tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39172817117635364802024-03-05T18:25:36.571+00:00The art of corporal punishmentHenry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-18399570259028579452012-09-18T22:12:00.000+01:002012-09-19T00:28:42.366+01:00Nameless and FriendlessThe Victorians were such dull old sticks, or so we are taught to believe.
<p>I have just bought, on Ebay, a rather splendid engraving from an 1850s periodical of a schoolteacher, armed with a cane, about to seize a boy for some undoubtedly much deserved punishment. As one does.
<p>But it is not the illustration itself that intrigues me. There is print on the reverse, and the very first entry I read deserves to be quoted verbatim:
<p>"Nameless and Friendless", by Miss E. Osborne, is another picture by a lady artist, to which, though we can scarcely praise it for its execution, we have many favourable words to give, for its admirable purity of intention and its sentiment without sentimentality. Poor "Nameless and Friendless" - in the shape of a young, thinly-clad female, too young almost to be a widow but, we will assume, an orphan - has brought a picture into the shop of a wealthy "pictoriopole" - if we may invent that term for a dealer in the fine arts - and is tremblingly waiting while the great man examines it. A little shivering boy, her brother, nestles by her side; for the day is bitterly cold, and through the shop window you can see a rime of snow on the lace hats of the footmen, and the roofs of the carriage, towards which the warmly and richly-dressed figure at the door - a dowager countess at least - is progressing. You are afraid that the picture-dealer's answer to "Nameless and Friendless" will be a supercilious negative; and that she will be told that the "picture doesn't suit him, isn't in his line," or at best that she may "call again." But the best bit of story telling in the picture is the two dandies - very heavy mustachioed dandies, officers in the Guards in "mufti" they appear to be - who, with their backs to the spectator, are lounging over some staringly-coloured lithographs of "pets of the ballet," very curt as to drapery, and very lengthy as to leg. Ah, dear! poor "Nameless and Friendless;" we are afraid there is very little chance for you, at <i>this</i> "Fine Arts Repository," at least.
<p>Yes, such dull old sticks.
<p><em>Footnote, to show I've done my homework:</em>
<p>Remarkably, this picture still exists, and may be found on the Web: it was bought for £1,250 in the late 1960s by David Montagu Douglas Scott (1887-1986), a grandson of the 5th Duke of Buccleuch, and Sotheby's sold it in 2008. Colin Gleadell <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/artsales/3562838/Art-sales-the-Scott-collection-goes-on-sale-at-Sothebys.html">wrote in the Telegraph</a> at the time:
<p>"Osborne's paintings are also rare. On average, one might appear every two years at auction, though not as good as this one, which is now estimated at £300,000 to £500,000."
<p>Oh, all right: <a href="http://goldenagepaintings.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/emily-mary-osborn-nameless-and.html">here's</a> the link to the picture itself. Interesting what the Victorians classed as "thinly clad".Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-53261002282821992642010-12-25T10:21:00.004+00:002010-12-25T10:51:13.290+00:00Lying naked in the snowSomewhere else in that weekend, EmmaJane looked out through the window into the frozen garden and announced that she was interested in doing some photography. I didn't quite understand what she meant to begin with, but it became clear.<br /><br />She couldn't quite decide which shot she wanted to post as <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2010/12/merry-christmas.html">her Christmas photo</a>, so eventually we agreed that she'd post one and I'd post another. Here it is.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRFrVSgJ5yi1tVh2t0O8D6pYbTm0NHuNGEnJKbuLyDLlxeJYlqsqDigqG0hMxMjJ4O2A90acm2pL4VU08G9Pl-oYPXmgq6g1_vFKg0t832oEB3oI3RJKi53-Ap6ibDz7tf0oImYQf0hos/s1600/IMG_9187s.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRFrVSgJ5yi1tVh2t0O8D6pYbTm0NHuNGEnJKbuLyDLlxeJYlqsqDigqG0hMxMjJ4O2A90acm2pL4VU08G9Pl-oYPXmgq6g1_vFKg0t832oEB3oI3RJKi53-Ap6ibDz7tf0oImYQf0hos/s320/IMG_9187s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554569802403814114" /></a> <br />Somewhere between the sitting shots and the lying-down shots, the sun came out. But have you any idea how cold it is to lie down naked in the snow? She's a brave and crazy girl.<br /><br />But doesn't she look good?Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-13709507986456427122010-12-23T10:39:00.004+00:002010-12-23T11:33:31.023+00:00Weekend detention<a href="http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog/"><br />Abel</a> and I recently got together with Catherine and <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/">EmmaJane</a>. Somewhere over Sunday lunch in the village pub, a detention scene emerged: two girls who had each earned 6 demerits the previous week, for a succession of minor offences, and found themselves in the school's traditional Sunday afternoon Punishment Detention. It's meant to deter repeat offenders, to make them think twice and mend their behaviour the next time they have accumulated two or three demerits in a week.<br /><br />The standard procedure in Punishment Detention is that the girls each have to write a letter of apology for their misbehaviour, to be posted on the school board for all to read. <span style="font-style:italic;">Pour encourager les autres</span>, as Voltaire put it. Afterwards they are required to check each other's letter for grammar and spelling, then stand and read their own letter aloud to the masters in charge. They know that any insincerity in their apology will be reflected in their punishment.<br /><br />I need to anonymise the next part, for reasons that will emerge later.<br /><br />There were no mistakes (they know better than that!), but we knew something was wrong when Girl P had to suppress a chuckle as she checked over Girl Q's letter. And when Girl Q read it out, we discovered what. I'll let the letters speak for themselves:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQWTC_IqvWZbcKOsXUngRaD5CUkCybQsLo7vSwNK0ARvnFQsfTOjNFgxehUxZyvXhqfu0OcJJmke4GdY52zTmo0iyk-_Cegg1_Zf7DB11U_kAT85qF8itAqfpsapADRwLaES0Vv3krOFz/s1600/img005s.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQWTC_IqvWZbcKOsXUngRaD5CUkCybQsLo7vSwNK0ARvnFQsfTOjNFgxehUxZyvXhqfu0OcJJmke4GdY52zTmo0iyk-_Cegg1_Zf7DB11U_kAT85qF8itAqfpsapADRwLaES0Vv3krOFz/s320/img005s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553838398095586786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztVm9rXkw1EX74BYgzzVQJUnsGav9_PUzgkj6I-e-gX_ZMQjEQ-gdIcPhzOzr9zHqANJrHJMARxmocHobiTiu_Qi6NYDEPRU0iJKW5IRvznWlKSkG1GIh-xK6t-TcrK6R7FfODNkLlaWP/s1600/img003s.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztVm9rXkw1EX74BYgzzVQJUnsGav9_PUzgkj6I-e-gX_ZMQjEQ-gdIcPhzOzr9zHqANJrHJMARxmocHobiTiu_Qi6NYDEPRU0iJKW5IRvznWlKSkG1GIh-xK6t-TcrK6R7FfODNkLlaWP/s320/img003s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553838223127323970" /></a><br />We had decided in advance that each girl's basic punishment would be six strokes with my wooden paddle, followed by six with Abel's tawse. But this could not be overlooked. I dealt with Girl P first: six firm strokes just on the junction of bottom and thighs, which had her wriggling and crying out long before the end. Girl Q watched nervously, knowing she was next.<br /><br />The paddle is quite severe, and I knew even six would be challenging, so I was quite restrained in announcing just one extra stroke for her attempt to dig at the goalie in her apology. She very nearly increased that, first when I found her to be wearing highly non-regulation lace-trimmed knickers, and then again by miscounting. But the paddle <span style="font-style:italic;">hurts</span>, so I was lenient - though I made her thank me for leaving the count at just one extra stroke. Again, she was wriggling and squirming long before I reached six, and I made the seventh one to remember.<br /><br />Then Abel took over; he's promised <a href="http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog/2010/12/23/sunday-detention/">his own blog post</a> about the scene, so I'll leave him to tell you about that. But at the end we had two very sorry girls, promising faithfully to behave better in future. I wonder how long it will last?