The Spanking Writers

Our Viennese guidebook informed us that, just a few minutes’ walk from our hotel, we could find the site of a major weekly flea-market.

Abel immediately lit up with the idea of finding a pile of implements discarded by retired Austrian disciplinarians, parents of teenagers who’d left for university, and other folks who may not need their collections any more.

Although we didn’t discover a great deal of spanking paraphernalia amonth the mountains of delightfully insane stuff the locals were selling off that day, we were not disappointed on our quest. We came across a weaver’s stand, and were immediately drawn to his vast display of carpet-beaters in all sorts of sizes and designs.

The one we picked up was a perfect specimen: of a medium size, so that it can cover but not dwarf a naughty girl’s bottom, nicely woven, but not too paddle-like in density; all the knots in the rattan were polished away, all the joints sanded smooth. It came back with us, and waited for its hour.

This didn’t come until we were installed in our hotel back in Heathrow, free of our delightful, but limiting vanilla company. Abel rummaged in the suitcase and emerged with the carpet-beater at the ready.

I was suddenly not sure I liked it any more.

“What, now?”

“Yes, now, young lady. Over the bed. Quickly now, I need to re-pack.”

This last made us both giggle. Ah, the romance of a relationship in its seventh year! I assumed the position with no more protestations.

The delicate-looking toy cracked into my skin with a vicious bite. I belatedly remembered its original purpose. No wonder it hurt; carpets world over would quiver before its wrath.

“Ouch!” I complained when it struck again. “That’s nasty!” I attempted to stand up, but Abel lightly pushed me in the back.

“Stay down,” he said sternly. “You didn’t think you would get away with any less than six of the best?”

My argument was going to be that, although made of rattan, this was hardly a cane, so traditional numbers of strokes didn’t apply, but I had no time to express this complex objection. Abel took a swing and gave me a great whack, which he followed with three more in a quick succession. I wailed, jumped up and clutched my bottom. The sensation was not unlike being caned with 5 canes at once must be like.

“I think this works,” said Abel smugly. Hmm, yes, I think so.

The carpet-beater was zipped away into the suitcase, and our Austrian adventure was truly over. However, writing this on the train home, I can feel a ghost of sting as I shift in my seat. As far as holiday mementos go, this one is proving quite lasting.

Although we’re back in the UK after our holiday in Vienna, you’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve not yet run out of the kinky ideas generated by the trip.

Another of our Viennese escapades took us to an exhibition of Leonardo da Vinci’s inventions. Scale models, recreated from his original drawings, demonstrated his ingenuity.

“Touching explicitly allowed,” proclaimed the leaflet. Sadly, this actually meant that you were activly encouraged to experiment with the various contraptions – rather than that I had to fondle Haron intimately as we toured the display.

It’s claimed that Leonardo invented the glider, helicopter, bicycle, tank, robot and more. And, of course, it was his spanking machine which particularly caught our eye. The girl would be bent over a beam, her ankles and wrists secured with wooden shackles. The officer would stand behind and to one side. As he turned a handle, an intricate series of cogs and pulleys powered a large paddle, the height of which could be adjusted to deliver a perfectly-placed, exceptionally hard swat every time.

Or maybe we just imagined that one. Shame, really: it would have been fun to have tied Haron down and demonstrated Leonardo’s genius to the assembled crowd.

Schönbrunn Palace, the summer residence of Austrian emperors, doesn’t lose its ability to amaze. The vast gardens, the baroque interiors, the punishment implements of old…

There was no explanation card for this display, but we concluded that it was the implement for dealing with errant housemaids. It was shown next to maid’s uniform, so what else could it have been?

The museum continued to impress as we walked on to the schoolroom of the Hapsburg princes:

Alas, there were no facilities to try out the implements or recreate the scenes. It was OK, though; we’ll make sure to do that at home.

Many of you will be familiar with the SSC, the summer Short Story Contest at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup.

Each year, entries are invited for various categories – and it’s fun to contribute. (Hey, what else is one to do on holiday?!). I posted an entry t’other day in the “Adult” category, which has a 500-word limit. I’m reproducing it below, for your kinky entertainment…

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THE PUNISHMENT CELL

They’d left her alone. Here, in this room. Just her and the punishment frame, and the small pile of prison clothes that she’d removed, as instructed, and placed in a neat pile on the floor.

Watson had brought her here. The officer in charge of C wing. The officer with whom she’d argued earlier in the day. (Why had she argued? Why had she been so stupid? Why couldn’t she turn back time?). Led her, handcuffed, down the long, silent, antiseptic corridors, unlocking each of the heavy doors in turn, locking them firmly behind her. Brought the girl who’d questioned his authority to the place where it would be demonstrated to her in such unequivocal terms.

Then left, without so much as a glance.

Ten minutes ago? Thirty? Hard to keep track of time.

Too long. Not long enough.

Her eyes kept glancing to the polished wooden contraption in the centre of the high, bare cell. Glancing, looking away, steeling herself, glancing back. The leather ties that would bind her ankles. Looking away. Looking away. The smooth, dark wood over which they’d have her bend, the ties for her wrists on the opposite side. Looking away. Looking away.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold. So cold, sitting here, naked, on this solitary plastic chair. A single bulb hung above her, the only frail source of light or warmth in this lonely place.

She’d been caned on admission, as the magistrate had instructed to her shock and to cries of disbelief from her family and friends crowded into the tiny courtroom. Twenty strokes as she touched her toes in the prison’s reception room, between stripping from her own clothes and covering herself with the rough, ugly, government-issue uniform. Each stroke unbearable, for its pain and its shame, each marking her transition, her loss of freedom.

