The Spanking Writers

Any screenplay that includes 14 mentions of the word “whip” has to be worth a read. So how on earth did I miss the film “Four Feathers” back in 2002?

The most interesting scene is set in the desert between Egypt and Sudan. Harry, one of the officers, is riding his camel at the front of the caravan, accompanied by Gustave, a French slave-driver:

Behind them ride SAADI, his Dinka assistant, and three beautiful DINKA SLAVEGIRLS.

GUSTAVE: The British soldiers rent my girls off me for three dhirrams an hour. Well worth the trip to Suakin.

He looks back at the DINKA SLAVEGIRLS, who are whispering amongst themselves.

GUSTAVE: Shut up!!… (To Saadi) Keep them quiet! What do I pay you for?!

SAADI says something to the SLAVEGIRLS in their native Dinka tongue. From the deference in his voice it’s clear the women are from a higher caste than him.

SAADI hoists some water up in a goatskin canteen. He offers the canteen to GUSTAVE. The French slave-driver is about to take a drink when he hears one of the DINKA SLAVEGIRLS murmuring in her native tongue. He wheels his camel around angrily.

GUSTAVE (To Saadi) What did she say?

Before SAADI can make an excuse for her, the DINKA SLAVEGIRL starts cursing in her native tongue, her eyes fixed on GUSTAVE.

GUSTAVE lashes out with his whip. The SLAVEGIRL’s camel rears, throwing her to the floor. GUSTAVE rides towards her, raising his whip, ready to beat her.

HARRY’s camel suddenly lurches between them. At first it looks like he’s lost control of the animal, but as he steadies his mount, it becomes clear he’s put himself in Gustave’s way.

GUSTAVE sneers. With inch perfect skill, he starts to circle HARRY, trying to get a clear view of the girl. With equal skill, HARRY twists his own camel round, keeping her blocked from him at every turn.

GUSTAVE grows impatient. He raises his whip, threatening Harry. HARRY doesn’t flinch. His eyes are fixed on Gustave the whole time. Finally GUSTAVE backs down, intimidated by the mysterious stranger. He stares at HARRY, half in anger, half in admiration.

Jolly gallant, don’t you think? Makes one proud to be British, thinking of our chaps saving local girls from whippings…

Awkward conversations with father-in-law, chapter 17.

FIL prowls though the carefully dekinked house; comes into the kitchen, where the planting ruler is leaning against the wall as an artefact of rustic charm.

Him: “Oh, what’s this, Haron?”

Me: “Uhhh, that’s for my… planting. I’m going to grow things. Yes.” Cringe, cringe, anybody who knows me would be rolling on the floor laughing by now.

Him: “Lovely. What are you growing?”

Me: “Um. Tomatoes! Definitely.” Don’t blush, don’t blush.

Cue a long conversation on gardening, FIL’s eyes caressing the big ruler with his eyes.

He doesn’t know I know how kinky he really is.

I know it’s something of a cliché to post lists of blog search terms, and as a result we’ve never actually done it. But a recent glance at our WordPress stats – of queries typed into the search bar here on Spanking Writers once people had actually found their way to the site – struck me as rather interesting.

We seem to have lots of interest in matters “judicial”, including those featuring “judicial naked”. The “riding crop” and “the whip” vie for attention as preferred implements, but both a long way behind the “cane”. Readers are fascinated by “school”, naturally, particularly the ever-worrying “school report”, but seem split equally between their interest in reading about the “Headmaster” or “Headmistress”. And a few religious types wanted to know all about “nun spanking”, or were merely curious to hear what fate might have befallen some poor “wench” (particularly if she happened to be a “lesbian”).

We do disappoint some, though – in nigh on five years, the blog’s never seen a girl punished with a “buggy whip”. And those wanting to read about “enemas” or about girls being “smothered” really are in quite the wrong place! I’m surprised, though, that Haron hasn’t ever referred to “f/m otk” (although that’s perhaps more something she might discuss on her other blog!). And back to that convent – it seems that perhaps our reader wasn’t so interested in nuns being spanked as cases where a “nun spanks girls” or, more specifically, “nun spanks schoolgirls”.

The one that particularly amused me? Neither Haron nor I have never, ever mentioned “housework”. Yep, I can believe that!

