The Spanking Writers

He’s coming tonight… Are you ready for your birching?

A night of reformatory floggings; I became a Governor in my dreams last night.

First, I found myself showing some distinguished visitor around our facilities. We had stopped outside a door, and were peering through the glass window, watching the scene inside.

A young, uniformed, female officer – in her late twenties? – was circling around the punishment frame. Holding a birch. A pale girl was tied to a frame, quite naked. The upturned U of the frame presented her body to us from the side, perfectly symmetrical; her wrists and ankles were tied tight. It appeared that her flogging was just about to begin.

I turned to my guest, and explained that the officer concerned was one of our best. “You see, she was an inmate here herself when she was younger. I think we helped her to see the error of her ways. I had to whip her when she was here, you know: I’m sure she’s more effective at giving out punishments now having been on the receiving end herself.”

Sadly, the dream faded. But later, another young prison officer was seen waiting in a different punishment room. She was a trainee: the regulations demanded that she must ‘demonstrate her competence in the administration of corporal punishment’ as part of attaining her qualifications. Our system was simple: as the young officers drew near to their graduation, they would therefore be asked to act as the Punishment Officer for a random girl who’d broken the regulations. Under supervision, of course: the examiner stood to the side of the room, with his clipboard.

A prisoner was marched in. The door was bolted shut; her handcuffs unlocked. And a look of panic crossed the young officer’s face. For this was no random prisoner: this was a girl who she knew, who she liked, who she’d comforted and cuddled and helped through her sentence.

The examiner looked at the officer: “Read out the charge sheet.” (Refusing to return to her cell when instructed; lashing out at the guards who had come to take her away).

“And what punishment do the statutes lay down for those offences?”

“Eight to twelve strokes for refusing to return to her cell, sir. Twelve to eighteen for striking an officer, sir.”

“And what is your assessment in this case?”

“It states on the form that it is her first offence, sir. So I would see no reason to administer more than the minimum in each case. Twenty strokes in total, sir.”

“Very good. And what implement should be used?”

The officer looked down at the charge sheet, but knew already. “She’s nineteen, sir. So the senior prison cane.”

“Indeed.” The young officer walked to the corner of the room, unlocked the cupboard, took out the cane. And then looked at the prisoner, whose eyes pleaded for mercy, and ordered her to strip…

(Sadly, this dream too then faded before the administration of the punishment. But I’m sure we can imagine the rest…)

At lunch last week with a couple of former colleagues – all “it’s been way too long, how are you” masquerading for “I wonder if you’re doing anything interesting which might help me make money”.

One asked: “So what are you up to in your spare time these days?”

“Oh, I write spanking stories and keep a blog. I guess you’d call it fetish erotica. It’s doing really well: we’ve had millions of hits. I spank girls, and my much-younger wife Haron and I are poly. And we just love role-playing: have you ever been to a school day?”

Only the other member of our group answered first, and I made a sharp exit to the loo, and they were onto another topic by the time I returned. But his question did make me gulp, momentarily.

The denizens of countless vanilla discussion boards pass the time swapping anecdotes, opinions, advice. But sooner or later, one of the residents posts the inevitable – sparked by some passing comment, a particular date on the calendar, the sight in the shopping mall of a certain of her former teachers: “Did you get whacked at school?”

One such debate recently brought forth an outpouring of recollections, as the (largely female) community confessed their shameful secrets: yes, they had been called before their principals to be punished.

One young lady from Carolina clearly winced at the memory. Towards the end of her school career, she’d been required to get a parental signature on some form or other. Although she was a good and bright girl, she forgot, being rather absent-minded. So too did some of her friends, so their teacher gave them a second chance – but warned that anyone forgetting this time would be paddled. And when she arrived empty-handed the following morning, the teacher was as good as his word, and despatched her to see the principal to be punished – and this in a school in which the paddling of girls was almost unknown.

The real-life me feels sorry for her, of course. Kinky me can’t help but be fascinated by the example of a good girl in trouble.

There was a fascinating report in the Daily Telegraph (free in my hotel at the weekend, before you accuse me of buying such filth!) entitled:

“TV of childhood decides colour of your dreams.”

It discussed research at Dundee University, which suggests that “almost all under-25s dream in colour”, whilst those who “were brought up with black and white sets often dream in monochrome”.

Now, I know I’m making myself a hostage to fortune here; I can sense Smudge and others gleefully exploiting the opportunity to make me feel old. But the first TV I watched as a kid was black and white; it was my Grandad who saved up to buy my parents a new set so that I could watch in colour, by which time I must have been six or seven.

I’ve always been conscious that my sub-conscious works in black and white: if I’m trying to picture a place I’ve not visited, the images I form are always monochrome. Even the most colourful of memories rarely are in colour as I recall scenes in my mind’s eye.

But what of spanking dreams? I have a suspicion that they too are black and white. I wonder… Next time I give a girl a bright grey bottom from a dreamland spanking, I’ll let you know.

We’re going on holiday to Austria in a few weeks’ time. I can’t wait. But we have one slight problem: we’re travelling in a small group – with the “would overhear any activity in the neighbouring room in the suite” type of fellow travellers. So I can tell now that Haron’s not going to get spanked all week.

It’s made me daydream. Some grand old Viennese house: tall, imposing, high ceilings, ornate.Very Habsburg.

Haron, despatched on her own at the agreed time, “to meet one of her distant relatives who lives in the city”. (“No, it’s OK. I won’t go with her. I don’t speak the language.” Excuses, excuses, to cover the real reason for her trip).

