The Spanking Writers

Earlier in the year, with much helpful encouragement, I went on a diet and exercise regime. The results were rather successful. In the past few months, however, I’ve slacked somewhat, for various reasons. (Some might note the word ‘reasons’ here, and translate it as ‘excuses’. You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment!).

We were discussing this the other evening, and I noted that this was precisely the sort of area in which some people find a disciplinary regime to be of use. Before long, the suggestion was made that Emma Jane could be my whipping girl – punished were I to breach the rules I set for myself once more on food and fitness.

However, we hit on a very obvious problem – aside from the impracticality of any such plan: that, as EJ rightly pointed out, I’d not be able to bear it were she to actually have to be beaten on my behalf. I can watch her take the hardest thrashings; I can whack her (in the right circumstances) harder than anyone else. Yet were I to have to watch her being dealt with for me… No, I just couldn’t. it’d be unbearable.

Now, there are some who’d say that that means that the whole scenario would be absolutely perfect: it’d absolutely guarantee my good conduct. So I fully intend to corrupt it somewhat – my entirely imaginary whipping girl being deployed to keep me focused and to help me to motivate myself once again…

Interestingly, it made me think of princesses in days gone by. I’d never previously have imagined that such a young lady would be in the least worried were her whipping girl to have had to take a punishment. Now, it rather makes me smile to think how upset she’d actually be, and how she’d want to make it up to her after the event.

Back in 1859, Charles Dickens began publication of his own weekly literary magazine, “All the Year Round”, having fallen out with his former publisher. It continued for more than three decades, and featured the first appearance – in serialised form – of various notable novels, by Dickens himself and other novelists such as Wilkie Collins.

Perhaps of more immediate interest, though, is the issue of 4 August 1860, which featured an article entitled “The Whip”. I’ve transcribed a few of the more salacious snippets, as I thought they might entertain those amongst you who enjoy the occasional little history lesson:

Roman ladies were particularly cruel to their slaves. The poor girls in attendance… sometimes filled the whole house with their cries…

Young Roman libertines often chose the disguise of a slave’s dress for their love adventure. Rich people kept so great a crowd of slaves, that they did not know them all personally, and thus the introduction into houses was made easy. Sometimes, however, the master of the house got a hint… and the intruder was flogged as a runaway slave, or spy. Such an occurrence gave particular delight to the real slaves…

Caligula used the whip with his own hand, and on the spot; even upon people who, by talking too loudly at the theatre, spoilt his enjoyment of the players. He did not much care who the offender was…

The vestal Urbinia was whipped by a priest, and led in procession through the streets. Other vestals, we are told, had been whipped for the same offence. The guilty one, covered over with a thin veil, was whipped by a priest in a dark room…

Elizabeth, daughter of King Andreas II of Hungary, suffered much from the severity of her confessor, Conrad of Marburg. He was suspected of being the lover of the princess, and when one of her friends, Schenk von Argula, hinted at this rumour, she folded back a part of her dress, saying: “You may see the kind of love this holy man bears to me, and I to him.” Her skin was torn and bleeding from a severe whipping she had just had for a trifling disobedience…

At the courts, even ladies of honour were beaten. Catherine de Medicis, Queen of Frances, not seldom laid her ladies over her knees, to punish them with her own hands. At the Russian court the ladies of honour, down to a very recent time, suffered the rod for gossiping or over-freedom. The Semiramis of the North was very free with this kind of punishment, and thought probably not much of it, for it is reported that she sometimes got a horsewhipping herself from her favourite Potemkin.

Paul the First was also very free with the stick, even upon ladies. The wife of a rich hotel-keeper, named Remuth, having neglected to leave her carriage to kneel down when meeting the emperor in the street, was carried off to the house of correction, and then beaten with rods three days consecutively.

The Empress Elisabeth of Russia, jealous of the beautiful wife of the Chancellor Bestuschen, ordered the knout to be given to her in public…

OK, any takers for a spot of historical re-creation…?

Last weekend, I was lucky enough to be a guest at the latest of Lord Fawcett’s wonderful annual house parties. As ever, I invented a new character for the weekend-long roleplay:

Sir Abel Sheraton’s textile mills dot the landscape of Lancashire. Since taking the helm from his father – and assuming his baronetcy – the operation has grown considerably in size, and is now reportedly the largest such in the country.

Despite his use of the latest technology, such as Cartwright’s power loom and Johnson’s dressing frame, the mills continue to employ many thousands of women and children. Indeed, Sir Abel was an influential figure on the committee that set up the Factories Act in 1802, fighting hard for the rights of employers.

His home life, however, is far away from the strict and harsh conditions of the northern mills, which he visits rarely. His fine Oxfordshire seat is recognised for its parties and its wine cellar, as well as his collection of unusual books from the continent.

His recent marriage to the younger sister of the Earl of Pembroke took many by surprise, perhaps including his new bride herself, given their not-inconsiderable age difference. Sir Abel takes great delight in showing off the beauty of his youthful new spouse, and radiates pride from the attention that she is invariably shown by all around. Yet it is rumoured that, behind closed doors, he is just as strict with her as her governess was back at Pemberly before their wedding.

