The Spanking Writers

The latest addition to my movie library features two cute models being thrashed in turn by a spanking machine. They’re tied to the whipping frame; the device is positioned behind them, to the side. At the touch of a computerised button, the machine whips the cane forwards, horizontally, across its target, then back into place ready for the next stroke. The machine adjusts the height of the strokes, little by little, leaving perfect parallel stripes across the girls’ behinds.

Haron hates the lack of a human touch, whereas I found the very dehumanising of the process to be quite fascinating. So much, so, in fact, that I’ve been picturing wider applications for the machines.

See, flogging one girl at a time seems an awfully inefficient use of prison officers’ time. I’d propose a large room, equipped to punish ten or more offenders in a session. The young women, wearing prison uniforms, would be escorted in by the officers, and made to line up. Their names would be read out in turn – once a girl was called, she’d be expected to step forward and strip, before being sent to stand behind her designated punishment station.

Once all of the girls were in place, the officers would tour the room, strapping them tightly into position. The machines would be positioned carefully, and checked. For the girls, the lengthy wait – as their fellow inmates were readied for punishment – would be filled with trepidation.

The officers would then retire to the control panel at the back of the room, and would enter details of each girl’s name and offence. The computer would check whether an offender had been flogged before. And then it would calcuate the number of strokes due in each case. Once all of the sentences had been worked out, the senior officer would type in the instruction to commence the punishments, and the machines would spring into life.

Two or three girls might feel the cut of the cane at precisely the same moment, but the strokes would be unpredictable in pattern. Caned immediately before one’s nearest neighbour, then moments after, then before, then at the same time.  Twenty seconds apart,  then forty, then ten, then three in immediate succesion. Severity varying, from very hard to the machine’s hardest.

The near-silent workings of the mechanisms – amidst the sounds of sobbing – would mean that a girl would have no way of knowing whether a particular swish would be coming her way, until the very moment of impact. And whilst she’d have a vague idea of the likely number of strokes (ten to twenty being par for the course), a girl would have no idea of the total tally calculated by the computer – and hence, after the first ten, of whether any given stroke had been her last.

(Oh. I think I’ve just scared Haron).

Lazing under the duvet the other afternoon (OK, OK, I’d had an early start, right?), it struck me that my usual view of girls bending over the end of our bed is from behind. However, I realised, it might be rather lovely to watch from the bed itself as three young ladies bent over to be caned, observing their facial reactions to each stroke. (Nudity would be optional, but might add a certain je ne sais quoi to the view).

I toyed with the idea, and before long I was a Duke in my grand country house, sitting comfortably in a silk dressing gown under luxurious bedspreads, propped up by pillows. My neatly-ironed copy of the Times would rest beside me; a coffee would sit on a side table next to my morning toast and marmalade.

And over the bottom end of my four-poster bed would be three uniformed maids, facing me, as my butler whipped them soundly on their bare bottoms.

Yesterday we ventured to join the local library in our new town. The nice librarian person explained about borrowing, the facilities and such things, and finally showed us a table of fines for returning books late.

“It’s £0.70 per book per day. It may not seem like much, but it does build up, so…” She gave us a meaningful glare.

I imagined her give a completely different warning.

“It’s just one stroke of the cane, per book per day. It doesn’t seem like much, but when you have to report to the council offices for your strokes, even one will seem like too much.”

…What? I’m sure librarians would love to introduce corporal punishment for late returns.

I wonder whether I can stream my dreams directly onto YouTube? One last week was especially vivid. It was a summer evening, during the school holidays. A policeman sat in the living room of a suburban semi; two girls stood in the middle of the room, as he spoke to their father.

There’d been complaints, see. Girls climbing the wall into the garden of a big local house. Noise. Flowers being picked, trees climbed. Vandalism. There probably wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute, but the officer thought that he’d better call round. See, the two girls before him had allegedly been seen climbing back over the wall into the street earlier that afternoon. And the gentleman who owned the house was pressing for charges to be brought.

“Do you have anything to say, girls?” their father would ask. They’d stare at the carpet, silently.

