The Spanking Writers

Have you ever fancied yourself a noble young lady, captured and flogged by a dashing knight?

I know I have. But I’ve also had my doubts about the authenticity of these fantasies: true knights oughtn’t make war on high-born maidens; I wanted a knight, not a villain.

It appears, I can have my noble knight, and be punished by him too, with all due deference to the laws of chivalry.

From “War and Chivalry” by Matthew Strickland I learned that -

Conditions afforded to knightly captives taken for ransom may vary widely. Some captives were detained in honourable and open custody either in token of their rank or in recognition of their bravery at war…

Conversely, personal animosity towards captives might result in harsh conditions of confinement. E.g. in the war between Robert de Bellême and Henry I in 1105… one of Henry’s leading supporters Robert fitz Hamon… and others in his familia were “kept in close imprisonment for a long time, both to show their contempt and hatred of their lord.”

So, my dashing knight is actually at war with my father’s liege, and I get imprisoned along with everybody else in the family. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.

The law, it seems, is completely on my captor’s side:

…Jurists were arguing that since a prisoner was held essentially as a pledge for the price of his ransom, the captor might take reasonable measures to encourage payment.

Oh, dear. I can see the letter that’s winging its way to my father’s lord: “Pay the ransom, sir, if you do not wish to see this maiden suffer under the lash.”

Come to think of it, though, that’s still a little villainous. This sort of blackmail may be lawful, but my knight wouldn’t stoop to it. What if I provoked him, though, by taking advantage of his good nature?

Following his defeat at Lincoln in 1141, King Stephen was first kept under honourable custody at Bristol, but was later confined in irons because… of his prospensity to stray beyond his allotted bounds.

“My lady, were you not a maiden of tender years, I would see you confined in irons for this sort manner of conduct. As it is, I shall deal with you just as my father would deal with my sisters. Squire! Hand me the whip!”

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The new academic year approaches at Universities around the country, and two of this year’s Freshers - both regular commenters here - have launched their own spanking blog. Do click over to Freshly Spanked and say hi to Smudge and Irelynn!

Perhaps that’s what inspired the following little reverie:

–

One fresher, one second-year girl, both reading the same subject, chatting in the student bar. Tutorial groups for the coming year were being agreed: the best academics found their sessions over-subscribed, and were thus able to be selective. The leading professor was about to interview freshers to see which he would accept into his group:

Fresher: “Was Professor Jenkins your supervisor last year?”

Older girl: “He was.”

Fresher: “You did really well, didn’t you. I’m thinking of applying to him. Is he any good?”

Older girl, blushing: “He’s… inspirational But… he’s different.”

Fresher: “In what way?”

Older girl, looking away. “He… has ways of encouraging you to do well.”

Fresher: “Such as?”

Older girl. “I can’t say. Just… just look on his wall behind his desk when you go for your interview. It’s not there just for effect.”

Cut to professorial office: piles of papers and textbooks everywhere. Our fresher is sitting being interviewed: she stares past the professor’s shoulder, transfixed. For there, hanging from a hook, was a long, thick cane…

–

I doubt our favourite Freshers will be quite so lucky, but we’re sending them love and good luck hugs anyway…

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I’m in Cyprus at the moment, staying with Cath and having a lovely time.

Yesterday, we went exploring in Nicosia, the capital, which is delightful. A little research had revealed a hidden gem, the Hamam Omerye, a traditional bathhouse. Dating from the 14th century, it’s been restored recently, capturing a Europa Nostra award (Europe’s top gong for conservation) in 2006. We were lucky, in that bathing is usually single-sex; Monday is the only “couples” day.

The place is a delight, a haven from the heat and bustle of the world outside – all fluffy towels and relaxing massages. The Hamam bath itself is a set of seven rooms, each at a different temperature; one sits (or lies) on the hot stone benches, unwinding, scrubbing oneself (or one’s partner) gently in the warm waters. It’s quite gorgeous.

Of course, as we relaxed, I told tale of the sultan in Ottoman times. The girls of his harem would have been sent here to bathe, no doubt. No towels to cover his young ladies in those days, of course; as a result, the marks of his displeasure would be plain to see, a lesson to all.

Yet one new girl had clearly not learnt said lesson: she’d displeased the sultan, and her fate awaited her: “You are to report to his chamber on your return from the bathhouse.” She’d plead for his mercy, but she knew that none would be forthcoming. By tomorrow, she’d be the one wearing fresh stripes from his whip as she bathed naked with the others.

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Grand rooms, stories of maidservants, paintings of beautiful young wives on the walls – it’s no wonder that, at some point when touring a country house, our minds flick into spanko overdrive. It’s unusual, though, for it to happen quite as quickly as it did at Cragside, about which Haron’s been posting recently. For no sooner than one has walked past the ticket desk do tour groups find themselves in the butler’s pantry. And there, on the wall, are three carpet beaters – right next to a solid table over which girls would presumably have bent.

