Abel's spanking blog & stories
Our new place is split over three floors, with bathrooms on the top and bottom levels of the apartment. And, whilst we adore the quirky layout, I was forever finding myself on the wrong floor of the house to the one on which I last used my prized hairbrush.
The solution? Buy another brush, of course. And a kinky person really can only own one brand (if they’re fortunate enough to be able to afford it) – the very lovely Mason Pearson.
The model I purchased was a “Junior”. And when Bambi and The Hunter happened to visit that very evening, an experiment comparing my new purchase to its sibling hairbrush was inevitable.
The Hunter duly christened the new brush, before sending Bambi upstairs to me. I whacked her with the old one (the “Popular”), which she pronounced to be the more painful. But that wasn’t the whole story, of course: we each had to then take our turn with the other brush before we could be satisfied with the scientific robustness of our conclusions. Hence a cute girl found herself scampering up and down stairs, a different hairbrush in hand each time, until we concluded that it’s the new brush that is actually the more effective.
So if you’re purchasing a Mason Pearson for the purposes of discipline and punishment, it’s a “Junior” brush that you want for the young lady bent over your knees. Appropriate, really, I think…
Soon after the cruel housemaster scene with EJ, I played another dislikeable character in a scene with The Hunter and our willing victim, Bambi.
I’d placed an advert in the window of the local post office:
Rosemary – or Rose, for short – had spotted it with a friend, Francesca. The latter had decided to give it a try, and Rose was now following in her footsteps. We welcomed her into the house; made her feel welcome, explained that photography was our hobby; told her she was pretty. Offered her a glass of wine – even though, strictly speaking, she wasn’t old enough to be drinking. And all the time, snapped away as she posed – relatively relaxed – in her school uniform.
We then took her through to the study, where she looked surprised to find an old-fashioned desk and a selection of school canes. “Props,” we explained, and encouraged her to pose with them. But before long, she was proving unwilling to follow our instructions; it was determined that the cane needed using for real; the photographs became more revealing as we inspected her marks. She protested; the mood darkened.
We led her upstairs, and there she was duly humiliated as the camera continued to snap. Forced to strip; tied to the bed; intimately abused; strapped severely. And then, when we were finished with her, she was allowed to dress and was sent on her way – warned not to tell anyone what had happened, unless she wanted us to send the photographs to her family and school, and publish them online.
Oh, how evilly abusive I felt. And oh what a fun scene it was! But no, I won’t be publishing the photos – thank you for asking!
The characters I usually play in school scenes tend to be harsh but fair. Yet that most certainly wasn’t the case when EJ and I ‘christened’ the study in our new place with a school roleplay shortly after moving in. The events that unfolded followed on from a scene she’d played a few days before, in which her character, Emily, had been treated unreasonably severely by the prefect for whom she was fagging.
She’d been sent to her housemaster for being up after lights-out. Her excuse? That she’d wanted a bath, but hadn’t been able to take one earlier as she’d been too busy cleaning the prefect’s study to his over-exacting standards. I was unsympathetic: girls knew that being up too late was a caneable offence, and I wasn’t willing to make an exception. Six hard strokes, stoically taken, duly followed.
Emily, however, wanted – needed – to protest. She outlined some of the methods he was using, the beatings he was administering. Being caned by me was par for the unfair course at the school, given the mistreatment that Groves, the prefect, was doling out.
Did she get a sympathetic ear? I confess not. I was outraged – the fagging system was long-established; Groves was an excellent chap; girls like her needed to learn to respect authority and accept discipline where it was deemed due. I made her bend over the desk again; caned her hard, repeatedly, before sending her (defiantly) on her way.
Now, that was how the scene needed to work. And work it did: we both played our parts with aplomb. And yet I felt a deep-down unease all the way through: realistically, my character was being unfair; she had a valid case; her housemaster ought to have intervened rather than punishing her further.
It was a strange place to be – beating a girl who didn’t deserve it, and who was forthright and articulate in making that clear. Not being cruel to be kind: just being cruel. It was a different play mindset than I’m used to in that context- and one I’m rather looking forward to revisiting!
All good things come to an end, and thus my Oxfordshire house had to witness the last of very many spankings over my four years there. And, naturally, it was only right that Emma Jane should be the recipient.
