The Spanking Writers

I’m bored of passive aggressive tweets, bored of sharp put-downs. I’m tired of point-scoring – especially behind people’s backs. I’m frustrated by pomposity – self-proclaimed “experts” patronising those who happen to have different perspectives on scene-related issues.

Others’ oh-so-cheery tweets sometimes jar horribly with those still-common moments feeling hurt, sad, confused, apprehensive  that seem to interrupt my otherwise-generally-heading-in-the-right-direction life  right now, after such an challenging year thus far.

Others’ downbeat tweets get me down far too easily – even though it’s great to see the replies pouring in to cheer them up. But on some occasions: is there anything more soul-destroying than seeing a cry for support going totally ignored?

I even rather resent Twitter at times: when did many of our real-life friends last comment here on Spanking Writers, in the way they used to so regularly before they could connect with each other – and us – through regular tweets? Sometimes posting into relative darkness is hard – to the point where, for the first time, I’ve found myself questioning lately why I bother.

And when out with friends, I’m (to my shame) as guilty as any of anti-social tweeting-when-you-should-be-chatting: Twitter and the lost arts of conversation and concentration?

So why do I still use the site – even, perhaps surprisingly, advocate its use to some? It’s a question I’ve been pondering in the past few days, ever since reading Grace Dent’s (actually rather disappointing) book “How to Leave Twitter”. I do love the sense of community; I love the wit and repartee – yesterday evening being a prime example. As such, I’m sure it’s strengthened the bonds between my real-life circle of friends, bringing us into closer, sometimes more open and generally far more regular contact. I enjoy the window it gives onto the lives of like-minded souls further afield.

I like the quick occasional 1:1 catch-ups that the site makes possible – more frequent, perhaps, than if one waited to send an email. (And, in turn, I rather regret the decline it’s contributed to in lengthier, more in-depth email correspondence – the “I can’t be bothered with more than 140 characters of sharing or listening” mentality that tweets seem to engender).  I value it as a cheap way of keeping in touch from abroad, where all-inclusive data roaming tariffs permit free DMs when regular texting would be prohibitively expensive.

And I’ve long viewed Twitter as akin to a favourite local pub. You don’t have to be in there all the time to enjoy it when you do pop in; it’s lovely when you do to catch up with your friends. Yet I half wonder whether I’m spending too much time “in the pub”.

Would I miss it? Would it miss me? Would a week or month away from it* make me desperate to rush back, panicked by losing touch with my friends and acquaintances – or simply relieved? And is some of this actually really, deep down, about Twitter – or is my attitude towards the site actually instead a reflection of my insecurities and uncertainties regarding life more generally, after such a very emotionally-tough few months?

To paraphrase the title of one of my favourite albums – Editors’ “An End Has a Start” – loved ones’ fresh starts (welcomed; necessary)  feel for me very much like the  end of maybe the happiest chapter in my life. I’m not quite sure what it is I’m now starting. I have so many wonderful things planned for the coming months; so many things to be thankful for; deep, special connections with the people who matter most. But I can’t help thinking that at some point before too long I need more ‘me time’; to head off somewhere obscure, maybe out of contact; to put myself first for once, and see if I can put my world to rights…

* Which I should doubtless call a “Twoliday”, or some other such daft phrase

When I observed the episode Abel described yesterday, a different scene came to my mind.

The girl jumped off the scooter and dashed away not simply because her boyfriend had been stopped by the police. Thing is, she wasn’t supposed to be seeing this boy at all: she had sworn to her father that she had broken off their highly unsuitable relationship. And now to be caught on the back of his bike… unthinkable!

Of course, when the police come looking for her at home, all becomes revealed. She is fined for fleeing the scene, and as soon as the police leave, her father takes of his belt, and hauls her to her bedroom, where he proceeds to whip her until she is sobbing out promises to definitely break up with her boyfriend this time.

(Naturally, she has no intention of doing this, but neither does she have an intention to be caught again.)

Picture the scene: a pedestrianised street in central Athens, lined with upmarket shops. (OK, some of them might have smashed windows from the recent riots, but they’re still open for business!).

A scooter weaves its way through the crowds: a twenty-something boy on the front, his cute girlfriend sitting behind happily hugging him around the waist. A muscular guy in a tight-fitting T-shirt steps out in front of the bike, forcing it to stop. Words are spoken – I’m guessing:

“What the hell are you doing? You nearly killed us.”

“Wondering why you’re riding the bike here.”

“What business is it of yours?”

At which point a gaggle of uniformed police officers appear, as if from nowhere, in support of their colleague.

The girl jumps from the back of the bike, and runs off. The policemen look at one another, and decide that scolding and fining her boyfriend is a far easier course of action on a hot afternoon than running through the streets in hot pursuit of their hotter prey.

So far, so good. Yet you can tell where the story would end in my mind. Evading arrest is a serious crime, and tracking down a boy’s girlfriend wouldn’t take that much detective work. There’d be a knock on her front door the following morning; she’d be hauled before the magistrates; the twenty strokes of the cane to which she’d been sentenced would be administered before the clock struck midday.

