Posted on 11 May, 2011
Now: the post below comes with a warning. I wrote it early on Monday morning and – conscious that it touches on issues of abusive parental behaviour that may upset some readers – tweeted about my dilemma about whether or not to post it.
Persuaded by the anti-censorship (or just plain curious) majority, I’m going ahead with it. But please don’t click and read on if you feel that the subject matter might cause you upset. I’m exploring edgy issues here, and I don’t want to hurt anyone…
Read my writing: behind closed doors, you’ll find guardians, uncles, parents of a girl’s friends.
Notice the omission?
Writing about a father punishing his daughter is something that, with a very few exceptions, I’ve avoided. Too intense; too real, perhaps, for some readers.
Yet the emotions, for both parties? The father: protective, caring, disappointed and let down. The girl: loved, ashamed of having let down the person who matters most. Emotions so intense; so pure.
Formal fathers have lurked over the years: the wealthy gentleman in his big house; the daughter knocking at his study or library door; the admonishment; the rarely-used cane taken reluctantly from the shelf. Hugs afterwards, each needing the other’s arms.
But that’s avoiding the issue: the girl in the suburban semi, sent to her room in disgrace, thrashed with his belt. Held tight once she’s punished.
And that too dances round the still-darker… Daddy follows her upstairs to her bedroom. Sits on her bed as he makes her take off her uniform and change into her pyjamas. Lectures her, harsh, shouting. Instructs her to take down her trousers and knickers, as she stands before him. Pulls her over his knees, spanks her with breathtaking severity. Orders her to bend over the side of the bed; whips her until she is soundly beaten…
And then… Because there’s more, isn’t there? The darkest places, that might be the logical conclusion when roleplaying such a scene – much as the idea of the actual reality is too horrid to bear…
… puts his crying girl to bed. Leaves her. Re-appears some time later; deposits his glass of whisky on the bedside table. Sits next to her. Reaches out to touch her. And then, in the false name of showing how much he loves her, proceeds to do the things she most dreads.
Not comfortable to write; doubtless for many hard to read. Yet, perhaps, amidst nigh-on every combination of girl and disciplinarian (abused and abuser, even), one I’ve blotted out for too long. I don’t view parental corporal punishment as appropriate; of course, I certainly don’t, for an iota of a moment, condone any form of child abuse. But what happens when we let our imaginations or role-playing activities roam to their ultimate extent? “Your kink is OK”, as is mine, “when adults give their full and informed consent to safe kinky activities taking place in private” (as discussed in SpankingCast 9). But is there a point when we stop being kinky, and start becoming monsters worthy of condemnation?