The Spanking Writers

The Headmaster’s was evidently furious, as he lectured the hastily-assembled sixth-formers from the stage. “In all of my years as a schoolmaster, I have never encountered such wilful misconduct by such a large group of girls.”

“I am minded to give each and every one of you six of the best.” Stunned silence: girls winced, threw scared glances at their friends, reached for neighbours’ hands.

He paused, as if for effect. “But I fear that the time involved in punishing so many of you would prove unacceptably disruptive to the school day, so intend to adapt the Roman approach to quelling insubordination in the ranks. I shall therefore select one girl in every ten at random; each of those chosen will find a letter in their pigeonhole before chapel tomorrow morning, asking them to report to my study before lunch to be caned.”

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Amazing the kinky concepts one dreams up with ten hours to kill on a transatlantic flight. No idea what they’d done - mass truancy, a brawl with a neighbouring school, boycotting a session with an eminent visiting speaker?  But I rather enjoyed the idea, even if it’s entirely impractical for a play scene - after all, the nine girls left out would be distraught!

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I have a question for the girls.

Seriously, girls only; chaps, look away.

The question is this. When you go to stay with your parents, do you take your… er… buzzy toys with you?

I have never before contemplated this idea, but then, I’ve never faced such a long time alone in Vanillaville - not since I discovered buzzy toys, anyway.

I made and remade my mind on this a dozen times before leaving. “My parents’ flat! Sacrilege! - What’s the big deal about that? It’s not my childhood home or anything, no memories of innocence to despoil. - But my mother is such a light sleeper! - Yes, and Ann Summers make quiet toys. - But airport security OMG! - Yeah, and? You’ve flown with canes before, woman. And you’ve got a spanking book in your luggage. Any qualms about that?

Anyway, I gave in to my devil-may-care side, and Mr Buzzy travelled with me.

So yes. How do you girls deal with this dilemma? Is it even a dilemma for you?

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One of my work responsibilities is to act as an examiner for candidates hoping to achieve a particular, respected professional qualification. And whilst I don’t know the questions they’ll receive, I’m allowed to run a revision course for them in the day or days leading up to their test. I’m leading one such event out here in California, before this week’s conference.At the same time, a few of our friends here at The Spanking Writers are preparing to sit exams, of a different nature. Cue a different cut on the same theme, in my jetlagged I’ve-just-been- travelling-for 23.5-hours-non-stop slumbers a few nights ago.

The dream-exam was especially demanding: my preparation course lasted a whole month. Moreover, those attending (carefully hand-picked by their bosses) would have been expected to have to have studied extensively even before their arrival on the first day.

It was a small group - eight young ladies, locked away in a country house for the duration. Classes lasted from breakfast to late afternoon; “Evening study is expected and required.”

Each morning, I would pass a bag containing each of the girl’s names to one of the participants. She’d reach in, take out a rolled-up piece of paper: everyone would crane forward as she read out the name, and the chosen girl would be invited to the front of the class.

I’d pull round a wooden chair and position it in the centre of the room, its high back nearest the audience. The girl concerned would position herself behind the chair, facing away from the group, as I stood before her and posed my first question of that day’s twenty (drawn from past test papers).

She’d answer nervously, hesitantly, understanding the consequences of an incorrect response. Perhaps she’d get the first few right, but eventually a look of panic would cross her face. She’d mutter a guess, a look of panic crossing her face.

“No, young lady. Does anyone else know?” Some bright spark would inevitably call out the correct reply as I picked up the cane. “Bend over.”

She’d know that punishments were always on the bare, that there was no point in protesting. She’d lift her skirt, pull down her knickers, stretch forward into position and brace herself for the stroke that would follow. She’d hope to be brave; a yelp or a sob might inevitably be forthcoming as the rattan cut home. And there she’d stay for the remainder of her test, each wrong answer a further red stripe.

At the start of the course, it would not be unusual for a girl to get ten or more wrong: it would be a good check as to whether they’d revised with due diligence. As the course progressed, a girl might get away with three, four strokes. And by the eve of the exam, one would hope not to have to wield the cane at all. Job done, girls prepared, ready to pass.

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A couple of nights ago I was getting ready for an early-morning flight*, and I had a Sky News review programme on in the background.

They were talking about the following day’s papers, and one of the pundits - somebody called Michael Brown - was highly indignant about a new system of road tax. He was really not liking it.

“The government is going to wallop the new car owners! They are going to get caned! Really caned. They are getting smacked with this tax.”

