The Spanking Writers

I was always going to be excited by an interview with Forest Whitaker in the Guardian.

I was always going to be even more excited by a casual description of his role in “The Great Debaters”:

“I play Denzel’s father,” says Whitaker. “I’m very conservative, I teach theology at the university and I deal with my son very strictly and then he starts to assert himself.”

But after my recent spanking dream starring the man? My fantasies just will. not. stop. Can he come and play my father now?

As a passionate anti-monarchist, my ire was roused this morning by government plans to make every pupil swear allegiance to the queen as part of a new school-leaving ceremony. (And that was before I started to wonder how much this would all cost).

But then I realised: this was a wonderful scene idea. One girl called forward by the Headmaster would refuse to make the pledge. She would be sent to wait outside his study. And, since she had failed to complete the school-leaving ceremony, she would still be entirely eligible to be caned for her public show of dissent.

I am now entirely grateful to the team of civil servants who dreamt up the idea, and look forward to further suggestions from the Ministry of Kinky Proposals.

Our lovely web host Laughing Squid is doing some work on their servers soon, and this means I can no longer put off the frightening task of upgrading our blog to a version of WordPress that hasn’t got dinosaurs’ footprints all over it.

I will probably break it a few times before everything works as it should, but don’t panic: I’ll fix it again. Today. I hope. Whatever you do, don’t tell Abel anything went wrong even for a second, or my techie credentials are ruined forever.

Update: You can stop holding onto your hats now. Everything’s upgraded to within an inch of its life, and seems to be working fine. That said, if you find that something’s misbehaving, please drop me a line, so that I can panic fix it.

When Abel came home for the weekend, I reminded him that my guardian still hadn’t dealt with me for coming bottom of the class over our school weekend. (Although I was surprised to have done so badly, I was happy to exploit the situation. And why not?)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need much convincing. We had a little chat about what we thought the history was between me and my guardian. We established that, although he had never spanked me before, last time I came bottom of the class he had promised me a caning if I didn’t shape up. And here I was again, not at all improved.

I did try to argue, when, standing in front of him in his office, I was faced with his reproaches. I said that, to my mind, I was very much improved. It was only that the other girls had also improved, and because my position was dependent on how other girls scored, it was unfair to punish me for their improvement. Did that impress my guardian? Not in the least.

He made me stand in the corner while he shuffled the furniture and picked an implement behind me. Trying to impress him with how good I was, I didn’t peek at all, even though I was dying to know which cane he had chosen. Finally, he told me to bare my bottom and bend over the chair.

“How many times have you been caned this term?” he asked.

This was a very hard question. I was glad he didn’t ask how many times I was punished, because there had been so many random smacks, swats and licks of the strap, I would never have remembered them all.

“Um, about five?” I guessed. (Probably wrong, but best I could do under the circumstances.)

“And what was the biggest number of strokes you received?”

“Twelve, sir.” I knew that. I remembered each one.

“Very well. I will give you the same number. You will count them and thank me.”

I couldn’t believe how much the first stroke hurt. The office is quite narrow, and doesn’t have much swinging space, so I just wasn’t prepared to the overwhelming pain that suddenly assaulted me. I was struggling by the fifth stroke. It was only my guardian mercifully quick delivery of the last several strokes that helped me get through it. If I was the crying sort, I would have been sobbing.

“You may get up and adjust your clothing,” he said curtly. I did, sniffling, and dancing on the spot as my previously comfy soft trousers brushed past my injured parts.

“Stop these dramatics, young lady, you are used to being caned,” said my evil guardian.

I nearly burst out laughing at the idea that you can somehow get used to being caned. If I were a cheeky sort, I would have suggested that he cut his finger every week for a year, and saw whether it started hurting less the more he did it. However, I decided I’d been punished enough, so I meekly said: “You can’t get used to it, sir.” I don’t think he believed me.
After I was dismissed, we had our after-scene cuddles, and I finally asked to see the cane he had used. Well, no wonder it had hurt: it’s a very short, very thick, unbelievably stiff piece of wood. More of a swagger stick than a cane. However, it didn’t need to be swung very high, which was, apparently ideal for the cramped office conditions.

I would probably burn it, if I didn’t suspect some of our friends would rather enjoy making its acquaintance.

I will tell you one thing: if by some unfortunate accident I will come bottom of the class again at a future school gathering, I’m not seeing my guardian afterwards. I don’t want to find out what he might do to me next time!

“Come here, young lady!” thunders the voice from the upstairs landing. Frowning, and trying to figure out what I might have done wrong, I trudge to the bottom of the stairs and look up at Abel.

“What have I done now?” I ask plaintively.

“Come up here.”

I heave a deep sigh, and ascend, one slow step at a time. “What have I done?”

“You are very naughty.”

“But what have I done?”

“Nothing yet, but you’re about to do something extremely naughty.”

He stares. I stare back. He finally dissolves into giggles.

“You’re about to eat this chocolate I got for you last week.”

And so I did. Mmm, it was sinful. If I were Catholic, I’d have to go to confession after that chocolate. However, I have one defence: he started it!

