The Spanking Writers

There’s an piece in yesterday’s Times about the head of St Paul’s school. Written by two journalists, the article begins thus:

Not for the first time in either of our lives, we are keen to get out of the head teacher’s office.

I can’t help shuddering in sympathy. I know what they mean, I really do.
The article goes on to describe the Head’s campaign to go back to the policies the school had when it was founded nearly 500 years ago. He says:

‘What we are primarily doing is deciding to turn the clock back to 1509.’

What he means is that he wants the school to be able to sponsor the education of poor, but bright kids, which is what it had been founded for. But it’s not the image I get when thinking about schools turning their clocks back.

Somehow, my images involve lengths of rattan with crooked handles.

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I missed what sounds like a rather fascinating Radio 4 programme last week. According to The Observer, “Selling the Old School Tie” reported on British public schools such as Harrow and Dulwich College…

…setting up in Beijing and Shanghai, where there is a keen market for boaters and Blighty.

Despite the BBC’s own caption for the story (”Flogging the public school experience to the Chinese”), I’m left wondering quite how traditional an experience they recreate in such foreign climes. I’m guessing that authenticity may have been sacrificed to an extent, but it won’t stop me speculating…

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A remarkably detailed spanking dream last night, inspired by my lovely new cane and an even lovelier new friend!

Said friend – “one of us”, you must understand – had come to stay with us. (I’d been typing a note to her with dates for just such a visit immediately before going to bed; the cane’s hanging next to my desk. Oh how strange the sleepy sub-conscious can be!). We’d just finished eating dinner – a dinner throughout which she and Haron had misbehaved; a stern final warning had been issued, but to no avail. Whether something got broken or spilt I can’t tell you, but the switch flicked: two giggling girls were suddenly still, silent.

“Go to your rooms.”

Serious, worried now as they walked upstairs.

I let them wait. Gave them time to contemplate. Knew that each of my belated footsteps on the stairs would make their heart beat a little faster.

To the study, first, to pick up the cane. Malacca; incredibly flexible; incredibly effective. Then I opened the door to the spare room. Our friend stood up, biting her lip, eyeing the cane. “I shall deal with you in a few minutes. Put on your pyjamas and get ready for bed.”

Next I headed into the main bedroom, where Haron was waiting. She’s often quite contrary when she knows a spanking is in store. Quick-witted, as if her arguments might find a chink in the case for the prosecution.

Not tonight.

I scolded. At length. Knew that the tone of my voice would carry to the next room, if not the words themselves.

Twelve strokes. Hard. Hard enough for a brave girl to struggle, for the tears to flow.

Knew that the sound of the strokes would carry to the next room too. That someone there would be counting, Haron’s tally inevitably her own.

And then hugged my tearful girl; told her to get into bed.

I headed along the corridor. Discussed a girl’s misbehaviour. Considered how it had fallen short of the standards that I would expect. Explained to a girl that she was now to be punished: not some play spanking, but for real. Watched the tears well up as I told her to bend over and touch her toes. Pulled down her pyjama bottoms.

Twelve strokes. Hard. Hard enough for a brave girl to struggle, for the tears to flow.

Knew that the sound of the strokes would carry to the next room too. That someone there would be counting, recalling her own thrashing, feeling her own stripes, willing her friend through.

I held her afterwards; let her snuggle close. Comforted, re-assured.

Here endeth the dream. I wonder when she’ll be able to come to stay?!

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The pictures that come with this post are not our thing, but man, this is funny:

I don’t advocate slavery based on race or religion, except maybe for scientologists, they need to be deprogrammed anyway.

But surely after spending all this money invading Iraq and Afganistan, making puppet states in South America, and supporting Alabama we should have taken slaves. That’s the pay off for war. Thats the prize. Without it, all there is left, is oil and falafels.

No, if this goverment wants war, it need to provide us slaves. Thats only fair, right and noble. It says so in the Bible, the Koran, the Torah, Raped and Ravaged Cheerleader and other holy books.

