The Spanking Writers

Today is my birthday, and when Abel gets home later, I’m pretty sure that hugs and kisses will be followed by a birthday spanking.

It’s kind of traditional for us these days that the smacks in a birthday spanking are counted by year: I’ll start with 1980, and carry on through the years of my childhood and all the years I’ve seen since, until I finally arrive in 2011 – the year to grow on.

Weirdly, this makes the whole thing less silly and more poignant for me, because counting the year makes me remember what happened then, and all the things I’ve experienced. School day, university memories and my explorations of the scene all float in front of my mind’s eye, and I can remember the good and the bad, and acknowledge the year that has passed.

This year I’m also going to enjoy the privilege of a switch, and give my birthday spanking to an unsuspecting young man, which is going to be a first for me.

All in all, I expect to enjoy the day thoroughly.

A friend happened to mention the other day that Google Translate now includes the most useful language of all – Latin. Useful, that is, for pervs like me who want to create imaginary school mottos.

Take “Through the book and the whip”, say. That becomes “Et per librum verbera”- surely the sort of phrase that should adorn a school crest

“Discipline and knowledge”? “Disciplinam et scientiam”. “Knowledge through the whip?” – “Scientia per flagella”.

The site’s far from perfect – for example, “the girl was severely whipped by the master” translates to “puella acerrime flagellare a magistro”, then converts back to “a girl going on most vigorously by the master of whip on”. But I haven’t had so much linguistic fun since I memorised every spanking-related word in my Harrap’s English-French dictionary at school.

But here’s the challenge – over to our lovely readers to create their own school mottos, and post them in Latin in the comments!

I’ve been home alone all week, and although this has been good for my writing, I’ve found myself pretty bored on occasion. To the point where I caught myself cleaning the house, which is not something I usually do with great enthusiasm.

At one point I was so engrossed at scrubbing the oven that I transported myself into the body of a housewife from the 1950s. The in-laws are coming to dinner, I fantasised, and I must impress the Monster-in-Law with the sparkliness of my kitchen.

The fantasy became quite edgy as it developed. When the evening came, and my young husband and his father were enjoying madeira in the living room, my mother-in-law came into the kitchen – ostensibly, to keep me company, but actually to boss me around. I was about to take the lamb joint out of the oven to stand, when she noted how well I was doing to cook any food at all in a kitchen that’s this badly organised.

Although I happened to be quite proud of my kitchen, I humbly asked her for some suggestions to make it better. She huffily responded that I had a long way to go before I got halfway civilised, so perhaps it was a conversation for some other time, when food wasn’t in danger of burning.

I served lunch, and I felt it had gone pretty well, but to my dismay the mother-in-law insisted that she and I had to take care of the dishes at once, as soon as we were done with the food. The men took themselves back to the living-room to smoke and talk about men things, while in the meantime I bravely return to the kitchen with the stern matron.

There, it turned out that she lured me back there not to help me with the dishes, but to berate me for my roast – the meat had been too dry, the potatoes too burned, the greens too anaemic. No wonder, when my kitchen was in such disarray. She felt that I must be taught a strict lesson about keeping house for her precious son.

“But he’s happy,” I tentatively objected.

“He thinks he’s happy. But soon enough he will realise what he is missing. I’m attempting to spare you the discord.”

At this point she suggested that some mentoring was in order. Because my mother lived quite far away, she was ready to take me under her wing, and teach me to keep house the way she has taught her own daughters.

I didn’t see any way to escape, without causing a scandal. Therefore, I submitted to the first lesson. This involved my mother-in-law sitting on the kitchen chair, picking up one of my wooden spoons, and ordering me over her knee, with my flouncy floral dress flipped up to over my shoulders. I needed to learn, apparently, what happened when my housekeeping wasn’t up to the necessary standard.

She spanked me with the wooden spoon so hard that all my pride went out of the window, and I sobbed like a little girl. My bottom felt like it was engulfed in flames. The mother-in-law wasn’t satisfied until I most humbly begged forgiveness for my slovenliness, and then she finally allowed me to stand and adjust my dress.