<br /><br />But now my reason for anonymising: which of the letters do you think is EmmaJane's, and which Catherine's? Who was the impertinent one who earned the extra stroke?<br /><br />For the record, Girl Q was required to rewrite the letter without the offending passage for posting on the school notice board. But you get to see the unredacted version.Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-22584899797563937942010-09-11T22:27:00.006+01:002010-09-12T12:44:32.860+01:00In the wardrobe...My friend <a href="http://notanodalisque.wordpress.com/">Not an Odalisque</a> visited me for a weekend recently. We had a wonderful time. She's in process of <a href="http://notanodalisque.wordpress.com/2010/09/06/what-i-did-in-my-bank-holiday-part-one-anticipation/">writing about it on her blog</a>, far better than I could.<br /><br />She says she came "partly to visit HH, and partly to see his house." So when she'd gone, I did wonder: what impression does it give when the man you're visiting for the weekend turns out to have more canes in his wardrobe than shirts?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWr8hLfJsRiBF9H7bM2IyzR4a00j3vRlQ3nLqgSoTcVxBkAmmX9kw3Y1rHKcrwAdymRUw8fvVfQbKln3bqOjsV5E1Vr_HNSRoY4jyuIpnQROxQrXzrY5AsbR37s_XE3nWYn107dX8uu0Z/s1600/IMG_8834.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWr8hLfJsRiBF9H7bM2IyzR4a00j3vRlQ3nLqgSoTcVxBkAmmX9kw3Y1rHKcrwAdymRUw8fvVfQbKln3bqOjsV5E1Vr_HNSRoY4jyuIpnQROxQrXzrY5AsbR37s_XE3nWYn107dX8uu0Z/s320/IMG_8834.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515771208978002770" /></a><br />19 shirts, 21 canes. I counted.<br /><br />So, what would <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> think?Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-80836390059554946122010-05-11T23:22:00.005+01:002010-05-12T01:56:21.009+01:00Not dead yetSince it's been over 2 months since my last post, I just want to reassure everyone (yes, both of you!) that I'm still alive.<br /><br />I've been feeling a little stretched: happy to spend time with friends, but without the energy to push myself out into the wider world and engage with people I don't know yet. I think I've been running on emotional overdrive since Niki left, and now the engine is running out of steam. So I've been pulling in my horns a bit until my batteries are recharged. [There's nothing like a mixed metaphor!]<br /><br />I'm not short of kinky thoughts, just the energy to craft and hone them. But I'll be back!<br /><br />But in the mean time, let me tell you about one of my longer-term projects. I have always been an admirer of Alan Bell, the photographer behind the early days of <span style="font-style:italic;">Blushes</span> magazine (who also appeared in a few videos, such as the iconic <span style="font-style:italic;">Room 2D</span> from Roue). His particular mastery was to extract expressions of shame and embarrassment from his models, to catch them in pensive moments of anticipation. <br /><br />I don't have that skill yet, but I'd love to acquire it. So my project is to pick a few of his most evocative photos and try to reproduce them: not exactly, but enough to capture the expression and emotions of the model. I plan to post a few of my favourites here, and ask for comments on just what it is that they convey: what was the girl thinking, what was she feeling?<br /><br />Niki and I made a start on this a few years ago, with a set of photos of a reformatory caning in wet punishment shorts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsyZ6NHGL9A0c_18dYZXV2Htj9mdiThyUIPdR7sEY6AwLlIoIKtIEXFNgVCCdeXJZHVHkBkOe8axRA2efgpeEjcS8rDASKVRjM_H8kcsxuc2uQQfeOzo-gdbRjGOyNDtDCVO-ZYULSAQD/s1600/trestle24.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsyZ6NHGL9A0c_18dYZXV2Htj9mdiThyUIPdR7sEY6AwLlIoIKtIEXFNgVCCdeXJZHVHkBkOe8axRA2efgpeEjcS8rDASKVRjM_H8kcsxuc2uQQfeOzo-gdbRjGOyNDtDCVO-ZYULSAQD/s320/trestle24.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470168196543090018" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXH4QmSj1a8MLOFnoWHnhApGraGmvIzFdQE_a7EoaRcDr50sOJBZSaopg6Ghn6xw84WsSDCZilcT6zmhdpDe0UF3Xnuvi3Ac0d7Pjgdf-lgqk9xN5XLwFlVpCnLPr5mvw55YEZihF1oUs/s1600/trestle24-niki.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXH4QmSj1a8MLOFnoWHnhApGraGmvIzFdQE_a7EoaRcDr50sOJBZSaopg6Ghn6xw84WsSDCZilcT6zmhdpDe0UF3Xnuvi3Ac0d7Pjgdf-lgqk9xN5XLwFlVpCnLPr5mvw55YEZihF1oUs/s320/trestle24-niki.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470168206678095570" /></a><br />The top one one is the original <span style="font-style:italic;">Blushes</span> photo, and the bottom one is our recreation. I didn't manage to catch Niki's face in that particular shot, but I love the way the rivulets of water cascade down her legs, pouring into and through the tight shorts.<br /><br />What thoughts are going through her mind as the cold water soaks her shorts, held tight between her legs by a doubled cord? Soon the cane will be gliding over her cheeks, probing and tapping. Soon it will lift up. What will come next? Will the tapping resume, keeping her in suspense? Or will the cane cleave the air with its characteristic swish and cut hard into her waiting bottom?<br /><br />Of course I don't really know which shoots were Alan Bell's. I fancy I know his style, but it's always possible that someone else was responsible for a particular shoot or set. If one of my readers knows better than me, please tell me!<br /><br />A footnote: <span style="font-style:italic;">Blushes</span> had a habit of reusing photo shoots, often with a slightly different set of photos and quite different stories attached. The original of this particular shoot was in <span style="font-style:italic;">Blushes Supplement 2</span>, which I think was published in about March 1985. But the particular photo reproduced above is not in that issue. Some time I must make a compilation of which photosets were repeated in which issues, so that I can collect all the different photos into a coherent set. Yes, I'm that OCD.Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-47762091973867496622010-03-10T14:17:00.003+00:002010-03-10T14:56:35.235+00:00San Francisco Spanking PartyWho's going to the <a href="http://sf-cp.com/">San Francisco Spanking Party</a> that <a href="http://www.zilledefeu.com/">Zille</a> is organising this weekend?<br /><br />I'm very much looking forward to it and would love to hear from people who'll be there. I'm never very good at introducing myself to complete strangers, so it would be good to exchange a message or an email beforehand. If you don't want to comment here, send email to the address in <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035">my profile</a>.<br /><br />I'm aiming for the prize for "furthest traveller" :-)<br /><br />And just for good measure, here are a couple of gratuitous photos of a very appealing girl-pile taken at Shadow Lane a few years ago. Or should that be a pile of very appealing girls?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCzaB3g8BcBN2XeXDTjR339Xgy9dJbVaN3KGvXpfVUvP86_4rBuTB5ex2quci5cnFNoO46K5a9HGF4929gq1wq4IJj2w7xbz1cWzad9mrdEjgLDoVVyFGu9kckZY5qjTPAAGSo6VRUr1FK/s1600-h/sl-2006-0376.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCzaB3g8BcBN2XeXDTjR339Xgy9dJbVaN3KGvXpfVUvP86_4rBuTB5ex2quci5cnFNoO46K5a9HGF4929gq1wq4IJj2w7xbz1cWzad9mrdEjgLDoVVyFGu9kckZY5qjTPAAGSo6VRUr1FK/s320/sl-2006-0376.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447018279872900306" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-kE5qZNHBBYc6-6PZ2Vi3_B88CB44HmvzeVhPsbz70HCUvSqrsuNUC_Z5H3JpQdq0y9LlkDjkKIeDZa9qabOmigEVg3ARDOmFOQiaVYriKDy8SyXq3rooB1J3H2TbHfhb44DxxwMIuSw/s1600-h/sl-2006-0382.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-kE5qZNHBBYc6-6PZ2Vi3_B88CB44HmvzeVhPsbz70HCUvSqrsuNUC_Z5H3JpQdq0y9LlkDjkKIeDZa9qabOmigEVg3ARDOmFOQiaVYriKDy8SyXq3rooB1J3H2TbHfhb44DxxwMIuSw/s320/sl-2006-0382.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447018284943732674" /></a>Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-50307126402075746452010-03-05T22:13:00.003+00:002010-03-05T23:01:45.264+00:00Spanking in dreams<a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com">EmmaJane</a> has just made a fascinating post in which she describes dreams about being spanked.<br /><br />It raises a serious question that I'd love to know the answer to:<blockquote>Do you ever have dreams in which you are actually spanked and feel pain?