The Spanking Writers

It always astonishes me that, in 21st century Britain, the ‘Court Circular’ still appears in certain daily newspapers. The formal announcement describes the previous day’s royal appointments - for example:

Clarence House
20th August

The Duchess of Rothesay, President, this afternoon attended the Brooke Hospital for Animals Garden Party in Aboyne and was received by Her Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Aberdeenshire (Mr Angus Farquharson).

Still, it could sometimes prove interesting:

Buckingham Palace
1 September

Princess Victoria this afternoon attended the Central London Women’s Disciplinary Centre and was received by the Chief Punishment Officer (Sgt Jock McPherson).

Oh, how the papers would speculate - with paparazzi photos showing the tear-stained young royal appearing considerably more dishevelled on her way out from her appointment than she had been on the way in…

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We went to a wedding yesterday. The bride is a good friend – and something of a livewire: it was the sort of service where the line “you may kiss the bride” provoked fond memories of past snogs for many of the gentlemen in the audience, and for a fair few of the ladies too!

The church was old and beatiful, the service touching (despite the religious stuff!). Crying girls in posh dresses has to be a good thing, right? And it’s great to listen to all that stuff about love, and be reminded how lucky I am to have two such truly wonderful partners in Haron and Cath.

Towards the end of the ceremony, Haron – who was looking gorgeous - poked me in the ribs. “Do you have any mints?” she asked.

“No.”

She scoured her handbag. “It’s OK: I’ve got some chewing gum.”

Now, readers who’ve been with us for a while may recall that I have something of an issue with chewing gum in church: there’s history in our household of girls being punished for said offence.

“Don’t.”

She did. Despite being told what would happen to her if she did. (All in whispers, of course: letting the vicar hear that you would spank your wife might not go down well).

It was many hours later before we got home – the wedding breakfast to be enjoyed, the awful speeches to be endured. Haron announced that she was going to bed. “I’ll come in and deal with you shortly, then,” I responded. She disappeared to the bathroom; I placed a tawse on the bed and retreated to my study. And then left her in contemplation for a good few minutes.

When the time came, she was face down on the bed, naked, waiting. It didn’t require much scolding; she knew she’d crossed the line, knew that I would be true to my word. She’d ‘felt like being naughty’; six strokes for her misbehaviour became twelve for its calculated nature.

And they were hard. The tawse in question is one of my favourite implements – antique, an original, quite light but wide, unusually with five tails. The first three strokes striped her pale skin beautifully; as she writhed, I noticed that all three had lashed her across exactly the same stretch of her buttocks. An interesting challenge, then: to deliver the remaining nine across the same strip, too. Challenging my accuracy; challenging her ability to withstand the punishment.

Afterwards, we cuddled. And today we’ve both written our accounts of what happened. Hers is across at The Punishment Book; you might find it interesting to compare our notes!

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Abel and I were walking up to the train station. He valiantly carried the suitcase, almost not complaining at all. Seriously, he only complained once.

“I can’t believe how heavy it is!” he said.

“What have you got in there?” I asked, knowing that we were only going away for a couple of nights, so hardly needed any clothes.

“A strap, a cane, a tawse and a hairbrush,” he said. And paused. And said: “Oh.”

Right, he was only carrying a mini dungeon in that bag…

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It’s rare that the front page of a newspaper makes me laugh aloud, but the Newcastle Evening Chronicle on 29 August was just priceless.

“Couple is told to cool off over noisy sex romps,” it proclaimed, proceeding to explain that their “noisy sex romps are driving neighbours mad” and that they “have been slapped with a noise abatement order after complaints about their four-hour romps.”

Caroline, the lady concerned, goes on to explain:

“I must admit I do scream and make lots of noise when we’re having sex, but I can’t help it. Apparently I’m so loud people think I’m getting murdered. The police have said they have been called because they have feared for my safety. We are not using whips or anything like that.”

Shame, really: they should try it some time. (And congratulations to the couple concerned for clearly having such fun after 24 years of marriage).

PS did I just mention sex on our blog?!!!

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A most unusual dream last night. In it, Haron and one of our friends were both maidens in mediaeval times. An army was forming; the girls of the village were being pressed into service as archers.

They’d heard the rumours, though - that if the enemy caught any of the archers, they dealt out severe punishment. A captured girl could expect to be led to a nearby tree, her hands tied above her head with a rope suspended from a stout branch. The soldiers would tear open the back of her dress, then whip her soundly.

Needless to say, Haron and our friend were trying to escape their military duties. And, inevitably, I was insisting that they played their part for king and country.

(I think I may have watched too much of the archery when the Olympics was on!)