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So, there’s a new St. Trinian’s movie on the way. Most “Spanking Writers” readers will doubtless share our affection for the series, described as “nostalgic hymns to a golden age of juvenile delinquency”.

I’ve just drafted my job application:

English gentleman, experienced in many of the more old-fashioned educational techniques necessary for the film. Open to offers for acting (housemaster or similar), script development or wardrobe work.

That should do the trick.

Actually, perhaps they should cast the film via one of these reality TV shows, in which girls have to convince the public of their suitability. I want to see the episode in which applicants are tested for their reaction to a sound caning of the sort that must surely be a feature of the film.

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Sara Cox, the Radio 1 DJ, gives over the final portion of her show to messages from teenage listeners. I was already day-dreaming about spankings this Sunday afternoon when a caller gloated that she’d just told her boss “where to stick his paper round”.

I wondered whether this was the same bedraggled lass about whose punishment I’d written earlier in the year. Or perhaps it was a new girl; a stern lecture from her father on Sunday evening would have been followed on Monday morning with a trip back to the newsagent, a fulsome apology prelude to a sound caning in the stockroom.

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I don’t know how they could print the following with a straigh face (and in fact, maybe they were giggling as they set the type), but The Times on Saturday told us that…

The Walt Disney Company said that it took ‘appropriate action’ against employees at Disneyland Park Paris who were filmed simulating sex while dressed as Disney characters.

‘Now, young lady, your behavious was completely unacceptable for an employee of this park. Lift your tail and bend over.’

The best part? The title of the article was ‘Disney Discipline’ . I want to know how long it will take us to start getting hits from searches for Disney and spanking. It must be somebody’s kink, right?

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I wish other bloggers stopped giving Abel wicked ideas. For example, Lily’s husband has a habit of testing new implements by giving her 10 strokes. Luckily for her, the most recent one was a silicone spatula.

Unluckily for me, Abel has just bought a particularly ferocious antique knotted Malacca cane. He had, in fact, already tested it (one stroke over my jeans, which sent me howling to the ceiling). Except then he read Lily’s blog, and decided that it was necessary to implement what he sees as best practice in our family.

So, onto the bed I went, conveniently bare after my bath, and he duly delivered ten fast, biting licks of the cane. The pain from that thing is indescribable, and the inherent unfairness of the test (did I mention he’d already tested it?) made me say some things to him that might have swiftly turned this into a punishment if he wasn’t in a good mood. (Or if I didn’t shut up on time: I know what’s good for me.)

I’m going to lobby for the idea that new implements actually have to be tested on the spanker first.

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It seems that Virgin Galactic, who are planning on launching the world’s first space-tourism service in a couple of years’ time, have decided to exclude three groups of customers: those under 16, anyone with heart problems… and women with breast implants.

Apparently the silicon could explode. I am *so* glad they thought of that before they fired their first ‘enhanced’ porn star into space…

Makes me wonder about spankings in zero gravity. How: it would be tough to catch one’s girl to spank her. If: a spanking in space could hurt. Whether: any astronauts have ever succumbed to kinky temptation and experimented.

If any of you are rich enough to afford a ticket, please can you report back on your findings?

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Ever since the first time Haron and I toured a grand country house together some years ago, lost in reveries about servant girls being whipped, I’ve had endless fantasies about aristocratic birchings.

I wrestled with two scenarios in my dreams last night, each competing as if to be selected for a future story. In the first, the young Duke (for the lord of the manor is always young, single and kindly, albeit strictly concerned about the well-being and survival of his estate) would insist that any girl requiring thrashing would be sent to his study. He would issue them with a cane, to be taken to the Head Butler who would administer the punishment. The tearful servant would be made to return the cane immediately afterwards to his Lordship.

Scenario number two saw the Head Gardener plant a row of birch trees outside the window of the Duke’s study. Girls would be sent to cut switches for their floggings, whilst their employer watched from within.

Interestingly, in neither case was the Duke administering the punishments himself; he left that to his staff. Yet in both cases, his favourite girl (a recurring and some might say clichéd theme of mine) would end up in trouble, and he would cross the class boundaries to console her afterwards – albeit in a most chaste manner.

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