The Spanking Writers

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!

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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…

As a little festive present to our readers, here’s a new story – inspired by the gorgeous hotel room we stayed in last week in Kuala Lumpur, before we headed to the beach.

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FIVE STARS, SIX STRIPES

She’d sorted the forms, as usual, into the order he preferred. A girl’s profile came first, printed onto yellow paper: date of birth, length of service, department, grade: the basics of her existence within the hotel hierarchy. Then, neatly attached – with a paper clip, mind, never stapled – came each of the three reports that had occasioned that afternoon’s forthcoming encounter. Sorted chronologically, the details of the offence that had led to her first misconduct mark, followed by the second and the fateful third.

He liked the girls’ details presented alphabetically by surname, inside a plain blue card folder, which she placed, as always, on the leather surface of the desk in his suite. It was two in the afternoon now; he’d soon be emerging from his weekly conference call with Head Office, which rarely left him in the best of moods. The girls – four of them this week – were due outside at three. Sharp.

Georgina paused, looking down at the folder. A moment, turning into a minute. The same routine as she’d completed every week since her promotion to the post of Executive Assistant to the General Manager of the Royal International Hotel. His ‘right hand woman’, his ‘help in time of need’, his ‘number one ally’, as he described her.

Only there was one difference. For, this week, her own details were recorded within the sheaf of papers.

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Now, who was it who asked for more of my stories on “Love our Lurkers” day recently? Harriet, Evie, you inspired me – with a little help from a certain dear friend, whose misbehaviour last week gave me just the idea.

You know, the folks around me on the late train from King’s Cross on Friday evening seemed so impressed at my dedication to work, as I sat typing into my laptop. If only they knew…

The perils of drink
By Abel

Interruptions to class were rare, as if the teacher’s chamber was somehow sacrosanct: “do not disturb” the abiding motto. And the girls knew by now that those occasional knocks at the door – once, twice a term? – were inevitably harbingers of doom, announcing the arrival of a prefect with a message of imminent discomfort for one of their number.

The routine was the same: “My apologies, but Mr. ……. asked me to deliver an urgent message.” And the crisp envelope would be passed over to the teacher; the audience would hang on tenterhooks as if watching some awards ceremony in reverse – no winner of a statuette being revealed here, but rather the pronouncement of which girl was destined to face a most uncomfortable encounter.

And the teacher would shake his head solemnly, scanning the expectant, nervous faces. A pause for effect? A solemn revelation of the verdict: “It appears that Miss ….. is required in her Housemaster’s study.”

Sometimes the girl would be expecting it: all eyes would have swivelled to her as the prefect entered the room. So it was true? And he was going to cane her? And she’d be nervously tidying the pile of books on her desk even before her name echoed through the room, any vain hope extinguished by the sound of the knocks.

And on other occasions?

The moment of disbelief. Did he say me? The questions – what for, or (maybe) how did he know? The burning cheeks, embarrassed at the shocked stares of her classmates. Legs turning to stone, scarcely able to carry her to the door.

That long, long walk along the empty corridors, practising her excuses and her pleas for mercy, trying not to contemplate what would happen were they to prove unsuccessful.

“Miss Barlow.”

Which rather took Jennifer aback, that Friday morning, then shocked her to the core as she realised what must have happened.

– Read the rest of this entry »

I know that many readers first discovered our writing via our stories. Although my stories site hasn’t been updated for way too long (have patience, dear friends), I do continue to write longer pieces fairly regularly. Let you feel like you’re missing out, here’s my latest – comments welcome!

FROM LEFT TO RIGHT
By Abel

To each girl, a number. No names, from here on. One to six, read out, the order decreed by the sheet of paper pinned to the top of the punishment officer’s clipboard. No need for differentiation. The offences that had brought them to this point, here, in this narrow corridor, were almost irrelevant now. All they had in common was their sentence: today’s was a fifty-stroke parade.

“Line up in order!’ A scrambling, as girls half-pushed, half-politely-stood- aside-lest-they-were-being-watched.

And then the cold instruction to strip, in the officer’s clear, clipped voice. Some had felt the nudity to be unnecessary, when the law had been before parliament. Its proposers had been adamant: anything that might offer a clue as to origin, class, wealth was unacceptable. ‘Equality of punishment for all’, they insisted resolutely.

Hands trembling, the girls complied. The more sensible of them had worn T-shirts, jogging pants, slip-on shoes. The wiser; the ones who’d done their research; the ones who’d dared to anticipate what it might actually be like. The terrified fair-haired lass at the end struggled with the buttons of her well-pressed designer blouse, regretting her choice in the same way her neighbour’s choice of snugly-fitted trousers would later seem profoundly ill-advised.