But matters become more complicated than that, for a few rooms further in is the butler’s study: a comfortable room, this, complete with his writing desk, armchair and bowler hat. He’d come here in the evenings, no doubt, to relax and unwind at the end of a busy day – whilst still remaining alert should the gentlemen next door require a top-up of port.

Hold on, though. We’d just pictured the punishments in the pantry. And here was this other, quite wonderfully-evocative room. It would be such a shame to allow it to go to imaginary-waste. The solution was clear: the first room, the pantry would be for summary punishment – a few sharp, stinging swats of the carpet beater thwacking across the girl’s dress in the middle of the day. But this second room, the study? The young maids would dread it, for this is where the butler would deal with more serious misbehaviour.

The girl would be told to wait outside his study, facing the wall, at the end of her day’s work. No knocking to alert him to her presence: she’d wait for twenty minutes, more, sometimes until he happened to emerge and notice her. Once inside, she’d receive a stern lecture, before the cane would be taken from the top of his bookcase and she’d be told to undress and touch her toes. Six strokes, sometimes a dozen, would follow: hard, expertly-administered, a hard-learnt lesson.

And then… a few rooms further on… his Lordship’s study. Far grander. Surely this couldn’t go unused in our reinvention of the house? Conveniently, it stood at the top of stairs leading down to the Victorian sauna – complete with cold plunge pool. Ah, but the two rooms could easily be combined.

“Mr Watkins?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Would you take the girl downstairs and make sure she’s clean?”

And the maid, caught committing some particularly dreadful offence (rifling through a guests’ belongings, maybe?), would be led – protesting, no doubt – down the narrow stairs. Her clothes would be removed; she’d be ordered into the icy waters.

The butler would then dry her, roughly, with a towel before leading her – shivering, still naked, back up the stairs. His Lordship would be waiting, the birch cut by the butler that afternoon in his hand.

“You may leave us, Mr Watkins, whilst I deal with the girl.” And the butler would wait outside, listening to her sobs. No short, sharp shock, this – his Lordship would flog her slowly, methodically, making every stroke count, giving her one final chance instead of dismissing her without references.

And then the door would open, and the girl would emerge – soundly thrashed – into the corridor, to be led back to the servants’ quarters by the butler. She’d return under his supervision the following morning, of course, to kneel painfully on the floor, brush in hand, and sweep up the remnants of the birch that had scattered across the rugs during her punishment. And then nothing more would be spoken of the incident again.

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Loathe to waste a weekend even when the weather is foul, we took ourselves for a day trip to a neighbouring National Trust country house, the beautiful Craigside. Even to a somewhat jaded country house visitor like yours truly (”What? Another historical kitchen with historical copper pots? Yawn!” Craigside offered enough unusual and quirky details to set my imagination going.

For one thing, being a relatively new house, belonging to a family that made its fortune in local industry, it had some technical features that rarely belong in my Victorian spanking fantasies.

There was, for example, a lift: it would take a maid from the cellar/scullery, via the kitchen, to the upstairs corridors. It had been specifically installed to ease the maids’ work, which I thought was very decent of the owner.

Of course, the new technological toy would be irresistible to the young maids. Too often the butler would catch them going up and down in the lift on insignificant errands, wasting their time. Finally, his patience would run out, and he would announce that the next girl fooling around with the lift would receive a birching in front of all of the servants.

The girls would take this to heart, and do their utmost to avoid capture. They would play with the lift only when the butler was busy with the master or about his duties on the other side of the house. Two of the maids would decide to have a couple of trips up and down when they thought the butler was asleep.

A grave miscalculation, that. The butler’s room was directly next to the lift shaft, and the girls’ delighted giggles would carry perfectly through the void, even if they were careful not to stop on his floor. He would meet them in the scullery once they’ve had enough, frowning meaningfully.

Even before he said a word, they would know that nothing in the world would save them from the impending birching.

Another fine artefact in the contemporary Craigside is a sketch on the wall, and the bottom of the staircase leading to the plunge pool. The pool was in use only by me, which probably explains the risqué little picture.

It shows a Roman soldier, sword in hand (symbolism, duh) kneeling beside a cage. The cage is inhabited by a scantily clad young lady, who is weeping and stretching her hands out towards him through the bar.

I didn’t notice a name for either the picture or the artist, but have had a fine few minutes trying to decide how the pretty girl could possibly have ended up in a cage, with her Roman loved on the outside. I’m still not sure what happened there, but I enjoyed creating a small traffic jam at the bottom of the steps while I studied it in detail.

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A rather fascinating programme on Channel 4 recently. “Upstairs downstairs love” told the tale of a Victorian gentleman, Arthur Munby, who took a particular interest in working-class women. Breaking all conventions, he formed a relationship with Hannah Cullwick, a servant, and they eventually married in secret after 20 years.

When they died, many years later, he ordered that their papers - their diaries, and the photographs he’d had taken of her - be locked away. Decades later, they were opened and formed the basis of the programme - which was touching and fascinating, albeit tinged with a touch of sadness at the thought of a couple having to be so secretive about their love for each other.

