Gifts for the kinky

Abel Spanking Writers: news 4 Comments

For ages, we’ve bemoaned the lack of interesting gifts for spanko folks. Pervy phrases occur to us: “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could get a coffee mug with that on,” we’d say. “It’d be great if we could get that on a T-shirt.” But, of course, we couldn’t.

So we’ve decided to make some of our own. Well, not literally *make*… I’m not going to be ironing slogans onto shirts, and neither’s Haron turning into a potter to make the mugs. But we’ve harnessed the power of Cafepress, so you can order a selection of kinky gifts.

If you’ve ever wanted to be a member of the Marquis de Sade Appreciation Society; if you’ve ever wanted to rest your wine glasses on placemats that reflect your inner interests; if you’d like some of the more ‘interesting’ Biblical quotes to feature on household items… now’s your chance.

Just click over to our Cafepress site, “Abel and Haron’s Spanking Gifts”, and see what you fancy. They do all of the clever stuff like taking your order and printing and shipping the goods, and we’ve priced things pretty much at cost just so we don’t end up out of pocket on the deal.

Here’s hoping you like it: do let us know what you think, and which items catch your fancy. We’ve got loads more ideas for other items, and we’ll add more stuff in the new year, but in the meantime… Christmas shopping for spankos is officially sorted :-)

Three general rules

Abel Startles 1 Comment

The “Books Etc.” Christmas range at Victoria station contained a particularly fascinating volume, entitled “All In The Family – Parenting The 1950s Way”.

Sadly, author Elizabeth Longford omits the keenly anticipated chapter exploring the relative merits of over-the-knee hand spankings versus over-the-bed beltings. But there was still a fascinating section containing “three general rules” for punishment:

1. Never threaten a punishment you do not intend to or cannot perform.

2. Never inflict a punishment without warning.

3. If *next time* comes, be sure to carry out the punishment.

I shall bear that sage advice in mind. As should girls who make the mistake of misbehaving in my vicinity…

Useful Headmasters

Admin Startles 3 Comments

In a letter to “The Times” this week, a correspondent writes:

…spare a thought for headmasters of girls’ schools. We may not be role models but we do offer our girls practice in the art of combating male authority — vital for success in the real world.

So that’s what they’re for! I’m anticipating the next time I’m accused of being cheeky towards a Headmaster. Now I can respond that I’m simply preparing for the real world, where I’ll have to challenge male authority.

Girls on the train

Abel Perverting reality 2 Comments

The two girls opposite on the train were quite delightful. Girl A: French, elfin, long dark hair. Girl B: English, fair hair, blue eyes that kept looking longingly at her friend. Early 20s – students, I guessed. Swapping back and forth between their two mother tongues.

They were travelling with Girl B’s stern-looking mother. Perhaps as a result, the pair – most restrained in their seats – kept blushingly disappearing every half hour or so to the end of the carriage, returning with beaming smiles. My suspicions were confirmed when they fell asleep: leaning into one another, curling against each other, cuddling in the way only lovers do. But perish the thought that mummy might realise that their friendship was rather closer than the just-good-friends status she presumably imagined!

I sympathised with their plight: one of the few negatives of poly life is that it can be hard to explain the true nature of one’s closest friendships to one’s vanilla, conventional nearest-and-dearest.

Of course, I turned quickly to kinky thoughts. Girl B had lived with Girl A and her family during a year in France as part of her degree. They’d become best friends immediately, fallen for one another soon afterwards. And when Girl A’s papa had decided to deal with some misbehaviour (staying out too late at a club, maybe?) in the traditional manner, taking off his Gallic belt and sending his daughter to her room to await punishment, it had only seemed right for Girl B to acknowledge her part in the crime, and insist on joining her friend bending over the side of the bed.

Selling Daddy’s paddle

Admin Perverting reality 9 Comments

An implement hunt on eBay has once again proved that a few well-chosen search words can get you pretty much any source of pain you may wish for.

I imagine that one paddle in particular was offered up by someone other than its rightful owner. The girl’s Daddy is away on business, but he’s had a call from school about her slipping behaviour.

“It’s the paddle for you, young lady,” he told her. “As soon as I get home on Friday.” With a few days to spare, she makes a swift decision: her father’s paddle is up on eBay, with a cute description of its ‘novelty value’ and a friendly price tag. Within a day, it’s gone.

Daddy comes back to discover the loss. He doesn’t buy the girl’s protestations that she hasn’t a slightest idea where the paddle has disappeared to. He proves to her that a father’s chief implement is always with him, as he turns her over his knee for a scorching interrogation. Weeping, she admits to the theft.

“Very well,” Daddy sighs. “In that case we will have to bid on a new paddle. Your original punishment if deferred until it arrives. And in the meantime, you’re grounded. You have earned yourself a bedtime spanking every day from now until the day the matter is resolved. Go and change into your pyjamas now; we shall start right away.”

Receiving their stripes

Abel Perverting reality 1 Comment

EARN YOUR STRIPES!

Thus proclaimed the notice on the reception desk as I arrived at the hotel in which I was to run a course recently.

Apparently, it had something to do with accumulating points for their loyalty scheme. But you can guess what I thought.

A little later, I popped down to the reception again to ask whether I might see the rooms we were using the following morning. “Of course,” smiled the incredibly cute young lady. “You’re in the Wentworth and County Rooms. Only, the County room’s in use this evening, so I can’t give you the key for that. They’re up on the first floor.”

I climbed the stairs, and followed the signs for the conference room corridor.

