The Spanking Writers

We promised to let you know when Abel’s spanking story collection “The Punishment List” would appear on Amazon. Well, it’s there now.

First, you can read all about the book.

Then you can check it out on Amazon US, or Amazon UK, or Amazon DE, or wherever you live, really.

Oh yes, it’s also available for Kindle.

If you enjoy the book, please consider reviewing it on Amazon, or sending Abel some feedback – we would both really appreciate it.

Well, it’s finally here… Pauses for fanfare…

My lords (assuming at least some of the nobility must be kinky), ladies and gentlemen, I am very proud to present:

To quote from the book’s blurb:

Since 1999, “Abel’s Spanking Stories” has been one of the web’s most popular sites for fictional accounts of young women receiving traditional-style corporal punishment.

This collection features ten exclusive, brand-new stories alongside newly-updated versions of eight of Abel’s best-known tales. Perfect for fans of the cane and the birch, schoolgirls in trouble and judicial floggings, this is English discipline at its very best!

…

“Abel’s stories were my first introduction to spanking erotica, and I have never tired of reading his work. I’m sure this book will become a must-have for any spanking enthusiast.” – Eliane Chevalier, author of New(ish) to Spanking.

“Abel’s stories have long entertained and inspired the online community. I’m delighted that some of his best loved stories are now available in print. A worthy addition to any collection of spanking literature!” – Emma Jane Woodhouse, author of A Painful Awakening.

The book’s available online here from today for £9.95 or the local equivalent (currently around $16 / €11). If you prefer, you can order it on Amazon US, or Amazon UK, or Amazon DE, or wherever you live. If you enjoy reading your spanking stories in electronic format, “The Punishment List” is available in a Kindle edition.

I have to say that I’m particularly pleased with the new stories, which appear only in the book and have never been published online. And I did have great fun going back through 70+ older pieces of writing to pick out (and then re-edit) my all-time favourites.

Huge thanks to those who’ve helped with the book: Haron for the technical stuff; Catherine for painting the quite wonderful cover picture; Martha for the laborious task of proofreading (and Alison for helping on that front too).

Treat yourself, treat friends (perfect for Valentine’s Day?!), enjoy – and I’d love your feedback, as always.

Saunders calls to see me on Saturday morning. I haven’t done anything wrong; I don’t think I have. But I knock on the door his office with a sense of trepidation a different girl may not have been feeling right now. We’ve had our battles, the Housemaster and I, and I haven’t won many of them.

“Come in, Sammy,” he says. He’s smiling; it’s a bit of a relief. “Take a seat. I’d like to discuss something with you. Feel free to refuse when you hear my offer.”

Oh. Not a spanking, then. I sit down on the soft chair reserved for visitors who are in his good books.

“I’d like you to be my Head of House next year,” he says.

My heart skips a beat. I imagine myself with a prefect’s badge on my lapel. It’s not an image I’ve ever dared dwell on.

“That’s, uh, that’s a surprise, sir.” I speak cautiously, as though manoeuvring a minefield. He wouldn’t be landing such a gift in my lap if there wasn’t a big “but” attached.

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Haron woke up to a good six inches this morning – of snow, perverts: I was already at work at my desk. I do wonder: am I the only person in the UK to have looked at last night’s snowfall and wondered what girls could get themselves into trouble for in such wintry conditions? The result of my kinky daydreamings follows below, thanks to my meetings today having been cancelled – allowing me to focus on far more interesting things like writing a new story!

By the way – we’ve set up a new category to bring together all of the stories we’ve published here on the blog (as well as the usual tab at the top of the page which takes you to my “Abel’s Spanking Stories” collection).

–

The snow and the birch

Gasps gave way to gossip, shock to speculation, as the girls of Hadlington College filed into their morning assembly. The birching block’s presence on the stage before them was the stuff of legend, of nightmares – making fleeting appearances that left indelible marks on girls’ attitude and conduct. And there it was, atopped by a freshly cut sprig of birch rods, tightly bound.

Who? Why?

The head girl quelled their excited, nervous hubbub with her customary proclamation: “Silence for the headmistress”. Miss Jensen walked between them from the back of the room, climbed the stairs to the stage and frowned down at her charges as if seeking out the guilty party. “We will start with hymn number 184,” she announced, proffering no clues as to the more fascinating matter at hand.

Readings followed – young Charlotte O’Neill of the Upper Fourth reciting her carefully rehearsed poem into a vacuum of bored anticipation; the Lower Sixth’s Caitlin Quinton quoting a dull passage from Keats that merely prolonged the agonising wait.

