The Spanking Writers

Drum roll…Curtain opens…

My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen… (and the rest of you )

We are delighted to announce…

For the first time ever…

“The Spanking Writers”, our book!

Yes, folks, it’s true. We’ve finally made it into print. We’ve just taken delivery of our own copies of the anthology which brings together the highlights of the first two years of our blog (that would be 2006 and 2007). And it looks wonderful: hardback, a lovely dust jacket which you can remove if you want to read it in public, and so many fond memories as we read through the entries that we love the most.

If you fancy buying a copy, you can get it here. (It should be on Amazon before long, but we get to keep more pennies if you buy it from our own store. Not that we’re ever going to be millionaires, mind, but it’d be nice not to lose money on the deal). Happy reading!

Fiona Locke, the best-selling author of “Over the Knee” has this to say about the book:

“Discipline has never been sweeter. Quite simply some of the best spanking erotica you will read anywhere. The authors are imaginative, literary and above all, genuine.”

(Should we say something like “great gift idea - buy early for Christmas”? Or just “why not treat yourself to a little relaxing reading before falling asleep…”)

Here endeth the commercial break.

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One of our occasional commenters here at Spanking Writers wrote to us recently, with a plea. She’d just plucked up the courage to invest in some canes for the first time – and had realised that neither she, nor her husband, actually really knew how to apply a caning safely and effectively. Did I have any advice?

Being keen to ensure that the canes didn’t gather dust in the cupboard for lack of suggestions, I threw together a quick twelve-of-the-best tips for them to consider. I thought it’d be fun to post the list here – and to get others’ comments on technique for newbie caners:

1. Practice first: get used to hitting the target by whacking pillows. (Yes, it may sound silly, but…)

2. Give a warm-up - say an OTK spanking first: it helps to make the cane strokes slightly more bearable (even though some think it’s inauthentic if you’re playing, say, a school scene).

3. Choose the right position. It’s easier to cane accurately, at least if you’re new to it, if the young lady is lying down (perhaps on a bed with a pillow under her hips to lift her bottom up - the top can then stand to the side of the bed). If not, having you bend over something (a chair back, a desk if you have one) is easier than touching-your-toes.

4. Aim at the right spot. Be careful not to whack too high (watch out for the tail bone, particularly) or too low (the crease between the buttocks and thighs is usually seen as a sensible lowest point). Some tops mark the boundaries - the first stroke at the top of the “range”, the second at the bottom, which then it makes it easier to land the remainder on target.

5. Don’t hurry. Twenty seconds or so between strokes is good, to let the impact of the stroke reach its maximum point and level out, before applying the next one.

6. Don’t “wrap”. The worst marks come if the cane tip doesn’t land on the buttocks, but goes right round onto the hips or front of the thighs. Making sure he doesn’t stand too close will help.

7. Don’t be tempted to whack too hard, or too many times, especially the first time. I know I was tempted to give my first spankee 30 of the best. Six, slowly, well-done with cuddles afterwards can be far more intense. And the cane doesn’t need to hit the ceiling on the backswing! (Whilst getting used to wielding the cane, it may also be easier to hold it some way along, thus effectively shortening its length - that can help with accuracy until he’s confident).

8. Close the windows, and put on the TV if you’re at all worried about noise travelling. You want to enjoy it together - not have a worry at the back of your minds about the neighbours hearing and calling the police to rescue the poor woman being beaten next door.

9. Have an appropriate safeword. Sounds obvious, but “no”, “it hurts”, “owwww” and “stoooopppppp” may well come out naturally - yet you may actually be enjoying it (deep down) and wanting the scene to continue. Traffic lights work well (amber = OMG it hurts, so be careful, but keep going; red = stop now).

10. Don’t panic if the odd stroke does go astray. It may well do so - even with experienced players, the odd one does!

11. Have some arnica cream handy (if you can find some), or aloe vera if not, or decent moisturiser if not, and rub it in afterwards.

12. Don’t book a session at the local spa, or in the local swimming pool with vanilla friends, for the following morning! You may have marks that might take a couple of days to fade!

And finally - have fun!

–

So, what d’ya think? Any other advice?

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No sooner than I posted an off-hand remark about the number of rounds we girls managed to down in a lovely Welsh pub, Abel’s pervy side of the brain went into overdrive. When I next opened my email, I found this:

Young lady,

If you’re going to write to your friends about your drinking exploits at the weekend, you should be careful not to include me on the distribution list.

Seven alcoholic drinks is most certainly not acceptable. Excessive drinking is not something to be proud of, or about which to gloat.

