The Spanking Writers

Any of you know what an ‘odalisque’ is? I confess that I had to look it up when I encountered a blog entitled ‘Not an Odalisque’ recently – drawn to it by a post in which the author took in inspiration from a meeting with our dear friend HH (himself author of the excellent “The Art of Corporal Punishment”). It’s the final feature in our week of our favourite posts from other blogs:

It got me wondering why I don’t blog about kink… Kinksters aren’t a poor, oppressed group, but they aren’t exactly accepted, either. I don’t just mean the tabloid treatment of Max Mosley or the “dungeon” owners in Devon. I mean the scare-mongering about causal links between violent pornography and rape. I mean the idea that a woman doesn’t have the agency to choose to be submissive. I mean the worry I feel that I may lose credibility if I tell you too much about myself.

That’s one reason I haven’t gone into detail about my kink, but it’s also a reason why I should. The problem is that I don’t have a final answer on what my kink is. Sexuality is infinitely malleable, and finding a vocabulary to write about it may change it. The fetish community displays a striking uniformity of bizarre tastes….

Does it sound like I’m making excuses? I suspect that I am. I don’t want to tell you about my kink because I’m haunted by everyone who ever disapproved. The ex-boyfriend who dug for evidence of buried childhood trauma. The ex-boyfriend who thought it was an all-access pass. The confused vanilla friends. They combine into an angel on my shoulder telling me that if only I were to stop wanting kinky things, I could be good and pure and loveable, citizen of a lemon-scented world and creator of incredibly fluffy cakes.

That angel is nothing, however, in comparison to the fear that feminists inspire. You see, I know that when the things I fantasise about happen, they really aren’t fun… Every time I see a kinkster talk about his “natural dominance” or “a woman’s place” I feel as if I’ve committed an act of violence against feminism.

One final worry: I secretly snigger at other people’s kinks. Sometimes they make me feel vaguely ill. You might, too.

Were those good enough reasons? No, I didn’t think so. So I’m going to try to tell you about my kink…

I like to be in somebody’s power. I like to feel that there’s no way out, no way to re-establish my own will, and my only option is to do as I’m told. That’s not enough, though, otherwise I would enjoy getting stuck in traffic jams. I like to be valued. I rather like being rewarded when I’m good: instant justice from an immediate authority. Even being disapproved of, or punished, is proof that somebody cares. And—oh!—I like to be punished. I like it even when it’s not fair. Maybe especially when it’s not fair. And when, unfairly, my protestations that it’s not fair have been silenced on pain of even more punishment…

I want more than a beating, of course. It’s all the parts. It’s when I can’t meet someone’s eye in case he sees what I’m thinking. It’s his slow, deliberate movements, when I’m almost trembling but he’s in no rush. It’s wondering what he’s going to do with his belt as he takes it off. Blushing. Squirming. Being held down by someone’s weight. It’s gasping for air. It’s clinging on to him for dear life afterwards. It’s thumbprints around my wrists in the morning and bruises I didn’t know I had…

So, there you have it, as coherent an account of my kink as I am able to give. You’d better tell me whether or not you want to hear more. I’ll try my very best to do as I’m told.

For any of you wondering, BTW, an odalisque “was a female slave in an Ottoman seraglio”. And IMHO any blog as well-written as this is well worth following.

We hope you’ve enjoyed this little annual selection of other authors’ and illustrators’ work. Hopefully it’s introduced a few readers to a few sites they may not have known before – and, at the least, it’s recognised some of the folks whose work we enjoy.

Continuing our summer series of things we’ve loved in recent months on other blogs, we just had to feature this illustration by Tito Garelli, which appeared at Arte BDSM:

And then what about this, at “Beauty and the Birch”, entitled “The Birching Tower” (a rather different version to the one that Cath gave me last Christmas):

Sometimes the blogosphere can be a serious place. So here are a couple of posts from oft-kinky blogs – although not on kinky topics – that have made us laugh, as part of our week featuring posts we’ve loved on others’ blogs. The first comes from the wonderful, prolific Gloria Brame:

And then Celine wrote this gorgeous little item on her blog, Red Bottomed Girl:

This is off topic.  Sorry, but if I’m going to die of embarrassment, I’m not going to die alone…

This morning my dentist casually commented that I have a sensitive gag reflex.  Without thinking at ALL, I immediately responded, “I know, right!  It’s such a pain!  It drives my boyfriend nuts!”  