She was duly called into my study, a few minutes before she left the house for the last time – the weekend before the move – and stood before the school desk. The final punishment had to be the most traditional: “Jeans and knickers down and bend over; I’m going to give you six strokes of the cane.”
Her reaction to each of the strokes was delightful to behold: given she’s a little out of practice on the being-beaten front, each clearly hurt – and striped her beautifully. The first two were hard, accompanied by a spontaneous commentary: “There have been complaints about the girls in our establishment being abused, young lady. We’re being closed down as a result. Were you to blame for the allegations?”
She protested her innocence, naturally, under my interrogation – but I had my strong suspicions. “Are you sure you’ve not been writing anything on the web, for example?”
Her protestations were such that the next three strokes were, whilst still hard, a little less severe. After all, I explained, we’d be reopening shortly in London, and I rather expected I’d see her there.
And then… “The final stroke ever in this institution: you’d expect it to be hard, if course.” I’d like to think it did justice to the memory of do many canings under the roof over the years: she squirmed delightfully, and winced beautifully as she pulled her jeans back up.
Her confidence, her bravado had gone long before it was my turn to deal with her. Mr Darrow had seen to that.
To begin with, she’d been unapologetic. Yes, she’d been in the nightclub; yes, she’d had a drink. But it was only three months until she was due to leave; we should be treating the senior pupils as adults; it was “the done thing”. Her housemaster, of course, had disagreed, and determined that the maximum of twelve strokes permitted under the school rules was appropriate given her lack of remorse. He’d punished her with severity, using a heavy cane. He’d clearly driven home his message.
Yet Laura was no mere ordinary pupil. And when a prefect so blatantly breaks the rules she is duty-bound to upheld, it falls to the headmaster to deal with her. She looked nervous for the first time as she stood before me.
“Why did I appoint you as a prefect, Laura?” She stumbled through the explanations: because she was a good girl, not one to get into trouble. Because I thought she could do the job?” “Because,” as I pointed out, “I trusted you.” And so she was reduced to tears even before the next question: “And so whom have you let down with your conduct last night?”
The girl was crying openly as she worked through the list of those she’s disappointed. Herself, me, her family, her housemaster. “The other prefects; the girls who respected you,” I added. “And so I’m going to punish you.”
Another twelve strokes – this time, hands outstretched to be tawsed, hard, with an extra heavy strap. I sensed her reflex to flinch; warned her of the consequences before the final blow; determined that she had moved her hands slightly before the blow descended, and reapplied it. And then I told her that it was inconceivable that she could continue as a prefect, and that I was removing her forthwith from that office.
And to drive home the gravity of the situation? An exemplary punishment. Six more with the tawse from me, as she bent over the desk – struggling to hold onto it with her punished hands. And then – because if she was now a junior girl, she needed dealing with as such – came the slippering. From headmaster then housemaster in turn, applying the plimsoll with the utmost force, as she writhed and sobbed – all composure long gone. And then a very beaten girl was allowed to get to her feet.
To play one of the most intense school scenes I can recall, after so many over the years, gave me the greatest buzz imaginable. Huge thanks to The Hunter, who played Mr Darrow, the strict housemaster, superbly. And thanks and big hugs to Bambi; the depth to which she managed to inhabit her character so completely meant that I was able to go incredibly satisfyingly-deep into character myself. Just wonderful. Just wonderful.
How to describe the hottest group scene I’ve ever been involved in, which took place at my house last weekend?
Perhaps I should start with the aftermath. I’d cooked dinner at Emma Jane’s the following evening for a visiting vanilla friend. EJ sat down on one of her wooden chairs, and immediately stood back up and fetched a cushion. The chair was ‘too low for the table’ otherwise; we both avoided each others’ eyes and managed not to snigger, knowing the real reason she couldn’t sit in comfort.
We had gathered on Saturday under the auspices of the Worshipful Company of Corporal Punishers, this time meeting in the Regency era (and all immaculately dressed in period costume). A more wonderful group one couldn’t hope to assemble: trusting; trustworthy; great roleplayers; fabulous and genuine people. Oh, and frankly in the case of the ladies: all beautiful, brave and downright hot.
There was sparkling conversation, in character; dinner and fine wines, interrupted by spankings for certain misbehaving young ladies; plentiful laughter. An air of joyous and spontaneous naughtiness prevailed. Everything just clicked.
And EJ, as my co-host, was on her finest and flirtiest form; how I adored the way in which she carried the scene; how gorgeous she looked; how proud Lord Jenkins was to have her as his partner.
