The Spanking Writers

Cath’s out for a few hours, leaving me in the house to entertain myself and her gorgeous dog. I’ve worn the dog out, so at last I can turn my attentions to planning this afternoon’s scene.

We worked out the basics the night before last: a “girl discovered burgling the villa” idea seemed too impersonal, and so a maid came into play. We mapped out the bare bones of the plot. I’d been waiting for the post to deliver a cheque for 500 Euro; it hadn’t arrived. I’d chased it, only to be told that the letter had indeed been delivered – and signed for – and the cheque cashed in a nearby village. It hadn’t taken too much detective work to ascertain from the courier company that my maid had taken receipt of the delivery, and that the bank had paid the proceeds over into her account (thanks to a rather good forgery of my signature).

I could send her to the police, of course – or deal with the matter myself. Cath added a twist: the young lady concerned would be the niece of the local police chief: she’d do anything to avoid being reported.

So, last night, I took her across the road with a penknife to cut some switches from the trees in the olive grove. By the time she returns, three of them will be stripped of their leaves and taped into the local equivalent of a birch. I’ll ask her about the cheque; she’ll presumably deny all knowledge. I’ll reveal that I know what happened; she’ll confess her guilt.

I’ll lecture her sternly, take the newspaper she’s left on the side and read out the sentences that other girls have received lately from the courts for theft. She’ll plead not to be sent to the police. I’ll offer her an alternative, which she’ll gladly accept. She’ll be made to bare herself, and to stretch out over the table at which I’m presently writing this.

The whipping will be particularly severe.

Afterwards, she’ll dress, and I’ll make her sit opposite me. (It’s a shame the dining room chairs are so comfortable. I must look to see if there are harder ones anywhere in the house). And then I’ll hand-write a letter for her to take home to her father, explaining the circumstances. (We’re going out for dinner after playing; I suspect by the time we return, the maid’s uncle may well have been informed, and a bedtime strapping may ensue).

The book called “Indiscretions of Lady Susan” by Lady Susan Townley beckoned to me with the promise of its title. It turned out to be an early 20th century memoir by a wife of a British diplomat; she travelled the world with her husband, and recounts her adventures with humour and charm.

The best parts in her story related to her family history.

Her grandfather, George Keppel, 6th Earl of Albemarle, was in turn the grandson of Lady de Clifford. This woman was responsible for the education of Princess Charlotte of Wales, by all accounts a rebellious and naughty teenager. Young Keppel thus became Charlottle’s playmate, which I’m sure he sometimes rued:

On Saturdays Keppel was gennerally the guest of the Princess, but on Sundays she returned his visits [at his grandmother's house]. One one of these occassions the Prince of Wales honoured Lady de Clifford with his company at luncheon. … That day luncheon was unaccountably late, and the old lady rang the bell violently.

When the meal was eventually served, the mutton-chop was so ill-dressed that it was quite uneatable. On inquiry it was discovered that the Princess had acted as cook and young Keppel as her scullery maid.

The book doesn’t elaborate what happened to the Charlotte and George. Probably, the Prince thought the whole thing was hilarious: he may have enjoyed his food, but by all accounts he enjoyed a joke as well.

I would be slightly worried for the fate of the actual cook and the kitchen maids, when their mistress wanted to know why none of them had warned her about what was going on in the kitchen. I could imagine a birching or two being dispensed later at night, when the guests have left.

In any case, Charlotte clearly didn’t get the punishment she deserved for her prank:

On another occassion she dragged [George] to the stables and then saddled and bridled the horse herself. Armed with a whip, she led the animal into the yard. Young Keppel was told to mount. …

Before he could grasp the reins and get his foot into the stirrup, she gave the horse a tremendous cut with a whip, so that he set off at a gallop… [George] clung to his mane, roaring lustily.

The poor Princess got a terrible scolding from Lord Albemarle, alarmed for the safety of his boy, which so incensed her that when alone with him again she treated the father’s son as she had treated the father’s horse.

Keppel ended up expelled from Westminster School for sneaking out at night, and thus ended up fighting at Waterloo at the age of 15, so Charlotte was clearly a bad influence. It wasn’t a scolding that the girl needed.

If you have any ideas as to how the young princess should have been punished, tell us in the comments. As for Keppel’s granddaughter, the writer of the memoir, I’ll write more of her adventures as I read on.

