The Spanking Writers

Oooo, my post about a reformatory weekend has certainly sparked some interest. Not least from me – my mind’s been generating ideas for it so quickly that I can hardly keep up. I want to play the scene NOW; forget the practicalities of having virtually no weekends free in the imminent future, of coordinating dates with other willing players, of needing to book a venue…

I envisage this being quite different to most scenes I play – much deeper, much darker. Usually, there’s the build up, the girls getting whacked – and then comforted, relatively shortly afterwards. The aim’s to take a girl to a dark place, then rescue her from it before she’s too traumatised.

But a weekend reformatory? In which the government’s aim is to change a girl’s behaviour over the course of her Friday night to Sunday morning sentence? That involves taking a girl to dark, dark, dark places behind the locked doors – and not rescuing her from them until the end of the lengthy scene. So what if she’s sobbing? That’ll show that the punishment is working, that the officers are doing their job. It’d be interesting to see how such a shift in mindset works – for the tops, as well as the girls; it’ll certainly need “serious, experienced, open-minded players only” stamped on top of the details of the venue.

The level of play will be interesting, too. Each girl will be expected to write a statement in advance – her papers, submitted to the magistrates, explaining the crime with which she has been charged, and pleading her innocence. Other court papers will be added to her folder, including the one pronouncing her guilt and her sentence. She won’t get to see these in advance, naturally – indeed, she’ll be given relatively little information other than where to report, and when, and a few rumours circulated by (imagined) previous inmates.

She’ll be ‘in role’ from the moment she walks through the front door. Her packing list will be light: a toothbrush and a towel; a prison uniform will be provided, in her size.

The c.p. will be hard. Very hard. There’ll be the aforementioned court-ordered birching: a girl won’t know when her thrashing will be administered. Will they be punished individually or in a group? One at a time over the course of the weekend, or immediately following each other to the birching block at some juncture? Or lined up next to one another, facing one another, birched in unison?

Any transgressions will be dealt with severely: the cane, of course, but the heavy prison strap too. On the bare. In public, and in private: the girls will probably come to pray for it to be in public, with their friends around. The house rule will be that the players consent in advance to the level of punishments that may be dealt out: reformatory guardians don’t tailor their discipline to the whims of each prisoner. (Safewords? Of course, if the specific girl wants it in reserve, but some may choose to abandon them at the prison gate).

On the bare. Yes, there’ll be admissions procedures, and inspections, and showers, and drills. Nudity is inevitable, and the officers’ hands may have a tendency to stray. (The level to which said hands will stray is perhaps the only facet of the weekend where preferences will have to be stated clearly in advance, and adhered to dutifully. But stray they will. And did I only say ‘hands’? I know there’ll be some girls who’ll consent in advance to other types of abuse, and that’d be entirely appropriate for the scene).

Girls will be locked in their cells, alone. Even if the house that ends up being rented may not have locks on the doors: there’ll be virtual locks, which girls won’t open. At least, given their guardians’ reputation, they’ll probably pray to be left undisturbed. Any ‘comfort’ before the weekend’s out may come at a price.

They’ll be made to perform tasks (this is about re-education, after all) helping them to learn to become model citizens. And there’ll be no cordon bleu cuisine – at least not for the girls. (I shocked Haron yesterday by commenting that the bread we were about to toast was slightly stale – “but not stale enough for the reformatory girls”).

Would all of our friends be able to immerse themselves deeply enough into the headspace to take such a punishment? I’m sure not. But I do hope that there’ll be a fair few of them who still want to try. And I’m already looking forward to the Sunday cuddles afterwards – they’ll be needed as much by the ex-officers as by their former prisoners.

Dark, dark, dark. I so hope we can make it work.

As far as my spanking fetish is concerned, I’ve got two absolute favourite things: being a schoolgirl, and role-playing complicated, drawn-out scenes. Mix the two together, and you get a happy Haron in a state of kinky bliss.