Oh, and there were beatings too, of course. Each girl, for example, bent over naked in turn to take six strokes – or the equivalent – from each of the six tops. My malacca cane, one of my most severe implements, was put to good and hard effect when I came to beat one of the girls; I gave another of them her first-ever spray birching.
Nine or so of the most memorable hours of my life, from the moment the ladies were formally presented to the gentlemen, until we finally tumbled into bed for sleep at 3am. Such dear friends. And memories that will make me smile (and in some cases blush) for a very long time to come. I can’t begin to express how grateful I am to all those who made the evening such a success, but I count myself a very lucky man indeed.
So, Alice re-appeared at Mr Jenkins’ house. Not, of course that she’d been forgotten.
He was rather taken aback to see her when she knocked on the door, but the hug was heartfelt. He’d been uneasy about what had happened; about sending her to Mr Murdstone; about how her new owner had abused her during the interview. He’d hoped she was OK. And the chance to hold her tight was delightful; needed.
She was in tears: overcome by emotion at being back in the house that had been her home for so long. He had her sit next to him on the sofa; held her hand; told her of the letter he’d received from her employer praising her for her hard work. He was proud of her. It was so lovely to see her. He pushed the book he’d been reading to one side: “It’s about the Great Exhibition a few years ago. I went, you know: I must have told you about it?”
But why was she here? Murdstone was away for the weekend, it seemed. She’d been lonely and scared in his big house. She thought Mr Jenkins wouldn’t mind if she came to see him…?
Of course not. She was always welcome. But how was she doing? He tried to sound positive, fearing the reply. Her face said it all; he hardly needed to hear her tell that the intimacies she’d been forced to offer in the interview were being required of her regularly. Ashamed; scared; lost. Trembling. No hugs could quell her free-flowing tears.
He hoped she’d understood? That he had had to find her work. That his establishment depended on his so doing. That he’d been sorry to see her go; worried about her; but that he had to think of the other girls – and of future girls he could help. That he’d hoped that she, of all girls, might be strong enough to understand. To withstand. But the crumpled girl beside him clearly could not.
And, she blurted out, she’d lied. Murdstone wasn’t away in the country; she’d simply fled his house. She knew she shouldn’t have done, but she hadn’t been able to stand it a moment longer. He’d told her he was going to use her intimately that night in the one way he’d not yet taken her. She couldn’t bear it; it was so wrong. She was sorry not to have been honest.
He held her hand, shocked at what she’d said. An agreement was reached. He couldn’t keep her here: that she had to understand. She was Murdstone’s now, legally. But Jenkins couldn’t leave the other girls alone in the house; it was too late and dark and snowy for him to send Alice home. (And, anyway, doing so was the last thing he wanted). He’d let her stay for the night; she could use his bed and he’d sleep on the sofa. But in the morning, he’d have to send her back.
She was led upstairs. Only, before bed, he would need to deal with her for lying. She knew that. She’d always been an honest girl, he said. And no matter how hard times were, she should never lose sight of that. He was going to punish her – in the same way he’d punished her the very first time, when she’d arrived at the age of fourteen. Over his knees, her bottom bared. A hand spanking, as hard and sustained as he’d administered in many year. She sobbed. Oh, how she sobbed. And it was a relief to both of them, it seemed, when he could stop and tuck her up in bed with a chaste hug and goodnight kiss.
He turned off the light. He left her crying; prayed she’d find some peace and sleep. And he went back downstairs to finish his book. It was ten minutes later that the quiet evening was disturbed by loud banging at the door…
Now, here’s the thing. This was as intense a scene as I’ve ever played. Up to this point, the account’s written in the third person. It’s about the characters of Alice and Mr Jenkins. And as I started to write what happened next, I could only process it in the first person. Me, not him…
It was Murdstone at the door, demanding to be let in; I’d recognise his voice anywhere. He looked furious; I tried to calm him.
“It’s good to see you.” I reached out my hand. He almost crushed it as he shook it.
We stood in the corridor; I knew Alice must be able to hear what was happening. I dreaded what she must be thinking. He demanded loudly to know where she was: “I know she must be here.”
I explained what had happened as best I could so as to protect her. She’d been out for a walk; the snow had closed in; she’d been scared and had come to my house as it was close by. I’d told her she could stay til morning; I hadn’t wanted her to come to any harm out alone late at night.