The new academic year approaches at Universities around the country, and two of this year’s Freshers – both regular commenters here – have launched their own spanking blog. Do click over to Freshly Spanked and say hi to Smudge and Irelynn!

Perhaps that’s what inspired the following little reverie:

–

One fresher, one second-year girl, both reading the same subject, chatting in the student bar. Tutorial groups for the coming year were being agreed: the best academics found their sessions over-subscribed, and were thus able to be selective. The leading professor was about to interview freshers to see which he would accept into his group:

Fresher: “Was Professor Jenkins your supervisor last year?”

Older girl: “He was.”

Fresher: “You did really well, didn’t you. I’m thinking of applying to him. Is he any good?”

Older girl, blushing: “He’s… inspirational But… he’s different.”

Fresher: “In what way?”

Older girl, looking away. “He… has ways of encouraging you to do well.”

Fresher: “Such as?”

Older girl. “I can’t say. Just… just look on his wall behind his desk when you go for your interview. It’s not there just for effect.”

Cut to professorial office: piles of papers and textbooks everywhere. Our fresher is sitting being interviewed: she stares past the professor’s shoulder, transfixed. For there, hanging from a hook, was a long, thick cane…

–

I doubt our favourite Freshers will be quite so lucky, but we’re sending them love and good luck hugs anyway…

Abel was reading a novel long-listed for the Booker Prize, “Netherland” by Joseph O’Neill. He would read out prettily written sentences to me from time to time, but overall the book sounded mind-cripplingly boring.*

Then suddenly – in the true manner of a startle – the book rewarded us both.

The protagonist has brought a woman to his hotel room and his bed:

 We were once again making love when Danielle whispered something I didn’t follow. ‘I want you to be a gentleman again,’ she whispered. ‘Will you do that for me?’

I must have signalled some agreement to this incomprehensible request, because she slipped off the bed and crouched to rummage in the clothes heaped on the floor – I wasn’t watching – and after a few seconds came back to me with refreshed spiritedness. Then she breathed into my ear the assertion, ‘Remember, I trust you,’ and produced with a little jingle the belt she’d removed from my trousers.

I took the belt, a length of black leather that was at once familiar and strange, and saw Danielle lying face down on the bed, and began to perform the act I understood her to need. Every lash was answered by a small moan. If this gave me some unusual satisfaction, I can’t remember it now. I do recall a tunneller’s anxiety as to where and when it would all end, and that my arm began to tire.

I think the lesson all we kinky girls should take home from this is, don’t try to get vanilla men to whip you on a one-night-stand – they don’t have a clue, even when they’re nice. And afterwards they won’t even remember if it was in any way pleasant.

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* I went through it just now in search of the passage I’m quoting – yep, “boring” doesn’t begin to describe it.

I’m in Cyprus at the moment, staying with Cath and having a lovely time.

Yesterday, we went exploring in Nicosia, the capital, which is delightful. A little research had revealed a hidden gem, the Hamam Omerye, a traditional bathhouse. Dating from the 14th century, it’s been restored recently, capturing a Europa Nostra award (Europe’s top gong for conservation) in 2006. We were lucky, in that bathing is usually single-sex; Monday is the only “couples” day.

The place is a delight, a haven from the heat and bustle of the world outside – all fluffy towels and relaxing massages. The Hamam bath itself is a set of seven rooms, each at a different temperature; one sits (or lies) on the hot stone benches, unwinding, scrubbing oneself (or one’s partner) gently in the warm waters. It’s quite gorgeous.

Of course, as we relaxed, I told tale of the sultan in Ottoman times. The girls of his harem would have been sent here to bathe, no doubt. No towels to cover his young ladies in those days, of course; as a result, the marks of his displeasure would be plain to see, a lesson to all.

Yet one new girl had clearly not learnt said lesson: she’d displeased the sultan, and her fate awaited her: “You are to report to his chamber on your return from the bathhouse.” She’d plead for his mercy, but she knew that none would be forthcoming. By tomorrow, she’d be the one wearing fresh stripes from his whip as she bathed naked with the others.

If your reading list of spanking blogs needs paddling up a little, you may be pleased to hear about a few blogs I’ve discovered recently, all by people I’ve already encountered online. As we’ve mentioned before, Abel and I both owe a lot in our spanking development to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. The bloggers I’ve discovered are current or former posters there, whose writing I’ve enjoyed.

