The Spanking Writers

I’ve been studying this afternoon. Not the work documents I should have been reading, you understand, but the 54 pages of Mr Justice Eady’s Judgment in the Max Mosley vs. News of the World case. This is an important case for the spanko community – the consequences had the judge ruled that Mosley was an evil pervert, and that the press should have the right to “out” as many participants in S&M activities as possible, would have been just too scary.

But Mr Justice Eady ruled for Mosley, awarding him £60,000 in damages. The Judgment is wonderful stuff – written with real panache. I’m sure other blogs will dissect the document in great detail in the coming days, and I’m no lawyer. However, I thought I’d share a few choice paragraphs that caught my eye in case you’ve not yet had the time – or don’t have the inclination - to read the whole thing. I’ve highlighted a few of my favourite lines towards the end in bold.

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A kinky friend’s introducing me to another of her pervy acquaintances one evening next week. It was only logical that we should arrange to meet in Coffee, Cake and Kink.

What I didn’t realise when we agreed our plan for the evening would that this would prove to be my last visit to CCK. They’ve been locked in a battle with their landlords for the past two years, and finally announced yesterday that they’ll soon be closing the doors of their café and gallery.

The wonderful team at CCK have touched the lives of so many in the scene over the past few years. They created a wonderful space which became a natural focal point for those with kinky leanings, and their friendly welcomes have helped so many to feel at ease with their preferences. (”Hey, we can’t be that odd if there’s a café for people like us – filled with all of these nice folks”).

And now we’ve lost our safe haven: London life will be much the poorer without them. I mourn their passing, and know already that future walks down Endell Street will be bitter-sweet – smiling at the memories of so many wonderful visits with cuddles enjoyed, confidences shared, inspiration found - whilst wishing they were still there.

The CCK team will still be online, though, and hope that the café may be back in the future:

Whether or not Coffee, Cake & Kink comes back as a social space depends largely on the success of the online shop, and how well we are able to demonstrate that the loss of the premises has not diminished your faith in us. So far you have voted with your feet, now you can vote with your mouse! With every order placed online, a deposit for new premises builds up and our customers show that they want us back.

I’ll be heading over to www.coffeecakeandkink.com once I’ve finished writing, to find something to order as a gesture of support. I’d urge you, if you can possibly summon up the spare cash, to do likewise. At the very least, why not make a mental note that if you’re buying kinky Christmas presents later in the year, you’ll look at CCK’s site first?

But I can’t help but feel that visiting them in Endell Street next week will bring a tear to my eye – rather like writing this post just has.

To all at CCK: our love, our thanks, and our very best wishes.

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A reader, who wishes to remain anonymous, kindly sent us a piece of their writing recently. We thought you might enjoy it, so with their permission we present possibly the finest spanking poem I’ve read:

The Brush

He sat down squarely on the red settee.
The lass, amazed, was hauled across his knee,
Her heels in air, her nose against the plush,
And from her hand he plucked the antique brush
Which, while she needled him with jibes and mocks,
She had been pulling through her auburn locks.
Now, with her bottom perilously flaunted,
She wondered if she ought not to have taunted.
She thought he might be thinking to remind her
She should have put such childish spite behind her,
And as things lay she felt that her behind
Was all too likely where he would remind.
But she was much too dear for him to hurt,
And he too kind - then, oh, why did she blurt
“You wouldn’t dare!” and watch, with widening eyes,
His hand, reflected, and her hairbrush rise.

Now with his left arm firmly round her waist
He felt that he and she were better placed
To bring the spat she’d started to an end.
Her posture showed her ready to attend
While he expressed his full and frank response,
A task he thought he’d best begin at once.
Thin cotton slacks, but tauter than a drum,
Revealed each pliant contour of her bum.
With petulance she wriggled her trapped hips
And then that fateful phrase escaped her lips.
He sensed a thrill, a tremor down her back;
Her bottom winced beneath the pending smack.

“All right, my girl,” he said, “enough’s enough.
Or did you think I wouldn’t call your bluff?
You little minx, it’s time you were controlled.
I told you plainly once, you’re not too old
To spank, like daddy should have done before.
And no brat ever needed spanking more.”
(Too true: the strap or rod that should have taught her
Had never striped the misbehaving daughter;
The spoiled young princess never touched her toes
To have her pert bum printed shades of rose.)
“Your time has come, young lady, and now you’re - ”
And down he brought the hairbrush, hard and sure -
“About to get the paddling you deserve - ”
And down against the other gorgeous curve.

