The Spanking Writers

Those of you who’ve been enjoying the redesigned “Abel’s Spanking Stories” site might like to know that I’ve just added new school story, called “Second Time Around”. Enjoy…!

PS hope you’re finding some fun reading on the new site – and thank you to those of you who’ve posted kind comments on the stories.

Back in 1999, I made my first tentative foray into hosting my own spanking-related website, when I uploaded a selection of my writing to “Abel’s Spanking Stories”. Over the years, I’ve added a few more stories to the site, and it’s moved home once or twice, accumulating some three million hits in the process.

Today, I’m delighted to say, the new version of “Abel’s Spanking Stories” has gone live here on the Spanking Writers site. I’ve brought together everything from the old site with all of the other stories I’ve published on the web (or newsgroups) over the years – making nearly fifty stories in all. I’ll also be adding new content on a regular basis: I’ve got over twenty more stories waiting to be published in the coming months. And, of course, it’s still absolutely free.

The site’s also been totally redesigned, thanks to quite wonderful work by Haron. I’m hugely grateful to her for this – and pleased to see our friendship and collaboration continuing strongly and amicably after all of the recent changes in our lives. To her, huge thanks and big hugs.

For the first time, you also have the opportunity to comment on the stories. Kind feedback’s always appreciated!

So, ladies and gentleman, I’m proud to present – to start the 2012 spanking year in style – the brand new version of Abel’s Spanking Stories, which can henceforth be found at www.spankingwriters.com/stories . Enjoy!

This started as a short blog entry, inspired (as are so many) by a dream overnight last night. It half-turned into a shortish story, written in some haste before my house guest awakes this morning. Whatever it is, I rather like the setting. And, actually, more than a story or blog entry, it really would make a lovely scene…

–

A large, comfortable family house in the Home Counties, some time in the 1920s.

Mother, father, two daughters sit at the dinner table. Only, actually, it’s mother, stepfather, daughter, stepdaughter, a year since the marriage. They’re all smartly dressed: Sunday-best frocks; jacket and tie.

The meal over, he tells the girls to clear the table – “Then I want you to do another hour’s schoolwork before bedtime.” And the stepdaughter loses her temper: “It’s Sunday. I’ve worked all weekend. You’re not fair.” She flings her glass of water to the table; it shatters.

A moment’s silence, as they take in what’s just happened, before he speaks: “Go to your room…”

He leaves her there for a goodly while, giving her time to contemplate, for anger to give way to remorse – and dread. “I’ll always treat you as my own daughter,” he’d said when she’d moved in, and he’s been good to his word ever since: caring, kind, loving. And when they’ve transgressed – either of them, both of them? He’s treated them the same then, too – across his knee, the spankings equally hard and the cuddles afterwards equally heartfelt.

But there’s one punishment he’s not yet had to use on her…

He climbs the stairs, knocks on the door of the room that his girls share, waits for her open it. She lets him in, avoiding eye contact, standing small and downcast before him.

“I hardly need to say that that was completely unacceptable.”

“I know. I’m sorry…”

“You crossed a line there, into behaviour that leaves me no choice but to punish you severely. I’d like you to go downstairs; apologise to your mother and sister; clear up the mess you’ve made. And then join me in my study…”

She knows at once what he means by that. His study. Where the thick crook-handled cane rests next to the desk. Unused on her – but not, since her arrival, on her sister, whom she’d consoled as best she could after six deserved strokes for being given a detention at school.

She composes herself as best she can after he’s left. Takes deep breaths. Tries to summon up the courage to face what’s to come; finding no courage at all, she heads downstairs anyway. Her mother: distant, matter-of-fact, as she listens to the apology. Her sister, holding her hand and whispering good luck. The table at long last cleared, the dishes washed and dried; the shards of glass carefully packed into a cardboard box.

And then there’s nowhere left to hide.

