The Spanking Writers

The latest addition to my movie library features two cute models being thrashed in turn by a spanking machine. They’re tied to the whipping frame; the device is positioned behind them, to the side. At the touch of a computerised button, the machine whips the cane forwards, horizontally, across its target, then back into place ready for the next stroke. The machine adjusts the height of the strokes, little by little, leaving perfect parallel stripes across the girls’ behinds.

Haron hates the lack of a human touch, whereas I found the very dehumanising of the process to be quite fascinating. So much, so, in fact, that I’ve been picturing wider applications for the machines.

See, flogging one girl at a time seems an awfully inefficient use of prison officers’ time. I’d propose a large room, equipped to punish ten or more offenders in a session. The young women, wearing prison uniforms, would be escorted in by the officers, and made to line up. Their names would be read out in turn – once a girl was called, she’d be expected to step forward and strip, before being sent to stand behind her designated punishment station.

Once all of the girls were in place, the officers would tour the room, strapping them tightly into position. The machines would be positioned carefully, and checked. For the girls, the lengthy wait – as their fellow inmates were readied for punishment – would be filled with trepidation.

The officers would then retire to the control panel at the back of the room, and would enter details of each girl’s name and offence. The computer would check whether an offender had been flogged before. And then it would calcuate the number of strokes due in each case. Once all of the sentences had been worked out, the senior officer would type in the instruction to commence the punishments, and the machines would spring into life.

Two or three girls might feel the cut of the cane at precisely the same moment, but the strokes would be unpredictable in pattern. Caned immediately before one’s nearest neighbour, then moments after, then before, then at the same time.   Twenty seconds apart,   then forty, then ten, then three in immediate succesion. Severity varying, from very hard to the machine’s hardest.

The near-silent workings of the mechanisms – amidst the sounds of sobbing – would mean that a girl would have no way of knowing whether a particular swish would be coming her way, until the very moment of impact. And whilst she’d have a vague idea of the likely number of strokes (ten to twenty being par for the course), a girl would have no idea of the total tally calculated by the computer – and hence, after the first ten, of whether any given stroke had been her last.

(Oh. I think I’ve just scared Haron).

I just love getting emails like this a couple of weeks back, from Lazarina:

I very much enjoy your blog, and not having one of my own, I wonder if readers would be interested to know that larger Tesco ‘extra’ stores are now selling riding crops for £5? My boyfriend and I were in the ‘outdoor sports’ section looking at rucksacks, but were quickly diverted by this kinky bargain!

Needless to say, I headed right over to our local branch, and was delighted to find that they came both in standard and “heavy duty” varieties (of which the former, being stingy, is actually the more effective):

They were found in the outdoor sports department, it being a shade too early for their “Back to school” range (which presumably would be more canes and plimsolls anyway, with locally-sourced tawses in their Scottish stores). Perhaps they’re testing the market prior to the introduction of their new “Household discipline” department?

We nonchalantly left our crops in the midst of our other shopping for the check-out lady to scan, sure that she wouldn’t suspect a thing. And only then did I realise that my Tesco loyalty card is on my keyring, which just happens to be attached to a mini cat-o’-nine-tails.

Still, it could have been worse – Lazarina opted to buy hers at the ever-so-discreet self-service checkout, only to find that the display mounted high above the scanner “broadcasts one’s purchases to all and sundry in a large, easily-detectable font”!

We went for a stroll in a small Cotswalds town, and walked past a window of an antique shop. And what did we find in the window but this interesting instrument:

I thought it was a walking cane, but Abel pointed out that the shop label actually called it a riding whip. This made it a lot more attractive. Although the stick’s thickness intimidated me at the first glance, Abel pointed out that it tapered towards the end, and so wasn’t that bad. And anyway, it was a very pretty whip, sold freely in an antique shop, and quite cheaply, too. We decided to buy it.

The shop woman offered to wrap it up for us. She struggled to find a piece of paper that contained its full knobbly length, but in the end wrestled it into a suitable cocoon. “Don’t worry about wrapping it too well,” said Abel.

“Oh, no,” said the woman. “I suppose, you’ll want to unwrap it and use it soon enough.”

She couldn’t know how right she was.

We devised a little scenario to help us try out the whip: I was a girl who knew her father wouldn’t like her school report, and so hid it from him when it arrived in the post. Little did I know, the school had actually sent him a copy at work, too.

I decided that the best position to try the whip would be to lie on the bed with some pillows underneath my hips, so I arranged myself with my bottom bared before Abel could get any say in it. He was a good sport, and when he found me lying thus, he launched straight into a short lecture, accentuated by a hand-spanking. This was painful in itself, but I could hardly concentrate on it, knowing that the whip was to come.

I was to get three strokes, which I thought was sensible for a first run of a new toy. And here’s a surprise: I burned like a hot poker. One stroke was bad, the second was harder and more agonising, and the third was worse of all. And Abel didn’t even use very much force. I was glad he didn’t go for a full half-dozen.

In the end, I decided that this was probably a decorative implement as far as I was concerned: I much prefer toys light enough to let me relax into the punishment and get more strokes, to the ones that get the whole scene over with in five seconds flat. It’s pretty, though. I’m glad we have it. And I’m sure we’ll have guests whose pain tolerance allows them to enjoy its many knots and ridges.

We went to a county show the other week. Mainly to shop and eat, though I did enjoy looking at the horses. Abel had hoped for a new riding crop, but the crops on offer were either wimpy, or pink, or both.