Oooo, my post about a reformatory weekend has certainly sparked some interest. Not least from me – my mind’s been generating ideas for it so quickly that I can hardly keep up. I want to play the scene NOW; forget the practicalities of having virtually no weekends free in the imminent future, of coordinating dates with other willing players, of needing to book a venue…

I envisage this being quite different to most scenes I play – much deeper, much darker. Usually, there’s the build up, the girls getting whacked – and then comforted, relatively shortly afterwards. The aim’s to take a girl to a dark place, then rescue her from it before she’s too traumatised.

But a weekend reformatory? In which the government’s aim is to change a girl’s behaviour over the course of her Friday night to Sunday morning sentence? That involves taking a girl to dark, dark, dark places behind the locked doors – and not rescuing her from them until the end of the lengthy scene. So what if she’s sobbing? That’ll show that the punishment is working, that the officers are doing their job. It’d be interesting to see how such a shift in mindset works – for the tops, as well as the girls; it’ll certainly need “serious, experienced, open-minded players only” stamped on top of the details of the venue.

The level of play will be interesting, too. Each girl will be expected to write a statement in advance – her papers, submitted to the magistrates, explaining the crime with which she has been charged, and pleading her innocence. Other court papers will be added to her folder, including the one pronouncing her guilt and her sentence. She won’t get to see these in advance, naturally – indeed, she’ll be given relatively little information other than where to report, and when, and a few rumours circulated by (imagined) previous inmates.

She’ll be ‘in role’ from the moment she walks through the front door. Her packing list will be light: a toothbrush and a towel; a prison uniform will be provided, in her size.

The c.p. will be hard. Very hard. There’ll be the aforementioned court-ordered birching: a girl won’t know when her thrashing will be administered. Will they be punished individually or in a group? One at a time over the course of the weekend, or immediately following each other to the birching block at some juncture? Or lined up next to one another, facing one another, birched in unison?

Any transgressions will be dealt with severely: the cane, of course, but the heavy prison strap too. On the bare. In public, and in private: the girls will probably come to pray for it to be in public, with their friends around. The house rule will be that the players consent in advance to the level of punishments that may be dealt out: reformatory guardians don’t tailor their discipline to the whims of each prisoner. (Safewords? Of course, if the specific girl wants it in reserve, but some may choose to abandon them at the prison gate).

On the bare. Yes, there’ll be admissions procedures, and inspections, and showers, and drills. Nudity is inevitable, and the officers’ hands may have a tendency to stray. (The level to which said hands will stray is perhaps the only facet of the weekend where preferences will have to be stated clearly in advance, and adhered to dutifully. But stray they will. And did I only say ‘hands’? I know there’ll be some girls who’ll consent in advance to other types of abuse, and that’d be entirely appropriate for the scene).

Girls will be locked in their cells, alone. Even if the house that ends up being rented may not have locks on the doors: there’ll be virtual locks, which girls won’t open. At least, given their guardians’ reputation, they’ll probably pray to be left undisturbed. Any ‘comfort’ before the weekend’s out may come at a price.

They’ll be made to perform tasks (this is about re-education, after all) helping them to learn to become model citizens. And there’ll be no cordon bleu cuisine – at least not for the girls. (I shocked Haron yesterday by commenting that the bread we were about to toast was slightly stale – “but not stale enough for the reformatory girls”).

Would all of our friends be able to immerse themselves deeply enough into the headspace to take such a punishment? I’m sure not. But I do hope that there’ll be a fair few of them who still want to try. And I’m already looking forward to the Sunday cuddles afterwards – they’ll be needed as much by the ex-officers as by their former prisoners.

Dark, dark, dark. I so hope we can make it work.

Inspired, no doubt, by our weekend away, I’ve been incubating a very pervy idea over the past few days – with help from our friend Martha. I’ve imagined a reformatory – not the sort of establishment to which girls are send for long periods, but rather one established by the government to give them a “short, sharp shock”.

We’d book a discreet country house for the weekend: a few gentlemen, a group of girls, all experienced and trustworthy players. The young ladies would be made to report to the house at 6pm on Friday, where they’d be met by the officers. The front door would be locked and bolted behind them. Sound punishment and “re-education” sessions would be the order of the day, amidst periods in which they’d be locked in their ‘cells’ alone. A court-ordered birching would feature at some point of the weekend for each girl. They’d be released on Sunday morning (just in time for all concerned to find a nice pub for Sunday lunch!).

It’s the birching that filtered through into my dreams last night. A girl in a reformatory was being led to the punishment room to be caned; as the officer took her   past the reception area, she took her chance and somehow escaped. She was tracked down, found cowering in a corner of a back street, and led back to imprisonment.

The Governor dealt with her personally: the girl was tied, naked, over a punishment frame in front of the other assembled inmates for him to administer the dreaded birch. And once he’d finished, he turned to his officers and commented, “Now, I believe that this young lady was on her way to the punishment room to be caned. Please: take her on her way and continue.”

As far as my spanking fetish is concerned, I’ve got two absolute favourite things: being a schoolgirl, and role-playing complicated, drawn-out scenes. Mix the two together, and you get a happy Haron in a state of kinky bliss.