She knocks, is called in. Hears of his shock, his disappointment: “I thought better of you than that.” Hears how he intends to teach her a sound lesson. Watches, as he positions a wooden chair in the centre of the room, as he then picks up the cane. “Bend over, and put your hands on the seat of the chair. And bare your bottom.” She complies, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry to have let you down…”

“You’ve let yourself down. And it can’t happen again. Won’t happen again: I’m going to give you twelve strokes of the cane.” Twelve carefully-measured stripes, each weal perfectly parallel to the others. Each drawing a sob, some lifting her involuntarily to her feet to clutch at her striped buttocks, dancing on the spot in pain until she can bend forward to take more.

He intersperses his clear count of the number of strokes with an explanation of why she’s there: of how much he loves her; of how he wants her to do well, to make him and her mother proud; of how she must control her temper; of how he hopes she’ll learn from her punishment. And when he’s finished, he holds his sobbing girl close to his chest, taking his pocket handkerchief to dry her tears, and telling her again how much he loves her.

Yes, I know I posted a new story here this morning. But, you know, sometimes one gets ideas that just need to be written – and so it was this morning. So here’s another, very short, very quickly-written story for Christmas Eve. Enjoy!

Nice and naughty

It’s late on Christmas Eve. Dinner’s finished, the silverware cleared. The master sips his port in the library, and rings for his butler.

“Bring in the girls, Thompson.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They arrive, freshly-scrubbed, dressed in their best neatly-pressed uniforms: the parlour maids, the chamber maid, the laundry and scullery maids. He stands and takes the sheaf of paper from the butler, and reads out the first name: “Hattie…”

She steps forward, nervously, bowing her head. “A very good year, Hattie. Thank you.”  And he reaches under the tree, passing her a brightly-wrapped present. She beams with delight, with pride. “You may go to your room. Merry Christmas.”

“Edith.” A younger girl, in her first year in the household. “A good start. Generally…” He lays down the papers. “Yet I’m told there have been times when you’ve not been quite as diligent as you might have been. Thompson: a birch, please, and put the girl in position…”

Twelve strokes: hard, as she bends over – skirt lifted – and clutches her ankles. And then, as she sobs, he passes her gift – “for all the good you’ve done, now the other matters are dealt with and forgotten.”

And so it continues. Each girl presents herself in turn, trembling before his judgement. As he peers down at Thompson’s reports, some are praised – and others first punished.

Soon, only one girl remains. The master turns to Thompson: “I can deal with this from here.” He hands over the largest gift under the tree, with smiling thanks, and sends the butler on his way, locking the library door.

One present remains. ”So, Charlotte…” He reads the paperwork, before setting it down, and then stands before his favourite maid, lifting her face gently to his. “Naughty, or nice?”

One birch…

“I think…  naughty, sir.”

Gently: “In what way?”

“In… not always working as hard as I should, sir. In… in sometimes breaking things, sir… In sometimes not waking up on time. And I snapped at one of the new maids…”

“Then I have to deal with the nicest of my girls in the same way I’ve dealt with the others who’ve transgressed, don’t I?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry…”

And so he beats her. Slowly, talking all the time: how she’s the best of his girls, how she works so hard, how he knows she tries hard. But how she mustn’t let herself down. Is it her imagination, or is he flogging her harder than the others?

And when he’s done? When she’s calmed herself a little, managed to stem the flow of tears? After he’s stretched out his arms to hold her? Well, then it’ll be the same as last year for his good girl, as buttons are undone and garments removed, as she’s bent over the arm of the leather armchair, as he’s first gentle with her and then so much rougher. Afterwards, he’ll hold her tight; kiss her gently; whisper sweet and caring thoughts. And then he’ll hand her her gift from under the tree, and send her on her way.

I haven’t published a new story here for a little while – so here goes, as a Christmas present to you all (and as a taster for the new version of my “Abel’s Spanking Stories” site, which I promise is on its way very soon). I hope those of you who celebrate tomorrow’s festival, whether religiously or in a secular way, have a wonderful day.

