The Spanking Writers

Have you ever fancied yourself a noble young lady, captured and flogged by a dashing knight?

I know I have. But I’ve also had my doubts about the authenticity of these fantasies: true knights oughtn’t make war on high-born maidens; I wanted a knight, not a villain.

It appears, I can have my noble knight, and be punished by him too, with all due deference to the laws of chivalry.

From “War and Chivalry” by Matthew Strickland I learned that -

Conditions afforded to knightly captives taken for ransom may vary widely. Some captives were detained in honourable and open custody either in token of their rank or in recognition of their bravery at war…

Conversely, personal animosity towards captives might result in harsh conditions of confinement. E.g. in the war between Robert de Bellême and Henry I in 1105… one of Henry’s leading supporters Robert fitz Hamon… and others in his familia were “kept in close imprisonment for a long time, both to show their contempt and hatred of their lord.”

So, my dashing knight is actually at war with my father’s liege, and I get imprisoned along with everybody else in the family. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.

The law, it seems, is completely on my captor’s side:

…Jurists were arguing that since a prisoner was held essentially as a pledge for the price of his ransom, the captor might take reasonable measures to encourage payment.

Oh, dear. I can see the letter that’s winging its way to my father’s lord: “Pay the ransom, sir, if you do not wish to see this maiden suffer under the lash.”

Come to think of it, though, that’s still a little villainous. This sort of blackmail may be lawful, but my knight wouldn’t stoop to it. What if I provoked him, though, by taking advantage of his good nature?

Following his defeat at Lincoln in 1141, King Stephen was first kept under honourable custody at Bristol, but was later confined in irons because… of his prospensity to stray beyond his allotted bounds.

“My lady, were you not a maiden of tender years, I would see you confined in irons for this sort manner of conduct. As it is, I shall deal with you just as my father would deal with my sisters. Squire! Hand me the whip!”

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Quite the most bizarre implement-shopping experience ever…

Some of you may know the fraught recent history of Cyprus – the conflicts leading to the effective separation of the (Turkish) north from the (Greek) south. Nicosia, the capital, has long been divided by the Green Line – the Cypriot equivalent of the Berlin Wall.

Progress is being made, however, and in April this year the barricades that cut across Ledra Street - the city’s main shopping thoroughfare - were removed, replaced by a border crossing. Cath and I took advantage of this to wander across to the northern half of the city, heading straight for the main sight, the Selimiye Mosque (founded in the 13th century as St Sophia’s Cathedral, where the Kings of Cyprus were crowned).

As we emerged, we spied a rather wonderful-looking antiques shop on the opposite side of the little square. Surely a treasure-trove such as this must have something with kink value?

Lo and behold, our instincts proved correct, for there in the glass cabinet were two wonderful items: an old, heavy, leather riding crop, together with a cane topped with a silver badge of the Cypriot police.

The girl in the shop was unsure of the prices, though, so made a call to check the prices. A long conversation ensued. She frowned, hung up, then turned to us. “He says, ‘One thousand euro for the two.’”

A thousand euro? Surely some mistake, some calculation error? Not at all, it turned out: she shook her head and explained that, “He really doesn’t want to sell them.”

Needless to say, the two items are still in the glass cabinet in the shop. If you’re in the area, and obscenely rich, you might want to go and explore. Cath and I, meanwhile, speculated as to the conversation between the young woman in the shop and, presumably, her father on the end of the phone. “You may sell them when you marry,” he must have explained. “In the meantime, they’re staying exactly where they are in case you misbehave.”

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Note from Abel: here’s Cath’s perspective, after she and I played the scene that I described planning yesterday…

The night before, Abel and I had sketched out the scene and gathered some smallish branches from the olive grove over the road.  I returned home from work that afternoon knowing that we would play, feeling like “Sophie” – the English-bred daughter of a Cypriot mother and English father, staying with her uncle (the local chief of police) and cousins in Cyprus for the summer holidays.  Sophie was eighteen and about to start university, so had got a summer job cleaning for Mr Jenkins, a rich ex-pat, in order to pay her tuition fees.

The week before, she had been collecting Mr Jenkins’ mail as usual when she noticed a torn envelope which contained a cheque for €500.  It was made out to cash.  Feeling somewhat short of spending money, and hoping that the wealthy Mr Jenkins wouldn’t notice, Sophie had cashed the cheque locally and spent the money.

Unfortunately, she was about to discover that things hadn’t quite gone according to plan.

“Ah, Sophie,” said Mr Jenkins, smoothly, as I turned the key in the latch.  I had arrived in good time to start my afternoon job, cleaning his house.

“Come here.”

