The Spanking Writers

Last weekend I played schoolgirl again, sitting down to lessons with a small group of friends, revelling in a day of unabashed naughtiness. Although the classroom experience is not new to me, there are always moments of sharp mental pleasure that I can file away as some of my treasured memories.

This time, the day was spiced up with several encounters with one of our three teachers, Mr Basford (also known as my good friend Richard). To the intense discomfort of my schoolgirl alter-ego Sylvie Barnable, he taught art. I’m not just bad at art – I’m inept to the catastrophic degree. After trying for a couple of minutes to master the shading trick that looked so easy when other people were doing it, I gave up. I could earnestly try and fail, or I could just draw something unrelated and borderline obscene in the corner of my sheet, and get into trouble.

It didn’t take Mr Basford too long to notice what I still claim was a cannon (to illustrate our previous lesson on Napoleonic wars). He called me to the centre of the room and administered a quick, efficient strapping. I’m not good with straps, but I took it as valiantly as I could, and returned to my place. “Barnable, if you don’t try, you don’t get better,” Mr Basford said. “If you don’t pick up your pencil and work, I will cane you.”

I didn’t want to be caned right then, and I felt uncomfortable being the centre of attention, so I did pick up my pencil. I also moaned and knocked my head against the wall several times, just to express how unlikely I thought any progress in my artistic skills was. I didn’t expect for a second to get into trouble for this small act of rebellion, but Mr Basford immediately told me to come back into the centre of the room. “But sirrr,” I whined, “I was going to do it, I was!” I thought I was surely in for a caning now, and was glad of a brief strapping that would serve as a warm-up. However, I was ready to take it in stride.

Instead, Richard did something that completely undid me: he placed a chair in the middle of the room, and told me to bend over his lap. My 16-year-old alter ego was struck dumb with the embarrassing horror of it: it’s hardly ever done, spanking a girl over the knee in the classroom, in front of all her friends. “Please, sir,” I whispered, begging uselessly. The teacher was unrelenting, and over his lap I went, half-cringing with embarrassment, half-faint with pleasure from being so expertly derailed.

The spanking was stingy, brisk. I couldn’t help whimpering and squirming around. Richard is a tall man, and I’m a small girl, so my feet didn’t touch the ground; I felt very high up and vulnerable – and when he picked up a small wooden paddle, I abandoned all thought of dignity. It stung a lot, and I kicked a lot, and it just went on stinging. Overall I didn’t take it very well, and by the time the ordeal was over, I didn’t even care.

I was only starting to pull myself together when the next lesson began. All through the day, the girls took turns to be sent out of the classroom for private interviews with one of the free teachers, to pay for random sins committed (or concocted) previously. I’d completely forgotten my turn was coming up soon, but when the immaculate Miss Marwood arrived to teach us etiquette, she produced a pink slip and read it out. “Sylvie Barnable, report to Mr Basford.”

My jaw fell. “Oh, fuck,” I blurted, clutching my head, and knew at once what I’d done, and my heart nearly stopped. At least it got a laugh out of my classmates.

“But first, come out here and bend over,” said Miss Marwood without skipping a beat. “I won’t tolerate profanity in my classroom.”

Thus it was that I arrived at the private punishment session with Mr Basford with my bottom stinging from a freshly delivered dose of the strap.

Here, he continued his effective campaign of making me feel as vulnerable as possible. My sin was lack of effort in my studies, which, he said, was blatantly obvious from my conduct at his lesson. Where otherwise I might have gone for a “But sir, I’m trying!” defence, here I was trapped and exposed: clearly, as witnessed by the art lesson, I hadn’t been   trying at all. “Take off your skirt and knickers, you won’t need them for a while,” said Mr Basford, pushing aside the magnificent whipping bench, and picking up a chair, clearly intent on continuing our conversation from ten minutes before. “You seem hardened to the cane now, Barnable, so let’s see what we can achieve with a good spanking.”

If I’d had any fight left in me, any insolence, a stray smart remark – they were all gone now. I’m surprised I didn’t burst into tears – but that was, perhaps, because in the background I couldn’t help purring with pleasure of being so deftly played. I bent over his lap, and sighed forlornly as I saw my toes leave the floor. He pushed my back down, getting me bent all the way over, and resolutely clamped his right leg over both of mine. “There’s been too much kicking from you,” he said, thus securing me in place.

I can’t describe the sheer delicious terror of being so intimately immobilised. The most secure handcuffs can’t compare with warm physicality of an arm around my waist and a leg over the back of my knees. I was disarmed, turned into a small, submissive thing ready to repent my sins and promise nothing but stellar behaviour. The spanking, when it came, was firm, but still light enough that I could focus on my helplessness, fully savour my predicament. It didn’t grow truly uncomfortable at any point, although it hurt just enough for me to struggle, squirm and yelp to my heart’s content. And I did.

Eventually, there was a caning to finish off my punishment, and Mr Basford had been right: I would normally be well equipped to shrug it off – but I was still feeling small, and vulnerable, and very much susceptible to discipline. It was a good, solid full stop, though: something familiar to bring me back into senses. Sharp, clean pain of the rattan to wake me up and send me back to class almost myself again.

