The Spanking Writers

To Munich, briefly, last week to speak at a conference. Sadly, I was accompanied by one of my team, so the trip was kink-free – although my imagination, of course, continued to work along its usual lines.

As one does, we headed to one of the city’s famous old beer cellars for the evening – where my resolution to spend an entire month without drinking alcohol came to an abrupt end. (Hey, four weeks is a month, OK?)

Our fellow drinkers and diners were an eclectic bunch – lots of lederhosen, girls in traditional Bavarian dresses (oh, how they needed pulling over a lap to be spanked), and a group of twenty or so youngsters that appeared at the next table towards the end of the evening.

I’m not sure what the legal drinking age is in Germany, but I’m guessing it’s 18 – and none of our neighbours could have been more than 16. Since they were sitting just inside the door, any passing policeman glancing inside would certainly have spied them. I pictured the scene – the Polizei appear, the group scatters, some escaping into the street but a handful of the young ladies being caught by the cops and the waiters.

They’d beg not to be arrested and, this being a traditional place, a compromise would be agreed. They’d be led to an upstairs room; they’d be ordered to bend over next to one another over the side of a long oak table, and to take down their trousers and knickers. An old, heavy, well-worn strap would be fetched from the manager’s office, and six merciless strokes each would prove most effective before the punished, tearful troupe were marched back through the restaurant and out onto the street.

There was a large article in the Times last Sunday about how bad people are at parenting, and among some pretty boring stuff there was this part about how the author has invented a form of punishment “the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child may have overlooked: the use of cryogenic corporal punishment”. He was making dinner with frozen salmon, and his kids were messing about in the kitchen. So,

I announced: “The next person to throw that ball is going to get a frozen fish down their trousers!” Some cynics might argue that, 25 years on, my children will develop a frozen-fish fetish, ending up… on his knees in the confines of a bordello, begging, “Please… slap me again with that frozen fish and tell me I’m a naughty boy!”

Hey, you never know: the world of fetish is rich and varied…

Many of my imagined spanking scenes are complicated, detailed, lengthy. So it’s quite lovely when a simple idea presents itself to me, as it did as I dozed last night.

It was after lights-out. The Housemaster, conducting an unexpected inspection, caught one of the young ladies in the wrong dorm and sent her to wait outside his study.

He arrived a few minutes later, showing her in and picking up the cane straight away. “Do you have an excuse? No? Then bend over and touch your toes.” For three strokes, not overly hard, across her pyjama-clad bottom, before sending her back to bed.

I ripped this cartoon out of the Guardian. Maybe one of you can figure out what’s it all about?

I understand a man dressed up in women’s clothes. I understand a woman smacking him with a stick. But why is he peering into this device that looks like a loudspeaker? (The article near which it was printed gave no insights into the meaning of the cartoon.

Sunday morning, lazing in bed. Our talk turned to reformatories.

On their admission, I suggested, the girls would be lined up facing the wall, hands on heads, and ordered to remain silent. One of their number would be selected by an officer and taken into the adjoining room; the door would be shut firmly behind.

The remaining girls would hear mutters of conversation; a shower running, perhaps; the sounds and yelps of a strapping; more words being exchanged. And then the door would open and the first inmate would retake her place in the line – only by now, naked, shivering and sore. And then the next girl would be selected…

We moved on to darker places: a line of girls, tied down, each having been soundly flogged. The senior officer would call his colleagues to attention, and invite them to select the girl of his choice. Each guard would take his reward for his exertions with the whip, the girls bound in such a position as to be unable to see who was behind them. And therefore, presumably, being unable to look any of the officers in the eye for the remainder of her sentence…

As Abel has written before, his 10-year-old story site is getting evicted because of the closure of Geocities. To give his writing a home while our new story site is being built* I have moved the site as was to our own domain.

Thus I give you Abel’s Spanking Stories at their new (temporary) home.

If you had the old site bookmarked or linked, please make the changes now. And if you know somebody who is linking to the old place, please pass on the word – it’s going, it’s disappearing, *poof* it’s gone.

But wait! That’s not it. As I was shifting the site anyway, I’ve added four new stories. (Well, they’ve been seen online before, just not on the site.)

Oh yeah, Abel loves feedback on his stories. This is a hint.

* It is being built! I’ve given up on my own design skills, and we actually have a very clever person doing it for us now.

Jessica posted a rather miserable-sounding account last week on her blog, in which she described having had get-togethers cancelled by friends who prefer to meet up with newer folks in the scene. Being lucky enough to know her, and to have enjoyed many lovely scenes with her in different forms over the years, it set me thinking.

Having never to the best of my memory cancelled a playdate in my life – although it’s been done to me a couple of times, each time leaving me surprised and not a little hurt – I could only see two reasons why anyone would do so…

- If the real-world intervenes. I guess there must be times when a planned scene session has to be postponed due to unavoidable things that crop up in vanilla life (unexpected family commitments, new work meetings that just have to be attended). Most kinky folks would, I think, understand that that must sometimes happen as we all span this strangely double-faceted life – and, goodness knows, the conflicting pressures sometimes make even fixing dates hard enough.

- If one player decides that he or she isn’t in the right mood or kinky mindset to play, and suggests cancelling or postponing – rather than proceeding towards an inevitably unhappy conclusion. When mutual consent, safety and happiness are everything, this would seem like the most sensible approach.

