The Spanking Writers

Going through assorted papers from our Malaysian trip,* I found a postcard we bought specifically so that we can post it here.

Because we just can’t figure out under what circumstances you could possibly mail somebody a card like this:

Is this an opposite of an “I’m sorry” card - the “Say you’re sorry”?

Or is this a card you get in the mail along with a notification of a spanking you’re going to receive?

The accusatory fingers scare me a bit… but not as much as they clearly scare the despairing little figure on the card. Perhaps, the next card in the series shows the little figure’s spanking by Disembodied Hands of Doom?

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* Yes, I’m still unpacking. I think that’s OK because it’s still January.

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Surrounded by gorgeous women at dinner the other evening. One of them at my table; the rest chatting away nearby to colleagues, friends, lovers.

And my mind wandered, as it so often does, to spanking. Which of the young ladies might not be averse to sliding over a welcoming lap, and having her ever-so-smart skirt lifted up?

Indeed, were any of them perched on already-warm behinds? A quick ‘bend over’ before they’d left for the restaurant? Or even a more serious, “We have something to discuss” leading to a hard, deserved caning before the cab arrived, and an uncomfortable ride drying tears and regaining composure.

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The following dialogue occurred last week between Abel in London and me at home.

Abel: Sat at the O2 surrounded by cuties going to the Spice Girls, about to eat in the “S&M cafe”. I so want one of their waitress’s uniforms…

Haron: See if you can get a uniform off of a cutie for a few pounds. As a bonus, she’ll have to go naked, and will also get a spanking from her manager from selling the uniform.

Some days I feel like apologising to Abel for creating the impression that he is the evil one here.

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Whilst I have never spanked a work colleague or client…

…OK, only once…

…I do enjoy making toppish comments in meetings, with a perfectly innocent expression on my face. (”Kinky? That? What do you mean?”).

Two such observations cropped up in the past 48 hours. First, to the delegate who persisted in chatting about the *most* inappropriate topics to her neighbour as I was trying to re-start a course after a break. She’d been warned; it took the following to restore her concentration:

If you’re not going to behave yourself, I’ll have to send you out of the room.

And then a dinner meeting this evening with a colleague (and long-standing friend) who was accompanied by her partner. She made a very brattish comment - inevitably I reacted with:

Behave yourself, young lady.

The blush and the glance she threw in her partner’s direction (so similar to Haron’s expression when hearing a startle) left me in little doubt that she was familiar both with the phrase, and the consequences.

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The next entry in the series comes from “Drury’s Manual of Education”, published in 1903.

In turn, it quotes the “Circular No. 212 issued to H.M. Inspectors in 1882″, which states in relation to corporal punishment in schools that:

The subject is one on which your own observation is necessarily incomplete, since children are not likely to be punished in your presence on the day of inspection. But you will not fail, in your intercourse with teachers and managers, to impress on them that the more thoroughly a teacher is qualified for his position, by skill, character and personal influence, the less necessary it is for him to resort to corporal chastisement at all.

When, however, the necessity arises, the punishment should be administered by the Head Teacher and an entry of the fact should in their Lordships’ opinion be made in the Log Book.

Hey, I like the idea that the better the teacher, the less likely he’ll be to cane the pupils. I should remember to tell Abel. I’m sure he’ll want to be considered the best teacher, ever.

In the Revised Instructions for 1902, further reference is made to the subject:

The infliction of punishment is to some extent a confession of defeat by the authority that inflicts it.

Oh, dear. Abel, I hope you’re listening. A hundred years ago they were already onto you.

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It’s tough being back at work, back in the real world, after our long Christmas - birthday - New Year vacation. One can’t help but reminisce fondly of lazy mornings by the pool, cocktails overlooking the ocean. I’ve been reflecting that training staff for posh hotels like the ones we stayed in must be a real challenge, with picky guests who’d find fault with every minor slip.

I’m sure the girls who made up the bedrooms so neatly each day receive thorough training, though. They’d work in tandem with a more experienced member of staff, learning as they go, before being allowed to work alone.

Their manager would obviously check their early solo efforts, to make sure they met the resort’s exacting standards. One room would be picked at random each day and inspected especially thoroughly. For each mistake, the young lady could expect to receive a stroke of the tawse on an outstretched hand. The assessments would continue – one whack here, four there – until the new team member had achieved perfection for three days in succession.

One could also picture a new graduate fresh from a top hotel school, yet – as with all management trainees – starting by learning the minutiae of her trade. She discovers that one of the managers is someone she knew at college; he’d graduated in her fresher year. They’d flirted; she’d not taken it any further. And guess who’d organise the rotas to make sure he was supervising the maids on the day of her first solo run?

