The Spanking Writers

I have a persistent dream in which I’m forced to return to school. It’s the real me, at my real age, after getting my real degree. I get a letter that says I’ve been missing lessons, and unless I want my parents to be arrested, I should come to school.

Last night I had to sit a history test. (It was helpfully written in Latin.) The teacher kept lecturing me that, just because I’d spent ten years in higher education, I wasn’t too special to obey the law and go to school.

I woke up from the nightmare paralysed with despair of failing the test, and tried to calm myself with how I wished the dream would have gone if I could have directed it.

Instead of taunting me, the teacher would have been sympathetic. Of course, it was hard to become a schoolgirl again, to obey the rules imposed by grown-ups when you’ve been a grown-up yourself for a while.

It was hard, but I still had to obey the law; to come to lessons when I was told, to do the homework, to keep my cheeky remarks to myself. He would help me as much as he could. But if he thought I was being obstinate…

Here he would pause significantly, and flick a look into the corner of the classroom, where one of my friends would be standing with her skirt up, her spanked bottom facing the class. “I won’t enjoy doing it, but I will, if I think you need it. I will spank you, for your own good.”

But the dream didn’t go like that. Maybe next time. If I have to tread the dreamland as a schoolgirl again, I might at least have a spanking to make up for it.

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Haron and I went to the theatre with our dear friend Martha last week: the lead actor in the production had an air of menance that set my mind wandering. It took a few days, but this is what popped up as a result:–

“It was a dare. I’m really sorry.” A moment’s miscalculation, an outbreak of misplaced bravado, a bonding experience now gone horribly wrong as they stood in the miserable storeroom above the cafe.

The second girl spoke up. “We can pay for our drinks; of course we can. We really didn’t mean to run off.”

Their inquisitor’s silence continued as he watched the young ladies squirm before him. Eventually, he spoke, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper: “Girls who steal deserve to be punished. Severely.”

“Please, sir, we’re sorry” mingled with “Please don’t call the police.” It was the latter that caused him to laugh loudly.

“Do you know who I am?” They didn’t. Until he told them his name, and they realised that their local coffee store was just one of the business interests of the notorious local mafia chief. Not a man to cross, feared by the local community - and yet they had just stolen from him.

He had his assistants strip them and tie them over the chairs, but he himself wielded the cane. Hard. No ’six of the best’, this: twenty each, powerful, punishing, until they begged and pleaded and fell silent save for their sobs.

And then he allowed them to compose themselves, to dress, and sent them on their way with dire warnings - and a request for them to hand over the cost of two cappuccinos to the coffee shop’s manager on their way out…

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Sometimes a mere photograph of a book cover can generate hours of daydreaming. Mind, not any old book, but the Punishment Book used at Llandeilo Workhouse in Wales from 1878-1907:

One example: three young inmates who…

… instead of going to school absconded and walked to Llanelly where they were seen wandering about by the Police and locked up”. The Master retrieved them the following day, for which he “applied 6 strokes with a birch”.

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Drum roll…Curtain opens…

My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen… (and the rest of you )

We are delighted to announce…

For the first time ever…

“The Spanking Writers”, our book!

Yes, folks, it’s true. We’ve finally made it into print. We’ve just taken delivery of our own copies of the anthology which brings together the highlights of the first two years of our blog (that would be 2006 and 2007). And it looks wonderful: hardback, a lovely dust jacket which you can remove if you want to read it in public, and so many fond memories as we read through the entries that we love the most.

If you fancy buying a copy, you can get it here. (It should be on Amazon before long, but we get to keep more pennies if you buy it from our own store. Not that we’re ever going to be millionaires, mind, but it’d be nice not to lose money on the deal). Happy reading!

Fiona Locke, the best-selling author of “Over the Knee” has this to say about the book:

“Discipline has never been sweeter. Quite simply some of the best spanking erotica you will read anywhere. The authors are imaginative, literary and above all, genuine.”

(Should we say something like “great gift idea - buy early for Christmas”? Or just “why not treat yourself to a little relaxing reading before falling asleep…”)

Here endeth the commercial break.

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So, teachers’ union was on strike the other day. Apparently, one school in three was closed around the country. The parents were complaining a lot about having to arrange childcare, but the students didn’t look too upset about missing a day of school.

I imagined a pair of schoolgirls, best friends or maybe sisters. Their school is on strike, but Mum and Dad don’t have to know, do they? The girls get ready for school in the morning, walk out of the house, neat in the uniforms. Except, in their backpacks there are jeans and trainers, and they’ve broken their piggy-banks to get a fare to the nearest mall.

…Of course the parents find out.

What do you think the punishment would be?

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I must stop dreaming of reform schools. The latest? “Reformatory Idol”.

