Felicity Kendal spanked

Abel Startles 4 Comments

Oh, how conscious I am that for English gentlemen of a certain age, today’s must be the most wonderful post title ever. And, what’s more, it is a true story that I must bring to your attention. (US readers and the younger whippersnappers out there might need it pointing out that Miss Kendal was by some way the cutest actress on TV in the seventies and early eighties. And would still be so were she to appear today, I have no doubt).Haron and I were sitting in our local pub a little while back with Sarah, and I commented that their bookshelves were invariably a source of kinky inspiration To prove the point, I grabbed a copy of “White Cargo”, our heroine’s 1998 autobiography, which deals extensively with her upbringing as the daughter of travelling actors in India.

Soon, she is describing how the family’s maid, Mary, “would smack my bottom, before the kissing and cuddling would break out.”

Before long, she recounts how her mother “reigned over us in cool, crisp cotton.”

“I never disobeyed her; no sensible person would dream of questioning her gentle commands. She never raised her voice and there was no hysteria, just quiet control…. She rarely lost her temper, and only once did she do so with me, when she took a Mason Pearson hairbrush to my bare bottom. Whatever it was I did, I never did it again.”

Oh, how Mason Pearson owe us for that little advertisement!

Stay tuned, dear readers, for coming soon is young Felicity’s account of her schooldays, which certainly do not disappoint.

Happy anniversary (to me)

Abel Spanking Writers: news 15 Comments

It was ten years ago today that I took the amazing, brave, scary step into the unknown and delurked on the internet, posting a story to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. The comments were kind; the police didn’t come knocking at my front door, so more stories and posts followed.

With them came the emails, and with them the new friendships that started to form. Before very long, I started to realise that I didn’t need to feel guilty about those guilty secrets I’d been keeping. (And how was I to know that then-eighteen-year-old student in Ukraine would be downloading my writing, and what that would lead to?!) .

I’ve been re-reading my stories over the past few weeks – 67 of them, remarkably, not counting my writing for the Lowewood blog. Many published, some shared only with friends. (I’m trying to narrow the list down for an anthology of my favourites – watch this space! And we do keep meaning to update our stories site online).

Some things remain the same. The build-up is often the point of the story – I love creating a credible scenario, explaining the background, setting the scene. My girls aren’t usually incurably bad, used to regular punishment, but rather good girls who’ve suddenly fallen from grace.

They certainly don’t enjoy it – and neither do the gentlemen wielding the rod. I’m writing about punishment, not pleasure – set in the schoolroom rather than the bondage club. And there’s little or no sex, even though there may be dark hints of entanglements to come…

But what interests me more is how my writing’s changed, matured even. And it certainly has, not surprisingly – when I wrote my first stories, I was a spanking virgin, writing purely from imagination. (LOL and I wasn’t far off being a virgin in other regards, too!).

Four changes really strike me. First, nudity. OK, I confess – I like, love the sight of naked women. In my early stories, girls were regularly stripped for punishment – now, that’s rarer and more appropriate to the scene being played out.

The offenders had it harder, back then: twenty strokes and a girl got off lightly! Not that some of my more recent writing hasn’t featured harsh punishment – but that tends to be the exception rather than the rule, and more likely to be in a judicial setting that anywhere scholastic.

There’s the description of the individual strokes – now less onomatopoeic: I’ve found more creative ways to describe punishments than with a “WHACK! CRACK! THWACK!” repeated a dozen times.

And the girls themselves rarely get described in physical detail. Not because I don’t have a vivid picture of them in mind when I’m writing: I usually do. But I want my readers to relate: sometimes, to put themselves in the shoes (or bare feet) of the young lady being thrashed. And if a reader’s short and fair, and the main character’s described as being tall and dark, that could be alienating, off-putting.

Does that mean I don’t enjoy my older writing? Not at all – I’ve been delighted in my re-reading to find how much I like it. There are some hot scenes in there, waiting to be resurrected in real-life play. But ten years on, life’s improved so much for the better, and I’d like to think that my writing has, too.

Trouble? What trouble?

Admin Real-life spanking 10 Comments

The next few days promise to be bags of fun, as I’m joining a few of my female spanking friends for a girly weekend away. LittleNic has stopped by our house to pick me up, and we are Thelma & Louise-ing off into the distance as Abel waves sadly from the doorway. Woohoo!

For the most part, I intend to be good. Because we’re good girls, all of us. However, I can’t help thinking that coming back on Sunday night may involve having to explain to Daddy why my friends’ parents are refusing to invite me for sleepovers again.

I haven’t mentioned this idea to Abel yet, but I don’t think he’ll object too vigorously.

