The Spanking Writers

In my dream I was at school again. It was a mixed class for a change, rows of boys and girls listening to an incredibly boring lesson on something religious, some Bible verse (which I’m not sure really exists) on taking the blame for your neighbour in an hour of need. Something like that.

The teacher disliked me for some reason, I knew that. But I was more concerned with a boy in my class I really liked. I was just trying to summon the nerve to ask him out after the lesson was over, when the teacher started accusing me of something. Some misdeed I had no idea I was guilty of. I was told to go to the front and bend over for the cane.

Just at that moment the boy I fancied stood up in his seat and cried: “Sir, it was me, I did it!”

I could see the teacher grinding his teeth; after the lesson about taking the blame for thy neighbour and whatnot, he couldn’t forbid this boy for taking the cane on my behalf.

I was ridiculously grateful. Although in this dream I didn’t mind being caned, it was incredibly pleasant to be the object of such sacrifice. I felt sorry for the boy, but now I knew for sure that he liked me too.

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According to a report earlier this month in The Guardian, Pierre Cardin is spending millions in an attempt to turn the small town of Lacoste into a cultural enclave. The place has an interesting history:

Only the imposing, half-ruined castle that once belonged to the Marquis de Sade hints as a darker truth of the feudal rulers who lorded it over the villagers in this south-eastern corner of France… de Sade’s chateau [is] said to have inspired the gothic settings for his novels of sexual perversion.

Cardin has “spent millions restoring the castle” and his plans for the village include “luxury hotels, a top restaurant, a de Sade café and a piano bar.”

A de Sade café?!! The mind just boggles. I suspect that the conditions of employment for the waitresses are likely to be rather strict. And is it too much to hope that one of said hotels might be located in the castle itself, all themed rooms, whips available from room service and “would sir care to make use of the dungeon”?

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After my return from a month’s exile, it didn’t take Abel too long to remind me that life isn’t all shopping trips and drinks in the pub. No sooner than we made it back from the airport and had some food, he innocently said:

“Do you like my new belt?”

I looked. And closed my eyes, to see if the monstrosity would go away if I blinked. And then I looked again. The belt was still there: the thickest, widest strip of leather I’ve ever seen, liberally decorated with massive metal studs. With a belt like that, Abel would have been welcome at a hard rock festival. He was clearly delighted at having sneaked in a purchase like that while I wasn’t looking.

I honestly told him that the belt suited him very much. And that I was sure it was purely decorative.

For a short while I even believed it to be so. He sat on the bed and invited me over his lap, he reminded me what a spanking felt like. (A note, in case I ever actually forget: at first it feels kind of warm and lovely, and then he gets into the swing of things, at which point it hurts like hell and you begin to wonder what you’re doing in the same room as this monster, never mind being married to him.)

After my bottom felt like I had accidentally sat on a bee hive, Abel sternly ordered me to bend over the bed. I cautiously looked around the room, wondering whether he’d brought anything from home to use on me, and saw to my dismay that he’d picked up the monster belt.

He considerately folded it the soft side out, with the metal bits safely covered up, and asked me how many strokes I thought were appropriate for the occasion. I bit my tongue on “none,” and suggested six. And you know what? Even folded - and even used quite lightly - that belt is a good candidate for a charity give-away some time when Abel isn’t looking. I did get one really hard stroke - the final one, aimed across the tops of my thighs - and it made me question whether I was still into spanking at all.

Five minutes later, however, the sharp pain turned into a comfortable glow, the smacks turned into hugs, and I knew I was home again.

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A few months ago, an ever-so-lovely attendee on one of my courses instigated a discussion about her teenage switchings. (Some of you might remember the post that inevitably resulted).

Well, T and I have stayed in email contact since. All very vanilla, very professional. Very subtext of “I like you. A lot.” Both ways.

Now, I learn, she’s coming over from the States to attend a course that I’m running at the start of July. Nothing will happen, of course: “Thou shalt not spank thy clients” ranks top of the list of my business commandments, even ahead of “Thou shalt not bed them”!*

But I can dream. And dream I did, last night, entirely in keeping with my self-imposed rules.