Abel and I were lucky enough to spend last weekend participating in the longest, most immersing school role-play experience either of us had ever tried: a boarding school, complete with lessons, assemblies, chapel, school play, dorm inspections, games and homework. Oh, and spankings for the girls who misbehaved.

Describing the whole thing would turn any blog post into a novel (and would do nasty things to other people’s privacy), but I can’t resist posting some highlights – the bright pictures flashing up in my memory’s eye.

1. Each girl carries a “points book”, wherein her achievements and misdeeds are recorded. During a lesson Abel demands to see mine. I toss in across the room at him, marvelling at my own audacity. Pause. With a cold voice, he orders me to get out of his classroom. There are only a few minutes of the lesson left, but this is enough for several other masters to wander on the way to and from their bedrooms. Each gives me a knowing look. My Housemaster walks past. “Why are you here, girl?” I explain, cringing. He simply says, “Mmm-hmm.” I expect to hear about this again at the house meeting later in the evening. The noise level in the classroom rises as Abel emerges, cane in hand. Bent over a chair with my skirt up, I receive three sharp, measured strokes. I can’t help jumping up after each one. This is my first punishment of the “school term”, and it remains the most painful.

2. We are not allowed to ask for anything at meals; we must wait to be offered. Thus, if we are to have any hope to get fed ourselves, we should look out for our neighbours needs, and practice heavy hinting. “Would you like some orange juice?” you ask a girl whose glass is full of water. It takes her two seconds to twig it, and then – “No, thank you, but would you like some yourself?” “Why, yes please, how kind of you to ask!”

3. Some of the girls have university degrees in the subjects that are taught, but we are careful not to be too clever. Nobody wants to earn too many points to get spanked later. All the same, the behaviour is mostly unbelievably good. At one point the master sets a task and leaves for a good five minutes. There is no mischief, no conversations, nobody throws paper planes or gets out the pea-shooters. He comes back to find an impeccable classroom. (The only miscreant being yours truly, caught reading a book for the next lesson under the desk. But I’d finished my task, what can I say!)

4. There are two houses, five girls in each. We have our assemblies in the evening. The Housemaster and the junior master attached to the house examine our points books. One girl is praised and dismissed, the rest are sent to queue for their punishment outside. We end up huddling on a tiny landing. I’m the second to go in, but after my punishment (consisting of a spanking, a surprise mouth-soaping earned on the spot, and 8 of the best), I linger to the end, offering and receiving comfort from the others. We can hear the other house assembly finish, and our dinner being served, but we wait in the dark, shell-shocked. We are the naughtiest of the naughty.

5. Abel has inspired me to a piece of naughtiness I would never have perpetrated on my own. Visiting Blackpool several days previously, we happened upon a shop selling sticks of rock (local traditional sweets) inscribed with messages, from names to insults. We bought five pieces saying “Pervert”, and I conspired with the kitchen staff for these to be served to the teachers with their whisky in the staffroom. In assembly, the Headmaster demands that the guilty party owns up. I’m so deep in a schoolgirl head that my tongue freezes in my mouth: I don’t dare speak up. I think better of it almost immediately, but the moment for confession is gone. All morning I go through options in my head. I don’t want to go to the Head. Could I go to my personal tutor? Or ask the kitchen boy who had helped me to snitch on me? I the end, I do go to straight to the Headmaster, who coldly orders me to his office in break. I arrive there fresh from a caning from my Housemaster for an unrelated offence, but I can’t handle putting this off. I get a spanking, a good dose of leather paddle, and a dozen with the cane to sink the message in. The punishment itself is not the harshest ever, but the lecture is so crushing that I leave in tears.

This is as much as I’m comfortable writing without giving away anything somebody may want to keep secret. I hope that those of my playmates who happen to read this might consider adding their own experiences in the comments. You are all most welcome to reminisce with me. In fact, I hope you do!