“She’s my girl now. You have no business with her.” I was taken aback by the force of his anger; scared at what this man might do. He demanded her back; I told him we’d better go upstairs. (Oh, and later, how I wished I’d told him to leave: that she was sleeping; that she’d be back before breakfast).
She looked terrified as he burst into the bedroom. Cowered as he lectured her. She had no business leaving the house without permission; he’d made that very plain. Had she asked for permission?
I tried to intervene: reminding him how pleased he was with her work, of the letter he had sent. It wasn’t working; nothing I could do could calm his fury. Alice was to be punished, and severely. (But I’d already spanked her. Could I not have told him that? Saved her?)
He asked for an implement. I pointed him to the box of straps under the window. He picked one of the thickest and heaviest. (Should I not have chosen one for him? A light one – severe in looks but less so in application)
He made her kneel up on the bed: shoulders down, bottom high. I walked round and held her hands. The strokes were brutal: I watched her wince and sob through each, powerless to protect her. (But she’d been my favourite girl; my best girl. How could I have let it come to this?)
And then she clenched her fists, pushing my hands away. Absorbed in the battle to take the whipping – or rejecting me? Her former mentor, the person she trusted, who’d abandoned her knowingly to this brute? Her safest place; her home; violated. (How could I have done this to her? Should I not have sent Murdstone away when he first came looking for a girl, rather than ceding to his demands and the lure of his money? Would I not have found another employer for her soon?)
He only, actually, gave her seven strokes before stopping. He’d continue the punishment in private when he got her home – and then there was the other matter he’d told her he’d attend to that night.
I asked him to wait downstairs as Alice dressed. She was shaking as she stood before me. I tried to take her hand, to calm her. She was distant, distraught, desperate to leave. She’d lost any hope, any energy to fight. She was lost to me, for sure. And so I led her to the stairs, to her fate, and hated myself more than anything.
The deepest of roleplay, with such trusted play partners. The depth of my reactions astounded me, as did Alice’s. Or Bambi’s. Or both, as she and I each spent the next few hours drifting mentally and emotionally back from real life to our characters.
The Hunter played his part superbly. Mr Jenkins was genuinely intimidated by him, genuinely scared for Alice. I was at a loss how to dissuade him from his course of action. (And Murdstone’s anger and fury? Goodness, but he’s a good roleplayer!)
Later, Bambi and I cuddled; much-needed tight hugs. We talked about what had happened. About Alice. About what lay ahead for her. About how Mr Jenkins regretted having let her be taken by such a dreadful man; about how he wanted to rescue her – but about how this story couldn’t have a happy ending. Could it?
Wow. Just wow. Roleplay doesn’t get any better than this.
A simple-but-lovely scene at Emma Jane‘s the other evening.
Lucy Matthews was a lower-sixth former at St Claire’s, a good girls’ boarding school. Along with a few of her friends – and one of their staff, Mr Jenkins – she was participating in a term-long exchange programme with a US school.
Some weeks into their stay, Lucy found herself late one weekend evening knocking sheepishly at Jenkins’ study door. She knew why she was there, of course: she and three of her new American friends had been caught playing truant that afternoon.
Of course, she was right that there was no harm in itself in going to experience a ballgame whilst in the States. “But you were given the rulebook to read, and it’s very clear that you must have permission before leaving the campus,” the master explained.
A sullen look: “It’s a very long document.” That hardly helped her cause. The rule, Jenkins explained, was their for the girls’ safety: staff had a duty to know where they were. Her other three friends were, at that moment, in the Principal’s office. And she’d know from the rulebook, and from her fellow pupils, what the punishment was.
And, of course, it would be most unfair if Lucy wasn’t dealt with in same way. “You need to be made to realise why this school has such a strong reputation for discipline.” Only, it had been agreed that it would be more appropriate for Mr Jenkins to punish her. “So I’m going to give you the paddle,” he explained. “Bend over and place your hands on the chair.”
She looked so very vulnerable as she did so, as he took the heavy implement. “I’m going to give you four swats.” They were delivered slowly; hard enough to hurt and teach her a deserved lesson, but not excessively so. Perhaps he wanted her to realise how much more severe a paddling could be if she misbehaved again?