“You will come to my house for housekeeping lessons,” she declared. “I will expect you every Tuesday at 2 o’clock sharp. Now go and wash your face, so that you can show yourself in polite company again, and then do something about these dishes.”

With this she regally departed from my kitchen, leaving me with the pile of the washing-up, and an extremely sore bottom that was throbbing in pain underneath my dress and pettycoat.

Does anyone out there ever visit the Welsh town of Brecon? Well, if you do, here’s a story from the Powys county archives that I bet you won’t be able to forget the next time you’re there. It’s from the ‘Order Book’ of the Breconshire “Quarter Sessions” held in midsummer 1725:

It’s quite hard to decipher the hand-writing, so here goes with a transcription:

“Margaret Luke being indicted at this Sessions for ye felonious stealing of one Bodice of ye Goods of Walter Davies and upon her Tryall Convicted of ye said offence It is by this Court ordered that she be stript from ye waist upward and publickly whipt tomorrow Morning between ye hours of eleven and twelve from ye East Gate to ye West Gate in ye Town of Brecon.”

So, here’s the question: how far is it from ye east to ye west gate in Brecon?   And what sights would you take in on a modern-day walk from on to t’other?!

In my dream I was a teacher in charge of a group of girls going to a field trip somewhere. Not sure what the final destination was, but there was a mini-bus involved, and five or six young ladies in their full uniforms, including regulation coats and hats. I was supervising them, while another teacher was driving the bus.

Everything was going fine, until the girls started to sing the song which was really funny, but really quite filthy. (I tried hard to recall the lyrics in the morning, but I can only remember that it had to do with a monk and a maiden who subsequently stopped being a maiden.) I tried to make the girls stop singing before I had to do anything other than tell them off, but they must have thought there was nothing I could do.

Unfortunately for them, there was. I asked the teacher who was driving to take us to a convenient picnic spot, which was empty because of the cold autumn weather. With the bus safely parked, the other teacher and I took three girls each, and turned them over our laps one by one as we sat on the picnic benches.

This was a rare dream that actually ran to the end, so I got to spank three schoolgirls, and hug them afterwards as they sniffled their way back onto the bus. The best part about this was that, because I often don’t feel touch in my dreams, my hand didn’t hurt at all, although the girls behaved as though they each got quite a sound spanking.

Many, many years ago, I read a lovely book by Hunter Davies, entitled ‘A Walk Along The Wall’. Hadrian’s, to be precise. It inspired a rather lovely walking holiday, in which school friends and I recreated his trek along the Roman route from Newcastle across to Carlisle.

In his latest book, which I read recently, Davies visits some of Britain’s most outlandish museums. There’s a baked beans museum (yes, really); a pencil museum; a fan museum (how very Regency house party); a secret nuclear bunker.

There’s one topic missing, though – the museum of corporal punishment. Just think of the hours of fun one could have designing the displays; working out a programme of special events (Caning Christmas, Tawsing Tuesday?); setting admission prices ( £5, with a £1 per stroke discount for cute young ladies?); interviewing prospective staff (“So, what relevant experience do you have?”); selecting the implements for display.

Rather scarily, it struck me that we do actually own more items relating to our chosen specialised subject than do some of his selected museum owners. However, Davies finds a common thread in the ever-so-weird and not-that-wonderful collections – namely, that the curators seem to be exceptionally eccentric. What a shame that I don’t fit the bill…

Although in reality spanking with a switch isn’t my favourite thing – because it really hurts, you know? – it has a permanent place in my fantasy landscape. An irate Daddy grasps a sulking teenager firmly by her ear, marches her to the tool drawer and extracts his secateurs.

“Here, young lady,” he says grimly. “Go outside and cut me a switch. You know what will happen if it’s not thick enough.”

And the girl does know: first comes the whipping with a thinner switch, which will be painful despite its inadequacy, and then Daddy will go into the garden to make his own choice, and the switch he chooses will be so much worse.

