The Spanking Writers

With spring upon us, one’s mind turns naturally to the abundance of fresh growth on birch trees everywhere. Whereas my springtide thoughts last year were of gambolling lambs and flowering daffodils, this year I’ve been toying with a rather darker scenario.

The setting’s a punishment cell within a prison. A girl – freshly showered – has been stripped and strapped down by two gaolers over the flogging block. Five neatly-tied sprays of freshly-cut birch rods lean ominously against the wall.

But here’s the thing: the officer who’s to inflict her sentence only enters after she’s bound in place. Arched over the wooden frame, wrists and ankles bound tight with leather straps, the offender has no means of looking back to see him – or possibly her. All is silent: no words are spoken. For the remainder of her sentence, the inmate will have no idea whatsoever which of her guards is the one to have administered her thrashing.

Five birches: each used for ten strokes, then discarded in favour of a fresh implement. She’d take the first batch bravely; she’d break on the second. Before the final ten, she’d be begging for forgiveness, vowing never to reoffend, pleading for clemency. But mercy would be in short supply, and the final flurry would be the cruellest of all, before the disciplinarian turned and left the room…

Every time I think we must have enough spanking implements, Abel proves me wrong. Sure, we have lots of them, but there’s always a particular thing we don’t own yet, which must be rectified on the spot as soon as the lack is discovered.

A few days ago we were wandering around with Eliane, Emma-Jane and some vanilla company, and we went into a kitchen shop.*

There was a lot of fun stuff there, and among the legitimate kitchen toys Abel picked up a very small, cute and deadly spoon. Hiding from our vanilla companion behind a stack of merchandise, he thwacked it against his hand, swore and added it to the pile of purchases.

When our group reunited, Eliane picked up the little spoon and eyed it with apparent respect.

“This looks very… useful,” she said discreetly. She turned it over and read the label. “It can withstand up to 240C heat!”

“That’s really useful!” I agreed. “It’s good to know you can… cook… at such a high temperature.”

We shared a smile. Our vanilla company were none the wiser.

This did make me wonder how hot a girl’s bottom can get after an enthusiastic spanking, but I’m guessing, the answer is something like “not hot enough to melt the implements”.

*The implement rule covers kitchen utensils: if we don’t own it, Abel needs it.

A rather lovely, very vivid dream on Friday evening featured Haron and Emma Jane as members of the house I ran at a rather grand boarding school, standing before me in the deepest of trouble. A rather concerning incident had just been reported to me. EJ had been caught appropriating another girl’s rugby shirt; Haron – as a house prefect – had been made aware of the matter; EJ had bribed her not to report the incident to me. Only, the other girl had just been given a detention for not wearing the correct rugby kit, and had complained.

I’d taken out the punishment book, and was explaining what was to happen to each of them as I wrote down the necessary details. Emma Jane had protested her innocence at first, but the evidence against her was overwhelming – the fact she couldn’t tell me where her own rugby shirt was (“I think I might have mislaid it, sir”) giving reason for the crime, the bribery seeming to confirm her guilty conscience. She’d eventually confessed (“although I would have given it back, sir”). Six strokes of the cane would be fair and fitting for the offence in question; I’d double it because of her attempts to evade justice.

And Haron? She was, frankly, fortunate that I wasn’t stripping her of her prefectorial status. But I’d be lenient and view this as an isolated lapse of judgement. She too, therefore, would receive a dozen strokes. I sent her outside to wait, and told EJ to remove her knickers and blazer, and bend over my desk. She was a Lower Sixth former, so I took out the senior cane, instructing her to lift her skirt and bare her bottom. And then I punished her. Hard. Very hard, before sending her to stand facing the wall, her striped bottom on display, as I called in Haron.

She too went over my desk. She too struggled bravely though her correction. And then I told them to sort out their uniforms and return to their classrooms; they apologised profusely (and tearfully), and went on their way…

Yesterday we relaxed in front of the TV with “Over the Rainbow” – the BBC talent show looking for an actress to star in a new production of “Wizard of Oz”. Over the course of the programme, established musical performers gave contestants some tips on how to improve their act in front of the audience.

A quartet of girls who were supposed to sing “All That Jazz” were given a great direction: “You’ve got a secret. Don’t say what it is, just think about it. Think of your secret when you’re performing; let the audience know that you know something they don’t.”

Which one of the girls, we wondered, sang her number while thinking, “I like being spanked!”?

It’s become something of a habit for those of us in the spanko world to contrast vanilla attitudes towards our lifestyle with the public’s view of the LGBT community. I know I’ve written along those lines myself in the past.

The generally-held view seems to be that, in the developed world at least, our LGBT friends suffer far less condemnation and distrust now that they did, say, twenty years ago. The hope, then, is that we’ll travel a parallel path – and that a similar trend towards greater understanding will make it far easier to be open about being kinky in years to come. Max Mosley’s brave stance a couple of years certainly seemed like an important early step on the road to creating a more tolerant climate in the UK, for example.

And then there’s a story like the one in The Times of 22 March about an incredibly courageous young woman in Mississippi called Constance McMillen:

A lesbian, 18, whose school cancelled its annual prom to prevent her from turning up with her girlfriend and wearing a tuxedo, will today head to court to try to force education officials to reinstate the dance….