</blockquote>EmmaJane describes <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2010/03/when-dreams-become-nightmares.html">two dreams</a> in her post: in the first, she is prepared for punishment but wakes up before the spanking starts. From what I've heard, this is the most common experience: the dream is about the situation, the anticipation, the emotions. <br /><br />Even in the second dream that EJ describes, where the spanking does actually start, what makes an impression is the emotional impact, not the physical one. Is this everyone's (every bottom's) experience? I don't think anyone has ever told me about a dream-spanking in which they felt actual pain - and certainly not catharsis.<br /><br />Let's extend this a bit further: if you're a bottom who's interested in things beyond the CP realm, do you experience them in dreams as physically as you would in real life? Or is the dream experience focussed on different aspects?<br /><br />There could be a Ph. D. thesis here. Are any psychologists reading this?Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-38846636750496956292010-02-01T20:13:00.008+00:002010-02-02T09:12:54.152+00:00Fantasizing about realityOne thing I love to do in role-play is to add authentic touches to a scene. Because of that, I spend (waste?) a lot of time reading historical accounts of situations that might provide scene-fodder. I love sites like <a href="http://corpun.com/">corpun.com</a> that document the history of corporal punishment, and (<a href="http://artofpunishment.blogspot.com/2009/12/punishment-in-hoo-union-workhouse-1841.html">as you've seen</a>) I do a lot of my own digging in the archives. I also scour Ebay and the like, looking for authentic uniforms, accessories, insignia. And of course authentic implements.<br /><br />I know that not everyone approves of this. Some people feel it's too close to the bone, perhaps even that it trivialises real suffering. I can see that argument, but I don't agree with it. The scenes I do in role-play may borrow some elements from reality, but I use the parts I find appealing and discard the parts I don't. The resulting scenes aren't the real thing and in playing with them I don't condone the real thing. Even a school caning was pretty unpleasant in reality.<br /><br />Well, that's the principle. But just occasionally there's a news item that's just too perfect, and <a href="http://www.star-telegram.com/local/story/1928138.html">I came across one today</a>. It's about a police officer in Fort Worth, Texas, who caught an 18-year-old girl doing naughty things with her boyfriend in a parked car:<br /><br /><blockquote>A six-member Tarrant County jury convicted Craig Arlen Murrah of official oppression because he mistreated the 18-year-old after ordering her out of her car in Oakhurst Park shortly after 1 a.m. on June 22, 2007.<br /><br />The woman, now 20, testified during the two-day trial that she and her boyfriend were having sex in the car when they saw the lights of a patrol car as it pulled into the parking lot. <br /><br />She tried to get dressed but was still nude from the waist down when Murrah made her get out of the car and put her hands behind her back. That caused her to drop the shirt covering her lower body. Murrah forced her to bend over and spanked her on her naked bottom, she said.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Official oppression?</span> I didn't know that was an offence!<br /><br />But I don't need to add much to turn this into a fantasy. In my version, of course, I am that cop. I recognise the girl as the spoilt daughter of a local politician, who knows just how displeased Daddy will be if she's brought home in a police car. There'll be no way to keep it out of the local paper: her father's "family values" campaign will be in tatters, and her longed-for Caribbean cruise will evaporate in an instant. How much easier to accept the spanking she knows she deserves, right there in the parking lot...<br /><br />Hmm. I may have to photograph this.Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-3728698095942059912010-01-16T12:30:00.001+00:002010-01-16T13:26:30.886+00:00Japanese schoolgirl switched in the snow<a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com">Kami Robertson</a> was here for a few days around New Year. The snow just kept falling, and we thought that a Japanese schoolgirl in the snow might be quite appealing. So we came up with a little photostory...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWkrSBR92omi8PHr1RFlE4J6bKm3CSHMFVheZv7Tj_MN0nTsGb1EkcJvucyeS2ATBxeQHPwaDzX_NUWgpXqsnqNeFTh_CEKZWJcY3Pd-QaEIzpCcqsRRdPzcOzFeQypztf8mYHMK1lsYg-/s1600-h/IMG_6831b.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWkrSBR92omi8PHr1RFlE4J6bKm3CSHMFVheZv7Tj_MN0nTsGb1EkcJvucyeS2ATBxeQHPwaDzX_NUWgpXqsnqNeFTh_CEKZWJcY3Pd-QaEIzpCcqsRRdPzcOzFeQypztf8mYHMK1lsYg-/s320/IMG_6831b.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425624876233728962" /></a><br />Young Haruka is a lucky girl. Her uncle gave her two ponies for her birthday last summer, and she has been having a lot of fun taking care of them, feeding them, making much of them, and occasionally riding them.<br /><br />But now it's winter, and it's not so much fun going out to feed them in the dark evenings. last night she stopped off at a friend's house after school, and she was tired when she got home. She decided they could manage for once.<br /> <br />But overnight there was a big snow storm, and in the morning her ponies did not look happy at all. Haruka's uncle was not pleased when he realised she had left them to fend for themselves. What had she been thinking of? Her poor ponies had had no shelter, no blankets. Their drinking water had been frozen solid, and in the deep snow there was no grass that they could reach to eat.<br /><br />Haruka was horrified by her own thoughtlessness and didn't protest when her uncle insisted that she go out to feed them in only her summer school uniform. If the ponies had spent the night in the cold, without their blankets, she could suffer a little cold while she fed them.<br /><br />But that was not all her uncle had in mind. Once the ponies had been fed and watered, he handed her a knife and sent her to cut a switch from the ash-tree at the edge of the paddock. She knew what that meant, and though her heart sank she knew she deserved it. So she fetched the switch and presented it to him obediently. And obediently she bent over the fence and let him lift her skirt, the winter air chill on her bare skin.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggilkqUtrz2tg2PoiwB9a70gZdVvDxY-nlB90EbEZK2SX_Hq3Sx7IwWlVZbhvY1RrjfvvHIKDHsvuV4Ms-isH2glnqMTcaia8gS6Okz3_hzMKsaYlQ4hWUrP817iZQt79e2rA94fXZrM3k/s1600-h/IMG_6816b.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggilkqUtrz2tg2PoiwB9a70gZdVvDxY-nlB90EbEZK2SX_Hq3Sx7IwWlVZbhvY1RrjfvvHIKDHsvuV4Ms-isH2glnqMTcaia8gS6Okz3_hzMKsaYlQ4hWUrP817iZQt79e2rA94fXZrM3k/s320/IMG_6816b.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425624874953812002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjnBV1IN2STfJ6HCAcXGy1RgO0KwFp_1v-ELDOkOESN1fkXbpnMGD0uiYzDFofBWwD_zZkoPTBdk8I68EIow61WeHfqSmSJ1j0tTpC_7tTQtubHS0A6Jb0QnELzL_42JlCdQyCc63XyqN/s1600-h/IMG_6848b.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjnBV1IN2STfJ6HCAcXGy1RgO0KwFp_1v-ELDOkOESN1fkXbpnMGD0uiYzDFofBWwD_zZkoPTBdk8I68EIow61WeHfqSmSJ1j0tTpC_7tTQtubHS0A6Jb0QnELzL_42JlCdQyCc63XyqN/s320/IMG_6848b.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425624885859314370" /></a> <br />He took his time, gliding the switch up and down. Haruka shivered as she waited. At last he began, flicking the switch down time and time again until Haruka's bottom and thighs were criss-crossed with thin red lines.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3K3wUUBq0HlL7xwV0GZbkAUFimMVdBUKMR7vIjvh9hVgVqPcYPCrJsGwE3jUFIUneROInd0oo_EF3dMO1okkJKDM-cNepDraw0Y2gRgiHazL794854Gzp3BpgWOXKaerq3dr3m08AbX6/s1600-h/IMG_6828b.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3K3wUUBq0HlL7xwV0GZbkAUFimMVdBUKMR7vIjvh9hVgVqPcYPCrJsGwE3jUFIUneROInd0oo_EF3dMO1okkJKDM-cNepDraw0Y2gRgiHazL794854Gzp3BpgWOXKaerq3dr3m08AbX6/s320/IMG_6828b.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425624881419432994" /></a><br />He wasn't brutal with her, but the thin switch bit sharply on her cold flesh. Haruka yelped and squirmed, the fire in her bottom displacing any thought of the chill winter air.