The Spanking Writers

An interesting book find, “Three hundred years of education in Campbeltown” by William Crossan (Kintyre Civic Society, 2003). The sub-title is “Looking back, looking forward”. Needless to say, the “looking back” is of greater interest for the likes of us.

In the mid-18th century, the local grammar school appointed John Hastie, formerly of George Watson’s School in Edinburgh, as its new Rector:

Hastie found the school to be in a poor way. The pupils he described as having been ‘indulged in a most uncommon degree of Licentiousness’ and therefore ‘ferocious and rebellious’. This he set about to change, and successfully for he was commended for raising the standard of work in the school. His methods, however, were so severe that there were complains about them to the [school] Council, which admonished him to: “be more moderate in his Chastisements and employ a taws in place of beating his tended Pupils with wooden Squares”.

(I know a fair few young ladies today whose hatred of the paddle is such that they would probably concur with this recommendation).

Eventually, the “severity of his treatment of pupils” led to Hastie’s dismissal. He appealed, and the case ended up in the House of Lords in 1772. His counsel, the famous James Boswell, recorded in his diary that

‘the charge is, that he used immoderate and cruel correction. Correction, in itself, is not cruel; children, being not reasonable, can be governed only by fear’.

One of his successors also deserves a mention here. Zachary Ross, Rector in the late 1870s, kept a log recording the efficacy of his methods:

Several rather nomadic pupils have gained a clear perception of the value of punctuality and the criminality of truantism by a liberal supply of the strap. The present attendance and regularity are the most examplary in the school.

Over on The Punishment Book Mija has just blogged about snapping at Pablo at the middle of taking stuff she’d baked to a party. I’m sure, it was a very bad thing to do. Mija got the hairbrush for it, poor thing.

I couldn’t help thinking that if cooking-related crankiness was a universally acknowledged spanking offence, Abel wouldn’t be able to sit down, like ever.

I bet he’s glad that I’m not interested in spanking him, other than to test the implements…

We were in Scotland recently, visiting a dear friend. Whilst investigating places to visit, I noticed a flyer advertising the following attraction:

www.scottishowlcentre.tk

I like the idea of a “howl centre”. The owls turned out to be pretty impressive, too.

Haron’s howling came later that afternoon, as she was upended for a bare-bottomed, open-air, OTK spanking on the Mull of Kintyre. I think I’m always going to giggle in future whenever I hear the relevant Paul McCartney song.

Sometimes vanity leads to alarming results.

Hopefully, the number will rise once we’ve finally moved all our stories to the new site, which has so far taken two years more than I’d thought it would…

P.S. Abel is feeling smug. When he took that screenshot, it was the first time he knew how to do something technical – and I didn’t.

We got mightily startled while reading the funniest blog, Overheard in the Office:

Title: “…And You Can See In This Graph Here That Worker Output Is Strongly Correlated to Stern (But Loving) Whippings.”

Boss cleaning office: Oh, look. I found my whip.

Fun place, NYC…

I’m not sure that our “Perverting Reality” category can properly be used to describe a scene idea sparked by last night’s repeated episode of sci-fi series “Doctor Who” on the BBC. After all, anyone who classes the programme as ‘reality’ needs either medical assistance or tickets to the next fans’ convention. And I don’t need either, before I hear any snide remarks…

Anyway…. The show featured a werewolf trying to kill Queen Victoria, in a spooky Scottish country mansion. (Where on earth is this going, I sense you wondering? Queen Victoria spanking the Doctor’s scantily-clad young assistant Rose, over her regal knee? That wasn’t the idea that occured to me at the time, but now I think of it…).

Early in the episode, Rose is trying to choose a dress. She flings open a wardrobe, to find a terrified maid cowering in the corner. My mind immediately transported said maid to another Victorian country house, still hiding away, terrified of the whipping she was due to receive from the butler for breaking valuable porcelain. Much commotion, as the staff hunted high and low for her.