“Perhaps it would be better if they don’t answer that while I’m here, sir,” the constable would advise. “Wouldn’t want to hear anything incriminating. But the teacher from their school who saw them was quite clear on their identities, and the clothes they’re wearing exactly match his description.”

He stood up. “Well, sir, thank you for your time. Maybe it would be best if I left you to, erm, deal with matters yourself. I never think it’s worth troubling the courts, really, if I’m sure that the girls have had a sound talking-to at home.”

The sisters were sent to their rooms as soon as the officer had shown himself to the door. Their father left them alone for a few minutes to contemplate their conduct.

At this point, my dream switched to the perspective of the younger girl, sitting nervously on her bed. She heard her father’s heavy steps on the stairs; her heart pounded. This time, he went to her sister’s room first: she heard the door close firmly, and imagined the conversation that must be taking place. A long lecture: his disappointment, sense of shame. The explanation that he had no choice; his belt being unbuckled and doubled over. His elder daughter instructed to take down her jeans and bend over the end of the bed.

The first stroke resonated through her sister’s door, and across the corridor, followed by a cry. A pause, then the second, then more, then she tried to lose count as her sister’s sobs foretold her own impending fate.

And then silence. A long silence. Before the door opened and closed, and her father’s footsteps came towards her across the landing…

From the last Observer we learned about a pair of scientists who tried to figure out on what day of the week people were happy or unhappy about their lives:

The pair studied 2.4 million blogs written during the past four years and awarded each a score on a scale of one to nine based on words used that bear meaningful emotional content.

A handy table gives us examples of what words were considered happy or sad.

Happy words: “Affection”, “fun”, “rainbow” and so on. Sad words: “Cruel”, “useless”, “hurt”, “slave”…

Wait, what? You’re on the wrong Internet, messrs scientists. On my Internet, “hurt” and “slave” are words of play, intimacy and fun. They mean a weekend well-spent, they mean special bonds, they mean happy experiences.

Ah, well. Maybe there’s a note in the end of the experiment write-up: “Results are not valid for dirrrrty pervert blogs.”

Ladies and gentlemen: I am delighted to inform you that we are now officially classed as perverts. A dear friend was travelling in Yemen recently, and tried to access our blog. And, guess what? We’re banned! (So’s Informed Consent, but other spanking blogs were freely accessible).

Much as I disapprove of censorship – and regret that all those Yemeni spankos out there are deprived of our kinky thoughts – there’s something in me that’s actually quite fascinated that a blog that doesn’t mention sex or include naughty photos (too often!) can fall foul of the authorities. But I’m now thinking of getting T-shirts printed: “The Spanking Writers – officially the perviest spanking blog”.

This follows an amusing exercise a couple of weeks back, when I clicked onto a site that rated websites for the nature of their content, rather like movies – U, 18 and so on. It rated us as PG – “Parental Guidance” – which initially disappointed me as implying that our content is too tame. And then I realised – the rating engine was making a remarkable perceptive comment on our subject matter.

PS it later transpires that we’re banned in Dubai, too. I suggested to Haron that we might ask readers to let us know of any other places that ban us – but she sagely pointed out that if we’re banned there, then people won’t get to read this post!

One evening last week we drove through our normally quiet town, and found that dozens of nicely dressed teenagers were out in the streets, partying. It wasn’t the weekend. It wasn’t a public holiday. We were puzzled for a minute, until we realised that this was the day that school-leavers all over the country had received their exam results.

This explained the partying, of course – but not excused it, in the case of a particular girl, who had been told in no uncertain terms that she must not go out without her father’s permission. Ever.

“But everybody was going to the club, Daddy,” she would plead the next morning, bleary-eyed from staying up dancing all night. “Don’t you think I had something to celebrate, with my three As?”

“Undoubtedly,” her father would say dryly. “But the manner of your celebration was unacceptable. You know I wouldn’t have allowed you to stay out until dawn – is that why you didn’t ask for permission to go out?”

She would sigh, resigned. Of course, this was it: she had known that had she asked, Father would have told her to come home at one o’clock at the latest. That was why she’d risked it, hoping that in the morning he would let it slip just this once.

But of course, he wouldn’t. All too soon his little girl would be going away to university, and he would be particularly keen to instill some good habits in her, such as going to bed in the evening and getting up in the morning, not vice versa.

