The Spanking Writers

There was a fascinating report in the Daily Telegraph (free in my hotel at the weekend, before you accuse me of buying such filth!) entitled:

“TV of childhood decides colour of your dreams.”

It discussed research at Dundee University, which suggests that “almost all under-25s dream in colour”, whilst those who “were brought up with black and white sets often dream in monochrome”.

Now, I know I’m making myself a hostage to fortune here; I can sense Smudge and others gleefully exploiting the opportunity to make me feel old. But the first TV I watched as a kid was black and white; it was my Grandad who saved up to buy my parents a new set so that I could watch in colour, by which time I must have been six or seven.

I’ve always been conscious that my sub-conscious works in black and white: if I’m trying to picture a place I’ve not visited, the images I form are always monochrome. Even the most colourful of memories rarely are in colour as I recall scenes in my mind’s eye.

But what of spanking dreams? I have a suspicion that they too are black and white. I wonder… Next time I give a girl a bright grey bottom from a dreamland spanking, I’ll let you know.

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Officers in the Austrian army at the start of last century had a curious trick when it came to wearing uniforms in hot weather:

 …At the races we were amused and puzzled to see officers appearing in flannels and carrying tennis rackets. I said to one, “Do tell me why you come to the races with a tennis racket when there is no chance of a game?”

His reply was, “Because it is much too hot to wear uniform.”

This astonishing answer led to the further explanation that officers may only discard their uniforms to play tennis. So… they carried tennis rackets as often as they could make a decent pretence of being about to play.

from ‘Indiscretions of Lady Susan” by S. Townlea

Quite aside from the military floggings that migh ensue if a commanding officer were to crack down on this practice, I enjoy thinking about schoolgirls borrowing this idea.

“But sir, we really are going to play tennis after cinema and ice-cream in town! Here are the rackets. Oh, please sir, not in the street!”

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Passing the time on a flight on Monday, I had to tear two stories out of The Guardian.

First, their women’s soccer report noted that:

“Blackburn Rovers had four players sent off by the referee Lee Taylor in a sensational finale to yesterday’s Premier League Cup second-round defeat by Portsmouth”.

And then their news section reported that, in Kuwait:

“authorities abruptly terminated a concert by an Egyptian singer when a young female fan jumped on stage, hugged the male singer and have him a kiss…. The government department that monitors public entertainment said the girl’s behaviour at Friday’s concert ‘defied the conservative traditions of Kuwait’.”

Not a mention of spanking in either. The football team’s manager wouldn’t have lined up the miscreants in the dressing room, fresh from their early baths, for over the knee spankings, And the pop fan wouldn’t have slept on her front that night after suffering some more ‘conservative traditions’. So there’s nothing to see here. Move along in an orderly fashion, now…

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Rayne sent us the picture below, which has captivated me with its mix of absurdity and harshness:

We would like to know whether the wheel stops for long enough to give a girl a batch of six strokes, or if its motion if continuous, allowing only a stroke at a time.

Abel leans towards the former. (He thinks in sixes.)

I like the latter, because a stroke at a time would allow more time on the wheel, which is a punishment in itself. Being sentenced to a half-dozen lashes would turn into a gruelling twenty minutes, whereas a dozen strokes would stretch beyond any sense of time at all.

Which do you prefer: batches or single strokes?

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Haron was whisked off on Sunday for a surprise birthday day-trip to Paris on the Eurostar.

We gawped at Notre Dame. We wandered round a museum - an old prison, full of kinky potential even if the French were wont to favour “off with their heads” over sound judicial birchings. We bought naughty antique postcards from the stalls on the banks of the Seine.

We argued over the glass pyramid in the Louvre courtyard; I’ll leave you to guess which of us was the more traditional, and hence outraged by its modernity. We strolled through the Tuileries, admiring the local scenery.

And we ate. Oh, what a lunch! A tiny, stumbled-upon-in-a-backstreet French brasserie; hearty provincial food, of the very highest order.

Our waitress was quite delightful, which inevitably led Haron and I to start whispering pervy thoughts to each other. She nearly knocked over our water: we imagined the proprietaire noting her misdemeanour on a sheet behind the counter, from which her errors would be tallied at the end of the week.

And then: a crash, and she sent a glass on the neighbouring table tumbling to the ground. There were some offences, we decided, that would not wait until the week was out. He’d beckon her into his tiny office, and take the strap from the wall. There’d scarcely be enough room to swing it, but his arm and aim would be practiced. She’d yelp, and cry, and apologise, and be hugged, and appear to serve our dessert with tears still in her eyes.

(Actually, she just got out a dustpan and brush and cheerfully cleared up the mess. Quite disappointing, really!)

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Abel left me in our hotel room to go to a work appointment. I stuck my head out of the window to watch him leave, and noticed that the hotel ballroom, directly underneath me, was being prepared for some kind of event: a red carpet unrolled, a couple of TV vans parked outside, barriers set up to keep the onlookers from spilling onto the reserved area.

I wondered if this would be how a town square would be prepared for a public flogging.

I didn’t foresee a red carpet for that occassion, of course, but there would be a temporary explosion of activity around the normally lonely whipping post.

A barrier would certainly be erected, leading all the way from the door of the jail opposite. The TV vans would be here early, trying to glimpse the arrival of the executioner for work, still in his street clothes and looking safe and normal.

And, I think, there would be a small contingent of long-time fans, the type of folks who make it their business to be present at every flogging, no matter how rare. They would bicker politely over the best spots in that sliver of space where not only can you see the lash land onto the exposed buttocks and back, but where you can catch a glimpse of the agony on the convict’s face.

