The Spanking Writers

I’d like to share a very modest proposal, written in a book of”Essays in Socialism” back in 1907 by one E. Belford Bax. The author opens by stating the general principle that “equality before the law, as it is termed, is the first condition of liberty”.

However, he finds the judicial system to be remarkably biased in favour of women, quoting various examples in support of his proposition:

“From the beginning of the nineteenth century, of course, whilst flogging, the tread-mill, and other brutal forms of punishment have been retained for male offenders, they have been abolished for females…”

–

“Mr. Labouchere made it his business in Truth to hunt up every obscure case of girl-flogging in the country, and to trumpet it forth in his journal as though it were a crime compared to which common murder were a venial affair. But now, had Mr. Labouchere one word for the brutal floggings of boys, not by private individuals, but in national institutions, such as reformatories and training ships? Not one. What he expressly denounced was not flogging, but girl-flogging.”

–

“A little while ago fifty women refused to carry out an order made by the Governor of Wormwood Scrubbs for bringing coke into the laundry. If men had refused to obey any regulation they would most probably have got the lash till they yielded. But what was the lot of these women. The Governor at once politely cancelled his regulation and ‘order was restored’!! Such is the farce of penal discipline in the case of women.”

And so, he demands equality for all.

“I am met by this argument – ‘Are you not in favour of abolishing all forms of brutal punishment?’ I say yes, in common with most Socialists and Democrats, I am… It is then argued: – ‘But surely the abolition of these things in the case of women is better than nothing’; it is at least a step. My answer is that in the first place it is not a step, but generally a shirking of the whole question.”

Indeed. And how refreshing to read such a forward-thinking feminist tract!

I’m slightly worried this morning, because yesterday Abel phoned from the foreign city he’s working in, and gleefully informed me that he’d not only found the craft market within the first millisecond of being in town, but he’s also bought a hairbrush and a giant wooden spoon.

Hand-made, I suppose. Um, yay. Go us for supporting local crafts.

Something in his voice told me that I’m going to either hate these things, or loathe them, or maybe despise them.

I woke early, as usual. Haron was still sound asleep, curled up next to me.

I couldn’t resist: who could? My hands wandered, reaching to rub her bottom. Sore, clearly, from last night’s whipping with the crop – she winced, murmured, wriggled away, shuffled back closer.

Inspired, I whispered into her ear. I’d been kind, I explained, to take her in the night before: I’d watched her flogging in the market place that morning, noticed her wandering from door to door during the day. I understood that her landlord would have thrown her out of her lodgings – and that no-one else in the town would take in a criminal who’d been publicly whipped.

But I was a kind gentleman. I’d seen her standing, disconsolate, in the market square as darkness fell, her few belongings in a small bag at her feet. I’d taken pity on her: brought her back to my house. And she couldn’t object now if I woke her by running my fingers over her weals…

Reformatory spankings are never a gentle thing, but one particular punishment session from last week’s reformatory weekend stands out in my mind. Other than her final birching, my character Audrey had one last punishment remaining, and she was informed that for this punishment she needed to report to Mr Jenkins.

Part of me rejoiced at seeing Abel, as we hadn’t played one-on-one for the whole weekend, and frankly, we barely saw each other. I was also apprehensive: Abel isn’t known for his light spankings – particularly when he’s playing the devious Mr Jenkins. by this point I was extremely sore, particularly having just emerged from a punishment session with Dr Grimace.

I knocked on the door of the Punishment Wing. Mr Jenkins ordered me to enter, and I saw him assembling an armful of evil-looking implements. He handed these to me, like a heap of firewood. “Come with me,” he said curtly.

This was ominous. As far as I knew, every room in the house was taken right now, with girls in their final punishment sessions. He led me into the kitchen and headed towards the back door. I had a dreadful feeling I was about to be spanked outside, but I followed him with only a little squeak of protest.

“Go ahead,” Mr Jenkins commanded. “Towards the outbuilding over there. Go on!”

Turned out, our reformatory cottage had a games room in a shed outside, and Abel had a key. Shivering with cold, but very happy that I wasn’t staying outdoors for my spanking, I followed him into the games room. There wasn’t much there: a couple of desks of indeterminate purpose, and a big pool table.

“Put the implements on the table over there,” said Mr Jenkins. “And take off your clothes.”

The part of me that was Audrey was mortified, but I scampered to obey. Other girls had whispered about the reformatory staff taking unimaginable liberties, but I had mostly avoided anything more terrible than a flogging here and there and a few little humiliations. Undoubtedly painful, these things seemed insignificant now, as I willed my trembling, numb fingers to work faster on the buttons of my tidy Sunday dress. Mr Jenkins’s sneer told me loud and clear that my good luck had run out, and he intended to have his fun with me.

