The Spanking Writers

Inspired by Haron’s end-of-University caning, I had naughty, naughty dreams last night as my young lady slept next to me, face down, wincing every time my mischievous hands reached out for her bottom…

A Housemaster at a prestigious girls’ school had a son at University, and said son had formed a relationship with one of his father’s sixth-formers.

Said young lady was part of a group of the girls who found themselves before the Housemaster for the whack; her strokes – whilst painful – were administered noticeably more gently than those inflicted on her contemporaries.

Her punished friends considered this unfair. Word of their grievance percolated up to the Headmaster, who therefore re-administered the girl’s caning later that evening.

It’s not unknown for us to re-enact such kinky dreams when we whisper them to each other in the morning. Yet today, Haron’s safe. After all, last night’s caning was to be her last dose of discipline as a student. Her backside is therefore an implement-free zone – for another five hours and thirteen minutes, at least, until the clock strikes midnight and she formally leaves academia. And then she’s mine. My own. My preciousssssssss…

At 4pm yesterday afternoon I submitted my PhD thesis. At 4pm today I was setting out plates for celebratory dinner, anticipating the caning I was going to get to mark my last evening as a student.

Two of our friends were coming over, one of whom happened to be the first person to cane me after I arrived in England for grad school. Abel thought it was fitting that should also deliver the last strokes of my student life. At first I was appalled by this idea: Mr Friend canes hard, and this dinner was supposed to be a *celebration*, for God’s sake. However, as I cleared piles of my papers off every surface in the house, and set out place mats and shiny cutlery, I gradually began to see the ultimate fairness of this suggestion. I believe in marking milestones in an appropriate way.* A caning to round off fifteen years of full-time education (and I do count the primary school) would give me the sense of closure. I still dreaded it, but I was beginning to accept it.

Abel cooked a beautiful dinner; the four of us polished off two bottles of wine and got started on champaign and cherry liquors, and I started to think that maybe the caning wouldn’t happen today after all – nobody mentioned it, and we were sitting on the sofa, chatting about pervy things (to come in future blog posts, I’m sure) when Mr Friend’s wife (who has expressed a wish to be known as K.) leaned close and whispered: “I want to cane you.” If either of the men initiated it, I might make a great show of protest and fear, but here I was disarmed: she wasn’t suggesting that I somehow deserved it – just that she want to cane me, and who would refuse a beautiful girl who wants to paint tramlines on your bottom? I didn’t.

I went upstairs and fetched a cane. Abel and Mr Friend were happy to wait for their turn. K squeezed my shoulder in encouragement, and guided me over the arm of the sofa, where Abel could hold my hands and stroke my hair to help me get through it.

K is excellent in warming you up with the cane: sharp taps over my jeans which bit, but didn’t burn me. An occasional harder slash made me kick up my foot, but I tried to be stoic. Something about being caned by people who are nice to me throughout, brings out in me a need to be brave for them.** The strength of the cuts grew; even my jeans were beginning to heat up. K pressed her hands against my bottom, and only then did I feel the ridges rising on my flesh; she ran her nails across them, and I felt like screaming. But I wanted to be brave, too. Abel stroked the side of my face, and K said she wanted to see how much damage she was doing. I pushed down my jeans and settled down over the arm of the couch again.

K leaned to me, put her lips against my ear and whispered: “Can you take 6 hard ones?”

I wanted to take six hard strokes from her, even though I knew that when she was finished, Abel would take up the cane, and after him Mr Friend would step up to deliver his share. I braced myself, digging my nails into the upholstery.

They hurt, every one of them, and I couldn’t keep count for anything, though I could probably tell you where each stroke landed. Yet, every rush of pain made me stronger. By the time those six were over, I knew I could take my licks from the men.

It was Abel’s turn. K took his place on the sofa, holding my hands. I don’t think there was an unmarked spot on my bottom by this time, so every time the cane touched my skin – even when Abel was addressing it with light taps – I felt it as a separate, stingy stroke. Again, I lost count. And again, I tried my best to be brave. I failed only once, when instead of delivering the stroke he slashed the cane through the air; if K wasn’t holding my hands, I would have leapt up halfway to the ceiling. Abel gave me his six, alternating reassurance with painful squeezes of my bottom. K offered me my glass of champaign while the cane changed hands.*** “You’re such a good girl,” she whispered. I squeezed her hands in gratitude.

