Spanking Blog: Adult Erotic Spanking At Its Best

You’ve heard one of those songs for kids, that has a circular structure so there’s never an end to it? For a moment, reading this, I thought that was the sort of spanking Haron had schemed up for herself:

Suddenly, a song came on air that I really didn’t approve of. Frustrated, I exclaimed:

“I really hate this fucking song!”

“You hate this what?” Abel called back from halfway in a cupboard. “What sort of language is that in the hearing of our neighbours?” He reversed out of the cupboard and said: “Get upstairs.”

Oooh, I thought. What fun.

“So sorry, sir,” I said, giggling.

We walked into the bedroom together, when Abel said: “All the bloody implements are packed!”

I thought: no shit, sir. But didn’t say it.

“This will do,” he announced, snatching up my hairbrush and plopping himself on the bed.

Over his knee I went.

The fact that this was all quite funny didn’t diminish the attrocious sting of the brush one bit. I yelped and wriggled a lot, but thankfully, it was over soon. He let me up, put down the brush and started to walk away.

I rubbed my bottom.

“That really fucking hurt,” I said petulantly.

So, it seems Haron got sent upstairs to choose a cane. Not an easy task for her:

Choose a cane. Easy for him to say. We have hundreds of them, one nastier than the other. How am I supposed to pick which one I fancy being striped with?

Generally, I prefer the thick, thuddy ones. They’re cool. But they look so bloody scary, even if I know in my head that I really do like them. Then there are the whippy ones, which look, well, harmless – on account of their thinness – but I know pretty well the little bastards slice into you like a razor.

And then there are the dragon canes, which are whippy and thuddy at once, and are really not very good for anything but scaring a girl to death, but I like being scared to death.

Abel recently came across this nifty bit of doggerel from a play apparently performed in London in 1733:

“While she is stripping to get a good whipping,
I’ll away, dance and play,
Yes I will, that I will;
While she is stripping to get a good whipping,
I’ll go and romp with the Girls and the Boys.”

He’s got all the details, but I was fascinated, upon following his link, to discover that this tidbit is sourced to the same 1877 Index Librorum Prohibitorum whence came this post.

Abel, he of The Spanking Writers, posted this nice bit about giving “Smudge” her first caning. Excerpt:

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.

Haron writes:

I should know better by now. I should know that when Abel says, “I need to go into a kitchen shop to replace XYZ”, he actually means “I want to go into the wooden spoon section, to get something to beat you with.” (OK, he probably wants to buy stuff to cook with too, but that motivation is definitely secondary.)

I, myself, have gotten out of more than one weary trip to the mall this way. When Bethie says “Let’s go to the mall, bounce bounce squee” I’ve been known to say “Sure, I’ve been meaning to get into the fancy kitchen store and look through their latest silicone spatulas.” Doesn’t always work, but sometimes there’s no more talk of mall visiting. “I tell you what”, says Bethie, “I need to spend a lot of time in the fabric store, you’d be bored, how about you stay here and I’ll bring us home some dinner?” Yes, dear, sounds like a fine plan to me, perhaps I’ll take a small nap while you’re gone.

On the other hand, Abel’s methods have their merits:

But yesterday I naively followed him into the shop, and stood by as he sorted through measuring jugs and other gizmos, only to see him pick up the thickest, scariest wooden spoon in the world. (Maybe it only seemed that way at the point, of course. The spoon you’re about to get smacked with is always the worst ever.) Protestations were no use: it was clear that the thing was coming home with us.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I ran my bath this morning, – only to get a nasty surprise when Abel walked into the bathroom, spoon in hand.

“Hands on the edge of the bath,” he said snappily. The bubbles in the tub winked at me as I complied, promising me comfort after it was all over.

Maybe the mall — despite being run down and emptying out, despite its filling with blank storefronts, darker areas, and semi-resident vagrants, despite having that special rank odor of under-mopped decay that has come to typify small-town malls in twenty-first-century America — has its virtues after all. The kitchen store there sells some fine spoons and spatulas.

See Also:

• More Amish Spanking Spoons
• Amish Spanking Spoon
• Bethie's New Spanking Spatula

I found this screen shot here, no idea what movie or show it’s from:

Thanks to The Spanking Writers for the link.

See Also:

• Bastinado In The Barn
• Saturday Morning Bastinado
• Bastinado Girl
• A Touch Of Bastinado

In which Haron returns home and opines hopefully about Abel’s fashion choices:

No sooner than we made it back from the airport and had some food, he innocently said:

“Do you like my new belt?”

I looked. And closed my eyes, to see if the monstrosity would go away if I blinked. And then I looked again. The belt was still there: the thickest, widest strip of leather I’ve ever seen, liberally decorated with massive metal studs. With a belt like that, Abel would have been welcome at a hard rock festival. He was clearly delighted at having sneaked in a purchase like that while I wasn’t looking.

I honestly told him that the belt suited him very much. And that I was sure it was purely decorative.

It turns out that “purely decorative” was excessively optimistic.