The Spanking Writers

So, we use a DVD-rental company that sends us movies by post. The trick, of course, is to actually send back the ones we’ve watched, so that we get more by return. Well, this week Abel was away and I didn’t remember to send back the latest one, which meant no more movies for us.

Abel called me into the living-room, where he was holding a DVD that was supposed to have been mailed back days ago. For a crazy second I thought I was about to be smacked with it, though that wouldn’t have been a sensible way of treating somebody else’s property.

“Here,” he said. “Hold this, so that you remember it.”

When I was holding the DVD, he landed a volley of smacks on my behind as I tried hard not to dance away.

“Now,” he said. “What’s the rule about you carrying coins in your back pocket?”

The rule is that I shouldn’t, because, of course, it hurts his hand when he’s trying to smack me. However, that’s one rule I’m perfectly happy to break, consequences be damned, because the convenience of having easily accessible change trumps the inconvenience of a few smacks when I get caught.

Oh, well. This time I was caught. Abel was showing every intention to exact retribution for my blatant coin-carrying.

“Take your jeans down,” he said.

“I can’t!” I said perfectly seriously. “I’m holding the DVD!”

Let me tell you how well that excuse worked…

I’ve realised recently that I’ve missed out on one particular type of spanking play that appeals greatly.

Most people in the world, myself included, are right-handed. As such, most cane strokes are administered in one particular direction – the tip landing on the girl’s right buttock. One can administer stripes back-handed for sure, but they lack the full strength of a strong, full-on forehand whack.

So I want a left-handed top to play alongside – and a girl who’s brave enough to volunteer. He (or she) and me, standing opposite one another behind the lass who’s being thrashed. Alternate strokes, crossing in opposite directions, ensuring that the punishment is as intense as it could be. The young lady would need to be tied, of course. And her offence would need to have been serious, if this were to be roleplay rather than merely the infliction for infliction’s sake of pain for pain’s sake.

Yep, the idea rather appeals… How come I’ve never done this before?

I was standing blearily in the kitchen, unfocussed gaze on the kettle that was heating too slowly for my liking. I was fervently wishing I was still in bed, or could return there. Abel bounced in, as awake and lively as a toddler on jelly beans.

“I’m tired,” I whined. “I can’t wake up. Tireeed!”

“Let’s correct that,” Abel said. He closed the distance between us in two strides, flipped up my dress and gave me a volley of quick, stinging spanks. It was quite painful, but also quite fun, so I giggled all the way through.

He finished spanking me, shook out his hand, which was also, no doubt, smarting, and grinned. “Feeling awake now?”

I was feeling more cheerful, that was true, but awake? “Not really,” I said, pouting.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Abel grabbed me around the waist, swept my dress out of the way again, and resumed the spanking. It was now even quicker and considerably stingier. I marvelled at my own silliness at bringing it upon myself.

When he finished, he was grinning ear to ear. “Any more awake? Think carefully how you answer.”

I was as tired as ever, but wasn’t going to be this careless again.

“Yes!” I said. “Totally awake now. Thank you.”

I don’t think he believed me, actually. But there’s only so much spanking you can fit into one morning.

Salutary effects of a good spanking on the spankee’s state of mind are well documented. The progression that goes “I’m stressed – I get a good spanking – I have a cry – I feel better” is tried and tested, and can work wonders on the recipient.

I’m feeling very stressed at the moment, but recently I’ve been feeling more toppy than not, and so getting the stress spanked out of me doesn’t appeal right now. I find myself wondering whether the method works the other way up, so to speak. How about spanking someone until the top feels better?

I’m quite uncertain about the ethical side of this. I tend to think that, when I top, I should be entirely in control of my faculties, i.e. not angry, not tired, not drunk, not under the influence of any circumstance that can make the bottom unsafe. If I’m highly strung with stress, I’m not sure I should be spanking anybody. On the other hand… how unsafe can a simple OTK spanking be – surely, I can still have enough of a grip on reality to safely smack a bottom with my hand!

The question is academic right now, because I don’t have anyone on hand who would be willing to let me smack my stress out on their bum. But one day I might, and I’d quite like to have made up my mind about it by then.

Any insights from you?

When I started writing spanking stories, the majority of the girls in my stories were made to strip (or were stripped) for their punishments. Sometimes that required fairly intricate plotting; after all, in a school context, for example, it’s hard to conceive of a logical and justifiable reason for a male teacher to require a female student to be naked before him.

