The Spanking Writers

An Observer reporter is horrified at the new Education Secretary’s plea for schools to stop ‘wrapping children in cotton wool’.

[He] seeks a return to rosy-cheeked Baden-Powell adventurism when grazed knees were as much a part of school uniform as Clarks Commandos. … Surely, one of the more civilising changes in education since we were at school, is that nippers are no longer yomped across sodden moorland by perverted PE instructors threatening to make men of us, turning every cross-country run into a re-enactment of the march on Port Stanley.

…In abstract, it all sounds terrifically bracing, in that buttoned-up ‘beating never did me any harm, thank you very much’ sort of way’.

I completely share the reporter’s point of view. Well, beating has really never done me any harm (in fact, I actively pursue it!), but grazed knees are really not my kink, nor is running around sodden moorland. PE in the wet and cold outdoors will never ever become a part of my school scenes.
And I’d rather nobody made a man of me, thanks.

Back in the old days, attending Quaker meetings in the Boston area was apparently a risky business, subject to:

“flogging through three towns,” a privilege established by the Vagabond Act, so called, of May, 1661, in which it was provided that any foreign Quaker or any native, upon a second conviction, might be ordered to receive an unlimited number of stripes, the whip for such service being a two- ­handled implement, armed with lashes made of twisted and knotted cord or catgut.

One lady objected formally to the chief magistrate about the whippings. His response was perhaps predictable:

“Margaret Brewster,” carne the stern re ­ply, “you are to have your clothes stript off to the middle, and to be tied to a cart’s tail at the South Meeting House, and to be drawn through the town, and to receive twenty stripes upon your naked body.”

The moral of this story is presumably that it is unwise for girls to object to floggings…

Abel and I were both influenced in our kinkiness by Roald Dahl’s writing. “Galloping Foxley”, the short story from “Tales of the Unexpected”, was one of my earliest introductions to the world of British boarding schools and their savage rituals. I found this stuff horrifyingly compelling. When Abel and I first met, I was delighted to find out that he was also fond of this story – up until then it had been my secret pleasure; I’d met nobody else who had read it.
When we became aware of the existence of a Roald Dahl museum, we had to go, even if it was unlikely to be entirely dedicated to the part of his writing that interested us the most.

It’s a tiny place, and it isn’t at all kinky, if you don’t count a couple of pictures of larger-than-life canes on the walls. (Not that pictures of canes didn’t amuse us. It doesn’t take much to amuse us, really.)

However, Abel stumbled upon this piece of spanking writing, which (as far as I remember) Dahl sent in a letter to a group of school kids who’d written to him:

My teacher loved using the cane
He would thrash me again and again.
I’d be raised in the air
By the roots of my hair
While he shoued, “it’s good for the brain.”

I used to wear pants extra thick,
To lessen the sting from his stick.
When he saw what I’d done
He yelled “This is no fun!”
“Take them off altogether and quick.”

From your letters to me it would seem
That your teacher is clearly a dream.
There’s no whacks on the bum,
When you can’t do a sum,
Instead you get strawberries and cream

I thought this was worth the admission price. Not that the rest of the museum wasn’t interesting. I hadn’t expected to find a local amateur theatre acting out “Galloping Foxley” for me, but the museum wasn’t really geared for grown-ups.

Nice of them to give us a spanking poem, though.

Day in, day out, we blog about spanking. Snippets, stories, startles, scenes. And yet one thing’s missing.

That’s right, folks: this blog’s a sex-free zone.

Actually, it rather amuses us. Here we are, crafting a blog that, presumably, classes as erotic. And yet – by design – we miss out what many might see as the main ingredient.

Pure as the winter snow, us. Honest

PS and any of you who happen to have met my gorgeous wife will realise why I can’t keep my hands off her, in far more ways than one!

Abel’s father has been suffering from back problems recently, but yesterday he was talking about going back to the office, where they’ve missed him for the last couple of weeks.

“It would be good if you went in with a cane,” said Abel to him on the phone.

“Oh, yeah, that would scare them!” replied his dad with enthusiasm.

Abel’s jaw dropped. He finished the conversation, then turned to me and said: “I actually meant he should get a walking stick, but it’s not what he meant, is it?”
…Yes, the interest is definitely genetic.

Inspecting my girl after a recent scene, I traced my fingers gently (and then not quite so gently) along the raised weal made by a rather high whack of the cane.

She’d been playing with someone who’s an uncannily accurate administrator of severe strokes. “Oh well,” I commented, “even the most experienced players have to be allowed the occasional miss.”

This provoked debate, as you can imagine. I’m personally horrified when I lay the odd stroke astray – a little high, a little low, wrapping a little too far round. But it does happen, from time to time. And, of course, every girl has her own definition of ‘accurate’. Woe betide anyone who stripes Haron’s thighs, for example – whereas one dear friend simply loves to receive cane strokes there.

But what’s an “acceptable” ratio? What’s par for the course? Two inaccurate strokes in six of the best would be well and truly out of order: even one stray strike in a half-dozen would feel a little high.

Here’s the thesis, then… The best we could come up with was the ninety per cent rule. That is: unless you’re playing a scene in which the caning is deliberately (and by agreement) wild, at least nine strokes in ten must be entirely accurate. Any views, from either end of the rod?

The Times reviews “In The Blood”, a memoir by the Poet Laureate Andrew Motion.

Apparently, “above all, it’s his descriptions of the systematic brutality of his prep school that rend the heart. The corporal punishment is bad, but the farewells at the end of each holiday are worse.”

I think, I’ll check it out. I quite like his poetry, too.

A former pupil of a school in Bradford shares her memories of her old school:

Hi. Looking for old school pupils who left Wyke Manor Upper School in 1982 My form teacher was Mr Clough and other teachers were Mr Sherry, Miss Grundy (P.E.) also nasty Mr Sutcliffe who sent you for the cane if caught smoking…

It would be great if we could get together as many as possible. My name was Jayne Hill and I was skinny with blond hair and very good at sport.

I’m not at all surprised that Mr. Sutcliffe would be so annoyed at being caught fag-in-mouth as to send the girls straight to the Headmaster for a sound thrashing for spying. Or perhaps I’m just a little pedantic, grammatically.

Yesterday we were watching the highlights of the Russell Harty show: a sequence of interviews from the early 1970s. Among the interviewed, there was Rose Kennedy.

Russell asked her what she thought was her progeny’s secret of success. Without batting an eyelid, she answered:

I used to spank them. With a coat hanger. There’s always a closet around. I used to spank them with a ruler, but then I went to visit my grandchildren and they threw all of the coat hangers down the stairs.

She might have been joking. On the other hand…

Haron’s a clever little minx. We’d been staying in a hotel out near Heathrow; as we finished breakfast, I checked that she’d brought her Oyster Card with her. (Those of you not familiar with London might need to know at this stage that Oyster is a pre-paid smartcard for public transport, which roughly halves trip costs).

She hadn’t. Again. And the previous time it had happened, she’d been left in no doubt as to the consequences of future forgetfulness.

She fluttered her eyelashes, held my hand. To no avail. So she embarked on a long discussion of alternate ticket types on the tube – the pros and cons of travelcards, single tickets, buying a new Oyster card.

I became quite engrossed in trying to work out the right option as we walked back to our room. So engrossed, in fact, that I quite forgot about the spanking her bit of the discussion. Perfect diversionary tactics from the young lady, I’m sure you’ll agree!

Fortunately I did then remember, and over my knee she went, but it was a close run thing!