I’d like to see you in my study as soon as you’ve read this, so that we can deal with this. Thoroughly.

Daddy xx

I gave a silent whoop, punched the air, and raced upstairs straight away.

I regretted this at once, because Daddy was not amused with his girl’s drinking exploits. Even my most earnest explanation that when people are buying you a drink, it’s impolite to refuse, was rejected at once.

He sat on the bed, easily tipped me over his knee and pulled down my jogging bottoms together with my knickers.  I dug my fingertips into the carpet, preparing to feel a crack of his palm, but instead there was an unmistakeable touch of cool wood against my skin.

“Not the hairbrush!” I wailed. “Please, I’m sorry, not the hairbrush!”

The pleading didn’t help very much. The pain of the brush is astonishing, even when it isn’t used very hard. I howled and begged as it cracked down, and apologised most sincerely. I felt Abel throw the brush aside, and rejoiced for a second, before I felt him reach into a bedside drawer for some other implement. Although I couldn’t see it, I soon realised it wasn’t much of an improvement, as its wooden side printed into my skin. (Further inspection revealed this to be a spaghetti measurer, which is effectively a small paddle with variously sized holes.)

After all the spanking and yelling and pleading and wriggling was done, I was sternly ordered onto my feet and into the corner.

“You may stay there and think about your behaviour, and when you feel suitably chastened, you may come and find me,” said Abel in Daddy’s voice before leaving the room. I shuffled into the corner, carefully feeling the hot surface of my bottom with my icy fingertips. My fingers warmed up before my bottom grew any cooler.

“Well?” asked Daddy from the corridor.

“I’m really sorry,” I whimpered, and peek cautiously into the crack in the door. There stood Abel, himself again, and grinning at me like a recently fed cat. I wrapped my arms around his neck, angling my face up for a kiss.

Only then did it occur to me that pulling up my pants first might have been slightly more dignified. Ah, well.

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The next few days promise to be bags of fun, as I’m joining a few of my female spanking friends for a girly weekend away. LittleNic has stopped by our house to pick me up, and we are Thelma & Louise-ing off into the distance as Abel waves sadly from the doorway. Woohoo!

For the most part, I intend to be good. Because we’re good girls, all of us. However, I can’t help thinking that coming back on Sunday night may involve having to explain to Daddy why my friends’ parents are refusing to invite me for sleepovers again.

I haven’t mentioned this idea to Abel yet, but I don’t think he’ll object too vigorously.

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I so enjoyed writing the Sunday morning sermon for the school role-play we so enjoyed a few weeks ago. With a mix of girls, some religious, some not, there was a fine line to tread lest I cause offence. A spoof parable formed the basis of my preaching, and seemed to do the trick, and I can’t resist publishing it here - rather than consigning it to the outer reaches of my laptop, never to see the light of day again.It was taken from the (entirely non-existent) Book of Jonathan, chapter 6, verses 14 - 18:

For the girl didst speak ill words to her father, and this pained her father, and he in turn pained her. “Dost thou not know to honour thine parents?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her out into the oasis to cut a switch from the apple tree that didst bless the family with its fruits. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

It was but three moons later that the Feast of Archibald fell upon them, and as is set out by the scriptures, the young women of the village gathered in the temple to hear the Elders speak. Yet the girl didst not gather with the others at the annointed hour. She made her way tardily to the temple, and lo, she didst there gossip with another girl whilst the Elders taught. And the preacher became mightily annoyed. “Dost thou not know to honour thine Elders?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her to the front of the temple to bend over before the other girls, and taking out his rod. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

It was but three weeks later that the girl wast riding a donkey through the village when she didst pass a fruit grove, full of the ripest, juiciest and most tasty pears imaginable. She tied her ass at the side of the track, and didst climb into the hidden orchard, gorging on the forbidden fruits. But lo, the fruit owner didst catch her, and didst take her before the judge. “Dost thou not know to honour thine neighbours?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her to the village square, and beseeching the local boys to make haste and cut a bundle of birches. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

And the girl returned home, and didst lie on her front on her bed, weeping. And as she wept, and reflected on the lessons that she had experienced, she vowed that she would be a good and worthy girl henceforth. And she became loved by all, and much praised, and lived happily until the age of four hundred and seventy three.

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Clearly there’s nothing like an online opinion poll to bring out the natural sadist who lurks within!Thanks - I think! - to all of you who contributed yesterday to deciding my fate after the alarm clock debacle. More of the outcome in a moment, but first I should say a few words about what led me to end up in such a thoroughly ignoble situation.

