The Spanking Writers

I have rarely, if ever, played so many intense scenes in such a short space of time! It may have been the final day of my stay with Abel and Haron but we still had one to go before I could be sent on my way. After all, Martha and Alice hadn’t yet been to school…

They found themselves, neat in their uniforms, hesitating outside the headmaster’s study, longing not to have to knock and announce their presence. Knowing that they had no choice. But knowing also that they had a plan! If they could only pull this off then it would be okay. Or at least, not too bad. They squeezed hands once more, conspiratorially, before Alice tapped.

“Hello?” Mr Jenkins called them forth, always approachable, quite genial even. They shuffled in and closed the door, thoroughly uncomfortable. Gradually he pulled their story from them; why they had been sent to see him by Mr Simmons. We, um, we borrowed a book from him, sir, and we didn’t return it on time…well we didn’t really ask to borrow it properly at all…and he noticed it was missing and…and he wasn’t very pleased. So he sent us to you to…to deal with it, sir.

I see. Hmm. Well it doesn’t seem too serious, although Mr Simmons is quite right to be annoyed with you. We can’t have girls taking masters’ books without permission, can we? No, sir.

Did they understand how the headmaster dealt with matters when pupils were referred by a member of his staff? They did. Not through personal experience, mind, but certainly via the school’s jungle lore. He caned them. Always. No wonder they had been so reluctant to approach his study!
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On my recent trip to London, I was glad to see that the city’s disciplinary regime is still active…

P.S. It’s a wine bar!

Earlier in my stay with Abel and Haron, the three of us played an amazingly hot and prolonged scene where the girls at the reformatory were birched for their crimes.   Sunday’s roleplay was much shorter, perhaps no longer than 10 minutes or so, but was equally wonderfully intense, and with a seasonal theme.

Alice and Martha again, but this time sisters who had agreed that they would give up their computer game habit for Lent.   Had, in general, succeeded.   Except for one lapse, which their daddy had witnessed when coming home from work unexpectedly early one evening.   They spotted him approaching through the window and a mad scramble ensued: screen flipped over to TV, consoles hurled into the cabinet beneath, girls scurrying round plumping cushions and straightening magazines.   We were tidying up, daddy.   Ah.   I see.   He nodded, said no more and the matter was forgotten.   By the sisters at least.

Easter Day dawned.   A family day.   Eggs exchanged, relatives coming and going, roast lamb sending delicious aromas throughout the house.   And the end of Lent.   The end of the PlayStation’s banishment.   Girls gleefully settling down to a Quidditch World Cup battle to celebrate!

“Alice.   Martha.   Come upstairs please.”

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Last night we cuddled up to watch Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth”, and, as the final credits rolled*, my gaze fell into the two birch rods left over from our reformatory experience. This made me wonder about relative ecological soundness of birch rods and canes.

I suggested that the cane ought to be considered more ecologically friendly: it’s certainly a higher-mileage implement, and with proper care, may survive for decades. A birch rod is lucky to last for three sessions, before it’s off to the woods to pick a new one.

Martha offered a different argument: birches, she says, are sourced locally, and clock up exactly zero food miles. In contrast, rattan for our canes needs to be flown in from Malaysia, thus contributing to the global warming.

Abel reckoned to two of us needed some global warming.

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* The design on those credits was simply awesome. The coolest credits ever. Yes, it’s slightly sad to be this excited about movie credits.

What’s the worst thing that could happen in a spanking household to upset the natural order of things?

Illness can interrupt the best-laid of anyone’s plans I guess.   Similarly, work and travel often seriously get in the way of the important things in life.   But these are universals.

It would be hard to say which of the 3 of us was most distressed when domestic god Abel had a glass shatter on him whilst washing up this evening, resulting in a nasty deep cut to his hand.   His right hand!   Whilst he struggled to bear his terrible injury in a manner matched only by women who have lost limbs, surely it is Haron and I for whom you should feel truly sorry?

Here we were, primed by our reformatory scene for a holiday weekend of fun, and suddenly faced with the prospect of no spanking, no play – even no discipline: it was that serious!   Mournfully I traced the criss-crossed map of my birching with my fingertips, wondering if this was to be an end to my visit’s cumulative total of whipping?   Cursing Fate’s cruel roll of the dice in so protecting my bottom.   Considering how many would feel this a lucky escape, but knowing that others will understand such a disappointment entirely.

And at least I can report a happier ending here than might have been the case.   Brave Abel summoned up his healing powers and that sense of toppish duty soon rose back to the surface.   Even before I was put to bed that evening, he had managed to grasp a hairbrush with more than adequate dexterity, so his recovery seems to be well underway.

Haron and I are mightily relieved.

A fascinating recollection of the daily routine of boarding school life in the early 1960s contains enough of interest to reproduce here in some detail:

“The day started with getting up at ‘rising bell’ then ablutions followed by making one’s bed. The breakfast bell would ring, and anyone who wasn’t ready would be awarded an hours working party by an irate prefect. Breakfast was followed by assembly in the chapel, except for Saturday’s when we had divisions in the school quadrangle.

