The Spanking Writers

Abel takes inspiration from mundane realities of life to come up with spanking fantasies and scenarios.

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Bordellos restaurant

Emma Jane’s blog

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A couple of weeks ago the Observer had an article on 10 best illustrated children’s books.

Number one? “The Lonely Doll” by Dare Wright, first published in 1957, the book full of “glamour, mystery and melancholy.”

Oh, and spanking.

Edith and Little Bear had been very naughty, you see. This is what happens when little dolls and bears are naughty.

I’m delighted that the Observer has picked up on my old favourite, and placed it so high on the list, noting: “The book has recently been republished, which is amazing, if only because Mr Bear, I am sorry to report, believes in smacking his charges”.

A couple of Twitter posters who regularly raise a smile are @PolyBadAdvice and @BDSMBadAdvice. In tribute to their work, here’s our dozen pieces of Spanking Bad Advice:

Safewords give an illusion of comfort – but don’t feel obliged to stop if they’re used.

50: the absolute minimum number of strokes.

If she likes the hairbrush, she’s sure to love the birch.

The bible mentions spanking, so always pray together before and after the scene.

Feel free to interrupt the spanking to take incoming phone calls.

Scene names are fine for the two of you, but use real names when others are around.

Paddles are quiet, so are especially suitable when vanilla friends are in nearby rooms.

It’s like a competition… the more strokes and the harder, the better.

Her dog will really enjoy seeing its owner spanked.

Always share those ‘private’ photos of her marks on your blog.

The playdate may have been fixed for ages, but soccer on TV takes priority.

Who needs hugs afterwards? The top should head straight to the bar.

Come on – join in the fun: we’d love to hear your suggestions…!

I don’t understand how anyone can have this much spanking in her life as I have recently, and still have room for other things, like books, theatre, relationships and, you know, keeping the house vaguely tidy.

Looking back on my November, it’s hard to miss the fact that, out of four weekends, three of mine were taken up with large scene events: the Regency House Party, Shamrock spanking party, and the Finishing school. (On the spare weekend, my boyfriend Jimmy came to visit, just in case you worried I had too much spanking-free time.) All these things came about in one month purely by chance, but the fact remains that I appear to be a very busy girl. Also, I just can’t deny any more that I am, in fact, not a lone spanko who has some lovely spanko friends, but part of something called “the scene”.

I have long resisted thinking of myself as a “scene” player, because, in my mind, I couldn’t be: I’m a classic introvert, and I’m profoundly shy. I don’t enjoy playing with people I don’t already know, either as a bottom or as a top, and it takes a lot of cajoling to make me meet new people. In fact, while I *think* about spanking all the time (as witnessed by this blog, in fact), I’m quite content with only a tiny amount of real-life play. When you take these qualities all together, what you get is not necessarily a description of a scene person.

It turns out that the scene experience is not the same for everyone, because there are just so many things you can do. Even if you don’t do some of them, it doesn’t make you less of a scene player – particularly once you’ve hit a certain critical mass of stuff that you do, in fact, enjoy. There are clubs, munches, fairs, expos, large parties, tiny parties, play dates, vanilla outings – and then there’re blogs, forums, FetLife, SpankoLife, and oh my dear lord, Twitter. (@adelehaze, btw) So many ways to be part of the scene – and missing some out doesn’t disqualify you.

Realising this has helped me a lot. Turns out, it’s OK to not enjoy clubs, and turn up at parties for the company rather than play, and sit in the corner observing while the surreal festival roars around you, and take weeks off, and talk about Harry Potter in the same breath as you talk about making spanking films. It’s not other, cooler people who decide whether you’re scene enough.

Once you make friends, the scene sucks you up, and before you know it, you don’t have a single free weekend in November.

It’s all about friends. There’s a surprise.

Last night I went out to a gig, and came home on the last train from London, pretty much in the middle of the night. Poor Abel got stranded abroad on his business trip, and so wasn’t there to be nudged awake. Still, despite coming back to an empty house, I was having visions of creeping home after a night out to be met by my very cross uncle.

“What time do you call this?” he spits out. “Why is your phone off?”

I offer my apologies. Secretly, I think he shouldn’t get so worked up about this: he knew I was out at a concert, and when did he think concerts finished? Late, that’s when! Even so, I act contrite. I know what he’s like.