Years later, nudity is the exception rather than the rule – both in my writing, and in anything other than especially dark or formal scenes. Yet I find that there’s something very powerful about being fully and smartly clothed – in a schoolmaster’s  gown, say, or as a punishment officer – whilst the girl who’s to be punished stands naked and nervous before me.

That nakedness requires a degree of trust from the girl, though – there has to be a sense of (ultimate) safety and, by and large, an appropriate context. (And no, before you ask, there certainly doesn’t have to be a sexual element involved).

Yet I’m aware that many girls don’t like nudity (full or partial) in scenes. And I’m curious to hear where people stand on the issue. Whether you’re administering or receiving the whacking – do you prefer a girl to be naked or not, and in what context(s) does it vary?

Last weekend’s Lowewood boarding school was somewhat unusual for me, in that I did my utmost to behave well and to gain lots of points – spurred on, perhaps, by the painful discussion my character has with her guardian before the start of term.

One of the things I particularly like about Lowewood is that there’s a culture of fairness: it’s possible to earn as much or as little punishment as you feel like at the time. As I felt like being good, it was easy for me not to earn any spanking at all, beyond what I got in the standard detentions.

I went through the weekend feeling smug and virtuous, and, other than the predetermined punishments that all girls got, I didn’t get spanked at all.

Hang on, I hear you say, you went to a spanking event, and you’re congratulating yourself on not getting spanked? What’s the point?

I guess, for me school role-play *is* the point. I got the kicks from wearing my tidy uniform, sharing the dorm, sitting through assembly, working in lessons, bantering at meals, losing at netball, goofing around in the school show, getting smashed in the midnight feast – all these wonderful things wete fulfilling in themselves, with no spanking necessary to complete the experience.

My fellow schoolgirls might have felt differently, but as far as I was concerned, just being a schoolgirl is enough.

We’re spending this weekend at Lowewood boarding school, and the night before we were due to set off Abel beckoned me over his knee. He was holding a lovely short tawse that had just arrived from eBay, and I willingly presented my bottom to him to find out what it was like.

But this wasn’t a simple spanking: he actually had a disciplinary purpose in mind when he started to warm me up with his hand.

“Well, Sylvie,” he said, using my school name. “How are you going to behave at school?”

“Really well, sir!” I eagerly replied, my behind tingling from the first few swats.

“You will, won’t you?” He picked up the tawse, which is light, stingy and warmed my bottom in two seconds flat. “And you know what will happen if I get bad reports about you from the teachers?”

“Ow! Yes, sir! I’ll get punished!”

“Yes, you will,” he swung the tawse harder, and I had to bite on my lip to keep from yelling. “And it won’t be with this tawse, will it?”

My heart clenched in apprehension. In that moment I genuinely believed that Sylvie would be the best-behaved girl in the whole school.

A few final stinging strokes, and the spanking stopped. I rubbed my bottom and planned my imminent transformation into the ultimate good girl.

It remains to be seen for how long these good intentions last.

Perhaps we’ve had an email from you recently, or maybe you are only just summoning up the courage to write. Maybe you’ve struck up some conversation on spanking blogs and forums, or maybe you’ve been reading avidly, not yet ready to speak to the people who, you now know, are just like you: people who are into spanking. I know this much about you: you’ve recently put a name to your long-held, deep-seated cravings, and now, after the initial excitement, you’ve starting to feel pangs of bitter guilt.

The guilt is a many-toothed thing, and it continues to batter you with its varied weapons.

• Why must you be obsessed with something sexual? What sort of hobby is it for a healthy human – why couldn’t it be a sport, a craft or an art? Maybe you’re not healthy, but inherently corrupt and wrong.
• Why does it need to be spanking, that is, an act of causing pain? If you’re a top, you may be wondering if you’re a violent people-hater. If you’re a bottom, you suspect you have deep hidden issues with self-hatred.
• Whatever your individual, additional kinks, the guilt knows just the buttons to jab with its gnarly finger. Age-play? You’re either infantile or a paedo. Domestic discipline? You must be an abusive spouse or a pathetic co-dependent. Submissive female? A bad feminist. Submissive male? A weakling. Dominant? A dangerous maniac in the making.
• If you dare confront the guilt and sweep it out of the way like a hurtful pest it is, it will tell you that you’re so corrupt that you’re capable only of making apologies for your appaling behaviour instead of correcting it.

I’d love to give you a hug. You’re not alone. Not only in kink are you surrounded by people just like you, but also in your guilt. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to confront the guilt; although it may seem tempting to you just to shove your interest in spanking in a dark place in your mind and try to never think of it again, escaping won’t work. You’re kinky: this is how you’re wired. Denying this part of yourself will go about as well as trying to date people from the opposite gender to your preference.