The new tradition

A typical autumnal evening, still early in the St Jude’s school year. It’s dark outside; chill. The leaves have long-since fallen; Christmas is creeping up – but exams loom large before the season of relative frivolity can begin.

Supper’s just been served in the refectory and the prefects have retired to their comfortable common room. Some of them study; others read that morning’s newspaper; a small group discuss the increasingly unruly behaviour of the Fifth Form and the action that might be taken to bring them back in line.

One of the illustrious elite, imposing in his jet-black gown of office, enters their quarters from a tour of duty around the school’s somewhat scattered premises; the others look up. “Evening, Evans: how‘s the rabble this evening?”

“Oh, much the usual. Anyone expecting Miss Swinton?”

Heads are raised, looking around in curiosity. The Head Prefect, Harris, gets to his feet: “Indeed. I wondered when she’d show up. If she’d be brave enough, frankly.”

“She’s outside.”

That’s the way, you see. Mere pupils summoned to meet their prefectorial masters are forbidden from knocking on the heavy oak door of their lair. Nor, in fact, are they permitted to speak to any passing member of the clan on his way into the prefects’ room. No: a girl turns up at the anointed hour, waits, hopes that either her presence will be announced or that her tormentor-in-wait would deign to come and see if she were there. ‘Hoped’, perhaps being the wrong word, for as much as she wants this over and done with, she certainly doesn’t want it to start.

“I do hope I shan’t disturb your evening too much, then, gentlemen,” the senior man observes, walking to the door and opening it. “Inside. Now.”

The girl enters, glancing around her at the unfamiliar surroundings, then scanning the faces of her assembled elders and betters. Harris looms over her: “So are you going to dazzle me with an explanation?”

“I… I was doing what you’d said. I just…”

“I found you in the lower sixth form common room when you should have been in the library for private study. I told you to go there straight away. Ten minutes later, when I walked back past, you were still in the common room.”

“I needed to…”

“You needed to be in private study. And you needed to do what I told you.”

Silence fills the room, the two players carefully observed by their audience, enthralled as always by the theatre of punishment. Quietly, she murmurs: “Yes, sir. I’m sorry…”

Harris continues. “So you quite clearly leave me no choice but to beat you, Miss Swinton. Three strokes for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And shall we say….” He pauses as if mentally scanning through some almanac of offences and their corresponding consequences: “…six more for disobeying me. Although maybe I’ll be kind, and let you off one as I think you’re generally a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Captain of the quiz team, a star on the sports field. With something of a rebel streak, a healthy dose of independence of spirit. A good girl indeed. Until now.

“Then please remove your knickers and put them in your blazer pocket; stand in front of the fireplace, and bend over and touch your toes.”

The beating is administered on the bare, of course, the girl made to lift her skirt once the prefect selects his cane from the rack in the corner of the room. (Each has a favourite: thickness, length, balance. It may only be November, the school year barely two months old, yet they are all already practised in wielding the rattan). Three weals, evenly spaced, evenly timed: twenty or so seconds between each stroke, allowing each to burn home its message before the next cutting impact.

“Stand up, and come over to the desk.” A large, leather book is pulled from a drawer, and opened at the requisite page. Neatly, in fountain pen:

15 November 1953 – Elizabeth Swinton – Lower Sixth Arts – Failure to attend private study – Three strokes – J. Harris.

He hands her the pen, and points to the blank final column. Her hands shake so much that her scrawled name would be scarcely recognisable when compared to her usual signature.

“And now, let us continue.” He points her back to the fireplace, to bend and bare herself once more.

“Frankly, I regard disobeying me as by far the more serious offence.” And he proves it, each of the five strokes administered with unforgiving ferocity. Bravely, she stays in place; he chooses not to notice when – after the second of this second batch – she starts to clutch her ankles rather than touch her toes. No-one comments when they hear her start to cry.

