The Spanking Writers

UK readers may well have seen the by-now-infamous airbrushed poster of our leader-in-waiting, David Cameron – a man who (almost) achieves the impossible feat of making Gordon Brown look honest and capable:

Well, it’s inspired a wonderful series of spoofs – and you can now make your own version online. Here’s mine:

Oh, this is fun

So, as widely reported, the porn industry has finally cottoned on to the potential of 3D: first up – a remake of the ‘infamous’ 1979 Penthouse movie, Caligula. And what fun’s in store, if they stick to the original storyline: take this, for example, after the Roman emperor had decided that “an imperial brothel is the most logical way to balance the state’s budget” (advice that one hopes Alistair Darling doesn’t take to heart as we grovel our way out of recession):

As you can see ladies and gentlemen we have gone through great expense to bring you the finest flesh in our empire. Five gold pieces! Only 5 gold pieces for each and every 20 minutes and that’s a bargain.”  Woman are seen having sex, on swings, giving oral and getting whipped…

“We also have a few very severe ladies today, punish them or be punished.” Women are whipped…

I take most of the credit for this technological innovation, of course, having proposed the idea of a 3D spanking movie in a post back in March 2007. I’m therefore very much looking forward to receiving 10% of the total worldwide box office takings as my commission.  I do have reservations, though: how frustrating it’ll be to witness the whippings as if at first-hand, whilst being deprived of the subsequent pleasure of rubbing in moisturiser as the freshly-flogged girl squirms over your lap.

But I’m blushing, slightly, too. Are you sitting comfortably? (And if so, why?). Then let me tell you a little story…

Once upon a time, back in the early 80s, a family moved house. Their teenage son wasn’t altogether keen on the move, as it made his walk to school through the dangerous streets (hey, it was Liverpool!) far, far longer. So the parents decided to bribe him with a gift – a wonderful snooker table. Sadly (do I hear violins?), there wasn’t quite enough room at the inn (OK: in the spare bedroom), so said table was surrounded for a year or more by unpacked crates from the move. And thus the young lad was able to helpfully explore his family’s precious things, discovering a hidden gem nestled away in the depths of one of said boxes…

Yes, dear readers, it seems that Caligula now seems destined to break new ground for me for a second time – adding the new accolade of being my first-ever kinky 3D movie to it’s much-cherished status of having been my first-ever porn magazine. I wonder if my parents still have that old copy of their “Penthouse Magazine Caligula special edition” that so inspired me some thirty-odd years ago? Maybe I won’t ask…

I didn’t see this spanking coming.

I’m hardly ever out of bed before Abel is. In fact, this morning when I woke up, he was already up and about, getting ready to take Martha to the train station after her overnight stay. I gave both of them a sleepy kiss, and headed for my desk and the Internet. I heard them go out, and then heard Abel come back, and assumed he was starting work, as he always does at this time of morning.

Half an hour later, Abel walks into my office. “What happens to girls who leave their phones on when their husband is sleeping?”

Sleeping? At 7am? Who’s ever heard of such a thing?

He was holding up my mobile phone by a pink deer charm I got in Nara. It was buzzing with a new text message, which it does over and over if it’s not stopped.

I grabbed for the phone, but he held it out of reach. “Come upstairs and earn your phone back,” he said in a ‘you’re doomed’ kind of voice.

I walked into the bedroom with him. He sat on the bed. “This is the phone,” he said, holding it up. “And this is a hairbrush,” he picked up the Mason-Pearson. “Over my knee.”

“But…”

“Bend over.”

There was no point making a drama about this. I sighed and went over, and received a dozen or so memorable cracks of the brush. I owwed dutifully, and possibly even apologised.

After I paid the ransom, my phone was released.

I stroked the deer charm. It didn’t look especially traumatised. It must be used to random spankings at all hours.

I’m not sure I am, though.

Saunders calls to see me on Saturday morning. I haven’t done anything wrong; I don’t think I have. But I knock on the door his office with a sense of trepidation a different girl may not have been feeling right now. We’ve had our battles, the Housemaster and I, and I haven’t won many of them.

“Come in, Sammy,” he says. He’s smiling; it’s a bit of a relief. “Take a seat. I’d like to discuss something with you. Feel free to refuse when you hear my offer.”

Oh. Not a spanking, then. I sit down on the soft chair reserved for visitors who are in his good books.

“I’d like you to be my Head of House next year,” he says.

My heart skips a beat. I imagine myself with a prefect’s badge on my lapel. It’s not an image I’ve ever dared dwell on.

“That’s, uh, that’s a surprise, sir.” I speak cautiously, as though manoeuvring a minefield. He wouldn’t be landing such a gift in my lap if there wasn’t a big “but” attached.

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In my dream I was a new cadet in a Star Fleet academy. I was recruited into the IT section, and was never going to pilot a spaceship, but at the induction I was shown a video that included a section on discipline all over the academy.

While training was rigorous in all departments, the future pilots, it seemed, had the harshest discipline of all, and were subject to frequent floggings. The video included a clip from a public caning, so that new recruits had complete understanding of the sort of trouble their friends from the pilot training course could get into.

I had never before then wanted to be a pilot, but at the moment when I saw the induction video I was painfully envious of their strict regime. I resolved to see if a transfer was available, and if not, I decided to misbehave so badly that the instructors would simply have to resort to caning me as well.

I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, but apparently, my dream self was a very pervy young woman.

The Ashmolean Museum in Oxford cherishes two rather contrary claims to fame. Founded in 1683, it purports to be Britain’s oldest public museum – and having been reopened by the Queen in December 2009 after a £61m redevelopment, it’s also perhaps the country’s most modern.

