The Spanking Writers

Reading the International Herald Tribune in a far-flung hotel the other evening, my eyes came to rest on an ‘Invitation For Bid’ from the Republic of Albania.

The ministry concerned solicited proposals for Corporal Punishment services in female reformatories across the country*. Bidders were required to demonstrate proficiency in the administration of spanking, canings, birchings, strappings and whippings.

Their tenders were to discuss the methods they believed to be most appropriate for different offences, and had to be submitted within nine weeks to the relevant government offices in Tirana. Full pricing details were required – although whether the Ministry would pay the contractor or vice versa wasn’t clear. And interested parties were permitted to ‘cognize the standard documents of the competition procedures’ by visiting the relevant Directorate.

I think I have the necessary credentials, don’t you? Anyone want to join the bid team? I guess I may need to demonstrate my technique in front of a panel of evaluators, so volunteers may be required…

* Actually, it was to build HPPs, whatever they may be, on a river in the Curraj district. But I’m allowed to daydream, right?

Digging around in the wardrobe for something to wear the other evening, I thought how lovely it would be to have a maid to dress me. I would tell her what I wanted to wear, and she’d lay out my clothes, find the jewellery for me, and, when I was dressed, would brush my hair.

I’m afraid I wouldn’t be a very nice mistress. If she accidentally snapped my bra straps, I would pinch her. When she knelt down to lace my shoes, I might just grab onto her ear for balance, and as I propped my foot on her thigh for her to fumble with the laces, I would dig my heel into her skin just a little. If she pulled on my hair as she brushed it, I would give her a sharp slap across the face, or a good yank on her own hair.

The trick, of course, would be to have a maid to loved this sort of treatment, and would adore me no matter how evil I was towards her. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for, because, frankly, if I were a maid, that’s what I’d probably like.

Each of the many gaols, reformatories, courthouses, disciplinary centres and police stations that I’ve dreamt up over the years has featured a punishment room – with some form of whipping bench and plenty of space to swing a cat (or birch, cane or strap).

Note the singular here: punishment *room*. Not a suite of identically-equipped chambers, allowing for the simultaneous spanking of several girls. One room per building, one girl being dealt with at a time: a very solitary experience.

Wandering around a client’s ‘university’ the other day, past rows of well-equipped training rooms, it occured to me that some establishments might similarly be laid out with long corridors of punishment chambers. Rather than a single, isolated cell, there’d be a chair outside each room – on which the next girls would wait – whilst the whacks and sobs of their predecessors’ floggings would be all too audible to those in the corridor.

I’m not entirely sure which scenario I prefer – the lonely girl, led to the single cell to be punished, or the certain knowledge for the miscreants that others were sharing through the same painful experience. I shall have to ponder the problem further… closes eyes, drifts off into daydreams about judicial scenes…

Yesterday morning I heard the postman shove the mail through the letter box, and went to see what we’d got. On top of the small pile of letters I saw an upside-down advertising leaflet; I was too far to see what it was offering, but the keyword kind of jumped at me.

Here’s what I saw:

Wow, really? I thought. Somebody must have heard about my adventures in switching, and now I get targeted junk mail. That’s efficient.

Except… that wasn’t quite it. When I came nearer and turned the leaflet right side up, it was far less exciting:

No, no. I don’t want my subs in the oven. Or in any of the variety of flavours. Or, in fact, made out of dough. Human submissives only, please, with nice spankable bottoms. Thanks.

Some art galleries really don’t cater for the likes of us, do they? I mean, we were in the Guggenheim in Venice during our holiday, and wandered over to Giacometti’s wonderful “Woman Walking”. It was displayed pretty much from the angle shown in the following photo:

Behind the sculpture was the wall. Indeed, it was so close to said wall that it took a fair amount of craning to see the rather lovely “Buttocks of Woman Walking” – which, sadly, I can’t find anywhere on the web to share with you.

What a waste! After all, the sculptor had clearly gone to so much effort to craft one of the most delightful bottoms imaginable – and it’s lost from view. Something should be done. Anyone fancy contributing to a fund to donate a revolving pedestal on which it could be placed?

I wonder what should happen to young ladies who don’t turn their phones off in the cinema?

I went to the cinema yesterday, and sat in an almost entirely empty auditorium, with only a few people scattered about. One of these, a young woman in my row, spent the first half an hour playing with her phone. It was, in fairness to her, on silent, but the screen glowed brightly somewhere on my right, and was a bit distracting. When the movie got interesting, she tucked it away in her pocket, but as far as I’m concerned, the offence had been committed by then.

Wouldn’t it be convenient, I thought, if the cinema staff could yank the offenders out of the auditorium for a quick spanking? You could just leave if you wanted to, but if you preferred to continue watching the film, you’d have to follow a staff member to an office somewhere. A short, effective lesson – and you can go back to your seat to enjoy the rest of your movie, if you can face sitting down for a while.

The added embarrassment of the situation is that people working in the cinema are usually just about old enough to see certificate-18 films, and getting your licks from one of these youths would be, I imagine, excruciatingly uncomfortable. An added incentive to turn off your phone, keep chattering to a minimum, and crunch pop-corn quietly.

Today being Sunday, I was hoping to sleep late, but unfortunately I was woken up way too early by the neighbours’ dog barking its head off.

