The Spanking Writers

The severe judicial scenes that Emma Jane and Catherine played with friends a while back have had me wondering about the role of the girl’s partner during such floggings.

Whilst the scenes concerned clearly were ‘play’, they were so well organised and run that they did seem to engender the feeling of real trepidation beforehand for the girls, and the whippings were so harsh that they doubtless felt all-too-authentic whilst the birchings were being administered.

So imagine, for a moment, a real punishment – a genuinely scary ordeal with no potential for the girl to escape, with strokes that were clearly hurting, rather than something playful or light-hearted that could be stopped at any moment. What would be harder for the girl’s partner to take:

•      Not being there at all, as was the case for me in these two scenes – in Emma Jane’s case, wandering the streets nearby, in Cath’s checking my phone every few minutes for tweets or texts, in both cases quite unable to concentrate on anything other than worrying about whether they were OK.
•      Being in the room as a witness – having to watch, but unable to intervene. At least one would be there for them – but how hard to stand by and watch a loved one suffering. (And would it be worse to stand behind, watching the impact of the strokes and the emerging marks, or in front observing their pained facial reactions?)
•      Being in the room as a witness, but allowed to hold and cuddle the girl during the whipping. (I picture the girl tied over the bench, myself kneeling in front of her, holding her hands, her head buried in my shoulder between strokes as she muffled her sobs).
•      Being made to inflict the punishment, knowing that if it wasn’t hard enough, the court officials would re-administer it from the start. Hurting her, yet knowing that it was being done with love – better, perhaps, than by a complete stranger, a disinterested official.

Actually, I guess the answer is that all would be pretty tough! That’s the nature of the scene.

And I wonder which would be best, most supportive for the girl on the receiving end? There’s advantage, I guess, in solitude – in one’s suffering not being observed. But there must be benefit from support, too. I’m curious as to what people think…

In last night’s dream I was a prefect again. This happens a lot these days; prefects must be on my mind for some reason.

This time I was supervising detention. It went without incident for a while, until the door opened to let in another detainee: a girl so naughty that she was late to detention.

Now, I knew how to deal with that, so before she sat down, I made her bend over the teacher’s desk, and gave her a few strokes of the cane over her knickers. These stand out in my mind particularly: bottle-green full knickers, stretched tight over her bottom cheeks.

I told her that if I heard a peep from her for the rest of detention, I would repeat the punishment, this time on the bare.

I didn’t get to see whether she did behave after that, because the dream shifted to something else, annoyingly.

Words you don’t want to hear as you sit and wait for your flight to Heathrow to push back on some faraway airfield: “Ladies and gentlemen, your pilot here: we have a problem with…”

“… one of the engines”? But hey, there are a few of them, so we’re sure we’ll be OK.

“… the left wing”? It’s a bit wobbly, but we’ve put some tape on it and it should hold out til we get there.

“… your baggage”? If you look out of the right hand windows, you’ll see a flight to Baghdad just taking off. And I’m afraid it’s got your luggage on it. Understandable mistake…

“… the pre-recorded safety announcement.”

Oh, thank goodness for that. So the stewardesses processed down the aisles, and proceeded to go through their paces of telling us what to do in an emergency. (Pray? Hope you’re sat at the back, for when did you last hear of a plane reversing into a mountain?)

Now, usually, the staff conducting these explanations are ever-so-serious. But this lot? Well, they’d clearly decided to see whether they could make each other laugh during their routine – tongues poked out at one another, suggestive winks, gestures over-exaggerated even by safety demo standards.

Such behaviour, I thought, was an outrage. I nearly pressed the ‘help’ button to summon the purser and express my disapproval. And, of course, such misconduct would have to be dealt with soundly. The sound of bare bottoms being spanked in the galley would soon reverberate through the cabin, before breakfast could be served by a cadre of moist-eyed, shame-faced young ladies.

Last week I had to go to the dentist for a check-up, which isn’t my favourite thing to do. I always expect him to go, “Your teeth offend me! Get out of this building, you of horrible teeth!” It never happens, but it could.

To make myself feel better, I imagined the dentist look at me and shake his head. “We’ve talked about that red wine, haven’t we? It’s not good for your teeth. Yes, I know you like red wine, that’s the problem, isn’t it, young lady? I’m going to give you a clean, and then you can bend over this chair and take six strokes with this belt, to make you think before you drink.”