I don’t think I was meant to enjoy my punishment quite so much.

It might be time to consider cleaning up your PCs, for some of you in England, Wales and Northern Ireland. Next Monday, 26 January, is the day that Provisions 63-68 of the Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008 come into effect – more colloquially known as the new ‘extreme porn’ laws.

The government’s produced a guide to the new legislation, “aimed at those who are interested in this type of material and who wish to consider whether they should dispose of it before the Act comes into effect”.

An image will be illegal if it hasn’t been classified by the British Board of Film Classification, and meets all three of the following tests:

1. That the image is pornographic;
2. That the image is grossly offensive, disgusting, or otherwise of an obscene character, and
3. That the image portrays in an explicit and realistic way, one of the following extreme acts:

a.       An act which threatens a person’s life;
b.       An act which results in or is likely to result in serious injury to a person’s anus, breast or genitals;
c.       An act involving sexual interference with a human corpse,
d.       A person performing an act of intercourse or oral sex with an animal (whether dead or alive),

and a reasonable person looking at the image would think that the people and animals portrayed were real.

However, the guide also highlights the vague nature of the new legislation, for example:

“Serious injury is not defined in the Act. It will be a question of fact for the magistrate or jury.”

At least there’s a defence for “those who appear in extreme pornographic images as direct participants in the act or acts portrayed” provided they can prove that “they directly participated in the act or acts portrayed in the image and that the acts did not involve the infliction of non-consensual harm on any person.” However, this defence does not extend to onlookers, including those “filming an activity if they are not also direct participants in the activity.”

My assumption is that spanking material in general is probably OK – no dictionary definition I know classes the buttocks as “genitals” – but if the scene happens to include a breast- or pussy-whipping, you might want to be careful. And since the definition of ‘life threatening’ includes ‘sexual assault involving a threat with a weapon’, hopefully none of the prison guards supervising that spanking appear to be armed…

But the law does criminalise images of other entirely-legal kinky activities that some consenting adults may enjoy in private. CAAN (the Consenting Adult Action Network) continues to protest valiantly against the legislation, and on much wider issues of relevance to the kinky readers of this blog. Their mission statement reads:

“We believe in the right of consenting adults to make their own sexual choices, in respect of what they do, see and enjoy alone or with other consenting adults, unhindered and unfettered by government.”

“We believe that it is not the business of government to intrude into the sex lives of consenting adults.”

If you’d like to show your support for their campaign, you can sign up on their website. We did; we urge you to consider doing so too.

One of my Christmas presents was a novel by William Corlett called “Now and Then”. Part of it (the “then” part) is set in a boys’ boarding school in the fifties, and includes one of the most detailed m/m caning scenes I’ve read for ages.

It’s too long to quote here in its entirety (there’s lots of delicious anticipation), but here’s an extract anyway. The narrator has been caught reading after lights-out, and is in front of the panel of prefects who will deliver his punishment. One of the prefects, Walker, is his secret boyfriend.

(Under the cut, because it’s lonnnng.)

Read the rest of this entry »

Trevor Howard’s biography, discussed in a  previous post, also described life at his English public school between the wars:

“By the end of the first week he was left in no doubt at to the college’s no-nonsense discipline.

Slowness off the mark meant a clipped ear and for more serious misdemeanours – such as telling lies or being impertinent to a member of staff, or stealing, or leaving the college grounds without permission – corporal punishment might be prescribed.

On the other hand, house points were awarded for good behaviour, proven self-discipline, victories on the sports field and so on… it was expected that everyone would do their utmost to secure the highest possible score for their house.”

How *very* Lowewood!

In my dream I was a Head Girl, chairing a staff/prefect meeting on a very important topic. We were trying to decide whether the prefects should get to wear uniforms different from everybody else’s.

All the girls in the school wore gym tunics, while the prefects were arguing that they would inspire more respect if they wore a skirt-and-blazer ensemble.

The discussion got very heated. I remember thinking how embarrassing it would be if every prefect in the room got caned for lack of respect.

Unfortunately, I don’t know how it ended, but I hope the prefects got what they wanted.

I recently stumbled upon a rather lovely spanking story called Norton Parva, “the first of the new-style ‘female correctional units’”, in which inmate Sharon Holden is about to receive 18 strokes of the birch:

Like most of the girls there Sharon had never seen a birch before.   She knew that a few girls had been punished in this way while she’d been at Norton Parva, but these punishments had been carried out in private.   Her first cellmate, Mandy Lobell, had received six strokes of the birch for striking a warder before Sharon had arrived at the unit.   Mandy, a softly pretty eighteen year old, never talked about the punishment…

The birch rods looked most formidable.   Each one was made up of about twelve supple birch twigs about three feet long.   One end was bound to form a handle of about a foot in length, while at the other end the twigs spread out to be about five inches in diameter.

The sergeant turned his attention to Holden, “Over the bench, Holden!” he ordered.