“Have a shower, put on your pyjamas and wait for me in your bedroom,” he would say. “I will come to deal with you shortly. And by the way… you’re grounded for the weekend.”

She would trudge to the bathroom and stand under the shower, hot water mixing with tears. It would be the hairbrush, of course. Bedtime spankings were always given with a hairbrush, never mind that she was going to bed at 7 in the morning.

In an awesome crash after yesterday’s celebrations, she wouldn’t feel very grown up at all.

Adam Thirlwell’s “Politics” was one of the more interesting debut novels of recent years. I read his much-acclaimed follow-up, “The Escape”, on holiday recently, and it struck me an odd book: a slightly-all-over-the-place structure populated by somewhat-unbelievable characters, set in a clichéd central European spa town.

There are flashes of brilliance in the writing, though, and the odd moment worth bringing to wider pervy attention. First, in a strip club:

“a girl was holding a flashlight about her head, like a handheld shower. In the sway of its light, she was dancing. As the light swayed, her breasts swayed with it. Another girl was on all fours, while a man mimicked the act of whipping her: his whip ascending in flourishes, an undulant lasso. The shadows made momentary blindfolds on the man’s face; or the girls acquired sudden grimaces, as if from the painted masks of Venice…”

Later, there’s a scene in which the main character – a man with a colourful history – finds himself tied to the bed by a much younger woman:

“Stoical in his pursuit of pleasure, it wasn’t the first time Haffner had been involved in the bedbound business of knots. It had been a habit of Barbra, his American secretary, to need to be tied to the bed, before being smacked with a book, struck with a cane, spanked until her buttocks turned a chaste and virginal pink. She liked to lose control, in the most controlled way possible.”

He’d tie her, “naked, her arms above her head” and whip her breasts with his belt. And the author manages to make the whole thing sound remarkable un-erotic, convincing the kinky reader merely that Thirlwell is writing the scenes purely from his imagination rather than with any kinky expertise. (Adam, if you’re reading, do leave a comment if we’re wrong!)

There’s one passage that cried out for a thrashing, though – a moment from Haffner’s upbringing in which “the cockney maid fell into the dining room, closely followed by the cook, who had been listening in amazed curiosity at the door: a door which had been flung open by Papa.” Sadly, Papa failed to bend them both over the dining room table for the punishment they deserved, but I’m sure our readers can picture the missing scene.

Abel is on a self-imposed detox* that includes missing out on chocolate and caffeine. He can be strong of will when he needs to, and not succumb to temptation, but this doesn’t mean he won’t also whine about it.

On Friday evening he was cooking dinner, which smelled delicious, but he was bitterly complaining about how lack of chocolate might just kill him in the immediate future.

“Aw, poor you,” said I in a full-on ’supportive wife’ mode. “Would you like me to give you a blow-job?”

“No,” said he miserably. “I just want chocolate!”

Clearly, the poor man was beyong any help.

One of the nicer features of our Cypriot resort was the cave area at the end of one of the pools. (Yes, ‘cave’, for those perverts amongst you who just instinctively read that as the ‘cane area’). Swimming through the stone arches, one found oneself in a sheltered area, with waterfalls, ledges on which to sit, and a large mosaic of some Greek god. This, needless to say, sparked my imagination, for surely this design must have been inspired by some ancient Greek site?

Let’s suppose that some misfortune had befallen the locals – a poor harvest; a drought; an outbreak of sickness, perhaps. Clearly, this would have to have been caused by the gods expressing their displeasure.

The remedy would be clearly set out in the learned books. A maiden from the town would be selected by lot and sent to swim out (naked, of course) across the lake to the temple. There, the high priest would be waiting for her, taking her into the cave. He’d tie her before the high altar, and would whip her until he thought that the gods would be pleased by the demonstration of their subjects’ submission. And then the girl would be untied, and made to swim back across the lake. The waiting crowd would compliment her on bravery; she’d be given wine and food and massaged with soothing oils.

And what if the gods had not been placated? Well, naturally, the next maiden would be sent across the pool the following day, whipped harder and sent home – and so on until the gods chose to spare the village from whatever disaster was befalling them.