“Pretty young thing,” he purred as I awkwardly stripped out of my undergarments. “I’ve had my eye on you from the first evening. Take off your shoes, but you may keep your socks; wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

My nudity was all the more mortifying for his smart outfit: the suit, the cravat, the watch chain snaking across the front of his ornate waistcoat, the fancy, dark malacca riding whip he was using as a walking stick. I was acutely aware of our difference in height, which seemed particularly drastic that morning. I cringed under his appraising gaze.

“Mmm,” he said. “Very nice. Bend over the pool table.”

I leaned forward, stretched as far as I could, held onto the sides. My breasts pressed into the green fabric. Behind me, Mr Jenkins was picking an implement.

“I think I’ll give you six with each of these,” he said, swishing a leather riding crop through the air.

There were five implements in the heap: the crop, a couple of straps, a cane – and his knotty walking stick. I’d been hurting even before the first stroke landed, and the first half-dozen licks re-ignited the fire Dr Grimace had started earlier. I yelped pitifully.

“You can cry all you like,” said Mr Jenkins. “They won’t hear us in the house. And even if they did…”
They wouldn’t care, I knew. I looked through a window towards the reformatory building. In an upstairs window I could see a man’s form, his arm going up and down rhythmically. Mr Murdstone, I thought, giving somebody one of his methodical thrashings; I’d had one of those the day before.

Mr Jenkings slapped my bottom with an open hand. “Spread your legs,” he said conversationally.

A few days before it might have occurred to me to argue, but I’ve had all fight beaten out of me by now. When I felt questing fingers between my thighs, I didn’t try to wriggle out of the way, and only whimpered, “Please, sir, my modesty…”

He laughed a genuinely amused laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl! I know your sort.” He smacked me again, and I heard the sound of his belt buckle behind me.

The other girls had whispered it was better not to resist. I could well imagine this getting even worse. I squeezed my eyes shut, and sobbed, and gave in.

So we proceeded for the next long while. Six cracks of an implement turned into punishments of more intimate, invasive kind. Audrey was methodically destroyed, to the point where she raised no more objections to any of the exotic urges Mr Jenkins sought to satisfy with her.

When we finished, I buzzed with pleasure, as Audrey retreated into a deep corner of my soul to curl up in the dark. Abel and I hugged and laughed. Somehow, throughout the punishment he’d managed to stay almost completely dressed, which entertained me a great deal.

After a short break, however, it was time for Audrey to come back. In character again, he ordered me to dress and make myself look decent, before marching me across the yard back to the main reformatory building.

There was still a birching to come, but then the reformatory weekend would be over.

For the lovers of black humour, we found this comedy sketch on YouTube. Not for the faint of heart!

In my vanilla life (I do have one!), I was interviewed recently for a business magazine. They asked me to complete a short questionnaire for inclusion in a sidebar next to the article. And somehow I rather struggled, as I couldn’t quite respond truthfully. Here’s what I wanted to say:

Nickname(s): “Unstable Abel”

Avocation: Spanking

Favorite Place (and Why): Does The Spanking Writers count as a ‘place’? It certainly feels like a ‘community’, so I hope so. Why? Because I’ve met so many wonderful people there. If not: Scotland Street school museum, Glasgow – because it’s the kinkiest place in the world!

Favorite Hobby/Hobbies: Writing and roleplaying.

Favorite Word: Spanking.

Favorite Smell: Freshly-cut birch.

Favorite Sound: The swish of a cane, just before it makes contact with a girl’s behind.

Favorite Time in History: The early 1800s. (Dear friends invite us to the most wonderful weekend once a year, in which we spend three days dressed in early nineteenth century costumes eating wonderful food and playing Regency-era games!)

Favorite Quote: “Young lady, bend over and touch your toes!”

Future Ambition(s)/Goal(s): To stay close to the wonderful friends I have in the scene, and to make new ones; to continue to write spanking erotica that people love; to start our “spankingcasts” (podcasts) and through them reach out to new folks who may not yet be enjoying, or comfortable with, their kink.

Now, one of the above answers did actually end up in my response. (You’ll have to guess which one). I have no idea whether they’ll use it, but it’s worth a try!

PS ‘avocation’ is such a lovely word: as Wikipedia puts it, “an activity that a person does as a hobby outside their main occupation. There are many examples of people whose profession was the way they made a living, but whose activities outside their workplace were their true passion in life.” Yep, I think that’s me.

In last night’s dream I was starting a new school. An interesting thing about this new school was that they didn’t sort you into forms by age, but had you progress through the forms as you achieved a certain level of knowledge. Every first day of term they would make an announcement of the form lists, and there was a lot of anticipation connected with this.

