The Spanking Writers

A rather fascinating programme on Channel 4 recently. “Upstairs downstairs love” told the tale of a Victorian gentleman, Arthur Munby, who took a particular interest in working-class women. Breaking all conventions, he formed a relationship with Hannah Cullwick, a servant, and they eventually married in secret after 20 years.

When they died, many years later, he ordered that their papers – their diaries, and the photographs he’d had taken of her – be locked away. Decades later, they were opened and formed the basis of the programme – which was touching and fascinating, albeit tinged with a touch of sadness at the thought of a couple having to be so secretive about their love for each other.

That fetish underpinned their relationship was clear from the programme. Arthur gave her a chain with a padlock, to wear at all times. As she wrote in her diary: “I am his slave and he is my master”.

Although spanking didn’t appear to be part of their thing, two particular anecdotes give rise to wonderful scene ideas. First, there was the occasion when Hannah invited Arthur into the house in which she worked as a maid, and took him into her mistress’s bedroom. She showed him the lady’s ballgown: he made her put it on for him. “Thus she stood before me to be looked at, smiling and slightly blushing,” his diary recorded.

…and I’m transported to another grand London townhouse, and the look of horror on the faces of the two servant girls, frozen to the spot as the bedroom door opens and their mistress – returned home unexpectedly – walks in to find them wearing her best dresses.

“My husband will deal with this on his return this evening,” the lady would say, although she would set proceedings in motion by instructing the butler to cut some switches from the garden. Later, in the candlelit drawing room, that they were good, conscientious girls would save them their jobs and reputations, but cost them each the soundest of whippings.

And then the programme explored the difference in dress and demeanour between ladies and working-class girls. (When Arthur dressed Hannah in ladies’ clothes, and walked through the streets with her, other servants spied the impostor and they hissed insults). The programme explained: no lady would ever walk unaccompanied in the street, whilst her dress would distinguish her from the rabble.

…and the gentleman frowned as he read the note from his close acquaintance, recently delivered by messenger. “I have just caught my daughter dressed in the clothes of a servant, about to leave our house alone. She initially refused to tell me her destination; on being punished – for her deceit and her disobedience, she reluctantly revealed a planned rendezvous with your daughter near to Kensington Gardens.”

She’d try to explain, knowing there was no explanation that could save her. He’d raise a hand: “I know of your little scheme already. Your friend has already been punished for it.” He’d ring a bell to call the butler, who’d appear in a flash. “It appears that my daughter wishes to know what life is like for the maids in the house, James. Would you take her downstairs, have her strip out of these inappropriate clothes and bend over the kitchen table? And make sure that you whip her quite as hard as you would the very worst-behaved serving girl?”

Last time we were in our wonderful private library, Abel set off to look for a particular book in the catalogue. On the table next to the catalogue, there was a convenient desk for noting down the references, with some scraps of paper to save you writing on the back of your hand.

When he brought back the book, we noticed that the scrap paper once used to be some sort of a circular, a report from a meeting or something similar. It had half-phrases clipped off mid-word, but still making sense.

I imagined picking up one of these innocent-looking scraps to find something along the lines of -

“Unfortunately, all warnings have proved ineffectu…
required to administer six-of-the-best with a senio…
have received the necessary consent form from M…
witnesses.”

It would have taken some pain-staking work to recreate the full circular, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to resist.

It always astonishes me that, in 21st century Britain, the ‘Court Circular’ still appears in certain daily newspapers. The formal announcement describes the previous day’s royal appointments – for example:

Clarence House
20th August

The Duchess of Rothesay, President, this afternoon attended the Brooke Hospital for Animals Garden Party in Aboyne and was received by Her Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Aberdeenshire (Mr Angus Farquharson).

Still, it could sometimes prove interesting:

Buckingham Palace
1 September

Princess Victoria this afternoon attended the Central London Women’s Disciplinary Centre and was received by the Chief Punishment Officer (Sgt Jock McPherson).

Oh, how the papers would speculate – with paparazzi photos showing the tear-stained young royal appearing considerably more dishevelled on her way out from her appointment than she had been on the way in…

We went to a wedding yesterday. The bride is a good friend – and something of a livewire: it was the sort of service where the line “you may kiss the bride” provoked fond memories of past snogs for many of the gentlemen in the audience, and for a fair few of the ladies too!

The church was old and beatiful, the service touching (despite the religious stuff!). Crying girls in posh dresses has to be a good thing, right? And it’s great to listen to all that stuff about love, and be reminded how lucky I am to have two such truly wonderful partners in Haron and Cath.

Towards the end of the ceremony, Haron – who was looking gorgeous – poked me in the ribs. “Do you have any mints?” she asked.

“No.”

She scoured her handbag. “It’s OK: I’ve got some chewing gum.”

Now, readers who’ve been with us for a while may recall that I have something of an issue with chewing gum in church: there’s history in our household of girls being punished for said offence.

“Don’t.”

She did. Despite being told what would happen to her if she did. (All in whispers, of course: letting the vicar hear that you would spank your wife might not go down well).

It was many hours later before we got home – the wedding breakfast to be enjoyed, the awful speeches to be endured. Haron announced that she was going to bed. “I’ll come in and deal with you shortly, then,” I responded. She disappeared to the bathroom; I placed a tawse on the bed and retreated to my study. And then left her in contemplation for a good few minutes.