I’m not mistaken in my apprehension. He curtly orders me to my bedroom, but instead of leaving me to collapse into bed, he follows me in and shuts the door. Then he reaches to his belt and slides it out of the loops with a whoosh.

“You know what to do,” he growls.

Oh, the indignity. Two hours ago I was an independent young woman, dancing my way through exhilarating tunes. And now, just like that, I’m a naughty little girl again. I want to get through this as quickly as possible, so I don’t offer any arguments. I push down my jeans and bend over the edge of the bed.

The belt stings just as much as it did when I really was a little girl. I draw a wad of bedding between my teeth to stop crying out and embarrassing myself any further. I can feel my backside growing hotter with every lick of pain. I wriggle, and hiss, but I don’t cry out, though my eyes are wet by the end.

“Get into bed,” my uncle says curtly. “You’re grounded until the end of the week.”

I obey sulkily, and wait for him to leave the room before I allow myself a big watery smile.

My bottom is sore, and I’d rather not be confined to the house like a naughty kid, but the memories of the concert are still dancing in front of my eyes. After all that, it was totally worth it.

Passing time in a bookshop recently – because obviously our house isn’t littered with piles of unread books – I found myself in front of the romantic fiction section. The titles were remarkably racy – so much so that I wondered whether readers would be able to tell whether certain books came from either (a) Mills and Boon, or (b) the store’s Erotica section.

Have a go, and see if you can guess:

1. His Christmas Virgin

2. Kiss It Better

3. Innocent Virgin, Wild Surrender

4. A Talent for Surrender

5. Maharaja’s Mistress

6. Breathless

7. Christmas Guardian

8. The Gift of Shame

9. Captured and Crowned

10. Flogged in the Square

What do you reckon?

The answer: the odd numbers are Mills and Boon, the even ones Erotica (except for the last one, which is entirely made up, but really cries out to be written).

Now the fun part – to imagine the spankings that are no doubt missing from the trashy romances. Take “Captured and Crowned” – the prince strips and whips the beautiful maiden who’d been taken prisoner in the enemy village, and falls in love with her as she writhes to take her flogging oh-so-bravely.

Or the more seasonal titles: in “The Christmas Guardian”, the study curtains are drawn, the lights on the tree glimmer, the gentleman reads his ward’s school report and has no choice but to make her touch her toes for six strokes of the cane in front of the blazing log fire.    And as for “His Christmas Virgin” – a kind gift, at first uncooperative until she’d tasted her new owner’s belt, and then meekly compliant? I know it’s a couple of weeks until the holidays, but I’m getting a taste for the forthcoming festive season already…

“Thank you for waiting, counsel. The case is being heard in the judge’s private chambers: would you mind removing your shoes, as the carpets are very delicate?”

I bent down. And my hands were trembling so much that I could hardly untie my laces…

–

I’d met up with Emma Jane half an hour before, a short walk away from the venue for her impending judicial punishment. She’d scanned the shelves of a local store, looking for a sandwich to eat: none seemed to be to her taste, and I could say nothing right. I’d expected her to be worried about what was to come: her too-evident stress took me aback.

It was a few moments before three, last Friday afternoon. The court, I knew, would send a message when they were ready for us. We headed to a coffee shop to kill time, and ordered hot chocolates. I sipped mine; EJ toyed with hers. “They make you wait,” she said. “The tension’s part of it.”

Was she scared? ‘Petrified’ was perhaps more the word that came to mind. We held hands across the table, but she wasn’t with me: her mind was processing – trying to process – what was about to come, wondering (perhaps) why on earth she’d chosen to inflict this on herself. Waiting… waiting… waiting together. And then the chirp of an incoming text, and I picked up the phone. One word: “Ready.”

As we walked along the street, I held her hand, squeezing it tight through her gloves. She was trembling. I tried to put it down to the cold (which she’d said was worrying her – surely the punishment would hurt more as a result); I feared it was not. The walk was less than five minutes; we said very little, floating through the passers-by, before turning a corner. EJ didn’t know the specific venue; I did: “This is the street”. And after a few moments, I held her hand more tightly and stopped outside one of the buildings: “We’re here”. I felt her whole body shift away from me, as if in shock – momentarily, instinctively wanting to continue down the road and away, before she meekly followed me through the gate.

A court official was waiting inside the door, as I knew he would be. He invited us to take off our coats and hang them up – and then, before we could say a word, he told EJ to follow and led her away.