Abel and I were lucky enough to spend last weekend participating in the longest, most immersing school role-play experience either of us had ever tried: a boarding school, complete with lessons, assemblies, chapel, school play, dorm inspections, games and homework. Oh, and spankings for the girls who misbehaved.

Describing the whole thing would turn any blog post into a novel (and would do nasty things to other people’s privacy), but I can’t resist posting some highlights – the bright pictures flashing up in my memory’s eye.

1. Each girl carries a “points book”, wherein her achievements and misdeeds are recorded. During a lesson Abel demands to see mine. I toss in across the room at him, marvelling at my own audacity. Pause. With a cold voice, he orders me to get out of his classroom. There are only a few minutes of the lesson left, but this is enough for several other masters to wander on the way to and from their bedrooms. Each gives me a knowing look. My Housemaster walks past. “Why are you here, girl?” I explain, cringing. He simply says, “Mmm-hmm.” I expect to hear about this again at the house meeting later in the evening. The noise level in the classroom rises as Abel emerges, cane in hand. Bent over a chair with my skirt up, I receive three sharp, measured strokes. I can’t help jumping up after each one. This is my first punishment of the “school term”, and it remains the most painful.

2. We are not allowed to ask for anything at meals; we must wait to be offered. Thus, if we are to have any hope to get fed ourselves, we should look out for our neighbours needs, and practice heavy hinting. “Would you like some orange juice?” you ask a girl whose glass is full of water. It takes her two seconds to twig it, and then – “No, thank you, but would you like some yourself?” “Why, yes please, how kind of you to ask!”

3. Some of the girls have university degrees in the subjects that are taught, but we are careful not to be too clever. Nobody wants to earn too many points to get spanked later. All the same, the behaviour is mostly unbelievably good. At one point the master sets a task and leaves for a good five minutes. There is no mischief, no conversations, nobody throws paper planes or gets out the pea-shooters. He comes back to find an impeccable classroom. (The only miscreant being yours truly, caught reading a book for the next lesson under the desk. But I’d finished my task, what can I say!)

4. There are two houses, five girls in each. We have our assemblies in the evening. The Housemaster and the junior master attached to the house examine our points books. One girl is praised and dismissed, the rest are sent to queue for their punishment outside. We end up huddling on a tiny landing. I’m the second to go in, but after my punishment (consisting of a spanking, a surprise mouth-soaping earned on the spot, and 8 of the best), I linger to the end, offering and receiving comfort from the others. We can hear the other house assembly finish, and our dinner being served, but we wait in the dark, shell-shocked. We are the naughtiest of the naughty.

5. Abel has inspired me to a piece of naughtiness I would never have perpetrated on my own. Visiting Blackpool several days previously, we happened upon a shop selling sticks of rock (local traditional sweets) inscribed with messages, from names to insults. We bought five pieces saying “Pervert”, and I conspired with the kitchen staff for these to be served to the teachers with their whisky in the staffroom. In assembly, the Headmaster demands that the guilty party owns up. I’m so deep in a schoolgirl head that my tongue freezes in my mouth: I don’t dare speak up. I think better of it almost immediately, but the moment for confession is gone. All morning I go through options in my head. I don’t want to go to the Head. Could I go to my personal tutor? Or ask the kitchen boy who had helped me to snitch on me? I the end, I do go to straight to the Headmaster, who coldly orders me to his office in break. I arrive there fresh from a caning from my Housemaster for an unrelated offence, but I can’t handle putting this off. I get a spanking, a good dose of leather paddle, and a dozen with the cane to sink the message in. The punishment itself is not the harshest ever, but the lecture is so crushing that I leave in tears.

This is as much as I’m comfortable writing without giving away anything somebody may want to keep secret. I hope that those of my playmates who happen to read this might consider adding their own experiences in the comments. You are all most welcome to reminisce with me. In fact, I hope you do!

A group of off-duty cabin stewardesses from a well-known airline were waiting to board my flight home from Heathrow late the other evening. Another of their number hurried up to the gate and joined her friends.

One of the gang looked surprised to see her, asking, “Which flight did you come in you on?”

“Number 9.”

“But doesn’t that land very early in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you only getting this connection?”

Her friend blushed extremely sweetly, looking guilty. “If you don’t ask me questions, I won’t tell you lies.”

I surpressed a giggle. But here’s the question. Had she:

a) misbehaved on the flight, and spent the day being soundly punished by the captain

or

b) been shagging one of the passengers senseless all day in a nearby hotel?

I favour the former, although the broad smile on her face suggested a Virgin by employ but not by nature…

The following poem was discovered by our friend Catherine, who has kindly shared it with the class during a lesson on Sunday:

Self-Sacrifice – Harry Graham, 1901

Father, chancing to chastise
His indignant daughter, Sue,
Said “I hope you realise
“That this hurts me more than you.”

Susan straightaway ceased to roar.
“If that’s really true,” said she,
“I can stand a good deal more.
“Pray go on, and don’t mind me.”

I completely understand and share the sentiment. In fact, when a top complains that spanking me is hurting his hand, all I can say is, “Call this a spanking”?