But today was different. No cane here. No mere admissions officer. Any moment now: the prison Punishment Officer, bearing a birch. The birch, of which the girls whispered so reverentially. (Apart, that is, from those who’d received it: they fell silent, looked away, tried not to remember. Tonight, she’d become one of them).

They would flog her until they were confident that she would co-operate fully for the remainder of her sentence, they’d said. Until she understood that girls did not challenge officers. Until she was suitably punished.

Waiting, glancing, waiting.

Crying, softly. Wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.

Waiting, waiting.

And then, in the distance, the sound of a metal door opening and closing, and the clatter of boots on stone growing ever-closer…

Elisabeth of Bavaria was only fifteen years old when, accompanied by her stern mother, she was dispatched to Vienna to marry the Emperor of Austria, Franz Joseph.

She entered the city in the Imperial Carriage, the awesome structure with wheels taller than an average human. The carriage in question is now part of the collection in the Schönbrunn Palace. The accompanying display tells the story of how the young princess got into some difficulty trying to exit the carriage: she knocked her crown on the top of the door.

She saw this as a bad omen and burst into tears, and thus arrived into her new home sobbing her heart out.

I suspect she was also crying because she knew: as soon as she was installed into her appartments, her mother would seek her out, carrying the ebony hairbrush, with which the princesses of Bavaria were so familiar.

In a few days Elisabeth would become the Empress Consort, but for now she was still in her mother’s power, and her display in front of the gawking commoners had been disgraceful. Bent over her mother’s lap, the princess would be spanked soundly and mercilessly, for what she hoped would be the last time in her life.

Interestingly, later in life Elisabeth was responsible for abolishing corporal punishment in the Austrian army. Compassion can be a great tool for rulers. Perhaps, her mother had thought about this too.

The Prater is Vienna’s playground – an old-fashioned funfair, dating back more than a century. It’s perhaps best known for the Wiener Riesenrad, the Ferris wheel made famous in The Third Man (my favourite film of all time).

After I’d paid homage to Harry Lime and Holly Martins, Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten, we headed for lunch in a bakery on the fringes of the site. The manageress was brisk, efficient – the pretty young woman assisting her noticeably less so. We realised that they were mother and her daughter – at a guess, a student, helping out in the family business for the summer. (“But why can’t I go Interrailing with the other girls? Why do I have to help in the horrible shop?”)

The queue was long, weather hot, tempers rising. We imagined the girl losing patience with a customer: “But you asked for the soup.” “No I didn’t.” “You did, and you’ll damn well pay for it.”

Only, her mother would overhear, and the daughter would be the one “paying for it”. She’d be dragged by the ear into the back of the store, behind the trays of fresh bread. And the sounds of a belt being applied would ring out clearly – music to the ears of the disgruntled customers who’d heard the exchange, soon accompanied by the girl’s shrill cries and her pleas for forgiveness. And then mother and tear-stained daughter would re-appear, straightening their uniforms, and take up their positions behind the counter to serve the waiting queue without a word of what had just passed.

We were both surprised and glad to see that the local authorities in Vienna provide the implements for punishing troublemakers on the public transport.

Like this belt we saw on the tram:

(The canes, paddles and so on must have been stored separately in the other carriage.)

Cool! Our book, an anthology of the best of the first two years of posts here at The Spanking Writers, is now available from Amazon:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanking-Writers-Abel/dp/095584830X

http://www.amazon.com/Spanking-Writers-Abel/dp/095584830X

Go on – you know you want to! (Perfect summer reading for the beach. Or maybe you’d better leave it in the bedroom?!)

PS we’d be ever-so-grateful if those of you who’ve read the book could leave nice reviews for us on Amazon!

The Imperial Silverware display in Vienna’s Hofburg palace leads straight onto the tour of the emperor’s apartments. Was it any wonder that I immediately connected the two?

The Emperor looked up from the dinner table, visibly irritated. “There appears to be some commotion,” he observed to his head butler, who was hovering – as usual – in the shadows,

“I believe, Your Majesty, that one of the serving girls has just been caught trying to steal a piece of the silverware that she was clearing from the banquet.”

“Then they’d better bring her in, so that we may see her punished. I presume you will deal with her for me?”

“I have already sent to the Riding School for a whip, Your Majesty.”

The girl was dragged into the room, and bent over a chair. The assembled gentlemen turned to watch, as the butler took up the crop. She squealed as he started to lay on the whipping – wriggling as if to get away, staying in position mindful of the further thrashing she would doubtless receive if she did.

Six strokes marked their way across her skirt, before the butler told her to stand.

A deep voice boomed across the room – the Emperor: “And when, pray, are you going to start punishing her properly?” There was a pause, a confused silence, before he continued. “The girls who work here need to understand the severity of stealing from the imperial family.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like me to continue her thrashing?”

The Emperor looked at the girl, as if weighing the conflicting courses of discipline and mercy. “No, I don’t think I would.”

But if the girl looked relieved, it was only for a moment, as he continued: “You shall take her to my chambers and I will whip her personally. Strip her, wash her, and have her tied tightly over my desk. And send a footman out into the gardens; have him cut six switches from one of the birch trees, and tie them firmly together. I intend to make something of an example out of young… what was your name?”

“Charlotte, sir.”

“Yes, Charlotte.” The emperor looked around the table. “I really must apologise for this most unfortunate incident.” He clapped his hands: “Well, what are you waiting for? Take her away and prepare her to be punished. And meanwhile: pour us some more wine – my guests are dying of thirst.”