…Come to think of it, this scenario doesn’t make me feel better about the dentist, either.

I had the pleasure of meeting the lovely Nicky Montford recently, when I went to meet Emma Jane at the end of the amazing judicial scene that’s been much-discussed lately. Nicky’s just launched her own blog, called Thursday’s Child – after a children’s book by Noel Streatfield set in a strict orphanage.

Amongst her excellent early posts is one offering her perspectives of those judicial birchings. In it, she made an interesting reference as she described how pleas that “corporal punishment by the court was contrary to the 1820 Whipping of Female Offenders Abolition Act” fell on deaf ears.

Now *that* is piece of legislation that begs to be Googled. Lo and behold, Hansard – the official UK parliamentary record – comes up trumps with details of the original debate in the House of Commons from 29 June 1820:

FEMALE OFFENDERS WHIPPING BILL.

Mr. Chetwynd rose to move for leave to bring in a bill to abolish the punishment of Whipping Female Offenders in any case whatever. The House was aware, that by an act of the year 1817, the system of public whipping of females had been wholly exploded; but he was surprised that the private whipping of females had been by that measure permitted to continue, looking on it as he did as objectionable, or even more objectionable than the other.

It might be said, in defence of its continuance, that it was necessary for the sake of example; but, on the other hand, as the infliction of the punishment was private, it was in the power of the gaoler or other superintendant to render it the most excruciating torture possible, or a mere matter of form; and this alone he thought a decided objection to it.

With respect to the public whipping of females, he was of opinion that no exhibition could be more revolting to the feelings. The act to which he had alluded only abolished the punishment of the public whipping of females; but if the House would agree with him, they would go much further. His intention was to move for leave to bring in a bill to repeal that act, and substitute other provisions for the more effectual prevention of the whipping of females; and the object of it would be to prohibit that practice, not only in the cases already provided for, but in workhouses, houses of correction, lunatic asylums, and other places for the reception of lunatics.

If, therefore, the House should be of opinion that it should in no case be permitted, he should humbly move for leave to bring in a bill to abolish the punishment of whipping female offenders in any case whatever.

Leave was given, and the bill was brought in and read a first time.

I confess to being slightly disappointed that the motion appears to have passed unopposed. Where were the advocates of flogging, with their lurid tales of whippings galore? Could punished girls not have recounted their experiences before some committee or other? Might options not have been explored (“I agree that the lash is too severe – but the cane might be deployed to good effect instead” – “Hear, hear; jolly good, sir!”).

Still, I have marked a date in my diary – for 29 June 2020 isn’t all that far away. What are we all going to do to mark the bicentenary of the debate? Surely the simultaneous recreation of countless private floggings in houses of correction must be called for?

When I had a cold last week, I was feeling extremely sorry for myself. I was convinced that I had the first known case of lethal cold, and needed a lot of sympathy. Unfortunately, neither my husband, nor my paramour were here to heap attention on me, so I resorted to a fantasy Daddy, who would surely tuck me into bed, make me cocoa, and read me a story.

Of course, the story-reading rules are very particular. I may not try to peek into the book, nor interrupt with commentary, nor guess what happens next. When, cranky and restless, I try to do that, the fantasy Daddy flips me over onto my tummy and spanks my bottom overy my pyjama pants – hard enough to signal his displeasure, but not too hard for a sick girl to cope with.

Or maybe I’ll just listen to the story quietly, like the good girl I am, hugging my bear Lochgelly.

Emma Jane went away last weekend on a trip with vanilla friends. We swapped texts and calls on her first evening abroad, and it was truly lovely to hear her having such a great time. It sounded like a pretty sober evening, but it was clear that the odd drop of alcohol had been consumed.

By the time I’d fallen deeply asleep, my imagination was running riot. Rather than having called my girlfriend when she was travelling to a friend’s wedding, I was a guardian who’d spoken to his ward whilst she’d been away on a school trip.

Clearly concerned at the tell-tale signs of underage drinking, I fired off a letter of complaint to the Headmaster: in loco parentis… irresponsible to allow them to break the law… dangers of alcohol… astonished their chaperones would condone such conduct.

She’d be called into his study on her return to school, no doubt, and taught the error of her ways with a well-deserved caning. And when she came home at the end of term and we talked through her school report in my study, the usual rules would apply: any instances of corporal punishment during the preceding term would be doubled at home.

