The Spanking Writers

Today is our first day in Florida. Abel has work to do, and I’m just sitting about, writing spanking stories and enjoying the sunshine.

I’m also enjoying the view of many young ladies walking between the swimming pools with not much clothing on. A pair of girls caught my eye in particular, with their tight denim shorts and white shirts – and their pitchers of beer at 10am.

I’m thinking they have fooled the bar staff into serving them alcohol. Their father, when he emerges from their room, won’t be very pleased. Instead of taking the girls back into the hotel for their spankings, he’s going to soundly paddle their bottoms right by the pool, taking them over his knee one by one.

For decency’s sake, I guess he can leave the tight shorts on.

Here’s my receipt from a drink I bought in Paris last weekend:

Look closely. Yep. A “coup de fouet”. AKA a “lash of the whip”. AKA a strawberry and banana smoothie. These French folks are such pervs…

I came across that not long after mentally corrupting the station departure board en route back from Versailles. Every train, it seems, has a unique four-letter code:

I can’t imagine any members of the public ever using the codes, rather than just looking at the destination and departure time. So I’m rather wondering whether the train timetablers ever play games, sending messages to their girlfriends, with consecutive trains coded something like this:

YOUA

REAV

ERYN

AUGH

TYGI

RLAN

DWIL

LBES

PANK

EDAT

HOME

Life is a bit chaotic this weekend, as we’re trying to get out of the door and onto the plane for America without forgetting anything crucial. It hasn’t quite sunk in that I’m really finally going to the US.

When I was a fledgling spanko, there were a lot more Americans on the Internet than anybody else, so for a good few months I was convinced that the US was where the spankings were at, and that unless I went there, I’d never ever get spanked, ever. Although I’ve since explored many fine international spanking avenues, somewhere deep down I still believe that there are particularly good spankings to be had in the US.

Perhaps, on any other trip I might have been disappointed, but this time we’re going to Florida Moonshine spanking party, which is the first event of this size for both of us, and I’m sure America is about to live up to my expectations. I’m looking forward to it a great deal.

*Little did I know that my own best friend, living only 20 minutes away from me, was also into spanking. Communication fail!

I’ve been thinking about pain recently.

Whenever I try to explain my spanking kink to a new acquaintance, I make sure to mention I’m not really into pain. In fact, my pain tolerance is quite low, and it doesn’t take much to have me screaming. I think it’s important that new playmates know that to help me have a good time, you’ve got to get inside my head.

However, weirdly, sometimes I will get a pain craving, and it doesn’t go away until I’ve had my fill. I have no idea what causes it, but sometimes all I need is a pure dose of pain, undiluted with any particular headspace other than knowing we’re both having a good time.

I wonder what causes this personality switch. It can be pretty inconvenient for playmates, I guess, because neither I or they can predict what mood I’m going to be in when playtime comes. It’s a recent development, and it’s puzzling me a great deal.

Does anybody else switch between headspace and sensation play preferences?

Last weekend, I finally realised a long-standing ambition by visiting Versailles, the royal French palace. What a fine place it proved to be, especially with such a helpful guidebook. First up, the Coronation Room:

Here on Maundy Thursday, the Queen washed the feet of thirteen pauper girls and gave them a meal in commemoration of the Last Supper. The ritual was discontinued after 1785, however, following an incident in which one of the girls kicked Her Majesty during the ritual washing, whilst shouting republican slogans. Needless to say, the young women was brought before the Council the following morning, stripped and tied over a table, then whipped severely by the King – an incident that in no small part contributed to the growing revolutionary fervour in Paris.

I then processed through a series of grand chambers: The Hercules Room, The Room of Abundance, The Nobles’ Room, The Clemency Room, The Whipping Chamber. Hold on… those last two?

Wives and daughters of the nobility were excused from the punishments meted out by the courts to mere commoners. In the unusual event of one such being sentenced for a crime, she would be taken to Royal Palace, where she would attend his Majesty in the Clemency Room. The lady would be offered an opportunity to plead for an overturn of her conviction, or to request his Majesty’s mercy. On the rare occasions when neither was forthcoming, she would be taken to the adjacent Chamber to be flogged, the number of strokes being commensurate with the King’s displeasure at her offence.

Finally, I emerged from the crowded rooms into the vast expanse of the wonderful gardens. Oh look: there’s Tuby’s statue of The Saone – a naked woman. Le Hongre’s “Air”. Another naked woman. Legros’s “Water” – can you guess? Surprisingly, the areas furthest away from the chateau were quite deserted – the Obelisk Grove, for example, the sort of place in which one could readily imagine oneself to be far from the crowds at the court. That has certainly been the case in 1745, when:

… the king’s eldest daughter and one of her ladies-in-waiting (the niece of the Duc d’Angers) were caught in near the fountain in the centre of the grove in a state of some undress and in a position of not inconsiderable intimacy. Both were taken forthwith to the King, who was outraged at their behaviour – not least because the princess was betrothed to the son of the King of Spain. Contemporary reports state that the Captain of the Guard was called forth and instructed to birch both girls soundly on their bared buttocks, a task he undertook with considerable vigour.

A strange by-product of this incident is a curious bye-law still on the statute books of the Municipality of Versailles, requiring any couples caught committing indecent acts in the palace gardens to be sentenced to corporal punishment. The measure is enacted infrequently, most recently in 2004 when two girls from the Sorbonne each received twelve strokes of the cane.

