The Spanking Writers

Shirts ironed, clothes selected.

Implements carefully picked out from my collection.

An old, historic, remote building in the middle of the countryside, booked for the weekend.

Scenes devised, back-stories communicated – dark, unforgiving, severe,  abusive.

Another gentleman setting off on his drive.

Car keys in my hand. A girl waiting to be picked up…

There’s a tradition that women can propose marriage to their menfolk on 29th February. (Why they wouldn’t feel able to on other dates is beyond me, frankly, but still). I inevitably start to ponder ways in which to pervert the idea…

A sixth-former coming home at the end of the day and telling her family she’d asked her boyfriend to marry her; her father sending her straight to her room, lecturing her about her irresponsibility, and then unbuckling his belt and whipping her soundly to bring her back down to earth.

Or, perhaps, a princess in times gone by, proposing to a suitor at Court – in direct defiance of her father, the king. He’d have other plans in mind for her: an arranged marriage, to a much older prince from a foreign state. Her arrangement would be declared invalid, of course, and the royal aides would be instructed to prepare a birch so that she could be flogged in public. She’d be tied down in front of the assembled courtiers, her bottom bared for punishment. And His Majesty would duly re-assert his authority over his daughter…

Sometimes you see things in a work environment that just beg to be blogged. How on earth someone justified installing this particular sculpture in the corridor of a very eminent company I visited earlier in the month, I have no idea – but I was rather pleased that they had. Excuse the quality of the photos, which had to be snapped without anyone noticing, but I think you’ll get the general impression.

Trips to Edinburgh always make me think about schoolgirls in tartan kilts, being soundly tawsed. Bent over, touching their toes? Hands outstretched, looking up into the eyes of the master who’s punishing them? Then there’s the hierarchy of severity of the implement itself: perhaps a ‘Medium’ weight tawse from the classroom teachers, ‘Heavy’ used by housemasters; the dreaded XH in the headmaster’s study. And what of home life? Is it inconceivable that a parent, a guardian (a governess, even) might not strap a girl severely should she step out of line.

A little browsing led me to the following rather lovely article, from The Scotsman ten years ago. Those of us who own authentic school tawses – or girls who’ve been on the receiving end – may smile at thoughts of their provenance:

FOR generations of Scottish schoolchildren it was an instrument of terror that could cow the unruliest of spirits. But now the dreaded tawse has become an expensive collector’s item.

Antique shops are selling the leather straps to collectors across the country who are willing to spend hundreds of pounds for a rare article in mint condition.

Leather tawse, once cut by country saddlers, are pored over like works of art, with collectors eager to get their hands on a four finger ‘Huntly’ or a heavyweight three finger ‘Lochgelly’.

Demand is so strong that retired secondary school teachers are being offered up to £100 to part with tawse they kept after leaving school. A tidy profit, given the average cost of a tawse in 1982, when production ceased in Scotland, was just under £6.

Antiques dealer Neil Rankin of Church Antiques in Crieff is one of an increasing number of dealers who are selling the straps. “There is a dedicated band of collectors out there,” he said. “We have bought a couple recently and have a fair number in stock. It’s mainly retired teachers who bring them in.

“We have 20 people on our mailing list and some of them are very serious collectors. They are looking for extremely old and rare tawse from different parts of the country.

“They are very shy of publicity and fearful of being cast as dirty old men in shabby raincoats but they are perfectly respectable. But we are finding it increasingly difficult to locate the older and more unusual belts…”

Despite their infamous role in school discipline, collectors say the leather straps hold the same fascination as any other antique.

One tawse collector, who refused to be named for fear that people would not believe his motives were purely innocent, said: “It may seem unusual to some people. But it’s no different from collecting chairs or tables. The challenge is to get as many different varieties from different areas.

“They come in a surprising array of different types. Some are in blond leather with four or even five tails, others are dark and heavy with two fingers. There is a lot more to a decent tawse collection than a bunch of boring Lochgellys.”

Even antique collectors who don’t stock tawse are being inundated with inquiries. Perthshire antique dealer Bob Dakers said: “It is surprising how often I am asked about these things. But they are not something I stock, they bring back too many memories of my school days.”

Most tawse still in circulation are Lochgellys, named after John J Dick, of Lochgelly, who dominated Scottish tawse production by the 1970s. He offered nine different varieties of belt, ranging in size from 21 inches to 24 inches…

Now, all this talk of tawses makes me want to administer a good sound strapping. Volunteers…?!

