The Spanking Writers

It was after dinner (lobster ravioli with eel and caviar foam – mmmm!) that I read up on the history of the rather splendid hotel in which I was staying in Utrecht. It seems that it was formerly the city’s court complex – a past that was sure to inspire my creative juices.

I imagined a young woman, freshly sentenced, being led up the stairs that I’d just climbed, and brought into the self-same room. Only in those days, it had been far from the luxurious designer affair in which I was staying: instead, it was bare save for a stout wooden table.

The guard who’d brought her from the courtroom would unlock her handcuffs. The punishment officer would command her to strip and bend over the end of the table, the guard taking up position to hold her firmly by the wrists as the flogging was inflicted – slowly, purposefully, harshly.

And what, pray, of that courtroom downstairs, in which she’d been sentenced? The judge would have paused before condemning her to her fate, and asked her guardian whether he had anything to say in mitigation. But he, the local mayor, would have spoken clearly and solemnly: “I’ve made it very plain that I’m not prepared to tolerate the declining standards of behaviour of our younger residents, your honour. I’ve called publicly for strict measures to be taken, without exception, and I stand by those pronouncements.”

Seems as though we  passed something of a milestone a few minutes ago:

OK, page load stats are misleading – they don’t include the hundreds of folks who read us on RSS, for example, or readers of Abel’s stories page. But 2.5 million hits for a blog that features the written word only, and no naughty pictures, ain’t at all bad! Sorry for the self-c0ngratulatory post, but we’re really happy!

We’d have a little drink to celebrate – had we not already had more than enough for the evening!

I spent the early part of the week in Utrecht, and rather fell in love with the place. It’s everything that Amsterdam should be (and isn’t) – beautiful merchants’ houses lining quaint canals, yet quite unspoilt.

I went for a stroll before dinner, and imagined the histories behind the attractive water-side facades – a girl, freshly arrived from the country, standing before the stern mistress of the house in which she hoped to be a maid.

“You’ll understand that we expect you to work hard?” the lady would enquire.

“Yes, madam.”

“And that we expect the highest standards.”

“I shall try my hardest, madam.”

“And your hardest had better be up to scratch, young lady. I can tolerate a member of staff making a genuine mistake. Once. But if she repeats her error – or is wilfully at fault – then she must pay the consequences.”

“Yes, madam.”

The merchant’s wife would take out a cane, and flex it before the girl’s terrified eyes. “I find that I only have to bare a girl and chastise her once or twice before she learns to concentrate. Don’t make me have to teach you the hard way…”

And then her newest employee would be shown out of the room by the housekeeper, taken to a bath tub and scrubbed (in cold water, naturally) – and then presented with the formal, starched black dress in which she would serve…

Haron writes:

In my online spanking life, there are things that have always been there. There’s always been Laura’s Spanking Corner; there’s always been soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup with its many wars and stories, and on the newsgroup there’s always been Alex. He was there with his spanking fiction, sizzling hot and clever, and with his political opinions; and his debates. When the world drifted to the blogosphere, he started A Taste of the Birch: one of the first I’ve ever read. We argued and disagreed about many things, but he taught me many more.

The world wakes today without Alex in it.

I don’t know how it can be true, because his virtual presence is everywhere. It seems wrong that I can’t reach out and talk to him any more, like we always have. It’s a strange world, and sad.

Rest in peace, my mentor and friend.

Abel writes:

I’m incredibly sad this morning. I heard the news of Alex’s passing last night, just before going to bed, in an email that a friend of his kindly sent to me sharing the bad news. I’ve just been reading Mija’s wonderful, moving post on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup and the various replies and tributes there. Have no doubt: the online spanking community has lost one of its foremost figures.

I’d known Alex for a long, long time: almost a decade, I’d guess. We’d swapped so many notes. His tastes in spanking erotica and mine seemed to coincide almost precisely. He was one of the first people to comment on my stories – generous in his feedback, constructive in his suggestions. I owe a lot to him as a writer, for giving me confidence and for helping me to refine and improve. Praise on a story from Alex was praise indeed!

And then there was his own writing – so many excellent stories – as well as his blog and the various forums he ran and contributed to. His “Corporal Punishment in History” series, featured in one of our annual collections of ‘The Best of the Kinky Rest’, remains one of my very favourite series of posts on any spanking blog.  He put so much into our spanking community, and in doing so must have brought so many people such pleasure.

Sadly, despite our lengthy correspondence, we never did manage to meet in person. We’d been planning to do so, despite his illness, but my last note to him with that list of dates for our long-awaited coffee will sadly never receive a reply. But online friends really are friends, just as much as those we know in person. I’ll miss you, Alex. Greatly.

I’ve been rather a fan of Times columnist Matthew Syed – the current Sports Journalist of the Year – since his brave, bold support for Max Mosley back in early 2008 – see, for example, this particularly eloquent article. In a column last week, he discussed the furore about the first woman to referee a league soccer match – opponents having claimed that no female referee could be fit enough to keep up with the pace of the men playing the game:

“We would do better – as a matter of practicality – to test… by, say, getting them to run 150-metre sprints rather than checking to see whether they have a penis or not. Because if you adopt the penis test, you might end up with a fat man who is very slow rather than a little woman that is very fast…

The problem with stereotypes is that they make sensible people do and say very silly things. They allow arbitrary differences to become subconscious inevitabilities and they cause us to make snap decisions on the basis of group membership (whether of a race, gender or whatever) rather than individual merit…

Please don’t get hung up on breasts and penises per se. In a world that is just beginning to recognise the extraordinary diversity that exists within groups, between groups and beyond groups, isn’t it just a trifle passe, as well as a little silly?”

