The Spanking Writers

On Friday night I found myself standing naked in front of a glass-top table in a London hotel room, wondering how I would lean over it without freezing my chest and tummy right off. Behind me, my husband was unbuckling his belt.

“Cold,” I complained when my skin touched the icy glass surface.

“I’ll warm you up,” Abel promised with a carnivorous grin, folding the belt into a loop. I’d guessed he might say that.

Why was I about to get a whipping?

The simple answer would be “just because”, or even “why not?” – which in many cases is good enough.

The more extended answer is that we had just returned from a gig by our favourite band Keane.* We had agreed beforehand that for every song they played, I would get two strokes of the belt. Admittedly, Keane – bless their little public school socks – were very generous with their set list, so that in the middle of the concert Abel put his lips to my ear and shouted over the noise of the crowd belting out their favourite songs: “I think I’ll have to use discretion over those strokes!” I would have been the last person to object.

Thus, the glass table in the hotel room, a chair in front of it for me to grip, and Abel’s voice behind me:

“I think twenty is a fair number. You can count them.”

Before we started, I had decided to try and take this whipping as stoically as I could. Normally I don’t bother, but Abel likes spanking motionless sacks of flour stoic people, so I gritted my teeth, and gripped the back of the chair really hard.

I think, my resolve lasted until about the eighth stroke. The pain had been building – not gradually, like with a hand-spanking or even a caning, but in great jumps. It grew manifold with every lash. I remember the eighth one particularly, because my mouth refused to wrap around the count, and when number nine came, I suddenly found myself upright, clutching my behind, with Abel’s arm around me. I honestly don’t remember how I got there.

“Shhh, good girl,” he was saying. “You’re very brave. Come on now, it will be over soon.”

I allowed him to help me back over the desk. Funnily enough, I didn’t object its coolness any more.

It wasn’t over all that soon: each of the following strokes was memorable for its particular little ways of hurting me more. Finally, Abel ended my suffering by delivering the last five strokes so fast that I didn’t have time to freak out about them separately – I just howled the place down from their cumulative effect.

I don’t know if I’m still into being whipped with belts – maybe it’s just that particular belt that should be urgently shredded and recycled. I’m definitely into going to gigs, though.

Being stoic and stuff? Forget it.

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* A special, non-advertised, kill-for-tickets pre-album-launch gig in London’s “Astoria”, which we’d got into because I happened to be online at the moment when the tickets went on sale. (Pats self on back.)

Haron is sitting next to me, looking very sorry for herself.

We’ve both been typing away at our laptops, hard at work at kinky creativity. The new Pet Shop Boys album is playing in the background (don’t bother…), and I’m keeping half an eye on the about-to-start second half of the soccer (come on, Trinidad and Tobago!).

I noticed a school cane propped against a bookcase.

“Hand.”

Obedient, trusting, lovely girl. I whacked her, particularly hard, leaving a clear white stripe, which coloured into a delightful shade of red.

I’d better not repeat the language that she used. Had I not just caned her so unfairly, I would have had to cane her fairly. Feels like a fair swap to me.

Over on The Punishment Book Tasha says that every time she and her partner Q come to our house, she ends up in trouble at home.

I can’t decide whether it’s my corrupting influence over her behaviour, or Abel’s corrupting influence over Q’s irritability.

I guess, we’ll have to invite them over a lot more, and see if we can decide which one it is. Sorry, Tasha, I think you’re going to be spanked a lot, and all in the name of research.

We had a friend with us over the weekend, a sassy girl with quite an appetite for being spanked. The three of us didn’t just stay home all the time, swinging implements (or having implements swung at us): we went to see how the Duchess of Northumberland was getting on with her new garden in Alnwick.

The garden is looking great: it has lots of fun things in it, like the world’s biggest treehouse, a poison garden (we were particularly impressed by healthy-looking cannabis plants growing in their own individual cages), and the most fabulous fountains and water sculptures.

Obviously, our friend and I couldn’t help speculating whether Abel could be improved by being dropped into a fountain. We didn’t exactly discuss it out loud, but winked and gestured at each other behind his back, and reached the decision that he could definitely use a dip. Alas, Abel – in an uncharacteristic flash of insightfulness – crushed our scheme.

He turned around, took us by the shoulders – a shoulder each – and said: “If you make me get even a little bit wet, you will both get the cane when we’re home.” Our friend gave him a bright, innocent smile, then poked out her tongue and gave him a long, wet lick on the arm. Abel stayed serious for long enough to say: “You’re getting a caning.” After that we collapsed in giggles.

I congratulated myself for being out of the line of fire – because surely, nothing I did would live up to the licking our friend gave Abel, and the one she was going to get at home – but it wasn’t all over for me. In the wooded part of the garden we wandered upon a secluded clearing a handy bench in it. The benches there are all very pretty, and are begging to be sat on. So, Abel did that. Characteristically, instead of letting me sit next to him, he pulled me over his lap and set about spanking me – quite hard, I’ll have you know. I had been careless enough to wear a skirt; Abel reached underneath it and tugged down my panties.

Our friend, a very shy girl, looked more horrified than I felt. She helpfully stood guard on the path while I got my first bare-bottom spanking in a public garden. It was short, stingy, a little scary and very tasty. A few smacks later Abel pulled my panties back up, smoothed down my skirt, and we continued our walk. (And if you’re wondering how outrageous Abel’s behaviour was, bear in mind that this garden gets over a hundred thousand visitors a year, and many of them appeared to be there on the day.)

