Wasting police time

Abel Perverting reality 4 Comments

I did feel just a tad sorry for the girl I dreamt of the other night. She was standing before the Chief of Police in his office; he was lecturing her sternly. “Quite fair and reasonable punishment… A mischievous complaint, totally without foundation in law…”

Earlier in the day, it seemed, she’d presented herself at the local police station to complain. She lived in the big house, she explained (a daughter, a ward, a maid?) and had been soundly whipped that morning for some misdemeanour. “And it’s not fair, and it wasn’t my fault, and they shouldn’t have the right to do it.”

The constable had taken her into a cell and made her show her marks: six frsh stripes, vivid, neatly and expertly laid-on. And then he’d taken a statement, and recorded the details, and summoned the butler from the House to give evidence. (“Yes, officer, all of the girls in the house are well aware that misconduct will result in a thrashing”). Forms had been filled in, a report filed.

The Chief was most unimpressed. “Wasting police time – a most serious offence,” he continued, explaining that they had mentioned the situation to his Lordship, who was in complete agreement with the proposed course of action.

“Constable?”

Snapping to attention: “Sir?”

The Chief looked from him to the girl, and back again. “Strip her and tie her over the back of the chair, then fetch me a birch…”

The house in Vienna

Abel Other stuff 8 Comments

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.

Discipline in the party

Admin Startles 1 Comment

Last weekend we were very amused by two news stories that ran side-by-side.

In the first one, one of the deputies of the Conservative mayor of London had to resign from his post for such a big bundle of reasons that I’m not sure why they actually recruited him in the first place. Queue lots of blushes from the Tories. “But we didn’t know he ate babies for breakfast!” Oh, dear, what a nasty surprise for them.

In the second story, a Tory guy accidentally let slip his party’s secret plan of dealing with any future embarrassments of this kind. “The Conservative Party believes in bottom-up solutions”. Oh, good. Flogged politicians all ’round.

P.S. Did you know there was a Tory MEP called Den Dover? I must admit, I misheard his name at first. I suspect, that’s not unusual.

Best maid in show

Admin Perverting reality 3 Comments

The Great Yorkshire Show is in full swing today, with all the flowers, cattle and local crafts shown off on its huge grounds.

I wonder if in years past it was customary for the great houses to enter the competition for the best maid.

The girls in their tidiest, cleanest uniforms would stand in a line on a raised stage. The judges would call up each of them by turn to ask a few questions. The winner would be determined in a secret, heated debate. Most maids would consider it an honour to be entered into the County Show, but there would, of course, be an odd sullen girl, who would have to be threatened with a switch by the housekeeper, before she could be pushed onto the stage.

“What do you like about working in Ravenwood Hall?” one judge would ask.

She would glower at him: “What would you like about getting up before the crack of dawn, fetching and carrying all day, and being slapped around by an old witch?”

(Somewhere in the crowd, the housekeeper all but explodes with rage.)

It isn’t just a switching that’s in store for her now, but a sound birching at the hands of the butler, with all of the servants present, and the master himself supervising the event.

The worst spanking story title – ever

Abel Other stuff 13 Comments

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…!

The Punishment Committee

Admin Perverting reality 4 Comments

Over the weekend we visited our favourite private library, which provides us with so much inspiration and material for our historical posts. We captured a strategically placed table, stacked it with promising-looking volumes and set to research.

On the other end of the reading room, the library regulars were convening over their newspapers, coffee and biscuits.*

“That’s the punishment committee,” Abel murmured in my ear. “They are having their weekly meeting.”

I looked at the tweed jackets and home-knitted cardigans, the tidy hair, the sombre expressions, the tobacco stains on the fingers of the older men, and realised that Abel was right. This had to be the local punishment committee.

As well as receiving parents who came here with their grievances, these conscientious members of the community would go through the local papers, looking for reports of misbehaviour by the young people. They would discuss each instance in a polite debate, decide on the most appropriate measures. The secretary would write up a notice for the culprit, who would have a week to submit any defences or objections.

These would be looked at – and most certainly dismissed – at the following meeting, after which a volunteer from among the committee members would be dispatched to the culprit’s house armed with punishment instructions and a suitable implement. Case closed.

It’s amazing how innocent these people looked in the bright light of Saturday morning, while accomplishing such tasks in plain view of the reading public.

—————————————-
* You’re allowed to talk and eat in this room. In fact, they sell you the food. I nearly had a heart attack the first time I saw somebody munch a lemon drizzle cake over a 19th-century book, but I guess they trust you to be careful.

Punished for sharing

Abel Perverting reality 6 Comments

According to the BBC:

Virgin Media has sent about 800 letters to customers warning them that they should not be downloading illegal music files via file-sharing sites.

It is part of a 10-week campaign it is running in conjunction with the BPI to “educate” users about downloads. The BPI, the body which represents the UK record industry, told the BBC that “thousands more letters” would be sent.