<br /><br />It was a very chastened Haruka who was eventually allowed to climb off the fence, rub her bottom, and run inside to warm herself in front of the big log fire.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com/">Haruka</a> has posted <a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com/2010/01/laziness-never-pays-off.html">her own account</a>, with some more pictures.Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-90173906414655869912010-01-11T21:59:00.003+00:002010-01-11T22:16:57.519+00:00A smacked bottom on display in the snowWhat do you do when a little brat throws snowballs at you in a public park? And then, despite all your warnings, takes hold of a tree and shakes it so that snow cascades all over you? Well, if the brat is <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com">EmmaJane</a>, you take her by the ear and lead her to the nearest bench, and there you take down her pants and smack her soundly on the bare bottom.<br /><br />And then, to make sure she understands how cold and unpleasant snow can be, you make her sit bare-bottomed in it until she pleads prettily. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiL0qwAOerHI3qa6DLqrB40n1qJ68LhPWYLlnvUiOADa1tXVHZG6z7H5QE7szLs2Ud5wRggWQ6CdIIXVXQvSnpwivixJ1c0vUbqtWIUrZtggc5XpZOI8IGgTOcpBYX6WHFqnZVmkJzQIL/s1600-h/IMG_6866a.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiL0qwAOerHI3qa6DLqrB40n1qJ68LhPWYLlnvUiOADa1tXVHZG6z7H5QE7szLs2Ud5wRggWQ6CdIIXVXQvSnpwivixJ1c0vUbqtWIUrZtggc5XpZOI8IGgTOcpBYX6WHFqnZVmkJzQIL/s320/IMG_6866a.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425607825929076722" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR33Xua2LTlBtMEk6j-9s5Bt7hXjcsyjTASmNRRvyL_I-tXNw0Ms_Qb3BV3K8gJtyJleB1SMwYbCiYv84MNtbB7bR1F4q7ZniHE8DFsz6YzaapxZz8wUKpYnoDk5hjj9BQV5f5x-TqZVMf/s1600-h/IMG_6868a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR33Xua2LTlBtMEk6j-9s5Bt7hXjcsyjTASmNRRvyL_I-tXNw0Ms_Qb3BV3K8gJtyJleB1SMwYbCiYv84MNtbB7bR1F4q7ZniHE8DFsz6YzaapxZz8wUKpYnoDk5hjj9BQV5f5x-TqZVMf/s320/IMG_6868a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425607833047932114" /></a><br />Finally, you let her up, her red bottom still glowing from the spanking...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9azMBbU7fqXxwlq5i3eowRGIGj5zZ0vIhSICCUmq4z_kZ4EcHyr6JdStgTBzQ6EeQUKdfI8kZpXSU8vGlU44nCWFn5oFDBosXlLFzZQcUa1KJoY4bd_3qPAeTvVQwFBQmXc_yj4CGbLy-/s1600-h/IMG_6871a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9azMBbU7fqXxwlq5i3eowRGIGj5zZ0vIhSICCUmq4z_kZ4EcHyr6JdStgTBzQ6EeQUKdfI8kZpXSU8vGlU44nCWFn5oFDBosXlLFzZQcUa1KJoY4bd_3qPAeTvVQwFBQmXc_yj4CGbLy-/s320/IMG_6871a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425607834513769554" /></a><br />...and put her on display over a convenient gate to reflect on her misbehaviour while you admire the imprint in the snow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2rygpin9VxMpPkNvKtb2WeY2J7-8WOnyODUSl7Np2Rbokz7JvcZVt5EMfO4WnJtb4SbA4jCT99Lz8nSg02UdXhOh8Y9PUK7JnjfqlrZx7RdST1sDg5RwYIjrcFEkfhYt-2kYRZRHzFXH/s1600-h/IMG_6858c.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2rygpin9VxMpPkNvKtb2WeY2J7-8WOnyODUSl7Np2Rbokz7JvcZVt5EMfO4WnJtb4SbA4jCT99Lz8nSg02UdXhOh8Y9PUK7JnjfqlrZx7RdST1sDg5RwYIjrcFEkfhYt-2kYRZRHzFXH/s320/IMG_6858c.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425607825541053298" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49_O2SwPblHI-KCgWl62BQGjQi-Qeo2FCVWa9xLraavZ85WvAhHVeiQOzMVE43m71Qtf-hI0to-g11_-h_9bi9_f5cdBawx8eEk0Qtezit_SkU-ImjHeuhEpU4bxmM2oXriFIR4SfRCvH/s1600-h/IMG_6872a.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49_O2SwPblHI-KCgWl62BQGjQi-Qeo2FCVWa9xLraavZ85WvAhHVeiQOzMVE43m71Qtf-hI0to-g11_-h_9bi9_f5cdBawx8eEk0Qtezit_SkU-ImjHeuhEpU4bxmM2oXriFIR4SfRCvH/s320/IMG_6872a.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425609534187940098" /></a><br /><br />More details of how this happened <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2010/01/getting-my-mojo-back.html">EmmaJane's blog</a>...Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-3280590641429343422010-01-07T21:00:00.004+00:002010-01-07T21:11:39.221+00:00A Victorian SchoolI do love book catalogues. Here's a description I just found:<br /><blockquote> <span style="font-weight:bold;">Regulations for the Catholic Girls' School at Ugbrook</span><br /><br />Chudleigh: printed by J.E. Searle. 1841. 8vo., (2) + 8 + (2) pp., original pale green card covers. A fine copy. First (and only?) edition: very rare. OCLC, COPAC & NSTC together locate copies only at British Library and Emory University, Atlanta (Pitts Theological Library). There is also a copy at Georgetown University. <br /><br />A nice example of a prospectus for a private girls' school in early Victorian Devon. The school was established by Lord Clifford of Chudleigh for the education of the female children of the tenants, servants, or labourers on his estate, or tradesmen in the employ of his family at Ugbrook.<br /><br />The Regulations include rules for corporal punishment (children must 'submit willingly'). Of the 16 Regulations, no fewer than 7 are to do with punishments for faults, the emphasis being on 'disgrace', 'obstinacy', 'penance', 'correction', and so forth. Orphan girls were each to be allocated to 'a respectable married woman of known mild character in the neighbourhood', who would act <span style="font-style:italic;">in loco parentis</span>.</blockquote><br />At £200 or so for 8 pages, it seems a bit steep. But still.Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-70412206391239021852010-01-01T13:10:00.010+00:002010-01-02T13:52:58.993+00:00New Year caning in the snow<a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com">Kami Robertson</a> is visiting me for New Year. We were originally planning to go to Allentown for the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6HhCvQx8VE">Tar Barrels parade</a>, but it snowed quite heavily during the evening even down here in the valley and the Met Office were promising heavier falls overnight, so heading up into the hills seemed a bad idea.<br /> <br />But as midnight approached the sky cleared and the fresh snow glowed under a nearly full moon. So we headed out into the countryside, armed with a cane and a camera. And just down the road we found a nicely placed gate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9HiOV2RhUY4sQIsD_CX6IXtuJ2avlddhW9G31T06VK5rjxvj5-1kD8-pADkThgmmyLRivjdrfswG-WyYkkGypABG5o_w7J93wb06IvtwN94JJQSjKVcFYgUVpYhBZHheu9_o0zoEN_JM/s1600-h/newyearcaning00.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9HiOV2RhUY4sQIsD_CX6IXtuJ2avlddhW9G31T06VK5rjxvj5-1kD8-pADkThgmmyLRivjdrfswG-WyYkkGypABG5o_w7J93wb06IvtwN94JJQSjKVcFYgUVpYhBZHheu9_o0zoEN_JM/s320/newyearcaning00.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421760477362746066" /></a><br />As the hour approached Kami took down her jeans and climbed onto the gate. And as the clocks struck twelve I gave her a smart dozen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaCzID-m-Ubr4tOETii5_bzyxlm9XuF5QjPg6PbalfzlI6O9oA0dWTI68wpicWF-TjM_9WHKNGoNXbKWcmSTQPIozYHtb_PjH5Sn_Pu-v1Nd7g37VzXn0y3ak5kINPJ6PLZIEhyphenhyphen-g7ayW/s1600-h/newyearcaning02.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaCzID-m-Ubr4tOETii5_bzyxlm9XuF5QjPg6PbalfzlI6O9oA0dWTI68wpicWF-TjM_9WHKNGoNXbKWcmSTQPIozYHtb_PjH5Sn_Pu-v1Nd7g37VzXn0y3ak5kINPJ6PLZIEhyphenhyphen-g7ayW/s320/newyearcaning02.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421761247277640210" /></a><br />The caning lasted quite a bit longer than the clocks took to strike, because the young lady wriggled so much.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKad2UHKmI2ufqBb6eqRYo81ABsN2_P0OSfHoqW7M71idQGGYeipHf8vutqwGkipiJfai9HFzkMZWohonzL_bhV7JKXavs6szSoQ18U5HUYN33MOZR8DnCxVPGuAvsd3gZi2q6VCTB706C/s1600-h/newyearcaning04.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKad2UHKmI2ufqBb6eqRYo81ABsN2_P0OSfHoqW7M71idQGGYeipHf8vutqwGkipiJfai9HFzkMZWohonzL_bhV7JKXavs6szSoQ18U5HUYN33MOZR8DnCxVPGuAvsd3gZi2q6VCTB706C/s320/newyearcaning04.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421761449400021906" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa9COq_ZaFOxF7iEyg7KOPZPN31tT9uUhfajzGxOoS_bXTn0IIpt7kFKmyeVJ3KPLnvBfy0VY4ne64QDGTbFvgj503Ugxv3aRPqBEixGHVo46SU16xScGpfOIMeRX7QuRlb4jAK06NE3y/s1600-h/newyearcaning05.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa9COq_ZaFOxF7iEyg7KOPZPN31tT9uUhfajzGxOoS_bXTn0IIpt7kFKmyeVJ3KPLnvBfy0VY4ne64QDGTbFvgj503Ugxv3aRPqBEixGHVo46SU16xScGpfOIMeRX7QuRlb4jAK06NE3y/s320/newyearcaning05.