I felt so sorry for the lass in the hotel bar during my Berlin visit. See, when I beckoned her over to point out – oh-so-politely – that I’d just noticed that the rim of the wine glass from which I was drinking was badly chipped, she looked so very apologetic and downcast.

I imagined the scene as she returned it to the bar, to pour a fresh measure into a new (carefully checked) glass under the watchful eye of her manager: “What are you doing?”.

She’d explain. “And why did you serve one of our guests a drink in a chipped glass?”

“I… I didn’t notice.”

Her failure to check, her lack of diligence, would clearly be unacceptable. “Sort out a replacement for the gentleman – and take the wine off his bill altogether. And we’ll discuss this at the end of your shift.”

‘Discuss’. She knew what that meant, from bitter past experience: the privacy of the wine cellar before she was allowed to catch the last train home, with him unbuckling his belt. Her pleading apologies; his disappointment in her for failing to adhere to the hotel’s high standards – for letting herself down.

His instruction to her to bend over; his hands lifting her dress, pulling down her knickers. The whipping – oh so much harder than her father’s hand spankings as she’d grown up – continuing until long after she had started to sob. And then the brief entry on her HR record that a certain matter had been “dealt with in private” – shorthand all-too-humiliatingly-obvious to any future reader of her file…

I happened to notice yesterday that the ‘theme’ for my Tumblr site wasn’t working properly. Fortunately, I managed to fix it, by installing a theme that I actually like even more. Those of you who enjoy naughty pictures might want to find a quiet corner and have a browse…

I confess to still being in two minds about Tumblr. I love digging out images to post there – and enjoy sharing a little more of what actually works for me on an erotic level. But at the same time, “The Spanking Writers” is known for being one of the longest-standing literary blogs – so posting porn, even on a different site…?

And I do worry about copyright issues with Tumblr – you’ll notice, for example, that I refuse to cross-post anything that’s marked with a (c) notice or the name of the originating site / photographer. Having found a couple of photos on other Tumblr pages that I’ve taken of friends (who’d posted them with my absolute permission on their own blogs), I’m a little sensitive to allegations of stealing other people’s property thanks to the ease of the Tumblr ‘reblog’ button.

I also avoid as far as possible posting photos of (or taken by) people I know in real-life – which, given the number of spanking models I know, isn’t always easy!

I do wonder how much crossover there is in the readership of the two sites. Do those of you who’ve read my writing here for the past six or more years also devour the images on Tumblr; do those who discover my porn pages click across to and enjoy the written word? I’d be curious to know…

The other main source of kinky Berlin inspiration during my recent stay was my hotel – built by the former East German authorities to accommodate visiting bigwigs. That knowledge, combined with a display about University education in the DDR Museum (synopsis: only the brightest students went to Uni, and their devotion to the party was unquestionable) inspired entertaining thoughts of young ladies being put to work to help the State.

“The businessman at the corner table. He’s meeting the Ministry of Defence tomorrow to discuss arms sales. We’d like copies of the plans in his briefcase before the meeting.” Yet, despite successfully seducing him, she’d be unable to find the documents: they’d bundle her into a car and drive her off; she’d soon find herself stripped and tied over a whipping frame in a cold cellar, being flogged for her failure.

“Sit next to Mr B—- at dinner. Make sure he likes you. Do whatever it takes, and see what he’ll tell you about the situation in Warsaw.” She’d return full of news to their control room on the top floor of the hotel, to find them watching a video from the hidden camera of her fucking her target.  ”We heard everything: thank you so much.” And then rough hands would seize her. “And you’re very pretty. Now it’s our turn… and we did particularly like how well you took it up the arse…”

“You want a pass to visit your family in the West? Of course. Just come to the hotel on Monday and do whatever the Minister asks, and we’ll stamp your papers immediately after. I mean, we’ll whip you too: just so you know what it feels like, so you have a taste of what’ll happen to your younger sister if you don’t return after your trip.”

“The three of you are to put on the school uniforms, and go to room 248. The gentleman is visiting from Moscow: we want him to feel like we take good care of him. He’s very disappointed that his daughters have been out so late: he’s warned you about it before, and this time he’ll doubtless punish you very severely. You’ll find the switches you’ve been told to cut soaking in the bucket over there; take them with you…”

Shame not to have had female company on the trip, really. Although probably no bad thing for any young ladies I know that that was the case!

Berlin, for the past few days. I last visited in the early summer of 1990 – after the wall had come down, and when one could walk between the two sides of the until-recently-divided city, but still in the days of East and West Germany. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t come back until they’d had a chance to rebuild; 20+ years on felt like a long enough wait.

