The Spanking Writers

Our friend Martha is incorrigible. A group of kinky friends had dinner recently in Belgo, Covent Garden’s ever-enjoyable Belgian restaurant. One of the choices on the menu read:

Spit roasted Belgian chicken or duck

Martha amended hers with her biro, with an ever-so-unsubtle comma:

Spit roasted Belgian, chicken or duck

One hopes the maitre d’ caught her on CCTV, and has her escorted into a back room to be whipped on her next visit… (Interestingly, the staff all dress as monks. I’m picturing some dark cell, with the Abbot called in to hear her pleas for forgiveness and then administer the thrashing).

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While Abel was enjoying his Cypriot holiday, he kept me entertained with naughty emails and postcards. Here’s one of these, which has alighted from the plane this morning:

On the back he wrote:

Apparently, moments after this was taken, the girls were arrested for indecency, taken to the police station, showered then birched!

Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened, my love.

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The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks

People I could hang out with

“But it wasn’t just a story, it was a damn sexy story.”

Red, Hot Ass

“I grunted, but held still.”

Smart Girls Make Better Lovers

“Chicks with brains can make you scream.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Sex Blogging and Writing for the Drawer

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Dinner with Cath one evening last week was down by the quayside. We ate in a little fish restaurant – the sort of place where there’s no menu, only the waitress appearing to reel off the list of the three types of fish they had that evening.

She forgot to tell us about that morning’s incident, but we knew instinctively what had happened. The local girls had become quite a nuisance over the holidays, as they messed around on the fishing boats in the harbour – jumping from one to the other, hiding behind the nets, disappearing below deck. Only, none of the boats had ever set sail with one of the girls on board – until then.

The captain had found her, looking scared, when they were a half hour or so into their trip. He’d turned the boat straight around, of course, radioing back to the harbourmaster. It occurred to him as he unbuckled his belt that it was fortunate that the sea was calm enough for him to be able to land his strokes accurately as he whipped her on deck.

Her father – a local businessman – was waiting when they docked. No hugs: a curt “wait there” as he apologised to the fisherman and dug a selection of notes from his wallet to pay for the wasted time and fuel.

He pointed to a low, stone wall, ordering her to take down her jeans and knickers and bend over. He looked approvingly at the captain’s handiwork, then folded his own belt double to add his own strokes to the punishment, as the crowd looked on.

After they’d all been to so much trouble, I’m pleased to report that the sea bass was quite excellent.

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We were rummaging online, and found this corporal punishment form, which schools can presumably send out to parents.

I can imagine role-playing a girl who has no idea that her parents agreed for the school to spank her - and suddenly, the Headmaster whips out this piece of paper, duly signed by mum and dad. Oh, the terror.

Click to enlarge, print out, and enjoy with a teacher or schoolgirl of your own.

(The instructions on the original website tell you to print it out only on yellow paper. I love bureaucrats.)

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I’ve rather grown to like Norwich* over the years, especially since a lovely boutique hotel opened there, thus making my occasional work visits so much more comfortable.

Now, I’ve never done anything kinky in said hotel – so why it should appear as the setting for an extremely rude dream last night is quite beyond me.

It started in the restaurant; I was dining with a young lady I’d not met before, but one who I knew from correspondence to be kinkily-inclined. Our conversation became more intense as the meal progressed; by dessert it was known that I could expect her absolute submission and obedience in whatever was to follow.

We ordered coffee; I ordered her to remove her knickers. At the dinner table. She blushed, hesitated, wriggled as far as she could go under the table, obeyed. She handed them to me; I wouldn’t take them. “Fold them neatly, and place them in front of you.”

“But the waiter will see.” He was returning, bearing our cappuccinos.

“Precisely.”

I made her leave them there when we left the table. “Please let me take them…”

I ignored her pleas.

Upstairs, we reached the door to my room. I looked at her carefully, checking she was OK: she looked back, and smiled a smile of nervous validation.

No sooner had I closed the door behind us than I forced her up against the wall, my hand enjoying the absence of underwear.

“Do you like that, young lady?”

“Yes, sir.”

I took my hand away, moved back. “Good. Then we shall continue. Once, that is, I’ve strapped you for your disobedience as we left the dinner table.”

“But I didn’t want to leave them there.”

The slap across her face wasn’t hard: it didn’t need to be. It confirmed the order of things, and when I told her to strip naked and bend over the end of the bed, her compliance was immediate.

There followed much naughtiness, over which I’ll draw a polite veil. But I am now rather looking forward to my next trip to that hotel.

