The Spanking Writers

Ever get authors who are loved by reviewers and readers, but whose writing just doesn’t work for your? Garcia Marquez, McEwan (at least his more recent novels), Rushdie and Rowling all fall into that camp for me. I’ve tried – honestly, I have. But despite numerous attempts to get into their books, I just can’t connect.

Monica Ali seems to be destined to become another on the list. “Brick Lane” was adored by everyone but me. Her latest (“In The Kitchen”) has received widespread acclaim, and so I thought I’d try it. Bored after 20 pages, stumbling over prose that didn’t flow evenly into my mind, I started skipping by page 30, and abandoned it on page 50.

There was, though, one wonderful passage, describing the history of the fictional Imperial Hotel, in which the novel is set:

“Following the respectability and ‘discreet luxury’ of the Victorian era when the smoking and billiards rooms kept the ladies out of harm’s way, the Imperial enjoyed a roaring twenties reputation for dance, decadence and statutory rape… In 1922, in a case widely reported, Tyrone Banks (best-known picture Heave Ho!) was caught with his pants down and three under-age flappers beneath the silken sheets. The escapade remained curiously omitted from the hotel brochure.”

Sadly, Ali sets her tale amidst the hotel’s staff in contemporary times – rather than writing the scandalous story of the 1920s Imperial. But we can fill in the gaps.

Sir Gerard Montague-Smythe, with his infamous kinky parties in suite 402 (involving requests to the hotel to supply his room with freshly-cut birches). Lord Rochdale and the succession of demure ‘daughters’ who came to visit, leaving with tears in their eyes and their hands on their bottoms.

The visiting Crown Prince who caused scandal by stripping and whipping a pair of hotel maids who’d left his room untidy. The famous movie starlet, waving from her balcony to the fans below, only moments after her manager had punished her for missing an audition.

Or, of course, Mr. Parr – the feared General Manager. His one-page policy on The Corporal Punishment of Female Staff was handed to all new staff and administered with vigour by his managers and supervisors. And he was the first of the great hoteliers of the era to insist that a crook-handled cane be hung in the wardrobe of every room lest guests needed to deal with any indiscipline they might encounter during their stay.

Whilst most of the disciplinarians imagined in my little fantasies are male, there’s always space for the occasional strict female. The stern Headmistress, summoning a girl to her study; the prison officer stripping a reluctant girl before applying a birching; the mistress of the house dealing with the maids.

The final case sparked interesting thoughts of a young woman, recently married to a grand Duke. Disciplining the female staff, he’d explain, was to be one of her responsibilities; he’d provide her with a cane, encourage her to practice on the cushions, and inform her that the butler would be standing by to cut birch rods should she have to deal with a more serious offence.

Only, she’d flinch from her duties – memories of being chastised by her own father mixing with a desire to be liked, loved even, by the staff. Particularly the pretty young thing who was her own lady’s maid, her dresser – her confidant, even, in this scary, lonely big house.

The day would come, inevitably, when her favourite made some heinous mistake. The Duke, over dinner, would check with his wife: “You will be caning her later, I assume?” Trembling, she’d confirm that she would – and trembling again the following morning at breakfast, she would confirm that she had.

Only, you she, she hadn’t. She’d called the girl into her dressing room, scolded her, and sent her on her way.

Who knows how the Duke would discover her deceit – the trusted butler, listening at the door, noting the absence of whacking inside? But both his elegant young wife and her favoured maid would be called into his study.

“I understand that my wife let you off with a scolding,” he’d inform the girl. “Would for you she’d carried out her duties. He’d make her lift her skirts; bare herself; give her a dozen of the harshest cuts; send her on her way.

And then he’d turn to his new wife. “Clearly it’s not only the staff who need discipline,” he’d comment disapprovingly, before instructing her to adopt the position recently vacated by her maid. Twelve more strokes would echo out, teaching her an important lesson that would not be quickly forgotten, before holding her tight in his arms.