I’m wondering about the best way to mark 29th of February. It has to be worthy of some interesting spanking goings on, seeing as you can only repeat the events once every four years…
Abel and I don’t have any particular leap year traditions yet. Four years ago our friends had picked this day to get married, so we were too wrapped in our duties of best man and bridesmaid. Four years before that, there was no “Abel and Haron” yet.

So, this must be the tradition-establishing year. No idea what we’re going to do, but whatever it is, I’ll be sure to report it.

I don’t suppose any of you have spanking traditions for this day that you fancy sharing?

Rationally, I know that a spanked bottom needs moisturiser: both straight after the spanking, and in the intervals between sessions. Moisturised skin is more supple, less likely to break, more likely to heal quickly.

Although I know all this, and although I have plenty of lotions on hand, I quite often forget to do the deed. Right after a spanking, this is less likely to happen, because the application of soothing cream is often a part of scene-play itself. Putting lotion on a spanked bottom is a great way to wind down after a scene, as well as a not-too-subtle seduction technique. Between two spanked girls, it can be a lovely bonding experience.

Day-to-day moisturising is, however, not a part of my routine, though I really think it should be. A few days before a spanking event (like now) I suddenly realise: oooh boy, my bottom could really do with some softening before I have lots of delicious damage inflicted on it. Unfortunately, at this stage it’s a bit late to start, and I know that if I have play more lightly than I’d like, I’ll have nobody but myself to blame.

Here’s a public service announcement: Don’t follow my example, people: take care of your bottom. You’ll thank yourself for it.

(Before anybody asks: my favourite lotion is Palmer’s Cocoa Butter, which you can find in any supermarket for not very much money. But really, any moisturiser will do.)

My Valentine’s Day gift from Abel was a set of new calligraphy pens, nibs and inks. Having not found a home for them yet, I keep them on the table next to my laptop. For some odd reason, the thoughts I have most frequently when I look at them are not about practising calligraphy, but about writing lines.

When I was a kid, it was the one type of punishment I could give to myself. It didn’t get corrupted by my being unable to spank myself hard enough, or lacking a play-partner to physically interact with me. I could simply sit at my table and write lines, pretending I was at school.

As I think about this, I marvel at how diverse line-writing can be. You can use them in several different ways:

1. A punishment in themselves. (A naughty girl is given masses of them to write out in an evening. With a dip pen. When she could be reading or watching TV.)
2. An addition to spanking. (As above, but the naughty girl writes her lines with a tender bottom, or perhaps, with her hands sore from a strapping.)
3. A prelude for further punishment. (As above, but the top checks the sheet for neatness, mistakes and miscounts, allocating another spanking for these.)

I enjoy all three, though the third is my favourite. As long as the top can bring himself to be fair, and not pick on my writing excessively. Not that I’m implying that anybody ever would.

Which do you like best?

I’m out in the kitchen making dinner. Abel is on the phone to his mother in the next room, and I can hear him through the door:

“I’d better go, Mum; Haron’s cooking, I need to give her a hand.”

I wonder briefly why he thinks I need help stirring curry that’s come out of a jar; surely I’m not that inept.

Everything is explained when he strides into the room, yanks down my slightly-too-large tracksuit bottoms along with my knickers, and gives me several firm, crisp smacks. I hold on to the stirring spoon to keep myself from ending up face-first in the bubbling curry.

“Is that your understanding of giving me a hand?” I ask, pulling my pants back up.

“Yeah. What, did you think I was going to help you?”

Christmas finished at the weekend. Because we were away, the exchanging-presents thing didn’t really happen on time this year, and we’ve been swapping away ever since. I’ve rather enjoyed the month-long gift-fest.

We finally caught up with two of our dearest friends on Saturday: presents each way are inevitably kinky. And how they excelled themselves this year: a fabulous leather razor strop, filling an important missing link in my collection of implements.