Earn your stripes…

I was half convinced that I would turn the corner and find a line of nervous girls, facing the wall, outside the County Room. I’d have to walk past them – and past the open door. There’d be a neat pile of clothes on a chair just inside, partly blocking the view of the naked girl tied over the whipping frame. She’d buck against her ties as a stroke landed; her whimpers would give way to a sob, clearly audible to those waiting outside.

Of course the County Room was in use. The second Tuesday of the month. Everyone round here knew that that was the evening when the County Punishment Committee birched the girls who’d been sent for correction.

The receptionist would blush when I went downstairs. Would avoid my eyes. Would stumble over her ‘thank you’ as I returned the key. Would give away that she knew exactly what went on in the County Room, from painful personal experience.

Punishment as theatre

Admin Historical punishments 1 Comment

In his memoir (quote earlier) Charlie Chaplin speaks about the first time he received corporal punishment at school.

On Thursdays, a bugle sounded in the playground and we would all stop playing, taking a frozen position like statues, while Captain Hindrum, through a megaphone, announced the names of those who were to report for punishment on Friday.

One Thursday, to my astonishment I heard my name called. I could not imagine what I had done. Yet for some unaccountable reason I was thrilled – perhaps because I was the centre of a drama. On the day of the trial, I stepped forward. Said the headmaster: “You are charged with setting fire to the dykes” (the lavatory). This was not true. Some boys had lit a few bits of paper on the stone floor and while they were burning I came in to use the lavatory, but I had played no part in that fire.

“Are you guilty or not guilty?” he asked.

Nervous and impelled by a force beyond my control, I blurted out: “Guilty.” I felt neither resentment nor injustice but a sense of frightening adventure as they led me to the desk and administered three strokes across my bottom. The pain was so excruciating that it took my breath away; but I did not cry out, and, although paralysed with pain and carried to the mattress to recover, I felt valiantly triumphant.

I’m sure thrill was not the emotion the authorities were trying to excite in the young man, but I understand it completely. I believe, you can spot an artistic nature coming through in this. Pain and unpleasantness are incidental for him; what takes over is the inherent sense of drama in such a highly ritualised event.

In his head, he is a hero of his own story, the main character in a play, a protagonist in an adventure tale.

No wonder he grew up to be an actor, really.

Getting used to spanking

Admin Real-life spanking 7 Comments

Abel has this idea – born, no doubt, out of his inexperience at being on the receiving end of corporal punishment – that when you go for a while without being spanked, the first punishment you receive hurts you more than if you were spanked on a regular basis.

The natural conclusion from the above is that if you get spanked often, you feel less pain when you do. That’s just not true for me: my naturally low pain threshold doesn’t get any higher if I play every day; if anything, I experience pain even more keenly after being “pre-spanked”, if you will. Frequent spanking doesn’t do a thing to help me process the pain better. Whether I got spanked yesterday or 3 weeks ago, the next spanking is going to hurt exactly the same.

This seems to disappoint Abel. When I came home from my last stay with my parents, he was raring to give me hard six-of-the-best without any warm-up, on the basis that on my unspanked posterior it would feel close to an authentic schoolgirl experience. I’m all for authenticity, but I had to explain that it would hurt just the same as if he’d been merrily spanking me all week long. Although he believes me intellectually, I don’t think he can accept this in his perverted heart.

I hope it doesn’t mean that in the course of our spanking life he canes me harder because he feels I’m used to it, and therefore need to take more to feel it. I really don’t need to be caned hard to be impressed. Perhaps I should set Abel lines: “My wife cannot get used to pain. My wife cannot get used to pain.”

I wonder if my constant wimpyness is universal. What do you think? Does a spanking hurt you more if you haven’t played for a while? Does it hurt less if you’ve been active?

P.S. I did get extremely hard six-of-the-best on my first night back, of course. Abel very kindly agreed to warm me up – with a dozen strokes of a hairbrush. I’m sure he thought it helped.

The interrogation

Abel Perverting reality 5 Comments

I fell asleep with a book in my hand last night, shortly after a chapter in which a woman had been subjected to an interview with an “Interrogator”. It was all very boringly vanilla. But that – and copious quantities of cheese at dinner, which always inspires me to remarkably vivid dreams – did the trick.

Before long, I was picturing a young lady tied tightly over a whipping bench in some dark cell. She was stark naked, of course. A prison guard was administering a particular hard caning.

An officer stood in front of her, watching intently. She’d borne the first few strokes without a flicker of emotion: the most recent had clearly been harder for her to take.

He raised his hand to interrupt the punishment, then lifted her chin, so that she had to look him in the eye. “It seems that we’re starting to get through to you, at last,” he commented.

“You can flog me all you like. I shall never tell you the details.” She’d survived three days of questionning: her lips would protect the secret even through this latest torment.

“Oh, but we already know the details,” he commented. “We picked up one of your colleagues crossing the border last night. His briefcase contained everything we needed to know. No, my dear, this caning is to punish you for your defiance over these past few days. Guard, please continue…”

PS Haron was rather squicked by this particular dream; I personally rather liked it!

The scary spanking cult

Admin Perverting reality 27 Comments

I dreamed I was an FBI agent infiltrating a cult. The cult leader was the head of an adopted family of over 50 adults and children, and ran the whole thing with an iron fist – or with many leather implements, anyway.

My role was to join the happy cult family, and do whatever was required of me as I gathered evidence for a prosecution. Having recently joined, I was on the bottom rung of the family hierarchy, treated essentially as a maid, threatened with punishment at every turn.

I woke up just as the family assembled for a Saturday review of everybody’s behaviour, where I knew I would be held on the back on one of my “brothers” and whipped with a wide leather strap. In the dream, this fate was terrifying, but I was rather disappointed, upon waking, to have missed it.