The lord of the house was disturbed by the noise: “When you find her, bring her to me.” And so it was that, not long after, the trembling girl was dragged into the great hall. Like most servants, she would never have been spoken to by the master. Now he was asking her name, and explaining calmly why Meissen porcelain needs to be handled with such care, and asking why she ran and hid.

She was almost too nervous to speak, her words when they came quiet and hesitant: “Because I didn’t want to be punished, sir.”

“And causing all of this disturbance makes you *less* likely to be flogged?”

“No, sir.”

“You strike me as a good girl. But such behaviour in this household has inevitable consequences. You will be whipped.” He turned to the butler. “Please go and fetch your crop: I would like to observe the punishment.”

–

I did enjoy the rest of the episode last night. But my mind really was elsewhere

Angus McVicar reminisces in his memoir “Heather in My Ears (More Confessions of a Minister’s Son)”:

If we were caught fighting, Mr. James Inglis Morton, the schoolmaster, gave us the strap, and between one thing and another we had to endure a fair amount of bodily harm. We seldom discussed wounds and bruises with our parents, for the simple reason that my father would have applied the back of a hair-brush to our behinds if he’d known about their origin.

This is only page 2, my friends. What a way to start a book.

Me. With my reputation. Running an event in a former school?

Had the organisers of a session I ran at work today known of my extra-curricula interests, I doubt they would have booked the team into a recently-converted school building that now operates as a small conference centre.

Did I really tell one of the female delegates that, “If you don’t behave I’ll send you to the headmaster’s study”?

Did I honestly question another: “I hope I didn’t see you smoking in the playground during break?”

Lest anyone accuse me of gender bias in the workplace. I did scold one of the male participants for coming back into the building through the staff entrance, not via the “Boys” door.

They hire the place out for private functions, apparently. I wonder if they kept the old furniture? Or the canes? Haron called into the venue at the end of the day, “to help me pack up”: sadly, there were too many staff around for me to thrash her.

Now, who’s for some lovely new writing in the spanking genre? Abel, the tireless surfer that he is, has discovered Copper’s Quiet Triumphs, which includes a fantastically hot, mostly real-life vignette about young Copper listening to her friend getting the paddle, while she is waiting for her turn outside the principal’s office.

Here’s a little taste of her writing:

In my agitation I seem to have become possessed of superhuman senses. I can practically see Mr. H. leaning against his desk with one hand in his pocket, and C. standing in front of him, her eyes downcast in a contrition that’s entirely fictitious. I can certainly hear him talking, and he must have a master’s degree in scolding, because the words filtering through the wooden door are making me weak in the knees. I know he’s holding that blasted paddle and tapping it on his thigh as he lectures, and I almost jump when I hear his muffled voice directing her to bend over the desk.

I resist the urge to cover my backside with my hands; it’s already burning in anticipation, but I know Mrs. K. is watching me, and I’ve got to maintain that last scrap of futile teenage dignity, so I just study my shoes as I hear the swish and crack of the paddle, once, twice, three times, and then a pause for a couple of pointed questions and a gasp of, “yes, sir,” from C. before it lands again, four, five, six times.

We are instant fans.

Bloglines comes to life most Sunday afternoons, as pervs worldwide use their days off to publish their thoughts. I picture the scene should all of the bloggers to whose feeds (kinky and otherwise) I subscribe be gathered in the same room.

Snatched conversations everywhere:

Cute girl:         “Please, sir, would you spank me?”

Older man:    ”Why? You young pervert: I’m not into that sort of thing! I’m just here because I’m the guy who writes Dilbert.”

Some couples would stare lovingly into each other’s eyes throughout; others would quickly be wrapped around new friends. Quite a few of the young ladies would be selling services of one sort or another. There’d presumably be at least one sad old bloke in the corner, not getting nearly so much attention as he usually does when he’s a gorgeous twenty-year-old lass online.