Afterwards, the next line in the punishment book is inscribed into the school’s memory. She is handed a paper handkerchief, which she takes gratefully. She apologises: “I’m sorry for causing so much trouble.” And he places a not unkind hand on her shoulder: “I think you’ve learnt your lesson bravely, Miss Swinton. Now you may go. Please close the door behind you.”

As she leaves, she sees another girl waiting. She recognises her as one of the Lower Fourth – still a relatively new girl, in her first term at St Jude’s. She pauses for half a second, as if she should offer some words of encouragement, but she can think of none to say. She continues on her way; they avoid each other’s eyes, the punished and the to-be-punished

–

That was then – and times, of course, change. The prefects’ right to administer corporal punishment disappeared overnight, thanks to some interfering governmental decree that bound even the best schools to some lowest common disciplinary denominator.

Yet the power to have a girl caned remains. All it takes is a word with her housemaster: “Miss Feversham was caught with a stash of wine in her locker.” “Thank you so much for letting me know.” And later that day, after supper, the girl in question will find herself in the privacy of his study, being just as soundly beaten as her forebears.

What happens next, after her caning, is less formally documented. Actually, to be frank, a search of the school rules would fail to find mention of it at all. But traditions echo down the years, and the practice is – if not officially condoned – given tacit approval by the powers-that-be as they tolerate its continuation.

For, after her punishment, a girl proceeds not to her dormitory but to wait outside the prefects’ room – standing up straight, in silence, hoping that one of them will take pity on her and enquire as to the purpose of the visit.

She’ll be shown in. Stood in front of the fireplace. Made to bend over and bare herself. And the prefect responsible for her punishment will inspect her marks, whilst the others look on, before she is sent on her tearful way.

It’s here at last: the most-anticipated book of the year for spanking enthusiasts! We’re very proud to announce the launch of “The Spanking Collection”, an anthology of new and exclusive short stories from a hand-picked selection of twenty of our favourite kinky writers.

As importantly as getting to read some truly great writing, by buying your copy you’ll be supporting an excellent cause, since all profits from the book will be donated to cancer research charities.

You can buy copies online as follows:

• Printed copy, in paperback
• Kindle, via Amazon in the US, UK and Germany
• Several other ebook formats, such as Epub, PDF, RTF, HTML or plain text, working on many ebook reading devices – Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo or whatever you’ve got that reads these formats.

(The paperback version will also be available from Amazon later in the year).

We’re hugely grateful to the authors who’ve contributed their pieces free to this charity collection. The stories are listed below, in the order in which they appear in the book:

The Scholarship Girl – Abel Jenkins

Slipping Up – Emma Jane

Keelin and Shayla – Faye Glass

Watching Xanadu – Paul Bailey

Staff Handbook: Chapter 5 – Discipline and Punishments – Henry Higgins

Penitence and Mercy – Graham Grey

The Punishment Room – Martha Linton

Suite Two – Bonnie

Finished – Rebecca Williams

The Library – Casey Morgan

What the Butler Saw – Jessica Davies

Knock-knock-knockin’ on Mr Batts’ Door – Zille Defeu

That Charming, Disarming Man – William & Catherine

The Royal Wedding – Pandora Blake

Trouble in Telesales – Domino

Heatstroke – Penny Docherty

Arlington Girls’ Reformatory – Rayne

Watching – Discerning Dom

Wifehouse – Serenity Everton

Honour Among Fools – Haron

 

The book also features an introduction by Eliane, as well as a specially-painted front cover by Catherine Thomas showing Abel slippering Emma Jane:

We hope you’ll buy the book and love it; we’re really proud of it, and hope that it’ll raise a good sum for an important charity too.

A young woman finds herself before the butler, knowing she is to be punished. The door to his room is locked firmly behind her.

Is she:

a) the daughter of the master of the house

or

b) a maid?

She’s here:

c) to be punished by him for the first time

or

d) with memories of past whippings fresh in her mind?