Radspace belongs to Radagast, who says this about his kink:

Being a disciplinarian is what I enjoy the most. When I got into the scene, I knew I liked spanking in a general way but was not quite sure about the specifics of what turned me on. I tried lots of different approaches and even dabbled in the larger BDSM thing for a bit but found that I almost always fantasized about spanking as punishment. Even if I’m playing with a person in a casual and friendly way, I use a disciplinary scenario in my own head to keep me focused on what I am doing and to add to my enjoyment.

This Cat Is Crazy is the blog of Rad’s girlfriend wife Cassy Park. One of the recent posts of hers I’ve enjoyed hilariously – and to the point – tells off people who don’t know how to behave at spanking parties:

A compliment is one thing and is always appreciated. Gawking at the same woman and telling her over and over and over how lovely she looks gets creepy.

Rubbing after a spanking is usually fine. Offering to rub someone after she’s just played with someone else is very strange. Commenting on a girl’s butt, and pointing out the unique characteristics of said butt, is beyond disturbing. …

Being shy is one thing. Sitting at a table alone, not talking to anyone, and staring at other people — sometimes with what looks like a glare on your face — is scary.

Shiny Stuff is the blogging home of Mr Shiny, the author of some of the most loopy, funny spanking stories you’ll ever read, many of which are show-cased on his blog. (To give you an idea: one of the story descriptions indexes it as F/Elf). I’m particularly fond of his writing, because at one point he wrote me a snippet of fantasy wherein I was spanked by Mal Reynolds. *swoon* Like many bloggers this week, Shiny is still brimming with Shadow Lane impressions:

The interesting thing this week has been talking to a couple of friends who know about my kink, knew where I went on vacation, and were brimming with polite interest/sick fascination. I think they were both expecting tales of an orgy and were a little bit disappointed in my description of suite parties, events, etc.   One of them couldn’t fathom that there weren’t folks running around in leather and nipple-clamps. Maybe it’s because Kinky Stuff gets all wrapped up into one big bundle in peoples’ minds – i.e. they know it’s a sexual fetish and therefore any party of spankos must involve sex all over the place.   So now they’re better educated and/or they think I’m lying and are picturing me running around a hotel wearing leather and nipple-clamps.

My reading list is richer for having these blogs on it; hope you enjoy knowing them as well.

Grand rooms, stories of maidservants, paintings of beautiful young wives on the walls – it’s no wonder that, at some point when touring a country house, our minds flick into spanko overdrive. It’s unusual, though, for it to happen quite as quickly as it did at Cragside, about which Haron’s been posting recently. For no sooner than one has walked past the ticket desk do tour groups find themselves in the butler’s pantry. And there, on the wall, are three carpet beaters – right next to a solid table over which girls would presumably have bent.

But matters become more complicated than that, for a few rooms further in is the butler’s study: a comfortable room, this, complete with his writing desk, armchair and bowler hat. He’d come here in the evenings, no doubt, to relax and unwind at the end of a busy day – whilst still remaining alert should the gentlemen next door require a top-up of port.

Hold on, though. We’d just pictured the punishments in the pantry. And here was this other, quite wonderfully-evocative room. It would be such a shame to allow it to go to imaginary-waste. The solution was clear: the first room, the pantry would be for summary punishment – a few sharp, stinging swats of the carpet beater thwacking across the girl’s dress in the middle of the day. But this second room, the study? The young maids would dread it, for this is where the butler would deal with more serious misbehaviour.

The girl would be told to wait outside his study, facing the wall, at the end of her day’s work. No knocking to alert him to her presence: she’d wait for twenty minutes, more, sometimes until he happened to emerge and notice her. Once inside, she’d receive a stern lecture, before the cane would be taken from the top of his bookcase and she’d be told to undress and touch her toes. Six strokes, sometimes a dozen, would follow: hard, expertly-administered, a hard-learnt lesson.

And then… a few rooms further on… his Lordship’s study. Far grander. Surely this couldn’t go unused in our reinvention of the house? Conveniently, it stood at the top of stairs leading down to the Victorian sauna – complete with cold plunge pool. Ah, but the two rooms could easily be combined.

“Mr Watkins?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Would you take the girl downstairs and make sure she’s clean?”