Sir Abel and Lord Fawcett have met at a number of events in recent years, but an invitation to a Fawcett Hall house party came a something of a surprise. No doubt his Lordship is interested in learning more of the textile industry, as well as making the close acquaintance of the young Lady Georgiana.

To stay in character pretty much non-stop for 48 hours is a remarkable experience – especially when surrounded by such beautiful ladies, looked after by a wonderful chef and hard-working staff, and in the company of a group of gentlemen whom I like and respect immensely. The event’s a tribute to the organisational skills of the Archduchess, whose passion for creating such an amazingly authentic and detailed experience – and ensuring its smooth running – never ceases to amaze me.

Aside from the great company, there was some lovely play over the weekend. Lady Georgiana received a sound six of the best before dinner on Saturday evening; I loved teaching Miss Bennett lessons in how to behave in company and on the need to focus on finding a good husband. And gambling with two of the gentlemen as to whether the ladies for whom they were ‘champions’ could take twelve full-strength strokes of the cane without crying led to two very intense scenes. (One honourable draw, if you’re wondering, with victory for the other young lady – who then broke when I gave her another six straight afterwards).

Such a great weekend. So many thanks to all who were there, and especially to our two wonderful hosts.

What, I wonder, if the master’s door is ‘always open’ to the girls in his care? If they know they can turn to him at any moment for help and support? If they do so, frequently, valuing his kindness and sage perspectives on whatever might be bothering them. If they rush equally to tell him of their successes, however small – in which he takes such great delight.

And what if the only time he ever shuts the door is on those very rare occasions when he has no choice but to punish a girl? Never the cane, although that’s within his sanction: always the slipper, always on the bare – hard; painful; shaming, yet followed by kind and caring hugs.

I picture two girls, called to see him, dreading the worst. They stand in the corridor outside his study, waiting for him to arrive.

He tells them he’ll see them separately; ushers the first in; closes the door firmly behind him…

In my very early days as contributor to the old soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup, I posted an item in which I described a girl’s caning from her housemaster as a ‘beating’.

Cue anguished objections from a prominent, esteemed member of the group: “How dare you use that objectionable word?” Duly and firmly put in my place, yet surprised at the hostile reaction to a term I feel comfortable with in a kinky context, I very nearly disappeared back into lurkdom – but decided not to be, ahem, beaten by their wrath.

I then duly avoided the word for years. Girls could be punished, chastised, disciplined, thrashed, flogged, whipped, caned, strapped, tawsed – or could meet a fair few other fates that I’ve doubles conjured up for them in the interests of linguistic variety. But they were never, ever beaten.

I reclaimed the word a couple of years ago. I suspect it was Emma Jane’s comfortable use of the word gave me confidence that it was acceptable to use – that I wasn’t committing some heinous sin against sensitive spanko souls. And no-one’s objected since.

But it struck me recently to wonder: is it a word that significant numbers of others out there find strongly disagreeable? Or was it just one member of the newsgroup trying to force their own personal kinky likes and dislikes ahead of others’ preferences?

The concept of the good, hard-working diligent maid having to be punished for some misdemeanour whilst serving dinner in a country house has long been one of my favourite fantasies. (Indeed, it featured in one of the very first stories I wrote).

In most of the little scenarios I dream up, it’s the master of the house who punishes the girl – in front of the other guests, or in private later. And when said gentleman is younger and more dashing, the lass in question is his favourite on the staff, and the private punishment is administered in his bedchamber… well, a girl sometimes needs comforting after being disciplined.

Yet what if his lordship is too busy entertaining his guests to have the time or inclination to administer the thrashing personally? I picture him calling over the butler, and pointing to the trembling girl (who, perhaps, has dropped and broken a valuable serving dish – or spoken out of turn to one of the guests, a far more serious offence).

“I assume you’ll punish her for this?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Severely?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“Very good. Then take her away and deal with her. And do not spare her.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Oh, and bring her in later with the port. I’d like to check that you’ve done your job properly.”

He’d take her off to the butler’s pantry, lift her skirt and upend her over his knees. The merciless hand-spanking would be accompanied by scolding: “This is for the inconvenience you’ve caused me.” When he was done, he’d position her standing facing the wall. “Don’t move: I shall return after dessert has been served, and then I’ll punish you as the master requested.”

An underling would be sent out to cut birches, whilst dinner progressed. And afterwards, the girl would be brought into the kitchen in front of the assembled staff – for this would be an exemplary punishment. She would be instructed to bend over a large oak table, a footman holding each wrist whilst the butler laid on the birching, just as severely as had been mandated.

Later, she’d find herself  standing, mortified, before the gentlemen in the drawing room, as they raised her skirt and inspected her marks. But would the master of the house be satisfied with the punishment that had been inflicted, or would he determine that further chastisement was necessary…?

