The Spanking Writers

Another spanking dream last night, triggered by an exchange of emails. Most of my online friends tend to prefer the (thought or reality) of being on the receiving end of a spanking; I’ve been chatting recently to a domme who commented here recently.

It’s interesting to share experiences with another implement-wielder, and that’s what triggered the dream: I’d arranged with a domme that we’d play a scene, with Haron as our (willing) victim.

Cut to a study: Haron in school uniform. As her uncle and guardian, I sat in an armchair; she stood, in full school uniform, before the desk as the Headmistress quizzed, lectured, before turning to me. “In the circumstances, I shall be suspending her for one week. And I also believe it would be appropriate to precede her suspension with a caning.”

The regulations insisted that she sought my permission to use corporal punishment on my ward: it was granted without hesitation. My girl was made to fetch the cane from its hook in the corner of the room, to hand it to the Headmistress. To bare herself, removing her skirt and knickers. To bend over the desk. “Eight hard strokes” were announced, and proceeded to stripe their way impeccably across her naked buttocks. Eight strokes, as I watched, plus extra for the ones that made her leap up from the position she’d been instructed to hold.

Punished, tearful, she was sent to stand in the corner, hands on head, weals on display. The Headmistress recorded the details in the Punishment Book, which I counter-signed. She asked me to make sure that the week’s suspension was no vacation: that I used the time to help Haron to understand the dire consequences of further misbehaviour.

And then Haron was told to dress, and made to accompany me to the car. We drove (her still in uniform, us both still in character), until we reached home*. She was sent straight to her bedroom, to change into pyjamas and wait for me. I left her for a little while: to contemplate, before I arrived at her door. There was no need for delay: I unbuckled my belt straight away as I explained my disappointment at the way in which she had let me, and herself, down.

The belt was folded double; she bent over the end of the bed; I steered down her pyjama bottoms. And thrashed her: severely, yet lovingly. I sat on the bed next to her as she curled up under the duvet afterwards: ran my hands through her hair, re-assured, accepted her promises that she would learn from the experience. Then I walked to the door, flicked off the light, and left her alone in the room to cry.

* Amusingly, both the ’study’ and ‘home’ in the dream were rooms in the hotel I stayed in last week. The ‘drive home’ became a short trip around the block: out of the hotel car park, a mile along the road, around the roundabout and back!

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Yesterday, to my endless amusement (that was, after my endless annoyance wore off), upon coming home from a walk, I heard:

“Do you know what time it is?”

(My answer was very polite: “Yes, Mother, it’s 7.30.”)

However, when I texted Abel with the story, he gave me an idea for a better answer:

“Do you know what age I am?”

This is so perfect that I don’t know if I can resist throwing the line back at him in some future scene. Except, I can only imagine how much the consequences would hurt… Ouch.

It’s so tempting, though. So very tempting. I’m definitely filing it away. Thanks, darling

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We have found a curious passage in Time Magazine from Monday, Jan. 20, 1941.

Eton College (prep school), on whose playing fields the Battle of Waterloo was said (by the Duke of Wellington) to have been won, was bombed last month. When Etonians explored the ruins, they made a tingling discovery: the famed old “birching block,” over which headmasters had birched (i.e., flogged) boys’ bottoms for generations, was missing.

Although many an Etonian was disposed to let well enough alone, antiquarians searched diligently, eventually found the birching block’s remains in a bomb crater. Last week they reverently picked up the pieces, installed them in the Eton Museum.

I can well imagine some boy, who’d been flogged just before the bombing, looking at the birching block and heartily wishing: “I hope it bloody burns! And the Headmaster with it!”

Then - bang, crash, lots of dust and broken stone, the pieces of the block… The boy looking frantically for the Headmaster: “I didn’t mean it about him burning, I didn’t!”

I bet he would need to go to confession and pay the penance, even though the Headmaster is found alive and intact.

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Our friend Cath, newly arrived in a foreign country, sends me a text message:

Omg just got a fright - had a cop car tailing me for the last 15 miles - lights flashing but no siren - right into the village. Luckily it turned off about half a mile before me - but I was so careful to stick to the speed limit! Couldn’t work out if I’d done something wrong - guess not!

I think she wanted sympathy. Instead, I replied:

Phew! And I won’t fantasise about a girl newly-arrived in some foreign country, being taken into the police station and offered the choice of having her offence put on record, or the “we do uphold traditional ways here: you could take a birching instead” option!

No. I wouldn’t fantasise about that sort of thing at all. Not the narrow stairs leading to the cold, stone punishment room. Not the commanding officer, appearing in the doorway, switch in hand. Not the order to lower her jeans and stretch out over the end of the wooden table.

Not the strokes, and the cries, and the agonising moment when, once it was over, she had to pull her trousers back up over a freshly-welted bottom. Not her painful drive home afterwards.

No, I really wouldn’t. Honest. Much.

