The Spanking Writers

New Year’s Eve. The Janus day – like the ancient god, looking both ways, Forwards, at the coming year, with all the inherent hopes and fears; reflecting back.

And nowhere more so than at Wetherington. By mid-morning, the girls were busy in the grounds as they cut their switches from crisp, cold December trees, before returning to the great house to huddle in front of the warming fires and bind the rods together. They worked in silence: disturbing Sir Charles was inadvisable, on this morning more than on any other.

Birches prepared, they disappeared back to their bedrooms, a final hug, a final word giving courage where it might be needed. They each changed into their thin blue dresses, then sat on their beds alone. And waited.

Thomas rang the gong at midday sharp. The library had been prepared, as usual: the furniture re-arranged, the shutters closed. Even the two new girls knew what to expect, carefully prepared as they had been. They filed in, birches in hand, and lined up.

Their benefactor sat behind his desk, at the opposite side of the room – far enough away that any conversations that might take place would remain private, inaudible to the others in the room. All that stood between Sir Charles and the girls was an expanse of wooden flooring, covered in the finest Persian rugs, and solitary wooden chair. He stood as they entered, welcoming them and reminding them of the purpose of the proceedings. “I take great pride in the achievements of my girls. By giving a home to the twelve of you here who might otherwise not have had the opportunity to benefit from the finest education, and sending you to the finest institutions in the land, I hope to turn you into the most successful young ladies in the North of England. I pray that you want for nothing here. I ask for little in return, other than for you to repay my generosity by investing every effort in your studies and good behaviour.”

He scanned the line up, and beckoned to his butler. The gentleman spoke softly, too quietly for the girls to hear; it was Thomas who walked across the room, paused, then stepped up to Emily. “Sir Charles would like to see you now.”

Whilst the girls were brought forward at random, it was traditional to start with the oldest girl. In her final year at University, Miss Shelham was destined, no doubt, for great things after graduation. After she left Wetherington this coming summer, as she would be required to do on completion of her education. She approached Sir Charles’s desk nervously: that this was her sixth New Year in the house scarcely made it easier. She felt the weight of the bound rods in her hand: prayed that he would find no fault.

He drew a manila folder from the top of the pile, opened it and studied the papers. “A most accomplished performance, it seems. Your examination results are most impressive, Emily. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, would you like to remind me of the resolutions that you made this time last year, Emily?”

“To study as hard as possible, to gain a first in my second-year exams,…” she hesitated, “and to continue singing in the University choir.”

“And you have kept to those.”

“Well, sir…”

“Well?” The question-mark hung in the air.

“I haven’t quite had time for choir this past term, sir. What with all of my studies and…”

He paused, looking her in the eyes. A look of disappointment. “No ‘ands’. You made a resolution. A promise. To me, and to yourself. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir Charles.” As she well knew.

He stood up. “Then you understand what must happen now.”

A tear trickled down her face: “I do, sir.” Understood, acknowledged, accepted. Was grateful for. Remembered, from previous years. Needed?

“You have done well otherwise, my dear girl, and I shall take that into consideration. You will therefore receive three strokes. Please hand me your birch, then take up position behind the chair.” She passed the rod over the desk and turned, avoiding the eyes of her fellow residents and she turned and walked back to the designated spot.

“Please lift your dress, Emily, and bend over.” Baring herself – “dresses, only dresses” being the well-rehearsed code for the day – she took the position, reaching out to hold the front legs of the chair. The other girls would have a clear view of her backside, though most would advert their eyes, knowing that their turn would shortly follow.

The strokes, when they came, were applied with his habitual force. She kept her composure as best she could: the senior girl had to set a good example. Yet she could not help but cry out, sotte voce as far as she could control herself, at each burning blow.

“Please stand when you are ready, young lady, and come back to my desk.”

By the time she had raised herself up gingerly, and smoothed down her dress, he had recorded what had transpired with his fountain pen on his embossed paper, and added it to her file. He smiled: “You took that well, Emily, as you have always done in those years where I have had to flog you. Now, for this year’s resolutions.”

“I… I just want to work flat out to get a first-class degree, and get a good job, Sir Charles.”

“‘Just’? I do so hope you will, my dear.” A fresh sheet of paper was inscribed, and added to her folder. “Now, you’ll be leaving us in the summer, so we will review your performance on your final day with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And would you ask Caroline to join me when you return to the others?”

“Yes, sir. And thank you.”

“No, thank you, Emily. Having you with us here has always been a pleasure.”

And with that the senior girl walked back to the line-up, and smiled as reassuringly as she could at the next girl, who stepped forward for her review…

Things you can learn from a spy novel! I have just found out from “Perfect Spy” by Le Carre that -

- true English privilege was obtained by harship, and that the best hardship was to be found at English boarding schools.

I didn’t realise that the point of boarding schools was to provide designer brand of hardship to the privileged

I spent a day just before Christmas in a small, upscale London office full of incredibly posh people; the receptionist’s pearls were worth more than the Gross Domestic Product of several South American countries. Spread over two floors, the company was full of Henriettas and Melissas, with double-barrelled names the norm.

I permitted myself a wry smile at the thought of the traditional values that must apply to their business dealings. A young graduate, joining from one of the better colleges at some esteemed University, might make some seemingly innocuous error in the first document that she had to prepare for the Managing Partner.