School officials had ruled that she could go to the prom with her same-sex partner but that they could not arrive together, hold hands, kiss or slow dance… When she refused to accept their conditions and set lawyers on the case, they cancelled the event. Miss McMillen has been shunned and abused by fellow students [who] blame her for the officials’ decision to cancel. One girl told her: “Thanks for ruining my senior year.”

Miss McMillen… said: “I just want to go to the prom that I’ve been looking forward to ever since I’ve known what a prom was.”

My anger at the people who run the school, and my sadness at what the incident reveals about some people’s attitudes, is scarcely tempered by my awe at Constance’s dignity. But maybe I won’t be quite so quick in future to imply that the LGBT community has reached the end of the difficult journey on which we kinky folks are just starting out.

The school in question, by the way, is Itawamba Agricultural High School in Fulton. I was going to drop a line to officials there expressing my thoughts about their conduct, but they seem to have removed their email details from their contacts page. Bigots and cowards, it seems.

Sophie Dahl has a new cookery programme out, and not all reviewers enjoy it, apparently. For example, the reviewer in the Daily Fail takes offence at the personality Sophie is trying to project in her show:

“…Like cholesterol, she is sometimes too rich for the blood.

‘I get a childish sense of satisfaction from popping fuchsia buds and perfectly formed blinis,’ she says at one point.

‘Oysters are an open invitation to carnal knowledge,’ she says at another.

Oh, the impulse to thrash her hard with one of her vintage ladles… is almost irresistible.”

Funny how in the mind of the reviewer an invitation to carnal knowledge has immediately turned into an invitation to a spanking

As regular readers will know, I spank girls in my dreams on a rather regular basis. Indeed, were I to leave this blog purely to my waking thoughts, I’d scarcely ever have anything to post. (I mean, I never think about spanking during the day, right?)

Sleep the other night was all-too-short, after returning late from a business dinner in London and with a ridiculously early morning start to catch a flight from Heathrow. Yet it was enlivened by my usual kinky thoughts – although this time, it wasn’t me giving the spankings.

The setting was our own bedroom; my dream-self was woken by the sound of a hand smacking a bottom, loudly and repeatedly. Sleepily, I looked up, to find a girl bent over – hands on her knees, pyjama bottoms around her ankles   – being soundly spanked by Haron beside the bed, just a few feet away . The girl was yelping in pain; her bottom – clearly unused to being spanked – was reddening spectacularly. Behind her, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I spied a line of girls queuing outside our bedroom, nervously awaiting their turn.

The rationale was obvious – Haron and I were married teachers, away on a residential school trip, and she’d disturbed our charges in some late-night misbehaviour. Satisfied that my wife had matters fully under control, I rolled over in the bed and fell back to sleep. And at that point, the dream too came to an end – minutes before the alarm clock shrilled its unwelcome greeting.

I’ve debated with myself as to whether to post this dream, because it’s just about the squickiest scenario ever, and I’m horrified that my subconscious has come up with it.

Abel thougt it was hilarious, though, so I decided to go ahead and post it.

You see, I dreamed that I was caned by… ahem… George W. Bush.

He came to my old school, and I was rude to him. So his personal guard, or whatever presidents have, caught me and made me bend over while he was handed a cane. He gave me six of the best.

Now, this being a dream, the caning didn’t hurt at all, so I could be stoic and proud under duress. When he was done, I said, “Do you feel better now, Mr President?”

Then I woke up, and thought, ewwwwww!!!!

A client treated me to dinner the other night at the Galvin Brothers’ rather wonderful new restaurant, La Chapelle in Spitalfields.

The maître d’ proudly described the history of the building – originally a chapel, it had subsequently served as a girls’ school before falling into a state of some dereliction. “We’ve had a fair number former pupils coming back to eat since we opened,” he explained. “They all seem a bit scared in case their old headmistress popped out from the shadows.”

He continued his patter: “The area over there was the gymnasium – they kept the gym equipment against the far wall. The classrooms were upstairs – before we took the upper floor out as part of the refurbishment. And you’re sitting in the changing rooms.”

I guess the headmistress’s study would have been preferable, so that I could have daydreamed about the canings that might have taken place on the very spot marked by our table. But a spot formerly scene to cold showers and the plimsoll for the last girl changed made for a more than satisfactory alternative.

As spam messages go, this morning’s arrival was one of the more intriguing I’ve received:

Women’s Pro-Beach Volleyball player, Juliana Evens, will be holding a 2-day Volleyball Camp outside of Wave House in Mission Beach this Spring Break for girls… The cost for these two days of coaching is $100, which also includes a camp t-shirt, discounted lunch options from Wave House Bar & Grill and discounted wave riding… Spots are limited to be sure to sign up and submit your payment before it’s too late!

I’m really not in the least surprised that availability is limited, albeit it does strike me as a little unconventional for them to advertise for coaching staff in this way. Still, where should I send the money?

Do I need to bring my own paddle, or will implements be provided? Indeed, would the cane bring an interesting new perspective to the young athletes’ training? And can anyone point me to a site where I can read up on the rules of beach volleyball before showing up to take up my coaching position?

What? You mean they wanted me to send my daughter? Oh. Shame I don’t have one. But then again, what a fascinating twist that brings as a role-playing opportunity…