She looked so very sorry when she stood up – but there was more to come. “I’ve also spoken to the headmaster back as St Claire’s.” He’d wanted Jenkins to pass on his disappointment at how Lucy had let down the school and damaged its reputation with their hosts. “And, of course, you’ve broken our rules too. The headmaster agrees with me that that needs dealing with, too.”
“But you’ve already punished me, sir!”
“For breaking our host school’s regulations, young lady. But you are, and remain, a pupil at St Claire’s – and you have broken our rules too, never mind letting down the school.” He walked past her and took a cane from the corner of the room.
“Bend back over. I’m going to give you six of the best: it seems our traditions require more strokes than our American friends. And take down your pyjamas and knickers; you know our tradition is for punishments to be on the bare.”
Her bottom was already bright red from her paddling; the six cane stripes added pattern to her marks. And then she was told to dress. She apologised: “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I know. I’ve persuaded the headmaster that we don’t need to mention this on the punishment list on the noticeboards at school.”
“Thank you, sir…”
He placed a caring hand on her shoulder: “Now: we don’t need to mention this again. Tme for you to go to bed, Lucy…”
And he sent her on her way. (Only, after a few steps, EJ was back tightly in my arms for the tightest of hugs).
I liked Lucy as a character a great deal. I think I’d rather like to meet her again. She’s a sensible girl, I think, and one who’d be duly chastened by her punishment. (And, after all, I’m sure the other American pupils would learn of it, much to her shame). But were she to stray again? Perhaps with Jenkins dealing with her in preference to mentioning the matter to their hosts? And/or maybe she might find herself in trouble with him the following term, back home? We’ll see…!
If you want to see the paddle, by the way – actually a cheeseboard purchased a few days before in Covent Garden – here’s a photo of yours truly with it a few minutes after the scene:
He was in his study; she and I arrived. We hadn’t specifically planned anything, but I immediately became her housemaster; she’d been caught playing truant for a third time. When I’d caned her the previous time, I’d told her that any repetition would result in a trip to the headmaster.
He was most concerned, clearly, and handed me a heavy cane. He asked me to punish her over her jeans, and I made her bend across the desk and hold the far edges. Six strokes: any kicking or flinching would mean I’d start again.
They were hard: perhaps not so hard as the embarrassment of being watched as she was being beaten. As I measured for the final stroke, she complained that she’d already had six; both the headmaster and I confirmed she’d only had five. I determined that I needed to start again, to teach her to count to six.
Once I was done, it was the headmaster’s turn to speak to her and then make her bend over – only, to her shame, his six were to be on the bare. She unbuttoned and dropped her jeans, taking them down to her knees on his instruction, then – shamefacedly – lowered her knickers.
After two strokes, she kicked. The headmaster reminded her of what I’d told her, and began his tally again. She counted through the strokes bravely – the final one across the crease cutting home hardest of all. And then it was done, and she was made to adjust her clothing and leave…
…or stay for hugs, and have her bottom inspected. A dozen sentenced strokes that had turned into nineteen in practice turned out – despite the majority having been over trousers – to have been administered in a small area: she’d evidently been very brave. Nice to bring 2012 to a close with such a nice scene on the final afternoon; here’s to more in the year ahead.
I’ve long been a top-tier ‘Platinum’ member in the customer loyalty programme run by the Starwood hotel chain. In return for far too many nights in their properties around the world, I’ve had some lovely perks: upgrades to gorgeous suites, access to lovely executive lounges, free food and drink galore.
One feature is a welcome gift – bonus loyalty points, a free breakfast, a bowl of fruit or a ‘local amenity’. It’s the last of these – usually a tacky souvenir – that amuses me; how could I forget the proferred green fluffy elephant emblazoned with ‘Le Meridien’ in one German city?
But checking into their Edinburgh hotel with EJ recently, it struck me that said amenity *might* in some hotels be more interesting. A gentleman arrives with a cute young lady on his arm? Then the local Scottish item on offer might turn out to be a tawse…
Fortunately, I’d brought one of my own with me, so a girl could be made to bend over with her hands on the windowsill, looking at Edinburgh Castle as she was strapped on the bare. (I have no idea whether any passers-by looked up and witnessed her being whacked in true Scottish fashion. Neither, frankly, do I care!)
I think I should suggest this to Starwood. Birches at their Heathrow hotels – just down the road from Eton? A cane, perhaps, at the Park Lane Hotel. And maybe a riding crop for the upper class girls staying in their Knightsbridge branch…