The guilt is a rational response to the irrational feeling that your kink is not ok, but I promise you: it is. It’s not hurting anyone, just the contrary: it has the potential to be immensely fulfilling. And it really is OK to look for fulfilment in your kink, though just like any other interest you should perhaps be wary of it taking over your life completely. There are many wonderful rewards to be found as you explore your kink.

Your guilt won’t like this. But you can fight it, because you can gradually come to believe that your kink is OK – and so is everybody else’s.

P.S. Abel and I have just noticed that yesterday’s post was our two thousandth. I suppose, once you’ve been blogging for five years, anniversaries come thick and fast.

It’s ten thirty at night; Easter Saturday, 1824. A bell rings; girls in their long nightdresses stand next to their beds; the masters enter the dormitories. The room inspection is thorough; the pupils too are inspected. Spankings are administered as some girls fail to find favour, and one speaks without permission. Leaving behind the threat of dire consequences should the young ladies be caught talking or out of bed before morning, we retire for the evening.

It’s seven in the morning. The bell rings; we gentlemen enter the first dormitory once more. We find the girls still in bed; they’re ordered to their feet and then swiftly made to bend over: the punishment for failing to stand when masters enter a room is short and sharp. They make their bed; it’s not done to a satisfactory standard: further retribution follows. They’re left to wait whilst the next room is similarly inspected: it proves equally disappointing.

The girls are lined up, taken in turn into the washrooms to shower. For some, the supervision is especially thorough: one girl is whipped, quite naked, for failing to dry herself properly. Another’s attitude is deemed insolent: she too feels the cut of the riding crop.

Breakfast is prepared and served by the girls: gruel and water for them, bacon and eggs with juice for the masters. We have been generous, though, permitting them honey with their cereal to celebrate Easter. We are less tolerant of shortcomings, however: one girl is chastised after the table has been cleared for having forgotten to set a jug of milk on the table; another suffers for providing the senior master with a dirty plate.

The first part of the morning is spent on embroidery, allowing the masters to relax and sip their coffee. The girls toil diligently, yet one of their number produces work that is unacceptably poor. She is beaten, as are the others, who appear to derive humour from the paucity of her efforts.

By this point, it is apparent that the standards of conduct at the school are unacceptable. A bundle of rods is brought into the schoolroom; the girls are instructed to make birch rods, for later use, with the girl who has been at the school the longest appointed as monitor to instruct the others. One girl proves allergic to the pollen; she is ordered to stand outside and face the wall, but is caught minutes later looking away: she is brought inside and turned over a master’s lap for punishment.

Reading aloud follows: passages from learned books. Girls stand in front of Mr Jenkins, holding aloft a first edition of Encyclopedia Britannica. He makes them read a page – from “punishment” and “pupil”, through “pure” to “purgatory”. Each time they stumble over the words, he makes them start again. When they’ve finished, he tests them. Spankings inevitably follow, for careless reading and poor concentration.

Mr Simpson follows a similar approach with a biology textbook, yet he also checks the results of a handwriting exercise that the girls are given to complete with pen and ink. Where their transcription is untidy or inaccurate, punishment follows. Mr Jenkins, sending one girl upstairs to his colleague, notices the poor quality of her work; it does not surprise him that, when he next sees her, her face is tear-stained and she is holding her hands in agony.

It is late morning now, and we call the girls together. Before bed the previous evening, they had been given a poem to learn. Poignantly, though they were not told this, the work was by Lord Byron, who had sadly passed away just five days previously. They were called forward in turn to recite it from memory. The first girl made two errors; the second was still less accurate; the third merely burst into tears.

It was clear from their faces that they knew how disappointed we were in them. Indeed, their performance in the recitation reflected our overall impression of their attitude and efforts. Each, we told them, was to be punished in turn. The first received eight hard strokes from each master on her hands with the tawse; the second, a dozen from each on the bare with a rattan flogger. The senior girl was called forward last, and made an example of: two dozen in total with the birch, her bloomers parted to bare her buttocks.

And then they were dismissed… for tight hugs, to recover, and to share their impressions and glee at what had happened.

Later that evening…

Two girls awaited their fate. Jessamine had been sent to us recently by her outraged parents after appearing on the stage. She’d been caught outside the school, in the company of a member of the theatrical troupe. Victoria, the senior girl, held a key to the back door, and had aided her escape. They were brought to the Punishment Room, an occasional and dreaded experience reserved only for very worst offences.

