The Spanking Writers

Ladies and gentlemen: I am delighted to inform you that we are now officially classed as perverts. A dear friend was travelling in Yemen recently, and tried to access our blog. And, guess what? We’re banned! (So’s Informed Consent, but other spanking blogs were freely accessible).

Much as I disapprove of censorship – and regret that all those Yemeni spankos out there are deprived of our kinky thoughts – there’s something in me that’s actually quite fascinated that a blog that doesn’t mention sex or include naughty photos (too often!) can fall foul of the authorities. But I’m now thinking of getting T-shirts printed: “The Spanking Writers – officially the perviest spanking blog”.

This follows an amusing exercise a couple of weeks back, when I clicked onto a site that rated websites for the nature of their content, rather like movies – U, 18 and so on. It rated us as PG – “Parental Guidance” – which initially disappointed me as implying that our content is too tame. And then I realised – the rating engine was making a remarkable perceptive comment on our subject matter.

PS it later transpires that we’re banned in Dubai, too. I suggested to Haron that we might ask readers to let us know of any other places that ban us – but she sagely pointed out that if we’re banned there, then people won’t get to read this post!

Abel is on a self-imposed detox* that includes missing out on chocolate and caffeine. He can be strong of will when he needs to, and not succumb to temptation, but this doesn’t mean he won’t also whine about it.

On Friday evening he was cooking dinner, which smelled delicious, but he was bitterly complaining about how lack of chocolate might just kill him in the immediate future.

“Aw, poor you,” said I in a full-on ‘supportive wife’ mode. “Would you like me to give you a blow-job?”

“No,” said he miserably. “I just want chocolate!”

Clearly, the poor man was beyong any help.

Standing just beyond the security checks as I headed home through Stuttgart airport last week was a very cute young lady, in a neat uniform of short grey skirt and pale blue polo top. She held a sign aloft for all to see – ‘The English Experience’. Every few minutes, lost-looking teenage girls wandered up to her, and were pointed towards the ever-growing group where they made their introductions.

Little, I thought, did they realise the nature of the ‘experience’ that lay ahead of them when they reached our green, pleasant and ever-so-wet lands. For this was to be a little more than the simple language course that they’d envisaged. Their parents had paid out the extortionate fees knowing that their time in England was to be as much about discipline as it would be about language.

The girls would be staying in dorms at a fine public school, deep in some rural valley. There’d be a group meeting that first evening, at which they were introduced to the school’s more senior masters, who had given up their summer holidays to supervise the ‘experience’. The rules for the month ahead would be explained; the strictness of the regime would leave many shocked.

And then the girls who’d been observed sneaking away at the airport to head for the bar or the glass-fronted ‘smoking zone’ would find themselves called to the front, where they’d be lectured, and publicly caned in front of the group.

The following morning, they’d each be called in turn into Housemasterial studies. A folder would be taken out containing reports from their school and parents; a lengthy discussion about their conduct would follow. There’d be tears, and apologies, and vows to do better – even before they’d been told to bend over and touch their toes…

My darling wife wrote recently about her dislike of surprises in spanking scenes. The post and subsequent discussion left me pondering the age-old question of whether ’tis nobler to inform a girl of the number of strokes she’s to receive before starting to thrash her, or whether to leave the tally unstated.

The former feels far more authentic for some scenes: the judge condemning a young convict to receive thirty strokes of the birch on her admission to the Reformatory; the ship’s captain sentencing the stowaway girl to twenty lashes; the Headmaster solemnly informing the pupil standing before him that she would receive six of the best for her misbehaviour.

I rather enjoy creating the moment of nervous uncertainty (“so how many am I going to get?”), followed by that jaw-dropping moment of truth (“he can’t give me *that* many”). I like the idea of the girl knowing precisely how many strokes are to come (and more importantly, perhaps, how few – relative to the total – have already been administered). And there’s something in making the girl concentrate on the progress of the punishment – the count preventing her from switching off and losing herself, blanking out what’s happening to her.

