The Spanking Writers

As I was drifting off to sleep last night, I came awake with an involuntary jump.

“What happened, did the bad men get you?” asked Abel.

“I fell off a tree,” I complained. “I was stealing apples… and fell off.”

“You were doing what? Bad girl, come here!” He swiftly turned me over onto my tummy and gave me several crisp smacks. “And that’s just from the owner of the orchard. Wait till you come home, and your daddy whips you with his belt.”

I wouldn’t put it past Abel to get out of bed and fetch an implement, but luckily it was too cold outside our nice duvet, and we were too tired. So instead we fantasised.

…The girl would be too scared to go home after being discovered; this was a small town, and daddy would surely find out. She would wander the streets for a while, and then spend the night at her friend’s house.

Only, she couldn’t avoid going home forever. Her father would meet her silently by the door, where he would hand her his pocket knife, and motion towards the trees in the yard.

Under the curious gazes of the neighbours she would cut a switch for her whipping. An apple switch for an apple thief.

To Edinburgh on business for the past couple of days – a place so austere in its beauty, its people seemingly so stern.

Combine those characteristics the prevalence of tartan (by far the most appealing material for school skirts) in shop windows everywhere one turns…

….mix in with my fondness for the tawse as an implement of correction…

…. and I find myself wandering the streets in a permanently kinky reverie. Picture the maids of bygone eras, punished in the strict households behind those doors. Dream of fearsome governesses; picture hands upheld for punishment in school classrooms; imagine serious fathers chastising their daughters.

Is this the world’s best city for a spanking aficionado? Oh, how I wish Haron had been able to come on the trip with me. Then again, it’s probably a good thing for her that she couldn’t – the train journey back would have been a painful one.

The topic of spanking your dolls and teddy-bears has come up several times in the comments recently, and it seems like something a few of us had in common growing up. I wonder, just how similar were our experiences?

When I was a kid, I never imagined myself on anything other than the receiving end of a spanking – my sympathies were always with the punished girl or boy. Yet, getting a doll to spank you is a bit more difficult than turning it over and slapping its bottom yourself.

I played out lengthy scenarios with my toys; they always had a chance to be good and avoid the punishment. I taught my dolls to juggle (moving their arms with mine), and they wouldn’t get smacked when they caught the glass marbles I threw in the air (which, given they had plastic hands with non-opposing thumbs, never happened, but the theory was there). I had my bear in training for the gymnastics team, and only punished him when he wasn’t very good.

Yet, at the same time, I never wished there was a human girl or boy I could put through these exercises instead, and spank them when they failed. Instead I wished somebody would show up out of the blue, and do all these things to me.

What about you? Were your dolls very bad?

Surrounded by gorgeous women at dinner the other evening. One of them at my table; the rest chatting away nearby to colleagues, friends, lovers.

And my mind wandered, as it so often does, to spanking. Which of the young ladies might not be averse to sliding over a welcoming lap, and having her ever-so-smart skirt lifted up?

Indeed, were any of them perched on already-warm behinds? A quick ‘bend over’ before they’d left for the restaurant? Or even a more serious, “We have something to discuss” leading to a hard, deserved caning before the cab arrived, and an uncomfortable ride drying tears and regaining composure.

The following dialogue occurred last week between Abel in London and me at home.

Abel: Sat at the O2 surrounded by cuties going to the Spice Girls, about to eat in the “S&M cafe”. I so want one of their waitress’s uniforms…

Haron: See if you can get a uniform off of a cutie for a few pounds. As a bonus, she’ll have to go naked, and will also get a spanking from her manager from selling the uniform.

Some days I feel like apologising to Abel for creating the impression that he is the evil one here.

It’s tough being back at work, back in the real world, after our long Christmas – birthday – New Year vacation. One can’t help but reminisce fondly of lazy mornings by the pool, cocktails overlooking the ocean. I’ve been reflecting that training staff for posh hotels like the ones we stayed in must be a real challenge, with picky guests who’d find fault with every minor slip.

I’m sure the girls who made up the bedrooms so neatly each day receive thorough training, though. They’d work in tandem with a more experienced member of staff, learning as they go, before being allowed to work alone.

Their manager would obviously check their early solo efforts, to make sure they met the resort’s exacting standards. One room would be picked at random each day and inspected especially thoroughly. For each mistake, the young lady could expect to receive a stroke of the tawse on an outstretched hand. The assessments would continue – one whack here, four there – until the new team member had achieved perfection for three days in succession.

One could also picture a new graduate fresh from a top hotel school, yet – as with all management trainees – starting by learning the minutiae of her trade. She discovers that one of the managers is someone she knew at college; he’d graduated in her fresher year. They’d flirted; she’d not taken it any further. And guess who’d organise the rotas to make sure he was supervising the maids on the day of her first solo run?