This is nearly verbatim - they talked about this issue for about twenty minutes, and the guy brought the caning into it every time it was his turn to speak.

My thoughts sort of drifted, and I imagined being able to get a caning instead of paying road tax. I would probably do it, thought it would depend on the rates.

I wonder, where would you go to pay your caning tax? In the Post Office maybe, like with the current tax disc?

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* I’m staying with my parents for a few weeks in Vanillaville. Woe is me. Well, not really; I’m glad to be back.

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I never can fathom the vagaries of airline security. Take your laptop out of your bag here; leave it encased there. Remove your shoes; pad barefoot through the grime. The only consistency is that they seem to think that humans have at least four hands, to hold all of the items which we’ve had to unpack or from which we’ve disrobed by the time we brave the scanners.

Our local airport seems particularly prone to making it up as they go along. As I headed out towards the States at the weekend, the young lady looked me up and down, and smiled ever-so-sweetly. Politely, she made her request: “Please remove your belt, sir.”

I suddenly realised that I’d found many a girl’s ideal job: eyeing up the toppish looking men, and getting that certain frisson as she watched them whip out their their belts.

I folded mine neatly, doubling it over carefully before placing it on top of the tray before her. I smiled. She smiled back. I wondered…

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The bookshop chain Waterstones has launched a contest called “What’s your story?” It’s essentially a story competition, in which you write your story on the back of a card you pick up in any shop.

Like so:

I’m enormously tempted to launch my own competition, for those who are tempted to subvert a Waterstones story card. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can afford the subsequent lawsuit…

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The girls walking through the town centre in front of me were weighed down with textbooks. A Level students, I guessed, exams looming, in the midst of a mutually-supportive “shall we go and revise together in the coffee shop” trip.Only when they sat down, one would turn to the other: “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You remember… when you got the cane last term. What - what happened? How does he do it? Was it really awful?”

Her best friend would blush, then go pale, glancing round to make sure that none of the other customers had heard. With tears welling up: “I… I’d rather not talk about it.”

“It’s just that…” She gulped: “The Headmaster’s secretary caught me as I was leaving school on Friday afternoon, and told me to report to him after assembly on Monday morning. And I’m really worried that he’s found out that I forged my sicknote when I stayed at home on Wednesday…”

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“I’m going to have a bath.”So how could I resist? I waited until Haron was undressed and about to step into the deep, warm, bubbly water, and stormed in - cane in hand. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at, young lady?”

She giggled, and tried to look serious. I thought I’d better explain. “Did I not tell you very clearly that you were to report to your Housemaster straight after the game? And yet I find you’ve ignored me and come to get washed and changed.”

She was trying hard not to smile, as she yes-sirred me.

“Now get into the bath, and stand with your hands on the wall.”

“But it’s hot….”

“Well more of you will be hot in a moment. This will teach you to get sent off playing hockey.”

Six strokes followed: quite nasty little cutting ones. On the fourth, my backswing msy have been at an odd angle: the trajectory of the cane made it catch a glancing blow on the shower curtain on its way down. She squeaked with surprise at the odd impact that resulted. “Quiet girl: that will have hurt the shower curtain far more than it hurt you.”

Somehow we avoided collapsing into peals of laughter before the final two had been administered. And then I left her in peace, to sit down in the hot bath on her freshly-hot stripes.

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There are some dreams that are just kinky enough to provide nice frisson, but are otherwise completely nuts.I dreamt I was a student in Hogwards, and Lord Voldemort was in charge. There was plenty of punishment around, including caning for the most serious misbehaviour.

In this dream, I was my kinky self. I wanted to get caned.

There was, however, one catch: when you were caught at a caning offence for the second time, you were sent straight to Voldemort, and probably got killed.

Er… not hot. I’d like to lodge a complaint with the ministry of kinky dreams.

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We must be corrupting Smudge, who many of you will know from her regular and lovely comments, because she and I were struck by the same startle last Friday.

I’d been heading to work when I found myself driving behind a truck with the registration number “FL06 ABC”. (Well, the final three letters weren’t ‘ABC’, before you track down the driver - but it was the thought of the flogging that caught my eye).

I’d been wondering all day where I could buy the registration “FL06 HER” for my car. And then Smudge emails me:

“I was in a car park and there was this little car parked opposite me. And its license plate’s last 3 letters were ‘oww’. And my first thought, when I realised that? ‘The driver of that car got spanked.’”

Smudge, my dear, Haron and I are duly ashamed for corrupting you. Honestly… (Haron, stop that hysterical laughter right now).

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