: the guy, watchful and seething, and the girl, stumbling and apologising to customers through her last minutes of freedom. “Don’t try to slip away,” were her brother’s first words to her. “You’re coming home.” He put his hands on his waist, hooking his fingers into his belt, and she knew at once that she wouldn’t dare defy him.

She was going home, to face her father’s wrath.