Abel's spanking blog & stories
Sometimes all it takes is an snatch of imagined conversation, for my mind to run riot for the rest of the day. Like this:
“I’ll do anything to make it up to you”.
“Yes you will, young lady. After I’ve punished you.”
I just wonder what she’d done; how he’d punish her; and how she’d make it up…
A note popped into my work inbox the other morning from a client in Australia:
I am having issues with my company Outlook and can’t seem to send emails to external email addresses. I am using my Hotmail account for the time being.
It just struck me that that *really* wouldn’t be an option for me if my work account ever went down! Seeing my ‘abel1234@’ address would no doubt lead them to run a search on it out of curiosity – and my daytime cover as a sweet, innocent businessman would be blown. Still, I suspect it would ensure that they settled their bills on time…
PS my phone’s auto-correct helpfully changed the title of this post to read: “The misuse of Hitachi”. Surely no girls out there would ever use a Magic Wand for naughty purposes?! But funny how BlackBerry would jump to that conclusion – and program it into their software…
A documentary I saw recently on a rare evening home alone featured the work of US border control agents.
An older woman arrived at an airport with a younger lass in tow. When their baggage was inspected, they had £1/4m of fake merchandise with them. The tearful young woman was questioned: yes, her friend had paid for her ticket and hotels. No, she hadn’t known that their consignment was illegal: in fact, she’d specifically been told when she asked that it was absolutely fine.
In practice, the manipulative smuggler was fined; her friend was released without charge. But I could see an alternative ending – whereby the cute lass was made to realise that breaking US law of course had consequences. The reality TV cameras would be positioned so as only to show her facial reactions as the customs officer paddled her on the bare as she bent over a desk, followed by images of her wincing tearfully as she sat gingerly down on the next flight home.
There’d be no pictures of her bare bottom; none of the hard impact; no record of the marks and bruises they inflicted whilst applying the full force of the law. But the severity of the punishment would be evident anyway from her sobs, and would be broadcast in full to discourage others from committing similar offences in future.
Killing time in Camden Town recently, waiting for EJ to meet me after work to head off to London Zoo’s tiger enclosure for a late-night open-air showing of the very wonderful “Life of Pi”. I’d started sneezing that afternoon, going down with the dreaded man flu – or, more accurately, a cold that lasted less than 24 hours but permitted me to feel sorry for myself for at least a week.
I popped into a chemist to buy some efficacious medicine. The pharmacy counter was hidden at the back of the store, behind swathes of doubtless-more-profitable beauty products – amidst which I passed an ever-so-cute lass eyeing up the make-up. She looked terrified, though, and I wondered why.
The answer, it struck me, was obvious. Daddy didn’t approve of the boy with whom she’d become so friendly these past weeks. He didn’t approve of his girl wearing make-up. He certainly hadn’t approved when she’d sneaked out without permission at the weekend, when she’d been supposed to be studying for her exams. And when she’d returned home – was that alcohol on her breath? – she’d faced the consequences: a stern lecture, before a sound thrashing with his belt – “for your own good”. He’d forbidden her to see him again; tonight was their next date, and hang the consequences…
A leading travel company recently upgraded me to ‘VIP status’, promising a plethora of indulgent benefits befitting a customer who’s clearly spent far too much with them in the past year.
My wonderfully-organised PA was having none of it. “They don’t do VAT receipts,” she informed me. So there went my treats…
I replied – and you need to know at this point that she’s very much one of us! – saying:
I might forgo the VAT for a luxury suite with free alcohol, beach club, and a plentiful supply of misbehaving hotel maids…
And then I spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating other benefits. A girl waiting in your room, tied face down, naked, for me to beat? “No problem, sir, you’re a VIP”.
Would you like a cane providing? Or maybe a selection of nice tawses? And does sir expect to fuck her afterwards? We can offer some very experienced girls, or some newer ones who really are still rather shy…
The faded glory of the canopies of Perth station, in north-east Scotland, always feels evocative of a former era, of steam locomotives pulling luxurious Pullman sleeper carriages.
A sign to the station manager’s office caught my eye. The very office that a girl in the 1930s would have been led to, clasped firmly by the wrist, after she’d been caught having hidden away without a ticket on the London to Inverness express.
They’d have used the strap up here, of course, given the proximity to Lochgelly. Perhaps there was even a special Railway Tawse: extra extra heavy, but extremely flexible, to be used on girls caught evading their fares. Her not explanations and protestations were dismissed out of hand, for the manager had no tolerance whatsoever for those found thieving from the company. And hence the whipping would be especially hard, with two members of station staff holding her tight over the manager’s desk as he lifted her skirt, bared her bottom, and punished her.
