The Spanking Writers

I woke early, as usual. Haron was still sound asleep, curled up next to me.

I couldn’t resist: who could? My hands wandered, reaching to rub her bottom. Sore, clearly, from last night’s whipping with the crop – she winced, murmured, wriggled away, shuffled back closer.

Inspired, I whispered into her ear. I’d been kind, I explained, to take her in the night before: I’d watched her flogging in the market place that morning, noticed her wandering from door to door during the day. I understood that her landlord would have thrown her out of her lodgings – and that no-one else in the town would take in a criminal who’d been publicly whipped.

But I was a kind gentleman. I’d seen her standing, disconsolate, in the market square as darkness fell, her few belongings in a small bag at her feet. I’d taken pity on her: brought her back to my house. And she couldn’t object now if I woke her by running my fingers over her weals…

Reformatory spankings are never a gentle thing, but one particular punishment session from last week’s reformatory weekend stands out in my mind. Other than her final birching, my character Audrey had one last punishment remaining, and she was informed that for this punishment she needed to report to Mr Jenkins.

Part of me rejoiced at seeing Abel, as we hadn’t played one-on-one for the whole weekend, and frankly, we barely saw each other. I was also apprehensive: Abel isn’t known for his light spankings – particularly when he’s playing the devious Mr Jenkins. by this point I was extremely sore, particularly having just emerged from a punishment session with Dr Grimace.

I knocked on the door of the Punishment Wing. Mr Jenkins ordered me to enter, and I saw him assembling an armful of evil-looking implements. He handed these to me, like a heap of firewood. “Come with me,” he said curtly.

This was ominous. As far as I knew, every room in the house was taken right now, with girls in their final punishment sessions. He led me into the kitchen and headed towards the back door. I had a dreadful feeling I was about to be spanked outside, but I followed him with only a little squeak of protest.

“Go ahead,” Mr Jenkins commanded. “Towards the outbuilding over there. Go on!”

Turned out, our reformatory cottage had a games room in a shed outside, and Abel had a key. Shivering with cold, but very happy that I wasn’t staying outdoors for my spanking, I followed him into the games room. There wasn’t much there: a couple of desks of indeterminate purpose, and a big pool table.

“Put the implements on the table over there,” said Mr Jenkins. “And take off your clothes.”

The part of me that was Audrey was mortified, but I scampered to obey. Other girls had whispered about the reformatory staff taking unimaginable liberties, but I had mostly avoided anything more terrible than a flogging here and there and a few little humiliations. Undoubtedly painful, these things seemed insignificant now, as I willed my trembling, numb fingers to work faster on the buttons of my tidy Sunday dress. Mr Jenkins’s sneer told me loud and clear that my good luck had run out, and he intended to have his fun with me.

“Pretty young thing,” he purred as I awkwardly stripped out of my undergarments. “I’ve had my eye on you from the first evening. Take off your shoes, but you may keep your socks; wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

My nudity was all the more mortifying for his smart outfit: the suit, the cravat, the watch chain snaking across the front of his ornate waistcoat, the fancy, dark malacca riding whip he was using as a walking stick. I was acutely aware of our difference in height, which seemed particularly drastic that morning. I cringed under his appraising gaze.

“Mmm,” he said. “Very nice. Bend over the pool table.”

I leaned forward, stretched as far as I could, held onto the sides. My breasts pressed into the green fabric. Behind me, Mr Jenkins was picking an implement.

“I think I’ll give you six with each of these,” he said, swishing a leather riding crop through the air.

There were five implements in the heap: the crop, a couple of straps, a cane – and his knotty walking stick. I’d been hurting even before the first stroke landed, and the first half-dozen licks re-ignited the fire Dr Grimace had started earlier. I yelped pitifully.

“You can cry all you like,” said Mr Jenkins. “They won’t hear us in the house. And even if they did…”
They wouldn’t care, I knew. I looked through a window towards the reformatory building. In an upstairs window I could see a man’s form, his arm going up and down rhythmically. Mr Murdstone, I thought, giving somebody one of his methodical thrashings; I’d had one of those the day before.

Mr Jenkings slapped my bottom with an open hand. “Spread your legs,” he said conversationally.

A few days before it might have occurred to me to argue, but I’ve had all fight beaten out of me by now. When I felt questing fingers between my thighs, I didn’t try to wriggle out of the way, and only whimpered, “Please, sir, my modesty…”

He laughed a genuinely amused laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl! I know your sort.” He smacked me again, and I heard the sound of his belt buckle behind me.