There was an uncomfortably looooooooong silence.  I was totally oblivious (it was early, I wasn’t completely awake) until the dentist got the pervy giggles, like a thirteen year old boy.  “No, I mean..” I trailed off, turning a deep shade of scarlet.  I meant that sometimes my gag reflex acts up when I’m brushing my teeth or eating something with a spoon, but it happens randomly and it’s unpredictability drives [my partner] bonkers.  That’s all…

I hate boys.  They’re all perverts, the lot of them. *pout*

Here’s a very recent post, which crept into our “best of” selection almost at the last minute. It’s a story by Janice, of “Strange Imagination” – of which the following should give you a taste:

It was not a long way from the dungeons of the City Hall to the scaffold in the square. The guards were smiling when they collected me. ‘Quite a crowd, lass…”

They secured my hands behind my back and didn’t care much as I gasped when the ropes hurt me. My dress was flimsy as it was and with my hands behind my back I could do nothing to prevent it from sliding off my shoulder. The guards looked at me and thought I was presentable.

I walked on trembling legs and as the door opened and I met the mob, my heart began trembling as well. The excitement and the cheer that greeted me almost encouraged me, almost made me as excited as they were.

The strong guards protected me as we made our way through the crowd. I hesitated at the stair to the scaffold but was pushed onto the stage…I could do nothing but stand there, bound and look out over the multitude of faces. Should I keep my head high and antagonise them, or should I bow my head and be humble? Neither alternative changed what was going to happen.

Then the crowd broke out in a frenzy. They were taken by their own madness, shouting and cheering and staring. I turned my head and saw what had sparked them. I saw him.

He was the real performer, the one they had come for. He was the master and artist. They had come to see him work. They had not come for me. I was the clay he would work on, I was a tool for his skill. I was the one to be mastered by him…

He made a gesture and the guards pushed me forward. I was stood before the crowd, at the edge of the scaffold, alone with the crowd.

I stood in silence, staring in awe at them. I was waiting, the crowd was waiting. I didn’t see the gesture, I felt it. The crowd felt it. The guards took hold of my flimsy garment and tore at it. I gasped as I almost lost balance and fell. The fabric was torn from my body to the cheering and cries of the crowd…

The guards pulled me away from the edge of the platform and pushed me towards the sturdy pole set in the middle… The ropes around my wrists were loosened and my hands were pulled forward, one on each side of the wooden post. My wrists were retied in front and to a rope that ran through a hoop at the top of the pole. Strong arms pulled at the rope and my hands were hoisted in the air.

I cried out in pain as my hands were pulled upwards. I could hardly breathe as I was lifted from the floor, only my toes in contact with the wood. When they were done, I was almost hanging from my bound wrists, my body tense and pressed to the unforgiving whipping post.

I was prepared. I had been made ready for the whip. Now it was time for the entertainment..

.. which we’ll leave for you to enjoy across at Janice’s blog!

OK, so while we’re breaking our usual no- illustration rule on The Spanking Writers, during our week of highlights we’ve selected from other blogs, how about this from Waldo Blog – part of a post on the techniques he uses to create spanking graphics:

And here’s another sketch we loved, posted by Isabelle183 at “Autour de la fessee”:

We don’t often feature illustrations here – this site having been conceived as a literary spanking blog. But we thought we’d permit ourselves a few pictures as part of our summer series – not photos per se, but other graphics that have appealed. First up, a rather delightful image from “Au Fils des Jours”, a lovely French blog:

