The Spanking Writers

Anyone else puzzled by DFS? For my non-British readers, I should explain – they’re a furniture company, whose adverts for the past twenty years or more have offered apparently-incredible discounts in a sale that “must end soon”. Soon? Twenty years? How do they get away with it?

I happened to glance at one of their newspaper ads recently. On sofa number one: a youngish couple, curled up happily next to one another. On the next – two young kids, looking happy.

Sofa three? A guy with a remote control in his hand, watching TV. Or was it porn, I wondered? And that set me off. For sofa four would surely seat a smart gentleman, in front of whom stood a sorry-looking girl with a bare, red bottom. After all, what better use of a sofa than to put a badly-behaved girl over one’s knees and spank her soundly?

Sadly, the ad agency hadn’t followed my logic, for the final piece of furniture actually showed a chap stroking a dog. But I reckon my idea was better – and I doubt any UK readers will ever be able to look at a DFS ad in quite the same way again…

I has a rather lovely new toy – a new car, the first I’ve bought for myself in ten years. I say ‘new’: ‘newish’ – it’s got just under 4,000 miles on the clock, as a result of which I saved myself in the region of a handy £5,000.

I picked it up from the showroom this morning, and the salesperson handed me the paperwork to sign. There, in big letters, I read:

Owner name: Mr A Jenkins

I nearly fainted on the spot – how on earth did they know my kinky pseudonym? And then I realised – that was the name of the first owner. Absolutely honestly! As startles go, it has to be the best ever.

Last weekend, Emma Jane and I stayed in a London hotel with a somewhat unusual – and incredible annoying feature: “soundscapes” in the lifts. Every trip between floors was accompanied by the chain’s specially-commissioned atmospheric noises – a rainforest; water washing on the seashore; laughing voices; a flushing toilet (or, at least, that was what it sounded like); the sound of a cane whacking against a sobbing girl’s backside. Actually, the last of these is made up (as you might guess) – but one could live in hope!

During a very lovely, relatively quiet, fairly vanilla weekend (enjoying the fruits of an indulgent Coco de Mer trip perhaps aside), we did stumble across one place that sparked my kinky imagination. Spencer House is London’s finest surviving 18th-century private palace. After being restored at great expense over the past couple of decades, it’s open to the public most Sundays.

Now, I can usually pervert any old house, imagining past thrashings of maids, mistresses and more. But the guide here was so fascinating that I remained deep in concentration in the stories of the architecture, furniture, paintings and the restoration project.

Then we came to the final stop on the tour. The Duke who’d built the property had, unusually for those days, married for love. And he and his young bride had had the final “Painted Room” built for one another to enjoy – a truly beautiful space, just off the great hall, where they could simply be together, alone:

I couldn’t help but imagine the frolics that might have taken place there between the lovers. And that original chair, with its view over Green Park? That was the one in which he sat as his young bride daintily bared her bottom, and giggled her way across his lap.

Things got ruder, naturally, for they’d surely brought in their favourite young serving girl; kissed her, caressed her, stripped her. Bent her over the arm of the sofa, the Duchess holding her hands as the Duke striped her backside with a riding crop? And then each taken their pleasure from her, and her from them?

I almost feel guilty – for the room is so superb, so very special, that corrupting it feels, well, somewhat wrong. And it’s interesting that the fantasies I managed to set in there were so consensual: anything else would have felt, frankly, disrespectful!

Aside from enjoying naughty photos, such as those on my Tumblr site, I’ve always loved snapping things in real-life that have startled me – sparking my kinky imagination. Here are a few decidedly safe for work such shots from my travels during the year thus far – in the hope that they might provoke a few less work-safe thoughts.

A table in the corridor in my hotel in Italy that just looked so empty without a naked, tied girl being caned:

My new cufflinks, from Malaysia:

The old album cover, displayed (rather bizarrely) in a Berkshire clothes shop…

A paddle shop – quite literally – in Colorado (*such* a shame I was there with a work colleague):

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A while ago, a group of us met for coffee in London’s esteemed Wellcome Collection. None of us had realised that the building’s security staff perform a thorough, slightly paranoid, search of visitors’ bags on arrival. Fortunately, perhaps, we were all implement-free, thus sparing any blushes.