He tells her to undress:

e) nervously, she removes her garments, shy before his steady gaze

or

f) she refuses; he seizes her roughly and strips her naked?

He orders her to bend over to be whipped:

g) she does as she is told, leaning obediently over the edge of the table

or

h) she hesitates; he slaps her face and pushes her over; tying her down with rope to secure her co-operation?

He:

i) reaches for the birch that he prepared earlier that day

or

j) removes his belt?

“I’m going to…”

k) “…thrash you until you are truly sorry, young lady”

or

l) “… give you a dozen strokes. Hard.”?

She:

m) takes the punishment stoically, silently, not letting him see how he’s hurting her

or

n) sobs throughout, begging for mercy and forgiveness?

After he’s done, he moves behind her, tells her she’s a good girl and:

o) tells her to stand

or

p) touches her in the most inappropriate way…

I think I’m going to go for “a – d – f – h – i – l – m – p”. What about you?

Haron reads her new spanking story about the plight of a scullery maid.

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The results of the annual Summer Story Contest on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup were announced yesterday. Abel’s short story “The Classroom” has taken the first place in the category “Remembering Alex Birch”.

It’s a bitter-sweet victory, I’m sure. We still miss Alex, who passed away earlier this year. He had always supported the SSC, both by organising it and by entering many stories every year; it’s only fitting that this year’s contest was held in his memory, with a separate category for stories that commemorated him in some way.

Below is Abel’s winning entry.

The Classroom.

It had hurt – horribly, each of the six carefully-executed strokes quite simply agonising. Her classmates had watched in silence: wincing as he’d punished her, watching the neat red lines tracing their lesson across her pale skin whilst she’d stretched, tight, over his desk.

She’d walked – ashamed, hurting – to the back of the classroom, pausing to summon up the courage to lower her bottom onto the hard wooden chair. She so wanted to cry, but knew that her tears must be kept for later, in private – after she’d presented the punishment slip to her doubtless-disapproving housemaster, to be added to her school record.

Millie, next to her, squeezed her hand. Other girls flicked supportive glances her way, silently mouthing their are-you-OKs. A note passed surreptitiously from desk to desk – Erin, her best friend, seated at the front of the class, offering her condolences and her love: “My darling Poppy. That looked awful. He was a right bastard: you were so brave. Hugs later. You alright? xxx”

“Yeah. Fine. Not as bad as it looked. Didn’t hurt much. Old fool must be losing his touch! xxx” – a reckless reply, given the need to convey the folded paper back across the room. The master had spotted the reply winging its ill-fated way almost as soon as it had left the punished girl’s grasp; he’d monitored its progress, choosing his moment to pounce.

He unfolded the missive; read the correspondence slowly to himself, shook his head as if in sorrow – and beckoned Erin to stand.

“I simply won’t tolerate that sort of comment.”

“Sorry, sir.” Meaning it, her whispered apology tinged with dread.

He turned, picked up the cane. “I think you know the procedure…”

“Please…?” But he merely rapped the desk with the rattan and waited. She stepped forward, paused, looked at him in the vain hope of a last-minute reprieve – and then lowered her knickers, lifted her skirt and leant forward.

Poppy averted her eyes as her friend was punished. Punished! For the very act of friendship. She bit her lip, counting the six, knowing how Erin – far less used to the taste of the rod – must be suffering. And then her friend was being dismissed, the master’s hastily-scribbled report of her strokes clutched in her trembling hands, and he could turn his attention to unfinished business.

“Poppy Reynolds.”

“Sir…?” He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…

“Stand when I’m talking to you, young lady!”

“Yes, sir.” She rose to her feet, heart pounding at the realisation that standing was merely a prelude to another long, lonely march to the front of the classroom.

“You’ve just seen what happens to pupils who insult me. And this time, I shall make sure it hurts. Come out here and bend over, and we’ll see whether the old fool can get his touch back…”

–

P.S. Recently, when we looked back at the start of our blog, we saw that the very first comment we got was from Alex.

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.