The Spanking Writers

Personally, I don’t think tops need any ideas. They are too creative by half. However, the following passage from a vanilla craft blog was so cute I’ve decided to risk putting ideas into somebody’s dangerous head:

Uncle David was in high school already and he had regaled us with stories of the electric paddle kept in the principal’s office. I had visions of an electric ceiling fan-like contraption into which a child would be strapped and the beating would commence! Rachel reassured me that he was only pretending - but I still spent first grade being VERY good! I didn’t want to take any chances! Hmmm… I wonder if my boys would fall for the electric paddle story?

by Naomi, to whom I don’t link
to avoid freaking her out

Actually, I’ve just remembered that our friend Domino owns an electric fly-swat, which she calls a “sub swat”. So somebody has obviously had the idea already…

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The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks

Fuck The Pope.

“The Church would have you believe that abstinence should be sufficient.”

Good Boy

“Despite my outward appearance, I still felt sexy as hell knowing what was underneath those misleading garments.”

May Masturbation Challenge: Progress Report day 10

“At the Dee & Apollo household, it’s early on Day 10 of the May Masturbation Challenge. ”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)

The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book

Editor’s Choice

UK Criminal Justice Bill Clause 63 - but what is “extreme”? - A Beginners Guide

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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I’m speaking at a conference in Palm Springs next week*, and (as often happens before I have a major presentation to give) I find myself rewriting my speech in my sleep. New content comes and goes; pictures of the audience flash into life; I wake up and scribble down any bright ideas.

See, it’s not just kinky stuff that fills my dreams. But last night the two merged. It was no longer a conference, but a school trip, and I was the master in charge. The group was sitting round a common room in the hostel we’d rented. (I imagine days spent walking up mountains in bracing fresh air, muddy boots left in the porch, steaming mugs of tea on our return). They were all good girls – the elite of the sixth-form; good friends.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. As an argument developed, one of the girls (my favourite, as it happened) raised not only her voice but her hand, slapping her adversary.

I intervened immediately, of course, before things got out of hand. She was sent from the room to wait for me outside my room; the remaining girls were lectured as to how disappointed I was in them. I made them tidy the room, wash up their mugs, and sent them early to bed.

She’d been waiting a fair while as a result before I made it to my room: her face was already tear-stained. I took her inside: her apologies were so heartfelt that scolding was barely necessary. But “you understand that I cannot let this go unpunished” made her nod, and “you realise how fighting would be dealt with were we at school” led to a murmured “I’d be caned, sir.”

“Would you rather I informed your Housemaster on our return, or dealt with this now?”

A pause, plucking up the courage. “Now, please, sir.”

No canes here, on a school trip. I pulled up an armchair, and instructed her to lower her jeans and knickers to her ankles, and bend over my knees. The spanking was hard – very hard: if a girl was to take a caning-equivalent, then each smack had to count. She wriggled, cried, subsided. Stood afterwards, as I held her and told her that it was all over and there was nothing to worry about.

* If you happen to live in Palm Springs, or San Francisco where I’m spending a few days afterwards, and fancy some kinky company, I’d love to meet you!

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All this talk of people being suspended from school is detrimental to the state of my bottom.On Friday Abel was working in a customer’s office all morning, while I stayed in the hotel, typing away on my own writing assignment. He called me to make a lunch date, and then said, “Do you think Daddy had a call from school to say his daughter had been suspended? So he has to leave work early?”

My husband makes a really frightening Daddy. I was already wincing in sympathy with the suspended girl, but of course I agreed.

And then promptly forgot all about it as I got back to work.

The reminder of my imminent fate came as a breaking wave as I heard the door lock buzz open. Yikes, I’m in trouble! squeaked a little voice inside my head. It didn’t make a slightest bit of difference that we were playing; when Abel - Daddy - walked into the room, a thunderous glare on his stony face, my heart was doing somersaults.

“I’m so sorry!” I blurted out before he could say a word.

But ’sorry’ wasn’t good enough, of course.

A stern interrogation followed. Thinking on the hoof, I admitted to having been rude to my teacher, screaming at her in the middle of the lesson. She sent me straight to the Headmaster, who was scandalised enough to send me home.

“Has he caned you?” Daddy asked.

Small voice: “No…”

“I see. He must have left it for me to do.”

My hands crept behind, as though I could hope to protect my bottom this way. “No, Daddy, he didn’t say anything about that!”

“I don’t need to take my cue from him. Take down your trousers.”

I unbuckled my belt; pushed down my jeans together with my knickers. He grabbed me by the upper arm and, sitting down on the bed, drew me over his lap. I heard myself give a high whine, like a frightened animal.

Smacks began to fall right away, shockingly loud in the big hotel room. I held on to the leg of his work trousers. Abel’s hand is a fearsome implement: some days I would rather take the cane than endure a hand-spanking from him. This time he wasn’t hard enough to make me levitate to the ceiling, but each smack felt like he was touching a hot iron to my bum. I yelped and apologised, and worked hard not to struggle too much, and very nearly succeeded.