(How sweetly were her smooth and tender flanks
Upraised for him, to be adored with spanks…)

The swift effects of ten such sounding whacks
Against the tight, light fabric of her slacks -
Her bucking buttocks and her kicking heels,
Her cries of “No!” and piercing, outraged squeals -
Sent rays of warming gladness to his heart
(For her, a different warmth, another part),
Confirming that his instinct wasn’t wrong
To give what she’d been asking for so long.

So back to work. He dextrously undid
Her sleek, chic pants, and down her thighs they slid.
The sheer white briefs were clearly all too brief
To lend her well-warmed roundness much relief,
But since again she blurted “Don’t you dare!”
Her pink posterior was quickly bare.

With shrinking fear, and yet with odd elation,
She knew her rear faced one fierce flagellation,
Indignities her person never knew.
Her nightmare, and her dream, was coming true:
Bent over, quite uncovered, tightly held,
She held her breath, she trembled - then she yelled.

His wooden weapon went from cheek to cheek
And each return she greeted with a shriek.
Its form was flat and stiff, hers soft and plump,
And sternly it addressed her blushing rump.
It said hot things about her fits of pique;
It made its case against her naughty cheek.
Too many times her crimes had gone uncaught:
For every crime she earned a smart report.
Too many times she’d flexed a waspish tongue:
For every word her writhing backside stung.
She gasped in anguish at the fires he lit
And fed with well-placed strokes. How would she sit
Again upon such throbbing, tingling flesh?
She cried that if he’d stop she’d start afresh,
But plead and sob and promise all she might
He plied that wicked brush with no respite.
His aim was steady and his will was firm;
Her fate was but to redden, weep and squirm.

For fully half an hour the ceiling rang
With echoes of the sorry song she sang.
For fully half an hour he took great care
Her precious seat was spanked both ripe and rare.

And here our household scene finds happy ending:
When she’s released at last from her down-bending,
One soundly punished girl, one happy chap,
And she’s sat - gingerly - upon his lap,
And one hand’s found, while in his arms she blubs,
Her buttocks’ glowing places, which she rubs,
With kisses warmer than those flaming hills
She shows appreciation of his skills,
The master’s brushwork painting for his wife
A rosy picture of their future life.

- Anon, 21st century

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We recently had the pleasure of meeting someone who comments regularly here on Spanking Writers. She turned out to be quite as delightful in real life as she is when contributing to the blog.

Delightful… and bratty, that is. So perhaps I should have known better when she texted me yesterday morning:

Please please please get today’s Daily Mail and go to page 22/23. Please? Pretty pretty please?

I responded positively, grateful for the tip and curious as to what this fabulous two-page expose could be about. A sympathetic history of kink through the ages? A celebration of some obscure disciplinary anniversary (“It was exactly a hundred years ago today that the first shipment of rattan arrived in the UK from Asia”)?

So Haron and I drove down into the local town, parked up, headed for the newsagent, bought the Daily Mail, turned excitedly to the article. Headlined…

“So are you a wrinkly yet”

… the author “takes a wry look at growing old”. The symptoms of old age apparently include “your knees buckle but your belt won’t”, “you begin every sentence with the word ‘nowadays’”, and the safe knowledge that you’d get out “in a hostage situation – they’re more likely to keep the young, pretty ones.”

Needless to say, I was decidedly unimpressed and reached for my phone, texting:

You are in *so* much trouble, young lady…

I could hear the laughter from the other end of the country:

Me? Why? Whatever for? Hehe

Now, I’m a great believer in democracy. So rather than reach straight for a cane, I thought I should consult the readers of the blog. How do you think the incident should be dealt with when we next see your badly-behaved fellow correspondent?

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While I was away, Abel went and got himself interviewed on Cherry Red Report. It’s a little feature about our book, and Dave asked some probing (oo-er!) questions about that, as well as our blogging in general:

For example,

It’s not easy to keep a blog thriving for so long–what inspires and motivates you to keep blogging….and spanking?

Keeping spanking? Well, Haron keeps misbehaving and…

How dare you? Bad husband! No curry-out-of-the-packet for you!

Anyway, I think you, dear readers, who are always nice to me, and know that I would never ever misbehave (except on days with a “y” in the name), may enjoy reading Dave’s thoughtful interview of my bad, bad husband.

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Another spanking dream last night, triggered by an exchange of emails. Most of my online friends tend to prefer the (thought or reality) of being on the receiving end of a spanking; I’ve been chatting recently to a domme who commented here recently.

It’s interesting to share experiences with another implement-wielder, and that’s what triggered the dream: I’d arranged with a domme that we’d play a scene, with Haron as our (willing) victim.