This rang such bells for me. First, since I’m a ‘member’ of a ‘group’ of people – the spanking community – that have to hide our preferences and actions from so many in the vanilla world, for fear of misunderstanding, mockery or hostility.  Second, since our community is such a broad church, with so many individual preferences and play styles – and tolerating diversity is so very important.

I have no idea whether Syed is ‘one of us’ – LOL although as a former international table tennis champion, he’d doubtless be most effective cane in hand. But whatever his preferences – vanilla, kinky (it matters not and is none of our business) – I think he’s something of a hero.

Pondering ideas for dark scenes…

The maid had been caught for some dastardly misdemeanour. The master of the house demanded to see her; the butler brought her forth. Apologies were met with anger: “She must be whipped, of course,” the gentleman would observe.

But, he would decide, she should be given time to contemplate her crimes and her punishment. He was about to go on a trip: “”Take her to the cellar, lock her in, and feed her occasionally with bread and water. Make sure you’ve cut some birches by the time I return,” he’d tell the butler.

And then he’d turn to the girl, “Once I’m back, I’ll have you brought back in here, and I’ll give you the flogging you so soundly deserve, and afterwards we can decide whether or not you can continue in my employ.”

Needed: a girl who can spend a few days locked up; a local supply of birches; and a deep, cold, windowless cellar…

The cute lass who’d been wishing her boyfriend an emotional goodbye next to the airport security entrance on Sunday afternoon was in tears by the time I noticed her next, in the departure lounge. Good tears, I’m guessing – the sort that come from spending a weekend with someone lovely and having to part, knowing you’ll see them again soon. Sad, yes: but as a result of deep-down happiness.

Of course, had I not seen their embrace, I would have pictured an entirely different reason for her sobs. Her case had been brought the magistrates, back at home, some three months before. The cold verdict (“guilty”) – had come as a shock; the sentence – twenty strokes of the cane, to be administered at the local prison – had left her distraught.

They’d given her back her passport, after the lawyers had lodged an appeal. No reason to interrupt her education, they’d agreed – she could return to University whilst further legal arguments were held. And then, yesterday, the phone call she’d dreaded: verdict and sentence upheld, and “you must report to the authorities within 48 hours to receive your punishment.”

She’d fudged the explanations with her friends – a forgotten family birthday party the excuse for her sudden trip. And now she was here, trembling, waiting to board the flight that would take her to her thrashing…

While visiting a friend, we found that her house has a an empty garden shed.

It’s amazing how many interesting things you can do with a garden shed, particularly one that has lighting and a power outlet for a heater.

For example, when a girl needs to be punished, you can send her to wait there until you’re ready to deal with her. You might store some implements in the shed for the purpose, for example, a strap hanging off a single nail on the wall. Or you can bring some with you. Or have the girl carry it, and wait inside contemplating it.

You can leave her there stewing for a while, and then arrive, looking stern and solemn, and give her a thrashing she so thoroughly deserves.

Whether you then lock her in the shed to think about her behaviour rather depends on the seriousness of the offence.

Unfortunately, you can’t do all of this when the shed isn’t soundproof, and the neighbours are just over the garden fence. That rather spoils the whole thing, I think.

It’s not uncommon for spankos, particularly bottoms / subs, to complain about the emails they receive from potential play partners. (“Hola! You’re very pretty! God, I realy luv to hit beautiful sexy hot cuties like u!”). An amusing study at dating site “OK Cupid” has analysed the language used by their members when first making contact with someone new, and found that certain phrases have a marked impact on the reply rates. The sentence in brackets above (“Hola…”) breaks about ten of their rules; the site would suggest something like the following (with 24 of their recommended phrases in bold):

How’s it going?

Your profile is really fascinating. I noticed that you mention pretty much all of the things I enjoy in the spanking scene. That’s awesome! It’s nice that you love kinky literature and movies; LOL I’m curious what your favourites might be, although I’m guessing that you have good taste.

PS I’d like to apologise for the fact I’m a bit of an awkward atheist. Sorry! But I am a vegetarian, and I did get some tattoos when I was in a metal band whilst studying physics at grad school, ha ha!

OK, maybe not… But it’s an interesting article nonetheless!

“Come here, young lady!” said Abel.

I approached, with caution. He was smiling (that was good), but he was also holding up a hairbrush (that was ominous).

“What do you mean by leaving a hairbrush lying around? That’s just asking for a spanking.”

So, it appears that he’d walked past my hairbrush, noticed it there, and decided it was “lying around”, and needed to be used. Hmm.

There was nothing I could do, though. He bent me down, secured me under his left arm, and applied the brush to my bottom with firm determination. I yelped and wiggled, because even through my jeans a wooden brush is going to make an impression.

A dozen or so smacks later, he released me, and handed the brush to me.

“Let this be a lesson,” he said. “You can put it away.”

I guess, it was a lesson. I should keep the brush in a drawer at all times. I’m not sure how it’s going to help with the other 50 implements lying randomly around the house in full view…