The Spanking Writers

One of my favourite re-occurring fantasies is to suffer through piano lessons held by a strict tutor, who would alternate between slapping my palms with his ruler (because piano teachers all have rulers, of course), taking me over his knee for a bare-bottom spanking, and making me bend over with my hands on the piano stool for six of the best. Not if I played well, obviously.

So, you can imagine, I got quite a jolt out of discovering the existence of the movie “The 5000 Fingers of Dr. T”, which features (according to Wikipedia) -

the surreal Terwilliker Institute, where the piano teacher is now a madman dictator who has locked up all non-piano-playing musicians in a dungeon and constructed a piano so large that it requires Bart and 499 other enslaved boys (the aforementioned 5,000 fingers) in order to play it.

…But does he spank them? Does he smack their hands with a ruler? Does he? Does he?

I often find myself catching a train to work at around 7.30am. At that time, the opposite platform is packed with commuting schoolgirls.

For a young lady to join the Schoolgirl Express each morning, rather than simply heading to one of the many schools nearer by, suggests that her parents are sending her to a very good school indeed. The neat uniforms re-enforce my view, as does the good behaviour – no rowdiness here. They’re good girls, you see.

I departed for the office somewhat earlier than usual this morning. In place of a gaggle of girls waiting opposite was just one, forlorn soul. Head downcast, avoiding the eyes of her fellow travellers.

I guessed why immediately: that note in her locker the previous evening, neatly typed: “The Headmaster wishes to see you in his office thirty minutes before the start of school tomorrow.”

She’d be there before her friends filled the corridors with chatter this morning. She’d hang up her coat, place her bag in her locker. Take a final look at the letter, lest it had magically reworded itself into a less ominous message overnight. Set off on a long, lonely, nervous walk through the empty corridors.

Acknowledge her wrong-doing; apologise profusely (have pity; be lenient; even though she knew that a caning was inevitable). Take her strokes with as much bravery as she could muster.

Wipe away her tears; wash her face carefully. Pretend when the others arrived that daddy had been en route to a breakfast meeting, so had had to drop her for the earlier train. Hope that no-one saw her wince as she sat down for the first lesson of the day…

Today’s Professor Snape’s birthday, and if this means nothing to you, you might as well click over to the next post, because I’m about to go on a Harry Potter geek-out.

It so happens, whenever I think about Snape, he somehow ends up spanking his students. Because he would, wouldn’t he? How could he not? He’d be very strict, sometimes mean, not always fair, but ultimately the punishment would be for their own good. Right? Hogwarts would be much improved if spanking were introduced.

I don’t write fan fiction, but I think that on Snape’s birthday we could do worse than read some classic spanking scenes that some nice people have inserted into their stories for us.

If you have lots of time, you can read The Smallest Slytherin and its sequels, and if you have only a few minutes, then have a read of A Private Lesson.

Happy birthday, Professor.

EDIT: What do you mean, how do I know his birthday is on 9 Jan? J.K. Rowling told me on the phone! OK, fine, I’m lying. Characters’ birthdays show up on JKR’s official website.

In the office this afternoon: a young lady saying to my neighbour,

“I think I’ll need some dutch courage before tonight.”

(What *was* she going to be doing? And why was I left thinking about a girl fortifying herself with a swig of vodka in the dorm before her pyjama-clad walk to her appointment with the Housemaster? And of what might have happened had he realised?)

And now, on the train, just behind me. Four loud ex-public school friends; one’s just observed:

“It was enough to get me sent to the Headmaster”

(Flicking rubber bands, apparently. At whom, I haven’t been able to establish. But they’re posh enough and of the right age for me to guess the consequences…)

The desire to have severe pain inflicted on the most intimate, delicate and sensitive bits of your body defies explanation. -

I read out. What sort of essay on masochism for beginners was this, you may wonder?

Oh, only a restaurant review by A.A.Gill, who discusses why on earth people like eating chilli peppers. He goes on to write:

No amount of boffinry explaining that chillis remind us of orgasms really seems to make sense. I’ve had an orgasm and it’s not remotely reminiscent of inadvertently chewing a little red jobbie.

That’s right, Mr. Gill, you tell them. Pain doesn’t need to translate into sexual pleasure in order for us to enjoy it on some level.

A rare foray into the office on a Saturday morning. (Sadly, I do often end up working at home for at least some of some weekends, but I have to have obscenely large bags of cash dangled in front of my eyes before I deign to actually go into work!)