She’s smartly dressed. She checks the address carefully, knocks on the door. A young woman opens, all blonde and neat, in a crisp uniform. “Miss Haron? You are expected.”

She is shown along a corridor, to a closed door. The maid leaves her: “You should knock at the door, and wait until Herr Professor calls you.”

She knocks.

He makes her wait.

Minutes later, a strongly-accented voice. “You may enter.”

He makes Haron stand before his desk. Looks at her, over his glasses, studying her intently as if trying to read her mind. Peers down, picks up a letter from his desk, reads it carefully. “Your husband informs me that your behaviour here in our city has been most disappointing. He has sent you to me to be punished. You understand that?”

A quiet confirmation.

“I can’t hear you, young lady.”

“Yes, sir.” Louder, voice still trembling.

The gentleman stands, reaches up to the bookcase. The implement he takes down comprises three long, straight, thick switches, tied together at one end. “I had my maid make this freshly this morning. Now undress.”

As Haron strips, shyly, for punishment, he rings a bell; the maid re-appears, almost instantaneously. (Later, he will question her; will find that she was listening at the door; will birch her).

“Miss Haron, please bend over the end of my desk. Liesel, please go to the opposite side of the desk, and hold Miss Haron’s hands, firmly. She is not to move during her punishment.”

And so the gentleman whips my wife, her cries quite lost between the thick walls of the mansion, as Liesel pins her tightly in position.

Haron dresses afterwards. Thanks the gentleman through her tears. And then the maid shows her out into the bright Viennese sunshine.

I’ve been keeping a little list for a while, sparked by a slightly tipsy conversation a little while back with our friend Martha in which we tried to devise the worst spanking story title imaginable.We rejected the gruesome, the simply tasteless. To be truly awful, the title had to be realistic – yet clichéd beyond belief, or simply fundamentally misguided.

Here are a few of suggestions:

“Paddling to her paddling”
“His rod of love”
‘The rotten rattan”
“Barely striped”
“I caned, she’s sore and conquered”
“The corporal’s punishment”
“Weal he, won’t he?”

Come on – do your worst: you must be able to add to the list…!

“So how’s your writing?” asked my friend yesterday. She’s one of my oldest friends, used to sit two rows back from me at school, and was one of the early readers of what passes for creative fiction when the writer is fourteen.

My writing was great, I assured her. Most of it was in English these days. Some of it got published, yeah; she wouldn’t want copies. Most of it was also, um, well… sort of naughty. *whisper* Erotica, you know.

“Cool!” said my friend. “Let me guess, does it involve, teachers and students?”

…When you’re fourteen, and a baby writer, and kinky but don’t know it, you write spanking stories and think they’re just stories, and show them to your friends.

Then you grow up, and realise you’re kinky, and laugh at the old stories, and write some new ones – anonymously, online.

You think that your friends have forgotten the long series about that girl in that strict boarding school, or that one about the magician’s apprentice who got into trouble five times a day, or that one a pair of home-tutored twins.

Well, your old friends remember. And when you grow up to write erotica? They aren’t very surprised.

My dream last night was really unusual, in that I didn’t wake up just before my dream-spanking could start, but slept quite happily all through it.

But here’s the full story.

Abel and I were spies. We had infiltrated some sort of uber-religious camp, for whatever purpose. Our cover story was supposed to be that we were husband and wife, but somebody in our spying organisation had messed up with our fake papers, and they came out saying “father and daughter”.

Now, this was a challenge, because he’s only 12 years my senior, so we had to make him look somehow older, and me look younger. And, obviously, we had to live like a single dad and his college-age daughter, complete with the traditional discipline that the cult encouraged.

Now, Abel wasn’t going to actually spank me (it was a dream, OK?). But the leader of the cult suspected something, and when I did something that in his view deserved a punishment, he showed up in our hut, and demanded that I be spanked there and then.

Abel made me fetch a wooden spoon from the kitchen, pulled up my dress, tugged down my knickers and turned me over his knee. Because in my dreams I don’t have the sense of touch, and a spanking doesn’t feel like anything, this would be where I’d normally wake up from the sheer wrongness of a wooden spoon not hurting at all. But I didn’t; I just pretended it did hurt, and performed like a good little spy for the cult leader’s benefit.

I woke up quite frustrated at not having had a proper spanking, but I guess you can’t have everything…

People who know me, know that I have bad memories about my former maths teacher – to the degree that I still have occasional nightmares about being in his class. (Which, over ten years after graduation, means that my memories really are very traumatic.) I never say his name without automatically adding “hope he burns in hell”. I’ve always ranked him among the most monstrous creatures in my personal bestiary.

Anyway, I was talking to my mother on the phone, and she suggested that I may want to have a look at a Ukrainian news site. She warned me not to take a drink when I did, because I may splutter in indignation.

So I take a look. And what do I see?

My former teacher (now promoted to principal, grr) standing next to -  drum roll – George W. Bush. Who is visiting Kiev. And got taken on a tour of my old school.

What? TWO of my personal monsters next to each other in the same picture?

I did splutter, I confess. Traumatic school memories aside, I still don’t like the idea of my alma mater being contaminated by Dubya’s presence. I hope he got booed.

On the other hand, the even has made me reassess my scale of monsters. Obviously, my former teacher remains responsible for some of the more unpleasant days of my life, but on the grand scheme of things? Maybe he’s not that bad after all. Maybe just being excessively strict isn’t grounds for going to hell.

I even have a reason to be grateful to him, because he has provided inspiration for some of my best, darkest spanking writing.

Which is more than you could ever say about Baby Bush.