Miss Jensen herself spun proceedings out – a lecture on dress code (“too many girls are wearing skirts that are far too short”), praise for the lacrosse team’s latest successes, and a warning about conduct in the snowy weather. “It’s dangerous underfoot, girls: easy to slip. I’d ask you all to re-read section 27 of the school rulebook, which you’ll no doubt recall relates to safe conduct in wintry conditions.”

She paused, as if for effect, and looked up disapprovingly. “On which subject… A very disturbing incident took place yesterday afternoon, just after the final bell, when a gaggle of girls were engaged in a snowball fight immediately inside the school gate. They were challenged by Professor Carter, who as you’ll all know is Chairman of our Governors, as he was on his way to a governing body meeting.”

Amidst 250 enthralled pupils listening to the story unfold, a few were starting to panic. “To my great concern, as soon as he walked away, the snowballs resumed once more – and one was thrown directly at him, hitting him on the back of the head. This is not how Hadlington girls behave. I have assured the Professor that this is completely out of order, and that the girl responsible will be soundly punished. Will she please come forward to the stage.”

Heads turned, seeking out the culprit, the soon-to-be-victim. Those involved? Trying to supress blushes, trying not to make eye contact with their friends. (They wouldn’t be able to identify us, would they?). And the guilty party? Panic, fear, hope that she might evade detection…

“I’m waiting. I’m sure you know who you are, and it’ll be even worse for you if we have to go to the trouble of identifying you during the day, rather than you coming forward voluntarily now.” And so Amber Underwood, tears welling in her eyes, pushed past the line of girls around her and walked unsteadily towards the stage. A collective gulp of surprise marked her confession: Amber? Quiet, well-behaved, academic Amber?

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“Bracing yourself for the start of lessons, Eleanor?”

The mirror reflects, beside my own features, the hawkish face of Jason Morran. He teaches A-level chemistry, and our academic paths never cross, but more and more over the Michaelmas term – my first term at St. Hilda’s – I’d found my hours in the staff common room boosted by his presence. A corner of his mouth is permanently twisted down in a haughty sneer, but I don’t take offence at it; I don’t think he means any.

“Good holidays?” I ask, making banality my armour against the smirk.

“Mmm. Say, Eleanor, can you keep a secret?”

He would sound like one of the third-formers I teach, but for the haughtily ironic ring in his voice, as though he doesn’t mean a word he says. I turn to him from the mirror. “I can keep a secret. What is it?”

“Oh, nothing major. Just a little game we younger types play at the start of term. Last term you were new, and frankly, some of the others think you’re too square, but I think you’ll enjoy it. Interested?”

This tastes of my school days – and I mean the days when I was on the other side of the teacher’s desk. The cool kids wonder if I belong. I’m surprised how much I still want to be cool, and suspect that this means I’m anything but.

“Go on.” I try an indifferent smile.

He takes me by the elbow and leads me to the table in the corner, far away from the chatting elders of the common room. He takes a small detective’s notepad out of his breast pocket.

“A sweepstakes,” he says. “The first spanking of the term. In which form do you think it will happen?”

I’m appalled and thrilled in equal measure. The game is awful. It’s the only exciting thing I expect to happen in St. Hilda’s this term. I hardly have to think before I jump in to join the cool kids.

“Tomlinson has the Fifth for Algebra, which is a bad combination,” I say confidently. “I give it until tomorrow for the heads to start rolling.”

Jason marks my stake in his book; he accepts my pound coin. “I knew you’d like the game,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on the Punishment Book, and will let you know. I’m betting on the Lower Sixth myself; those girls would make St Trinian’s shrink.”

He sweeps the notebook back into his pocket, and pats it with a knowing smile. “Enjoy your lessons, Eleanor,” he says, starting to walk away.

“Jason!”

He stops and half-turns, an eyebrow raised.

“You teach the Lower Sixth. You’re not planning to cane somebody at the slightest excuse, are you?”

The smirk grows into a full, toothy grin.

“Now, would I do that?”

The grin stays for a few seconds, as though in a freeze-frame. Then a wink, and he is gone.

I should have bet on the Third.

The End.

————————–

This story was written in response to Casey Morgan’s “Secret Saturday” challenge, using the prompt “third-grade teacher”.

I’ve been reading Emma Jane’s wonderful posts (here and here) describing the intense scene that she, HH and I played last the weekend. She was Eliza – a workhouse girl, stripped and positioned over the punishment horse, for a caning and strapping that was as intense as could be. I’ve been wondering since what would have happened to Eliza afterwards…

–

A few days later, a visitor had called at the workhouse. A former schoolmaster, now retired, he lived alone and needed a maid to help around the house. Did the workhouse have a girl he could take on?