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421950971367463170" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvTF2M40Bq0_RBA9GUmR3YWGePiOaw7smqDg9LU0_2yNyJz8etj-CUyZ1zBL6LtOabSbWs-hauchHNGtvU_M__ZljszXVD3S7YrbDPsIUnfgJUlRmTOnYB7OdDL30RMw6L0eE0I6uz4Jc/s1600-h/newyearcaning06.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvTF2M40Bq0_RBA9GUmR3YWGePiOaw7smqDg9LU0_2yNyJz8etj-CUyZ1zBL6LtOabSbWs-hauchHNGtvU_M__ZljszXVD3S7YrbDPsIUnfgJUlRmTOnYB7OdDL30RMw6L0eE0I6uz4Jc/s320/newyearcaning06.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421761514825279314" /></a><br />And as all good-girl canings should, it ended with a hug:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSkecHHpYB_v4BCFJOeC6ZmMI8Ut9EIR3YPmZalIhXCXKWDdMQ10oqfo0AlJN1ZvMNviuq5gbuAvzfaKxYZ58-apo3qqU51J2hYIUe3jsoNfAA68vXlK9lrgausv-bw2VVVyBf4Ughu7e/s1600-h/newyearcaning08.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSkecHHpYB_v4BCFJOeC6ZmMI8Ut9EIR3YPmZalIhXCXKWDdMQ10oqfo0AlJN1ZvMNviuq5gbuAvzfaKxYZ58-apo3qqU51J2hYIUe3jsoNfAA68vXlK9lrgausv-bw2VVVyBf4Ughu7e/s320/newyearcaning08.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421761753950289506" /></a><br />There was actually much more snow than shows in the photos, but I had nowhere to put the flash but on the ground and a lot of the snow is in shadow.<br /><br />Here's a picture of Kami's bottom half an hour afterwards, back in the warm and after the gentle application of some soothing cream. The marks would be a little low for some girls, but for Kami this is just right. The group of three strokes on top of one another in the crease probably account for some of the wriggling. She's very tender there this morning.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKOoIzwwvp3zDH7-9dIcSrSTJF8rL9S_pvAIS3BGqCOAXzQlgf9ZDcw6-ogCn7af-2XLuQVysRUEl7-wt7Kjt11WuSdsXPu4-f159xzDP3Q0Kk8dYJ1jLQY6IMH80azprAu65iLS1pcBvB/s1600-h/newyearcaning09.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKOoIzwwvp3zDH7-9dIcSrSTJF8rL9S_pvAIS3BGqCOAXzQlgf9ZDcw6-ogCn7af-2XLuQVysRUEl7-wt7Kjt11WuSdsXPu4-f159xzDP3Q0Kk8dYJ1jLQY6IMH80azprAu65iLS1pcBvB/s320/newyearcaning09.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421761845425588210" /></a><br />Kami says that the caning was <span style="font-style:italic;">much</span> more painful than even a normal "cold caning": if you want to know more about that, read <a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com/2010/01/how-to-welocme-new-year.html">Kami's own account</a> - with a different set of pictures of the event.<br /><br />Happy New Year!Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-61461563259986345642009-12-26T10:50:00.002+00:002009-12-26T11:31:24.827+00:00Punishment in the Hoo Union Workhouse, 1841I've recently unearthed a rich vein of scene fodder in the British Library's collection of 19th-century periodicals. <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/">Emma Jane</a> recently made <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/12/afterward-to-workhouse-flogging.html">two wonderful posts</a> about a scene we did involving James Miles, master of the Hoo Union workhouse in Kent. The backstory for the scene was real: in 1841, Miles was examined before the Rochester magistrates for "indecently flogging girl inmates". <span style="font-style:italic;">The Satirist</span> commented in January of that year:<br /><blockquote>The excuse offered by the wretched master of the Hoo union workhouse for flogging [girls] - a charge now under strict investigation - is that they are more <span style="font-style:italic;">tender</span> than youthful culprits of the other sex, and that, consequently, there is more "feeling" about them...</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">John Bull</span> reported the proceedings in more detail:<br /><blockquote>We do not extract the following <span style="font-style:italic;">morceau</span> from the examination of the master of some Union Bastille, to show the barbarities which are practised in those dens, but, on the contrary, to exhibit the "finery" of language adopted by the unfortunate victims of oppression in describing their sufferings :-<br /><blockquote>Eliza Screese examined - <span style="font-style:italic;">I was punished several times by the master, who beat me with a birch rod on my bare back. I had all my things off but my "change" and my flannel petticoat,and that was tied round my waist every time I was flogged. By my "change" I mean my chemise. I had nothing else on except shoes and stockings. I had pulled off my other things by order of the defendant, who then flogged me with a birch rod on my naked back. He made me pull the chemise sleeve off, and tie my clothes round my waist, so that I was naked to my waist. I was beaten on the shoulders, and as low down as the strings of my petticoat. I was beaten just the same way more than once. The master once pulled up my clothes, and beat me on the bare person. I was beaten each time in the women's hall. I laid myself on the table. Fanny Roberts and Mrs. Low held me by the hands. I saw other persons flogged in the same was as I was. The defendant's wife is matron, but I was never corrected by her when I was naughty.</span></blockquote><br />The delicacy on the part of a pauper in calling a shift a "change" and eventually a "chemise," is perhaps one of the most curious signs of the times that has yet been exhibited.</blockquote><br />The master was sent for trial at the Assizes. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Age</span> commented in February:<br /><blockquote>We are glad to find that the Justices of the Peace for that district of the County of Kent, in which the Hoo Union is situated, have met, and come to the determination of prosecuting MILES, the Master of the Workhouse, who was proved to have been guilty of such atrocious and disgusting conduct towards the unfortunate charity girls under his control. We do not wish to prejudge the case ;but we cannot help saying, that if the Jury do not pay the closest attention to the evidence, and fearlessly give their verdict, a precedent may be set which will work with awful results throughout England.</blockquote><br />But in April <span style="font-style:italic;">The Satirist</span> reported again:<br /><blockquote>Miles, the flogging master of the Hoo Union, has had a lucky escape for the want of a prosecutor. The Poor-law commissioners decline to prosecute, as is but natural ; they have no very strong objection to the flogging system, provided it can be carried on without scandal. They consequently left the affair to take its chance. The Government sees no necessity for interference ; and the county justices, who first took the matter up, now abandon it altogether. All this clearly shows that there is no innate repugnance to the practice of flogging in workhouses, if means are found to keep the "sufferers" quiet. Miles will learn to be prudent from the past. He will indulge his appetite for flogging more discreetly in future. Flogging, so as not to be found out, will be the great point with such masters of workhouses as Mr. Miles.</blockquote><br />And this provides the background for <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/12/afterward-to-workhouse-flogging.html">our scene</a>. Eliza is back in the workhouse, and James Miles and the Poor-law Commissioner are following the paper's exhortation. They will make sure young Eliza regrets causing them such inconvenience. This time there will be no witnesses, though no doubt the other girls will hear what has happened and will learn the value of silence...Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-68152582035169590902009-09-28T21:07:00.002+01:002009-09-29T08:07:58.948+01:00I'm just back from a weekend with Haron and Abel and many old friends. It was Haron's birthday (well, nearly) and Abel had orchestrated a conspiracy to surprise her. This involved tempting her away for 24 hours while a few of us set up the house with all the deckings of a surprise school-themed birthday party: Food, drink, glittery decorations and a most magnificent CAKE, procured by Abel and adorned with a book inscribed "School Rules" and a crook-handled cane. Eventually Haron arrived, most satisfactorily amazed and bemused. Many birthday spankings followed, and lots of other scenes.<br /><br />Towards the end, EmmaJane (much beaten already), whispered in my ear that she wanted to do a joint scene with me and Abel. "Do you have anything in particular in mind?" I asked. "No," she said. "Surprise me."