Fiona Rule’s “The Worst Street in London”, which I read recently, is an interesting little book, describing the history of the once-notorious Spitalfields area and, in particular, of one nearby street. Dorset Street was built in 1674 to provide grand houses for silk weavers, declining over the decades into some of the city’s worst slum accommodation. Jack the Ripper murdered one of is victims there; even now, the street long demolished, the edifice that took its place “holds the fitting but dubious local reputation of being the most crime-ridden car park in London”.

The volume’s meanderings take in interesting anecdotes of London life over the ages. A paragraph describing the fate of three thieves inevitably caught my eye:

“Theft also carried a very wide range of punishments… The judge, no doubt hoping that a bit of public humiliation would make them see the error of their ways, sentenced them to be whipped.

Whilst being publicly flogged was hardly a pleasurable way to spend an afternoon, it was infinitely preferable to the fate of another thief [who was sentenced to] death.”

Before very long, criminals were being transported to the colonies (although women “were generally considered to be less of a threat to the public and therefore were often given corporal punishment for non-capital offences rather than being sentenced to transportation”). Those despatched to the West Indies or America included “a former cook for the Duke of Northumberland… a former barrister who supplemented his income by smuggling rare books out of university libraries to be sold on the black market and a gentleman who despite being independently wealthy got his kicks from stealing silver cutlery”.

Ah, now my imagination could run riot. There’d be the kleptomaniac daughter of a local nobleman, caught in the act by a shopkeeper. A search of her room would find numerous stolen items of lace. The judge would listen to her family’s pleas, and make one small concession for a girl of such high breeding: her fifty strokes of the birch would be administered in private.

Not so fortunate would be the maid from another household. She’d have ‘borrowed’ one of her lady’s dresses, masquerading as a gentlewoman to enter (and steal from) the silk shops. Her subterfuge would be uncovered and she’d be brought straight before the courts. “Guilty! Take her to the market place, strip the dress from her, and whip her very soundly…”

We’ll both be away this week attending to family commitments in Ukraine, and Haron will probably be out there until next month.

As we’re unlikely to have internet access over there, I’ve lined up some posts for the coming few days that I already had written. And most (if not all) of the posts here for the next few weeks will end up being from me rather than Haron.

Comments are as welcome as ever – just excuse us if any that need moderating sit in the queue for a while.

When I was a teenager living at home, with no prospect of playing with anybody locally,* I used to spend a lot of time in chat-rooms and message boards playing virtual spanking scenes. If you don’t know what one of them is: it’s like cyber-sex, only with spanking.**

Obviously, they weren’t as satisfying as the real thing, but in their own way they were incredibly fulfilling, giving me an insight into the thoughts and feelings of my Internet friends, and helping me learn about my own desires. Some of those scenes are as bright in my memory as some of the best real-life scenes I’ve played. There was one I’d done with HH where the virtual headmaster made me cry with remorse, sniffling in front of my computer screen. There was one with Uncle Monty giving me a bath and having to spank me halfway through, and it made my inner little girl feel naughty and secure in equal measure. And there was, of course, a chat or two with Abel, which made me think, “I’d like to meet this man some day.”

I haven’t played a single virtual spanking scene since 2001, when I moved to Perv Central that is the UK. Come to think of it, I haven’t been in a chatroom since then. Real-life spankings have been plentiful and delicious, and enough to satisfy my needs.

In the meantime, the Internet spanking scene has moved on technologically in a big leap. From IRC and Usenet, to mailing lists, to forums, to blogs, to social networks. All these are changed methods of communication in the scene, and where some of them are familiar, others are completely foreign to me.*** People communicate differently now. I wonder, does anybody play virtual spanking scenes any more, or write multi-player stories on forums? Do they survive?

If you’re doing some cyber-spanking these days, I’d love to know how it’s working for you. I know I sound like a grandma here (back in my day!), but when you start in the scene as a teenager, there’re lots of experiences and changes behind you by the time you’re thirty.****

Anyway. If you cyber-spank, please share the gossip of how it’s going for you!

