The Spanking Writers

Thank you, Your Majesty.

Really. I mean, I know I’m not the biggest fan of the monarchy. But us mere ‘subjects’ can now tour your Royal Yacht, Britannia, moored in Edinburgh. Below decks is an old handwritten notice regulating the sailors’ lives.

Item ten inevitably caught our eyes: “Any transgression of these rules will be punished severely.” How nice. Not ‘all’, presuming that transgressions would occur. But ‘any’: in the very unlikely event…

Then the audio-commentary in the dining room described how the place settings had to be just so. Everything laid out precisely. To the centimetre. And how the settings would be measured with a ruler before dinner. Guess what Haron’s going to have to do the next time we have pervy friends for dinner? Guess what’s gonna happen to her with the ruler for any inaccuracies???

And then there was Your Majesty’s souvenir shop. Resisting the temptation to purchase the pseudo-naval memorabilia (there being a distinct absence of cat o’nine tails), we found ourselves in front of a leather fly swat. A very nice leather fly swat indeed.

My mum arrived: “Oh, they come in really handy in the summer. Do you need one?” I assented, as Haron shook her head frantically. What a kind mother: the implement was whisked out of my hands into her shopping basket.

I’m pretty confident (despite some suspicions about my father’s probably-unfulfilled kinky inclinations, of which more anon) that her definition of ‘handiness’ is different to mine….Three hours later, Haron was bent tightly over the armchair back in our hotel to appreciate her mother-in-law’s generosity. Most enjoyable. And at least any Buddhists readers can rest assured that no flies will be harmed with our new swatter.

Later in the evening, over dinner, my father asked Haron how girls were punished at school in Ukraine. He seemed quite disappointed that they were merely made to stand in the corner. I was quite disappointed that she didn’t invent birchings in front of the school, or solitary canings in Headmasters’ offices.

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I love waking up with Haron and whispering fantasies into her sleepy ears. This morning, I imagined the whippings across the road in Edinburgh castle: the magistrate, sentencing a girl to a ‘private whipping’.

Everyone assumes that a ‘private whipping’ was a lesser sentence that one in public. I imagined the magistrate deciding that he would administer the punishment himself. In private. Deep in the bowels of the castle’s prison wing. Where no-one could hear a girl scream, and no-one would bat an eyelid even if they did.

Where a gentleman could make a girl strip, then whip her to his heart’s content. And then punish her in more intimate ways…

He might even decide that to prevent her falling back into a life of crime, he’d take her back to his country estate. Clean her up. Keep a close eye on her…

Aren’t lazy Saturday mornings great?

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Couldn’t help but giggle at the description of a tawse on eBay, from one of my favourite sellers there. He’s describing a school tawse which came from a London school, and which dates from the 1930s. It’s ‘17″ long x 1 1/4 x 1/8″ thick’ and he bought it from someone who thought it came from Highgate School.

The section that made me laugh: “on the reverse someone has written “bastard” in ink”.

Cue stern, outraged, booming voice: “Who was responsible for this?”

Silence amongst the assembled masses, pupils staring down at their desks. The author sitting still as a statue, maintaining an air of innocence. Some glancing around, seeking out the guilty party. Some blushing despite their lack of involvement.

“I shall thrash each of you unless the culprit owns up.”

Silence. But furious glances now being thrown around the room.

I wonder what would have happened. A mass thrashing?

Or a sheepish student owning up? My goodness, what a whacking that would have been…

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OK, so this isn’t spanking-related, but there was just the right implied degree of consensual non-consensuality for me to enjoy it – and it’s very funny anyway!

Just catching up on the remainder of last Sunday’s newspapers. (Yes, I know it’s Thursday; it’s been a busy week). And there’s a lovely anecdote by Christa D’Souza in the Sunday Times. She’s picturing about a forthcoming holiday with her husband – their first without their kids: “Hmmm, here we are, in a room with a big bed and a mini-bar full of chilled champagne and prettily packed condoms.”

She was talking about this to a girlfriend, who explained: “Oh God, and I bet he’ll bring one of those rabbit things too.”

Cue husband re-appearing, wine glass in hand: “Rabbit? Forget rabbit. I’m bringing the whole of Watership Down.”

Lovely comment!

Reminds me of the old childhood joke: “You’ve read the book, heard the song, seen the movie – now eat the pie.” I am just NOT going there by extending this train of thought…

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If you go down to the woods today…

…you’ll find that spring is sprung. So Haron was dragged off into the local forest at lunchtime, scissors in hand, to cut the first switches of the year from the birch trees. It took about eight of them to make a robust birch rod (a couple of firm rods to give it backbone, the rest lighter and more whippy), neatly trimmed then tied firmly with string.

She was Violet. Her parents were working abroad, so she’d been sent to stay with her father’s best friend (now a schoolmaster) for the Easter holiday. Her behaviour since she’d arrived had been typical of stroppy 15-year-old: at turns argumentative and sulky. Breaking a vase, on purpose, was the final straw.