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My dreams are full of spankings these days. I could blame it on a few intense play-days I’ve had last week or have coming up, or maybe I could blame it on being parted from Abel while he’s working away, or maybe I should stop looking for a reason and just enjoy it.

Anyway, last night I was a student teacher at a big mixed state school. One of my responsibilities was to spend some of my office hours consoling students who had been punished. Any boy or girl who had been spanked could come into my office, have tea, biscuits and a box of tissues to wipe their eyes.

In the particular episode I remember from the dream there was a queue of people to be paddled at the Headmaster’s door down the corridor, and they kept arriving at my office one by one for their consoling hug and a cup of tea.
I’m still puzzled as to what the paddle was doing in the hands of a British Headmaster.

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A frank discussion with kinky friends recently concerned our early porn-reading days as teenagers. How I enjoyed some of those long summer holidays from school – parents safely out of the way, pocket money in hand and the local newsagent’s top shelf just in reach!

It did seem that I had a rather unusual approach to my porn-reading, though. You see, browsing naughty magazines for me involved the use of a red pen. Pictures of delectable backsides soon became adorned with hand-drawn stripes, as I pictured the canings and whippings that the scantily-clad (nay, often completely unclad) young ladies would have received. “Readers’ Wives” became “Spanked Readers’ Wives”; “Penthouse” transmuted into “Jailhouse” and “Men Only” (a particular favourite) metamorphosed into “Strict Men Only”.

And that was before I’d realised that I was kinky, or even what “kinky” was.

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When you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep, what do you do?

Mostly, I listen to audiobooks or podcasts on my iPod, but last night it was out of battery after a train journey. I had to resort to counting sheep.

Hang on, thought I, sheep? Why? I’d rather count something pleasant, that would carry me off to an interesting dream.

At first, I thought about counting cane strokes landing on a schoolgirl’s bottom as she is bent over a trestle. Then the count got a little too high, my schoolgirl was getting too sore, and the fantasy needed adjustment.

I started simply counting schoolgirls as they walked past single-file, imagining each one in every detail. This didn’t particularly work either, because I couldn’t figure out where they were going in such great numbers, and this nagged me, and wouldn’t let me go to sleep.

Finally I got onto the perfect solution.

I had the whole school lined up around a courtyard. This was an assembly following a major riot. In the middle there was a trestle.

Each schoolgirl was going to walk to the trestle, raise her skirt, bend over and receive six stroke of the cane from a gowned housemaster. I would count them to the middle, count the stroke, and carry on to the next girl.

This worked its calming wonders: I got through about fifteen girls and their stripes before I fell asleep. I still prefer my iPod, but now I’m well prepared for any future technical difficulties.

If you wish to try out this method and report back on your success, I’m sure we will all be interested in hearing how you get on!

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We continue our ongoing trawl of the Old Bailey’s archives. 18-year-old Sarah Barker found herself before Lord Chief Barron’s court on this day in 1796.

She “was indicted for feloniously stealing, on the 26th of December, two cotton gowns, value 12s. a stuff skirt, value 2s. a muslin cap, value 6d. a muslin handkerchief, value 12d. and a linen apron, value 12d. the property of Christopher Hanson.”

Mary Hanson gave evidence:

I sell milk in Whitechapel-road, near the turnpike: On the 26th of December, I lost the things mentioned in the indictment, (repeating them); the prisoner was my servant; she had left me six months; I saw them a few days before; they were kept in a drawer in the chamber; it was not locked: I did not miss them till the 4th of January; on missing them, I went in pursuit of the prisoner, and found her in a person’s room in Jewry-street, with a cap and handkerchief of mine on; I asked her where the remainder of the things she had taken were; she said she had made away with them, and would shew me where; she said they were at two different pawnbrokers; I took her with me, and charged her with a constable.

The gowns were produced by the two pawnbrokers, who swore that they had received them from the prisoner. Faced with such overwhelming evidence, “The prisoner did not say any thing in her defence, but called Joseph Hurry , who deposed that she had neither father nor mother, but that he had taken her into his house, where she had been four years, and bore a good character.”

Found guilty, a private whipping was the painful sentence for young Sarah.

I’m curious as to when, were and how the punishments would have been administered. I’m picturing Miss Barker being taken to a dark, dank, candle-lit cell beneath the courtrooms. She’d be stripped, tied facing a post with her hands above her head, begging for mercy. Despite her pleas, a burly gaoler would lay on the lashes until she was well-striped and sobbing. I do hope that Mr Hurry was waiting to comfort and console her.

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