She’d be asked to stay behind in the evening. He’d take out the paper and discuss her mistake – and emphasise the need for accuracy and care. He’d check that she had signed the special clause in her employment contract.

And then he’d re-enforce the message with her bent tight over the boardroom table: six sharp strokes across her skirt guaranteeing greater focus on her future work.

One of the things I love about Abel – and there are lots and lots of things I love about him – is that he shares my opinion that birthdays are a Big Deal.

Birthdays are to be celebrated with maximum fuss.

Birthdays are to be marked on the calendar with big fat exclamation marks.

Birthdays are to be marked on girls’ bottoms with… Ouch! when this birthday spanking is over, I may not be too keen on celebrations any more.

But that’s OK, because birthday boys are to be indulged, pampered and generally spoiled.
Happy birthday, my darling!

One of my favourite pastimes when I have to hang around in town waiting for something, is to go into a public library and browse the biography and memoir shelves for porn. (That is, mentions of spanking.)

I was pinning a lot of hopes on Lord Byron, I really was. He was notoriously ill-behaved in the sexual sense, and so it was reasonable to expect sordid sado-masochistic affairs in his biography.

No such luck: there’s incest, there are orgies, there is lots and lots of garden variety sex – but I haven’t found any whips and chains. Damn.

Moreover, even though he went to Harrow (you know, one of those places where they used to flog people), the regime didn’t make enough of an impression to be mentioned in the biography. It spends more time describing how the boys used to sleep several to a bed.

Either I was reading the wrong biography, or the famous libertine was completely vanilla.

Haron was so adorable yesterday. I mean, she always is, but Christmas brought out the excited girl in her as she disappeared under mounds of wrapping paper and presents.

The inevitable result was that, when we finally collapsed into bed – sated with good food and wine – she was somewhat hyperactive: over-excited, just like a little kid. She needed calming down. I hit on a plan.

I explained to her that another Christmas tradition here in England was for husbands to give their wives 25 strokes of the cane at the end of each 25th December. (She counted herself lucky that I wasn’t giving her 2007, one for every year of Jesus’s age – plus one for luck).

They weren’t hard strokes at all. Well, OK, they were – just not by the standards that sometimes apply! And it wasn’t my scariest cane – although it was one of my whippiest. But it worked

And to think that the New Year is her main celebration, rather than Christmas… I’ll have to devise another cunning plan over the next week (“one stroke for the first of January” not looking like a recipe for much in the way of kinky fun).

We’re decorating the tree today. It won’t look like this, but it might have a similar decoration beside it.

(From Fessee Rouge via chross.blogt.ch)

P.S. Can I just check the following is a genuine Christmas tradition?

Abel claims that before icing the cake, the husband takes his wife’s trousers down, makes her bend over with her hands on the wall, and beats out the words “Fa-ther Christ-mas” on her tush with a wooden spoon.

It had better be true, after all I’ve suffered…

A warm, comfortable living room. Mum reads her novel on the armchair. Dad sits studying papers on the sofa; his daughter leans against him as she revises for the following day’s test.

The gentleman glances at the clock, and places a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Time to be getting ready for bed, my dear.” They both haul themselves to their feet, the girl going over to kiss her mother.

The father continues, “I’ll come in and say goodnight once you’re in bed: I just have to pop over to my office to deal with something first.”

“Do you have to?” she pleads, scanning his face for hints that he might stay.

He took his girl by the shoulders, holding her tight. Understanding. “I’m afraid I do.”

And so the Housemaster unlocks the door that leads from his family’s living quarters to the school proper.

And the girl heads to bed, to contemplate her best friend’s imminent fate.

This afternoon I got an email from Abel: “This is your end-of-term report: print it and put it in an envelope, but don’t read it. Tonight you will come to collect it from the Headmaster.”

Oooh, I thought. Ooooooh. I sent the attachment to the printer with my eyes shut.

In the evening, after Abel had arrived home, I jogged upstairs to change into my school uniform (this time it was a maroon skirt, white shirt, maroon-and-silver striped tie and white cotton knickers; it’s my oldest uniform, and I’m quite fond of it), pulled my hair into a neat pony-tail, and made sure I got rid of all nail-polish and cosmetics. (You can never be too careful when going to see the Head, unless you want to be in trouble deliberately.)

When the Headmaster opened the envelope, here’s what he found inside:

Click for a bigger image

I – or rather this girl called Helen Watson – was in a lot of trouble! She got a long lecture about academic integrity, applying oneself to one’s studies and similar rubbish matters, after which she – and I – had to bend over and grasp the edge of the desk.

Up went my skirt, down came my knickers. I was to get 5 strokes, one for each subject in which I had, quote, underperformed, unquote. Abel had picked a cane that isn’t my favourite by any means: a short, straight, very stiff reformatory stick. Each stroke felt like an individual cut. I howled my way through the final three, barely aware of the admonishment to control myself. (My usual thought at moments like this is: “If you don’t like the volume of my screaming, you don’t have to hit this hard”. Not that I ever *say* it – not at the time, anyway.)

Even pulling up my knickers afterwards was incredibly painful, as the elastic brushed against each double welt. I smoothed the skirt back down, and shuffled out of the office – only to come back a second later for my cuddles, now as myself. Abel looked terribly pleased with himself for composing the report.

He seemed surprised that I wasn’t keen to continue the scene by bringing the report home to my father, but there was no way I could take any more lecturing, never mind spanking. What does he think I am, a masochist?