<br /><br />So this is what we came up with.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Cast:</span><br /><br />Maria, lady's maid to Lady Fortescue: <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/09/error-of-her-ways.html">EmmaJane</a><br />Sir Henry Fortescue: HH<br />Mr. Jenkins, the estate manager: <a href="http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog/">Abel</a><br /><br />Domestic staff are in short supply these days, and it was a great relief when Jenkins found Maria. At last the graceless Betty could return to her destined role of chambermaid. And though I had heard of the scandal with the under-butler at her previous place, Maria did have experience as a lady's maid. I decided to give her a second chance, and for a year all seemed well.<br /><br />Well, that is, until Maria failed to appear last Sunday morning, and the skivvy sent to rouse her found her room empty and her valise gone. Gone too were the silver cruets and candlesticks from the dining-room table: in better times the butler would have locked them safely away before retiring, but in these difficult days his post was vacant too. So it fell to the estate manager, Mr. Jenkins, to raise the hue and cry. And the girl did not get far: he found her by the coach-road, where no doubt some accomplice would have come to whisk her away. And there in her valise was the missing silverware.<br /><br />In the mean time, though, her ladyship had discovered that an emerald brooch was gone, missing from its place in her jewellery box. A valuable heirloom, worn only for fine occasions.<br /><br />Mr. Jenkins and I conferred and decided on a course of action. The girl would not be easy to replace and the house would be unmanageable without her. Perhaps, even with this lapse, we could make something of her. Once she understood the consequences of such behaviour, she would not offend again. But the emeralds must be returned.<br /><br />So it was that I stood in my study as Jenkins brought the miscreant in, the great mahogany desk cleared of its clutter. He put her in front of me, her clothes dirty and wet from her trek through the woods, and I took up the questioning.<br /><br /> "Well, Maria. Is this how you repay us for taking you in, for giving you a post when no-one else would have you?"<br /><br />She tried to look down and away, but I took her chin and forced her face towards me. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you, girl. You could end up in the House of Correction for this, and for a good long time, too. Unless we decide to punish you ourselves, of course."<br /><br />Her eyes took in the room and the rack of canes by my side. She knew we had the evidence to commit her, and the magistrates would impose any sentence we wished. Hard labour and whippings were the order of the day.<br /><br />"But the first thing we want, my girl, is the emeralds. Where are Lady Fortescue's emeralds?"<br /><br />Her eyes widened at that, and she shook her head. "I don't know about the emeralds, Sir. I did take the silver, and I'm sorry for it, but I didn't take the emeralds."<br /><br />Jenkins and I had considered this possibility, and we knew what we would do. "Very well," I said, "so you have concealed them. But you won't deceive us that easily. You will have to be searched. Take off your clothes, girl. All of them."<br /><br />She baulked at that. Her hands came up as if to cover herslf, even though she was fully clothed. And then she twisted away, and would have run if Jenkins had not caught her by the shoulders. And then a sharp smack rang out; I didn't even see it, but a handprint appeared across her left cheek.<br /><br />She understood then. Hesitatingly, she started to remove her clothing, piece by piece. Jenkins took each item from her, checked it over, and folded it carefully upon the sideboard. Twice she hesitated, but proceeded when it became clear that Jenkins would happily strip her himself if would not do it. Eventually she stood before us in nothing but her drawers, blushing and trying to cover her breasts with her hands. <br /><br />"Hands away, girl. We need to see that you're not hiding anything. And I said <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> your clothes."<br /><br />And so at last the drawers came off too. She bent to slide them down, and with Jenkins behind her and me in front, there wasn't much she could do to cover herself. Not from all directions at once.<br /><br />Jenkins and I exchanged glances. "Well, we don't seem to have found them yet, Mr. Jenkins. I'm afraid you will have to check inside. Over the desk, please, Maria."<br /><br />She fought us again at that, but what can a slight girl do against two well-built men? Soon we had her in place. I held her hands over her head to stretch her out while Jenkins spread her legs and carried out the inspection. The first inspection, anyway. Though he seemed thorough, the girl wriggled and squirmed enough that he might have missed something. So we exchanged places and I repeated the procedure, to make quite sure.<br /><br />Yet there was nothing. "Did you hide them somewhere, Maria? Somewhere you could come back for them?" She wouldn't answer. "A touch of the cane, I think, Mr. Jenkins. That should loosen her tongue."<br /><br />The next few minutes do not bear detailed description. The slashing cane, the writhing bottom, the milk-white skin painted with scarlet lines until all the gaps were filled. And the yelps that turned to pleas as the cane rose and fell. I do not know how many strokes he gave her, but certainly dozen upon dozen.<br /><br />Yet still she denied it. Still she would not tell us where she had hidden the jewels. I was ready to believe her, but then I lifted her head, to look in her eyes to make sure. And I caught an expression on her face that told a different story. No, she was holding out on us. And, though she had quieted now, this was not to be borne. <br /><br />So I took my place and laid the cane again along its well-worn path. This time there was nowhere unmarked for it to land: stripes fell over stripes and weals rose where tramlines overlapped. I caned her fast and hard, until eventually her shoulders shook and her cries turned to sobs. <br /><br />We let her cry for a while, and then lifted her to her feet. She no longer thought to cover herself, and there was no longer any resistance on her tear-streaked face. <br /><br />“Well, Mr. Jenkins. I believe she may have learnt her lesson. But there is one more place that the emeralds might be. Lock her away for a few days, and have her well purged each night: we shall soon know if she has swallowed them.”Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-38311083085081910312009-09-13T21:36:00.005+01:002009-09-13T22:09:24.475+01:00The wooden ponyMostly cross-posted from a guest post on Kami Robertson's blog, <a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com/">On the Way of Exploration</a>, but with different pictures.<br /><br />Kami is in faraway lands where her only Internet access is in public places, so she asked me to post some pictures on her blog to keep it warm. But when I had, I found I'd used only about half the pictures I liked best. So I thought I'd post the rest here. I'm afraid the text is almost the same, though.<br /><br />When Kami comes to visit it tends to be a pretty intense weekend. But you can't play all the time, so if the weather's decent we tend to go out and look for photo opportunities. This particular day, we found a path through the woods that didn't look too frequented and came to an old wooden gate festooned with barbed wire. Kami's eye's lit up: "Can I strip off and climb on that?", she asked. "Yes, certainly", I answered. "But I'll decide how long you stay there."<br /><br />Well, that's how it started. Kami likes a challenge, so she stripped off and climbed gingerly atop the rail. To start with it wasn't too uncomfortable. Kami perched there, her toes just reaching the ground at full stretch. To begin with I let her stabilise herself with her hands behind her on the rail.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi695nvSMfJ_Gul8OZuWOGaSe9rGMxinaf0cO4WHZB6ozOoWJNdDOIwy9yuu7MWy5xGY-hSVrWItPVZxH4CoNdYaY6J31CCzWUtURTIS4VVQ2mTmFsmxAchm5xVLm0E4KLi0z1d3hxCbAlp/s1600-h/fenceh01.