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“So how’s your writing?” asked my friend yesterday. She’s one of my oldest friends, used to sit two rows back from me at school, and was one of the early readers of what passes for creative fiction when the writer is fourteen.

My writing was great, I assured her. Most of it was in English these days. Some of it got published, yeah; she wouldn’t want copies. Most of it was also, um, well… sort of naughty. *whisper* Erotica, you know.

“Cool!” said my friend. “Let me guess, does it involve, teachers and students?”

…When you’re fourteen, and a baby writer, and kinky but don’t know it, you write spanking stories and think they’re just stories, and show them to your friends.

Then you grow up, and realise you’re kinky, and laugh at the old stories, and write some new ones - anonymously, online.

You think that your friends have forgotten the long series about that girl in that strict boarding school, or that one about the magician’s apprentice who got into trouble five times a day, or that one a pair of home-tutored twins.

Well, your old friends remember. And when you grow up to write erotica? They aren’t very surprised.

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Phew! Now that’s what I call a great escape.

See, it’s Father’s Day today. So, dutifully, a week or so back I wrapped up my dad’s present. A book, just out, about one of his favourite restaurants.

Meanwhile, a close friend has just moved abroad. We bought her a leaving present, as one does. A book. Only somewhat older – a dusty volume, containing a history of corporal punishment through the ages.

I wrapped it. And now for the basic error: in the same wrapping paper as my dad’s gift. And then went to make myself a cup of tea.

It was only after popping the Father’s Day gift into the envelope, ready for my trip to the Post Office, that it occurred to me to double-check that I’d picked up the right book. There was nothing for it but to unwrap the volume - and it was a good thing that I checked. I mean, I know we know he’s fascinated by spanking, and so would have loved his surprising gift – but I doubt my mum would have approved of the illustrations in the book that he so nearly received.

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In my dream, I was a princess, a king’s younger sister.* I had been promised to somebody since I was young, but some sort of political trouble recently made my hand available again, and ambassadors have started to swarm around the palace.

I knew I would never be allowed to marry for love, but my brother promises to listen to my preferences as far as possible. Portraits of dukes and princes are delivered to me, and I walk around the makeshift gallery of possible husbands. I look at their faces, sure, but most of all I look at their hands.

Which one looks strong? Which lap would I most like to tumble over? Which one of them looks like I could push him just far enough, but not further, before he grasps me by the upper arm and draws me to his rooms for a spanking?

I guess, if I were a princess, I’d be a little bit shallow.

* Why, yes, I’ve been reading horrendous amount of fantasy over the last week; how can you tell?

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The Times Argus reports a recent visit from 21 Mississippi school students to Cabot School in Vermont.

The southern guests explained that they “can be paddled for a list of offenses that include talking back, picking up a piece of paper without permission and being tardy three times… The assistant principal administers the paddling, which is done in the presence of a teacher.”

No particular surprise there. But I was taken aback when the article explained that:

The wooden paddles are about 1 inch thick, 5 inches wide and 18 inches long – excluding the handle – and have 24 holes. They are often made by students in the building trades classes, sometimes in exchange for privileges such as hall passes.

Made by students?! I wonder whether “go and fetch the paddle” ever morphs into “go and make a paddle”? (Haron: did you do woodwork at school, my dear?).

Do students facing punishment ever recognise the paddle that’s about to make its mark (”hey, I made that”)? Do they do mail order? What would happen to a group of girls caught deliberately making a batch of paddles out of lighter wood, cutting it thinner, maybe even scoring a fault into the wood to make sure it broke when used?

And was the Mississippi group polite enough to bring a hand-crafted gift with them, to be presented to the Vermont principal? Made of especially thick, extra-dense wood…

By the way. it is said that, “When the Mississippi students first met their Vermont counterparts last year, they were amazed to learn that Vermont students are not given paddlings.” Indeed. But apparently the Vermont group will be on their very best behaviour when undertaking a return visit to their new friends in Mississippi.

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My teddy bear was pleased with my recent trip to the States, as I brought back a present for him. He’s now proudly sporting an “Obama 08″ badge – which looks a little incongruous on his monk’s habit, it must be said, but bears can’t be choosy.

I was amused to read recently about 95-year-old Charles Edwards presenting said Presidential Candidate (how wonderful to write that!) with a maple walking stick. Obama waved it about, commenting:

“This is a beautiful stick. I really like this. And if members of congress don’t pass my health care bill? I’m ready! I’ll whoop them. I’ll whoop them! That’s right. They better not mess with me. I’ll have that stick.”

Haron is at this very moment preparing her run for Congress - on an anti-healthcare reform ticket.

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BBC News talks about an exhibition in Kensington Palace dedicated to débutantes.

Apparently, the girls used to have a special abbreviation code to talk about the young men they met during the season. Such as:

FU = financially unstable
NSIT = not safe in taxis

What they forgot to mention is that there was also:

OTK = gives a rather delicious spanking

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