But the latter? “I’m going to thrash you until you’re truly sorry”? “Whip her until she breaks”? “Oh no: I’ve hardly started”. Mmmm, I could rather enjoy those. But they’re best saved for somewhat different scenarios, methinks, authenticity being everything.

We’ve fallen completely in love with one of the pubs nearby. Real ale, wonderful food – and two of the cutest and friendliest barmaids you could imagine.

They’re usually fairly relaxed – smart jeans, black T-shirts, chatting merrily away to all and sundry, But the other night? Smart dressed, serious looks, clearly stressed.

Over to our left was a large table set for dinner for twelve, above which floated “Happy 60th Birthday” balloons. And the barmaids? One walked over and scanned the table, frowning – adjusting the placement of a spoon here, lining up a tablemat ever-so-slightly-more-neatly there, checking chairs were perfectly in line. A gap of a couple of minutes, and the other barmaid would be across, fussing over the layout. Another two minutes, and the first lass was back making yet more minute adjustments.

We realised the reason for their concern pretty much straight away. The guest in question was a local dignitary; it was a great honour for the pub to have been selected for his celebration. The landlord had made it very clear that the service for the group must be absolutely spot-on, and that any infractions would be punished after closing time with a sound strapping. Indeed, perhaps one of the girls, or both, had already had to hold out their hands that evening for a taste of the tawse, after the boss’s initial inspection had left him unimpressed…

What a lovely series of images flashed across my imagination last night.

Haron had been out for the evening, and I’d dozed off before she got home. When she climbed into bed, I woke with a start. See, I’d just been dreaming about her. I was her Housemaster, and we’d just walked past the Headmaster together. And I happened to know it was the first time that she would have seen him since he’d caned her a few days before. She politely said, “Good morning,” with not a flicker of emotion, but I could sense her blinking back tears.

Later, I had a girl to cane. Now, most of the girls in my stories learn of their fate via letters in their pigeon-holes, prefects arriving at the classroom door, or notices proclaiming their impending punishment. This time, we were in the school dining room at lunchtime. I’d finished my meal, and walked along the table past the girls in my house. I stopped in front of one of them. “Miss —-. Could I see you in my study after lunch?” Both she – and the other girls around – would know that this could only mean one thing…

And my story-girls often still have a faint glimer of hope that they might escape punishment when they walk in to see their Housemaster. Such optimism is usually crushed by the sight of a cane on the desk, or the schoolmaster walking towards a locked cupboard to take out an implement. Before the night was out, I’d dreamt of a new spin on the old routine – when a girl walked into my study, and saw that the curtains were closed. For my office overlooked the playground, and a caning should be administered in private. I rather liked the idea that a girl’s heart might sink simply at the sight of drawn curtains, knowing what this inevitably meant…

Come with me to a rather unusual establishment: an exclusive University campus, for the country’s very brightest girls. Only a small number are accepted – fifty per year, perhaps, hand-picked after careful scrutiny of those recommended in confidential letters from their schools. They’re guaranteed high-flying jobs in the State administration when they leave – this being a country where the State controls everything.

The place is run along boarding school lines: uniforms, strict rules, girls required to remain on campus at all times during the term. There’s the ever-present (but rarely-used) threat of the cane for those who under-perform.

It’s the end-of-year examination for the first year students. The exam takes place over three days: three papers per day, each incredibly testing. Each paper can pose questions on any of the topics studied during the year.

Exactly 48 hours after the final paper is completed, a league table of results will be published on the University noticeboard – a percentage score against each girl’s name, with the top student at the head of the list. And, to focus them on their studies throughout their first year, there’s a long-standing tradition that whoever who finishes bottom of the class will be caned.* Twelve strokes on the bare, in front of her peers – the only time a punishment is ever given in public.

We’re in the exam room. It’s the morning of day two. The students are writing away, feverishly. The invigilator roams from desk to desk. Something catches his eye across the room – a girl behaving strangely. He walks on, closer, behind the girl in question, observing without being observed. Closer still, and his suspicions are confirmed.