We visited recently, and were hugely impressed. Amidst the usual pervery that comes into play in every museum (at least for us!) – which of the female statues has the most whippable behind, that sort of thing – we discovered a rather lovely hands-on display about ancient alphabets. One could even write one’s own sentences – such as:

(This last one – very politically correctly, we thought – caters for multiple interest   groups, depending on whether the man loves ‘you’ – or the sheep!)

An entirely vanilla newspaper item about an extortion case set me off on a very dark train of thought. Let me transported you back to the nineteenth century, where a gentleman was entertaining two rather less salubrious types in his drawing room. He’d borrowed money from them, you see, and the repayments were overdue.

All would be well, he assured them: one of his ships was due to dock shortly from India bearing all manner of treasures, and he would pay them within the month. They smiled, thanked him and took their leave – glancing as they did at his daughter, who was sitting quietly in the corner embroidering biblical verses. “Pretty girl,” they commented. “Almost ready to be married. Would be a shame if any harm came to her.”

The weeks passed; the ship was held up; the gentleman’s debts went unpaid. And one evening, when he returned from his club, he found his daughter sobbing. His creditors had returned that afternoon and made good their threat; they’d forced entry through the servants’ quarters, bundled her upstairs before the butler could come to her rescue, and there had tied her naked to her bed and whipped her soundly. “To teach your father a lesson,” they’d explained. “It’ll be worse next time if we don’t get our money by the end of the week”. Which, needless to say, they did.

PS whilst proofreading this, I just realised that the thugs were worried lest “any ham” came to the daughter. Different, entirely.

She really was adorable. Mid-20s, long straight brown hair just below her shoulders. Curves in all the right places. Her top was cut low – but demurely enough to give away nothing away but the hint of possibility. She giggled as she talked to the train staff wheeling the refreshment trolley through first-class. She’d taken out a book to read – an academic tome, no less. She’s started to make notes. With a fountain pen.

I was falling in lust by the time the train had pulled out of the station.

And that book she was studying? “Hobbes and Leviathan”. That’s be the philosopher Thomas Hobbes, then; his famous book contains some fascinating passages:

A punishment is an evil inflicted by public authority on him that hath done or omitted that which is judged by the same authority to be a transgression of the law, to the end that the will of men may thereby the better be disposed to obedience…

The first and most general distribution of punishments is into divine and human. Of the former I shall have occasion to speak in a more convenient place hereafter.

Human are those punishments that be inflicted by the commandment of man; and are either corporal, or pecuniary, or ignominy, or imprisonment, or exile, or mixed of these.

Corporal punishment is that which is inflicted on the body directly, and according to the intention of him that inflicteth it: such as are stripes, or wounds, or deprivation of such pleasures of the body as were before lawfully enjoyed.

I watched with some interest, wondering how the young lady would respond when she reached the relevant passages. Would there be a smile of recognition, a little blush? Would she glance around the carriage, embarrassed lest anyone had noticed her reading the phrases concerned, and re-reading them, then reading them once more? Might she squirm in her seat, thinking of the boyfriend who’d be awaiting her at the other end of the journey, and the pleasures of the evening to come?

The fate of rulers in our house is a mystery. We keep buying them, and they keep vanishing into thin air. I swear, I have nothing to do with this – other than one or two supposedly shatterproof rulers that cracked in two upon meeting with my bottom, I don’t, on the whole, do anything unpleasant to rulers.

Be that as it may, Abel declared that it was time to solve the problem once and for all: we would go into a stationery shop and buy a pair of rulers: one for his desk, one for mine. From then on, neither of us would need to borrow a ruler from the other, and they would stay put. And definitely not disappear into the toy chest.

Into the shop we went. Abel disappeared down the aisle to look for something else he needed, whereas I stopped in front of the ruler display. There was plenty of choice. We weren’t buying a ruler with spanking in mind, so we didn’t need anything particularly long, or wide, or thick.

Or so I thought.

“Let’s get that one,” said Abel from behind my back. He was pointing at a particularly sturdy-looking plastic ruler. “They’re three for the price of two, you know.”

“Right. But we only need two.”

“Well. I’m sure we could find a use for an extra ruler. Don’t you agree?”

That was how we ended up with another ruler in our toy box. It practically jumped there all by itself.

…Would it be a good time to mention I have no idea what happened to the ruler that was supposed to live on my desk?

A rather fascinating account came to light recently on a blog from the island of Orkney:

The punishment of Jean Seatter on 9 March 1697 caused a lot of excitement in Kirkwall. Business stopped, and crowds gathered around the Tolbooth, surging forward to catch a glimpse of the prisoner being led from the damp cells.

Jean, a tall young woman with fair hair, was escorted by the magistrates. Her punishment began when she was taken to the rampart of the Brig at about 11 o’clock and stripped to her shift. She received three lashes over her shoulders, with the cord or tow. Three more lashes were inflicted at the Mercat Cross, then a further three at the ‘head of the town’, followed by banishment from Orkney. If anyone harboured her, the fine was 40 shillings for every night she spent under their roof. Jean’s crime was that of theft.

She was a servant with the Bailie Moncrieff, at a time of great hunger and famine, when many in Orkney were starving. She stole from her employer a small quantity of bere meal, and more seriously, ‘did cut down and steal away’ 27 pieces of beef which had been hanging in the larder. She attempted to hide the meat whilst the household was in church, but was discovered.

Jean pled for mercy, saying that desperation had made her steal to feed her family, but no leniency was shown and the full punishment was carried out.

A lot of excitement, they say? Why, surely people aren’t interested in watching the administration of corporal punishment to attractive young women? What damned perverts…