And the maid, caught committing some particularly dreadful offence (rifling through a guests’ belongings, maybe?), would be led – protesting, no doubt – down the narrow stairs. Her clothes would be removed; she’d be ordered into the icy waters.

The butler would then dry her, roughly, with a towel before leading her – shivering, still naked, back up the stairs. His Lordship would be waiting, the birch cut by the butler that afternoon in his hand.

“You may leave us, Mr Watkins, whilst I deal with the girl.” And the butler would wait outside, listening to her sobs. No short, sharp shock, this – his Lordship would flog her slowly, methodically, making every stroke count, giving her one final chance instead of dismissing her without references.

And then the door would open, and the girl would emerge – soundly thrashed – into the corridor, to be led back to the servants’ quarters by the butler. She’d return under his supervision the following morning, of course, to kneel painfully on the floor, brush in hand, and sweep up the remnants of the birch that had scattered across the rugs during her punishment. And then nothing more would be spoken of the incident again.

In view of my recent post about the regular, but possibly random punishment of ship boys, the first part of the following extract sounds a little bit like wishful thinking:

The seaman is willing to give or receive punishment deservingly, according to the laws of the sea, and not otherwise in the fury of passion of a dissolute, blasphemous, swearing commander. Punishment is fittest to be executed in cold blood, the next day after the offence is committed and discovered.

This is taken from “Naval Tracts” by Sir Williams Monson. I wager that throughout his career as an officer, Sir William enjoyed thinking that sailors didn’t mind a bit of flogging.

But then, if they were whipped for good luck every Monday when they were ship boys, maybe they really didn’t mind some deserved punishment for a change…

To a favourite London restaurant recently for dinner with our lovely friend Martha. The menu included cactus: keen to try something different, we duly ordered it. Think asparagus crossed with green pepper and you’d get the general idea.

It was only later that I read the blurb in their in-house magazine:

For the first time at Wahaca we are putting nopalitos on our menu. A cactus from the same plant as the prickly pear, the paddles are picked when young, shaved of sharp spines and put straight onto the comal (the flat griddle everybody cooks on in Mexico).

Oh my goodness: we ate paddles! Following hard on my nettle-eating experience in Vienna, I’m now wary of any innovative restaurant: who’s going to be first serving rattan soup?

Loathe to waste a weekend even when the weather is foul, we took ourselves for a day trip to a neighbouring National Trust country house, the beautiful Craigside. Even to a somewhat jaded country house visitor like yours truly (“What? Another historical kitchen with historical copper pots? Yawn!” Craigside offered enough unusual and quirky details to set my imagination going.

For one thing, being a relatively new house, belonging to a family that made its fortune in local industry, it had some technical features that rarely belong in my Victorian spanking fantasies.

There was, for example, a lift: it would take a maid from the cellar/scullery, via the kitchen, to the upstairs corridors. It had been specifically installed to ease the maids’ work, which I thought was very decent of the owner.

Of course, the new technological toy would be irresistible to the young maids. Too often the butler would catch them going up and down in the lift on insignificant errands, wasting their time. Finally, his patience would run out, and he would announce that the next girl fooling around with the lift would receive a birching in front of all of the servants.

The girls would take this to heart, and do their utmost to avoid capture. They would play with the lift only when the butler was busy with the master or about his duties on the other side of the house. Two of the maids would decide to have a couple of trips up and down when they thought the butler was asleep.

A grave miscalculation, that. The butler’s room was directly next to the lift shaft, and the girls’ delighted giggles would carry perfectly through the void, even if they were careful not to stop on his floor. He would meet them in the scullery once they’ve had enough, frowning meaningfully.

Even before he said a word, they would know that nothing in the world would save them from the impending birching.

Another fine artefact in the contemporary Craigside is a sketch on the wall, and the bottom of the staircase leading to the plunge pool. The pool was in use only by me, which probably explains the risqué little picture.

It shows a Roman soldier, sword in hand (symbolism, duh) kneeling beside a cage. The cage is inhabited by a scantily clad young lady, who is weeping and stretching her hands out towards him through the bar.

I didn’t notice a name for either the picture or the artist, but have had a fine few minutes trying to decide how the pretty girl could possibly have ended up in a cage, with her Roman loved on the outside. I’m still not sure what happened there, but I enjoyed creating a small traffic jam at the bottom of the steps while I studied it in detail.