The same blog also featured a painting by artist Henry Raleigh (1880-1944).Whilst not in itself kinky, it’s not difficult to imagine that a scolding is taking place now that the gentleman has tracked down the young lady to whom he is speaking:

We might as well share another picture by Raleigh whilst we’re about it, from an entirely vanilla site:

Our imagined back-story? The young lady’s lawyer has taken her discreetly to one side at a soiree, and informed her that the result of her appeal came through that afternoon. “Sadly, my dear, they upheld your conviction and sentence. You are to report to the police station on Tuesday at three, to receive your birching…”

Back in 2007, we launched our “Best of the kinky rest” selection – and it’s with great pleasure that we welcome you to the fourth year of the series. The format’s fairly simple – each day for a week or so every August, we share not only our own contribution for the day (as usual), but also a second post featuring an excerpt from another blog entry (or entries) that we’ve particularly loved.

Rules of the game? Well, we’ve tried to select posts from bloggers who don’t often contribute to the comments here at The Spanking Writers, and whom we don’t know personally. It would be easy to fill a week with posts by our friends here, amongst whose number are many of the very best spanking bloggers – but our assumption is that most of you already read each other’s sites.

So in this particular series, we’ve aimed to link to things you might not have seen previously, or to sites to which we’ve not previously linked, from writers we don’t know in person. Most of the shortlisting was done by me [Abel]; Haron’s vetted, assessed, endorsed the entries we’ve chosen to include.

Anyway, here goes with entry number 1 – extracted from a recent post from Bonnie-jo at her “Life of a College Spanko” site, entitled “Good Girl or Bad Girl?”:

I’ve always been the good girl.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my moments of mischief. But those were moments I could count on one hand.

Teachers counted on me to watch the class when I was gone. My parents left me in charge. Other kids parents trusted me. But I remember the class clowns, the bad kids, the kids with “behavior problems”. They received the attention, and not just the teacher’s attention, but they held their place securely as the class’ main entertainment. And they held my secret wish to be like them.

I remember wishing that my parents did not love me. Their love forced me, I felt, to be good, to not disappoint. My parents had this special way of looking at me and my brothers with sad eyes and a long sigh, “I’m very disappointed in you,” they’d say. They didn’t say it much. I made sure of that.

Well, needless to say, you can’t live your life for someone else forever…. So I finally failed to an extent. I dated a guy they didn’t approve of and lived with him. It was a good start on the road to being bad…

Yes, it’s fun to brat and annoy a top. It’s fun to see what he will do, to see his tolerance level and response. But what about letting someone down? What about when I hear, “I’m disappointed in you, Bonnie-jo.” What about when I have to confess the darkness inside of me? It hurts. It doesn’t hurt as much as a spanking, but it lasts much longer, potentially a life time…

To me, a spanking equals acceptance, love, caring.  I get high on this. I am comforted by this. So no, I’m not a good girl yearning to be bad. At least that’s not the complete picture.

I’m a good girl and a bad girl. And when I’m bad, I am spanked. So that I can be a good girl again.

P.S. But I still like being bad….at least for a couple seconds. Don’t we all?

I had the pleasure of meeting the lovely Nicky Montford recently, when I went to meet Emma Jane at the end of the amazing judicial scene that’s been much-discussed lately. Nicky’s just launched her own blog, called Thursday’s Child – after a children’s book by Noel Streatfield set in a strict orphanage.

Amongst her excellent early posts is one offering her perspectives of those judicial birchings. In it, she made an interesting reference as she described how pleas that “corporal punishment by the court was contrary to the 1820 Whipping of Female Offenders Abolition Act” fell on deaf ears.

Now *that* is piece of legislation that begs to be Googled. Lo and behold, Hansard – the official UK parliamentary record – comes up trumps with details of the original debate in the House of Commons from 29 June 1820:

FEMALE OFFENDERS WHIPPING BILL.