The other girls had whispered it was better not to resist. I could well imagine this getting even worse. I squeezed my eyes shut, and sobbed, and gave in.

So we proceeded for the next long while. Six cracks of an implement turned into punishments of more intimate, invasive kind. Audrey was methodically destroyed, to the point where she raised no more objections to any of the exotic urges Mr Jenkins sought to satisfy with her.

When we finished, I buzzed with pleasure, as Audrey retreated into a deep corner of my soul to curl up in the dark. Abel and I hugged and laughed. Somehow, throughout the punishment he’d managed to stay almost completely dressed, which entertained me a great deal.

After a short break, however, it was time for Audrey to come back. In character again, he ordered me to dress and make myself look decent, before marching me across the yard back to the main reformatory building.

There was still a birching to come, but then the reformatory weekend would be over.

One of the things about spanking events that last over a whole weekend is that it’s hard to write a single coherent report of them. Sometimes, it takes only a minute to have an intense kinky experience that feeds your fantasies for months afterwards – and the Victorian reformatory we attended over the weekend (organised by Jessica and her husband) lasted for 48 hours. There were, of course, breaks and stretches of downtime, but I’ve spent most of the weekend in role. Memorable experiences… I’ve had a few.

Here are some highlights.

1. Induction involved surrendering my clothing and lining up for the shower with the other girls, before we were allowed to changed into our freshly-issued reformatory uniforms. There was a big wicker basket in the corridor, and we had to throw all of our everyday clothes there. Colourful fabrics flew into the basket; stockings, black and white, curled together; drawers and slips rested on the top – several girls’ previous lives all mixed in together. We were all thrown into the same basket of the reformatory, and it would be a while before we would be allowed to emerge separately again.

2. We girls spent a fair amount of time cooking meals and cleaning up afterwards. While we worked, the masters sat in their common room, demanding wine or tea or snacks from time to time. We took turns to serve them. I expect they were bored, because every time I went in to serve, they came up with little humiliations to visit upon me. For example, at one point I had to keep walking around the room with a plate of biscuits until I made a round without anyone taking one. Not knowing what would happen each time I knocked on the door of the common room was delicious torture.

3. All girls wore cards around our necks, where we got black marks for specific offences. Five marks for the same offence invited punishment. Begging not to have my card marked didn’t help a single time, but still I begged, and all the masters had a similar smirk as they put down their marks. It was, perhaps, worse than the punishments themselves. (Though not the mouth-soaping for the foul language: that was singularly vile.)

4. We were subject to hourly punishment, unless there was some other event going on. You would have thought that, with so many spankings to deliver, the masters would go easy during each one. Not so: although, perhaps, not the hardest they could give, they spanked firmly, and were most unimpressed with yelping and wriggling. The cumulative effect of this, as well as the individual punishment sessions with each master, was that I reached the state of perpetual soreness by Saturday evening, and was truly struggling to sit down on the hard bench at the table where we took our improving lessons.

5. And then there was my final individual punishment session of the weekend, an appointment with Mr Jenkins…

…but that’s a topic for a separate post. To be continued!

We’ve just returned from a weekend at a reformatory (where I was being reformed, and Abel was one of the master’s). My bottom is sensitive to the merest touch, and it’s unusually painful to sit on. I’ll write more about how it got this way as I process my impressions, but I’ll have you know that Abel isn’t in the least sympathetic.

When we came home this morning, I complained about being very sore, particularly after a long drive. Abel’s reaction? He picked up the wooden yardstick that lives in the kitchen.

“Bend over and put your hands on the counter,” he said.

I whimpered and obeyed. Even the motion of bending over was painful, as the seams of my knickers rubbed against my sensitive skin. Abel measured the yardstick against my bottom, and told me to stick it out properly.

I gritted my teeth and whined quietly in anticipation.

The strokes were quick, loud, and smarted a lot. Even though they weren’t that hard. I made no attempt to be brave, and yelped pathetically.

Now I’m sitting on my sore bottom, and wondering how I’m going to take the birching I’ve been promised for tonight…

“Come here, young lady!” said Abel.

I approached, with caution. He was smiling (that was good), but he was also holding up a hairbrush (that was ominous).

“What do you mean by leaving a hairbrush lying around? That’s just asking for a spanking.”

So, it appears that he’d walked past my hairbrush, noticed it there, and decided it was “lying around”, and needed to be used. Hmm.

There was nothing I could do, though. He bent me down, secured me under his left arm, and applied the brush to my bottom with firm determination. I yelped and wiggled, because even through my jeans a wooden brush is going to make an impression.

