The Spanking Writers

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.

Ever get those nights where your mind works away feverishly solving some problem or other, stopping you from sleeping? Last night was one such for me: I’ve been working on a presentation for a high-profile conference in the new year, and nothing has quite clicked. Give my subconscious time to work on it whilst asleep, though, and suddenly a wonderful concept and structure for the session fell into place.

Thus, still before five in the morning, I had to get up to scribble down my ideas, lest they be forgotten by morning. And after that, as you can guess, my mind was buzzing.

I climbed back into bed, tired but wide awake. Haron was still sleeping: naked, warm, soft, pretty. I curled myself around her, – and squeezed her backside, still sore from Sunday night’s scene. She protested, in a sleepy “ow – that hurts – do it again” kind of way.

An evil idea came into my mind as I cuddled my birched girl. The Reformatory officers would have held their early-morning meeting with the Governor. As ever, they would discuss any incidents of misconduct the previous day. Young Alice’s would be deemed to have been insolent to one of the staff: this would clearly need to be addressed. An officer would be despatched to her room: at 5 a.m. she would be woken roughly, the sheets pulled from her bed, the girl dragged to her feet.

She would be led through the corridors to the punishment room: she would be made to touch her toes, and thrashed with the heavy leather prison strap. And then, sobbing, she would be led back through to corridor to her bed, and left until the bell sounded some hours later to wake the other girls.

You might be pleased to know that I held Haron until she fell back asleep, then headed to my office to work on the presentation. Only I was distracted and started writing this instead…

“A particularly fine bonfire the girls have made for Guy Fawkes’ night this year, Headmaster.” The two gentlemen peer from the window onto the merriment below in the school’s courtyard. “Indeed, Deputy Headmaster. I do wonder what they’ve done to make it burn with quite such unusual intensity.”
Suddenly, the Headmaster utters a disbelieving cry, pointing into the crowd of revellers: “Those girls are drinking vodka from the bottle!” He rushes to his cupboard: “I must go down and sort this out. I’ll cane the lot of them.”

But, dear readers, he finds the armoury quite bare, its usual fearsome collection of canes gone missing. The Headmaster turns back to his Deputy. And their eyes turn simultaneously back out of the window, to the blazing bonfire below…

No, Haron, don’t get any ideas…

A pupil from Rhode Island shows promise and a keen imagination with his homework. In uploading his assignment to a public file-sharing site, he (one presumes inadvertently) provoked some very nice scene ideas. His topic was European History; his theme the treatment of the poor; his fascinating anecdote as follows:

Regulations for the poorhouse in Suffolk County, England in 1588 demonstrate this corporal punishment. The regulations mandate that each “rogue” should be whipped twelve or 6 times, depending on age and health, merely upon entering the house. These floggings and the subsequent punishments e.g. starvation were performed in order to bring the rogues into “reasonable obedience and submission to the master of the poorhouse”.

I’m picturing a stray young girl, fleeing from her troublesome home, being apprehended by the locals and handed in to the poorhouse. She’d be stripped and washed; the master would appear to inspect her, before taking her into his private quarters to flog her before expecting her reasonable ‘submission’.

What had he said? “I want you to go to your room, so that you have some time to contemplate the magnitude of your misjudgement, before I come up to punish you.” Oh, she was contemplating, all right.

He hadn’t whipped her in three years now. Not since that summer afternoon in Devon, in the caravan, after she and Alice had both been hauled back from the pub. “After you specifically promised us not to go back.” But Alice was at Uni now. Not that she’d wish a share of this on her elder sister.

Her father’s footsteps on the stairs, undeniably. Surely she was too old? Surely he wouldn’t…. But when he entered the room, his hands were already reaching to his buckle.

I love it when ideas pop into my head with such clarity, to be polished and further perverted – even if it does then become a battle to transcribe the phrases before they float away.

I wonder what she’d done?

This morning in bed Abel and I were lazily planning a possible scene later.

“You can be a schoolgirl who has done something really attrocious,” he said dreamily.

“Mmm-hmm. Like what?”

“Let’s say you threw stones at the Headmaster’s…”

I thought he would suggest the Head’s car, and was ready to agree. Instead, he finished the sentence:

“…the Headmaster’s cat.”

Yeah, right. I’m more likely to chuck a stone at the Headmaster himself. Or better yet, Abel, for suggesting something like that!

No imaginary animals were hurt in the writing of this post.

I discovered a wonderful money-saving technique today, which I feel I must share with other gentlemen whose young ladies are prone to drift into clothes shops.

Haron and I were out strolling. We chanced upon a selection of stylish garments in a sale. She picked out two pairs of trousers to try on… then realised:.

“But I can’t go into a communal changing room like this.”

‘This‘, in case you were wondering, was with a freshly striped backside. Very freshly. Very striped.

So now you know. Whip your girl soundly before heading towards the stores, and your wallet will be as safe as can be.

Haron and I spent a lovely week in Scotland on holiday last month. Neither of us plays golf, but we holed up in a resort that’s next to a very famous course. Needless to say, we were tempted out onto the putting green in front of the hotel.

I won. The margin of victory? Yep, you guessed it: six strokes. I’m not sure the hotel management are that used, however, to the victor collecting his winnings by bending his wife over next to the eighteenth hole for the necessary number of whacks with a golf club.

(Me? With my reputation? In a hotel whose female staff all wear kilts? Scarcely a moment passed without reveries of their predecessors being tawsed, in presumably stricter times when the hotel opened 100 or so years ago).

My eyesight’s definitely going. (No comments about age, please. OR ELSE!). I didn’t take my glasses with me to Singapore, as I don’t really use them other than for driving and to look authoritative in scenes. That led to me discovering an interesting benefit of being increasing short-sighted, via a couple of interesting startles as my brain inserted the phrase it instinctively thought should be there into the words I was actually reading.

First up, a shocking discovery in the hotel’s club lounge, when I spied an astonishing magazine:

“Spanking and Finance”.

(“Banking”, obviously, as my eyes adjusted).

And then – admittedly not spanking-related, but what the heck… One of the subways on Orchard Road, the main shopping street, is plastered with adverts showing an attractive naked woman. The slogan? “Brazilian waxing.” Only yours truly quite genuinely read it the first time as “Brazilian wanking”.

I tried to find said advert on the web for you, but without success. Instead, I did happen to discover one of the wittiest sites ever, promoting said waxing services to Singaporean women. My favourite heading? “250,000 Bushes Pruned”!

Whilst we’re on the topic of things we’ve posted elsewhere, you might enjoy a couple of short pieces I’ve just posted for the soc.sexuality.newsgroup’s SSC, the Summer Story Contest – which has been running each year since the mid-90s.

There’s word limit of 500 words per entry, which makes it an interesting writing challenge. My two pieces, ‘Her Red Hands’ and ‘Equally Culpable’, are both online if you fancy a quick read. (The links take you to Google Groups, but if you get to newsgroups by other means and want to search for them, they both went up on 15 September).

I am deeply flattered by the amazingly generous feedback that they provoked from Alex Birch, himself a renowned spanking author and blogger, hugely respected within the scene. He described them as “Two fabulous short stories by the supremo of very British spanking stories.” Wow. Thanks, Alex: hearing that from you really does means a great deal.