Further research reveals the terms that bring people to the site from Google and the like. Here are a few – just reading the list creates a certain frisson:

• judicial caning stories (nah, not something that you’d ever find her – honest, erm…)
• memories of the cane at school (provoking debate on that fine line of when real-life experiences can be deemed hot)
• daddy daughter spanking fantasy (we tend more to the safety of guardians, but…)
• get a spanking in real life (“so I can empathise with those who did”, or “because I want one”?)
• judical spanking (for poor spelling?)
• plimsolls spanking (plural? What, surely the disciplinarian didn’t break the first plimsoll on her? Owww!)
• bend over and touch (one assumes toes, but… ‘carpet’ must have been contender, or could it have been something more surreal – ‘bar of chocolate’, ‘the cat’?)
• russian women prison (OMG if they were up in court and worrying about the possible sentence, we’d certainly have left them worried)
• 1950s reformatory spankings (because punishments in the 1940s were so tame?)
• bride spanked (on her wedding night, or years later?)
• spanking young lady (note: not girl, not woman – specifically a young ‘lady’. I like).
• stage fright spanking (I shall never again watch an actress walk onto stage without thinking of what might have just happened to her in the wings)
• spanking bent over the back of a chair (you know, I really need to buy a suitable chair for this – our house is sorely lacking in suitable furniture for what is one of my favourite positions)
• spanked with hairbrush (why no searches on clothes brushes, eh? You’re all too kind)
• xh tawse (funny how no-one ever googles “L tawse” or “M tawse”!)
• pillow under bare bottom spank (mmmmm, what a delightful image)
• mother in law spanking (OK, by the mother-in-law, or with her on the receiving end?)
• ballerina spanking stories (I wish I knew more about ballet schools – this is such a hot idea!)

I was just about to start undressing for my shower, when I noticed that the blinds were up and the window was wide open. Abel was standing next to it, looking smug.

“Would you draw the blinds, please?” I asked.

He smirked, walked up to me, and started to take my t-shirt off, while dragging me towards the open window, despite my protestations that I really didn’t want to flash the entire neighbourhood. My squeaking didn’t make any difference until Abel decided to stop of his own accord – a metre away from the window, which he then finally shut.

I finished undressing and started walking towards the shower.

“Wait there, young lady,” he said. “Flashing the neighbours? Unacceptable behaviour! Bend over and put your hands on the desk!” He grabbed the first thing that was to hand – a plastic ruler.

Giggling and yelping, I took a couple of dozen swats, which were crisp, sharp and warming. I was laughing too hard to apologise for my behaviour, which had appalled Abel so much.

When I switched the shower on, I let cool water pour over my freshly spanked bottom. And I giggled for rather a long time.

It’s funny how my spanking personae – in scenes, in fantasies – seem to split into two pretty even camps.

There’s “nice me”. Not that nice, you understand, as I’m thrashing girls and hurting them. But my character’s calm, rational, restrained. The schoolmaster slippering a girl at the front of the class, the housemaster caning her in his study? The butler administering punishment with a carpet beater to the miscreant maid? A guardian, removing his belt in the library? A prison officer with a birching to administer?

In each case, there’s a clear formula. Rules broken, consequences clear. A finite (or logical) duration or number of strokes, administered hard – but with an abiding sense of compassion for the girl, of doing it because she deserves it. Ultimately, it’s for her own good and – in an exemplary sense, in terms of upholding the rule of law – the good of others. There’s a connection between my character and the girl with whom I’m dealing. If she suffers, cries even, I’ll doubtless feel sympathy: punishing her may not be easy.

And then there’s “nasty me”, usually well hidden and (frankly) usually less at the heart of my kink. The gangmaster who’s just bought a girl who needs taming. The mafia boss who’s been disobeyed. The gaoler taking a girl he particularly likes to the punishment cell, just because he can. The punishment officer merciless as he flogs the newly-sentenced lass, quite immune to any sense of sympathy, knowing he’ll never see her again. The businessman taking his pleasure from a girl who’s been sent his way. The gentleman in the country house, whose female staff live in fear of their all-powerful employer.

Harsh, heartless, cold, pitiless. Abusive, even. Beating girls, rather than punishing them. A  side of my kink that’s perhaps too deeply suppressed. Somehow I feel the need to inflict a little more cruelty…

A vanilla blogger, to whom I’m not linking to spare her blushes, made me laugh the other day. She described a dialogue with her daughter:

…She had torn apart our living room and was starting to throw Candyland cards around the room despite my repeated warnings – that I said something that even surprised myself:

“M…, do you want a spanking??”