A dozen or so smacks later, he released me, and handed the brush to me.

“Let this be a lesson,” he said. “You can put it away.”

I guess, it was a lesson. I should keep the brush in a drawer at all times. I’m not sure how it’s going to help with the other 50 implements lying randomly around the house in full view…

Yesterday morning Abel noticed me as I was going past on my way from the shower, and called me over to read his post about touching toes and bending over chairs. I agreed that it was an interesting entry, and was about to turn around and continue on my way, when he said:

“Wait a minute! I think you should take that towel off, bend over and touch your toes.”

It seemed entirely reasonable, if you understand Abel-logic.

I bent forward, wet hair brushing the carpet. Behind me, I felt an ominous swish of the cane through the air.

“Right,” he said. “I don’t appreciate prefects still being in bed at 8.30, when they should be in chapel.”

I humbly apologised for my laziness.

“Three strokes,” he said.

Down they came, three stinging slashes. I hissed in pain, but didn’t forget to count.

Abel hoped I had learned my lesson, and told me to report to chapel after lessons, to make up for lost prayer time. I promised that I would, and that I would never oversleep again.

“You may go,” he said.

Then we had a good giggle, and I could admire three thin red lines the cane left on my bottom.

I’m sure I got a spanking over Abel’s knee one day last week, and thought, “I should remember to blog about this.”

Well, I remembered to blog about it. But I’ve forgotten everything else about it! What could I have done to deserve a spanking, I wonder?

I hope some of you will help me remember. Or just take a guess.

Had I overteased the cat? Had I overteased Abel? Had I plotted an overthrow of the monarchy? (Nah, that one would have got me a “well done”, not a spanking.) Maybe I tried to overthrow the monarchy and failed?

Can’t think of anything I might have done to deserve a spanking. Any ideas?

Conversations with several of my spanker and dom friends recently revealed that they see a safeword used in a scene with them as a personal failure. The reasoning goes that a top should have enough grasp on what’s happening, to back down before using a safeword becomes necessary.

Something in me feels like I’d rather not know this about tops. I’m generally appalled at the idea of hurting somebody’s feelings, so if I know that using a safeword will make a top feel bad, I may hesitate to do so when I need to. And it’s really quite important that a bottom takes the responsibility to stop a scene if it becomes necessary.

When I top, I need to know that they’ll do this instead of suffering in silence, afraid to hurt my feelings.

There seems to be a sort of paradox here.

If you top, does it upset you when somebody safewords? If you bottom, have you ever held your tongue out of reluctance to upset your playmate?

I didn’t see this spanking coming.

I’m hardly ever out of bed before Abel is. In fact, this morning when I woke up, he was already up and about, getting ready to take Martha to the train station after her overnight stay. I gave both of them a sleepy kiss, and headed for my desk and the Internet. I heard them go out, and then heard Abel come back, and assumed he was starting work, as he always does at this time of morning.

Half an hour later, Abel walks into my office. “What happens to girls who leave their phones on when their husband is sleeping?”

Sleeping? At 7am? Who’s ever heard of such a thing?

He was holding up my mobile phone by a pink deer charm I got in Nara. It was buzzing with a new text message, which it does over and over if it’s not stopped.

I grabbed for the phone, but he held it out of reach. “Come upstairs and earn your phone back,” he said in a ‘you’re doomed’ kind of voice.

I walked into the bedroom with him. He sat on the bed. “This is the phone,” he said, holding it up. “And this is a hairbrush,” he picked up the Mason-Pearson. “Over my knee.”

“But…”

“Bend over.”

There was no point making a drama about this. I sighed and went over, and received a dozen or so memorable cracks of the brush. I owwed dutifully, and possibly even apologised.

After I paid the ransom, my phone was released.

I stroked the deer charm. It didn’t look especially traumatised. It must be used to random spankings at all hours.

I’m not sure I am, though.

Our first trip to our new dentist on Wednesday, for a routine check-up. They asked us to fill in a health questionnaire, and I happened to glance across at Haron’s.

‘Number of units of alcohol in a typical week’? She’d written ‘three’. I suppressed a giggle, but later, back at home, raised the issue of dishonesty on official forms. She duly protested her innocence.

“In which case,” I responded, “you clearly need some tuition in counting,” and instructed her to bend over. I grabbed the nearest implement (a rather cruel yardstick). “This” – three whacks – “is three. And this” – more whacks – “is eight.”

(I confess that eight units is probably an exaggeration in respect of her drinking, given that she gets tipsy after half a glass, but it seemed like a nice round number!)