Once assembly was over we headed to our respective classrooms for lessons which apart from a mid -morning break lasted until lunch time. Prep was next on the agenda, held in the common room, where we would spend a hour or so transferring scribbled notes in our rough books into our files or exercise books. Strict silence had to be observed during prep, which was supervised by a prefect. Transgressions of this rule earned the culprit four strokes of the cane, known as the “cuts,” which was administered in the boot room by the Head of House.

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The next day of my stay with Abel and Haron: a scene we’ve planned for weeks comes to fruition…

Good Friday dawned and that could mean only one thing: the day the birchings are administered at the reformatory.

Alice and Martha had both nearly completed their sentences; just this final act remained before their release papers could be signed. The Punishment Officer Abel summoned the pair of them to his office and laid out the procedure. Girls facing a birching were escorted to the local woods and made to select their own rods under close supervision.

Their behaviour during this expedition should be of the highest standard, for this, along with their conduct whilst serving their sentences, would be taken into consideration when the final number of strokes is calculated. Once back at the reformatory, they would then fashion their own birches to the required standard before having their punishments calculated and administered.

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I’ve posted before about the perfect kinky inspiration I get from “Antiques Roadshow”.

Well, it strikes again. On tonights programme a sweet young girl was showing off her great-grand-grand-(etc)-mother’s embroidery sampler. Careful stitches growing faint from the sun: the alphabet, numbers, a short devotional passage.

I could see that 18th-century girl bending her head over the canvas, licking a prickled finger, stifling a bored yawn. Her mind wonders, the progress hoplessly stalled. A governess frowns, picking up a birch rod…

I’d love to role-play this scene. I’m pretty good at embroidery (a Ukrainian girl’s necessary accomplishment), but I’d be willing to botch it up for a suitably strict governess. I’ve been going through the list of my female friends for the last half an hour, trying to imagine which one of them would be willing to take me in hand. Oh, to be a good 18th-century girl…

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?

Glorious, perfect weather greeted day 2 of my holiday, so we set off to visit one of the big attractions in the area: the Alnwick Gardens.   Think beautiful English country garden, reeking with tradition – and yet this has been purpose-built in only the last few years, the dream of Alnwick Castle’s owner, the Duchess of Northumberland.   It’s an amazing place and, as you might imagine, ripe with potential atmosphere for the spanko tourist!

So many memories to share with you… First the huge, carved wooden chairs in the treehouse restaurant, their towering backs studded with holes at varying heights to suit all subs and positions!   We enjoyed enough peace to experiment with a few, Abel obliging Haron and I with some trial swats to ensure authenticity.   This obviously laid the foundations for our wanderings up to the walled flower garden subsequently, when he directed us to another secluded corner containing wooden garden furniture.   “Take a chair each, girls: kneel up and wait for me.”   Obediently we did so and I have to say that, despite some good hearty spanks, he was kinder to our jean-clad bottoms than the wooden slats were to our knees!

In high spirits, we continued our explorations and discovered a great addition to any kinky playground: a bamboo shoot maze!   Too tender and green to be raided – not that a good girl would do such a thing anyway of course – but still a wonderful idea – privet is so last century darling!   And what an open invitation for two girls, scampering along after Abel, to suddenly dive off down a different path and “lose” him!   Much schoolgirl giggling and running around ensued as we retraced our steps and tried to find him.

He was eventually spotted, having exited the maze, standing on the main lawn and sending some delightfully explicit “Come here now, you naughty children” body language our way!   How delicious to be sternly rebuked for our antics, warned what a repeat of such behaviour would render us liable to, feel the thrill of it chase down my spine!

We then had to be left unsupervised whilst Abel investigated the award-winning public conveniences and were most effectively tethered for the duration.   He made us stand either side of a flower urn, Haron’s right foot touching one edge and my left foot the other, with strict orders that they were to remain in contact until his return!   How can such a simple instruction, and the adherence to it, be so intoxicating?

These are just a few of my happy memories of our English country garden idyll.   One last addition though, to complete day 2 of my stay, and whet your appetites for future Spanking Writers’ posts.   On our way home, we stopped off at a wonderful second hand bookshop to browse for anything with a corporal punishment slant – for, as you know, Abel and Haron take their research on your behalf *very* seriously!   You’ll be pleased to hear that the visit was successful, with a number of new volumes purchased and delighted over that evening.   One of which was unearthed by yours truly who, having been compelled to pull forth a nondescript-looking hardback entitled “The History of Tommie Brown” (perhaps thinking fondly of Tom Brown and his schooldays?), found it to have the subtitle “Let pain be pleasure and pleasure be pain”! A quick browse bore out this promise, so look out some day for some fantastical anecdotes about King Tawse and his magical powers for making young ladies’ palms smart!