The Spanking Writers

This morning our cat went to the pile of canes, picked one up by the handle, and with much difficulty dragged it to me as I was getting out of bed.

I’m trying to figure out what she was trying to tell me.

Yesterday Natty wrote an interesting post about how a spanking reference in a mainstream medium can sustain her fantasy life for days:

You know how you’re reading a book or watching a movie and someone mentions spanking but it’s only a mention? There is no actual spanking or if there is, it’s only alluded to. And that allusion will keep you going for days as you ponder the logistics. At least that’s the way it is for me.

What does getting ready for a beating entail? What position will he be spanked in? With what?

I know exactly what she means. I love spanking stories, of course. Love writing them, love reading them.

And then somebody briefly mentions spanking in a completely vanilla book, and I reread the line a hundred times, fantasising. Variations on “you’re not too old to put over my knee” are always a favourite, as I mentally cheer on: go on, do it!

Does anybody feel the same?

I nearly choked on my toast at breakfast this morning. An advert appeared on the TV for Kit Kats; as I drooled at the thought of chocolate, the voiceover proudly announced the brand’s new prize competition: “You could win your dream holiday.”

Really?

I mean, really?

OK. So there’d be the limo to take me to the airport. A school bus would draw up at the terminal at the same time; the twenty or so kinky girls who’d be joining me on vacation would step off, and line up for a uniform inspection.

We’d fly first class, of course. The luxury resort would be perfect: we’d have the run of the place to ourselves. There’d be lessons and spankings and fine dining and spankings. And the hotel maids would have to be on their very best behaviour, lest they too found themselves over my knee.

And all for the price of a chocolate biscuit…

In a meeting the other day, the Human Resources expert presented a clever psychometric tool to profile candidates applying for jobs within a programme I’m running. He displayed a slide showing various types of behaviour that are assessed by the process, and commented:

“Somebody would either be dominant or quite accepting. They might be very compliant, or not.”

Needless to say, I scribbled his comments down verbatim, once I’d picked myself off the floor.

I’m now looking forward to the recruitment process, and to meeting all these submissive, compliant young ladies. I’m so grateful to HR for doing the initial filtering for me.

Abel bought some handmade shoes online, and, being posh, they came with some free goodies inside the package.

Such as a shoebag – always useful, right?

And, ahem, a shoe horn. And a shoe tree stuffed inside each, looking like a mini-paddle on a spring handle. Also, ahem, very useful.

Abel commanded that I put my hands against the wall, and proceeded to smack me vigorously with the shoe tree.

“Effective?” he asked, not relying on my squeals alone.

Ouch, ouch, yes, I would say so.

“Oh, good. Put this in the toy drawer.”

Rubbing my bottom, I obeyed.

As for the very useful shoe bag, he tossed it in the trash. If you can smack a girl with it, he’s not interested.

I posted recently about the marvellous production of “Oliver!” that I went to see at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. I speculated then that the musical would have been much improved by a scene featuring the birching of a female pickpocket.

And what do I then uncover? An extract from ‘The Boarding-School: or, the Sham Captain. An Opera’, written by one Charles Coffey. The song goes:

“While she is stripping to get a good whipping,
I’ll away, dance and play,
Yes I will, that I will;
While she is stripping to get a good whipping,
I’ll go and romp with the Girls and the Boys.”

And guess what? It was “Performed at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane By His Majesty’s Servants. London mdccxxxiii”. (That’s 1733, to save you the trouble!).

Oh for a copy of the play to see whether said stripping and said whipping did happen on stage every night! Do any of our more theatrical readers fancy reviving the production?

On further investigation, Coffey – a schoolmaster by trade – seems to have been an interesting man. Particularly, he and a friend played Henry Higgins-like roles in the success of Peg Woffington, an Irish bricklayer’s daughter who rose to become the leading actress of the day – and mistress of the famous Garrick.

Young Peg caught Coffey’s eye as a fifteen year old when she appeared in one of his plays; he taught her to sing, then took her to London and escorted her, then aged 22, during the 1740 season. Coffey was also responsible for introducing her to a gentleman named Elrington, a theatrical producer:

“who was reluctant given her age and experience but agreed to let her come to rehearsals; Elrington noticed her attention and began to give her lessons; brought her books and encouraged her education; told her that good command of language was essential, she must read and read; she like the plays he lent, incl. Farquhar’s; discovered facility for learning parts quickly, and acted them to him to his delight; told her she must study the real Quality on every occasion”

Oh, the potential for imagining the attractive young actress being taught lessons of a more painful nature by the producer, or by her playwright companion! Anyone else thinking “stripping and whipping”?

In my dream last night I was a lady’s maid to a beautiful, demanding woman.

When she was interviewing me for the position, she said: “I have only two requirements: that you love me, and that you love being punished by me. Everything else flows from that.”

I didn’t quite understand at the time what she meant. I was quite prepared to be devoted to her needs, and it was easy to become fond of her. But at one point I was tidying her jewellery, and allowed two strings of pearls to get tangled. My mistress caught me trying to untangled them again, and immediately became annoyed.

“Fetch me a hairbrush,” she commanded. “Right now.”

When she saw tear spring to my eyes, she was even more angry: “Did I not say you were to love being punished by me? I will see some proper gratitude as I spank you.”

And so, as she spanked me, she insisted that I smiled, and afterwards, she made me describe to her how wonderful it was to receive discipline from her hand.

And you know what? It was rather good, in fact.

A gaggle of giggling girls joined the bus this morning, and piled into the back rows for a couple of miles of exhuberant misbehaviour. Pretend-scuffles broke out; the gravest insults were shouted: the peace of the other passengers was quite shattered by the rowdy mob.

One girl stood aside from the others, though, in her grey skirt, black blazer, neatly-tied tie and immaculately-polished black shoes. She bore a badge on her lapel: ‘Prefect’.

She would be the pupil called in to see the Headmaster later in the day, after he’d taken the call from the transport company’s boss. The Head read from his notes as the girl stood in front of his desk: “repeated misbehaviour”; “not at all acceptable”; “a disgrace”; “you assured me that the girls had been given a final warning”.

“Please could you explain why you deem it to be appropriate to stand idly by, rather than carrying out your role as a Prefect?”

She could not.

He cleared the small pile of papers from the corner of the desk, and bade her bare and bend over – prefects, on those rare occasions they were caned, were always punished on the bare. Her first taste of corporal punishment in her up-to-now-impeccable school career: four strokes, taken bravely, through her tears. And then she was dismissed, and sent back to class

On the radio this morning they were talking about local events, and one of the announcements was:

“Are you dedicated to education? Then come along to X school this afternoon to plan a willow tree.”

I nearly drove off the road when I heard that. For some reason, I could see Abel with a willow sapling, planting it in our yard, happy in advance about the magnificent switches he was going to harvest from it.

For my education, naturally.

The BBC’s Breakfast News on Tuesday featured Leonardo DiCaprio, discussing his role in Revolutionary Road.

Wasn’t it disconcerting, the interviewer asked, to be playing Kate Winslet’s husband, when her real-life spouse (director Sam Mendes) was standing close by?

“No,” replied DiCaprio. “I take direction very well.” He paused, then smiled and continued: “Take the spanking scene, for example. I’d put Kate over my knee, and had given her two fairly light swats. Sam told me that he spanks her much harder at home, on the bare. So down came her panties – and she wasn’t sitting comfortably for the rest of the day, I can tell you.”

(I may have imagined some of the conversation).