The Spanking Writers

Just as I was searching the web for a suitably kinky Valentine, one arrived in my mailbox. (And it wasn’t from my husband, either. Woohoo, admirers galore!)

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I cuddled up to Haron as she stirred yesterday morning, and whispered my night’s dream to her.

I’d been a gentleman visiting the local Workhouse, to select a girl. Not for any illicit purposes, you understand: I needed a bright young thing to help with some work in my country house.

I’d interviewed a selection of their inmates: one girl stood out, shy but sharp. On payment of the appropriate fee, the Master of the Workhouse brought her to me. Only there was a slight hitch: “You see, sir, she’s due a whipping at the end of the month with some of the other girls, and I’m not sure whether we should let her leave before then.”

A compromise was reached. The flogging block was brought into the room, the trembling girl stripped naked and tied tightly down. I watched – she was my property now, after all – as the Punishment Officer did his harsh duty.

And after it was done, she was made to dress. The final signature was added to the paperwork, discharging her into my care; we journeyed home in my carriage, every bump in the road bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

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Whilst I have never spanked a work colleague or client…

…OK, only once…

…I do enjoy making toppish comments in meetings, with a perfectly innocent expression on my face. (”Kinky? That? What do you mean?”).

Two such observations cropped up in the past 48 hours. First, to the delegate who persisted in chatting about the *most* inappropriate topics to her neighbour as I was trying to re-start a course after a break. She’d been warned; it took the following to restore her concentration:

If you’re not going to behave yourself, I’ll have to send you out of the room.

And then a dinner meeting this evening with a colleague (and long-standing friend) who was accompanied by her partner. She made a very brattish comment - inevitably I reacted with:

Behave yourself, young lady.

The blush and the glance she threw in her partner’s direction (so similar to Haron’s expression when hearing a startle) left me in little doubt that she was familiar both with the phrase, and the consequences.

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A frank discussion with kinky friends recently concerned our early porn-reading days as teenagers. How I enjoyed some of those long summer holidays from school – parents safely out of the way, pocket money in hand and the local newsagent’s top shelf just in reach!

It did seem that I had a rather unusual approach to my porn-reading, though. You see, browsing naughty magazines for me involved the use of a red pen. Pictures of delectable backsides soon became adorned with hand-drawn stripes, as I pictured the canings and whippings that the scantily-clad (nay, often completely unclad) young ladies would have received. “Readers’ Wives” became “Spanked Readers’ Wives”; “Penthouse” transmuted into “Jailhouse” and “Men Only” (a particular favourite) metamorphosed into “Strict Men Only”.

And that was before I’d realised that I was kinky, or even what “kinky” was.

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Last night’s New Year’s Eve party at our Malaysian resort was rather ghastly, the otherwise excellent hotel management cynically exploiting their captive audience by charging disgracefully inflated sums for food that was no better than usual, a band that would shame a third-rate karaoke joint, and a CD of seventies disco classics.

Things looked up on the stroke of midnight, though, with a spectacular fireworks display, and before very long guests were welcoming 2008 by diving into the swimming pool in their posh frocks. The new year was therefore a mere quarter-hour old before it inspired its first kinky imaginings.

I pictured a giggling group of girls from the hotel staff diving in to join the fun, carried away by the spirit of the occasion into forgetting that they were still on duty. And then their supervisor appeared. Orders were barked; bedraggled girls in hotel uniforms clambered, dripping out of the pool.

This morning, the General Manager’s first duty of the new year was to deal with the miscreants – silent, nervous, regretful, downcast – lining the corridor outside his office. He’d leave the door open as he called them in one by one, the sounds of their canings floating down the hallway to add to the lesson being learnt by their friends.

PS as to how any fathers might have dealt with daughters drenching designer dresses, I shall leave that entirely to your imaginations…

PPS 10.30am, across my knee as I sat on a sun lounger, if you were wondering when Haron’s cheekiness first got her into trouble this year. The beach was pretty quiet, but she still seemed a little alarmed when I started to pull down her swimming costume…

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I’m sure our names sound ridiculour to a foreign ear, but I had a juvenile giggle reading an article by a Malaysian journalist by the name of Dick Tan.

Ouch! Sunburn there would hurt; I hope he’s careful…

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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.

Continue Reading »

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A debate in the Guardian about the prevalence slipperings in Beano cartoons led to an interesting anecdote from a lady in Yorkshire:

I was slippered some 25 years ago very infrequently by my mother and was once caned on the hands at school. We had a painting compettition … and threw paint on one of our competitors creations. The 2 boys I was with got six of the best across their bottoms and I as the only girl got the cane across my hands. It taught me a lesson and I never misbehaved again at school.

The endless variety of offences committed at school never ceases to amaze me. The pupils in my scene version of this would comprise three girls, of course. But one would have to cane them on their hands, for authenticity’s sake. All I need now is someone who can offer a room that can get covered in paint. And two girls to join Haron in the competition.

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I heard a shriek from upstairs this morning, and rushed to investigate.

Abel was in the shower. I have never seen him scared of water before, so I worriedly asked what was wrong.

It appeared that the cold weather of the last few days tempted both of us to have hot baths rather than showers, and so the temperature settings on the shower remained the same as during my reformatory birching scene.

That is, not quite freezing, but still pretty damn cold.

Did he notice this before turning on the water? No, he didn’t.

Awww.

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