* That is, before I knew that my best friend was also very much into spanking, thus wasting a good 2 years for both of us. D’oh!

** If you don’t know what cyber-sex is… you need to get out more.

*** I know I need a FetLife profile. Maybe later.

****OMG, thirty? Me? Wasn’t I supposed to have become a grown-up by now?

Thursday, 8.46pm

About to play … I’ve just been up to my study, and prepared the headmaster’s office. We’re in the Oxfordshire Approved School; Miss Temple (Haron) has just caught young Miss Grey (Graham) trying to escape – indeed, more seriously, having trieed to organise a mass escape of the girls resident here. When the door knocks, in a few minutes, they’ll be standing outside in role.

The curtain’s drawn; the desk is set ready; canes are in the stand. (I wonder which I’ll use? One of the more severe ones, I think). Ropes are carefully placed – just out of sight, in case I decide that a girl needs her ankles tying to hold her in place.

I’m changed, wearing a suit. I’ve even put on a tie for the occasion. (Amusingly, I only ever seem to wear ties these days when spanking girls – never for business!). Our cat’s just wandered in to see what’s going on – I think I’d better throw her out…

Oh, how I love the anticipation that comes from being on the verge of playing a good scene.

9.08pm

Scene over. Girl soundly caned; to be comforted. Notes on the scene to be compared.

That was good!!

Friday morning, 6.26am

As is so often the case, I’m the first person to wake in the house. The memories of an excellent scene flooded back as soon as I walked into my office. The cane’s hanging on the back of the chair; my computer screen still read “Oxfordshire Approved School”.

Miss Grey was surprisingly defiant, given her predicament. I had to explain that the Approved School regime was designed to help her – that her delinquency before joining us had been such that our establishment was all that stood between her and the gaol system.

She already understood that a visit to my study would mean a caning, and admitted that she’d been caned once before. “How many strokes did you receive on that occasion?” “Twelve, sir.” I’d, needless to say, bear that in mind when determining her punishment.

“Please remove your skirt and hand it to Miss Temple…. Neatly!” And then, to Miss Grey’s apparent mortification, came the instruction to remove her knickers and then to bend over the desk. I could then complete my own preparations: jacket off, cufflink removed, shirt sleeve rolled up, (senior) cane selected from the stand. A quick hand spanking followed to warm the bent-over girl up as much as I ever do whilst trying to maintain a degree of authenticity in the (very unauthentic!) scene!

She’d confessed to a dozen strokes as her previous punishment, so that was clearly the starting point for what followed. A very conventional caning, this, done by the book: each whack administered hard, a “thank you, sir” afterwards, a ten or twenty second pause to let the impact of the stroke sink it. The weals rising on Miss Grey’s backside were most impressive; she was gasping at the hardest strokes, but taking her thrashing very bravely and valiantly.

After the twelfth, I informed the young lady that she would receive six more – but that she didn’t need to count these. I administered them hard, in quick succession, and the punishment was over. I lectured her as I re-adjusted my shirt, threading my cufflink back into position, before making her stand and sort out her own clothing. And then, after a final few words from me and a final defiant glance from Miss Grey, Miss Temple escorted the young lady on her way and the door shut behind them…

Continuing to read aforementioned “New School Rules”, I inevitably found the section on discipline. And I leaned something new and interesting there:

A well-disciplined school will have a very clear discipline policy, or code of conduct that may well be put up around the school. The pupils should be aware of the consequences of certain actions.

I like the image of a summary of school rules being displayed on the wall in every classroom. “Would you like to read the section of the school rules you have just broken, Miss Smith, and tell me what punishment is specified there?”

Don’t be alarmed if there’s an “On-Call” system, which can be great if it works! This is where pupils who are misbehaving in class are sent out to be babysat by a senior member of staff… A good “On-Call” system has a central location, and there are consequences for being sent “On-Call” – such as a detention or letter home.

…Or a swift three strokes of the cane as soon as you enter the room. Not as bad as a guaranteed half-dozen you get at detention, which you may still avoid if your behaviour “on-call” is exemplary.