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Cath’s out for a few hours, leaving me in the house to entertain myself and her gorgeous dog. I’ve worn the dog out, so at last I can turn my attentions to planning this afternoon’s scene.

We worked out the basics the night before last: a “girl discovered burgling the villa” idea seemed too impersonal, and so a maid came into play. We mapped out the bare bones of the plot. I’d been waiting for the post to deliver a cheque for 500 Euro; it hadn’t arrived. I’d chased it, only to be told that the letter had indeed been delivered – and signed for – and the cheque cashed in a nearby village. It hadn’t taken too much detective work to ascertain from the courier company that my maid had taken receipt of the delivery, and that the bank had paid the proceeds over into her account (thanks to a rather good forgery of my signature).

I could send her to the police, of course – or deal with the matter myself. Cath added a twist: the young lady concerned would be the niece of the local police chief: she’d do anything to avoid being reported.

So, last night, I took her across the road with a penknife to cut some switches from the trees in the olive grove. By the time she returns, three of them will be stripped of their leaves and taped into the local equivalent of a birch. I’ll ask her about the cheque; she’ll presumably deny all knowledge. I’ll reveal that I know what happened; she’ll confess her guilt.

I’ll lecture her sternly, take the newspaper she’s left on the side and read out the sentences that other girls have received lately from the courts for theft. She’ll plead not to be sent to the police. I’ll offer her an alternative, which she’ll gladly accept. She’ll be made to bare herself, and to stretch out over the table at which I’m presently writing this.

The whipping will be particularly severe.

Afterwards, she’ll dress, and I’ll make her sit opposite me. (It’s a shame the dining room chairs are so comfortable. I must look to see if there are harder ones anywhere in the house). And then I’ll hand-write a letter for her to take home to her father, explaining the circumstances. (We’re going out for dinner after playing; I suspect by the time we return, the maid’s uncle may well have been informed, and a bedtime strapping may ensue).

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The book called “Indiscretions of Lady Susan” by Lady Susan Townley beckoned to me with the promise of its title. It turned out to be an early 20th century memoir by a wife of a British diplomat; she travelled the world with her husband, and recounts her adventures with humour and charm.

The best parts in her story related to her family history.

Her grandfather, George Keppel, 6th Earl of Albemarle, was in turn the grandson of Lady de Clifford. This woman was responsible for the education of Princess Charlotte of Wales, by all accounts a rebellious and naughty teenager. Young Keppel thus became Charlottle’s playmate, which I’m sure he sometimes rued:

On Saturdays Keppel was gennerally the guest of the Princess, but on Sundays she returned his visits [at his grandmother’s house]. One one of these occassions the Prince of Wales honoured Lady de Clifford with his company at luncheon. … That day luncheon was unaccountably late, and the old lady rang the bell violently.

When the meal was eventually served, the mutton-chop was so ill-dressed that it was quite uneatable. On inquiry it was discovered that the Princess had acted as cook and young Keppel as her scullery maid.

The book doesn’t elaborate what happened to the Charlotte and George. Probably, the Prince thought the whole thing was hilarious: he may have enjoyed his food, but by all accounts he enjoyed a joke as well.

I would be slightly worried for the fate of the actual cook and the kitchen maids, when their mistress wanted to know why none of them had warned her about what was going on in the kitchen. I could imagine a birching or two being dispensed later at night, when the guests have left.

In any case, Charlotte clearly didn’t get the punishment she deserved for her prank:

On another occassion she dragged [George] to the stables and then saddled and bridled the horse herself. Armed with a whip, she led the animal into the yard. Young Keppel was told to mount. …

Before he could grasp the reins and get his foot into the stirrup, she gave the horse a tremendous cut with a whip, so that he set off at a gallop… [George] clung to his mane, roaring lustily.

The poor Princess got a terrible scolding from Lord Albemarle, alarmed for the safety of his boy, which so incensed her that when alone with him again she treated the father’s son as she had treated the father’s horse.

Keppel ended up expelled from Westminster School for sneaking out at night, and thus ended up fighting at Waterloo at the age of 15, so Charlotte was clearly a bad influence. It wasn’t a scolding that the girl needed.

If you have any ideas as to how the young princess should have been punished, tell us in the comments. As for Keppel’s granddaughter, the writer of the memoir, I’ll write more of her adventures as I read on.

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The new academic year approaches at Universities around the country, and two of this year’s Freshers - both regular commenters here - have launched their own spanking blog. Do click over to Freshly Spanked and say hi to Smudge and Irelynn!