Eliza’s whipping had given the Master cause for concern about her future conduct: would she become more rebellious, having been so soundly flogged? So he had her fetched to his study, with orders to be on her best behaviour, and presented to the gentleman – who liked her, and agreed to take her in return for a most generous donation to the workhouse’s coffers. He returned to collect her the following morning, finding the girl freshly scrubbed and in a clean dress – and quite, quite delighted to escape with him to her new home.

There, she proved keen to impress. Shy at first – scared of him, even, though he knew not why – she worked diligently, seemingly relieved and grateful to be away from workhouse life. Yet when he asked her about her time there, tears came quickly to her eyes, and he backed off from his questioning.

Maids in those days, as she well knew, were far from unused to punishments for even minor misdemeanours. The cane was commonplace, yet this gentleman merely encouraged and offered advice when things weren’t done to his satisfaction. Until, that is, young Eliza dropped and broke a decanter full of port – having been particularly told to be careful with it just moments before.

She trembled like a leaf as she stood before him, terrified of what was to come. And, indeed, he confirmed her worst fears: “You leave me with no choice but to punish you, Eliza.”
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Merry Christmas! Hope all of you out there have a lovely day. In case you have time amidst the festive fun, here’s a new story as our little Christmas present to all of our readers. Hope you like it: comments very welcome, as always!

–

Meeting the Headmaster

The girl, neat in her new uniform, shifts nervously from foot to foot as the Headmaster behind his desk flicks through the pages of the manila file. She knows what he’ll find inside – the records from her former school showing not only her successes (good grades, academic prizes, starring roles on the stage and the lacrosse field), but also her failures. Those forms, completed meticulously each time by her then housemaster, after she’d stood and straightened her skirt, once he’d put away the plimsoll. Those sheets of shame.

She wants to protest before her new Headmaster jumps to the wrong conclusions. “I do try to be good, I promise. And I’ve not been in trouble for nearly a year. Please don’t think badly of me.” But instead, she waits, the butterflies rioting inside her tummy.

He places the file carefully on the desk, and peers over his spectacles. “So, young lady: a fresh start, here in our sixth form…”

He looks at her, as if expecting a reply. “Yes, sir. I want to do well. I’ll do everything I can. I promise.”

He pauses, weighing her up – this slight, pretty lass, shaking like a leaf. “And we shall do everything we can to help, of course. We’re very proud of our high standards, Miss Conroy; I think they’ll be just what you need. Academic… and disciplinary.”

She stares at the carpet. She mumbles an embarrassed “Yes, sir”, to this man who now knows such shameful secrets from her past.

“Have no doubt, on the latter front, that we stand for no nonsense. Strict, but fair.”

“Yes, sir.” She knows of his reputation already, of course; the other girls in the dorm regaled her with their stories last night, once they’d heard of her impending appointment. Loved, they said, but feared too. Feared more than loved. Nightmares had followed.

He stands, walks around his desk, and puts a friendly arm around her shoulders as if in support and solidarity. “Then we understand each other, it seems. If you need help, my door is always open – as indeed is your Housemaster’s. Now: go and make me proud of you during your time with us, Miss Conroy.”

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As Abel has written before, his 10-year-old story site is getting evicted because of the closure of Geocities. To give his writing a home while our new story site is being built* I have moved the site as was to our own domain.

Thus I give you Abel’s Spanking Stories at their new (temporary) home.

If you had the old site bookmarked or linked, please make the changes now. And if you know somebody who is linking to the old place, please pass on the word – it’s going, it’s disappearing, *poof* it’s gone.

But wait! That’s not it. As I was shifting the site anyway, I’ve added four new stories. (Well, they’ve been seen online before, just not on the site.)

Oh yeah, Abel loves feedback on his stories. This is a hint.

* It is being built! I’ve given up on my own design skills, and we actually have a very clever person doing it for us now.

Here’s another short story – this time school-based – that I posted a couple of days ago in this year’s contest at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. It just squeezes in inside the 500-word limit for the category concerned, with one word to spare!

–

ZERO TOLERANCE

It finished as it had started, with best friends cuddling in their shared study bedroom. Only it ended in tears, having begun with such glee.

Castleton was strict. Many argued that that was its strength, the discipline leading the girls to behave so impeccably, to attain such excellence in the classroom and on the games field.