Inevitably, it was mere moments before Haron was over the side of the settee, the strop proving to be quite as effective as one might hope. (Or, to be more accurate, as I might hope – my young lady’s language made it plain that it was rather too effective when experienced from the receiving end!).

Scenes of fathers despatching daughters to fetch the strop are flooding through my imagination, whilst I try to decide whether I can get away with hanging it in the traditional manner from a hook in the bathroom even when vanilla friends visit…

I’d like to apologise to customers of the northbound service station on the M1 at Northampton last Sunday afternoon, for any shock you may have suffered as you were forced to witness Haron bending with her palms on the side of the car, having her backside spanked.

I am so sincerely sorry for any distress I may have caused you.

Not for any I may have caused her, of course.

*She* deserved it… We’d been listening to a song on the radio that samples the old Supertramp lyric, “Not much of a girlfriend… She’s the only one I’ve got.” I’d remarked that my then girlfriend hated me singing along when the original tune had been on the radio in our University days.

“I hadn’t realised the song was *that* ancient,” commented Haron.

And she was surprised when I pulled over and made her get out for a spanking?

I wonder whether young Martha’s work colleagues noticed her squirming uncomfortably behind her desk the other morning? If so, then I must record my confession…

She’d emerged from her shower to find an Inspector from The Party’s police force waiting in her dorm room. He enquired after one of her friends “since we are somewhat concerned for his welfare.” Reluctantly, she confessed that she had been with the young man in question into the early hours of the morning.

The inspector was grateful for her confirmation of the former part of her friend’s story; he challenged her with the latter. “Your Comrade tells me that during your time together, you made various disparaging remarks about the Party leadership, in direct violation of section 7.3 of Party rules. He therefore visited us this morning to notify us of the offence.”

The girl knew the potential consequences, of course: fortunately for her, the Inspector seemed minded to be generous.

“Do you recall the punishment detailed in sub-section 15.3.2 of the rules for such an offence?” He paused momentarily, before continuing. “Comrade Martha, you may count yourself lucky that I do not this morning intend to impose the more serious punishment available to me, of stripping you of your Party membership. You will understand that that would inevitably result in you being expelled from the Party University.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Instead, I will administer the lesser penalty of a thrashing. Can you recall, Comrade, the number of strokes of the cane specified for breaches of section 7.3?”

“Six, sir?”

“Between ten and fifteen. So I shall start by administering ten, and we shall then see whether you are suitably repentant, or whether I need to continue to the higher total.”

–

So, dear readers, you will understand Martha’s discomfort. The inspector applied the heavy dragon cane with some considerable vigour; one of the ten strokes had to be re-applied as the girl failed to take it appropriately. When instructed to stand afterwards, her silence resulted in further punishment: “If you are not yet ready to express your remorse, then I shall see if two more strokes loosen your tongue.”

And then it was time to leave for work, the young lady wincing all the way, much to my enjoyment.

Abel’s 40 today (and he doesn’t behave a day over 14). *g* That’s quite a few birthday smacks for yours truly… Oh, dear.

Luckily for me, we had to leave our assorted canes in storage at our previous hotel. Unluckily for me, this hotel has provided us with brand-new rubber beach flip-flops. Abel hasn’t worn his at all; apparently, from the moment he saw them he knew that one of these would be perfect for his birthday spanking.

I have rarely been spanked with anything that looked so fearsome, and hurt so little! Even though I’d managed to earn extra strokes (for missing out the year 1999 in my count, for example), my biggest problem throughout the spanking was a violent attack of the giggles. I suppose, it did start to sting a bit once we got into the new millennium, and the one to grow on was quite ouchie… but a terrible  ordeal it was not.

And that’s fine, you know. After all, birthdays are for laughing, being happy and eating cake, right?

Happy birthday, my lovely husband

PS Abel’s just read that the arrangements for the poolside buffet on New Year’s Eve include ‘viking style seating’. He’s wondering whether he’ll be expected to join in the raping and pillaging, or whether he’ll just be able to punish any girls who try to escape.