The Spanking Writers

Lately, most – if not all – of my play has been of a slightly different nature to the scenes I’ve more usually experienced in the past. See, I’ve always been one for roleplaying, and particularly of scenes best characterised as “consensual non-consent”. The girl concerned is being punished; she’s scolded, admonished, remorseful; her beating is something she dreads, dislikes; there may well be tears, even before the first stroke.

Yet more recently, whilst there’s still often been a degree of roleplay involved, the scenarios I’ve played out (other than in group settings or in the most spontaneous quick spankings) have been ones in which – even (indeed especially) where the whackings have been severe – the girls have actually, ahem, enjoyed the experience. The sort of play where, perhaps not at first, but certainly before long, it becomes apparent that the young lady is finding being thrashed, shall we say, rather hot…

It’s a fascinating and different way of playing, and I’m really enjoying it. After all, for me, spanking is a sexual fetish, and so – whether (depending on the play partner concerned) such scenes lead to sex, to naughty touching or actually not to any physical contact at all – it’s rather lovely to find a more sexualised, consensual dimension within my play. And it’s fabulous to discover a new style of playing – expanding my repertoire, so to speak, in the most enjoyable way.

But I do find myself craving a good, long, well-planned, one-to-one, non-consensual punishment role-play. I’d hate to lose that from my kink life, and confess to missing it badly – much as I’m loving the different style of play I’ve been exploring. So I’m rather looking forward to dealing with the next girl to come nervously my way for a thrashing she won’t enjoy (at least until it’s over and we can hug out of character).

Jimmy was sitting in a chair with a cigarette in his hand and an appreciative look in his eyes, looking domly. I was standing in front of him, awaiting instructions.

“Smooth out the bed covers,” he said.

Impatient for what would happen when the bed was ready, I hastily yanked the duvet into place. It wasn’t great, but I judged it would do.

Jimmy regarded it impassively, and turned his gaze back to me.

“Are you happy with that?” he asked quietly.

I melted inside. It was just about the most dominant, mind-controlling thing anyone has ever said to me. Not “this isn’t good enough”, not “do it properly” -just a reminder that I should know better than do less than my best. Ohhh, the shame.

There was a fair amount of other play that day, but this is the moment that’s fused into my brain like a living picture.

If there’s one major weakness in my spanking technique,  I reckon it’s to do with warm-ups* – or, more particularly, the lack of them in many of the scenes I play.

I get the need for a good warm-up, of course, from the girl’s perspective – and that it’s in a good top’s interest too, allowing, perhaps, the scene to continue longer and (where appropriate) with greater intensity than if whackings are administered cold.

But here’s the thing. When it comes to school scenes, the thought of a headmaster laying his hands on a girl – rather than using a cane, tawse or slipper – doesn’t ring true for me. In a judicial scene, a hand spanking hardly feels commensurate with the caning or birching to follow. When the master of the house punishes a maid, putting her over his knees suggests inappropriate physical intimacy. In other settings, it just feels… well, indecisive: surely a disciplinarian should select his implement of choice, and get on for it, rather than dithering (“hey, let’s start with a hand spanking, then I thought we could move on to the strap too for variety…”).

Damned authenticity fetish, see? Of course that does leave many delightful scenes where a warming hand spanking is entirely appropriate; it fits in perfectly when out of character too – at parties for example, when just playing for sheer fun without a scenario or roles. But in the ones that are probably closest to my core kink? I struggle.

Ideas, tips? Do other tops feel the same – and how do you overcome it? And from those of you on the receiving end: any thoughts on how a good warm-up can best be integrated seamlessly into a scene where it may not fit totally naturally?

* others who’ve played with me may wish to come up with their own lists, but that’s not really the point of the post!

Abel is really making me giggle right now.

We’re expecting some friends for dinner and an overnight stay, so there’s a burst of tidying and preparations going on. We’ve done most of it, so now it’s time for finishing touches. For my part, I’m getting out spare bedding, and making sure the cat doesn’t go to sleep on the fresh towels.

Abel is making sure the canes are neatly arranged on the cane rack, that the tawses are hanging off their proper pegs, and that punishment forms are printed out on paper of just the correct shade of blue.

One of us has his priorities right…

Sometimes scenes are long in the planning: there’s careful choreography, detailed discussion of plots and preferences. And sometimes play’s far more spontaneous – such as many lovely vignettes at Eliane’s birthday party last weekend.

Girls dragged upstairs to be put over my knee. Our host’s new razor strop and strap being put to good effect. Cate Stoker and Emma Jane, bent over the end of the bed in turn to be strapped with my belt and then caned, Mr Allen and I sharing whacking duties.

That all sounds remarkably natural and relaxed, as I write it. Visit kinky house, ask girls to play, spankings ensue.  But, now, here’s the thing. Those of you who don’t know me personally will probably think that spanking play comes easily to me – that every kinky lass who crosses my path risks ending up over my lap or school desk.

In my work life, I’ve fairly extrovert – but there, I have an excuse. Yet when it comes to matters kinky, I’m pretty shy. It’s not that play, when it happens, isn’t great and successful. But asking a girl whether she wants to be spanked? I find it hard to pluck up the courage – whether by email or (worse) face to face. She won’t want to be spanked by me… And what if she says no?  My fear of rejection is stupidly high and, frankly, getting worse – despite, I like to think, being largely unfounded.

It doesn’t stop me altogether, of course: I’ve enjoyed some truly lovely play in recent months. But for every great scene, there have been evenings with kinky friends which have happily passed by with dinner, wine, chat and an early night, and me far from bold enough to raise the topic of play – even with people I’d dearly love to have spanked.

