The Spanking Writers

A night of reformatory floggings; I became a Governor in my dreams last night.

First, I found myself showing some distinguished visitor around our facilities. We had stopped outside a door, and were peering through the glass window, watching the scene inside.

A young, uniformed, female officer – in her late twenties? – was circling around the punishment frame. Holding a birch. A pale girl was tied to a frame, quite naked. The upturned U of the frame presented her body to us from the side, perfectly symmetrical; her wrists and ankles were tied tight. It appeared that her flogging was just about to begin.

I turned to my guest, and explained that the officer concerned was one of our best. “You see, she was an inmate here herself when she was younger. I think we helped her to see the error of her ways. I had to whip her when she was here, you know: I’m sure she’s more effective at giving out punishments now having been on the receiving end herself.”

Sadly, the dream faded. But later, another young prison officer was seen waiting in a different punishment room. She was a trainee: the regulations demanded that she must ‘demonstrate her competence in the administration of corporal punishment’ as part of attaining her qualifications. Our system was simple: as the young officers drew near to their graduation, they would therefore be asked to act as the Punishment Officer for a random girl who’d broken the regulations. Under supervision, of course: the examiner stood to the side of the room, with his clipboard.

A prisoner was marched in. The door was bolted shut; her handcuffs unlocked. And a look of panic crossed the young officer’s face. For this was no random prisoner: this was a girl who she knew, who she liked, who she’d comforted and cuddled and helped through her sentence.

The examiner looked at the officer: “Read out the charge sheet.” (Refusing to return to her cell when instructed; lashing out at the guards who had come to take her away).

“And what punishment do the statutes lay down for those offences?”

“Eight to twelve strokes for refusing to return to her cell, sir. Twelve to eighteen for striking an officer, sir.”

“And what is your assessment in this case?”

“It states on the form that it is her first offence, sir. So I would see no reason to administer more than the minimum in each case. Twenty strokes in total, sir.”

“Very good. And what implement should be used?”

The officer looked down at the charge sheet, but knew already. “She’s nineteen, sir. So the senior prison cane.”

“Indeed.” The young officer walked to the corner of the room, unlocked the cupboard, took out the cane. And then looked at the prisoner, whose eyes pleaded for mercy, and ordered her to strip…

(Sadly, this dream too then faded before the administration of the punishment. But I’m sure we can imagine the rest…)

I’m glad the folks in charge of leaflet design for Stirling Old Town Jail museum know what sort of customers they are likely to attract.

The leaflet goes on to specify:

Right. Let’s get one thing straight. Absolutely nothing here has been designed for your comfort.

Oh, good… I like to be uncomfortable and afraid.

For a very short little while.

I visit a company in Brussels about four times a year. It makes for a pleasant break from my usual routine – the client’s friendly; the city offers moules, frites, beer, waffles and exceptionally fine chocolate.

Since my last trip in the spring, their office has been completely refurbished. Gone are the poky little corridors – everything’s now airy and light.

We wandered along a row of lovely glass-walled offices towards our meeting room. Familiar sounds could be heard from one – the crack of the cane, the yelps of the girl being punished. We glanced in as we walked past: she had just clambered to her feet, and was rubbing her bottom, tearfully. She was apologising, he was sitting at his desk completing the requisite paperwork.

(Actually, no such luck. But as the idea crept into my mind, I confess that, momentarily, I quite lost track of what my client was saying…)

I’m reading a rather wonderful book, “Schools of Hellas” by Kenneth J Foreman, published in 1907.

In this rather lengthy, juicy paragraph he describes the arrangements for the education of young Spartans:

At seven the boys were taken away from home, and organised in a most systematic ways into ‘packs’ and ‘divisions’… These packs fed together, slept together on bundles of reeds for bedding, and played together. The boys had to go barefoot always, and wore only a single garment summer and winter alike. They were all under the control of a ‘Paidonomos’ or ‘Superintendent of the boys’, a citizen of rank, repute, and position, who might at any moment call them together, and punish them severely if they had been idle: he had attendants who bore the ominous name of Floggers.

In order that the boys might not be left without control, even when the Paidonomos was absent, any citizen who might be passing might order them to do anything which he liked, and punish them for any fault they committed. The most sensible and plucky boy in each pack was made a Prefect over it, and called the Bouagor, or ‘Herd-leader’; the rest obeyed his orders and endured his punishments.

Over every school was set one of the young men over twenty who had a good reputation both for courage and morality. He was called the Eiren. …The boys dined with him in his house; they were supplied with a scanty meal by their parents to eat there, and were encouraged to make up the deficiency by stealing. When the Eiren had finished supper, he ordered one of the boys to sing, and to another he propounded some question which needed a thoughtful answer… The answer had to be accompanied by a concise reason; failure was punished by a bite on the hand. Elder men watched, saying nothing at the time, but rebuking the Eiren severely afterwards if he was too strict or too lenient.