Mmmm. I’ve never heard of such a system before, and am now thoroughly inspired.

Belated congratulations to Hong Kong’s Correctional Services Museum, which proudly welcomed its 400,000th sightseer last year, according to a press release.

Said visitor, a schoolmaster, commented that, “I am much impressed by the Hong Kong Correctional Services Museum which fully shows the evolution of correctional services in Hong Kong. Pupils learned about the punishment for committing crime as well as offenders’ rehabilitation process. All these have a positive impact on their growth.”

It was the photo of the cane and (to the left) the glimpse of the padded stool over which prisoners bent for their punishment that really caught my eye:

I’m conjuring up memories from the old days, when Hong Kong was still part of the Empire. The daughter of a high-ranking British official had befriended a local girl; the pair had been caught playing truant and trespassing on government property. Terrified of their parents finding out, they refused to give their details to the officers who arrested them.

The magistrate determined that they should each receive six strokes of the cane from the Correctional Services officer. “Should you still be unwilling to confirm your names after that, then you shall receive a further twelve strokes each and be detained in the cells until you choose to cooperate.”

Once inside the punishment room, both girls inevitably weakened and confessed their identities. But six strokes each had been decreed as a minimum, and they took their turn for punishment – before the police drove them each home to their respective fathers.

Dolly Parton writes particularly eloquently about how spankings used to happen in her parents’ house:

When one of us had done something wrong, the rest would rather die than tell on the guilty party. I don’t know if that was out of loyalty to brothers and sisters or some unspoken code of the mischievous that made us keep silent knowing the same service would be afforded us when we were the one who “done it.” Whatever the reason, our failure to cooperate with the party of the second party (the one holding the belt) usually meant we would all end up getting spanked. If we had taken a minute to think about that, we would have figured out that the loyalty we were drawing interest on in that unspoken kid bank was not really doing us any good if it was intended to be insurance against getting our butt beaten for some future offence. This way, we were bound to get whipped not only for that future one but for every present one as well. Still, the code was followed, and I supposed there was some kind of integrity in it, if not the clearest of logic.

I would always want to be the last in line. My plan was to run around to be first in line before daddy got to me, but that never worked. You’d think a man with that many kids would lose count just once in his life. Being in last place, and being a sensitive kid, I ended up feeling every blow to every other kid just as if it had landed on my butt.

Daddy used to spank us with a leather strap. But when mama whipped us, she would send us out to pick out a switch. We would try a crude form of mountain-urchin psychology by choosing a big, dangerous-looking stick that mama wouldn’t have the heart to hit us with. We’d go out to fetch a switch but come back with a limb that would be better used as a fence post. Our psychology usually backfired when mama would only get madder and go out herself and pick out one of those reedy little sting-your-butt-bad switches.

I love the tactics of cutting a hopefully-too-big-to-be-used switch. I’ve done it myself before, trying to signal something like “See how sorry I am? I’m sorry enough to present you with a whole tree limb!”

It didn’t work for me any better than it did for Dolly.

Well, there’s finally some good news to report on the anthology of the best of my spanking stories, to be entitled “The punishment list.”

The stories have all been selected – including a few old favourites, as well as many new ones that never previously been published. A wonderful painting’s been done for the cover (thanks, Cath!).

The book’s formatted. And it’s now being proofread: our friend Martha was working on this for us on a train journey the other day. As she wrote to us:

The binder is out on the table, with my various other paraphernalia, and I’ve been reading away for some time, pen poised for any notes.   Sitting opposite me are an American couple.

I get up and go to the buffet car. On my return, as I sit down, he smiles winsomely and says, “So, on your way back to school then?”

How I didn’t collapse laughing is anyone’s guess!   Just wrong, on so many levels   If he’d had any idea what I was reading…!   Unless he took a sneaky peak when I was away, of course!   (I did close it!)   In the end I contented myself with a heartfelt, “I wish!” and explained that I was “proofreading some work for a friend”.

The target is for the book to appear in print at the very start of the new year. Watch this space!