I really was distraught at what I’d done - I’ve never forgotten to change my clocks before! My only (and poor) defences are that I’d been away all weekend (I would normally do them before bed on the Saturday night) and, by my return on Sunday evening, I was shattered after being dirty stop-out the night before and clearly was not thinking straight. Although I’d changed my watch when I got up on Sunday, the thought of altering all my home clocks never entered my head until what turned out to be 7.33am yesterday!

The one - and only - saving grace in the whole affair was that Abel didn’t have any early morning business meetings. It’s one thing to make yourself late through your stupidity, quite another to cause someone else to be. Had that been the case then I doubt any spanking or caning could have assuaged my guilt. As it was, the tube had a rare and exquisitely-well-timed trouble-free morning and I also made it to work on time, albeit after a mad panic! Thus the dye was cast for a readers’ poll to decide my fate!

Whilst I agree with Rob and Evie that an option D - none of the above - would’ve been nice, I’m aware that equally D could have meant ALL of the above, as advocated by littlenic (cheers m’dear!) so perhaps the choice was best left as just A-C! I’m also pleased to report that Simon’s unpleasant “no supper” twist was avoided - a particularly nasty thought! In fact, there are so many potential variations of punishments that I’m sure A-Z could be achieved with the help of SW readers, but that would be something of a pain to adjudicate!

As it is, by totting up the scores and then adding in a couple of verbal votes cast by friends over dinner last night (thanks friends!), the decision of the panel was B: 60 spanks otk. I wasn’t really sure whether to feel relieved or horrified, to be honest. Had I been granted super-delegate” status as Elizabeth suggested then my main concern would’ve been to try and veto C. The thought of a sound telling-off from Abel is, I think, even scarier than a sound thrashing! Anyway, you voted for me to be spanked, so spanked I was.

Abel waited till I was ready for bed before inviting me over his knee. There was no lecture to be given and no clothing to be removed, just a bare bottom presented by a very sheepish girl. However, before he started, Abel added a pertinent little twist, to help make the punishment even more memorable: “You can count them for me, beginning with 6.34.” As in 6.34am. Neat, I had to admit. And really quite humiliating.

So Abel began to rain his hand down at a steady, unremitting pace, and I counted obediently back to him: “6.34, 6.35, 6.36, 6.37.” It wasn’t the hardest spanking he’s given me - not by some way. I’m sure it took account of how bad I already, genuinely felt over the whole affair though, and perhaps also of the particularly dire day at work I’d had since my so-timely arrival that morning.*

A good top will, after all, dispense discipline which fits both the occasion and the individual sub, as well as the crime itself. I certainly felt my spanking, but I wasn’t brutalised or traumatised by it. For some reason, the smack accompanying 6.47 was particularly nasty though! Thereafter, those which marked the quarter-hours were also made deliberately memorable! My whole bottom was covered as I counted, minute by minute, through the hour by which we were late getting up, and by the time we reached 7.33, I was well-reddened and glowing hot!

My apology, having been allowed to rise, was heartfelt, and I doubt very much that I will ever forget to change my clocks again! In fact, I suspect the onset of a certain paranoia in that department from this day forward! I hope that you will also consider my penance to be duly paid - and thank you all, readers, for the part that you played!

* To cut a long story short, I’ve been made redundant just a few weeks after starting my supposedly wonderful new job

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The clocks changed at the weekend, right, costing us an hour of sleep. Everyone knows that, surely?

Dear readers, I need your help. I stayed last night at our friend Martha’s; she set her alarm for this morning, to make sure we got into London today in good time.

At 6.33 this morning, we were discussing who would use the shower first – our ever-so-polite “after you”s reflecting the sub-text of “I don’t want to go and stand under streams of water at this ungodly hour”. And then Martha went pale, before confessing: “OMG, I forgot to change the time on the alarm clock.” See, it wasn’t 6.33 – it was 7.33, already after the time at which we should have been on the tube.

But what is a gentleman to do now? I can see three options for this evening’s little discussion:

a) a traditional six of the best, with the cane

b) sixty spanks, one for each minute’s delay to our plans

c) a sound telling-off.

When we eventually reached the tube, I decided that an element of democracy (or even merely audience participation) was called for. So, dear readers, which option do you think is appropriate? I’ll tally the votes from your comments after dinner this evening, and the majority verdict will determine the young lady’s fate.

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On Saturday evening, inspired by the Victorian spirit of Beamish Museum, we girls found ourselves transforming into inhabitants of a strict workhouse.