There’s a course dinner on the first night of the event. I’m packing up at the end of the day’s workshop, chatting to the participants. T waits for everyone else to leave, then sidles up to my side, downcast: “I’m afraid I can’t come to dinner tonight.”

“But everyone’s supposed to be there.” (Especially you. We’re going to sit next to one another, and talk, and flirt ever so harmlessly).

Avoiding my eyes. “I can’t. I’m grounded.”

I made her explain: her partner had imposed his authority, following a fiesta of breaking their clearly- and mutually-agreed rules. She could go to work, but she would be home by 6pm every evening. Prompt. No excuses.

Pause. Gulp. “And on Thursday night I’ll get caned, and then the punishment will be over.”

She’s single. She’s thousands of miles from home. She won’t be grounded. There’s no partner to cane her. And it’s probably a good thing I’m not staying in the same hotel. Although I am looking forward to that course dinner

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To celebrate my homecoming after the ridiculously long time apart, Abel took a day off.

It’s June, and we’re in London, so it would have been wrong not to go shopping in the sales - so we did. We rode a long escalator in Debenhams, with enormous red “50% OFF” signs flapping around us like flags.

We imagined a similar sign outside a Headmaster’s door at the end of the term. “50% off your punishment.” The Head would announce at assembly that he still had some offences from the previous term, where the culprits were unknown. He really wanted to deal with the events, and not allow them to drag on until the following term, and so he would offer an amnesty.

Any culprit who came to his office and admitted to any misdeeds before the end of term, would receive half the usual number of strokes.

If, however, she didn’t come forward, but was somehow discovered during the following term, she would receive the full punishment, plus an extra 50% for her cowardice.

I can imagine girls who’d committed relatively minor offences being quite torn. The chances of being discovered for something small weren’t great, particularly after a long time - but if they didn’t come forward, a relatively light punishment would suddenly expand by half.

I’m not actually sure what I’d do under the circumstances…

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Back in 1841, the good folks of London erected a fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square, designed for a statue of the late king, William IV. Problem was, they ran out of money, and the statue was never built.

For the past few years, the site has therefore hosted various works of modern art, selected in open competition. The most recent work to be selected is by the quite brilliant Anthony Gormley. His piece of ‘art’ is that for 100 days, the plinth will be occupied by members of the public for one hour each. According to Gormley:

‘Through elevation onto the plinth and removal from common ground, the subjective living body becomes both representation and representative, encouraging consideration of diversity, vulnerability and the individual in contemporary society’.

So here’s the plan. When they invite people to apply for their sixty minutes of fame, Haron and I will be proposing to share the plinth. I’ll be dressing in Headmaster’s gown and mortar board, carrying a traditional crook-handled cane. She’ll be in school uniform, and will spend the hour touching her toes. (Whether I’ll actually be able to thrash her non-stop for an hour, no doubt urged on by the baying crowd, presumably depends on the rules they impose and the presence – or otherwise – of the police!).

After all, kink is an example of ‘diversity’. A girl being punished must be showing ‘vulnerability’. And the proposal certainly classes as ‘individual’. Readers are encouraged to submit their own applications, along similar lines!

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There are those in the scene who struggle to take six of the best; there are others who are disappointed if the tally comes to less than 60. One of the tests of a good top is therefore their ability to tailor the scene and the whacking to the preferences of their play partner. Give the “6″ girl 60, and she’d rightly scream blue murder. Give the “60″ girl 6, and she’d wonder why a light tickling was now classed as a thrashing.

Our friend Cath falls into the latter category: only a really hard, sustained series of strokes will do. One evening earlier in the month, she and I played a scene in which I gave her 50 with a new, particularly mean cane, and she took it remarkably bravely. (Until stroke 42, hey, Cath?).

Cuddling afterwards, and admiring her stripes, my Machiavellian side came to the fore. “So, young lady: that concludes the first part of your sentence.”

See, when the courts sentenced a girl to 150 strokes, the prison’s punishment officer would only give her 50 on the first evening. That’d be enough to punish the girl severely, to make her realise how painful a flogging could be – and to spend the night dreading the remaining 100 (twice as many again! over existing marks!) to be administered the following morning. Thus, rather than one painful whacking, over in minutes, the ordeal would be drawn out over hours.