Mr Simpson lectured Jessamine first: on the dangers of meeting her friend; on how we owed a duty to her parents to deter her; on how her actions had led to the other girl being in trouble too. She was ordered to lie face down on the punishment horse; her skirt was lifted, and the leather ties fastened to hold her in place. The whipping from Mr Jenkins, with a heavy, harsh tawse, brought her to tears: he continued on, applying yet more strokes as hard he could. Never before had he strapped a girl so hard.

Victoria’s turn was next. Why, Mr Jenkins wondered, had a senior girl been so foolish as to let the younger pupil out? She’d landed them both in trouble; he would birch her with particular severity. She too was strapped into position face down; her bloomers were untied. No count was kept of the number of fast, furious, full-strength strokes of the spray that she received: Mr Jenkins lost track of the tally at around sixty. And then he walked around her; she was permitted a cold towel to cool her face. It was clear that she thought the flogging was over, until he raised the rod high and administered a repetition of the strokes from the opposite side to their predecessors. Never before had he birched a girl so hard.

It was Mr Simpson who would really ensure their future good conduct, however. Jessamine was called forward and made to lie on her back on the top of the horse. Her skirt was lifted, and she cried aloud as she was birched on the front of her thighs. Victoria followed, sobbing her way through a similar ordeal. Even Mr Jenkins found their ordeals hard to watch; his concern for them was tempered, however, by knowing that the punishments were utterly deserved.

Before it was over… and the two amazing girls were hugged tightly and close.

With such thanks to Mr Simpson (HH) for hosting the event, and for proposing the idea of basing our planned school scene on the historic “Yorkshire Schools” – the strict, austere establishments mad notorious by Dickens’ Dotheboys Hall. Thanks too to Marlowe and Lily, who contributed to the design of the roleplay but were unfortunately unable to join us on the day – we missed you…

And the biggest thanks of all to Louisa (Eliane), Jessamine (Cath) and Victoria (Emma Jane – who’s also posted her account of the school). The three of you were so wonderful – so convincingly as the girls concerned that I was able to inhabit the character of the rather nasty Mr Jenkins completely for the duration. It’s rare for me to be able to stay entirely in role throughout such an extended scene: that I did so – and derived so much from it – is a tribute to your roleplaying abilities and bravery.

Quite often, when I write about roleplaying, it’s because I need to analyse and process the scene. And then there are times when I simply want to record the fun, so that I can look back in years to come and remember it with pleasure. This Easter weekend, up at HH‘s lovely home, fell decidedly into the latter category, and I can’t resist blogging about it straight away.

Even the shortest, least intense scene was wonderful to play. Shortly after I arrived, young Gwendolyn Andrews (our lovely Emma Jane) found herself reporting to her housemaster in my study. She’d been sent my way by Mr Ashton, the English master, for cheating – submitting a paper that she’d copied from her sister, who’d left the school the year before. A lecture on integrity followed; the junior cane was taken down from the top of the bookshelf, and she was instructed to bend over the arm of the leather sofa to receive six strokes. A sixth-former now, she’d been caned by me back in her first year; she was clearly nervous as a result and pleaded – to no avail – for leniency.

Only… and here’s where the real fun begins. See, the idea of a girl having placed padding in her knickers to minimise the impact of a caning is one of my longest-standing fantasies. I can remember day-dreaming about it as a teenager, and it featured prominently in a couple of my earlier stories (“24 Of The Best” and “The First Time”). Yet isn’t a scene I’ve ever actually played. So we’d spent the few minutes before starting the scene with EJ cutting up squares of bubble-wrap to insert strategically in her clothing.

I feigned surprise when the first two strokes made the oddest noise on impact; looked in amusement as the third – below the padded area – provoked a more genuine response, and the ordered Gwendolyn to her feet. Her dastardly plan was exposed; I marched her off to see Mr Higgins, the headmaster, in his office. Gwendolyn was sent to stand facing the wall as I explained what had happened; the headmaster was duly concerned, and she was soon stretched out over the table with her skirt lifted.

Yet that wasn’t enough, in the circumstances: in a school where bare-bottomed canings were almost unprecedented, her knickers were lowered, and the mortified girl received first six from me – with the headmaster’s senior cane – then six more from him for the deceit.

Hugs followed after she’d been dismissed – and then we set out to experiment scientifically whether a caning over bubble wrap could, in fact, hurt. The answer, it seems, is only after enough strokes to burst the bubbles…!

It was a great, fun scene to start the weekend. But the main event was still to come… as I’ll relate first thing tomorrow morning!