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi695nvSMfJ_Gul8OZuWOGaSe9rGMxinaf0cO4WHZB6ozOoWJNdDOIwy9yuu7MWy5xGY-hSVrWItPVZxH4CoNdYaY6J31CCzWUtURTIS4VVQ2mTmFsmxAchm5xVLm0E4KLi0z1d3hxCbAlp/s320/fenceh01.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381056748478488898" /></a><br />But after a while the pressure started to build. She tried moving her hands in front, but that just made it worse.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IarNNW7Vh8u10yKOuiDeogdK8gBRn-qds_mtWvixexfucnapkey292HWT-GdzBr3Y8LAEIDXA-KZdYES6OSNMlzHIF_7_Kyx2Pd5b1ttRQmrgh8b772ASHbzb-eq3csC3e0sf2aPLZqj/s1600-h/fenceh06.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IarNNW7Vh8u10yKOuiDeogdK8gBRn-qds_mtWvixexfucnapkey292HWT-GdzBr3Y8LAEIDXA-KZdYES6OSNMlzHIF_7_Kyx2Pd5b1ttRQmrgh8b772ASHbzb-eq3csC3e0sf2aPLZqj/s320/fenceh06.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381056761816614530" /></a><br /><br />After a few minutes of this, Kami was biting her lip and trying not to wriggle. But it was time to up the ante: "Feet off the ground, please. And hands on your head." <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEL01MvgA3LxTbCgguEtEEM_5JUTkCq9sBCmYoqgoqj2Q7k7IfA9c1yAO4IgglwcThbZuo0JynzImg1LypB757Sb-k_ZaC2n2-24y1qM_3HGvNNncVIeonLVrvnEXJqSdi8AP4M9k54WCM/s1600-h/fenceh07.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEL01MvgA3LxTbCgguEtEEM_5JUTkCq9sBCmYoqgoqj2Q7k7IfA9c1yAO4IgglwcThbZuo0JynzImg1LypB757Sb-k_ZaC2n2-24y1qM_3HGvNNncVIeonLVrvnEXJqSdi8AP4M9k54WCM/s320/fenceh07.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381056765423256210" /></a><br />This was harder. She tried very hard, but couldn't help wriggling and rocking from side to side. Here's the moment when she lost it:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXxgHD7k_5XmCqTD_KrX3cCyX4yw149_WyftnsbD3BcdrZf1lw-VqaSHsyKSNsSA0ZPsCek9xdxDJJanV_o2pn_QhMdIW85kbcyf_7I7FawM8OyY-jFa_zNRrEC3wXM4t6zdyUNXDtjpE/s1600-h/fencek12.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXxgHD7k_5XmCqTD_KrX3cCyX4yw149_WyftnsbD3BcdrZf1lw-VqaSHsyKSNsSA0ZPsCek9xdxDJJanV_o2pn_QhMdIW85kbcyf_7I7FawM8OyY-jFa_zNRrEC3wXM4t6zdyUNXDtjpE/s320/fencek12.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381040092678598818" /></a><br />But she's a good girl when she wants to be. And something about this made her want to be. So I didn't have to say a thing for her to straighten up, lift her legs, and put her hands back where they belonged.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4twdfg7W01xc5lUYxXsfWfwjtoRTbmV9Or8AEvf5Fj6jzvCN38zIKHPfgjPeVX-UR7KZLKeFZBEhdEnODiv3IeU5RgmTxaFjOdBg_4KofTBEBMbVPI-Ph1rCsPG4YSIpcdx071R30smB0/s1600-h/fenceh09.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4twdfg7W01xc5lUYxXsfWfwjtoRTbmV9Or8AEvf5Fj6jzvCN38zIKHPfgjPeVX-UR7KZLKeFZBEhdEnODiv3IeU5RgmTxaFjOdBg_4KofTBEBMbVPI-Ph1rCsPG4YSIpcdx071R30smB0/s320/fenceh09.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381056775583589586" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDtZWyH8bXe0Kxhp44UEhkXuyH7nmWDN08zEpIw9tWmSHw8n-kUwS8kVXzSTA1GwWzROXWBWe-FjO_aW4a81zAuFxis6c5dkCgJRtw4uLs2VdDvCPY2Cau2IfKFKBdqF2w12uib1RYbOM/s1600-h/fenceh11.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDtZWyH8bXe0Kxhp44UEhkXuyH7nmWDN08zEpIw9tWmSHw8n-kUwS8kVXzSTA1GwWzROXWBWe-FjO_aW4a81zAuFxis6c5dkCgJRtw4uLs2VdDvCPY2Cau2IfKFKBdqF2w12uib1RYbOM/s320/fenceh11.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381057672596736946" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lt4PE5XlXNYrXd6-ah2qXN7QAHLNbqouKfVmZhbObhlmvulvKr8tRl8yYBwWYaoUK2F2FIc2_t8D6tjU5ARpTPgpqrpmZsmDFx-aXAQ6zTSIDBwJeCiQC99HelxppYnKIm7bhVlWxf39/s1600-h/fenceh13.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lt4PE5XlXNYrXd6-ah2qXN7QAHLNbqouKfVmZhbObhlmvulvKr8tRl8yYBwWYaoUK2F2FIc2_t8D6tjU5ARpTPgpqrpmZsmDFx-aXAQ6zTSIDBwJeCiQC99HelxppYnKIm7bhVlWxf39/s320/fenceh13.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381062002885604274" /></a><br /><br />And there she stayed until I told her I was proud of her.<br /><br />HHHenry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-16733298508413851062009-09-06T10:48:00.009+01:002009-09-06T12:48:55.931+01:00Names and identitiesCross-posted from <a href="http://nikiflynn.com/notblog">Niki Flynn's Not-Blog</a> (with different pictures)<br /><br />I’ve been musing on the difference between names and identities. For quite a long time now, I’ve been known as “Niki Flynn’s partner”, and people know me on the Web as HH. But people who actually meet me usually call me Cameron, and that’s the name Niki used for me in Dances with Werewolves. But Cameron and HH flow into one another: they’re basically the same person.<br /><br />But now Niki has admitted that she is also <a href="http://fionalocke.net/">Fiona Locke</a>, who wrote <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0352340797?ie=UTF8&tag=fionalockenet-21&linkCode=as2&camp=1634&creative=6738&creativeASIN=0352340797">Over the Knee</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bare-Fiona-Locke/dp/0352345152">On the Bare</a>. In that case, who is Peter Markworthy, who is Angie’s partner in <span style="font-style:italic;">Over the Knee</span>? Am I Peter too?<br /><br />Well, yes and no. Fiona has always described <span style="font-style:italic;">Over the Knee</span> as semiautobiographical, and so it is. Not the personal details – they’re changed and fictionalised. And many of the scenes have been “improved”: they’re described as they might have been, liberally laced with hot ideas that came afterwards. But the core personalities are definitely the two of us, and lots of the “top dialogue” came from me. <br /><br />We’ve always been role-players, and created characters for our role-plays. In role-play we become our characters, at least for the duration of a scene. The best role-plays are the ones where we get lost in our roles. And the best role-play characters come back, and form the basis of a series of scenes. Characters can develop, and it gets quite easy to slip into their skins. Peter is one of those.<br /><br />But what does that mean, exactly? That there’s a lot of me in Peter, or that there’s a lot of Peter in me? Sometimes I’m not sure myself.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.englishvice.net/">englishvice.net</a> Web site is a good example. Long before <span style="font-style:italic;">Over the Knee</span>, Fiona and I liked to take outdoor spanking photos. Nothing too elaborate: just a camera perched on a convenient rock or tree and set to auto-timer. But when Fiona decided to use that part of “us” in <span style="font-style:italic;">OTK</span>, we realised that some people might actually type the name into their browser. Wouldn’t it be fun if it actually existed? So we created <br /><br /><a href="http://www.englishvice.net/">englishvice.net: a celebration of spanking <span style="font-style:italic;">al fresco</span></a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqRVh5xtt2vZNmsBJKhd2LwmQE41GZM1vX_SWhXBx3rZUkZ4AbBvVvaW5roWoAImwCju7hyphenhyphenrvdSrOZf-42c5vsruSQTsGsEVhywQaYsLZDK4x_DVm3-ATPQQtWeufvsQSJOoumKFIcxnP/s1600-h/Warkworth1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; ;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqRVh5xtt2vZNmsBJKhd2LwmQE41GZM1vX_SWhXBx3rZUkZ4AbBvVvaW5roWoAImwCju7hyphenhyphenrvdSrOZf-42c5vsruSQTsGsEVhywQaYsLZDK4x_DVm3-ATPQQtWeufvsQSJOoumKFIcxnP/s320/Warkworth1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378319160958514434" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzqlX3zv3AGX2tI4DkwOmL5kP5ObIWVxFMaGmcn-iFzMSnNm1kQiE8iFcQ8Flbd5EB_RwX68qh8IjjWeIfbiyUMSukat2BGSV-qUEaytSTYeVCfh5dmWua8SwiF0kfdNW3qk4R9GgJTSG/s1600-h/garden-gods07.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzqlX3zv3AGX2tI4DkwOmL5kP5ObIWVxFMaGmcn-iFzMSnNm1kQiE8iFcQ8Flbd5EB_RwX68qh8IjjWeIfbiyUMSukat2BGSV-qUEaytSTYeVCfh5dmWua8SwiF0kfdNW3qk4R9GgJTSG/s320/garden-gods07.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378294583250357266" /></a><br /> <br />By then, though, Niki had a Web presence, and people were starting to recognise her at parties. So I spent a very long time trawling through photos, trying to find ones that didn’t look identifiably like Niki. It seems I was remarkably successful. It was only a few weeks ago, when Niki decided to “come out” as Fiona, that <a href="http://nikiflynn.com/notblog/?p=1657">she posted a few shots taken during the same road trip on her NotBlog</a>, hoping that someone would spot the similarities. As <a href="http://mysteryminx.blogspot.com/2009/07/fiona-locke.html">MysteryMinx did</a>.