We talked: I was disappointed. It was a shame, I said, that such a lovely young girl was growing up so defiant; I reflected on how sweet she’d been when she’d been little. I asked how her father dealt with her when she misbehaved (knowing all too well that the slipper was his implement of choice); there was even a confession of being caned at school. I used the birch on students in my house at school, I explained, and that was how I was going to deal with her now – with her father’s full permission.

Her trousers and panties came down, and up she went over the pillows on the middle of the bed. And then she was birched. Slowly, firmly. A birching breaks her very easily: by the third or fourth stripe, the young lady’s insubordination is long gone.

I’d awarded her ten strokes. If the girl starts to struggle by the fourth, “six of the best” allows her solace from the fact that her whipping is almost complete: with ten, on the other hand, her punishment has hardly started. A meek, apologetic Violet struggled her way through the flogging: yelping, struggling, shamed. Brave, very brave.

We talked before the final blow: she assured me that she would be the proverbial “good girl” in future. And then the last stroke was laid, and Violet was climbing up from the bed, wincing as she pulled up her clothing, obediently returning the birch to its home in my study.

And then Haron was back, and we could cuddle…

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The usual batch of spanking-influenced newspaper clippings, starting with the ‘men’ section in ‘times2’. (I quote literally, the lower case and the lack of a space before the ‘2’ presumably being a ridiculously inept attempt on the part of the distinguished paper to appeal to younger readers).

The heading: “Six of the best.” (Clichéd, I know, but still pings onto my kinky radar every time). The sub-heading: “Men’s belts.” (How appropriate, I thought. “Six of the best school canes” would be preferable, but beggars can’t….). Amongst their selection: a “Distressed leather belt” from a company called Reiss. (How sweet. The poor belt is upset at the thought of inflicting pain….)

I have to say that my collection of belts far surpasses any of their recommendations. There’s one made from harness leather by a Scottish company that used make tawses; there’s the horse-hobbling belt I picked up in Australia recently. But The Times feature still amused me. I’ll post some photos in due course.

And then there was a predictable batch of notes about this evening’s new TV series “That’ll Teach ‘Em.” For those of you unfamiliar with the concept (equals anyone from outside the UK, all kinky Brits having been glued to their screens during the two previous series), the programme makers take a group of modern-day students and put them into an old-fashioned school environment for a few weeks.

This series is going to work especially well for me, as the youngsters are separated into single-sex classes and not allowed to come within six inches (!) of the opposite gender. No boys to worry about in my fantasies about the girls’ classes, then. (Not that that stopped me writing a story inspired by the first series, which you’ll find on our stories site).

The Standard advises that “misbehaviour attracts 1950s-style punishments”, and The Independent pictures a mortar-board-clad teacher flexing a stick. Sadly, I fear the programme itself can only be a let-down….

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“The Times”, 22 January 2004: “Truancy rocks”.

This piece is from my archive, and it’s interesting because the topic really is unrelated to spanking: they talk about the pull of truancy when school is boring. Thus, a huge picture of a teacher in the act of caning a boy splashed above the article is only there because somebody in the Times made the connection: “Truancy = Caning; let’s put a caning picture up here, with a caption “Though justice: would a return to the cane put an end to the truanting carreers of modern pupils?”

There are a couple of mentions in the article as well, as two writers recall their bunking-off days.

From Alan Copps:

We were escorted back to school, straight to the office of the headmaster, who, adjusting his dog-collar, selected his cane, ordered trousers down and delivered a merciless ’six of the best.

And from Burhan Wazir:

Our parent, of course, eventually saw to it that we both received a sharp doze of Aunt Polly-style justice.

The best part, of course, is that the teacher in the picture is actually wielding a birch.

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The headline in Time Out, the London listings magazine, made me stop in my tracks: “The First Cut is the Deepest”.

I’m sure songwriter Cat Stevens wasn’t writing about canings. But in our little world, of course, it’s the final ‘cut’ that’s traditionally the most severe.

I’m guessing, though, that for a lass being caned for the very first time, it would indeed be the first stroke that went deepest. Deepest into her psyche: no longer an always-good-girl but now a has-been-caned-pupil; now shamed. Deepest in terms of the surprise, horror at the intensity of the pain. Can any subsequent cut ever compare?

The uber-cool 80s German dance act Propaganda (where are they now???) were also confused, albeit I found their song Duel incredibly thought-provoking at the time: “The first cut won’t hurt at all. The second only makes you wonder. The third will have you on your knees.” What on earth were they using as an implement?

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If you have any taste in books (i.e. love “Harry Potter”) you know that 1 April is the birthday of Fred and George Weasley, A.K.A. “The Twins Who Got Whipped”.

Here’s a quote, on the consequences of getting your little brother make an Unbreakable Vow:

Fred and George tried to get me to make [a Vow] when I was about five. I nearly did, too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when Dad found us. He went mental,’ said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. ‘Only time I’ve ever seen Dad as angry as Mum. Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since.

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