Waking up, I actually felt mean: it had been lovely to hear Emma Jane sounding so happy and relaxed, and my imagined guardian seemed so cruel. I could almost feel guilty. Almost.

Yesterday I was waiting at the hairdresser’s, and noticed the manager whispering to one of her staff, who excused herself to the customer and followed the manager into the back office. She emerged a couple of minutes later, and carried on with her work.

In my imagination, of course, her bottom was now glowing-red under the smart black trousers. The manager keeps a switch in the back office – a quiet implement, and vicious. When the staff require discipline, they’re directed into the little room, told to lower their trousers, bend over and bite on a hanky. You can’t keep the customers waiting for too long, so the discipline is swift and to the point. It takes only a minute to efficiently stripe a naughty bottom.

The young woman who took care of my hair afterwards was very nice, and I enjoyed imagining that she too had benefited from back-office training.

A lovely email from a reader recently thanked us for helping her to realise that there are other people who share her interest in spanking.

I think many of us have been through the process of hiding away our secret interest in spanking, sometimes feeling ashamed of it, certainly feeling lonely. (“Am I wrong to think about this so often; am I the only one? Please don’t let anyone find out!”).

And then there’s that moment of liberation, elation, when one tests the water with a partner, or discovers other folks online discussing exactly the things that have been so fascinating for all this time. For me, that tipping point came in the late 90s, just after I’d turned 30; for younger folks growing up in a more online era, the discovery’s typically coming at an earlier age. And I’m guessing there are not an inconsiderable number of folks of my sort of age – early 40s – who are only now exploring their long-hidden spanko side after years of supressing it vanilla marriages entered into in the pre-internet era.

But how many of us are there? I seem to recall reading in various sex surveys that 10% of the population is interested in kink in some way. In a nation the size of the UK (62 million or thereabouts), that’d probably equate to some three to four million people (by the time one’s ruled out those who aren’t sexually active). Of those, I’d guess the majority ‘toy’ with kink – liking the occasional light spanking, having tried it a couple of times, tying the odd rope to the bed to brighten up their frolics. And people tend to overestimate the variety in their bedroom lives in surveys anyway – “yes of course I’m into spanking, I’ve had 40 sexual partners this year, enjoy foursomes outdoors on a regular basis, and the neighbour’s dog [squick] is very friendly”.

So the number of true spankos – in our sense: people whose private lives are, to a greater or lesser extent oriented around spanking. People who actually play, roleplay even, with their partner and others on a reasonably regular basis. Who read anything they can lay their hands on about the topic, who find it endlessly fascinating? Whose kink really is primarily *spanking*, rather than BDSM more generally with a little spanking thrown into the mix?

You know, I’d like to think there are millions of us out there. It’d be great if one could look around any pub, restaurant, meeting, event and be certain in the confidence that there were lots of other spankos in the house. But the more I’ve explored the scene, and discovered how many people know how many of the other people in the spanking community, the more I downgrade my estimates.

So here goes with my best guess for the full-on active spanking-centric community in the UK: 5,000 individuals – plus perhaps twenty times that (up to 100,000) who are deeply fascinated by spanking but who don’t play actively for whatever reason. Not 10%; perhaps more like one in 10,000 for the truly active community. Seems low – but I guess it’s as a good a guess as any, based on people we know, extrapolating guesses based on the likely number of pervy friends of friends, and general gut feel. But I’d be really fascinated to hear others’ views.

I woke up today with a rather unpleasant cold – the sort that grinds your brain to a halt, and makes you want to hibernate forevermore. Unfortunately, I don’t have a chance to take the day off, so I’ve spurred myself on by thoughts of being at school, and coming down with a similar cold during exam time.

Matron thinks I could benefit from a few days in the San, but she doesn’t think these should be completely free of studying, because I just don’t have any time to lose. She comes into my cubicle with a heap of homework, and plonks it onto the bedside table.

“Get to work, young lady,” she announces in a stern voice. “If I see you slacking off, you know what will happen to you.” I do know – Matron wields a mean slipper.

“But I’m not feeling too good,” I whine gently.

“Take a nap every hour for fifteen minutes. That will do you. Now, to work.”

Forlorn, but in no way desiring a slippering, I start work…