My dreams are full of spankings these days. I could blame it on a few intense play-days I’ve had last week or have coming up, or maybe I could blame it on being parted from Abel while he’s working away, or maybe I should stop looking for a reason and just enjoy it.

Anyway, last night I was a student teacher at a big mixed state school. One of my responsibilities was to spend some of my office hours consoling students who had been punished. Any boy or girl who had been spanked could come into my office, have tea, biscuits and a box of tissues to wipe their eyes.

In the particular episode I remember from the dream there was a queue of people to be paddled at the Headmaster’s door down the corridor, and they kept arriving at my office one by one for their consoling hug and a cup of tea.
I’m still puzzled as to what the paddle was doing in the hands of a British Headmaster.

When you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep, what do you do?

Mostly, I listen to audiobooks or podcasts on my iPod, but last night it was out of battery after a train journey. I had to resort to counting sheep.

Hang on, thought I, sheep? Why? I’d rather count something pleasant, that would carry me off to an interesting dream.

At first, I thought about counting cane strokes landing on a schoolgirl’s bottom as she is bent over a trestle. Then the count got a little too high, my schoolgirl was getting too sore, and the fantasy needed adjustment.

I started simply counting schoolgirls as they walked past single-file, imagining each one in every detail. This didn’t particularly work either, because I couldn’t figure out where they were going in such great numbers, and this nagged me, and wouldn’t let me go to sleep.

Finally I got onto the perfect solution.

I had the whole school lined up around a courtyard. This was an assembly following a major riot. In the middle there was a trestle.

Each schoolgirl was going to walk to the trestle, raise her skirt, bend over and receive six stroke of the cane from a gowned housemaster. I would count them to the middle, count the stroke, and carry on to the next girl.

This worked its calming wonders: I got through about fifteen girls and their stripes before I fell asleep. I still prefer my iPod, but now I’m well prepared for any future technical difficulties.

If you wish to try out this method and report back on your success, I’m sure we will all be interested in hearing how you get on!

We continue our ongoing trawl of the Old Bailey‘s archives. 18-year-old Sarah Barker found herself before Lord Chief Barron’s court on this day in 1796.

She “was indicted for feloniously stealing, on the 26th of December, two cotton gowns, value 12s. a stuff skirt, value 2s. a muslin cap, value 6d. a muslin handkerchief, value 12d. and a linen apron, value 12d. the property of Christopher Hanson.”

Mary Hanson gave evidence:

I sell milk in Whitechapel-road, near the turnpike: On the 26th of December, I lost the things mentioned in the indictment, (repeating them); the prisoner was my servant; she had left me six months; I saw them a few days before; they were kept in a drawer in the chamber; it was not locked: I did not miss them till the 4th of January; on missing them, I went in pursuit of the prisoner, and found her in a person’s room in Jewry-street, with a cap and handkerchief of mine on; I asked her where the remainder of the things she had taken were; she said she had made away with them, and would shew me where; she said they were at two different pawnbrokers; I took her with me, and charged her with a constable.

The gowns were produced by the two pawnbrokers, who swore that they had received them from the prisoner. Faced with such overwhelming evidence, “The prisoner did not say any thing in her defence, but called Joseph Hurry , who deposed that she had neither father nor mother, but that he had taken her into his house, where she had been four years, and bore a good character.”

Found guilty, a private whipping was the painful sentence for young Sarah.

I’m curious as to when, were and how the punishments would have been administered. I’m picturing Miss Barker being taken to a dark, dank, candle-lit cell beneath the courtrooms. She’d be stripped, tied facing a post with her hands above her head, begging for mercy. Despite her pleas, a burly gaoler would lay on the lashes until she was well-striped and sobbing. I do hope that Mr Hurry was waiting to comfort and console her.

An edgy dream last night…

I had a stepfather who was nearly the same age as me, not even thirty. I had to call him Dad. He was some sort of artistic genius, and thus the whole family had to concentrate on indulging him and creating perfect conditions for his work. Whatever he wanted, happened.

He was unpredictable and inconsistent in his punishments; I was terrified of him.

In the bit of the dream I remember, I dropped a nearly finished jigsaw puzzle on the hardwood floor of our livingroom, and immediately went on my knees trying to assemble it. I hoped my posture and my whole being showed how sorry I was.
He laughed: “Will I whip you for this or not? Hmm. Of course I won’t. I’m not crazy.”

I remember relief flooding over me, although a bitter voice inside was whispering a thousand cheeky things I could have said in response.

I think it was relief that woke me up.

Oh yeah, another creepy thing: my stepfather had a younger brother who lived with us, who was as sweet as his brother was unhinged. He was about 5 years’ my junior, but within “Dad’s” hearing I had to call him “Uncle”, or else.