The Spanking Writers

The Guardian last week printed this Olympic graphic, but didn’t care to explain why there was such a wimpy flogger advertising the London 2012 games.

How strange. My dream last night was incredibly clear. The slate floor was covered in sawdust. The girl’s ankles were pale, slim, bare: I held them tight as I bound her into position for her flogging. She was obedient, compliant, as if resigned to her fate.

Only – and here’s what surprised me – she was being held down by iron shackles. Heavy, old. She winced at the cold as the metal made contact with her skin. No doubt she’d be wincing and writhing for other reasons within moments.

Surprising? Well, it struck me that I don’t think I’ve ever pictured metal cuffs before: my dream girls have always been strapped down with leater binds, tied with rope. But metal? I rather like the idea: I might have to browse eBay later.

Depressing, too, as I think about it. Because that was the sum total of the dream: ankles, not a whole girl. Shackles, not the entire whipping frame. Fixing into her position, not the punishment itself. Still, it was so vivid that I have a very pleasant picture in my mind to carry me through the busy day ahead…

I happened to glance over Abel’s shoulder as he was working on a document one of his colleagues had sent him.

There, in big bold letters, I saw a headline:

How often do you submit electronically?

Abel, my dear, why are you editing a paper about cyber-spanking?

Haron and I were chatting last week about the nigh-miraculous quality of some of the stage performances we’ve seen this year.

To date, 2008 includes the best gig I’ve ever seen (Portishead); the best drama (the quite stunning ‘Black Watch‘) and the best ballet (Matthew Bourne’s wonderful new ‘Dorian Gray’).

We were en route to adding “best performance of a song ever” to the list, as we headed to see the legendary Leonard Cohen play the Royal Albert Hall. His rendition of ‘Hallelujah’ was quite simply awesome.

That said, it was my second-favourite of his songs – The Future – that produced the evening’s startle. The version I know of the song comes from the soundtrack to ‘Natural Born Killers’ – and I’m pretty sure it’s abbreviated, as I certainly don’t remember the line:

“And now the wheels of heaven stop
you feel the devil’s riding crop.”

Haron was quite transported by the thought of Leonard Cohen having anything to do with riding crops. I, meanwhile, was wondering whether his delightful backing singers needed any help understanding the line…

I was reading a promising-sounding book “English Girlhood at School” by Dorothy Gardiner, and wasn’t disappointed in my search for the historical spanking material:

Thomas More stressed the importance of ‘educating a girl to take her place worthily by her husband’s side in the making of a Christian home’… At the outset More’s picture of the ideal wife is drawn in firm lines; ‘may she be learned if possible… or at least capable of being so.’ Youth in a bride (is) an advantage, in so far as it afforded an opportunity to the husband of shaping tastes as yet unformed into harmony with his own. More’s first girl-wife had come but little educated from her country home, and owed to him her training in music and letters; even his second wife, a woman of mature years, learned after her marriage, in deference to his wishes, to sing and play the harp.

I hope the lucky women appreciated being able to play schoolgirl scenes with their husband.

Also, -

Erasmus and Vives also lay great stress upon the teaching office of the husband. … The reformers are much concerned with the question of education through the eye and the ear, with the need of surrounding a child from earliest years with influences with may give it a bent towards virtuous living. In particular Vives condemns parental over-indulgence. …He believes that the rod should never be off the boy’s back; ‘especially’, he adds, ‘the daughters should be handled without any cherishing.’

I don’t think I agree with that last bit. I believe firmly in being cherished; I positively insist on it from any Daddy of mine. This usually does involve spanking, the rod never being off my bottom and so on, but a little cherishing is surely not too much to ask for…

Curled up with a friend the other night; we’d not shared a bed before, so neither of us slept especially well. Another girl’s interrupted sleep came hazily to mind.

It was pitch dark. She lay face down on a hard prison bench, naked, covered only by a rough grey blanket.

The cell door swung open and the lightbulb flicked into life: the guard appeared in the doorway as she jolted awake. She knew the procedure by now, and clambered groggily to her feet. No point in protesting – that would only make matters worse.

She held out her hands; he bound her wrists tight with the harsh rope, and led her out and along the corridor to the punishment room.

She hesitated: he pushed her forward over the frame and tied her ankles with the leather straps.