So, on with the blog – admittedly, no doubt, for the next few days with posts I’d written before recent events. But I’m sure kinky inspiration for fresh writing won’t wait long to return…

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I was rather amused to discover the following, from the exam paper faced by prospective school teachers in New Zealand in 1890:

So, people. Pens at the ready. Ignore questions one to three inclusive, and off you go…!

At least the candidates would have been well-prepared, had they done their revision and studied past papers – for the following had appeared in 1885, along similar lines:

That’s not an exam – that’s an entire weekend’s fun kinky discussion!

On Monday evening, whilst I was away in Paris, Haron told me that she’s decided to leave me and wants a divorce. Needless to say, I am incredibly sad.

I certainly don’t want mutual friends to feel the need to take sides. I’m sure that we’ll be amicable if we’re invited to the same gatherings in future. And I hope she finds happiness and success in her new life.

It’s the little details that are getting to me right now: it’s realising in the middle of presenting on Tuesday that I was wearing my wedding ring and that it was no longer relevant. It’s panicking yesterday when I noticed I wasn’t wearing it – momentarily fearing it lost, then panicking even more when my mind processed the real reason.

I have to try to view this as the start of a new chapter, filled with potential. There is so much that’s good in my life – starting with a lovely scene weekend ahead, set in 1811. I’m truly lucky to have friendship and love in my life. I need to find ways to embrace my new-found freedom, and put what’s happened behind me – quickly, and trying to avoid any lingering bitterness.

But for now, I feel very empty and drained: it’s been such a tough year. And I felt I owed it to readers of what was, for so long, a joint labour of love to let you know what’s happened.

To dinner one night last week in my favourite restaurant in the lovely city of Stuttgart. It’s a stylish place; the food’s good (and diet-friendly); the beer’s cold; the waitresses…

Oh my. The waitresses. Three of them, clad head-to-toe in black. All petite, pretty, dark hair tied back. I could have watched them working for hours. Indeed, since the book I’d taken to read was dreadful, I *did* watch them work for hours, and very pleasantly distracting it was too.

I felt sorry for them, too. For the chef/proprietor would make them stay behind after the last customers and the other staff had left, and ask them for their views as to how the evening had gone. “Pretty well, I think,” one would reply, until his raised eyebrows caused them to reflect more critically. The glass dropped; the wine spilled; the incorrect order; the portion of food left to go cold before it was served; the plates uncleared; the slight squabble behind the closed kitchen door.

They’d been given a warning the previous week; they’d each been punished individually, in private, before. This time, they’d learn their lesson together, more publicly.

He’d make them strip – despite their protestations that the floor-to-ceiling windows would allow passers-by a clear view. They’d be made to kneel naked next to one another on the long oak table that runs the length of the restaurant – and he’d strap them until each was in tears.

Two of them would then be allowed to dress and leave. The third – the senior one, the one to whom he was particularly close – would be made to stay behind. She’d learn an even tougher lesson about disappointing him – a further thrashing, and then other means of teaching her discipline and obedience that would make her blush deeply and avoid eye contact with him every time she walked through the restaurant doors in the days to come…

By far my favourite blog lately has been Not an Odalisque‘s. She writes beautifully – and has recently been exploring issues in a way that has repeatedly struck perceptively at the heart of many of my own scene debates and dilemmas. One such a few weeks back was about “Jealousy”, where she wrote:

Non-poly people, on learning I’m polyamorous, always want to know if I’m jealous. I say that I’m not, and receive a puzzled look, then usually a statement that they would get jealous, that they just couldn’t do it, which is strange because I’ve never invited them to. It’s a lie, of course… I do get jealous. I get horribly, irrationally jealous. I get jealous of people I hardly know. I’m jealous of friends of friends for being diverting and funny. I’m jealous of kinksters on Twitter who have more play and have better pain tolerances than I do…

Now, jealousy for me is an emotion that sits very uncomfortably with being poly. How can I be jealous, when I’m in / have been in multiple relationships? I really don’t have the right. But it can be a hard fight. Here’s what I wrote as a comment:

I’ve never been jealous of my partners. Love, trust and honesty go hand in hand – and a slightly voyeuristic streak means I’ve found the thought of them doing hot and interesting things with others to be rather exciting. And, not least, I’ve been happy for them; glad that others love them as I do; glad they’re being taken care of and enjoying themselves.

But when partners do deep things with others that they no longer do with me, even in ways that are entirely understandable (and where we’ve mutually agreed that they’re not right)? When they’re no longer partners, per se? When I fear, more than anything else, losing what share of their love and emotion I have left? Then… OMG, then, the insecurity – and hence the (shameful) jealousy – is hard to stave off.

I think I’m coming to terms with the fact that the Jealousy Demon does lurk within, driven by deep-seated fears of rejection and loneliness. In good times, it’s easy to keep at bay – hence my previous avowed denials. But when emotions are more confused and in tougher times, the battle’s more difficult to win. Perhaps, it’s easier for me to genuinely not be jealous by acknowledging that deep-down I sometimes can’t actually help it.