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New Year’s Eve. The Janus day – like the ancient god, looking both ways, Forwards, at the coming year, with all the inherent hopes and fears; reflecting back.

And nowhere more so than at Wetherington. By mid-morning, the girls were busy in the grounds as they cut their switches from crisp, cold December trees, before returning to the great house to huddle in front of the warming fires and bind the rods together. They worked in silence: disturbing Sir Charles was inadvisable, on this morning more than on any other.

Birches prepared, they disappeared back to their bedrooms, a final hug, a final word giving courage where it might be needed. They each changed into their thin blue dresses, then sat on their beds alone. And waited.

Thomas rang the gong at midday sharp. The library had been prepared, as usual: the furniture re-arranged, the shutters closed. Even the two new girls knew what to expect, carefully prepared as they had been. They filed in, birches in hand, and lined up.

Their benefactor sat behind his desk, at the opposite side of the room – far enough away that any conversations that might take place would remain private, inaudible to the others in the room. All that stood between Sir Charles and the girls was an expanse of wooden flooring, covered in the finest Persian rugs, and solitary wooden chair. He stood as they entered, welcoming them and reminding them of the purpose of the proceedings. “I take great pride in the achievements of my girls. By giving a home to the twelve of you here who might otherwise not have had the opportunity to benefit from the finest education, and sending you to the finest institutions in the land, I hope to turn you into the most successful young ladies in the North of England. I pray that you want for nothing here. I ask for little in return, other than for you to repay my generosity by investing every effort in your studies and good behaviour.”

He scanned the line up, and beckoned to his butler. The gentleman spoke softly, too quietly for the girls to hear; it was Thomas who walked across the room, paused, then stepped up to Emily. “Sir Charles would like to see you now.”

Whilst the girls were brought forward at random, it was traditional to start with the oldest girl. In her final year at University, Miss Shelham was destined, no doubt, for great things after graduation. After she left Wetherington this coming summer, as she would be required to do on completion of her education. She approached Sir Charles’s desk nervously: that this was her sixth New Year in the house scarcely made it easier. She felt the weight of the bound rods in her hand: prayed that he would find no fault.

He drew a manila folder from the top of the pile, opened it and studied the papers. “A most accomplished performance, it seems. Your examination results are most impressive, Emily. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, would you like to remind me of the resolutions that you made this time last year, Emily?”

“To study as hard as possible, to gain a first in my second-year exams,…” she hesitated, “and to continue singing in the University choir.”

“And you have kept to those.”

“Well, sir…”

“Well?” The question-mark hung in the air.

“I haven’t quite had time for choir this past term, sir. What with all of my studies and…”

He paused, looking her in the eyes. A look of disappointment. “No ‘ands’. You made a resolution. A promise. To me, and to yourself. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir Charles.” As she well knew.

He stood up. “Then you understand what must happen now.”

A tear trickled down her face: “I do, sir.” Understood, acknowledged, accepted. Was grateful for. Remembered, from previous years. Needed?

“You have done well otherwise, my dear girl, and I shall take that into consideration. You will therefore receive three strokes. Please hand me your birch, then take up position behind the chair.” She passed the rod over the desk and turned, avoiding the eyes of her fellow residents and she turned and walked back to the designated spot.

“Please lift your dress, Emily, and bend over.” Baring herself – “dresses, only dresses” being the well-rehearsed code for the day – she took the position, reaching out to hold the front legs of the chair. The other girls would have a clear view of her backside, though most would advert their eyes, knowing that their turn would shortly follow.

The strokes, when they came, were applied with his habitual force. She kept her composure as best she could: the senior girl had to set a good example. Yet she could not help but cry out, sotte voce as far as she could control herself, at each burning blow.

“Please stand when you are ready, young lady, and come back to my desk.”

By the time she had raised herself up gingerly, and smoothed down her dress, he had recorded what had transpired with his fountain pen on his embossed paper, and added it to her file. He smiled: “You took that well, Emily, as you have always done in those years where I have had to flog you. Now, for this year’s resolutions.”

“I… I just want to work flat out to get a first-class degree, and get a good job, Sir Charles.”

“‘Just’? I do so hope you will, my dear.” A fresh sheet of paper was inscribed, and added to her folder. “Now, you’ll be leaving us in the summer, so we will review your performance on your final day with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And would you ask Caroline to join me when you return to the others?”

“Yes, sir. And thank you.”

“No, thank you, Emily. Having you with us here has always been a pleasure.”

And with that the senior girl walked back to the line-up, and smiled as reassuringly as she could at the next girl, who stepped forward for her review…