The appeal of the traditional

Abel Startles 8 Comments

I’ve just finished reading the quite wonderful “Restless”, a thriller by prize-winning novellist William Boyd. A couple of phrases ended up being read aloud to Haron as I went. Take this description of a posh London gentlemen’s club, by one of the book’s leading female protagonists:

“The modest entrance concealed a building of capacious and elegant Georgian proportions. On the first floor we passed a reading-room – deep sofas, dark portraits, a few old men reading periodicals and newspapers – then a bar – a few old men drinking – then a dining-room being set up for dinner by young girls in black skirts and crisp white blouses. I sensed it was very unusual ever to have a female in this building who wasn’t a servant of some kind.”

Clearly, a traditional sort of place: I can imagine the members thrashing out the club’s disciplinary policy for staff. “Etonian rules” would be in effect: said smart young ladies would be dealt with soundly for any misdemeanours.

Later, the same character described some rather interesting emotions:

“I was in a strange giddy panic: a combination of excitement and fear, a mood I hadn’t truly experienced since childhood when, on those occasions you wilfully do something wrong and proscribed, you find yourself imagining your own discovery, guilt and punishment – which is part of the heady appeal of the illicit, I suppose.”

‘Appeal’, eh? Ah, it seems that your secret’s out, ladies…

Penalty for speeding

Admin Perverting reality 9 Comments

For those of our readers who were personally affronted by quotes from Daily Mail yesterday, here’s a suggestion I read between the lines of the Guardian a couple of weeks ago.

The columnist Alexander Chancellor was caught driving at 35 mph in a 30 zone. It appears that when your speeding offence is relatively minor, you get an option of attending a special ‘speed workshop’ instead of getting points on your license. Nobody wants points of their license, so Mr Chancellor went along to the workshop. He wasn’t sure it was that good a way to spend his time:

…there is still the question of whether these “speed workshops” are useful.

People attend them for one reason only: to avoid getting points on their licence. And those who are given this option hardly deserve to be penalised anyway. They are drivers who have inadvertently allowed their speeds to drift up slightly above the limit; not the delinquents who roar through villages with the cheerful abandon of Mr Toad.

…As it is, the workshops are presented not as a form of punishment, but as a voluntarily chosen educational entertainment that you are supposed to enjoy.

Clearly, this will not do. What Mr Chancellor suggests instead, is that ‘minor’ speeding offenders are offered an option of a flogging instead of their points.

They would go to the police station after work, be shown to a soundproof room, secured to a frame, and given a number of strokes with a strap or a birch. Although preferable for some as a way of avoiding points on their license, this punishment would be clearly severe enough in itself that the drivers would think twice before foolishly drifting over the limit.

… OK, he hasn’t suggested it in so many words, but I did say I was reading between the lines.

What’s a tawse, please?

Admin Perverting reality 49 Comments

“Daily Mail” has a section called Answers to Correspondents. You write to them with your question, they publish it, and then publish responses sent in by other readers.

Last week’s page included a question:

My father was at school in the Fifties and said there was not much bad behaviour because ‘those who caused trouble would get six of 12 with the tawse.’ What’s a tawse?

I smelled a rat when I read this question. If the correspondent genuinely didn’t know, why didn’t he or she asked the father, rather than writing to a newspaper? I bet they were fishing for people’s stories of childhood corporal punishment. Oh, the rascals.

The idea does lend itself to an interesting game: seeing what sort of outrageous question you can get into the newspaper.

My granny said her governess used to spank her with a brush. I think it’s outrageous, poor granny. Were all governesses allowed to do things like that?

Or

My new boyfriend has a collection of solid ebony hairbrushes on his bedside table, but he is completely bald. Why are they there?

Or

I was going through airport security, and the man behind me set off the metal detector. He calmly explained that it was because of Prince Albert, and was allowed through. What does Queen Victoria’s dead husband have to do with metal detectors?

OK, I’ve exhausted my supply of naughtiness for this morning. Would you like to have a go? Or, better yet, would you like to just send your questions to the papers, and see if you get in?

On the spa menu

Abel Perverting reality 3 Comments

I’ve just happened upon the brochure from the spa at the wonderful resort Haron and I visited over the Christmas holidays. It’s full of typical spa-babble, with lots of pseudo-spiritual nonsense seeking to imply that “there is something deeper in this than our desire to fleece you for as much money as possible”. Spa cognoscenti amongst you might recognise the sort of thing:

“Experience deeper healing via this original Malay style massage where special techniques have been passed down over the centuries…”

“Seems to effortlessly melt away any tension held in your body. Lasting benefits include improved sleep, circulation and relaxation.”

“Healing through heat is one of the most nurturing ways to experience deep calmness.”

And yes, the last of these was really in the brochure. It’s inspired me to launch a similar service myself, albeit I would happily take commission from any entrepeneurs who want to use the idea for their own spas. It’ll run something like this:

“The English massage. The perfect choice to remove guilty feelings and help to restore inner peace. Starting with a firm application of palm oil, the instructor applies traditional local products such as rattan and birch, concentrating the mind in an unbelievably intense experience.