The convict - me, of course - would be watching all this from a tiny barred window in the jail cell. There would be a clock on the wall, too, counting down the minutes until it’s time to make that walk along the path between the barriers, under the glare of TV lights. Towards the whipping post. Towards the executioner, no longer casual-looking in his sleeveless shirt with sweatbands and biceps exposed.

Towards the lash.

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The impatient message over the loudspeakers cut through the quiet air in the bookstore:

Eva, call 251. Eva, please call 251.

But Eva was a naughty girl, for a few minutes later, the voice shrilled again, half weary, half annoyed:

Could Eva *please* call extension 251. Thank you.

She must have responded to this second call, for we were spared the third announcement:

Eva! Report immediately to the manager’s office.

She hadn’t called because she’d been afraid of the scolding that would inevitably follow. Not to have done so had made matters much, much worse. Downcast, she took the escalator up from the non-fiction section; went through the door marked ‘Private’. Knocked, and was called in.

“And why didn’t you call when you were asked to, young lady?”

“Because. Because… I’m sorry, sir.”

The manager would make an example of her: the tannoy would be flicked back on before her punishment commenced. The sharp retort of the strap would echo six times across the building. Other assistants would wince at their friend’s squeals, some remembering their own toe-touching moments. And the shoppers would look up from their browsing and realise quite how much effort went into maintaining the store’s impeccable reputation for quality.

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Yesterday was my birthday, and you know what that means for a kinky girl.

Yes, ouch.

Abel had a full day of entertainment and indulgence planned for me, and I expected him to put off my birthday spanking for ages, making me wait.

But he’s much nicer than that, apparently.

The minute I emerged from the shower, he planted himself in the middle of a low padded bench on our hotel room, tugged me over his lap and flip up my fluffy  bath gown.

Many people don’t realise this, but Abel’s hand is the most awesome, most frightening weapon in his collection of implements. The first few swats took my breath away.

“Hey!” I protested. “This is supposed to be nice!”

“Oh, right.” He lightened up just a touch, but not enough that I didn’t have to work hard to stay in place.

I even lost count at one point: he asked me how old I was by now, and I said I was 15, but apparently the previous smack marked my 14th year. “Let’s start over then,” said Abel, but mercifully, this was one of his ever-so-hilarious jokes.

A few more slaps. My ears were ringing now. “How old are you now?” Abel asked.

“Twenty-two,” I whined.

“That’s right. And weren’t you twenty-two when you met me?”

“Yes!” I smiled to myself, remembering.

“This means the rest of the strokes need to be hard if we’re entering the ‘me’ era,” said Abel matter-of-factly, and proceeded to paddle the remainder of my twenties into me like a very efficient spanking robot. Luckily, there wasn’t that long to go in comparison, but my thirtieth “to grow on” whack was particularly memorable. I think, Abel intends to make this a memorable year.

There was indeed a lovely day to follow this round of loving torture, but I felt this spanking for a good few hours afterwards.

This might be why he didn’t put it off until later in the day, actually…

P.S. The night before, I got to deliver my own birthday strapping to our friend B., who suffered it a lot more bravely than I did. Funnily enough, I also gave him a much harder twenty-third stroke.
P.P.S. And today, we’re marking the birthday of our dear Martha. Happy birthday, girl. Smack you later!

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My train to London was quite hideously late. The axles overheated, the power lines were down, and there were no free platforms at the terminus. The carriages were crammed full of irate travellers; the catering ran out; the lavatories blocked.

I’d overheard the lass opposite me - a student, perhaps, returning home? - calling her parents early in the journey to plan their rendezvous. They’d be waiting for her on the platform. Cuddles and hugs would be the order of the day, no doubt.

She then lost herself in her DVD, quite oblivious to the world around her. About five minutes after we’d been due to arrive - and a good hour before we did - her phone trilled loudly.

“No, we’re late….” “Very late, I think…” “I’m sorry. I thought you’d check…” “I think there’s a coffee shop…”

And then came a long pause, followed by a sniffle, and a “I’m really sorry” leading to an “I should have been more thoughtful”. Cue tears, to be wiped away after she’d finished the call.

I so wanted to offer her some consolation, to tell her I understood. After all, daddy had no doubt finished by telling her she’d go straight to her room when they got home, and she knew exactly what would happen there.

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In addition to the events I described last week, there were all kinds of other naughtiness happening in the family of Lady Susan Townley, where there were six girls looked after by two governesses:

My brothers’ tutor had a bad time, but so had our two governesses. The worst of it was that no alliance was possible between them, one being German, the other French. Their aim seemed to be to keep the two “schoolrooms” apart, that there might be no collision between its members.

This scheme of theirs it became our object in life to defeat. We used to get out of windows and perform the most extraordinary feats of roof-climbing to get access to each other. We exchanged surreptitious notes when we passed in the lanes, for, of course, no communication was allowed between the walking parties, making assignations in impossible places.

We even ran away - one of my sisters and I were gone for a whole day once. We took a train for the neighbouring watering-place and passed a blissful day on the sands, eating biscuits and jam, which provisions we had stolen with infinite difficulty from the larder.

When I was a kid, one of my most persistent fantasies was being one of many sisters and brothers, growing up in a wealthy household with several strict tutors and governesses. (The fantasy of an only child, I daresay.) I never thought that somebody really got to experience the sort of stern routines and wild hijinks that I imagined.

Running away for a day, to eat jam sandwiches on a beach is exactly the sort of thing I could see myself doing.

Of course, in my fantasies, my sisters and I got punished whenever we came up with clever schemes to fool the tutors. This didn’t make us behave better: we simply proceeded on to the next trick. Otherwise, there would be no more spanking, and I couldn’t live with that even in a fantasy world.

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