If a new girl dared to hope that the crook-handled cane hanging next to the blackboard in each classroom was merely for show, her first taste of its biting cut would certainly correct her misapprehension. Not that the masters chastised indiscriminately: only particularly poor behaviour would find a girl called to the front, to hold out her hands as the rattan scored its mark. But few were the fortunate pupils who escaped unpunished.

“So let’s break the canes,” Emily had proposed, in that ill-placed moment of bravado.

“You’re not serious? Surely?”

But she had been, and so Alice had joined her – the unlikely rebels darting between classrooms, under cover of darkness, hearts pounding. The rods snapped suprisingly easily, the fragments left under their scrawled chalk message: “Revolution!”

The Headmaster had been furious at that morning’s assembly. Those responsible would be caught and soundly punished: would the misguided ‘revolutionaries’ care to own up? They hadn’t, and had listened aghast as he’d announced his plan. The canes had already been replaced, and would be used to punish any infringements of school rules, any shortfall in standards, until the culprits had come forward.

A late assignment, a test mark deemed too low? Standing up too late as a master entered the room? A tie tied too loosely, shoes scuffed not shining? Whatever the reason, zero tolerance was the new mantra: even girls who’d escaped punishment in the past found their trembling hands tasting the cane for the first time that morning.

They’d had to own up, of course. Knocked at the Headmaster’s office; been told by his secretary that he was busy. Nervously left a message acknowledging their guilt. Returned to their classes, to wait the inevitable – and to dread what it might actually be.

The walk to the front of the hall, during the special assembly at the end of the school day – watched in knowing sympathy by their compatriots – had been the longest of their lives, and yet far too short.

They’d climbed the stairs, listened as he passed sentence. Twelve strokes each on the bare – not that their light summer dresses would have offered much protection. Alice, to the right of the stage, touching her toes for the Headmaster. Emily to the left, as the Deputy Head picked up his cane.

Twelve strokes. Delivered slowly, in unison, canes raised high, the audience biting their lips as the rods descended, striped, as the girls struggled to hold their position, to count (quietly, tearfully).

And then they were walking back to their places in the crowd, the Headmaster’s final admonishments ringing in the punished girls’ ears as the pain seared across their backsides.

Many of you will be familiar with the SSC, the summer Short Story Contest at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup.

Each year, entries are invited for various categories – and it’s fun to contribute. (Hey, what else is one to do on holiday?!). I posted an entry t’other day in the “Adult” category, which has a 500-word limit. I’m reproducing it below, for your kinky entertainment…

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THE PUNISHMENT CELL

They’d left her alone. Here, in this room. Just her and the punishment frame, and the small pile of prison clothes that she’d removed, as instructed, and placed in a neat pile on the floor.

Watson had brought her here. The officer in charge of C wing. The officer with whom she’d argued earlier in the day. (Why had she argued? Why had she been so stupid? Why couldn’t she turn back time?). Led her, handcuffed, down the long, silent, antiseptic corridors, unlocking each of the heavy doors in turn, locking them firmly behind her. Brought the girl who’d questioned his authority to the place where it would be demonstrated to her in such unequivocal terms.

Then left, without so much as a glance.

Ten minutes ago? Thirty? Hard to keep track of time.

Too long. Not long enough.

Her eyes kept glancing to the polished wooden contraption in the centre of the high, bare cell. Glancing, looking away, steeling herself, glancing back. The leather ties that would bind her ankles. Looking away. Looking away. The smooth, dark wood over which they’d have her bend, the ties for her wrists on the opposite side. Looking away. Looking away.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold. So cold, sitting here, naked, on this solitary plastic chair. A single bulb hung above her, the only frail source of light or warmth in this lonely place.

She’d been caned on admission, as the magistrate had instructed to her shock and to cries of disbelief from her family and friends crowded into the tiny courtroom. Twenty strokes as she touched her toes in the prison’s reception room, between stripping from her own clothes and covering herself with the rough, ugly, government-issue uniform. Each stroke unbearable, for its pain and its shame, each marking her transition, her loss of freedom.

But today was different. No cane here. No mere admissions officer. Any moment now: the prison Punishment Officer, bearing a birch. The birch, of which the girls whispered so reverentially. (Apart, that is, from those who’d received it: they fell silent, looked away, tried not to remember. Tonight, she’d become one of them).

They would flog her until they were confident that she would co-operate fully for the remainder of her sentence, they’d said. Until she understood that girls did not challenge officers. Until she was suitably punished.

Waiting, glancing, waiting.

Crying, softly. Wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.

Waiting, waiting.

And then, in the distance, the sound of a metal door opening and closing, and the clatter of boots on stone growing ever-closer…