Begging will do no good, so the girl reluctantly takes the secateurs and goes outside, where she walks up to…

What? Is it an apple tree? A rowan? A willow? A plum? In warmer climates, maybe a peach? I wonder what switches are most effective?

Personally, I’ve been known to be made howl with a switch cut from a weeping willow, though apple trees are also quite deadly. The willow was worse, or maybe the switch was wielded with more force?

If you have a theory on the best tree for a switch spanking, I’d gladly take notes.

Goodness knows what heinous crimes the girls of the school I dreamt up last night had committed.

A long line of girls were in the school hall, each bending over touching their toes. There were twenty or so of them, one lass from each form – having been selected as her class’s representative by the drawing of lots. And each girl was about to receive six of the very best, on behalf of her fellow pupils – a scholastic variation of the Roman principle of decimation, if you like.

I pictured the girls in a classroom, nervously drawing papers from a hat – praying that theirs would be blank, worrying lest theirs was the one that condemned its recipient to a punishment. For the girl who drew the fated lot, there’d be hugs a-plenty. Her name would be recorded by the master or mistress concerned, lest a braver pupil offered to take her place, and she’d be instructred to report to the hall at morning break.

Totally implausible, I know – but I still think it’d be fun to speculate on the cause of their punishments. A riot? But then the ringleaders would be the ones being punished. Some serious offence for which the culprit had failed to own up (“so I’ll punish everyone if they don’t come forward”?)? Too severe, and too sorry a reflection on the masters’ ability to solve the crime,

Surely it’d have to be some form of mass action, a protest of sorts. All girls boycotting school one day – or milling outside the gates but refusing to come into the school grounds? A silent protest in lessons – each pupil girls sitting in class, but refusing to participate?

A blanket refusal by all girls to submit homework? The girls turning their backs on the Headmaster in assembly, giving him a slow handclap or standing silently rather than singing the hymns? Some form of collective protest during a school inspection or outside a govenors’ meeting?

See, it *is* plausible after all! I’m particularly liking the ‘refusal to sing’ option: two long-standing girls’ schools, newly merged against the wishes of both communities. The first assembly of the year; the headmaster asking them to sing the new school song; none of the girls co-operating. Mmm, certainly grounds for a mass punishment, methinks…

A quick glance at WordPress, the system we use to manage The Spanking Writers, reveals that at the time of posting this entry, we’ve had a total of 9,981 comments since launching the blog back in early 2006. (That’s just the real contributions from readers, BTW – not including spam).

Some funny, others sad. Many kinky, but others reflecting on aspects of real / vanilla life. Witty and entertaining; serious and reflective. Regularly supportive, occasionally provocative. Some direct replies to our original posts – other threads that have taken on a life of their own.

From friends, from strangers; from strangers who’ve become friends. From those already active in the scene – and, wonderfully, from people making their first contributions to the online spanking world.

Someone out there’s going to make the 10,000th comment pretty soon – either on this post, or perhaps in reply to some earlier entry. Who’ll it be? The race is on…

And if you’ve never commented, might we tempt you to say hello?

We wanted to mark the impending milestone by saying a huge thank you. When we started posting here, we hoped we’d get *some* feedback from readers – but we could never have dreamt what a wonderful community we’d form here, and how you’d all do so much to make the blog so rewarding to host. You’ve made us very happy, and not a little proud.

A concept of a “nice spanking” is difficult to explain to some tops. But here’s how it goes: it’s a spanking that warms up and builds up a tingle; feels crisp, but not too challenging; makes me gasp and giggle, but not cry out; might grow harder by the end, but only because I’m thoroughly warmed up.

“A spanking is supposed to hurt”? No, it’s supposed to make me happy, actually. If a nice spanking is what I want, leave your sadistic urges at the door.

I’m pretty happy this morning, because that’s exactly the sort of spanking Abel gave me when we woke up today. I hope you can also get a nice spanking, if you want one!