Finally, Mr Friend came to deliver his strokes. I’m sure he would have liked me to be apprehensive, but I was flying. Despite struggling to cope with each stroke – I couldn’t help kicking out and yelping any more – I needed this last caning of my student life to be hard. I had been 21 when I started grad school; I had been frightened and often sad, and, because people often told me that I was wise for my age, I had thought I was done growing up. At 26, I know better.**** I often wish I had a way to tell that sad girl far away from home that it would all turn out well; that at the end of that rainbow there were rewards she couldn’t imagine. Tonight we had the pain in common. There’s no going back to the girl I used to be (and thank God for that), but there was closure for me, which meant more than I could have imagined when I was setting out the dinner plates a few hours before.

When it was done, I had a hug and a kiss from all three, and I pulled my jeans back on. I couldn’t – and still can’t – comprehend not being a student any more. It’s true, though: it’s done, I’m done. There is still a defense to go through before I’m allowed to graduate, but in about ten minutes I forever lose my claim to discounted movie tickets, and that means it’s real: it’s finished.

I mean, the tax man says I’m an adult. The tax man and about 35 cane strokes make for a very convincing argument whenever I’m tempted to think otherwise.

——————————–
* You should see what a big deal I make out of my birthday
** Whereas if a top shows a tiniest bit of meanness, I kick and thrash around, and generally show zero intent to cooperate.
*** It was my first sip of alcohol while bending over. I should do it again; it’s quite nice.
**** Not being a virgin any more also helps.

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A recent post discussed the history of Lord Williams’s school. The site also includes an extract from the school rules of 1965; by then, “the cane was rarely used”, replaced instead by the following options:
- Extra duties in School House
- Handwriting tests with the copying of extracts.
- Essay writing – approved titles only
- Reporting at various times in different clothes – smartly
- Gating – boarders only
- Early bed-time and getting-up
- Running
- Cleaning of corridors etc.
- Gardening
- Rolling (the lawn and cricket field)
- Detentions
- Half-Term detention
- End of Term detention
- Send to H.M
- Removal of privileges
- Public works.

I’m guessing that “Send to H.M.” might explain the “rarely” in the phrase “the cane was rarely used.”

Browsing Hansard (the official record of UK parliamentary proceedings) last night, as one does, I uncovered an interesting debate from 1998 about corporal punishment in schools. I’ll post more once I’ve had a chance to pull out the juicy highlights – the transcript of the debate is some 14,000 words long!

One phrase, though, sparked a kinky bedtime conversation with Haron last night, what with her being a lawyer. Much of the debate had focused around human rights legislation; Baroness Warnock then commented that: “I am not much enamoured of the concept of human rights.”

My mind wandered… Their Lordships were debating abolition from the standpoint of the pupils: of course, it would infringe their human rights were they to be caned.

But what, I asked, about the human rights of the teachers? I pictured the test case that would be taken before the courts. A schoolmaster with a group of misbehaving young ladies, who are supposed to be studying in silence for some test. One flings a heavy textbook across the classroom, missing her target and clattering across the teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom. The book catches him a glancing blow; the red ink he’d been using to mark exams floods across his suit. Pray, what of his human rights?

The case would proceed, of course, to the European Court. Learned lawyers would debate at length and at cost. The judges would make their pronouncement: where two sets of rights conflict in this way, they would of course defer to the gentleman in the position of authority.

Meanwhile, such cases taking not a little time to be resolved, the young lady would have escaped to the relative safety of a good University. Its Vice Chancellor would have followed the case with interest. On hearing of the judicial decision, the culprit would be invited before him. He’d reach for the university’s rules and regulations.

“When you entered the University, you went through a formal process called Matriculation. In it, you confirmed that there were no outstanding issues with your former place of education that might prevent you from taking your place here. I now find that to be untrue.”

“Please, sir…”

“Whilst, strictly speaking, I should send you down immediately, there is another option. I have spoken to your former Headmaster at length this morning, and we believe that we have found an acceptable solution.”

She wouldn’t sleep that night before catching the early-morning train, dressed in her smart interview suit. She’d avoid the eyes of the other passengers lest they recognise her from the now-dated photograph of her in school uniform, clipped from an old house photo and used in so many of that morning’s newspapers to illustrate the reports of the case.