Rapunzel became Rose, a poor orphan; Martha remained Martha, but became a young delinquent, caught pilfering biscuits from a shop, and I was Louise, and had had to be committed to the workhouse following my destitute mother (who had ended up in a different section).

All three of us had been chosen by the master of the workhouse Mr Jenkins to serve dinner to a visiting chairman of the governors, Sir Ashley Piers. We were supposed to make the best impression on the distinguished visitor, so that he continued to provide charitable support to our establishment, and perhaps even increased the funding. He was also looking to employ the best-behaved girl at his London residence. Although I felt a momentary wistful twinge, I could predict that by the end this would not be me.

Sir Ashley arrived just before the bathing hour, as we girls were lined up in front of the bathhouse, our modesty covered with nothing but the towels we were clutching. Mr Jenkins and Sir Ashley supervised our baths, making sure we cleaned ourselves properly with lukewarm water and carbolic soap, as we would be serving their food and joining them for dinner. Rose and I managed to get through the experience without invoking their wrath, but poor Martha had to endure a spanking when the gentlemen noticed her painted toenails. (A sign of bad character, I think.)

Although we were hoping to be allowed to dress right away, Sir Ashley had a surprise in store for us. He told Mr Jenkins about an interesting practice in other workhouses, where girls got a weekly dose of discipline after their baths. Apparently, a spanking a week improved overall behaviour, and made sure the girls didn’t misbehave at other times, thus earning harder punishments.

First of all, to demonstrate the technique and the necessary severity, Sir Ashley took me over his knee, and delivered a not-too-hard, but still quite stingy spanking. Although I’d done my best to dry off properly after my bath, my skin was still slightly moist, and quite cool from the chilly water, so I whimpered and wriggled quite a lot. That said, when Sir Ashley told me to stop carrying on so much, I tried hard to make a good impression and to take the discipline bravely.

Rose and Martha then received their own spankings. The girls who were not being spanked at the time had to stand in the corridor facing the wall, so I can’t say much about the severity of what they had to endure. I know, however, that Mr Jenkins tried his hand at this new style of discipline as well, and at some point a hairbrush was brought out when his palm began stinging too much to continue.

Finally, the gentlemen retreated, allowing us to dress in our workhouse uniforms. (Rapunzel had brought along three black dresses with white lacy cuffs, which looked like something Orphan Annie would wear.) We hurried downstairs to see to the meal (for the most part prepared in advance, with only some finishing touches and serving necessary).

The girls may wish to speak for themselves in the comments, but I for one went very deep into the head of Louise. She was a meek girl, deeply grateful for the chance to impress a visitor. Any sort of deliberate mischief was out of the question: I really wanted to show the workhouse in the best light, to earn the praise of the master, and to help secure the extra funding from the governor. Thus, any mistakes I made were entirely accidental, and I was genuinely grieved to have earned six strokes of the cane by the time the meal was over. To make my downfall slightly less crushing, the other two girls couldn’t help making mistakes either, so all three of us were due a caning by the end.

I was sent to fetch a cane, and to wait naked for my punishment while Martha received her own six strokes. Rose waited with me. She was visibly nervous: she hoped to be hired by Sir Ashley as a maid in his London residence, and she was worried that her mistake would hurt her chances. I was sure that this wouldn’t happen, as throughout the dinner Rose showed herself the best of the three of us, keeping up small-talk, and displaying impeccable manners, and Martha and I fumbled and stuttered. Surely, a caning wouldn’t imperil my friend’s chances.

I hated leaving her alone and shivering in the corridor, but Sir Ashley arrived to administer my punishment. He was not unduly harsh, as he must have recognised that any mistakes I’d made were not at all deliberate. The cane stung, but I was able to take it more or less bravely. Sir Ashley praised me for this, and promised that the workhouse would indeed not close, but would receive the extra funding we were all hoping for. I think, we girls had made the right impression.

We learned afterwards that Rose was indeed hired by Sir Ashley, and would be leaving with him for London the following day. This was just as well, really, as I don’t imagine Rapunzel would have wanted to stay in our house forever

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To Beamish, the fascinating (but astoundingly expensive) open-air museum which recreates life in a mining community of a hundred or so years ago. Inevitably, three girls proved a handful for their two gentlemen, as the recreated buildings sparked our collective kinky imaginations.

I dragged Martha into the back room of the draper’s shop, scolding her for her poor work behind the counter before making her bend over the storekeeper’s desk. Haron, entranced by the shop assistants’ delightful uniforms (and, perhaps, by the delightful shop assistants themselves) had to be dissuaded from applying for a job on the spot.