Suddenly he’s next to her, taking the wooden ruler from her desk, turning it over and seeing (as he’d suspected) tiny hand-written notes: formulae, dates, names. He breaks the silence: “Stand up and explain yourself!”

She rises to her feet, but can only offer a mumbled excuse: “I…I used it for revising, sir. I didn’t mean to bring it into the exam with me.”

“Sit down and continue your work,” he tells her. “You’ll keep working on this and the other papers, as usual. But be in no doubt that you will be accorded a score of zero per cent on this year’s examination.”

He walks away, leaving her to try to concentrate again on her work – tears staining the ink on the page in front of her, as the shock and shame of being caught gives way to the realisation that a zero score will inevitably leave her at the bottom of the class…

–

* I’d usually struggle with this concept – the idea of whacking a girl because she’s not naturally bright seems unfair. But remember – this University only takes the very best students!

By the time this pops up on the blog, I’ll be half-way across the Atlantic, coming home after my conference. I can’t wait to be back – to cuddle Haron, to meet up with the big group of spanko friends who are coming for dinner on Tuesday night, to be able to have long conversations without worrying that the mobile phone is costing me £1.35 per minute…

I stayed over at the resort for a couple of days once the event had finished, given that the international flights cost £1000 less if the stay included a Saturday night. And, with time to kill, I took a few of my team out to the local baseball stadium to watch a game. It was a great evening out – beer, hot dogs, popcorn (and even a game to watch, not that I know the rules).

One feature of the stadium was a huge, huge video screen. Alongside a wealth of information about the players were pictures of people in the crowd, and messages sent from one fan to another.

The two might be combined, I speculated. A father, out with business colleagues, would see a photograph of his daughter and her friends – in the stadium, playing truant. The note would appear on the screen a few moments later: “Jessica in block 309. You should be at school. Go straight to your room when you get home. I’ll deal with you when I get back. Love from Daddy.”

Or maybe he’d summon her to his executive suite; the next time the camera roamed around the crowd, it would focus in on the young lady over her father’s knee – shorts and panties down as he spanked her. Each swat would be cheered by the 30,000-strong crowd, her reddening bottom filling the screen and quite distracting the players…

Sometimes a kinky dream just doesn’t work.

Or, it works at the time. In my dream I had a younger sister, who was married to a strict (but fair) man, who disciplined both of us in Abel’s absence.

I woke up with a grin on my face.

And then realised that, according to dream logic, this spanker in my dream had been our former prime-minister Tony Blair.

Ewwwwwww!

My spa trip with Cath the other morning also featured a short spell inside a rather lovely steam room. Guests sat on circular stone benches around the edge of the chamber, surrounding a central pool. Hot steam filled the room – so thick that one could hardly see a thing.

We were the only people inside at the time – and yes, the inevitable spanking did echo rather loudly from the high dome. But we were given to imagine a different scenario, taking place inside a similar room elsewhere.

The young woman had offended the village elders; she was summoned to see them at the bath-house one Sunday after church. A servant met her at the door, and commanded her to strip naked. He then opened the door of the hammam and pushed her inside.

As her eyes struggled to get used to the thick steam and the dim light, she would find herself taken roughly by the wrists and pulled over a towel-clad lap. The first of the elders would lift his hand high, and start to spank her with all his strength. She’d wriggle, scream, plead for mercy – but he would continue until he was satisfied that he had spanked her soundly, before ordering her to stand.

And then the next of the elders would take her over his knee, and repeat the spanking – and so on until the circle of the twelve wise men of the village had punished her in turn, without her ever seeing their faces, before she was evicted from the chamber to find the servant waiting with her dress.

[Cath had an even darker idea, involving a spy being birched until she revealed her secrets, with her head being held periodically under the waters of the central pool to weaken her resolve. But that's just damned perverted, if you ask me!]