They’d have heard everything from the platform outside, of course. That would add to her humiliation when they sent her on her way and she emerged to the curious – and not entirely sympathetic – gazes of fellow passengers. And then there’d be the question of how she could continue her journey – either further north, or back to England – given she had no money. I do wonder what she might have to do to bribe one of the station staff to issue her with a ticket, and how shamed she’d have been when complying with his forceful demands.
Sitting in the window seat in the living room of our new place, on the first day we were there, I glanced down and saw an interesting sight. A thirty-something chap was walking up to the door of the house two doors along, holding hands with his slightly-younger girlfriend. Only, ‘holding hands’ would be a simplification: see, he was holding her pretty tightly, leading her along. Her somewhat submissive demeanour rather appealed.
Just a few minutes later, I glanced out again to see her running from her house and away up the street.
Now, in real life I’m sure she’d just popped back with him after a day out, collected her bag and rushed for her train. But my mind wouldn’t leave it at that, naturally. She’d been startled, you see, to find his friends waiting for them. “Gentlemen: the young lady I promised you. Pretty, I think you’ll agree. And she’s promised to be a good and obedient girl…”
She’d broken free; made a run for the door. But what happened next? Two possible scenarios particularly appeal:
1) As she’d rounded the corner from our street, perhaps she’d bumped into another of the gentlemen, who was late for their little gathering. “I think you’re meant to be with us,” he’d told her, and he’d brought her straight back. This time around they were particularly forceful in ensuring her obedience.
2) Or, maybe, she had got way. Yet guilt-stricken, she apologised to her boyfriend later: “I just panicked. I do want to be good, I promise.” He’d made her come back to the house a few days later – to give her time to reflect on his words: “You understand that I will punish you severely?” “Yes, sir.” The caning he’d given her had been hard, prolonged; he’d broken her far before he’d finished. And then he’d let her know: “My friends want to see you again, next weekend…”
Which do you think? Or are there other denouements you can think of that you prefer?
Wandering to the railway station the other evening, shortly before my move, I spied a young woman leaning out of an upstairs window, smoking. Another friend was next to her – but inside the room, with no cigarette in sight.
Picture the same scene, transposed to a school. The House Tutor patrols the corridors late at night; he spies a light on in one of the study bedrooms, and so knocks and – as he’s allowed to do – enters.
A lower sixth girl is propped up in bed, reading. She shuts her book in surprise at the intrusion – and then looks guilty, and scared.
“Lights out was an hour ago.”
“But… I’d been working. And I couldn’t sleep.”
“And so you decided to re-write the school rules?”
And so she’s slippered, hard, bent over the side of her bed in her pyjamas. And then he asks about the smell of tobacco.
“I don’t smoke, sir.”
“So why does your room smell of cigarettes?”
“It… must have blown in from outside, sir.”
“Or you must be lying to me.”
“Sir: honestly, I don’t smoke.”
“So who was in here who did?”
She falls silent, unwilling to admit that the crime had taken place, still less to name the culprit. “Then you’ll come to my study,” he tells her. And there she’s be caned, hard, on the bare for her refusal to co-operate: six vivid stripes across her already-punished backside, before she’s sent tearfully back to bed.
EJ and I decided fairly quickly that we didn’t want a TV in our new place. It’s not so much the licence fee that’s the issue. Continuous online news, plus iPlayer, plus a naughty Russian site showing hacked feeds to sports broadcasts, plus a laptop for DVDs, plus a healthy old-fashioned dose of radio, simply means we’d watch it so rarely that it’s not worth having one.
But what to do with my old set – a very large box that took up a fair amount of room and which was too heavy to lift? Freecycle came to our aid – and a family who’d recently moved to the UK thus became the proud owners of the box.
But what, I wondered, if TVs could talk? See, this one had been gifted to Haron and me a good few years before by HH when he upgraded his entertainment system at home. And between its various owners, I therefore suspect the set in question had broadcast more spanking movies than just about any since John Logie Baird invented televisual technology!
I do hope it’s not bored in its new home. Who knows: perhaps its new owners will have brought a plentiful supply of material with them from Eastern Europe to keep it entertained…
As EJ and I lazed in bed one morning shortly before I left my old place, I happened to glance past her and notice something odd about the half-open door.
It had never struck me before, but the door had clearly once been lockable. And not from the inside, for the hole in the wood where said lock had formerly been fitted was such that the room could only have been locked from the *outside*.
Perhaps I was missing an obvious scene amidst so many in the house over the years – one that recreated events that must surely have occurred at some point in its century or so of existence.
A girl locked in her room, sent naked to bed, left to contemplate her misconduct and her fate. Footsteps on the stairs then the landing outside. The key inserted into the door, turning. The door swinging open. The gentleman standing before her, birch (freshly cut from the garden) ready to beat her without mercy until she screamed and sobbed.
Her apologies. Her pleas for clemency, for mercy. His steadfast gaze, unforgiving words: “Bend over the end of the bed. It’s time for you to learn a lesson you won’t forget…”