When we got home, our friend’s licking turned out to consist of 24-of-the-best with three different canes, but we shall keep from posting details of that to spare her modesty.

Joyous celebrations after watching Liverpool’s famous FA Cup final win. You know the sort of thing: I mean, I can’t be the only fan to have tied his wife up in bed with his Liverpool scarf last night.

Can I?

Poor Haron.

You see, she’s not very good at watering house plants. Even cacti and Joshua Trees – survivors in the most arid desert conditions – perish at her hands if I head off on a long business trip.

Now, I’m too generous to whack her for failing to water plants that she probably dislikes in the first place. That would be cruel. And I’m not a cruel man.

But when she was away recently, I decided it was time for a selection of our more recently-expired plants to find their way to the great garden centre in the sky. I happened to notice that one particular orchid (or, perhaps, ‘ex-orchid’) has been propped up by a rather nice cane. Thin, not hugely flexible.

Said orchid disappeared to the wastebin; said cane was hidden away for future application.

So, Haron finds herself at 11pm last night with a good few hours of work still ahead of her to finish off an important paper. She wanders upstairs, and I happen to notice the by-now-forgotten length of bamboo. I whacked her with it across her jeans, as one would. “Doesn’t hurt,” she grinned, with a trademark ‘I want to be smacked’ wiggle.

A girl under-estimates a cane at her peril. Apparently it did hurt, a lot, when it was applied more forcefully, the young lady positioned face down on the bed, backside in the air, jeans and panties removed. Hurt enough that a firm hand was needed on her back to hold her down for the whacking.

And then she went off to complete her work. She always seems to study more diligently when her backside is striped; I have a theory that it reminds her of the impact of slacking. See, I was only helping.

Gentlemen spankers invariably head towards rattan for their cane collections; I’m beginning to think that the qualities of bamboo needs further research.

I got paddled last night for no other reason than to try out a new implement Abel bought for us a few weeks ago.*

It’s an enormous tyre paddle.

More specifically, it’s a large piece of tyre rubber (complete with tracks) on a pretty metal handle. It looks very industrial, something out of a steampunk novel, or perhaps a post-apocalyptic movie. In fact, if Judge Dredd dispatched judicial paddlings, this would be exactly the sort of implement that would be used to deliver them.

A guy who makes these things blogs over on Burning Rubber.

Anyway, we felt like playing last night, but I was too tired to come up with a role-play, so it was going to be a good old just-because paddling with a gigantic chunk of rubber.

My impressions of this beautiful implement? It hurts like nobody’s business. With the first stroke Abel must have intended to imprint tyre tracks on my butt, because he whacked so hard I couldn’t even scream for about three seconds. He didn’t get the tracks, just some redness (as he informed me), so he decided to hit even harder. This time I screamed alright, and also danced about the room, saying nasty things about the paddle, its wielder, its maker, and the postman who’d delivered it. After this Abel lightened up – not by much – and I got the rest of my six swats with just about bearable strength.

Man… it was horrible. The burning feeling afterwards was really nice, though.

Abel spent the rest of the night being quite pensive, and in the end declaired that, perhaps, to get those tyre marks he’d have to get another of these paddles, only smaller.

Do you think this would be a good time to call a spousal veto over how our budget is spent? Or maybe I should bribe the postman?

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* Yes, weeks. What can I say? We’ve been busy.

It’s been a very English day: a few hours watching a cricket match locally, and then home to administer a caning.

Haron’s home: time to deal with the gas meter incident. She’ll post about it to The Punishment Book, I’m sure (indeed, ‘or else’), and I don’t want to steal her thunder. But a few words from the safe end of the cane might interest some.

The lecture, first, as I held her very tight. How she’d been given chances; how I’d been lenient; how that hadn’t worked and the time for leniency was behind us. We talked about trust: promises made after her previous caning, subsequently breached. How I would be punishing her severely.

She was sent to the spare bedroom, to stand in front of our school desk waiting for me. I selected a cane: one that I knew would imprint my messages effectively. She didn’t turn when I entered the room. I made her lower her trousers and knickers to her ankles, and lean forward: the desk is at just the right height to position her perfectly.

And then I caned her. Twelve hard strokes, marking her: each white stripe transmuting chameleon-like into red to match its predecessors. Plenty of time between each blow. The occasional stroke of her hair or back, to help her through it. Hard strokes. Very hard.

She was brave. She always is. A good girl at heart.

How I love her.

I’m flying home today. (Leaving home to go home – don’t get me started on the weirdness of this.) I’ve got a punishment to come when I get there. A caning, I guess. Every time I think that the physical part of a punishment is no big deal – after all, we’re all grown-ups with great capacity to withstand pain, so it’s the psychological aspect of being in trouble that should feel the worst – well, it just doesn’t work like that after all. I’m going to get thrashed, and my insides are all awobble.*

I hope it’s not *right* after I get home, though. I won’t get there much before 11pm, which will be 1am on my sleepy body clock. Much as I hate waiting for a punishment, I’d rather not be exhausted when it happens.

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* Is that a word?

Eeeek. That’s all I have to say in relation to the below. Eeeeek!