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Since I was very, very young and a pretend-Victorian teacher at a pretend-Victorian school slammed her cane down on my desk, the thought of a cane - not even being caned, just the cane itself - has terrified me. Schoolfriends (who don’t know I’m kinky, but do know that watching “Jane Eyre” in class made me cry, and that listening to an audio clip of “Boy” - complete with swishy cane sounds, loud cracks and yelps as an invisible boy was caned - made me throw up) always reassured me that it was okay, because I could just flick past paragraphs or scenes with caning - nobody could make me read about it, or watch it, if I didn’t want to, and it’s not like it comes up a lot. And hey, caning’s illegal, so it’s not like anybody’s ever going to be anywhere near me with an actual cane, right?

Right. But then I came across Abel and Haron’s blog, and realised I was kinky, and discovered that actually, being afraid of the cane wasn’t okay anymore, because now canes did come up a lot, and all of a sudden, I actually wanted to read about it. Abel had always known how scared I was, and he kept saying that the only way to get over it would be to be caned. So I said no way, and he said he wasn’t going to.

Until last week when we went to London, and he told me he was bringing a cane. That was fine - it’s none of my business what elderly men keep in their luggage, is it? - but then he said he was going to give me six of the best.

Afterwards, Abel said that he wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been ready. Well, I didn’t feel ready. Not before, when he was telling me to bend over and then getting fussy about the way I was bent (I mean, really), not after, when I was sitting on the desk to see if I could feel it and cuddling up to Abel, and especially not during, when I really, really wanted to not be being caned.

But I must have been ready really, even if I didn’t think I was, because I knew all along that if I said no, or if I asked him to stop, he would, and I didn’t. Plus, I trust Abel more than I can even say (more, I think, than he actually realises), so if he says I’m ready to do something, I am. Even if I think I’m out of my mind to believe him at the time.

So I bent over the desk and looked into the mirror, watching Abel, then the cane. I was glad the mirror was there, because it meant I could watch Abel line up the cane and draw it back, closing my eyes at the last minute so I didn’t have to actually see it strike, then open them again and watch the next stroke; if I’d had to wait between each stroke, not knowing when the cane was going to land, I don’t think I would have got through all six. I knew it would be six, because Abel told me so, but to be honest, I didn’t care. He may as well have said six hundred: it didn’t matter, because I was convinced I was going to leap up in agonised panic somewhere around the second stroke, and that would put an end to this horrible little plan, and I would never be caned again.

But then the first stroke wasn’t that bad, and neither was the second. It hurt a little bit, but it wasn’t awful, so I stayed where I was. The third stroke, though… that hurt. A lot. I automatically straightened up, still leaning over with my hands on the desk but not properly bent over anymore. That was more like how I’d thought it would feel. It was almost more cruel to wait like that, to give two light strokes and a false sense of security, than it would have been had Abel given the strokes that hard from the beginning. I was going to stand up, then. Say that it hurt, and I was scared, and I’d had enough caning for the moment thank-you-very-much, I needed a break. Only, I knew that if I did stand up and say that, nothing - even Abel - would persuade me to bend back over anytime soon. Possibly ever.

And even though it did hurt, and I was scared, I didn’t really want to stop. I wanted it to be over, but I wanted it to be over because all six were done and finished, not because we’d got halfway through and had to give up because I couldn’t take it. So I un-straightened for the last three strokes, and watched the cane, and wondered why on earth Abel thought I could do this.

And then it was over, and I was relieved, and I was glad I hadn’t stopped halfway. Even bent over the desk waiting for Abel to begin, I never thought I could ever get through six strokes of the cane. I’d only ever had one before: bent over the end of Abel and Haron’s sofa a few weeks ago, with Haron holding my hands and Abel tapping me with the cane, before asking very nicely if I was capable of dealing with one proper stroke without getting hysterical and disturbing the neighbours’ Sunday morning (that’s not what he actually said, though, because he’s not mean enough to make fun of girls who are afraid). But I’d had six, now. It hurt, but it wasn’t that bad, and it was frightening, but nothing bad had really happened.

I’m still horribly, horribly afraid of the cane, but I’m a little less afraid of it than I was before. I don’t think I’ll ever actually want to be caned, or enjoy it; if Abel said he was never going to cane me again, that would be okay. But I am glad I was caned, and I’m especially glad - and immensely grateful - that Abel was the one who caned me. And I think that, if he said he was going to cane me again, then that would probably be okay too.

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Six of the best with the cane. It’s the standard punishment, the old cliché. Only, it’s not quite so ‘standard’ when you’re plucking up the courage to face it for the first time.