Cut to a study: Haron in school uniform. As her uncle and guardian, I sat in an armchair; she stood, in full school uniform, before the desk as the Headmistress quizzed, lectured, before turning to me. “In the circumstances, I shall be suspending her for one week. And I also believe it would be appropriate to precede her suspension with a caning.”

The regulations insisted that she sought my permission to use corporal punishment on my ward: it was granted without hesitation. My girl was made to fetch the cane from its hook in the corner of the room, to hand it to the Headmistress. To bare herself, removing her skirt and knickers. To bend over the desk. “Eight hard strokes” were announced, and proceeded to stripe their way impeccably across her naked buttocks. Eight strokes, as I watched, plus extra for the ones that made her leap up from the position she’d been instructed to hold.

Punished, tearful, she was sent to stand in the corner, hands on head, weals on display. The Headmistress recorded the details in the Punishment Book, which I counter-signed. She asked me to make sure that the week’s suspension was no vacation: that I used the time to help Haron to understand the dire consequences of further misbehaviour.

And then Haron was told to dress, and made to accompany me to the car. We drove (her still in uniform, us both still in character), until we reached home*. She was sent straight to her bedroom, to change into pyjamas and wait for me. I left her for a little while: to contemplate, before I arrived at her door. There was no need for delay: I unbuckled my belt straight away as I explained my disappointment at the way in which she had let me, and herself, down.

The belt was folded double; she bent over the end of the bed; I steered down her pyjama bottoms. And thrashed her: severely, yet lovingly. I sat on the bed next to her as she curled up under the duvet afterwards: ran my hands through her hair, re-assured, accepted her promises that she would learn from the experience. Then I walked to the door, flicked off the light, and left her alone in the room to cry.

* Amusingly, both the ’study’ and ‘home’ in the dream were rooms in the hotel I stayed in last week. The ‘drive home’ became a short trip around the block: out of the hotel car park, a mile along the road, around the roundabout and back!

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Phew! Now that’s what I call a great escape.

See, it’s Father’s Day today. So, dutifully, a week or so back I wrapped up my dad’s present. A book, just out, about one of his favourite restaurants.

Meanwhile, a close friend has just moved abroad. We bought her a leaving present, as one does. A book. Only somewhat older – a dusty volume, containing a history of corporal punishment through the ages.

I wrapped it. And now for the basic error: in the same wrapping paper as my dad’s gift. And then went to make myself a cup of tea.

It was only after popping the Father’s Day gift into the envelope, ready for my trip to the Post Office, that it occurred to me to double-check that I’d picked up the right book. There was nothing for it but to unwrap the volume - and it was a good thing that I checked. I mean, I know we know he’s fascinated by spanking, and so would have loved his surprising gift – but I doubt my mum would have approved of the illustrations in the book that he so nearly received.

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Personally, I don’t think tops need any ideas. They are too creative by half. However, the following passage from a vanilla craft blog was so cute I’ve decided to risk putting ideas into somebody’s dangerous head:

Uncle David was in high school already and he had regaled us with stories of the electric paddle kept in the principal’s office. I had visions of an electric ceiling fan-like contraption into which a child would be strapped and the beating would commence! Rachel reassured me that he was only pretending - but I still spent first grade being VERY good! I didn’t want to take any chances! Hmmm… I wonder if my boys would fall for the electric paddle story?

by Naomi, to whom I don’t link
to avoid freaking her out

Actually, I’ve just remembered that our friend Domino owns an electric fly-swat, which she calls a “sub swat”. So somebody has obviously had the idea already…

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In my previous post I wrote about a the school sending an entire Sixth Form home. As soon as I posted that, Martha sent me a link to another article that seems to show that mass punishments are en vogue these days:

Head suspends 74 over computer game

A headmaster with a “zero-tolerance policy” for rule-breaking has suspended 74 children for a day after they downloaded a computer game. David Hampson, 57, who has been head of the 2,050-pupil Tollbar Business and Enterprise College in Grimsby, Lincolnshire, for 18 years, began the purge after a pupil installed the game on the school system. By the time it was detected by monitoring systems, dozens of children had copied it. The school was praised this year by Ofsted as “outstanding”. Mr Hampson, who has banned mobile phones, said that strong discipline was a critical factor.

- The Times, 14 May 2008

Very nice of the Headmaster to give the 74 people who now have the game some time off so that they can play it. I bet, they feel so chastened now…

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Gerrard sent us this YouTube link, about the singer Carly Simon’s interesting cure for stage fright:

[youtube] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EftIUYNEtdA [/youtube]

I wish all the kinky celebrities were just as open about liking a bit of spanking. This would really save on the shocking newspaper exposes, wouldn’t it?..

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