Read the rest of this entry »

News of scholastic misbehaviour reaches us from the Eastern Cape, via a recent article in Dispatch. One can imagine that the young ladies concerned might find themselves sitting rather uncomfortably once the matters in question have been dealt with…

A VIOLENT spat over school fees brought a rural Transkei school to a standstill – with a gymslip brigade of 23 school girls arrested. The girls – some as young as 14 – spent Women’s Day in holding cells following what the Mbizana school principal said was a violent protest on the school premises.

The Madikizela Senior Secondary School schoolgirls were arrested together with three schoolboys in clashes with the police that left one policeman injured. One student, who did not want to be named, said police were called in after students boycotted classes to demand answers from the school principal and staff about school funds and management….

Other grievances included allegations that caning was still a norm at the school.

The principal, Mbulelo Stonga, said…, “I’m very disappointed with them because they are obedient. I think something is behind them because they are obedient children.” He would not confirm or deny whether teachers caned pupils, saying no-one had filed a complaint about corporal punishment with the authorities.

About 200 schoolchildren in uniforms quietly demonstrated outside the court in support of their schoolmates. The youths face charges of malicious damage to property, assault with intent to commit grievous bodily harm and crimen injuria. Magistrate Fezile Mzengana released them all on a warning on Thursday, and the case was postponed to September 27 for further investigation.

We’ll keep an eye out for updates after tomorrow’s hearing!

We caught an interesting letter in yesterday’s “Independent on Sunday”:

I suggest we reinstate men’s right to smack their wives. If a wife refuses to obey her husband’s orders, smacking her would be a short, sharp way of making her learn. – Elizabeth Hojlund

Yes, there is context to this in what the national press has been discussing, and it is ironic, but I think it just looks nice on its own.

Thanks to the good folks of the “Old Thamensians Association” for publishing the an online history of their old school (variously known over the centuries as Lord Williams’s, Lord Williams’s Grammar School and Thame Grammar). It contains more than a few entries to keep the likes of us interested..

Take 1872:

The Grammar School closed following the disastrous Headmastership of Dr T.B Fookes, a man of ‘ungovernable temper.’ He had been appointed in 1841 and was a man of a violent manner, who seemed to spend most of his time thrashing and expelling boys, playing the violin, and growing potatoes in the School’s playground.

I’m guessing it was the potato-growing that proved to be the final straw.

Still, the school quickly re-opened. By 1881, a certain George Plummer was Headmaster, although in 1888: “Rumours at School suggested that Plummer might be Jack the Ripper.” I can imagine how the originators of said rumour were dealt with!

The 1901 population census returns for the school are fascinating. Alfred Shaw was by then Head; other residents included Sarah Davies, aged 25, the cook. The two housemaids were Alice Heath, 19, and May Webb (17). And then there was Maud, the 16-year-old kitchenmaid. Is it stretching my historical imagination too far to wonder whether servants were subject to the same disciplinary measures as the pupils?

I also loved the account of the school inspection regime, from 1919:

Occasionally, the Area Inspector visited. Dr Shaw merely introduced him to each master, and then marshalled him into his house for a quiet drink and a polite goodbye.’

In 1924, “Each form room had its ’stars and stripes’ board: on this were recorded stars for outstanding work and stripes for bad work, and disorder stripes for bad behaviour. Those who got two of these were then rewarded with two strokes of the cane.”

More to follow!

I feel like addressing a conference. Not just any conference, you understand, but the ever-so-eminent-sounding 42nd International Congress on Medieval Studies, from 10-13 May 2007 at Western Michigan University.

The sub-title explains why: ‘Capital and Corporal Punishment in Anglo-Saxon England’. I could focus on the interesting stuff, and play truant for the other half of the sessions.

I’ve just missed the 15 September deadline for the call for papers, but perhaps I could sweet talk the organiser (who’s at Cornell) into letting me submit late:

We are looking for papers that deal with the various forms of, concerns with, and issues surrounding both corporal and capital punishment in the Anglo-Saxon period. Papers may address secular, ecclesiastical or combined interests. Legal, historical, and literary treatments are all welcome.

They want twenty-minute presentations, but I’d rather drag Haron along for a practical workshop. After-dinner entertainment, maybe?

I wonder if they’ll publish an anthology of the papers?

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