The Spanking Writers

The problem with clocks going back today was that it gets dark really early – as I found out as I travelled home today after an afternoon out. I have lots of writing and other work planned for tonight, but I wasn’t sure how to make myself do it, given that my body thinks that darkness = lazy time.

I thought back to my school days, when I would come home after a day of lessons in the dark, only to get busy with homework for the evening. So I pictured that this was what I was doing: coming home from school, about to settle down for an evening of homework.

The only thing is, I’m a lazy girl, so my very strict uncle is waiting at home for me with a hairbrush in his hand. He knows I need encouragement to work hard, so before I get my books out, I have to pull up my dress, lower my knickers and bend over his lap. The spanking I will receive won’t be unduly harsh – I haven’t had time to do anything wrong yet – but it will give me a stern warning about what’s in store if I don’t apply myself to my homework properly.

There. Now I’m ready to embark on an evening’s writing…

OK, here’s the scenario. A group of three girlfriends end up in trouble whilst travelling in some foreign land. They’re taken to court. Their sentence? To be detained in a police cell for three days, and caned.

On arrival, a senior officer informs them that he will punish one girl per day – the first immediately, then one on each of the following two mornings.

So, I wonder: if you were one of the girls, would you want to take the first punishment, the last, or the one in the middle. And why?

I read an obituary the other day of Bob Guccione, founder of Penthouse (a favourite teenage read of mine), which described him as a ‘pornographer’. Fair enough – and it’s a common enough phrase, not necessarily derogatory. Indeed, the word in question has over 330,000 entries on Google.

One definition (“Noun: One who is involved in the creation or dissemination of pornography”) claims that it’s been in use since the mid-19th century. Another dates it precisely to 1850. (I do wonder how it was coined – two gentlemen in their London club, one turning to the other on receipt of a new batch of naughty illustrations, and proclaiming: “You, sir, are the greatest pornographer in the land”?)

But what of its kinky equivalent. Out of curiosity, I googled ‘spankographer’. Lo and behold, the following showed up:

Your search – “spankographer” – did not match any documents.

Bing, too, drew no results. Neither did Ask or Yahoo.

That just seems *wrong”. Surely we need our own word for someone who’s “involved in the creation or dissemination” of spanking erotica?

So I hereby lay claim to the word – and, hence, to being the world’s first official spankographer. Who knows: maybe I’ll end up in a dictionary one day, if enough of you adopt the term and it ends up in widespread use.

Abel
Spankographer-in-Chief

Haron talks about a spanking photo shoot she worked at recently.

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A most beautiful dream last night. I was in the care of a governess, who invited a dancing tutor to teach me to waltz.

When he arrived, he asked for permission to give me a preemptive caning, to check how well I could preserve the poise and dignity necessary for dancing. Until I could take the cane gracefully, there was no point even starting the dancing lessons.

The governess agreed to this. The pair placed me on all fours on the dining table. She held my hands and looked into my eyes through the ordeal, gently encouraging me to take my punishment well. The new tutor slashed down a thin, whippy cane in a quick succession of strokes.

Because this was a dream caning, I felt little pain. I was able to hold the arch of my back, give no more than a gasp at each stroke, and thank the tutor for the lesson in a decorous manner. I was elated that the lesson was going so well.

My reward was a round of waltz around the room. Like the caning, this was beautiful and sensuous, but unfortunately got interrupted by my alarm.

The role of the tutor in the dream was performed by a good friend of mine, whom I won’t embarrass by disclosing this casting, but it fit him perfectly.

The police in the city of Portsmouth, NH, evidently yearn for days gone by. How else to explain this little gem, found on the force’s website:

In Market Square there is a town pump that was also used as a “whipping post”. On a cold Friday in January 1764, an unidentified woman was caught hiding a pair of children’s shoes under her hood-cloak and leave the store. She is caught by Goodman Newmarch, who lived next door, as she ran away with a witness chasing and announcing her as a thief.

She is brought immediately to the Honorable Hunking Wentworth, Justice of the Peace, and the evidence is produced. She is immediately sentenced to be publicly whipped. Her hands are tied and her shoulders and back are bared so the Sheriff can apply the “cat-o-nine-tails”.

The local newspaper reports the event the next week as follows “Last Friday one of our local female pilferers received a flagelation at the whipping post, who had a great number of spectators to see this good work performed; and it is hoped that others, who so justly deserve it, will soon be brought to the same place to receive their deserts.”