I waited alone, as my email instructions had instructed me to do, until his return. He showed me into the courtroom: an ordinary (lovely) living room. I saw the implements first – a table filled with canes, straps, a birch. I was asked to take one of the two chairs in the centre of the room, and to wait – and it was only whilst I did that my eyes fell on the white cloth covering the whipping bench. My heart beat faster, as the other official entered the room.

We shook hands. She was polite, thanking me for coming. I explained – as confidently as I could, trying to get into role – that I was sure we wouldn’t detain her long: there had clearly been a misunderstanding that we could clear up quickly. She seemed unconvinced, and left me to wait – and to worry about my girl in her ‘cell’.

She must have been brought in to stand by me relatively soon, but it felt like forever. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back; her face was covered by her hair, as if she was hiding from view as best she could. She looked adorable; I wanted to hug her. “Please stand for the judge”. And then he was there, in front of us, taking his seat behind the table and inviting us to sit.

He opened with a brief introduction: that Miss Woodhouse had been convicted by the court in July of being a member of the mafia, and had been flogged. She had now been found guilty of continuing her association with the mafia and of money laundering: would I like to say anything in mitigation before he passed sentence?

My mind raced; I panicked. Guilty? I’d prepared, polished a short speech in my ward’s defence; I’d been determined to condemn the court for its mistake in bringing her here. Yet the condemnation had already taken place. I stumbled nervously over my words as I improvised a plea – and asked the judge not to send her to prison. Community service, perhaps? Clearing the snow from the streets of the city? The judge questioned me: did I realise that the only alternative he could offer to imprisonment would be corporal punishment, and that given her past record, it would be particularly severe? I did, but begged his leniency, before he ordered one of the officials to take Miss Woodhouse to her cell whilst he weighed judgement.

We came out of role for the next few minutes, discussing the sentence: which implements, how many strokes. I knew that EJ was expecting a severe punishment, and this had been agreed in advance. Indeed, it was the very essence of the scene. Yet here was I, a conspirator in deciding how soundly she’d be thrashed, how much she’d be hurt – whilst wishing I could protect her from what was to come. The hairbrush? Not sufficiently ‘judicial’. Tawse? More scholastic or reformatory. 30 strokes? 10? 50? We discussed, debated, and my mind kept flashing across to how lonely, scared, she must be feeling as we kept her waiting.

When she was brought back – still handcuffed – they made her stand next to me once more, facing the judge to hear her fate: one minute with the spray birch, then 24 strokes of the cane. He turned to the court officials, urging them to apply the sentence with the greatest vigour: he wanted them to make her cry out in pain, and “I don’t want her to be able to sit comfortably for several weeks”. (I was reminded suddenly of a chilling phrase from the organiser in an email before the event, not seen by EJ – “the judge would like to hear her in pain, as would I”.)

Furniture was quickly rearranged: the bench was uncovered, pulled into position in the centre of the room. The discussion, the inevitable banter of roleplay was suddenly absent. The days of planning, the hours of logistical chaos as we tried to coordinate the scene amidst snow-disrupted travel chaos? My ability to cuddle my girl, or even speak to her? Gone. Everything now was about the flogging that was to come.

They ordered her forward; she removed her boots, trousers, socks and climbed up onto the punishment frame, bending forward over it. They buckled her, tight – ankles, legs, arms, wrists, a leather strap across her back pinning her down. Checked, double-checked. I recall being thankful for the care they were taking – reminded once again that these are the most trustworthy of players. And I recall wondering what Emma Jane must be thinking, and praying she was in the right headspace, just as they lowered her knickers. I heard a noise and tried to dismiss it, but it was there again: she was crying gently already.

Yet during the birching? Throughout each batch of thirty seconds, after that terrifying countdown: “3 – 2 – 1…”? She remained silent, save for the occasional gasp for breath. I’d decided beforehand to count the strokes – perhaps to give me focus on something other than how much it must be hurting her. But frankly, as I observed, my overwhelming feeling was one of relief. My goodness, the first official was whacking her hard, plainly at full strength – but I knew that, incredibly agonising as it clearly was, EJ could take this.