<br /><br />But when you have a Web site, you get email. And it wasn’t long before I started getting email addressed to Peter at the EnglishVice site. When that happened, there wasn’t much choice but to reply as Peter. That was something I hadn’t foreseen: I had to <span style="font-style:italic;">be</span> Peter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5lTUl0pAvkbTNathjThkNQrkKqZpO7xH9d8qWV-vDR9tB4L2Khnv-j1q50cIRBnDKyOAtcUykbE4ZgxfG-8zb8UsczrNE5u3r8AVBzaU8vB0JFPAHToAqYVVLwJ8r2itb4YRsOuRhv2M/s1600-h/otk-cover.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 193px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5lTUl0pAvkbTNathjThkNQrkKqZpO7xH9d8qWV-vDR9tB4L2Khnv-j1q50cIRBnDKyOAtcUykbE4ZgxfG-8zb8UsczrNE5u3r8AVBzaU8vB0JFPAHToAqYVVLwJ8r2itb4YRsOuRhv2M/s320/otk-cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378295642914513666" /></a>Of course the cover of <span style="font-style:italic;">Over the Knee</span> does show Fiona getting her bottom warmed and demonstrating Niki’s trademark kick. We always thought that was rather a giveaway, but as far as we know only one person has spotted it unprompted. A few years ago, at a Florida Moonshine party, a new friend came up to Niki and held out a copy of <span style="font-style:italic;">Over the Knee</span>: “Would you sign this for me?”, he asked. Niki tried to look blank, but he wasn’t having it, so we took him away into a corner and explained our secret. A little later we asked him how he’d known: “Well, I don’t suppose many other people would spot it. But I’ve made something of a study of your bottom…” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYPUMo5YFedk-RSOdyKd-yJCa26selS2iVhslnMCsdV8KQgghj3Vbt1nZVRW8ogtmOURo5GYqC2VP_4-dS8Km3KXlIZPX04LvZ-1z91q1KcnIDSuM1kvXK8OhOK5oPIF5wf0JIlHkCGm4/s1600-h/NSI054-VN035.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYPUMo5YFedk-RSOdyKd-yJCa26selS2iVhslnMCsdV8KQgghj3Vbt1nZVRW8ogtmOURo5GYqC2VP_4-dS8Km3KXlIZPX04LvZ-1z91q1KcnIDSuM1kvXK8OhOK5oPIF5wf0JIlHkCGm4/s320/NSI054-VN035.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378302583758501746" /></a><br /><a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/08/i-told-you-i-wasnt-fiona-locke.html">Emma Jane</a> spotted it too: she read <span style="font-style:italic;">Over the Knee</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Dances with Werewolves</span> side-by-side, and noticed similarities in the writing. And then she drew parallels between the silhouettes of me in some of the pictures on <a href="http://fetlife.com/users/149814">my FetLife profile</a> and Peter’s on EnglishVice.<br /><br />But it does seem that unrecognisability is one of Niki’s skills. Or perhaps it’s Fiona’s.Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917281711763536480.post-39023033011220101682009-09-01T00:25:00.000+01:002009-09-01T00:56:08.460+01:00The responsibilities of a top<meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJ%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p>I’ve had a blogger profile for several months now, and an empty blog waiting for me to be inspired to post. I thought I’d find an opportunity to write about who I am, what drives me, why I like to have a girl across my knees for a spanking. But I’ve just spent a weekend with <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/">EmmaJane</a>, and she’s made <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/08/standing-in-way-of-control.html">a very interesting post </a>about one aspect of it. Not about the hot stuff, really: more about the difficult parts of This Thing We Do. So I think I’m going to dive in. Why talk about the easy parts, after all? The realities are much more interesting.</p><p>Well, to be fair, EmmaJane did make <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/08/backseat-driver.html">a post about the hot stuff</a>. And I'm sure there will be more about that. There certainly <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/08/but-i-didnt-mean-to-say-it.html">has been in the past</a>. But I’m feeling thoughtful tonight.
<br /></p><p>EmmaJane wrote:</p><blockquote>We played later just before bed and <a href="http://apainfulawakening.blogspot.com/2009/05/introducing-caoilfhionn.html">Caoilfhionn</a> was getting a very hard slippering from her housmaster, with the very scary, hurts so much it makes me and <a href="http://kamirobertson.blogspot.com/2009/07/slippered-just-because.html">Kami cry</a>, slipper. I got 12 to start with. And they hurt so badly. At 2 I couldn't see how I could get to 12. And at 11 I lost it completely. I screamed and jumped up in pure rage, literally stamping my feet in anger.
<br />
<br />HH gave me a minute then bent me back over for the 12th. And that was it, we were done. But I couldn't relax. The anger had upset me. One minute I was heading for deep headspace and the next I was out of scene throwing a tantrum. And it wasn't fair on HH.
<br />
<br />So I asked for more…</blockquote>
<br />And later:
<br /><blockquote>As we drove to the airport HH and I chatted about it and started a gentle argument over it. He claims the lack of headspace is his fault as a top. That it's his responsibility to create the situation where I can get there. And apply the right amount of pain, discipline and intimidation to make it work.
<br />
<br />I in turn argued that no matter how great a top is that ultimately the bottom or sub has be open to him/her. And I told him that with all due respect I thought it was patronising for him to think he had so much power over me.</blockquote> <p>I’ve thought about this a lot in the last day or two. Of course EmmaJane is right that in general the bottom offers the top control and he takes what is offered. In that sense he can't take what isn't given - at least within the bounds of consent.
<br />
<br />But it's not really as simple as that. Most bottoms <i>want</i> to be able to give in, to surrender to the scene [though that isn't quite the same as surrendering to the top – resistance has its place in role-pay <i>(grin)</i>]. But I'm sure that EmmaJane did <i style="">want</i> to give in this weekend: it was the fact that she couldn’t that frustrated her, and it was the frustration that led to anger - with herself as much as with me, though anger is not a finely focussed tool.
<br />
<br />I do think that part of the skill of a good top is to facilitate letting go: to make the bottom feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to read her well enough to stop at the right time: not too soon, not too late.
<br />
<br />That doesn't mean carrying on until she says I've gone too far. I don’t usually play with a safeword in the classic sense: something like “oranges” or “aardvark” that will stop the scene. But I know a genuine appeal when I hear it, and I’ll always pay attention if a girl uses my name. But safewords aren’t a solution anyway: in CP play, very few girls call a halt because it hurts too much. And keeping enough control to safeword is a big obstacle to letting go. Yes, the bottom <i>can</i> stop it. But no responsible top can/should assume that she <i>will</i> stop it, so I believe that "deciding when to stop" is primarily the top's responsibility.
<br />
<br />So where exactly do the responsibilities lie? EmmaJane thinks it was her job to tell me if I went too far, and that it’s not my fault if she didn’t. I think I should have read her better during the bedtime slippering, and understood better that “I need more” meant "enough to fix the disconnect" rather than "enough to be cathartic".
<br />
<br />But I'm not beating myself up over it: EmmaJane and I trust each other enough to talk through such things and understand them. [In fact we’ve already done that.] But this thing we do is all about the interactions between two people. We take risks, because risks give the hottest scenes. But taking risks means that scenes don't always go exactly to plan, and aren't always exactly what we hoped. When that happens, the causes are usually shared. EmmaJane says it was "because she couldn't let go", but I claim my share of the responsibility.
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<br />But still: it was a great weekend, with many hot scenes. And we learnt a lot about each other, which we will put to good use in the future. There is no substitute for communication.</p> Henry Higginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11351558169910277035noreply@blogger.com18