I wonder if said whipping post is still there? If so, wouldn’t it be such lovely fun to sneak out early one morning, when no-one was around, and re-create the scene?

PS ‘Hunking’! Was the justice really called ‘Hunking’?

A little while back, I found myself in Timisoara, Romania – a rather lovely place, with the most gorgeous old town square. On one corner stood a particularly striking building:

On closer inspection, I noticed that it was adorned with a neat sign, which I transcribed quickly:

Historic Monument

The Palace incorporates the former Mining Office building on its right corner. This latter building, from 1734, is the oldest in the square.

The north wing of the Palace was completed in 1752, and is known and the ‘Chancellery of the Administrations’. It was also the Country’s President’s dwelling (1754).

In 1786 the building was extended to its present day dimensions. Between 1885 and 1886 the attic was added, and the building was home to the administrative institutions of the region from 1944.

In the post-war era, the palace was used as the Regional Punishment Centre for Girls. The former state rooms were equipped with the latest whipping frames, imported from the Czech Republic. A plentiful supply of birches was available from the local forests, and the magistrates’ willingness to sentence young women to be whipped was credited with significantly reducing local crime levels.

It is now the city art museum.

(Footnote: I may have added somewhat to the original text).

It’s a bright, crisp morning, and as I look out of the window, I picture a young peasant girl walking in the woods some 800 years ago. The wood belongs to a lord who lives in the castle on the hill, but the girl has never seen the lord himself – he’s away on the crusades most of the time.

It’s chilly, but bright, and she’s wrapped in her mother’s shawl. She is gathering dry twigs for kindling.

Suddenly there’s a patter of hooves on the path behind her. The girl rushes to the side of the road to let the rider pass. It’s a richly dressed young man on a tall horse; as he goes past, dirt from yesterday’s rain flies from under the hooves and showers the girl head to toe. She burst out in an angry tirade, certain that the rider is going fast enough that he won’t hear her swear at him.

But he does hear, and moreover, he pulls on the reins and turns around.

“What did you say to me, girl?” he enquires angrily.

“Awfully sorry, sir,” the girl stammers. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Well, you have.” He dismounts and strides over to her. “I’ll teach you a lesson about throwing insults at your lord.”

She drops the kindling and tries to run, but he catches her in two strides, and throws her over a convenient log. Up go her skirts, down comes his palm, and the girl gets a severe lesson about keeping a civil tongue in her head. He spanks her until she’s sobbing, and doesn’t let her go until her bottom is a deep red colour.

…I think I’d enjoy a walk this morning.

We’ve just reduced the price of the Kindle edition of “The Punishment List”, the book comprising the best of Abel’s spanking stories.

For the next month, it’s available for $7.50 rather than the usual price of $9.97. If you’ve not been tempted so far, we hope this might entice you to treat yourself to a little kinky reading as the evenings start to draw in. Click here to learn more and to buy your copy!

During a trip to Wales over the summer, I picked up a leaflet about Plas Newydd, a National Trust place on Anglesey.  Sadly, a lack of time prevented me from visiting, but it’s very much on my list for a future trip. Of particular note is “the world’s largest collection of paintings by Rex Whistler, renowned artist and friend of the family. Read his love letters to Lady Caroline Paget, eldest daughter of the 6th Marquess…”

Whilst the National Trust leaflet is too coy to mention it, Wikipedia reveals that the displays include ‘a startling nude’ of the young lady in question:

How wonderfully touching that their relationship is recorded so for posterity, in words and in art. It set me wondering whether there might be other memorials at the house, to other (perhaps naughtier) relationships from years gone by. Perhaps the “sweeping gardens” that one can wander contain:

a row of birches planted by the lover of the wilful daughter of the 4th Marquess. The trees flourish to this day, despite having been stripped of many of their branches in their early years.

Maybe the dining room still features a riding crop, hanging from the wall since the days of the second Marquess?

His attractive young wife was once asked at dinner by the Duke of Devonshire why the whip was thus displayed. “Surely he doesn’t bring his horses into dinner?” It is reported that she merely blushed and lowered her eyes.

Or perhaps the main bedroom contains:

Wales’s finest collection of wooden hairbrushes, accumulated in the early twentieth century by the then lady of the house. Unfortunately, many of them show signs of significant wear, and some of them are broken.

No doubt the place is actually entirely vanilla, but any country house with a nude of the master’s daughter displayed prominently on the wall surely deserves a visit?