The Spanking Writers

As Haron headed to the shower this morning, I reflected on a possible new definition:

Kinky household:

One in which, on a Saturday morning, the woman shaves and the man does not.

(Hold on. Don’t all our posts mention spanking? That’ll be happening in a few minutes, just as soon as she gets out of the shower )

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!)

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.

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.

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.

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…

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…

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.

This has nothing to do with spanking… but everything to do with the sort of language young ladies should not use. But hey, it comes from the “Times” wildlife column.

There was a time when this column was banned by The Times. Or at least, by the newspaper’s anti-filth control, which is intended to protect staff from pornography and gambling on the internet.

We couldn’t understand it. Every now and then, I would e-mail the week’s column over and it would never arrive.

At last, we found out why. The banned columns all contained the word “tits”.

The Times journalists are really screwed if they want to write columns about Essex, Scunthorpe, or the Arsenal football club…