In my old school, I was supposed to start the 4th form, but in this new school I hoped I would be put in the 3rd. Because the 4th form was when they introduced corporal punishment.

I sat quietly in assembley, new people all around me, and listened to the Headmaster read out the lists. I was not in the 2nd form, but that was expected. Then the 3rd formers’ names were read out… I was not listed there, either. With a sinking heart, I realised that I was being put in the 4th, with its stricter discipline and its cane…

I ended up hosting a Board meeting for my business at our house last week – the session necessarily being preceded by several days worth of frantic de-kinking. It was only when we sat down to start work that I realised that the ice bucket in the fireplace was filled with birches for the following weekend’s reformatory. Fortunately, my fellow directors must have assumed it was some modernist flower arrangement, so I managed to escape without questionning.

I did struggle to keep a straight face at a couple of points, though. See, I’d fallen heavily whilst running for a tram in the Netherlands a few days before, and was hobbling on a badly sprained, badly bruised ankle.

“You should use arnica for that,” our company chairman helpfully advised.

“Arnica?” I queried. “What’s that?”

And then our finance chap recommended that I should get myself a cane. I mean, what does one say? (“I’ve got about forty upstairs, but none of them’s meant for walking”?)

The vanilla-people-not-quite-getting-it continued in our local supermarket a couple of days later. We were purchasing rather a large quantity of root ginger, for non-cooking use during a weekend away. The young lass on the checkout placed the ginger on the scales, then stopped and looked at us: “What is this?” . Poor, sweet innocent: if only she knew…

One of the things about spanking events that last over a whole weekend is that it’s hard to write a single coherent report of them. Sometimes, it takes only a minute to have an intense kinky experience that feeds your fantasies for months afterwards – and the Victorian reformatory we attended over the weekend (organised by Jessica and her husband) lasted for 48 hours. There were, of course, breaks and stretches of downtime, but I’ve spent most of the weekend in role. Memorable experiences… I’ve had a few.

Here are some highlights.

1. Induction involved surrendering my clothing and lining up for the shower with the other girls, before we were allowed to changed into our freshly-issued reformatory uniforms. There was a big wicker basket in the corridor, and we had to throw all of our everyday clothes there. Colourful fabrics flew into the basket; stockings, black and white, curled together; drawers and slips rested on the top – several girls’ previous lives all mixed in together. We were all thrown into the same basket of the reformatory, and it would be a while before we would be allowed to emerge separately again.

2. We girls spent a fair amount of time cooking meals and cleaning up afterwards. While we worked, the masters sat in their common room, demanding wine or tea or snacks from time to time. We took turns to serve them. I expect they were bored, because every time I went in to serve, they came up with little humiliations to visit upon me. For example, at one point I had to keep walking around the room with a plate of biscuits until I made a round without anyone taking one. Not knowing what would happen each time I knocked on the door of the common room was delicious torture.

3. All girls wore cards around our necks, where we got black marks for specific offences. Five marks for the same offence invited punishment. Begging not to have my card marked didn’t help a single time, but still I begged, and all the masters had a similar smirk as they put down their marks. It was, perhaps, worse than the punishments themselves. (Though not the mouth-soaping for the foul language: that was singularly vile.)

4. We were subject to hourly punishment, unless there was some other event going on. You would have thought that, with so many spankings to deliver, the masters would go easy during each one. Not so: although, perhaps, not the hardest they could give, they spanked firmly, and were most unimpressed with yelping and wriggling. The cumulative effect of this, as well as the individual punishment sessions with each master, was that I reached the state of perpetual soreness by Saturday evening, and was truly struggling to sit down on the hard bench at the table where we took our improving lessons.

5. And then there was my final individual punishment session of the weekend, an appointment with Mr Jenkins…

…but that’s a topic for a separate post. To be continued!

I woke up the other morning to find Cath, who was staying with us, standing next to the bed.

“Morning…” I mumbled, still half asleep.

“Morning! Sleep well?” she replied.

“Very weird dreams…”

“What about?”

“Car parks.”

I went on to explain. The girls from the boarding school had carried out a prank – taking all of the supermarket trolleys from the car park of the local Tesco to a Sainsbury’s a mile or so away, and leaving the Sainsbury’s trolleys lined up neatly outside Tesco. The staff of each company, arriving for work, were looking bemused…

“And did the girls get into trouble?” Cath asked, logically.

“I have no idea,” I replied sadly. “My dream moved straight onto multi-stories.” But in retrospect, I have no doubt that it would have been headmasterial canings all round. And, doubtless, for a considerable number of girls.