(Though we did rather like the saddle-fitter’s stall, and had some thoughts on how the display could be utilised):

Anyway, we gave up on the riding crop idea and lazily browsed the usual variety of country show stalls, when Abel spotted a duster: not feather, but lambswool, soft and rather nice-looking. He claimed we needed it to deal with the cobwebs:

So we got it home, and next thing I knew, I was being swatted with the stick end, while Abel used the nice furry dusting part as a grip. It looks thin and harmless, but my goodness, does it ever sting. I’ll be quite happy if I never get smacked with it again.

However, if you turn it around, the soft part is quite nice for soothing the hurt. Whoever made this implement, is a total pervert, I’m telling you. To sell something like this at a county fair, no less!

A short while ago our reader (who may name himself in the comments if he wants to) has offered to build us a whipping bench. You just don’t say no to such an offer, even if ultimately it’s going to bring much pain and sorrow.

The bench has arrived recently, and it’s a rather brilliant, if evil, piece of equipment.

The most awesome thing about it is that it’s made to measure to fit me. Obviously, others can go over it – and will, I’m sure! – but it’s built to accommodate the lines of my body. That just rocks: comfort is very important when you’re in pain, you see.

Also, you can store it in bits when natural disasters (like parents) descend, and then easily put it together again.

The only downside is that having the bench naturally promotes whippings, and I’m just not sure it’s a good thing. *rubs bottom in contemplation*

We wandered into a kitchen gadget shop a few days ago, and Abel zeroed in on this item:

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“What do you think it’s for?” Abel answered, discreetly testing the thing against his palm.

No, no. I’m perfectly aware that any wooden board with a handle is a ready-made paddle. But what is it for originally? I assume they’re not selling it in the cookshop because it’s a spanking implement?

Anyway, we brought the paddle home and tested it with a few reasonable smacks as I bent forward with my hands on the wall. It’s quite pleasant, in that ouchie kind of way.

I still have no idea what it was originally.

Yesterday’s Times featured a wonderful little item entitled, “Have a free tree”:

“The European Commission will give 5,000 young Europeans trees to plant before the Copenhagen climate change summit in December.

Anyone aged 14 – 29 from ten EU states, including Britain, can go to clickatree.europa.eu for a free sapling.”

So here’s the plan: let’s subvert the initiative for kinky purposes. I reckon all of you who qualify should click on the link and order your tree, thus securing a free supply of switches for future spankings!

Do post a comment here once your sapling is on order! And pass on news of our campaign to your kinky friends, by email and on your blogs: after all, we need to recruit 5,000 pervy people to take over their whole stock…

Emma has been lamenting the lack of attention her knickers get when she’s being spanked – a sentiment I completely share:

Knickers are far too often whisked down without so much as grudging compliment or a lingering rub of soft lace or delicate silk. Even cheeky messages on such knickers, agonisingly chosen for their needling ability are mostly ignored. And poor knickers spend most of the time around knees or even worse hanging off feet. It’s really no way to treat such beautiful and sexy items…

So to combat this knicker vendetta from toppy types I’m suggesting a sleepover for all my kinky girly friends where we’ll just sit around in our yummy knickers and bras and such and admire each other all night. We’ll even try out the most suitable bending over angles that show of said knickers to best advantage. And it goes without saying there’ll be unlimited changing of knickers with various hands helping in the removal and adjustment of such. There might even be an occasional gentle pat on the bottom, over knickers of course.

That sounds like the very image of heaven, actually.

It makes a huge difference during a spanking to have some warm-up over the knickers. Not because it hurts any less (seriously, a flimsy piece of cotton isn’t going to protect me much). I’m not sure why, actually.

Perhaps, because it signals the seriousness of intent: we’re settled here for a while, you’re not going anywhere, young lady. This is just the beginning for you.

Or perhaps, because it adds another stage to the embarrassing act of exposure: I don’t just bare my bottom in one brave yank on my jeans and knickers together, but have to undress in stages.

Perhaps, instead of a play party, a political party is in order: Respect the Knickers, or something like that.

A few weeks ago we went into a gift shop in a country house we visited, and happened upon an implement we hadn’t heretofore owned: a planting ruler. This being a 40 inch thick ruler, with holes and also with notes on how far apart different types of seeds need to be planted.

Ow, it looked painful. Of course we bought it.

Abel now amuses himself by translating the numbers on the ruler into slang for the numbers of strokes in a punishment. “Beetroot” for 4, “Lettuce” for 8, and so on. “It’s the parsnips for you today, young lady!”

Despite all the simple rustic hilarity, the ruler actually feels quite nice.

Last Tuesday’s Guardian carried a poignant little story about the owner of The Shambles, a small museum of Victorian life in Gloucestershire, which is closing. “The entire collection… has been split into 2,300 lots and is up for grabs.” The auctioneer “was amazed by the number of items in the collection”.

Lot 665, then, ladies and gentlemen. “A collection of school memorabilia, comprising registers, reports, punishment books, desks, uniforms, canes and tawses.”

Or how about this. “Contents of the punishment room in the museum’s police station. Birching frame, birches, cat o’nine tails, handcuffs, register of punishments administered.”

I wish…

The newspaper made the actual list of items sound rather more mundane – stuffed guinea pigs, a double bass, boxes of Victorian soap. But a closer inspection of the auctioneer’s website reveals a few gems that might be worth a bid for those of you not too impoverished by the credit crunch.

I’d like four young ladies to join me on a trip to the auction house this week. I’ll need you to bend over this, next to one another, skirts lifted and knickers down:

I’ll then deal with you in an authentic Victorian manner:

And if any of you dares to misbehave, it’ll be off to the police station with you:

PS as so often, our dear friend Pandora was thinking along similar lines – her lovely post about the same news item is here if you’re interested!