Mr. Chetwynd rose to move for leave to bring in a bill to abolish the punishment of Whipping Female Offenders in any case whatever. The House was aware, that by an act of the year 1817, the system of public whipping of females had been wholly exploded; but he was surprised that the private whipping of females had been by that measure permitted to continue, looking on it as he did as objectionable, or even more objectionable than the other.

It might be said, in defence of its continuance, that it was necessary for the sake of example; but, on the other hand, as the infliction of the punishment was private, it was in the power of the gaoler or other superintendant to render it the most excruciating torture possible, or a mere matter of form; and this alone he thought a decided objection to it.

With respect to the public whipping of females, he was of opinion that no exhibition could be more revolting to the feelings. The act to which he had alluded only abolished the punishment of the public whipping of females; but if the House would agree with him, they would go much further. His intention was to move for leave to bring in a bill to repeal that act, and substitute other provisions for the more effectual prevention of the whipping of females; and the object of it would be to prohibit that practice, not only in the cases already provided for, but in workhouses, houses of correction, lunatic asylums, and other places for the reception of lunatics.

If, therefore, the House should be of opinion that it should in no case be permitted, he should humbly move for leave to bring in a bill to abolish the punishment of whipping female offenders in any case whatever.

Leave was given, and the bill was brought in and read a first time.

I confess to being slightly disappointed that the motion appears to have passed unopposed. Where were the advocates of flogging, with their lurid tales of whippings galore? Could punished girls not have recounted their experiences before some committee or other? Might options not have been explored (“I agree that the lash is too severe – but the cane might be deployed to good effect instead” – “Hear, hear; jolly good, sir!”).

Still, I have marked a date in my diary – for 29 June 2020 isn’t all that far away. What are we all going to do to mark the bicentenary of the debate? Surely the simultaneous recreation of countless private floggings in houses of correction must be called for?

Not everything in the spanking scene is clear-cut, and I enjoy the chance to explore issues here. One’s been troubling me lately, and I’m genuinely interested in perspectives either way.

Haron disappeared off the other morning for a picnic with Emma Jane and other close friends; from all accounts, they had a truly lovely, relaxed time. I wasn’t free, as it happens, due to family commitments. But even if I had been, I wouldn’t have been able to go – as this was a “girls’ only” event. Then, a few days later, a dear friend tweeted about goings-on at the “under 35” munch in London. I haven’t qualified for that for a fair few years now.

I fully understand and respect the right of people arranging events to select who they invite to attend, of course. And I totally appreciate that there are times when folks want to associate with “their own type”. I don’t personally ever feel the need to spend time with exclusively-male groups, but I understand from the ‘girls’ that there’s a different, lovely dynamic when they’re left to their own devices. I’d guess that some younger folks are more comfortable going to parties knowing that their fellow attendees are roughly the same age, minus old pervs like me. Indeed, it could probably be argued that such events may help people to “out” themselves into the scene – it’s presumably easier to do so if you know you’d be surrounded by similar folks.

So I can absolutely see why this sort of event takes place, and I love to hear about people having a good time. I certainly wouldn’t want to deprive them of their fun, and guess I may be being over-sensitive. But I do worry about the principle, and that this is the thin end of a very dangerous wedge – for surely those of us in the kink community, as much as or perhaps more than anyone, should be vocal about any form of discrimination. If gender and age are a reasonable basis for including or excluding people from invitations, how can we object to folks who might wish to judge others on the grounds of (dis)ability, race, sexual orientation, kinky preferences…?

I’d really welcome comments on this – either way!

As some of you will have read in a wonderful, powerful post yesterday on her blog, Emma Jane received the most remarkable flogging at the weekend during a judicial scene. The experience was quite fascinating and unusual for me, too: whilst my girlfriends play regularly with other people (as do I), there was something about the formality and severity of this scene that made it feel rather different.

Usually, I’d be more than happy knowing that either of my lovely girlfriends, Emma Jane or Catherine (or, indeed, my darling Haron) was heading off to a scene on their own to have fun – provided that I knew that the players concerned were safe. On this occasion, whilst not wanting to get in the way or interfere, I was almost insistent that I took Emma to the rendez-vous point for the session, and stayed nearby for the several hours duration of the encounter.