Six of the best, the system decreed, at six-hourly intervals until her tally was complete. She’d been awarded 48 strokes by the judge: two days of solitude, punctuated by her whippings.

She’d taken 18 so far: the next stripes would be laid onto already-agonising weals. The punishment officer picked up the cane, and raised it high…

Last weekend (the one where Abel got his spankers’ elbow) I faced a dreadful ordeal: having to approach a guy I liked but didn’t know very well, and ask to be spanked. I had been warned that the young man in question was unlikely to take the first step, and if I wanted to play, it was up to me to let him know.

Oh, dear. Quite apart from being shy and not wishing to put the guy on the spot, there is something that feels awfully wrong about announcing in the harsh light of day that I want a spanking. I like to protest, and to freeze in terror, and to feign reluctance, and to finally submit to a stern voice and firm fingertips on the back of my neck. I know I can have all this after admitting I want to play, but it still feels awkward.

Plus, of course, I’m shy.

In the end I bottled out and sent Abel to ask for me. This was cowardly, but worked like a charm: Abel soon returned with a big smile and the news that my assignation had been arranged. Phew.

And yes, I had a great time, but that’s a different story entirely.

My right elbow hurts!

Not, like, a little. Like, every time I pick something up, it’s excruciating. I’ve typed this note through a veil of tears. (Slight exaggeration, I know, but I want you to know how I suffer for you, dear readers).

I blame the injury on having typed a long report for a client last week on my ever-so-tiny laptop. It’s really not suited to creating 150 page documents, including intricate PowerPoint presentations. But hey, they were offering to pay me oodles of money, so how could I resist?

Of course, it’s not possibly the case that our weekend activities could have contributed to the injury. We spent it locked away with 17 other spankos in a lovely country house, for a regency house party set in 1808. It’s the third time we’ve been lucky enough to be invited to the event – and a whole weekend spent role-playing is a quite wonderful experience. (We’re so grateful to the wonderful friends who organised the session).

I played the role of Sir Abel Wetherspoon, proprietor of “The Flagellant”, a scurrilous London scandal sheet. Perish the thought that any of the female guests or staff might have been blackmailed to keep their names out of the papers! So, no: a weekend spent with a variety of delightful girls over my knee – then wielding crops, floggers and other assorted implements – hasn’t contributed to my elbow problems at all.

PS I’m reading a document for work this morning that just described the organisation’s “enhanced training room motivational techniques”. My mind is wandering in directions that I’m sure would shock the trainers concerned…

For ages, we’ve bemoaned the lack of interesting gifts for spanko folks. Pervy phrases occur to us: “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could get a coffee mug with that on,” we’d say. “It’d be great if we could get that on a T-shirt.” But, of course, we couldn’t.

So we’ve decided to make some of our own. Well, not literally *make*… I’m not going to be ironing slogans onto shirts, and neither’s Haron turning into a potter to make the mugs. But we’ve harnessed the power of Cafepress, so you can order a selection of kinky gifts.

If you’ve ever wanted to be a member of the Marquis de Sade Appreciation Society; if you’ve ever wanted to rest your wine glasses on placemats that reflect your inner interests; if you’d like some of the more ‘interesting’ Biblical quotes to feature on household items… now’s your chance.

Just click over to our Cafepress site, “Abel and Haron’s Spanking Gifts”, and see what you fancy. They do all of the clever stuff like taking your order and printing and shipping the goods, and we’ve priced things pretty much at cost just so we don’t end up out of pocket on the deal.

Here’s hoping you like it: do let us know what you think, and which items catch your fancy. We’ve got loads more ideas for other items, and we’ll add more stuff in the new year, but in the meantime… Christmas shopping for spankos is officially sorted

The “Books Etc.” Christmas range at Victoria station contained a particularly fascinating volume, entitled “All In The Family – Parenting The 1950s Way”.

Sadly, author Elizabeth Longford omits the keenly anticipated chapter exploring the relative merits of over-the-knee hand spankings versus over-the-bed beltings. But there was still a fascinating section containing “three general rules” for punishment:

1. Never threaten a punishment you do not intend to or cannot perform.

2. Never inflict a punishment without warning.

3. If *next time* comes, be sure to carry out the punishment.

I shall bear that sage advice in mind. As should girls who make the mistake of misbehaving in my vicinity…