When the time came, she was face down on the bed, naked, waiting. It didn’t require much scolding; she knew she’d crossed the line, knew that I would be true to my word. She’d ‘felt like being naughty’; six strokes for her misbehaviour became twelve for its calculated nature.

And they were hard. The tawse in question is one of my favourite implements – antique, an original, quite light but wide, unusually with five tails. The first three strokes striped her pale skin beautifully; as she writhed, I noticed that all three had lashed her across exactly the same stretch of her buttocks. An interesting challenge, then: to deliver the remaining nine across the same strip, too. Challenging my accuracy; challenging her ability to withstand the punishment.

Afterwards, we cuddled. And today we’ve both written our accounts of what happened. Hers is across at The Punishment Book; you might find it interesting to compare our notes!

Abel and I were walking up to the train station. He valiantly carried the suitcase, almost not complaining at all. Seriously, he only complained once.

“I can’t believe how heavy it is!” he said.

“What have you got in there?” I asked, knowing that we were only going away for a couple of nights, so hardly needed any clothes.

“A strap, a cane, a tawse and a hairbrush,” he said. And paused. And said: “Oh.”

Right, he was only carrying a mini dungeon in that bag…

It’s rare that the front page of a newspaper makes me laugh aloud, but the Newcastle Evening Chronicle on 29 August was just priceless.

“Couple is told to cool off over noisy sex romps,” it proclaimed, proceeding to explain that their “noisy sex romps are driving neighbours mad” and that they “have been slapped with a noise abatement order after complaints about their four-hour romps.”

Caroline, the lady concerned, goes on to explain:

“I must admit I do scream and make lots of noise when we’re having sex, but I can’t help it. Apparently I’m so loud people think I’m getting murdered. The police have said they have been called because they have feared for my safety. We are not using whips or anything like that.”

Shame, really: they should try it some time. (And congratulations to the couple concerned for clearly having such fun after 24 years of marriage).

PS did I just mention sex on our blog?!!!

A most unusual dream last night. In it, Haron and one of our friends were both maidens in mediaeval times. An army was forming; the girls of the village were being pressed into service as archers.

They’d heard the rumours, though – that if the enemy caught any of the archers, they dealt out severe punishment. A captured girl could expect to be led to a nearby tree, her hands tied above her head with a rope suspended from a stout branch. The soldiers would tear open the back of her dress, then whip her soundly.

Needless to say, Haron and our friend were trying to escape their military duties. And, inevitably, I was insisting that they played their part for king and country.

(I think I may have watched too much of the archery when the Olympics was on!)

Six of the best with the cane. It’s the standard punishment, the old cliché. Only, it’s not quite so ‘standard’ when you’re plucking up the courage to face it for the first time.

See, for a kinky girl, it’s easier in a way than for the schoolgirl in the story. The story-girl can’t walk away: when the headmaster tells her to bend over, then bend over she must. Whereas the kinky girl’s choosing to be there: she can always back out, say no, decide that she doesn’t want to be caned today thank you very much. She has the power, the right of escape.

But, see, for a kinky girl, that makes it even harder than for the story-girls. For she can escape. She doesn’t need to bend over, to be obedient, to take the ‘punishment’. So there’s a huge line to cross – to take that giant leap from imagining a caning, to experiencing it for real. It’s a leap that takes immense courage and bravery.

Since Smudge started commenting on the blog earlier in the year, and we started swapping notes, she’d always confessed to a sheer terror of the cane. She’d stayed with us a few weeks ago, and been spanked for the first time – her heart pounding as she stretched over my lap. She was so sweet, so brave. But the rattan? It had taken her until the third morning before she could even face looking at a cane, never mind taking a succession of light whacks and that one harder stroke. Only, it wasn’t that hard, really. Just a taster. For what was to come.

This time was different. I held the Malaysian cane in my hand: thin, long, flexible, whippy. She looked at me, looked at it; I could see her weighing the implications of what she was about to do. And then she stepped forward.

She bent over with her hands on the desk, did our sweet heroine; I made her bend lower, straighten her legs, present her backside properly. Smudge’s six were going to be done right. She looked back at me in the mirror that ran the length of the desk. (Was it too cruel to make a girl watch her first caning, to be a spectator at the event?). I measured out the cane – and started her journey.

The first two strokes across her jeans were delivered just hard enough to connect, to bite, to make her look surprised. But the third was hard: properly hard. She hadn’t expected it; in the mirror, I watched her reaction – shock, pain, the wavering-bravery moment. The even-braver moment when she stayed in position for the next. And the fifth, and the final sixth: the should-have-been-the-hardest but I didn’t have the heart to make it so after that third cut.

And then Smudge could stand, and be hugged. A girl who had been caned. Fiction, imagination replaced by reality. And I was honoured to have been the one to have been trusted to take her across the divide.

But, I know… it’s not me you want to hear from. You’re far more interested in Smudge’s description of what happened. And that’s coming tomorrow…

Raise your hand if you hate Monday mornings.

*looks around*

Right. Well, me too. Still, I bet that the ship boys in the Navy of old hated them even more:

And the waggery and idleness of the ship-boys are paid by the boat-swain with the rod, and commonly this execution is done upon the Monday mornings, and is so frequently in use, that some mere seamen and sailors do believe in good earnest that they shall never have a fair wind, until the poor boys be duly brought to the chest, that is, whipped every Monday morning. – N. Boteler, “Colloquia Maritima, or Sea Dialogues”, 1688.

I love that. Oh, you’re innocent? Too bad; somebody has to be flogged on a Monday morning, or we’ll all sink.