Actually, I wouldn’t have blushed, being quite blase about such matters – but the guards might have done, as might some visitors. And that’s where I started to get devious, inspired by news of one of our party having revisited the establishment recently with some naughty toys in her bag.

I picture a girl being made to report to the building with the necessary implements in her bag, prior to a punishment – or, even, as a punishment in itself. The well-worn Mason Pearson hairbrush wouldn’t be an issue; the single slipper might raise eyebrows; the two-tailed Lochgelly tawse would leave her blushing and squirming, especially were the guard to ask for an explanation.

Mmmm. Ways of embarrasing, humiliating, a girl – without even having to be present! I like. Although, of course, I suspect I’d want to be waiting just inside the lobby to watch – and to take her firmly in hand once she’d been sent on her way by the guards.

Some time ago, the Gloria Brame posted the following photograph of a 1920s beauty contest on her very-wonderful blog:

I thought it was rather lovely – especially when you consider that this must have been taken just after the heats for the contest – the girls in question having just been selected for the following day’s Grand Final. Problem was for them that, overnight, their high spirits would lead the group to being caught smoking and drinking long after the strict curfew time that applied to all contestants.

They’d each have been paddled, hard, on the bare, their pleas that the marks would show during the swimsuit section of the  morning’s contest totally brushed aside: “You should have thought of that before you behaved like this; the audience will just have to see how badly-behaved you’ve been.”

At around the same time, Gloria posted another wonderful seaside image:

How demure! How lovely! How unfortunate for the sisters that their father had told them to be back at the hotel by four p.m. at the very latest, so that they could rest before dressing for dinner, and that it was now nearly five. And, indeed, here he is – striding across the manicured lawns to fetch them… They’d not felt his hairbrush for the longest time, and certainly not together. That was about to change…

As my colleague and I wandered out of the train station late on Monday evening, it was drizzling gently. We looked up at the heavens, and decided that the ten-minute walk back to the house would do us good; that the light rain would refresh us after a heavy dinner with work people. Yet by the time we were a few hundred yards in, the heavens had opened. “Soaked to the skin” would be a fair description.

I passed the last part of the walk, trekking miserably up the hill in the torrential rain, by trying to come up with a kinky take on the situation. What if I was a girl’s guardian, waiting for her at home as she arrived back late, soaked, in the dark? I’d meet her in the hallway once she’d let herself in: “Take those wet clothes off, right now.”

Duly naked, and covering herself with embarrassment, she’d stand before me in the living room as be made to explain why she was in such trouble. Walking alone in the dark rather than taking a taxi; staying out later than agreed; risking catching cold in the storm. I’d lay her across my lap on the sofa, wondering as I did whether her shivering was from cold or fear. And I’d redden her bottom with my hand until tears came to her eyes. But that wouldn’t suffice…

“What happens if you put yourself in danger, unnecessarily?”

“I… I get caned, sir.”

“Indeed. Go upstairs and get ready for bed, and fetch the cane from my study as you walk past. I’ll come and see you in ten minutes…”

What I should be doing in my hotel room at 6am, with a major presentation to give to 300 people at the start of today’s conference: re-checking the slides, practising my script, tidying my room to check out before breakfast.

What I am doing? Thinking about a hard, judicial caning, the girl naked and tied down for a large number of strokes, administered slowly, hard, by a uniformed guard with no sympathy for her screams.

I suspect her original sentence had been doubled, somehow. The magistrate had sentenced her to, say, 24 strokes. Perhaps the Punishment Centre officers, on stripping her, had found the empty packaging from the painkillers she’d sneakily taken to try to lessen the effect of the whipping. She’d have been forcibly and intimately searched to check she had no other suppliers hidden away, then locked in solitary to wait for five hours until they’d worn off.

Perhaps she’d tried to bribe the guards: “My father’s wealthy; he’ll look after you if you go easy on me.” In either case, she’d have been taken before the Senior Officer, who’d have listened to what had happened and calmly, in a matter-of-fact way, increased the 24 to 48.