Perhaps that’s what inspired the following little reverie:

–

One fresher, one second-year girl, both reading the same subject, chatting in the student bar. Tutorial groups for the coming year were being agreed: the best academics found their sessions over-subscribed, and were thus able to be selective. The leading professor was about to interview freshers to see which he would accept into his group:

Fresher: “Was Professor Jenkins your supervisor last year?”

Older girl: “He was.”

Fresher: “You did really well, didn’t you. I’m thinking of applying to him. Is he any good?”

Older girl, blushing: “He’s… inspirational But… he’s different.”

Fresher: “In what way?”

Older girl, looking away. “He… has ways of encouraging you to do well.”

Fresher: “Such as?”

Older girl. “I can’t say. Just… just look on his wall behind his desk when you go for your interview. It’s not there just for effect.”

Cut to professorial office: piles of papers and textbooks everywhere. Our fresher is sitting being interviewed: she stares past the professor’s shoulder, transfixed. For there, hanging from a hook, was a long, thick cane…

–

I doubt our favourite Freshers will be quite so lucky, but we’re sending them love and good luck hugs anyway…

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Abel was reading a novel long-listed for the Booker Prize, “Netherland” by Joseph O’Neill. He would read out prettily written sentences to me from time to time, but overall the book sounded mind-cripplingly boring.*

Then suddenly - in the true manner of a startle - the book rewarded us both.

The protagonist has brought a woman to his hotel room and his bed:

 We were once again making love when Danielle whispered something I didn’t follow. ‘I want you to be a gentleman again,’ she whispered. ‘Will you do that for me?’

I must have signalled some agreement to this incomprehensible request, because she slipped off the bed and crouched to rummage in the clothes heaped on the floor - I wasn’t watching - and after a few seconds came back to me with refreshed spiritedness. Then she breathed into my ear the assertion, ‘Remember, I trust you,’ and produced with a little jingle the belt she’d removed from my trousers.

I took the belt, a length of black leather that was at once familiar and strange, and saw Danielle lying face down on the bed, and began to perform the act I understood her to need. Every lash was answered by a small moan. If this gave me some unusual satisfaction, I can’t remember it now. I do recall a tunneller’s anxiety as to where and when it would all end, and that my arm began to tire.

I think the lesson all we kinky girls should take home from this is, don’t try to get vanilla men to whip you on a one-night-stand - they don’t have a clue, even when they’re nice. And afterwards they won’t even remember if it was in any way pleasant.

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* I went through it just now in search of the passage I’m quoting - yep, “boring” doesn’t begin to describe it.

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I’m in Cyprus at the moment, staying with Cath and having a lovely time.

Yesterday, we went exploring in Nicosia, the capital, which is delightful. A little research had revealed a hidden gem, the Hamam Omerye, a traditional bathhouse. Dating from the 14th century, it’s been restored recently, capturing a Europa Nostra award (Europe’s top gong for conservation) in 2006. We were lucky, in that bathing is usually single-sex; Monday is the only “couples” day.

The place is a delight, a haven from the heat and bustle of the world outside – all fluffy towels and relaxing massages. The Hamam bath itself is a set of seven rooms, each at a different temperature; one sits (or lies) on the hot stone benches, unwinding, scrubbing oneself (or one’s partner) gently in the warm waters. It’s quite gorgeous.

Of course, as we relaxed, I told tale of the sultan in Ottoman times. The girls of his harem would have been sent here to bathe, no doubt. No towels to cover his young ladies in those days, of course; as a result, the marks of his displeasure would be plain to see, a lesson to all.

Yet one new girl had clearly not learnt said lesson: she’d displeased the sultan, and her fate awaited her: “You are to report to his chamber on your return from the bathhouse.” She’d plead for his mercy, but she knew that none would be forthcoming. By tomorrow, she’d be the one wearing fresh stripes from his whip as she bathed naked with the others.

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If your reading list of spanking blogs needs paddling up a little, you may be pleased to hear about a few blogs I’ve discovered recently, all by people I’ve already encountered online. As we’ve mentioned before, Abel and I both owe a lot in our spanking development to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. The bloggers I’ve discovered are current or former posters there, whose writing I’ve enjoyed.

Radspace belongs to Radagast, who says this about his kink:

Being a disciplinarian is what I enjoy the most. When I got into the scene, I knew I liked spanking in a general way but was not quite sure about the specifics of what turned me on. I tried lots of different approaches and even dabbled in the larger BDSM thing for a bit but found that I almost always fantasized about spanking as punishment. Even if I’m playing with a person in a casual and friendly way, I use a disciplinary scenario in my own head to keep me focused on what I am doing and to add to my enjoyment.