All is silent, apart from my team’s fingers flying across their keyboards. Apart from two faint voices, one male, one female, barely audible from one of the lower floors. Hard at work as I am, I imagined the distant conversation fading, to be followed by the distinctive sound of strokes landing on bare flesh. After all, it would be entirely appropriate to instruct a young lady in one’s team to report to the office on a Saturday morning to discuss recent issues with her performance, sparing her the blushes of being punished whilst too many of her co-workers were in close proximity.

Who knows – there might even be a succession of staff approaching the building nervously; a veritable chorus of lonely whackings ringing out across the office during the day; a procession of punished girls, having learnt their lessons, disappearing down the road whilst rubbing their bottoms ruefully.

I invite you people to check out the newly launched Lowewood Academy Blog: a group writing project, set in a shared world of a strict British boarding school. The blog is pure fiction and nothing but fiction, and consists of entries posted by pupils and teachers of the school in their personal blogs.

It’s been set up by our friend Rapunzel, who has convinced several friends to join in the writing, including yours truly. She promised us -

Spanking, cold showers, games, short skirts, gorgeous girls, illicit drinking, evil Masters, sneaking out of school, leather straps, vigilant teachers, Lochgelly tawses, sweets, handsome and horny guys, girly gossip, standing in the corner, stockings, medical examinations, sadistic prefects and of course, the dreaded cane

- and we followed her like so many rats summoned by the Pied Piper. We’ve been blogging in secret for a couple of months, and now it’s time for Lowewood to be open for readers.

It’s said that once you’ve participated in one blog, you can’t stop joining more. This has proved alarmingly true in my case, and I refuse to admit I have a blogging problem. Abel is far too busy to succumb to this temptation, but he might arrive at the school with an inspection at some point.

Of course, the character I write for in this saga is not called Haron – the naughty girl is nothing like me. People who know me will have no trouble guessing which of the pupils I play in Lowewood. The first person who can say who I am, and tell me how they’ve figured out what name I’m using, gets a big virtual hug.

EDIT: You can stop guessing now – it’s Sylvie. The virtual hug goes to my friend Dirk, who identified me in an email within about five seconds – but then, he knows that my favourite book in English is “Little, Big” by John Crowley, whence I borrowed the name.

Just after we loaded up our 100th entry, we realised that this made quite a few posts to wade through, so we compiled a “best-of” list, to make it easier for new readers to find out what we’re about.

Well, what do you know – some time over the holidays we’ve written our 300th post, and also received our 1000th comment, and so we thought it was time for an updated list of favourites.

Thus, behold our list (which we have again avoided calling ‘Six of the Best’, because we’re just that subtle; but look – it has six entries):

A Celebratory Caning – in which Haron submits her PhD, and submits to a caning from three people, who help her celebrate this milestone in style.

Recipe: Toasted Hands – in which Abel is a celebrity chef wannabe, and Haron’s hands are toast.

Football and Canes – in which a picture clipped from the newspaper shows just what referees should to to naughty footballers.

The Punishment Book Once More (a spanking story, sort of) – in which Abel starts off daydreaming, and ends up writing a spanking story.

My Kinda Beer – in which Canadian brewers are into spanking.

Top 5 Arguments For and Against the Slipper – in which Haron describes her complex relationship with the slipper as an instrument of discipline.

This isn’t to say that you should ignore all the other entries, of course: we spend quite a lot of time avoiding work writing them, and think they’re all quite good.

The on-board announcer on my train this morning just asked:

“Why not use the ‘virgin on-board’ entertainment system”

Why not, indeed?

At least I’d like to think that’s how the Virgin Trains offical put the emphasis in the phrase. Feels like reasonable consolation for having to put up with the daily commute again after the holiday period!

Product diversification ideas for them: I, for one, would enjoy “the ‘naughty girl needing punishing on board’ entertainment system”. If anyone from the company happens to be reading, I would happily act as a product development consultant for you, for a small fee.

Workers and students are heading back to their labours after the holiday season. I pictured a sixth-former, instructed on the final day of last term to report to the Headmaster after assembly on the first day of this. “A few weeks contemplating the consequences of your actions should help to focus your mind,” he’d explained.

She’d be trembling as she walked through the school gates this morning, wearing her thickest skirt and praying that he wouldn’t want to cane her on the bare. Contemplation had indeed been the order of the day during the festivities – seasonal joy tempered with the recurring thought of what would follow, imagined by now in so much detail.