Afterwards, meditate whilst standing in the traditional posture with your hands on your head in the special corner of the treatment room, and then relax on the cushions provided as the warm glow of your experience slowly wears off.”

The parable of the good and worthy girl

Abel Real-life spanking 14 Comments

I so enjoyed writing the Sunday morning sermon for the school role-play we so enjoyed a few weeks ago. With a mix of girls, some religious, some not, there was a fine line to tread lest I cause offence. A spoof parable formed the basis of my preaching, and seemed to do the trick, and I can’t resist publishing it here – rather than consigning it to the outer reaches of my laptop, never to see the light of day again.It was taken from the (entirely non-existent) Book of Jonathan, chapter 6, verses 14 – 18:

For the girl didst speak ill words to her father, and this pained her father, and he in turn pained her. “Dost thou not know to honour thine parents?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her out into the oasis to cut a switch from the apple tree that didst bless the family with its fruits. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

It was but three moons later that the Feast of Archibald fell upon them, and as is set out by the scriptures, the young women of the village gathered in the temple to hear the Elders speak. Yet the girl didst not gather with the others at the annointed hour. She made her way tardily to the temple, and lo, she didst there gossip with another girl whilst the Elders taught. And the preacher became mightily annoyed. “Dost thou not know to honour thine Elders?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her to the front of the temple to bend over before the other girls, and taking out his rod. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

It was but three weeks later that the girl wast riding a donkey through the village when she didst pass a fruit grove, full of the ripest, juiciest and most tasty pears imaginable. She tied her ass at the side of the track, and didst climb into the hidden orchard, gorging on the forbidden fruits. But lo, the fruit owner didst catch her, and didst take her before the judge. “Dost thou not know to honour thine neighbours?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her to the village square, and beseeching the local boys to make haste and cut a bundle of birches. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

And the girl returned home, and didst lie on her front on her bed, weeping. And as she wept, and reflected on the lessons that she had experienced, she vowed that she would be a good and worthy girl henceforth. And she became loved by all, and much praised, and lived happily until the age of four hundred and seventy three.

Stuff of nightmares

Admin Other stuff 3 Comments

People who know me, know that I have bad memories about my former maths teacher – to the degree that I still have occasional nightmares about being in his class. (Which, over ten years after graduation, means that my memories really are very traumatic.) I never say his name without automatically adding “hope he burns in hell”. I’ve always ranked him among the most monstrous creatures in my personal bestiary.

Anyway, I was talking to my mother on the phone, and she suggested that I may want to have a look at a Ukrainian news site. She warned me not to take a drink when I did, because I may splutter in indignation.

So I take a look. And what do I see?

My former teacher (now promoted to principal, grr) standing next to –   drum roll – George W. Bush. Who is visiting Kiev. And got taken on a tour of my old school.

What? TWO of my personal monsters next to each other in the same picture?

I did splutter, I confess. Traumatic school memories aside, I still don’t like the idea of my alma mater being contaminated by Dubya’s presence. I hope he got booed.

On the other hand, the even has made me reassess my scale of monsters. Obviously, my former teacher remains responsible for some of the more unpleasant days of my life, but on the grand scheme of things? Maybe he’s not that bad after all. Maybe just being excessively strict isn’t grounds for going to hell.

I even have a reason to be grateful to him, because he has provided inspiration for some of my best, darkest spanking writing.

Which is more than you could ever say about Baby Bush.

Physical education

Abel Perverting reality 22 Comments

The gym teacher's plimsolsWe’re walking past Covent Garden tube when a scruffy-looking guy standing in front of a blaring CD player thrusts an empty CD case into my hand. “If you go to the Adidas original store around the corner, they’ll give you the CD,” he explains.

There, we’re surrounded by racks of retro clothing – the sort of stuff that would have looked good in the 70s. (Sorry, strike that: it wouldn’t have looked at all good in the 70s, but people would have worn it all the same).

And then there was the footwear section. I browsed, idly, lost in contemplation of 70s spanking scenes that we could play. So now I’m waiting for the Dunlop Original Store to open: I need a pair of their “green flash” training shoes, so that Haron gets to ‘enjoy’ that authentic PE teacher experience.

A cross-country run, I think. Pushing another girl over, so that she fell into the mud. “It was an accident, sir,” said girl would plead, trying not to get Haron into trouble. But I would have seen the whole incident across the fields, would remember their bickering before the race.

I’d send the muddy girl on her way: “I admire your loyalty, but if I ever catch you lying to me again, you’ll regret it.” “Yes, sir.” And then I’d turn to Haron….

PS If the good people from Dunlop are reading and would like to send me a pair in return for the advertising, do email. And if the folks from Adidas want to try and boost their market share amongst the spanko community by trying to convince me that their trainers were more effective than Dunlop’s, they’d be most welcome.