One can imagine the consequences…

The letter in its crisp envelope, opened by their father.

The summons, calling the three of them down to his office. “Which of you girls has been breaking the rules we agreed about using the internet?”

The ever-so-innocent looks on their faces.

The correspondence from their hosting company, read aloud. Slowly, purposefully.

The nervous glances between the sisters. The eldest stepping forward, to take the blame despite the shared responsibility. Her reluctant confession. His dismissal of his other two daughters.

The belt, being drawn purposefully from the loops of his trousers. Doubled. “It’s been a long time since I had to do this, Elizabeth. But I’m sure that you remember the position.”

Over the side of his armchair. Outstretched. Jeans down.

The stinging strokes. Only four. (Only?) Delivered slowly. Hard. Counted aloud.

And the hugs after, and the reassurance that he loved her. Before she was sent to bed, where her sisters would come to cuddle and offer their thanks for her bravery and her protection.

Asking for trouble?

Abel In the neighbourhood 28 Comments

We recently had the pleasure of meeting someone who comments regularly here on Spanking Writers. She turned out to be quite as delightful in real life as she is when contributing to the blog.

Delightful… and bratty, that is. So perhaps I should have known better when she texted me yesterday morning:

Please please please get today’s Daily Mail and go to page 22/23. Please? Pretty pretty please?

I responded positively, grateful for the tip and curious as to what this fabulous two-page expose could be about. A sympathetic history of kink through the ages? A celebration of some obscure disciplinary anniversary (“It was exactly a hundred years ago today that the first shipment of rattan arrived in the UK from Asia”)?

So Haron and I drove down into the local town, parked up, headed for the newsagent, bought the Daily Mail, turned excitedly to the article. Headlined…

“So are you a wrinkly yet”

… the author “takes a wry look at growing old”. The symptoms of old age apparently include “your knees buckle but your belt won’t”, “you begin every sentence with the word ‘nowadays'”, and the safe knowledge that you’d get out “in a hostage situation – they’re more likely to keep the young, pretty ones.”

Needless to say, I was decidedly unimpressed and reached for my phone, texting:

You are in *so* much trouble, young lady…

I could hear the laughter from the other end of the country:

Me? Why? Whatever for? Hehe

Now, I’m a great believer in democracy. So rather than reach straight for a cane, I thought I should consult the readers of the blog. How do you think the incident should be dealt with when we next see your badly-behaved fellow correspondent?

Lowewood-inspired canings

Abel Startles 5 Comments

Most of you probably know that Haron and I write for the Lowewood blog, set in a fictional school. My darling wife’s a regular contributor, whereas “Unstable Abel” (as the school chaplain was so ungallantly christened earlier in the year) joins in on a rather more infrequent basis.Amidst an array of fine writing on the site, I particularly enjoyed Claudia’s entry yesterday. The paragraph that especially caught my eye was as follows, in the aftermath of a poor test result:

Wearily I made my way to the front and bent over to take the pain for coming bottom. Across my bottom, naturally. Six proper cracks with the strap whilst I clung grimly to the bench, distracting myself as best I could by pondering what would happen if I actually wrenched off one of the gas taps in my efforts to stay down. Would we all have to be evacuated? Could we avoid prep that evening?

Whilst the young lady in the blog entry resisted the lure of the gas tap, I foresaw an alternative ending, in which she did indeed manage to tamper with the equipment. An alarm would ring; her punishment would have to be suspended as the whole school filed out into the playground. No doubt, on their return, the remainder of her punishment would be doubled… at the very least.

My mind wandered still further along similar lines. A girl had been called to her Headmaster’s study to be caned. Her best friend, worried about her fate, would set off a fire alarm; an evacuation of the buildings would ensue. The two girls would find one another in the melee – but it would seem that the distraction had come too late, for the first two strokes had already been administered. There’d be hugs before the pupils were let back in – and the rule-breaker would trek tearfully back to face her Housemaster to receive the remaining four strokes.

Only… their cuddles would have been noticed, and the instigator of the false alarm would find herself called before the Headmaster. Confronted with the allegation, she would break down and confess, and her dozen strokes in assembly the following morning would teach her the most painful of lessons.

Abel interrogated

Admin In the neighbourhood 5 Comments

While I was away, Abel went and got himself interviewed on Cherry Red Report. It’s a little feature about our book, and Dave asked some probing (oo-er!) questions about that, as well as our blogging in general:

For example,

It’s not easy to keep a blog thriving for so long-what inspires and motivates you to keep blogging….and spanking?

Keeping spanking? Well, Haron keeps misbehaving and…

How dare you? Bad husband! No curry-out-of-the-packet for you!

Anyway, I think you, dear readers, who are always nice to me, and know that I would never ever misbehave (except on days with a “y” in the name), may enjoy reading Dave’s thoughtful interview of my bad, bad husband.