Yes, dear readers, the entire synopsis for a game show series revealed itself in my slumber. A dozen girls, competing for early release and a prized post on the staff of some distinguished aristocrat. Each week, a different skill to be mastered: folding linens, setting tables, ironing… all of the essentials for a well-trained maid in a good household.

Each week, one tearful contestant would be eliminated. The coverage would show the week’s instruction, the contest in which they demonstrated their newfound skills – and footage from the girls’ lives in the reformatory.

No doubt one unfortunate would earn herself a caning during the week. The camera team wouldn’t be allowed to film the punishment itself, of course. Rather, we’d see the girl waiting outside the master’s office; we’d hear the sounds of each stroke (clearly audible through the door); we’d watch as she emerged, wiping away the tears.

Mr Cowell? I have a proposal for you…

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One little phrase in an item reproduced from a newspaper’s archive really caught my imagination recently. In a story from the start of the last century, of a young criminal “sentenced to 14 days’ imprisonment and 10 lashes”, the Salmon Arm Observer commented that:

It is interesting to note that it was necessary to send to the coast for a lash, this being the first time such a thing has been required.

Oh, the anticipation…

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Last week’s Sunday Times Magazine featured a “day in the life” feature by the Headmaster of Eton: a soliloquy about things he will normally do on a working day.

Apparently, while the boys “take refreshments” mid-morning, the staff at Eton come together every day for “Chambers”, which, the esteemed gentleman says -

…enables the house masters to see me if there is a disciplinary problem with a boy - anything from missing a lesson to more serious matters. The boy gets summoned to my office, usually just before lunch. It’s a pretty formal appointment: the system is called “the Bill”. I always listen to what the boy has to say. Sometimes he has a different perspective on a situation. It’s not always a simple exercise in administering punishment.

But mostly, it’s about punishment, right? I can see a fantasy school adopting this formal summoning procedure. The glowering housemaster, the menacing pause.

“I shall be speaking to the Headmaster about this at the Chambers, young lady.”

Milk and chocolate biscuits tasting like paste, as she wonders what is being said.

The summons.

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I stayed in a hotel in the deep Hampshire countryside last month: a lovely little rural pub converted into a very chic little restaurant-with-rooms. Everything was quite perfect – until a power cut at three in the morning, which caused something electronic to splutter a dying bleep, waking me with a start.

It was *dark*. Not your normal dark – dark backlit by the faint glow of city lights, of street lamps, of distant passing cars – but properly, I’m-in-the-middle-of-nowhere dark.

As I lay on the bed, unable to get back to sleep, I whiled away some of the time imagining a kinky variant of this pitch black world. The prison cells lined a narrow corridor, deep in some dank stone dungeon. No natural light here, just the flicker of the torches flaming on the walls. And before the guards departed for the evening, even those would be extinguished, leaving the women – the king’s captured enemies? - engulfed by the absolute darkness until morning.

Except, some nights, their captors would return in the middle of the night. The prisoners would wake at the sound of the dungeon door being unbolted, at the stomp of approaching boots. Each girl would be praying: don’t let it be my turn. The guards, carrying candles, would stop outside the designated cell; would open it; would enter and step through the crowd of occupants to unlock the chains of the girl who was to be taken and whipped.

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A little while ago the “Modern Morals” column in “The Times” received the following question from an anonymous correspondent:

We were told to write a 3,000-word book report over a school holiday. Then we got a new English teacher, and our old one forgot about the report. As only three of us had done it, the rest of the class didn’t want us to hand in the work, in case the teacher made them do it, too. So we didn’t. But was it fair for us to have slogged for nothing when others didn’t do the work at all?

Oh, but I feel for the author of the letter, having been in a similar situation myself several times. Not with new teachers, but with old teachers who forgot all about the assignments they set. God, I used to hate that. The Times ethics columnist thinks the correspondent should be happy with all the precious learning they gained from reading the book and writing the report, and not to be the sort of swot who only worries about grading. He probably used to be the sort of person who would tease his classmates when they cared about their exam results, and call them swots.

Of course, if this situation occurred in my sort of school, the new teacher would turn out not to have forgotten about the assignment, but to have been waiting to see if the pupils are honest enough to turn in the essays when nobody had asked to see them. When there are no essays forthcoming, the entire class has to stay after school to write them in detention.

The three people who had done the homework in the first place, hand theirs in at the start of detention. They get a short lecture about bending down to peer pressure, and are allowed to go home. The rest of the class each have to stay until their work is done. As they come to the front with the finished paper, they each get two sharp licks of the tawse on each hand, to encourage their hard work in the future.

…Never let it be said I can’t nurse a grudge.

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