We concluded that she’d been caught tearing down The Party’s propaganda, replacing it with her own subversive posters. Her thrashing would serve both to punish her, and to make an example of her to others who may have contemplated undermining the authority of their government.

The pained look on Cath’s face every time she sat down the following day was delightful to behold – even if each wince quickly gave way to a big grin! I, on the other hand, seemed to develop a mild form of Repetitive Strain Injury from the experience, the pain in my right wrist for days after making typing at work remarkably painful.

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…Well, almost. She was in a scandal, and she needs a spanking.

Apparently, Princess Eugenie (aka “the cute 18-year-old one”), was enjoying some end-of-year mischief with her girlfriends when a member of staff woke up:

The tabloid Sun newspaper reported that a college staff member woke to playful shrieks and found several young women dancing around without clothes.

It said there was no suggestion boys were present or that drugs were involved but claimed a pupil said the students had been drinking.

I’m glad that at least one royal is capable of enjoying life without breaking the law or insulting entire nations in the process. Good for her.

…But that was my naughty side speaking. My responsible side says that young Eugenie shouldn’t get away with dancing around naked on the school premises. Obviously, there needs to be some sort of punishment involved.

I wonder if she has a whipping girl? I wonder if the palace is recruiting one now?

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My darling wife’s due home before very long: she’s been acting as a Florence Nightingale looking after her parents, and I can’t wait to hold and hug her. Oh, and to spank her, of course.

I’ve been toying with ideas for the “first scene back”. Much as I want to upend her over my knee for an OTK hand-spanking, it seems a shame to waste the comparatively rare opportunity of her having a bottom that’s gone unwhacked for quite so long.

So I’m picturing a schoolgirl, in a renowned college where corporal punishment is very much the last resort. Housemasters and Housemistresses can and do cane, but it’s a comparatively occasional occurence. And those rare canings are more ceremonial than cruel: it’s the very act of bending over to be caned (a maximum of four strokes, across a girl’s skirt, with a light cane) that punishes more than the pain.

It’s the Headmasterial canings that are truly to be dreaded. He always gives six strokes. Always on the bare. Always with a senior cane. But only one, maybe two girls per term find their way to his study. And Haron could be one of them…

Or it’s the end of term. The three sisters know the tradition: they line up outside Daddy’s study on the first evening home, and one-by-one are called in to hand him their school report. They watch as he reads, crave his praise, dread his disapproval. He reads nice comments aloud: “I’m so pleased with Mrs Watson’s comments about your hard work in Geography this term.” And he raises an eyebrow, and asks for an explanation of any misconduct or shortcomings.

The end of every discussion is marked with a hug, and a “lovely to have you home”. Only on some occasions, where a girl has fallen short of the high standards that she and he would expect, that hug is prefaced by an instruction to “take down the cane from the top of the bookcase”, and a carefully-administered, loving correction.

Haron’s always been the good girl of the three: the one who comes top of her class, who shines even more than her ever-so-clever sisters. She’s listened over the years as the two elder girls have gone in before her. She’s learned to worry for them if the conversation has started to drag on for much longer than usual. She’s heard the whacks, the sobs; participated in the cuddles afterwards. And, as the youngest, she’s then gone in last - to be praised. Always, to be praised.

This time it’s different: the first year she’s been alone in the line, her sisters now at University. And it’s the first time she’s known that her report she’s held in her trembling hands would disappoint, her lack of self-discipline in the run-up to the exams reflected in a series of unacceptably low marks…

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The Guardian a couple of days ago showed us -

David Willetts, MP for Havant, is unveiling Hayling Island’s latest tourist attraction this weekend: a replica set of public stocks. The organisers, Discover Hayling, claim that they form “the latest attempt to put the Hampshire island back on the tourist map”.

I’m a big fan of sets of stocks in the town square. Quite a few villages around us have their own, set in the middle of the village green, waiting for the miscreants. I don’t think the stocks do all that much for the tourism: even Abel and I don’t travel somewhere specifically to see them.

I suggest that “Discover Hayling” build a whipping post next to them, and invite reenactors to liven up the scenery on market days. I’m volunteering my husband to wield the whip.

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