We boarded the tram towards the colliery village, checking with the conductor: “Is that the right stop for the school?” I nearly choked as he confirmed that it was, informing us of the (supposed) school motto:

“A thrashing a day makes the class obey”

He expanding on his theme. “See, thrash a pupil at random in the morning, and they all behave perfectly for the rest of the day.”

On arrival, the girls (well trained, see, or maybe simply scared by the conductor’s warnings of dire consequences) scurried straight to their desks, taking out their blackboards and chalk and starting work on the sums displayed at the front of the room. I spied a spare teacher’s desk, and climbed into position, summoning Martha for a lecture. We flicked straight into role. I was most disappointed in her misconduct, I explained. Lecture, excuses, lecture, excuses – the usual refrain.

“You must realise, young lady, that I take a dim view of this sort of behaviour.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” (She can be very demure whilst being scolded).

“What will happen to you if there’s any repetition?”

“You’ll give me the cane, sir.” (Oh, how she’d hate that).

“Indeed. Hard. Now go back to your desk and continue your work.”

It was only then that we noticed that a group of visitors had sneaked into the front row of the classroom, and was listening, entranced. I am so glad to have added to their enjoyment of their visit.

Later, one of the girls showed me that an extremely rude phrase had been written at the foot of Martha’s sums. She denied all knowledge; I summoned the other two. All three lined up in front of my desk; all three pleaded innocence; all three would be caned, I decreed, if the culprit failed to own up. (It occurs to me that none of them has, yet: I fear they may be sitting somewhat uncomfortably for their Sunday lunches later).

Rapunzel did subsequently have to be dealt with in the playground for quite serious misbehaviour; I do hope no-one was looking our way as I lifted her skirt and whacked her, but I’m told that a hard hand-spanking in the open air on a cold day is most effective.

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When Abel came home for the weekend, I reminded him that my guardian still hadn’t dealt with me for coming bottom of the class over our school weekend. (Although I was surprised to have done so badly, I was happy to exploit the situation. And why not?)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need much convincing. We had a little chat about what we thought the history was between me and my guardian. We established that, although he had never spanked me before, last time I came bottom of the class he had promised me a caning if I didn’t shape up. And here I was again, not at all improved.

I did try to argue, when, standing in front of him in his office, I was faced with his reproaches. I said that, to my mind, I was very much improved. It was only that the other girls had also improved, and because my position was dependent on how other girls scored, it was unfair to punish me for their improvement. Did that impress my guardian? Not in the least.

He made me stand in the corner while he shuffled the furniture and picked an implement behind me. Trying to impress him with how good I was, I didn’t peek at all, even though I was dying to know which cane he had chosen. Finally, he told me to bare my bottom and bend over the chair.

“How many times have you been caned this term?” he asked.

This was a very hard question. I was glad he didn’t ask how many times I was punished, because there had been so many random smacks, swats and licks of the strap, I would never have remembered them all.

“Um, about five?” I guessed. (Probably wrong, but best I could do under the circumstances.)

“And what was the biggest number of strokes you received?”

“Twelve, sir.” I knew that. I remembered each one.

“Very well. I will give you the same number. You will count them and thank me.”

I couldn’t believe how much the first stroke hurt. The office is quite narrow, and doesn’t have much swinging space, so I just wasn’t prepared to the overwhelming pain that suddenly assaulted me. I was struggling by the fifth stroke. It was only my guardian mercifully quick delivery of the last several strokes that helped me get through it. If I was the crying sort, I would have been sobbing.

“You may get up and adjust your clothing,” he said curtly. I did, sniffling, and dancing on the spot as my previously comfy soft trousers brushed past my injured parts.

“Stop these dramatics, young lady, you are used to being caned,” said my evil guardian.

I nearly burst out laughing at the idea that you can somehow get used to being caned. If I were a cheeky sort, I would have suggested that he cut his finger every week for a year, and saw whether it started hurting less the more he did it. However, I decided I’d been punished enough, so I meekly said: “You can’t get used to it, sir.” I don’t think he believed me.
After I was dismissed, we had our after-scene cuddles, and I finally asked to see the cane he had used. Well, no wonder it had hurt: it’s a very short, very thick, unbelievably stiff piece of wood. More of a swagger stick than a cane. However, it didn’t need to be swung very high, which was, apparently ideal for the cramped office conditions.

I would probably burn it, if I didn’t suspect some of our friends would rather enjoy making its acquaintance.

I will tell you one thing: if by some unfortunate accident I will come bottom of the class again at a future school gathering, I’m not seeing my guardian afterwards. I don’t want to find out what he might do to me next time!

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