She sobbed after the first batch of 53: oh, how my poor girl was hurting, how red and sore her backside looked. But she was bearing it so bravely. They lifted her head to offer her water, which she seemed to struggle to sip. And then there was a pause before the second official took up position, measured the birch across her, and added another breathtaking 61 in his allotted half-minute. Yet still she remained silent and still – until the flood of tears at the end. I knew she’d mark this as a victory; beaten yet not beaten. I was so pleased for her, proud of her.

That, however, was the appetiser. It was now time for the caning. The implement selected was, quite frankly, scary – far more so than any in my own (pretty extensive) cane collection. Straight, particularly long, with the weight of a Singapore cane – yet slightly less thick, hence far whippier. Yet EJ has taken hard canings before, with harsh implements, from experienced and severe tops (myself included) determined to hurt her, inflicting far greater numbers of strokes: despite the main court official’s scary reputation, surely it couldn’t be that bad?

My illusions were shattered by the first stroke, the punishment officer swinging her whole body into, through the stroke, bringing it down with astounding force. It was as if the stroke wanted to keep going: that it had found EJ’s buttocks in its way of its momentum, that it pushed her as hard as it could against the bench and then cut into her when she could yield no more. I knew straight away that it would have utterly terrified its victim – that any questions in her mind as to whether this would be like ‘normal’ hard play, or whether it would be an entirely different proposition, would have been answered in that split second.

The second was still harder – slightly higher, marking out the upper boundary for the strokes that would follow. It took my breath away, marking a clear, long white line so deeply across her skin. The official took her time – fifteen, twenty seconds, an eternity between strokes; EJ was trying desperately not to cry, but the gasps with each blow grew louder and louder. I’ve seen hard canings before; administered many myself. Long, extended, full-strength punishments. I’ve been at shoots at Lupus, the company that make possibly the most severe spanking movies. And it was all too plain that I have never seen strokes even approaching this strength, or administered with such an evident lack of mercy, with such a desire to hurt.

On the sixth, perhaps the hardest yet, she let out a full-bodied scream – loud, long, uncontrolled – that I will never forget. Picture yourself sitting, a few feet away, from a girl you love – watching her being whipped harder than she could ever have imagined possible. Knowing that the pain must be unbearable. Knowing it had scarcely started, that she would be panicking inside as to how she could bear the rest of the strokes. But knowing too that it was how, not if – that she would see this through, that safewording wouldn’t be an option, wouldn’t enter her mind.

I was so close, yet so very far away from what she was experiencing. Feeling so protective. Feeling so utterly powerless. Able only to watch her writhe, to hear her cry out and sob. Clenching myself before each stroke, my whole body wincing as they fell, sometimes almost lifting off my chair – as if I could try and take some of the impact for her. Marvelling at the strength and accuracy of the flogging. Marvelling at my girl for taking it.

They tied her hair back after twelve, so that we could see her face in the mirror. Tear-stained, in such obvious agony. And then they gave her the hardest stroke yet. How I loved her, how proud I was of her, how I willed her on.

Would the official ease off? Far from it. If anything, I felt the strokes were getting harder. EJ somehow slid her hands from their bonds: freer to move, her agony as each cut fell became even more evident, her vulnerability even more shocking. The individual lines that striped her were beginning to merge. And still I could do nothing to help.

Number 23 was astounding – but after that, I knew she’d made it. The last… well, you know the tradition. But it was over – at least, the infliction of the ‘punishment’. The processing, the subsequent pain, was still to come.

They untied her afterwards and told her to stand; she was momentarily unsteady on her feet, as they ordered her to face the judge. Still fierce, unforgiving, he warned her not to return, and that a custodial sentence would be inevitable if she found herself before the court again. (Why did I suddenly imagine that their prisons would surely include floggings?).

And then, the words I wanted to hear: “You may go back to your counsel.” She turned towards me and hesitated – as if dragging herself from the absolute solitude of being flogged, and came close into my outstretched arms.

After, we left her to herself for a few minutes in a bedroom, before the officials went to check on her. And then, only then, was I allowed to go and see her, to hold her tight as she shivered uncontrollably, and curled up at my feet in tears on the bathroom floor. To cuddle, to marvel, to listen to her first reactions (her shock at the severity, beyond anything she’d expected), to tell her how proud I’d been of her. I shared that the Judge had just described it as the hardest caning he’d ever seen, concurring with his opinion. And within minutes, the whole group was sat round sipping champagne on the sofa, and my girl’s eyes burned bright as she flew once more.