That fetish underpinned their relationship was clear from the programme. Arthur gave her a chain with a padlock, to wear at all times. As she wrote in her diary: “I am his slave and he is my master”.

Although spanking didn’t appear to be part of their thing, two particular anecdotes give rise to wonderful scene ideas. First, there was the occasion when Hannah invited Arthur into the house in which she worked as a maid, and took him into her mistress’s bedroom. She showed him the lady’s ballgown: he made her put it on for him. “Thus she stood before me to be looked at, smiling and slightly blushing,” his diary recorded.

…and I’m transported to another grand London townhouse, and the look of horror on the faces of the two servant girls, frozen to the spot as the bedroom door opens and their mistress - returned home unexpectedly - walks in to find them wearing her best dresses.

“My husband will deal with this on his return this evening,” the lady would say, although she would set proceedings in motion by instructing the butler to cut some switches from the garden. Later, in the candlelit drawing room, that they were good, conscientious girls would save them their jobs and reputations, but cost them each the soundest of whippings.

And then the programme explored the difference in dress and demeanour between ladies and working-class girls. (When Arthur dressed Hannah in ladies’ clothes, and walked through the streets with her, other servants spied the impostor and they hissed insults). The programme explained: no lady would ever walk unaccompanied in the street, whilst her dress would distinguish her from the rabble.

…and the gentleman frowned as he read the note from his close acquaintance, recently delivered by messenger. “I have just caught my daughter dressed in the clothes of a servant, about to leave our house alone. She initially refused to tell me her destination; on being punished - for her deceit and her disobedience, she reluctantly revealed a planned rendezvous with your daughter near to Kensington Gardens.”

She’d try to explain, knowing there was no explanation that could save her. He’d raise a hand: “I know of your little scheme already. Your friend has already been punished for it.” He’d ring a bell to call the butler, who’d appear in a flash. “It appears that my daughter wishes to know what life is like for the maids in the house, James. Would you take her downstairs, have her strip out of these inappropriate clothes and bend over the kitchen table? And make sure that you whip her quite as hard as you would the very worst-behaved serving girl?”

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Last time we were in our wonderful private library, Abel set off to look for a particular book in the catalogue. On the table next to the catalogue, there was a convenient desk for noting down the references, with some scraps of paper to save you writing on the back of your hand.

When he brought back the book, we noticed that the scrap paper once used to be some sort of a circular, a report from a meeting or something similar. It had half-phrases clipped off mid-word, but still making sense.

I imagined picking up one of these innocent-looking scraps to find something along the lines of -

“Unfortunately, all warnings have proved ineffectu…
required to administer six-of-the-best with a senio…
have received the necessary consent form from M…
witnesses.”

It would have taken some pain-staking work to recreate the full circular, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to resist.

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It always astonishes me that, in 21st century Britain, the ‘Court Circular’ still appears in certain daily newspapers. The formal announcement describes the previous day’s royal appointments - for example:

Clarence House
20th August

The Duchess of Rothesay, President, this afternoon attended the Brooke Hospital for Animals Garden Party in Aboyne and was received by Her Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Aberdeenshire (Mr Angus Farquharson).

Still, it could sometimes prove interesting:

Buckingham Palace
1 September

Princess Victoria this afternoon attended the Central London Women’s Disciplinary Centre and was received by the Chief Punishment Officer (Sgt Jock McPherson).

Oh, how the papers would speculate - with paparazzi photos showing the tear-stained young royal appearing considerably more dishevelled on her way out from her appointment than she had been on the way in…

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A most unusual dream last night. In it, Haron and one of our friends were both maidens in mediaeval times. An army was forming; the girls of the village were being pressed into service as archers.

They’d heard the rumours, though - that if the enemy caught any of the archers, they dealt out severe punishment. A captured girl could expect to be led to a nearby tree, her hands tied above her head with a rope suspended from a stout branch. The soldiers would tear open the back of her dress, then whip her soundly.

Needless to say, Haron and our friend were trying to escape their military duties. And, inevitably, I was insisting that they played their part for king and country.

(I think I may have watched too much of the archery when the Olympics was on!)

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This year apparently marks the hundredth birthday of romantic fiction publisher Mills and Boon. We thought we should pay tribute with a should-be-an-excerpt from one of their novels…

–

She fell, breathless, into his strong arms, feeling the soft touch of his velvet cloak. He held her to him, enveloping her in his firm grip. She looked up at his noble face, into his deep  blue eyes, and pressed her damp frame closer to his muscular, hard body.

“I love you,’ she murmured, her heart fluttering like the wings of a caged bird.

“I love you, too, my sweet,” the handsome Prince replied softly. He clicked his fingers twice. Suddenly, the oak door flew open and three uniformed  officers appeared in an instant. “That’s why I cannot let your behaviour this morning go unpunished.”

He released the quivering girl abruptly from his grasp: “Guards! Take her to the dungeon, strip her, and whip her soundly.”

The Prince turned back to her, smiling as he noticed the tears welling up in her pretty eyes. “And when they have finished with you, my sweet, they will bring you to my bedchamber.”

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