I could have a very good time imagining myself as a Spartan boy, or even an unduly lenient Eiren who has to pay for unwanted kindness…

The Independent reports that the Metropolitan Police are to launch a series of gift products:

“From early next year, the toy makers John Adams will sell New Scotland Yard-branded children’s forensic science sets, complete with fingerprint dust.”

I promise you now that Haron’s prints are going to be found by the investigating officer, who will then take her away to be punished with one of the:

“reproduction cat o’ nine tails, birches and punishment straps that will form part of the new range.”

OK, I may be making up that last part. But I am fascinated to know what may be discovered amidst the 15,00 artefacts in the Met’s historical collection. “It is housed in a warehouse, but with the funds raised from the various licensing deals, the police hope to be able to put it in a museum for members of the public to see.” Sounds as if that would be worth a visit!

Yesterday morning we were just sipping our first coffees when The Andrew Marr Show came on air.

The intro music played, the host walked into the studio, and the first words out of his mouth were,

The ultimate symbol of authority: brown, comes from Fife, and can cause great pain. I’m talking, of course, of the Lochgelly tawse – that heavy leather strap used long ago to punish Scottish schoolchildren.

Abel and I tried to pick ourselves up off the floor, while the eminent broadcaster continued:

It was manufactured, as it happens, in the Prime Minister’s constituency, and – as we learned today – was used to thrash Gordon Brown himself for wanting to skip school and watch football. Well, I remember the tawse very well; most children, when told, “Hold out your hand”, would assume they were going to get a sweet; in Scotland we knew better… turned us into a nation of pessimists.

We were not having auditory hallucinations, as confirmed by the BBC iPlayer website, from where I’ve transcribed the above speech. It was actually a reference to an article in the Telegraph, which describes Gordon Brown’s predicament in more detail.

Personally, I found it particularly interesting that people still remember that tawses were made in Lochgelly; I thought this was specialised knowledge that only spankos carried around in their memories.

Oh, hang on. Gordon Brown?..

No, no, a horrible thought!..

The walls of the corridor outside the meeting room in which I ran a course t’other day were lined with antique prints.

They showed scenes from a local mansion, Haddon Hall, dating from the Regency period. There was the grand staircase, the long gallery, the banqueting hall, the maid bent bare-bottomed over the kitchen table being whipped.

(One of these was missing. I’ll leave you to guess which. But it does make me wonder whether there are any good prints of that ilk hanging on the walls of posh country houses).

Home alone, I indulged myself in an hour of watching “Judge Judy” (in itself a pretty good source of inspiration), and amid the litigating masses I caught a very amusing advert.

It was for a product called “The Clapper”, and what it does is let you turn on the lights in the house by clapping your hands.

From a spanko’s point of view, you could see it in a positive or a negative light.

Negative: Oh great, with that thing installed, there wouldn’t be a chance of a spanking in the dark.

Positive: Hey, great! Now we can turn on the lights with a spanking! Another excuse for a spanking, hurray!

I don’t know if the smacks have to be on the bare, but I suspect so. Not much of a hardship, right?

The Percy Anecdotes, published in monthly parts from 1840, contain a fascinating entry on the “Dutch Workhouse.”

The workhouse at Amsterdam is devoted to correctional, as well as charitable purposes. In one part of the building there were confined in 1807, ten young ladies, of very respectable, and some very high, families, sent there by their parents or friends for undutiful deportment, or some other domestic offence; they are compelled to wear a particular dress… obliged to work a stated number of hours a day, and are occasionally whipped.

Husbands may here, upon a complaint of extravagance, drunkenness, &c., duly proved, send their wives to be confined, and receive the discipline of the house…

The allowance of food is abundant and good; and each person is permitted to walk for a proper time in the courts within the building which are spacious. Every ward is kept locked, and no one can go in or out, without the special permission of the proper officer.

The role-playing potential in this is just incredible!

A Times columnist fondly remembers the joys of rote learning in this week’s article:

Our Latin teacher, Captain Hogarth, a psychologically scarred veteran of some great, distant battle, would whack us over the palms with his leather-bound swagger stick if we so much as fudged a dative. “Sine labore nihil!” he would bawl – nothing without work. Yes, those were the days. How much black energy was pumped into drilling us – quick! 93 times 82 – with the aim, perhaps, of sharpening our reflexes, training us to obey orders. Content was not as important as speed of recall, the unflinching recital under pressure.

Speaking as somebody who crumbles into bits under pressure, I have to say that where role-play is concerned, rote learning is an absolute gift. Everything that used to terrifyme at school, is suddenly delicious when used as a domination device.

A certain teacher once made a class of adult schoolgirls learn “Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough” by heart. I have nothing against Slough (as long as I don’t have to go there), but reciting it in a lesson, and getting caned for attempting to read the prompts scribbled on my hand, is one of the loveliest memories of my spanking life.

Yes to rote learning. An absolute, resounding yes.