I’m convinced that the dog was disturbed by the neighbours’ pair of teenagers trying to sneak out for the day. (I like to think there’s a boy and a girl, maybe 17 and 16.) Some of their friends are going on a day-trip to the woods with some guitars and alcohol, but these kids’ parents have said no to this last pre-school adventure.

Reasoning that they’d just get up and go, and face the consequences later, the pair tried to get out of the attic window, onto the roof of the garage, onto the fence, then down and away. They hadn’t reckoned on the dog getting so very excited to see them as they carefully climbed down.

Discovered by Dad in the act of sneaking out, they were unceremoniously marched inside by their ears. “What do you think you’re doing?” their father asked. “Leaving the house by the window? Is there a fire?”

“Mmm-no,” the girl would mumble.

“Well, there’ll be a fire soon. On your behinds. Over the back of the sofa, both of you.”

The pair of teenagers looked at each other miserably, each wondering how they would live down the shame of their sibling seeing them spanked. They’ve been spanked often enough, it’s true, but not in front of each other – not since they were in primary school.

Their dad, meanwhile, had no qualms. He marched briefly into the kitchen and emerged with a small wooden cutting board with a convenient grip handle.

“Oh, Dad!” the boy exclaimed, seeing this.

“Face in the cushions, and I don’t want to hear any nonsense from either of you.”

The father paddled the two behinds with thoroughness and zeal. The kids yowled their pain and embarrassment into the sofa cushions.

Out in the yard, the dog was barking happily, thinking they were talking to him.

I reckon that’s why I didn’t hear any paddling or crying sounds. The dog was too loud.

The Venice film festival, the 67^th, has just opened. My eye was caught recently by details of a movie that was shown at last year’s gathering, entitled ‘La nave delle donne maledette’ – ‘The Ship of Lost Women’.

Directed by Raffaello Matarazzo in 1954, the film had been rediscovered – and, it seems, deservedly so:

In Spain in the 17^th century the daughter of a heavily in debt noble gentleman is celebrating her marriage to a rich man who could save the family. During the party, a policeman arrives who accuses the bride of having killed a newly born illegitimate baby.

In order to save the family’s name and fortune, the bride and her father put pressure on the young cousin of the bride who lives out of their charity to take the blame and let herself be accused.   Though the bride and her father had assured her of a light sentence, the poor girl is sentenced to forced labour in the New World.

The bride and her husband embark on the same ship that will take the cousin and a large group of unfortunate women to a life of misery.   When the aristocratic bride manages to have her cousin whipped for rebellion, the women prisoners start a violent mutiny, gaining most of the sailors to their n cause, shouting “We are free” and exposing both their will of freedom… and their attractive bodies.

When the women and their men partisans have won the ship and harshly punished the evil aristocrats, a frenzy of dance, sex and alcohol take possession of the ship.

“Needless to say, the film suffered heavy cuts from the Italian censors of the time”, the review notes. Fortunately, the original print had survived. I’m wondering how many of those in the audience went home that evening to play out scenes… and whether it’s available on Amazon!

Why might a girl be hiding away in a barn? I only ask because that’s at the heart of a little spanking scene that’s been playing itself out in my daydreams lately, but I can’t fathom a sensible starting point for my plot.

The spanking side of the equation is pretty clear. A girl in a big house is caught stealing food. She’s questioned, and merely complains that she was hungry. A spanking ensues – hard, but not excessive, for one can’t expect a girl to starve, much as one disapproves of theft. “Misguided”, she’d be told. “If you’re hungry, ask.”

Yet a few days later, someone (the butler?) notices the same girl stealing food once more, hiding it in her dress, and sneaking out of a back door of the house. He trails her from a distance, and spies her heading towards the outbuildings. The girl sneaks into a barn; our detective follows, quietly following her inside. There, to his surprise, he hears two voices from the hayloft – so he climbs a ladder and finds both his quarry and another lass of a similar age, who’s greedily tucking into the stolen food.

They’d be taken back to the big house, of course. The young thief would be whipped, severely, as would their uninvited guest. But where had this latter girl come from? A childhood best friend, seeking sanctuary with the one person who’d help her? Turned out by her parents? Dismissed from her post as a maid at some other country estate? In flight, having been handed over to be married against her will?

And, whilst I’m pondering the unknowns: who was the girl who was helping her? Was she really a servant, as I’d initially envisaged? Or was she maybe the daughter of the master of the house? Had she known the hideaway at all – or simply found the girl, tired and hungry, in her hiding place and taken pity on her.

Oh how I love working out the whys and wherefores of spanking scenes!

My dreams have been very appropriate to the start of September, the traditional back-to-school time. I dreamed that I was, indeed, back to school, starting my last year. There was a great deal of pomp and circumstance to do with the final year students being nearly grown-ups, but also we got reminded a lot to wear our uniforms, to be polite to teachers and to do the homework promptly. And yes, there would be corporal punishment when we didn’t do well enough.

My dream self was baffled by the contrast between being expected to behave like a responsible adult and yet to be treated like a child in many respects, including very possibly being caned. The uniform was particularly constricting: I thought I should be allowed to choose my own clothing.

The dream ended with me about to be caned by the deputy headmistress for initiating some sort of uniform protest in the corridors. I woke up incredibly upset about it.

How strange that something that I’m so fond of in real life would prove to be the subject of so much angst in a dream.