The Spanking Writers

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?

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I find myself this evening in the comparative comfort of a Georgian country house in the South-West of England.

They’ve thoughtfully provided a history of the property in the bedroom. Its early years saw lavish entertainment: Pitt the Younger visited whilst Prime Minister. But (and this is where it gets interesting) it was soon converted into a home for “ladies of gentle birth and their servants”, with preference given to the widows and daughters of clergyman and of naval and army officers.

As if that wasn’t enough to trigger my mind into kinky overdrive, they also ran:

“a school for orphaned girls, like the ladies ‘to be of gentle birth’.”

I wonder if any of the ladies here as conference delegates - or indeed of the ever-so-cute uniformed staff - are game for some historical reanactments? I rather enjoy Regency-era scenes. There’s a birch tree handily positioned next to the car park, and I’m sure I noticed its branches twitching with anticipation as my carriage pulled up…

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You wouldn’t have thought that in a school survey on corporal punishment the most support would come from the pupils, but if you believe the summary of “Maltonian Digest” (No.124 from September 1969) -

- a survey of views on corporal punishment was published.  Most staff were against, one or two not, though “last resort” and “extreme circumstances” were cited.  More pupils agreed with it than staff.

I wonder if it was an anonymous survey :-/

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I posted recently about branches of British public schools popping up in China. I’ve visited Shanghai a couple of times in the past few years for work, and picked up a racy (and very well-written) book after my last trip that described some of the city’s dubious past. The Pearl of the Orient was so decadent that in the late nineteenth century that one missionary commented, “If God lets Shanghai endure, he owes an apology to Sodom and Gomorrah”.

A couple of anecdotes might appeal to our pervy readers. The city’s streets were lined with girls from the country, earning their way:

“Fear of a beating by their madam should they fail to secure a customer for the night accounted for [their] aggressiveness. In the late hours of the morning, a customer might find himself seized by the arm by a girl who would desperately plead, ‘Please help me out!’…. Once a girl was in a brothel keeper’s or madam’s hands, she had few opportunities of escaping…

It was not uncommon to see a little slave girl break away from her [male servant] on the street… If she was caught, her body would rack for days from the keeper’s cuffs and lashes””

It wasn’t just Chinese girls who appealed to the city’s “gentlemen”: the Madams “always kept their eyes open for new talent”, including foreign women:

“One madam, the mistress of the chief of police, approached a visiting Margaret Sanger in a tearoom to leave her card: the admiral of the British fleet, the madam informed her, was dropping anchor in Shanghai in the next few days and the demure-looking Sanger happened to be ‘just his type.’”

And then there was the British Vice-Consul in the 1850s, who:

“ran afoul of the Church… by taking as his mistress a pupil at a Protestant girls’ missionary school in Ningpo. When he was transferred to Foochow he took the girl with him, which so outraged the head of the school, an upright Englishwoman named Miss Aldersay, that she reported him to the Bishop of Victoria in Hong Kong. The outraged bishop denounced the Vice-Consul from his pulpit, forcing the errant diplomat to send the girl back to her home.”

One might presume that said young lady would have been especially soundly whipped on her return home. Unless she ended up stopping over in Shanghai en route, of course.

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The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasmer participants.

This Week’s Picks
By Invitation Only (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
“I was being watched by a room full of people, but all I could think about was his thick cock, pounding me, his balls slapping against my ass.”

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“…The lazy way your honeyed tones flow out, saying my name, or merely whispering “Is that good, baby? You like that?” as you slide a finger in and out of me, deliberately and slowly.”

What BDSM Can Tell Us All About Sex (part 1) (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
“That’s another form of power exchange: if I ‘let’ you have sex with someone else, it’s very different than if you sneak off and fuck that person without having permission.”

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Everyone Diggs Porn (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
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Continuing to read W.H. Auden’s biography from my previous post, I find that he wasn’t overfond of the British education system:

Every English boy of the middle class spends five years as a member of a primitive tribe ruled by benevolent or malignant demons, and then another 5 years as a citizen of a totalitarian state.

[The adults were] hairy monsters with terrifying voices and eccentric habits, completely irrational in their bouts of rage and good humour, and, it seemed, with absolute power of life and death. Those who deep in the country are a safe distance from parents spend their lives teaching little boys, behave in a way that would have them locked up in an ordinary society.

When I read in a hostory book of King John gnawing the rush-mat in his rage, it did not surprise me in the least: that was just how masters behave.

From “Auden” by Richard Davenport-Hines, p.34
Hmm… This is a little reminiscent of Abel. He doesn’t eat carpets in his rage, but you can hardly call waving sticks around rational behaviour, can you?

That wonderful kids’ TV series, “Demon Headmaster”, comes to mind…

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One doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’ve just heard the most spankable comment from the seat behind me on the train. Thanks to the joys of wireless on-board internet connections, I can report it directly to you.

A youngish lass, pretty, smartly dressed, joined at the last station; a sixth-former, if I’m guessing her age correctly. She was chatting on the phone to her dad, and sounding unusually keen to finish the conversation. Opposite her, a small boy with his family accidentally knocked a glass of milk over the table. Cue much commotion.

“It’s nothing, dad,” cute student mutters. “Just the people next to me in the coffee shop.”

‘Coffee shop’? Right. That would be the 130 miles per hour type of coffee shop that comes with a locomotive at the front and runs along tracks.

So, dear readers, who’s she going to see? What furtive liaisons are planned for her afternoon? And what would daddy do on her return home were he to find out where she’d really been for the day?

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W.H. Auden’s mother had interesting ideas about discipline. He remembers:

My elder brother repeated at a tea-party, where a certain lady was present, a remark of my aunt’s to the effect that the lady smelt.

For the next few days, to all his toys, to his sponge and toothbrush and all his belongings, he found a paper pinned on which were written the words: ‘Never Repeat’.

From “Auden” by Richard Davenport-Hines, p.11

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You may have noticed that we’re forever coming across things that spark our pervy interest. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, we’ve now pulled some of these together onto our very own Amazon bookstore. Kinky things for kinky people, as it were. Head on over and have a look!

We get a few meagre cents back from Amazon if you buy anything, too. (So order now: if we don’t make a million before Christmas, Haron gets whipped). (Joke).

We’d welcome your suggestions, too, for things to add to the site.

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I’ve been so busy at work of late that it’s been hard to believe that the festive season is almost upon us. Until yesterday evening, that as, when I stumbled upon the choir from a most eminent girls’ school performing a medley of carols in their local railway station.

I happened to have a few minutes before my train, so paused to listen. Suddenly, a phone trilled. Not mine, dear readers, but that of a young lady in the front row of the choir. She stepped out of formation; spoke anxiously into the handset; returned shamefaced to her position. The supervising staff glared at her; she avoided their eyes.

I’ve never written a choirmaster story. I’m beginning to think that that’s an omission from my repertoire

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