See, for a kinky girl, it’s easier in a way than for the schoolgirl in the story. The story-girl can’t walk away: when the headmaster tells her to bend over, then bend over she must. Whereas the kinky girl’s choosing to be there: she can always back out, say no, decide that she doesn’t want to be caned today thank you very much. She has the power, the right of escape.

But, see, for a kinky girl, that makes it even harder than for the story-girls. For she can escape. She doesn’t need to bend over, to be obedient, to take the ‘punishment’. So there’s a huge line to cross – to take that giant leap from imagining a caning, to experiencing it for real. It’s a leap that takes immense courage and bravery.

Since Smudge started commenting on the blog earlier in the year, and we started swapping notes, she’d always confessed to a sheer terror of the cane. She’d stayed with us a few weeks ago, and been spanked for the first time – her heart pounding as she stretched over my lap. She was so sweet, so brave. But the rattan? It had taken her until the third morning before she could even face looking at a cane, never mind taking a succession of light whacks and that one harder stroke. Only, it wasn’t that hard, really. Just a taster. For what was to come.

This time was different. I held the Malaysian cane in my hand: thin, long, flexible, whippy. She looked at me, looked at it; I could see her weighing the implications of what she was about to do. And then she stepped forward.

She bent over with her hands on the desk, did our sweet heroine; I made her bend lower, straighten her legs, present her backside properly. Smudge’s six were going to be done right. She looked back at me in the mirror that ran the length of the desk. (Was it too cruel to make a girl watch her first caning, to be a spectator at the event?). I measured out the cane – and started her journey.

The first two strokes across her jeans were delivered just hard enough to connect, to bite, to make her look surprised. But the third was hard: properly hard. She hadn’t expected it; in the mirror, I watched her reaction – shock, pain, the wavering-bravery moment. The even-braver moment when she stayed in position for the next. And the fifth, and the final sixth: the should-have-been-the-hardest but I didn’t have the heart to make it so after that third cut.

And then Smudge could stand, and be hugged. A girl who had been caned. Fiction, imagination replaced by reality. And I was honoured to have been the one to have been trusted to take her across the divide.

But, I know… it’s not me you want to hear from. You’re far more interested in Smudge’s description of what happened. And that’s coming tomorrow…

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Raise your hand if you hate Monday mornings.

*looks around*

Right. Well, me too. Still, I bet that the ship boys in the Navy of old hated them even more:

And the waggery and idleness of the ship-boys are paid by the boat-swain with the rod, and commonly this execution is done upon the Monday mornings, and is so frequently in use, that some mere seamen and sailors do believe in good earnest that they shall never have a fair wind, until the poor boys be duly brought to the chest, that is, whipped every Monday morning. - N. Boteler, “Colloquia Maritima, or Sea Dialogues”, 1688.

I love that. Oh, you’re innocent? Too bad; somebody has to be flogged on a Monday morning, or we’ll all sink.

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In my dream I was sentenced to corporal punishment. Not sure by whom, or for what misdeeds, but I was. I may have even deserved it.

The detail that turned the dream into a bona fide nightmare was that the implement and the number of strokes were to be decided by gambling.

I was handed a little hemp sack with something clinking inside. These were, I was told, pieces of ivory carved with symbols of implements. I had to put my hand into the sack and draw one. Once the implement was established, I would be handed a platter with ten-sided dice, which I would roll for the number of strokes.

I can still hear the sounds, ominous in the otherwise silent room: the ivory clicking, the dice rattling around the silver platter.

I’m not sure what the result was. I’m quite happy not to know, actually…

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This year apparently marks the hundredth birthday of romantic fiction publisher Mills and Boon. We thought we should pay tribute with a should-be-an-excerpt from one of their novels…

–

She fell, breathless, into his strong arms, feeling the soft touch of his velvet cloak. He held her to him, enveloping her in his firm grip. She looked up at his noble face, into his deep  blue eyes, and pressed her damp frame closer to his muscular, hard body.

“I love you,’ she murmured, her heart fluttering like the wings of a caged bird.

“I love you, too, my sweet,” the handsome Prince replied softly. He clicked his fingers twice. Suddenly, the oak door flew open and three uniformed  officers appeared in an instant. “That’s why I cannot let your behaviour this morning go unpunished.”

He released the quivering girl abruptly from his grasp: “Guards! Take her to the dungeon, strip her, and whip her soundly.”

The Prince turned back to her, smiling as he noticed the tears welling up in her pretty eyes. “And when they have finished with you, my sweet, they will bring you to my bedchamber.”

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