Let me finish with a short note to tourists stumbling across this site having googled for information regarding visits to Versailles: I believe that the guidebook has recently been undergoing revision, and so some of the material I’ve described above may be missing from newer editions.

You know some days when you just can’t force yourself to work? Well, today is one such day for me. It’s quite lucky that I’m my own boss, and can sometimes decide that what will benefit my work the most would be a good rest.

The same wouldn’t be true for a girl at school, who decided one morning that she didn’t fancy going to lessons at all, but wanted instead to spend some time on relaxing with a book on school grounds.

I wonder if a classmate would be sent to fetch her? When they returned to class together, the girl would be called to the front for a swift slippering, before being sternly told to sit down and do some work.

Or maybe nobody would come to bring her back to class, but she would try to sneak back after an hour or so reading by the lake – only to be met by the teacher whose lesson she’d missed. He would take her by the ear and march her into an empty classroom for a caning.

I must confess, either option would work for me right now.

Saturday evening. Champions League football final In the background, bottle of decent French red half-consumed, and I’m sitting writing this looking out over a stunning view of Paris. Notre Dame? Directly in front of me. The Louvre – around to the left. Montmatre – on top of the hill on the skyline. Save for a small area blocked by the Montparnasse tower, it’s a perfect, uninterrupted 180 degree view of one of the world’s great cities. Such a shame, really, not to have a girl with me to bend over the table and spank with her looking out over Paris.

I guess monarchs in days gone by might have had similar views from their castles – high their kingdoms, looking out over their subjects below. And what if a princess misbehaved, some disgraceful act risking damage to the royal family’s standing with the populace? Why, I think she’d have been taken to a room at the very top of the castle. She’d be instructed to bend over a table in front of the window, offering her a perfect view of the kingdom below as the whip striped her bare behind. But what would be more unbearable: the pain of the harshly-administered strokes, or the lecture that would accompany them about the importance of upholding the royal reputation in the eyes of those over whom her tear-filled eyes gazed as she was flogged?

My friend spotted this car, and was so kind as to send me a photo:

That’s a simply wonderful numberplate. However, even with the rather open lifestyle that we lead, we sometimes need to de-kink the house, so as not to shock innocent vanillas to the core. How does this person accomplish that?

That said… I want a kinky license plate too.

I’ve been travelling a fair amount lately. Actually, strike that: I’ve been travelling a ridiculous amount. Abu Dhabi, Egypt, France – and that’s just the past ten days. Hey, I’ve even managed to make it home for a few hours at a time before heading back out of the door.

You’d think that all of this travel would have inspired numerous spanking fantasies, but it’s hard to feel kinky when one’s visits to a new city constitute airport – taxi – hotel – course and not much more. Certainly, there are delegates who should doubtless be spanked (“you’re late back from lunch”?); the staff in hotels might deserve to be pulled over my knee (“my pillows weren’t straight after you’d made up my bed”?). But by and large, I’ve been too tired to summon up that much kinky energy.

Until, that is, I sat at Orly airport in Paris on Wednesday. Orly? Think a downmarket version of London Gatwick, with worse food and fewer shops. Quite horrible. Anyway, where was I? So, I’m sitting eating lunch – or not eating, the food I’d purchased being too revolting to consume (in a country so proud of its culinary standards) – and two gentlemen behind me strike up a conversation in hushed tones.

Now, I’ve forgotten most of the French I used to know, so could only snatch snippets of their dialogue:

“You’ve given her a final warning?”

“Yes.”

“And she understood the consequences?”

“Indeed.”

“Then it would be quite wrong of you not to go ahead with her punishment.”

The young lady in question was to be called into the study that evening. She’d be shown the letter that had been sent home from her headmaster. Asked for an explanation. Her excuses – for there could be no valid justification for her continued misconduct – would be dismissed, and she’d be instructed to go to her room and wait. A dozen strokes of the martinet would be administered – hard – and she’d emerge from proceedings a sorry, reformed girl.

At least, I think that was what they were saying. They might have been discussing football, politics, their holiday plans… I don’t know. But I enjoyed eavesdropping and corrupting their doubtless quite-innocent dialogue.

Those of a sensitive disposition, look away now – for my most recent little fantasy ended up being rather dark and of a rather (dare I say this here?) sexual nature.

There featured a cast of four – two tops (officers in some occupying force) and two girls (local lasses, brought in to be punished for subversive activity). The setting? A large room in a castle, with a long, sturdy oak table in the centre.

The girls had already been stripped, their wrists bound with rope behind their backs. The first of them was led forward and tied over one end of the table, arms outstretched and ankles far apart. The first officer took up his whip, and proceeded to flog her soundly, before turning to his colleague: “Time for you to deal with yours?”

“I don’t think we’ve finished with this one yet, have we?” came the response, before he too thrashed the poor, tied girl.

He stepped back, admired the stripes, then ran his fingers inquisitively over the girl’s bottom and then between her legs. “It would seem a shame not to complete her lesson, don’t you think?” he then asked, before moving behind her and having his wicked way.

The second girl, terrified, struggled vigorously as she was pulled to her feet. A sound slap across her face quelled her for long enough for them to tie her down over the opposite end of the table to her friend – the girls able to look up into each other’s eyes – before she too was whipped and then otherwise abused.