This Cat Is Crazy is the blog of Rad’s girlfriend wife Cassy Park. One of the recent posts of hers I’ve enjoyed hilariously - and to the point - tells off people who don’t know how to behave at spanking parties:

A compliment is one thing and is always appreciated. Gawking at the same woman and telling her over and over and over how lovely she looks gets creepy.

Rubbing after a spanking is usually fine. Offering to rub someone after she’s just played with someone else is very strange. Commenting on a girl’s butt, and pointing out the unique characteristics of said butt, is beyond disturbing. …

Being shy is one thing. Sitting at a table alone, not talking to anyone, and staring at other people — sometimes with what looks like a glare on your face — is scary.

Shiny Stuff is the blogging home of Mr Shiny, the author of some of the most loopy, funny spanking stories you’ll ever read, many of which are show-cased on his blog. (To give you an idea: one of the story descriptions indexes it as F/Elf). I’m particularly fond of his writing, because at one point he wrote me a snippet of fantasy wherein I was spanked by Mal Reynolds. *swoon* Like many bloggers this week, Shiny is still brimming with Shadow Lane impressions:

The interesting thing this week has been talking to a couple of friends who know about my kink, knew where I went on vacation, and were brimming with polite interest/sick fascination. I think they were both expecting tales of an orgy and were a little bit disappointed in my description of suite parties, events, etc.  One of them couldn’t fathom that there weren’t folks running around in leather and nipple-clamps. Maybe it’s because Kinky Stuff gets all wrapped up into one big bundle in peoples’ minds - i.e. they know it’s a sexual fetish and therefore any party of spankos must involve sex all over the place.  So now they’re better educated and/or they think I’m lying and are picturing me running around a hotel wearing leather and nipple-clamps.

My reading list is richer for having these blogs on it; hope you enjoy knowing them as well.

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Grand rooms, stories of maidservants, paintings of beautiful young wives on the walls – it’s no wonder that, at some point when touring a country house, our minds flick into spanko overdrive. It’s unusual, though, for it to happen quite as quickly as it did at Cragside, about which Haron’s been posting recently. For no sooner than one has walked past the ticket desk do tour groups find themselves in the butler’s pantry. And there, on the wall, are three carpet beaters – right next to a solid table over which girls would presumably have bent.

But matters become more complicated than that, for a few rooms further in is the butler’s study: a comfortable room, this, complete with his writing desk, armchair and bowler hat. He’d come here in the evenings, no doubt, to relax and unwind at the end of a busy day – whilst still remaining alert should the gentlemen next door require a top-up of port.

Hold on, though. We’d just pictured the punishments in the pantry. And here was this other, quite wonderfully-evocative room. It would be such a shame to allow it to go to imaginary-waste. The solution was clear: the first room, the pantry would be for summary punishment – a few sharp, stinging swats of the carpet beater thwacking across the girl’s dress in the middle of the day. But this second room, the study? The young maids would dread it, for this is where the butler would deal with more serious misbehaviour.

The girl would be told to wait outside his study, facing the wall, at the end of her day’s work. No knocking to alert him to her presence: she’d wait for twenty minutes, more, sometimes until he happened to emerge and notice her. Once inside, she’d receive a stern lecture, before the cane would be taken from the top of his bookcase and she’d be told to undress and touch her toes. Six strokes, sometimes a dozen, would follow: hard, expertly-administered, a hard-learnt lesson.

And then… a few rooms further on… his Lordship’s study. Far grander. Surely this couldn’t go unused in our reinvention of the house? Conveniently, it stood at the top of stairs leading down to the Victorian sauna – complete with cold plunge pool. Ah, but the two rooms could easily be combined.

“Mr Watkins?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Would you take the girl downstairs and make sure she’s clean?”

And the maid, caught committing some particularly dreadful offence (rifling through a guests’ belongings, maybe?), would be led – protesting, no doubt – down the narrow stairs. Her clothes would be removed; she’d be ordered into the icy waters.

The butler would then dry her, roughly, with a towel before leading her – shivering, still naked, back up the stairs. His Lordship would be waiting, the birch cut by the butler that afternoon in his hand.

“You may leave us, Mr Watkins, whilst I deal with the girl.” And the butler would wait outside, listening to her sobs. No short, sharp shock, this – his Lordship would flog her slowly, methodically, making every stroke count, giving her one final chance instead of dismissing her without references.

And then the door would open, and the girl would emerge – soundly thrashed – into the corridor, to be led back to the servants’ quarters by the butler. She’d return under his supervision the following morning, of course, to kneel painfully on the floor, brush in hand, and sweep up the remnants of the birch that had scattered across the rugs during her punishment. And then nothing more would be spoken of the incident again.

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