You know: we’re in Greece to see museums and archaeological sites: I really must concentrate on the tasks at hand…

We’re on holiday in Greece for a week, and we’ve started the trip by stopping in Athens for a few days. Unsurprisingly, it’s devilishly hot. Personally, all I can do in the afternoon is collapse in a heap, and I have no idea how people who aren’t on holiday actually get any work done.

For example, this afternoon I stopped to spy on an archaeological dig near the Agora: twenty or so sun-ripened people scrambling about in in the dust, looking clever. They were in direct sunlight. I felt hot just looking at them.

I could clearly imagine that, if I worked on a dig like that, I would struggle not to slink off into the shade for a quiet sit-down and a drink, perhaps more often than strictly recommended. I’m sure my boss would notice this very quickly. He would call me aside, and lecture me about how lucky I was to be in the field instead of sitting an the office somewhere, washing old pottery. I would be instantly ashamed, and most meekly beg forgiveness.

Luckily for me, my behaviour wouldn’t be at all unusual in a hot climate. Just for such occasions my boss would have a leather slipper – probably bought in a souvenir shop nearby – which he would use to give me half a dozen heavy smacks over my khaki shorts. I would try hard to keep from yelping, so that everybody else around wouldn’t be alerted to my situation.

With my bottom suitably warmed, I would be sent back into the sun, to hunt for treasure.

I usually think of the aftermath of a parental punishment as an entirely solitary matter: the girl who’s been whipped with her father’s belt is sent straight to bed in disgrace, to cry herself to sleep. She’ll emerge in the morning, sore and subdued, and apologise once again at breakfast for letting her parents down.

Yet in a rather sweet dream the other night, a variation on the theme cropped up. For the girl had a sister a few years older, who’d always looked out for and looked after her. And after the younger lass had been punished, and sobbed, and eventually regained something of her composure, she sneaked along the corridor into her big sister’s bedroom, and curled up in her arms in bed for comforting words and cuddles and to sleep…

Their parents would, I suspect, have known that this was going on – that both of their daughters were, effectively, disobeying the rule that a girl who’d been punished was confined to her room. But they’d choose to ignore it, merely being proud that their children were so loving and close.

So, there’s this business acquaintance of mine who’s forever making references to her mis-spent youth: I’ve blogged before about her wooden spoon experiences.

Meeting up with her last week led to yet more food for kinky thought. She used to work as a stewardess for a Japanese airline; her training for the job was thorough, and the conditions in Tokyo austere – staying with the other girls in somewhat basic dorms, with a strict curfew.

“I was only caught climbing back into the building after lights-out twice,” she explained. “But goodness did I get into lots of trouble.”

Oh, how tough it was to concentrate on work for the next few minutes, as I pictured the fate that must have befallen her – and any similarly poorly-behaved fellow trainees. They’d have been called into their manager’s office the following morning; after a careful uniform inspection, the caning would be have been administered across their skirts. At least, it would have been for the first offence – it’d have been on the bare for the second, with the number of strokes doubled. Must have been effective, anyway – for she clearly hadn’t done it a third time…

Haron reads her new spanking story about the plight of a scullery maid.

Subscribe with iTunes

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Now, here’s a definition to fuel the imagination:

Contrition:

From the Latin contritus – ‘ground to pieces, i.e. crushed by guilt – is sincere and complete remorse (i.e. regret with a sense of guilt) for sins one has committed.

So here’s to contrite girls. Girls who’ve realised the error of their ways before they’ve even found themselves before their disciplinarian. Girls who’ve been asked to explain themselves, and found no possible justification forthcoming.  Girls who’ve been told that they’ve let themselves down.  Girls who’ve disappointed someone who loves them.

Girls who’ve been broken, even before they’ve been placed into position for the punishment they knew was coming, had dreaded, but had  needed too. Girls who’ve been bared; girls for whom that would have been easier to take than being whacked over their clothes. Girls who’ve been dealt with gently, for a hard thrashing would be quite unnecessary – and girls who’ve been beaten mercilessly, because nothing less would help.

Contrite girls. Loved. Held tight.

Abel is really making me giggle right now.

We’re expecting some friends for dinner and an overnight stay, so there’s a burst of tidying and preparations going on. We’ve done most of it, so now it’s time for finishing touches. For my part, I’m getting out spare bedding, and making sure the cat doesn’t go to sleep on the fresh towels.

Abel is making sure the canes are neatly arranged on the cane rack, that the tawses are hanging off their proper pegs, and that punishment forms are printed out on paper of just the correct shade of blue.

One of us has his priorities right…

Picture the scene: the ever-so-posh executive lounge of a grand German hotel earlier in the month. A father downs a glass of beer; his three teenaged daughters sip gently at their soft drinks.

“I’m heading to bed,” he announces, and kisses each of them goodnight with loving hugs before disappearing.

Five minutes later: three girls are already onto their second glass each of white wine. A half hour on, and there’s giggling galore as the lounge’s alcohol stocks seem in imminent danger of complete depletion.

What if, I wondered, their father had come back? “I forgot my glasses,” he’d have explained, before noticing both the empty bottles and their inebriated state. Doubtless he’d have apologised to me for their poor behaviour, before leading them off to their bedroom and removing his thick leather belt to sober them up…