Why? First and foremost, I had a feeling that she might welcome the moral support in the build-up to the scene. Whilst she was outwardly showing no signs whatsoever of nerves, I guessed these wouldn’t be far away. This was, after all, destined to be an extremely severe scene.

Practicality played a part, too – I know the area in which the scene was taking place like the back of my hand, and wanted to be sure that thinking about logistics didn’t interfere with her day.

I wanted to be close by for her at the end of the event, too – and ‘on call’ during it, in the very unlikely event that anything didn’t go to plan. (Whilst I hadn’t met all of those involved, I knew the group concerned to be extremely competent and trustworthy, so I had no real concerns – but better safe than sorry). And whilst there was a lovely plan A in place for after the event (staying for dinner and making her own way back on the train, in a potential post-scene low), I wanted her to have a fallback – knowing she could have hugs and be brought home as an option if she preferred it.

In other words – I was fussing, and feeling very (overly?) protective. There was a fine line to dance – looking after my girl, not wanting to make her feel mithered. She’s a strong, wonderful, independent woman – totally able to fend for herself, experienced at playing hard scenes. But being fussed over is sometimes a good thing, and I tried to strike the right balance.

I guess too there were echoes of a guardian (say) taking his girl to the court for her case, knowing she might be punished; that in itself was very intense. My concern about her fate – for the whipping would surely be excruciating – and the sense of powerlessness to stop her punishment combined to be really rather powerful. (And, of course, I knew that stopping her punishment was entirely not what was called for! The parallels with the ‘real world’ only go so far when the girl concerned is kinky!)

Now, I wasn’t involved in or invited to the scene itself. And, frankly, I think that was a good thing in terms of the experience for Emma Jane. Part of the daunting nature of the scene to me seemed to be that she would be going if not alone, knowing some of those there, then without some of the familiarity of scenes we’ve played together. Not having her boyfriend with her would make it less comfortable, strip away a layer of protection, make the setting more real.

So I wandered the neighbourhood whilst she was with the group – glancing at my watch, wondering if her case would have been called by the court, trying to work out whether she’d have been sentenced and whether she might, at that very moment, be braving the punishment officer’s strokes. Feeling incredibly connected to her – despite, or perhaps because, that connection could only be mental and not real for the duration.

When her text came through at the end of the scene – slightly earlier than I’d expected, so much better than had it been later – I both relaxed and jumped inwardly for joy. For she’d loved it – and (in a slight change to the advertised programme) wanted me to come over to the venue. Twenty minutes or so later I was holding her, tight, hearing her whispered description of what had happened (as others were paying nearby), looking at her marks (owwww!), holding her still tighter.

Pride at how brave she’d been increased exponentially when I saw the implements they’d used. I’ve long favoured the manx birch, and have only lately started enjoying the very different spray variety. But the sprays they’d used here seemed far bushier and heavier than mine. And their manx equivalent was made from water willow: a few taps on my hand suggested that this must have been remarkably severe.

Having met those folks in the group I didn’t know – who, like those I did, seemed lovely, safe, as I’d known they must be – as well as saying hi to old friends, we settled down, cuddling, to watch one of the other girls being whacked with that water willow. And OMG how they laid on the strokes; my admiration for Emma Jane’s bravery (and feelings of protectiveness towards her) increased still further. Actually, I’ve been wondering since how I would have reacted had I been present whilst she was being flogged: I think I’d have struggled to watch someone I love being so whacked – even though being whacked was the very purpose of the gathering.

Later that evening, we sat in the pub, and I listened to Emma Jane recounting some of the details to Haron and Catherine. It was wonderful to hear how well it had gone – better, even, than expected. To hear about the judicial process, the formality, how she’d taken each of her batches of strokes stoically and then cried afterwards. And I knew that this would be a day I’d remember – despite, or perhaps because, of not actually having been involved in the scene!