I really must do that work. And I really must get this image of the  sobbing, striped girl out of my mind. It really is quite distracting: deliciously so, in fact!

Visiting Bletchley Park clearly inspired me, for that night’s dreams were firmly set in post-war England. As such, modern values didn’t really apply…

In the first, a husband came home from work on a Friday evening, sat down on his favourite armchair in the living room and called his wife over to see him. Over his knees she went, as she did at the start of every weekend, to be reminded of her place with a hard hand spanking. Next up: the hairbrush, on the bare, for various shortcomings during the week just gone – as recorded on a notepad kept on a side table. And then, as he always did, he led her straight upstairs by the wrist; stripped her without a word and pushed her back onto the bed, before taking his pleasure as she lay still and silent beneath him. (At least, she could reflect, that was easier to take than it would be later when he returned from the pub and pushed her face down on the bed, abusing her most intimately…)

Frankly, I’m a bit shocked by the dream – the scenario of compliant housewife abused by husband not being top of my usual kinky lists. But… why am I thinking of vintage clothes shops selling period dresses?

And then there was the girl who’d been caught stealing a sweet from the local shop. The policeman marched her home, and her parents agreed with his proposal – that she be sent into the garden to cut switches from the apple tree, and soundly birched by the constable – skirt lifted and knickers removed, hands on her knees in the middle of the drawing room.

Her father ordered her to her room after her punishment, with an ominous: “I’ll be up to talk to you later.” He left her alone for two hours, to contemplate; the ‘talk’ then involved a severe thrashing with his belt, for disgracing the family. Finally, the following morning she was sent to the newsagent to apologise; he took her into the back room and – after seeing how marked her backside was – caned the backs of her thighs with the rattan he kept for newspaper girls who let him down. (There may also have been other rudeness in said storeroom, but I blush to even think of where my mind wandered).

The detail in the dream was quite wonderful – of plot, characters, locations. It’s just the somewhat un-PC nature of my subconscious that rather surprises me at times…!

Back in the mid-80s (LOL before some of you were born, dear readers), I went to a play in London’s West End with my then girlfriend. “Breaking the Code” starred Derek Jacobi, and told the story of World War 2 codebreaker Alan Turing – and his subsequent persecution for his homosexuality, his prosecution and tragic suicide. Aside from being perhaps the greatest piece of acting I’ve had the good fortune to witness, the evening changed my life.

I’d not long left a boys public school, where tolerance of diversity was non-existent and homophobic language sadly all-too-common. The play rescued me, I’m sure, from the narrow prejudiced world view that had dominated my upbringing and enabled me to understand, to embrace, to celebrate differences. The evening’s one of the more memorable ones in my life. And so a visit at the weekend to the rather chaotic, ramshackle museum at Bletchley Park, where Turing worked, was truly special; seeing his office – preserved as it was in the war – was really a very moving moment.

And then, of course, there were girls to spank. Yes, friends, even in a trip that resonated so very deeply on a personal level, I managed to spank girls around the site and (memorably) behind the bike shed, make them lift their skirts for a photo under a tree outside some of the wartime huts, and come up with numerous mental takes on how the ‘Bletchley girls’ would have been punished during the war.

In an era in which ‘careless talk cost lives’, young ladies overheard discussing anything of their work in the local village would, surely, have been punished most thoroughly. I pictured two such, taken before the site’s Commanding Officer. He’d listen carefully to what had happened, then lecture them so gravely on the importance of security and his disappointment in them that they’d be in tears even before he pronounced sentence: “Take them to the Military Police, and have them both birched.”

My Sunday finished in even better style, with a lovely scene with Eliane (who’d arranged the day out). Anne, a maid who’d been caught frolicking with one of the stable hands, was brought before the butler. The result? To her considerable embarrassment, she was stripped and made to explain what the boy had done to her, before being tied down and whipped most soundly. It was such great play – pushing her hard, and leaving her looking so beautiful with vivid marks across her backside, thighs and back. A perfect end to a pretty perfect day, really.