“Get up,” he said finally, and I scrambled to my feet. “Sit at the desk and write a letter of apology to the teacher you insulted and to the Headmaster. Now.”

I shuffled to the desk, but about half-way there I heard a giggle behind me, and that’s when I knew Abel was finally back. I whipped around and bounced straight into his arms, and the fire in my bottom was suddenly a good thing.

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In my previous post I wrote about a the school sending an entire Sixth Form home. As soon as I posted that, Martha sent me a link to another article that seems to show that mass punishments are en vogue these days:

Head suspends 74 over computer game

A headmaster with a “zero-tolerance policy” for rule-breaking has suspended 74 children for a day after they downloaded a computer game. David Hampson, 57, who has been head of the 2,050-pupil Tollbar Business and Enterprise College in Grimsby, Lincolnshire, for 18 years, began the purge after a pupil installed the game on the school system. By the time it was detected by monitoring systems, dozens of children had copied it. The school was praised this year by Ofsted as “outstanding”. Mr Hampson, who has banned mobile phones, said that strong discipline was a critical factor.

- The Times, 14 May 2008

Very nice of the Headmaster to give the 74 people who now have the game some time off so that they can play it. I bet, they feel so chastened now…

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I’ve broken three canes during scenes in recent months. The girls concerned will no doubt be wincing as they read. (Or not, as the case may be: they’ll probably have big smiles on their faces).

I blame faulty manufacture, of course. I’d never whack a girl so hard as to break the cane across her deliberately…

… honest…

Although it presents me with a dilemma which I am unable to solve to my satisfaction. A Headmaster is caning a girl; she’s committed a particularly grave breach of school rules, and her attitude has been entirely unrepentant. Only the hardest six, of the very very best, could be appropriate.

He makes her count. One, two, three… and on the fourth stroke the cane breaks. He leaves her in position while he fetches a new cane from his cupboard. With the next stroke, she counts “five”.

Does he:

a) continue, applying the sixth and sending her on her way

b) correct her: “the previous whack didn’t count as the cane broke: that was only the fourth proper stroke.”

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We’ve just rejoined the National Trust, which looks after historic old buildings around the country. Not, of course, that any of our visits to said old buildings are purely for pervy pleasure, as we imagine life upstairs and downstairs. One of their properties caught my eye, and sounds like a must-visit location: The Workhouse at Southwell, apparently the best-preserved workhouse in England.

As ever, the Trust has tried to bring the history of the place to life. So, according to its website, visitors can:

Play ‘The Master’s Punishment’ game

OK, so I’m now wondering what this might entail. Will Haron be given a quiz to complete as she tours the property, a stern uniformed workhouse master marking her script, and applying the birch for every wrong answer? (Now there’s a job I’d enjoy for the summer season).

Maybe there’ll be a list of offences committed by the residents; visitors have to work out what the punishment would have been. Or perhaps the ‘game’ is more of a ‘guess the implement’: the girl’s tied down and whacked with the birch, cane, strap and more, having to work out which is which.

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Here’s an image: a long queue of sixth-formers outside the Headmaster’s study, a shuffling, subdued lot. Every few minutes one of their class-mates emerges from the office with a tear-streaked face, nods for the next person to go in, and walks stiffly away.

I wonder why I’ve been thinking about this all morning…

Oh, I know, it’s because of this news story:

The entire sixth year of a school was sent home on their last day after pupils turfed over the floor of their common room.

Teachers at Banchory Academy took the step after it was discovered some pupils had been drinking.

Aberdeenshire Council said it was decided to send all 100 pupils home.

This isn’t how they would deal with it in my school.

(Thanks to Simon Jenkins for sending me the link.)

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I’ve been very virtuous these past few days. See, the kind folks for whom I’m running a project at the moment will quite happily lay on a taxi from my hotel to their offices and back each day. Total cost to them - around £30.Or, as the weather’s nice and I’m so considerate, I could jump on the local bus for 90p each way - and take a short stroll in the lovely sunshine.

This morning, we were joined en route by a group of schoolgirls, all smartly-dressed in neat blazers. They discussed the revision they’d done over the weekend - good girls, clearly.

Good, that is, save one of their number. For she, dear readers, took out her mobile phone (banned on school premises), uttered an astonishingly rude word to the person she called (swearing: banned), and managed to combine the immaculate uniform with several items of jewellery (banned) and make-up (banned).

One can picture her face at the start of her first lesson of the day, when she spotted that the gentleman who’d sat next to her on the bus was their new supply teacher*. He’d have to send her out of his lesson to report to her Housemaster’s study, naturally, with a carefully-written note. After all, new masters need to establish their authority, and her tearful look as she winced her way into her desk on her return from her caning would demonstrate his strict approach most clearly.

* No, I was going to an office. I doubt they’d have me as a schoolmaster.

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Last week Abel brought me a souvenir of one of his lunchtime treats, lovingly folded for maximum effect:

Do you think the folks in the cafe had been expecting him, to have ordered these serviettes?

I also wonder if people with other fetishes get their own kind of napkin, with their own buzz words printed on them…

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