Often, I hardly have to close my eyes before a feast of spanking fantasies starts to present itself for my consumption.
I’m facinated by how kink overlays real-life memories in my slumber. Take last night: the girl trudging disconsolately from the hockey pitch, all muddy knees and worried face, sent off by the referee in an inter-school match. She’d know, you see, that a sending-off (a most rare occurence) was always punished by a caning.

I watched her on the bus back to the school, sitting in silence, lost in thought and fears. I wondered, as she must have done, how soon after her return she’d be called to the see the Headmaster.

And here’s the interesting thing. The hockey pitch from which she trudged was clearly one at my old school. The sports pavilion was there in the background; her lonely walk back to the changing rooms took her past the groundsman’s cottage. I could hear the studs of her boots click along the badly-paved pathway.

What other interesting dreams await? Whippings in Waitrose? Canings in the cathedral? Tawsings in the town square?