That was all it took. She stopped immediately, quickly jumped to her feet, dropping the rest of the cards, and said, “Yes!”

Whatever a spanking was — she has not been and won’t ever be spanked — she was so excited to get one. It made me laugh and we picked up the cards together.

That reminded me of a conversation I had with my parents once when I was about 12. My father returned from a parents’ evening at school disappointed at some of the reports he’d had about me. Mum said, “Well, what do you suggest we do with her? Spank her? Marry her off?”

“I vote for spanking, please,” I said hopefully.

My parents looked at me as though I was an alien, and both burst out laughing. My hopes were dashed. I wasn’t to get my first spanking until I was an adult.

Parents shouldn’t joke like that with kids like me, they’re only getting our hopes up.

Last weekend our friend Martha and her boyfriend invited us, along with a group of other friends, for a day of kinky chatter and some play. There was a fair crowd of us there, and although not everyone wanted to play, we had a fairly large group of girls in Saturday detention suffering in the hands of three teachers.

The ingenious touch was that the teachers let us fill in our own detention slips out-of-character, and so all the girls could signal by the severity of their offence how hard we wanted to be spanked. In a group where not everybody knows each other very well, this was a good touch. I also liked it because I could join in with the scene even though my pain threshold at the moment is very low.

I resurrected my character from many years ago, Rosemary Sheridan, who seems to end up in reformatories all the time. This time, in St Anne’s Reformatory, she was a meek little creature who was in detention for nothing more audacious than letting somebody copy her work during a test. The other girls had characters of varying degrees of naughtiness, from incorrigible rebels to docile (though still naughty) lambs.

First we were made to stand in a semi-circle and read out our offences in front of everyone. Shy little Rosie nearly died of shame having to go through this, but she was even more appalled to be paired up with a hard-case named Lucy Plackett and handed over to Mr Winchester for a warm-up spanking. This was our punishment for ending up in detention in the first place. The other girls were also spit into twos and threes and whisked away by other teachers. Over the course of about half an hour we were thoroughly spanked, and then handed to the next teacher to continue the warm-up.

I must admit this in writing: the spankings and slipperings were absolutely delicious, just hard enough to be a little bit of a challenge, and yet not so hard that I regretted even starting. When I was being spanked by Mr Jenkins, I must admit to having a wholly inappropriate reaction of a warm and slippery kind; I think Rosie has a crush on that teacher, or something.

The serious part of the punishment came around quickly enough. We had to go into the staff room in groups of two to receive a designated number of strokes for our main offence. Rosie was sentenced to three strokes of the cane from each teacher. As they crowded around me, serious and official in their suits and ties, I felt about five inches tall, and quaked in my black school shoes.

I was bent over the arm of the staff room sofa, and braced myself for the nine strokes. It was amazing to me how different the licks from each teacher felt. Each volley of three hurt, but in a different way: thud, sting, burn – similar, slightly scary sensations, building up to a layer of warmth all over my bottom, and making Rosie a very punished girl.

I think other girls may have got their licks with straps or paddles, but I was very glad to have got the cane, because it’s an implement I most identify with a Saturday detention like this one.

There was some more play later, but after the teachers dealt with the queue of girls, it was the end of detention for us. I wasn’t as sore as I’ve been after other play experiences, but it was a thoroughly satisfying scene, made better by the company of my fellow schoolgirls, so different from their everyday selves, and yet so familiar.

“Girls rushed back and forth, the chattering crowd enjoying their lunch break, as she stood outside the door, gulped a deep breath, and knocked. She heard his voice, clear from inside, and her trembling hand reached out to turn the handle. She stepped inside, seeing him stand up behind his desk as she closed the door behind her.”

I’ve found myself fascinated lately by the sudden contrast between the girl on the outside of the housemaster’s study – and the room itself one she’s entered.

Beforehand – surrounded by other pupils, part of a crowd, noise all around, chaos everywhere. The girl solitary in her knowledge (not shared by her fellows) of her impending punishment. And once she’d passed through the door? Just the two of them, alone, quiet, ordered – with an absolute shared certainty of what was about to take place.

In some ways, indeed, the contrast – this passage from light to dark – feels like a very intrinsic part of the punishment. It’s not something I’ve ever particularly focused on before, in my writing or roleplaying, and I’m curious to hear others’ thoughts…