And yet… I’ve been spending the weekend locked mentally in the Cold War, at least from a kink perspective. It started in an old-fashioned coffee shop off Unter den Linden, the main thoroughfare of the former East Berlin: a gentlemen in his late 60s taking breakfast at a discreet corner table with a young lady in her 20s.

He, of course, was the charge d’affaires in the Economic Section of the British Embassy – otherwise known as a senior officer in the intelligence services. She, a bright young East German graduate, an assistant in the private office of an important communist ministry – but with a desire to escape to the west.

It would become obvious during their meeting that, despite her promises and the handsome retainer he’d passed her way last time, she had no interesting information to provide. “I promise I’ll try harder; really I do,” she’d plead. But that wouldn’t suffice: once their coffees were drained, he’d lead her upstairs to a private room provided by the sympathetic cafe owner, and he’d bend her roughly over a table. “I’m going to deal with you for your failure, and I’m going to teach you about the need to be more diligent in future,” he’d explain, before taking a cane from its hanging place on the wall.

She’d protest as he lifted her skirt. He’d be firm in return: “You can end our arrangement at any time, my dear. But whilst we have an understanding, I expect you to honour your commitments. And you’ve disappointed me – and let yourself down rather badly. Now: would you care to leave, or shall we continue?”

A dozen strokes would probably have sufficed; the caring hug after would have ensured that she still felt valued and cared about. And then she’d be on her way under the lime trees and back to the ministry, very sore and not a little shamed, but keener than ever to impress him…

So, you’ve heard of birthday spankings, right? Well here’s this week’s twist, to mark Emma Jane’s 30th birthday.

First up: the “pre-birthday spanking”, delivered the night before the day in question – for a girl really does need a final caning of her twenties. And twenty strokes seemed entirely appropriate. Problem was, neither of us was really in the mood, after a very lovely evening out together in London. On with the caning, with EJ bent over the end of the bed… am with me knowing as I administered it that every stroke was hurting, but not in a good way. Yet having agreed to mark the end of a decade, stopping wasn’t really an option – and her bottom was certainly delightfully marked by the end.

But then her birthday itself, and a far more successful – carefully plotted – scene. We’d been for afternoon tea at the Ritz, followed by cocktails from its rather grand bar. Afterwards, the two other gentlemen in attendance came back to our hotel for what had evolved into a “birthday beating“. A perfect desk had been thoughtfully provided in the suite; EJ’s designer dress was lifted; she bent over in just the right position.

Ben went first: a “warm up” that actually constituted a long, hard hand spanking in its own right. Then Mr Allen for the first six cuts, followed by six from me. And then the hardest six for her to take: not physically (albeit they were with a dragon cane, the meanest in my collection) but emotionally – for, earlier in the day, I’d emailed HH to ask whether he wanted me to deliver some strokes on his behalf, as he was away travelling and so couldn’t be with us.

Mr Allen and I then took the tally for a by-now-somewhat-tearful girl up to the magic thirty, before EJ’s “one to grow on” saw the dragon cane re-appear for the final hard stroke.

A beautiful, adorable girl. Taking hard strokes oh-so-bravely, bent over and striping beautifully. What could be more appealing? It really was a rather lovely way to mark the start of a new decade, which I hope (and am confident) will bring the wonderful young lady in question every joy and success.

Afternoon tea in the Ritz yesterday was an ambition fulfilled, and that the visit was was celebrating Emma Jane’s birthday, and with some of the loveliest people I know, made it truly wonderful.

At one point, we took to speculating sotto voce as to the reasons why other groups were there. Other birthdays, of course; an anniversary here, a business deal concluded there…

Since, I’ve been imagining a table with a girl in her boarding school uniform, visiting her guardian in the middle of term. He’d ask with great interest about the lacrosse team, the orchestra, the debating society. And as the final cakes were brought to the table, he’d draw out her neatly-folded school report from his pocket and seek an explanation for her grades.

Flustered, she’s try to explain that she had been working hard – but had struggled to balance academic work with her extra-curricula commitments. “I can understand the occasional ‘B’ grade rather than your usual As,” he’d respond, “much as that’s disappointing. But the poor grades for effort? And the comments from some of the masters?”

Shamefaced, she’d vow to try harder – but she’d remember, from a similar discussion two years before, that promises wouldn’t suffice. Last time, the punishment he’d meted out had, without doubt, helped to provide the extra focus that he required and she craved. But that didn’t make it easier when he passed her the key to his suite. “You will find the slipper on the table in the sitting room; I shall be with you shortly…”