So it’s increasingly the case that you’ve been able to find me in the kitchen at parties, to steal a phrase, when I should probably have been aiming for the study or a bedroom. Must be more assertive and confident – I think… Last Saturday was a good starting point; here’s hoping I can pluck up the courage to continue the trend.

“Would you like a gentle hand-spanking?” Abel asked me.

We were at Eliane’s birthday party, and throughout the afternoon people were disappearing upstairs to play. I wasn’t feeling particularly up to playing for some reason, but Abel’s suggestion was tempting.

“Actually, yes,” I said. “Yes, I would.”

We went upstairs to find a free room. Abel sat on the bed and patted his lap; I pushed down my jeans and arranged myself comfortably over his knees.

His hand was warm and soothing on my bare skin, first stroking, then slapping gently. It was exactly what I wanted, a sensual spanking that built up to a lovely even burn. By the end, I was purring.

Turns out that, even if I don’t really feel like playing, a gentle hand-spanking can be just what I need. It’s like chocolate: you may not be hungry, but you can always enjoy having some.

I was sleepily wandering towards the shower this morning, when I met Abel on the landing. He boggled for a moment, and then cheerfully shouted: “A naked girl!”

Well, yes. A little bit of stating the obvious here, but yes, so there was.

“Into the bedroom and bend over the bed,” he commanded. “You should expect things like this if you wander around the house naked.”

Not one to argue with a reasonable request, I bent over the bed, and watched him pick a razor strop out of a toy rack.

He began to strap me in a measured rhythm. The sting was not unbearable, but quite noticeable, and I yelped in protest.

“This is so arbitrary!” I cried.

“Yes, yes it is,” he gleefully agreed. “I bet you thought I was going to stop at six!”

I hadn’t been counting, but I fully agreed that six would have been a good number of strokes. Instead, he went on strapping me for a good while longer, until my yelps were beginning to show some distress.

“And let this be a lesson to you,” he said.

Right. Next time I see him wandering around the house naked, I’ll know what to do.

I was innocently reading on the sofa when Abel, in his toppy voice, called down: “Come upstairs, young lady!”

Although I was fairly certain that I hadn’t done anything that warranted a summons, a little worry twitched in my heart.

I ascended the stairs, and heard slow clapping sounds from the bedroom. I wondered whether Abel was, for some reason, spanking himself in there, but when I came in, it turned out that he was slapping an antique wooden hairbrush against his palm. His face looked like he was about to break out in giggles.

“Over my knee!” he said.

I lowered myself over his lap, eager to find out what all this was about. The hairbrush immediately landed on my bottom, lightly but effectively. I yelped.

“How long have we been together?” Abel demanded.

“Er, nearly nine years.”

“That’s right! Nine years!” harder slaps of the brush. “You’d have thought that by now you might have learned that an English gentleman requires a cup of tea in the afternoon!”

I burst out laughing, even as I was yelping. I was about to point out that the longer he kept spanking me, the longer he was putting off his cup of tea. But he must have realised this, because the spanking stopped, and I was released to put the kettle on.

I must admit, this excuse for a spanking might have infuriated me if I read about it on somebody else’s blog, but I actually believe that feminists are allowed to play at being patriarchal monsters, so there.

On Friday Abel came home from a business trip, and our three weeks of separation came to an end. I had made numerous broad hints and direct requests for a welcome home spanking, and he certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea, so it was no surprise that I was summoned to the bedroom in a playfully stern tone.

Upstairs, he helped me out of my clothes and smoothly pulled me over his lap.

“Look at the clock,” he said.

From my position over his knee I looked up at the night stand, where the electronic alarm clock was showing 00:09.

“I’m going to spank you until 11 minutes past,” he said.

This seemed reasonable. The spanking was unhurried, measured and reasonably stingy, and seemed to go on for a very long time – yet, when I sneaked another glimpse at the clock, it was still 00:09. This was odd: I know time drags when you’re being spanked, but I could have sworn it had lasted for more than one minute.

I looked at my wristwatch, and followed the second hand around the watch face as Abel continued to pepper my bottom with smacks. Sure enough, a minute had passed – yet, when I looked up at the night stand clock, it was still showing 00:09.

“Oi!” I protested. “The clock is broken!”

“I don’t mind. You’re getting spanked till 11 past.” He was clearly enjoying himself very much.

“You’re going to spank me forever?”

His only response was to continue the spanking.

Not even Abel can actually keep spanking somebody forever and ever, so eventually the spanking did stop, and we moved on to other marital pursuits. From time to time I would glance at the clock again, and it would still be 00:09. Time had stopped. This turned out to be an excellent way to stretch out a fun night.

Last weekend, Emma Jane and I spent a lovely 24 hours holed up in the W Leicester Square – a rather fabulous hotel opened earlier this year, which prides itself on being (or, at least attempting, to be) at the cutting edge of design and style. And, frankly, it manages to carry it off pretty well.

It’s genuinely original and quirky in parts – take, for example, the goods on offer in the room, which occasioned a rather memorable discussion on check-out:

Staff member: “And did you have anything from the mini-bar?”

Me: “Yes. A pack of cashew nuts and a vibrator.”

But what amused us most of all was the description of one of the spa treatments, which EJ spied in the hotel directory:

BAMBOO MASSAGE

De-stress as silky bamboo canes are expertly rolled and powerfully massaged across your body using unique techniques for muscle strengthening, lymph draining and circulation reactivation. Away from the ordinary, this treatment encourages improved inner well-being as specific reflexology points are activated while the bamboo bio extract leaves skin feeling silky, nourished and restored.

Now, £45 for 25 mins or £99 for 55 mins sounded like quite a lot for a caning. And sadly we didn’t have time for EJ to try it out. But this must surely win the prize for the kinkiest spa treatment in the world?

And no, before cynics reading this wonder: I’m really not making this up!