* The city, that is, although the acronym is cool too!

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Abel sent me this from Cyprus, where they obviously have a strict attitude towards food.

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Never mind Birdsong, widely believed to be Sebatian Faulks’s masterpiece: his earlier The Girl at the Lion D’Or is one of my favourite books of all time. But now Faulks has found far wider fame, having been commissioned by Ian Fleming’s estate to write a new James Bond novel.

Devil May Care was published earlier in the summer, and became Penguin’s fastest-selling hardback novel ever. A quote from the Guardian’s (somewhat scathing) review suggests that it’s a must-buy for our readers. Bond is talking to Miss Moneypenny:

“if you insist on splitting hairs I shall have to resort to something firmer. A good spanking, perhaps. So you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

Moneypenny’s reply is somewhat enigmatic:

“Really, James, you’re all talk these days.”

I’m looking forward to the big-screen adaptation already, although I suspect there may be something of a call from readers of this blog for the return of Sean Connery in the lead role.

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Have you ever fancied yourself a noble young lady, captured and flogged by a dashing knight?

I know I have. But I’ve also had my doubts about the authenticity of these fantasies: true knights oughtn’t make war on high-born maidens; I wanted a knight, not a villain.

It appears, I can have my noble knight, and be punished by him too, with all due deference to the laws of chivalry.

From “War and Chivalry” by Matthew Strickland I learned that -

Conditions afforded to knightly captives taken for ransom may vary widely. Some captives were detained in honourable and open custody either in token of their rank or in recognition of their bravery at war…

Conversely, personal animosity towards captives might result in harsh conditions of confinement. E.g. in the war between Robert de Bellême and Henry I in 1105… one of Henry’s leading supporters Robert fitz Hamon… and others in his familia were “kept in close imprisonment for a long time, both to show their contempt and hatred of their lord.”

So, my dashing knight is actually at war with my father’s liege, and I get imprisoned along with everybody else in the family. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.

The law, it seems, is completely on my captor’s side:

…Jurists were arguing that since a prisoner was held essentially as a pledge for the price of his ransom, the captor might take reasonable measures to encourage payment.

Oh, dear. I can see the letter that’s winging its way to my father’s lord: “Pay the ransom, sir, if you do not wish to see this maiden suffer under the lash.”

Come to think of it, though, that’s still a little villainous. This sort of blackmail may be lawful, but my knight wouldn’t stoop to it. What if I provoked him, though, by taking advantage of his good nature?

Following his defeat at Lincoln in 1141, King Stephen was first kept under honourable custody at Bristol, but was later confined in irons because… of his prospensity to stray beyond his allotted bounds.

“My lady, were you not a maiden of tender years, I would see you confined in irons for this sort manner of conduct. As it is, I shall deal with you just as my father would deal with my sisters. Squire! Hand me the whip!”

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Quite the most bizarre implement-shopping experience ever…

Some of you may know the fraught recent history of Cyprus – the conflicts leading to the effective separation of the (Turkish) north from the (Greek) south. Nicosia, the capital, has long been divided by the Green Line – the Cypriot equivalent of the Berlin Wall.

Progress is being made, however, and in April this year the barricades that cut across Ledra Street - the city’s main shopping thoroughfare - were removed, replaced by a border crossing. Cath and I took advantage of this to wander across to the northern half of the city, heading straight for the main sight, the Selimiye Mosque (founded in the 13th century as St Sophia’s Cathedral, where the Kings of Cyprus were crowned).

As we emerged, we spied a rather wonderful-looking antiques shop on the opposite side of the little square. Surely a treasure-trove such as this must have something with kink value?

Lo and behold, our instincts proved correct, for there in the glass cabinet were two wonderful items: an old, heavy, leather riding crop, together with a cane topped with a silver badge of the Cypriot police.

The girl in the shop was unsure of the prices, though, so made a call to check the prices. A long conversation ensued. She frowned, hung up, then turned to us. “He says, ‘One thousand euro for the two.’”

A thousand euro? Surely some mistake, some calculation error? Not at all, it turned out: she shook her head and explained that, “He really doesn’t want to sell them.”

Needless to say, the two items are still in the glass cabinet in the shop. If you’re in the area, and obscenely rich, you might want to go and explore. Cath and I, meanwhile, speculated as to the conversation between the young woman in the shop and, presumably, her father on the end of the phone. “You may sell them when you marry,” he must have explained. “In the meantime, they’re staying exactly where they are in case you misbehave.”

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