–

With such thanks to the amazing friends who set up and ran the scene. There are few people with whom I could even conceive of doing something like this, and they made EJ (and me) feel so cared for – and safe – throughout. To be able to trust people so totally is very powerful.

I’ve not named them in the narrative above – for, during proceedings, they were to me anonymous. Had I thought of them by name at the time, I’d have been jolted too far back out of that room, of the proceedings, and that would have made it still harder to observe. But to Ms Switch, Mr Allen and the Judge, the very greatest of respect, praise and gratitude. And the tightest, tightest of hugs for the amazingly brave, adorable Emma Jane herself.

If I were to list things I expected to get caned for, associating with Lord Voldemort would have been pretty low on the list. And yet…

This morning came to find Abel upon waking up, and complained that I’d had bad dreams, which had involved getting tortured and killed. Not fun.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take your mind off it.”

He ushered me into the bedroom, and followed me in with a cane. “Bend over the edge of the bed, young lady. I’ll teach you a lesson about associating with dangerous types.”

He took aim, tapping the cane against my bottom, and then sliced it down with a thwack. I yelped, and apologised about such naughtiness.

“Who was torturing you, anyway?” Abel asked.

“Um, Voldemort,” I admitted.

“Well! I’ll teach you about associating with Voldemort!” He sliced the cane down again.

It really hurt, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I had to admit, the remedy was working: by the time all six strokes were done, I was sore, but thoroughly distracted from my nightmare. A caning turns out to be a great distraction, there’s a surprise.

Hmm, Voldemort, though?

This wonderful piece appeared last Saturday at “The Spoof”, satirising those countries with less enlightened (aka backwards and unacceptable) judicial systems:

AL-AWWAMIYA, Saudi Arabia – A teenage girl was attacked by a stray camel and after reporting the incident to the police she was arrested and punished by a judge — she was sentenced to over 90 lashes while the camel was chased off to chew cud in the dessert.

The unusual story of the Girl of Qatif has been making headlines across the world because of the brilliant method used by the Saudi legal system to bring law and order to their society. The general concept behind this incredible legal strategy is that women in Saudi Arabia will refuse to venture out of their homes without being escorted by a male relative because they don’t want to receive 90 lashes and this prevents them from being exposed to the stray camels, preventing camels from running after them to attack.

A Saudi police officer commented to the fact that after the Girl of Qatif was given her 90 lashes two years ago, not a single case of camel attacks has been reported in the kingdom. The reason for this amazing reduction in crime is because Saudi women realized they had to take responsibility to prevent the camel attacks. There hasn’t been a single woman in Saudi Arabia has ventured into the streets alone anymore, completely eliminating camel attacks.

Before, there used to be twenty to thirty camel attacks a year, but now police officers are seeing less women on alone on the streets…  Saudi women had desires to be alone on the streets while they stared at handsome camels with big bulbous eyes that were strolling along, but the prospect of a lashing has made them more weary of making mistakes…

What’s your thoughts on the issue, should a Saudi woman stay at home safe or should she be wondering out at night by herself on a lonely street filled with camels hiding in the darkness?

“If I hear any giggling from the Sanatorium after lights-out, there will be trouble.”

That’s what Abel said to Catherine and me last night as he tucked us into bed. Both of us are down with colds, so we quarantined ourselves to the spare bedroom to avoid infecting Abel, who is currently the last one standing in the fight against winter doom. We were actually too sick to misbehave, or do anything but cough and splutter, but the threat made me squirm very pleasantly.

I imagined the school San, where two girls are recovering from colds. They’re well enough to be thoroughly bored, but they are not deemed to be recovered enough to be allowed to join their peers. They giggle and gossip, and keep trying to sneak out to get drinks and sugary treats not allowed in the San.

The Matron has already had to spank each of them over the knee, and they promised fervently to behave better. But their good intentions haven’t lasted, and soon a pillow fight ensues, bringing the Matron running again.

“Do you girls think I have nothing better to do than spank your bottoms all day?” she rages. “Into the corner, both of you – no, smartypants, separate corners! I will be back shortly.”

And she does return soon, bringing with her a Duty Master, who turns out to be the dreaded Dr Jenkins, armed with his habitual cane. The Matron leaves to tend to other patients, while the master stays to deliver a shap, stinging lesson to the two miscreants, who end up sore, sorry and much, much subdued.

Oh, if only we’d been well enough last night…