Provided people are open and honest, communicating their need or desire to change agreed plans as soon as practicable, I doubt any kinkster would object in either of those scenarios. But it’s not easy, either for the person proposing the change, or for the recipient of the request: when it’s been done to me (especially for the latter reason), there’s been an underlying sense of disappointment, a worry as to whether I’ve done anything wrong, underpinned by my very deep-seated fear of rejection.

The other dimension of Jessica’s post is perhaps even more interesting, though – about the lure of playing with the ‘shiny and new’ folks who come onto the scene. Like most of our kinky friends, we love the fact that we get to meet lots of like-minded, wonderful people – and, when the right connection’s there, we love playing with them, too. The mutual exploration when two new play partners explore, testing and understanding each other’s interests and limits, is always fascinating and intense; that this then turns sometimes into wonderful friendships is a joy.

And whilst some friends are more active than others in their quest to expand their networks, the general desire to play with new people seems to be the same both for tops and bottoms, for the men and the women. I, for one, count myself incredibly luck to have met most of those who are closest to me in the world in the past three or so years, and to be continuing to make quite wonderful new friends.

For me, though, meeting new people is about expanding my circle of friends – not swapping the old for the new. I love that I’m still in contact with all but a very small number of the spanko partners who’ve let me play with them over the years – and that we continue to play even though their tastes and mine, and sometimes even the very nature of our mutual relationships, have evolved. I love the trust and familiarity, the shared kinky history of past encounters, that makes finding new scenes to play with them so exciting and rewarding. ‘Shiny and new’ is quite, quite wonderful too, but – for me – it’s not a case of either/or.

This photo of two chairs appeared in the Observer recently: the left-hand one is a design from 1855, and the right-hand one is an update of the old design for a contemporary market.

Now, I wonder, which would be better for spanking?

I daresay, for OTK spankings and for bending down with your hands on the seat they’re about the same. What about bending over the back?

The old design has a convenient rung under the seat, for a particularly tall or long-armed girl to put her hands on as she leaned over. The new design, on the other hand, seems slightly lower, so a smaller girl would be more comfortable leaning over the back. I guess, the buyer’s choice would depend on what kind of girl was expected to be spanked over this chair.

If one expected to spank several girls of varying heights, the old chair seems more versatile. On the other hand, I would definitely want to try it before buying: why should we short girls compromise on our comfort for the sake of versatility?

Oh, I don’t know. Both chairs, for different rooms in the house?

I bought some lovely cheese at Schiphol airport last week, and we duly tucked into it for dinner a couple of nights back, along with some freshly-baked bread. Now, as I’ve said here before, strong cheese is a reliable way for me to ensure that vivid dreams follow, and I wasn’t disappointed.

First up: I was a housemaster in a girls’ school. My favourite pupil had broken the rules, and I had to escort her to the headmaster’s study at the end of the school day. He asked me to wait and watch while he caned her…   hard. Afterwards she was in tears. I offered her a lift home. Only we found ourselves heading instead to my house so I could ‘comfort’ her before taking her back to her parents

Next, I was in one of those remarkably clever multi-sensory cinemas – 3D glasses for the movie, chairs that moved in synch with the action. An old black and white film was showing; the girl was about to be caned. Just in time, I realised what would happen, and leapt to my feet moments before the rest of the audience received a searing stripe across their behinds.

And finally, and most surreally, to a changing room in a Russian spa, where I was trying (with some success) to convince Vladimir Putin to re-introduce corporal punishment to the nation’s girls schools.

Anyone out there any good at analysing dreams? If so, please don’t!!

With Abel being away for a few days, I can watch girly TV, and so I indulged myself with “The Choir” on BBC1. In this programme, a handsome young man tries to build a community choir in a run-down south-eastern town.

Now, I loved singing in a choir when I was at school, but we never had a good-looking guy as our choirmaster – instead, we had a variety of boring women. I would have enjoyed the singing even more if the man in charge was handsome in an authoritative way, and quietly stern.

I would, I think, particularly dread being late to practice. He would ignore me until a convenient time to break, and then give me a disappointed look and then nod for me to join my section. From this silent acknowledgement I would know that my lateness was noted, and that after practice I was to come and see him, alone.

I would wait in my place as the rest of the choir filed out. The pianist would gather her music and leave too, a little smile on her lips as she passed me. Only then would the choirmaster speak to me for the first time.

“We’ve been here before,” he would say, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket for a tawse. “I’m very disappointed in you. Come here.”

I would know exactly what to do. I would bend down and put my elbows on the piano stool, feel him lift my woollen skirt out of the way. The tawse would tap my bottom gently at first, and he would say, “Yes?”

I would cringe and sing out, to a tune of practice arpeggio: “I-must-not-be-late!” A crack against my bottom would make me hiss and bite onto my lip.

“Again!”

“I-must-not-be-late!” I would sing, moving up a tone. Another crack; this time I wouldn’t be able to contain a whimper.

“Again!”

So I would move up a scale: seven notes, seven strokes of the tawse, with the eighth and final one aimed straight over the top of my thighs. At this point my eyes would be slightly moist; I would try to cover this up as I painfully unbent, and would fail.

“Good gir,” the choirmaster would say, offering me a hug. “Don’t do this again. Yes?”

“Yes, sir.” Uncomfortably, I would bury my face in his jacket for a moment of comfort.

After which I would go home, and fantasise about receiving other comforts at his hands.