A little investigation revealed the author to be Steven, whose work can be found on his CP at School stories site. I’ve been devouring his writing ever since. I thought I’d share a few of my favourite extracts.

There’s twenty-four year-old air hostess Anne-Marie, who gets Caned in Saudi Arabia for drinking alcohol at a party with two local girls. David, the British Consul arrives to explain her sentence: “The other two women have been sentenced to six months imprisonment and fifteen strokes of the cane.   As you are not a citizen you will be deported and will receive twelve strokes of the cane.”

“Then the two officers grasped her and marched her off to the punishment hall, with David walking along behind.

They thrust her into the large room. The first thing she saw was the large trestle structure in the centre. She was pushed against the back wall next to Na’ima and Suhayla, her two Saudi friends. Both girls were robed and handcuffed, like herself. Na’ima was about the same age as Anne-Marie, but Suhayla was younger, only 19 years old. Anne-Marie saw that her normally light-hearted young friend was crying silently to herself…

The chief made a long speech. Anne-Marie didn’t understand a word but the audience, including David, applauded politely afterwards. Then the canings began.

Na’ima was first. She was escorted out to the other side of the trestle and bent down over it so that her bottom was towards the audience and away from the other girls. Her handcuffs were attached to the metal at the front of the trestle so that the girl was secure. Na’ima’s long black hair fell forward, obscuring Anne-Marie’s view of her face. A woman officer pulled the bottom of Na’ima’s robe out the way, revealing her bottom to the view of the audience. Only then did Anne-Marie finally realise. The canings were to be on the bare.

There’s an original school punishment in Under the Clock:

“Standing under the clock” was a fairly common punishment at Gold Barr School for minor offences but was usually given to junior girls rather than senior girls like Cheryl. The punishment comprised having to stand in the school vestibule, hands on head, during breaks or dinner hour There was a large clock on the wall there which had given the punishment its name. s the girls returned to school at the end of break or dinner they would all troop past the culprits standing in disgrace there…

Girls who had visited the headmistress’s office for the slipper or cane were also often made to stand there after the whacking. It was a strict rule that no one should speak to a girl “under the clock” and that girls who were being punished in this way should speak to no one.

I also particularly loved A Prefect’s Punishment (“‘Warwick has forfeited her position as a prefect and I would be obliged if you would move her belongings from the Prefects’ Room to the Sixth Form Common Room when you have an opportunity.’”). And a Trio of Truants is short, but well-written (“It was towards the end of assembly at Princess Alexandra School. Mr Denham, the headmaster, had just informed the school that three fifth year girls had been caught the previous day in town, having “bunked off” school. When he announced that they were to wait for Mrs Taylor everybody had a good idea of what was going to happen to them, and all eyes turned to the three girls as they stood up.”)

Do head over to Steven’s site if you have an hour or six to spare. It really is a delight.

Abel (murmuring sleepily, and only half-way coherently): “I have a question.”

Haron (only a little more coherently): “Yes?”

Abel: “In the olden days, when everybody lived in black-and-white… When a maid got caned, did she have grey stripes?”

Haron: “Yes, dear.”

Abel: “That makes sense.”

The court records for the trials at the Misummer “Quarter Sessions” in Breconshire in 1725 have been carefully preserved for posterity in the Powys County Archives:

The handwriting’s hard to decipher, so here goes:

“Margaret Luke being indicted at this Sessions for ye felonious stealing of one Bodice of ye Goods of Walter Davies and upon her Tryall Convicted of ye said offence It is by this Court ordered that she be stript from ye waist upward and publickly whipt tomorrow Morning between ye hours of eleven and twelve from ye East Gate to ye West Gate in ye Town of Brecon.”

Indiana’s behaviour really is a disgrace. Here am I, with all of this work to do, and instead she’s causing me to write about spanking. (Hi, Indy! Thanks for the diversion, and for agreeing to let me share our little exchange here on the blog!).

See, she…

attended a wedding over the weekend and noticed about halfway through that two of the groomsmen were chewing gum. My natural reaction was one of mild disapproval, and then I had to laugh at my almost Abel-like response.  

There was better news, though: “After all… none of the bridesmaids were chewing gum during the wedding ceremony.”

Ah, but why would that be? See, before the wedding ceremony, it’d been rather different. The bridesmaids had arrived early, and were larking around in the church; the vicar had noticed them chewing gum. He’d be predictably outraged: “Remove it, or leave the church.”

They would – but ten minutes later, he’d have noticed one of the girls chewing again. He’d have called her into the vestry: “I am not prepared to have girls in my church behaving disrespectfully and disobediently,” he’d lecture, as he took down the leather strap that hung behind the door.

It would be her choice: she could leave, or stay in the church but accept the consequences. She’d choose the latter, struggling with trembling fingers to lift her dress and remove her knickers, before bending over the end of the table, as he instructed, for six hard strokes.

See, Indy, it was no wonder the bridesmaids weren’t chewing gum during the service – but if you’d looked closely, you’d have seen that one of them was slightly tear-stained, and standing in some discomfort! (And I hope the bride and groom had the loveliest of days).

In a taxi in London a few days ago, conversation with the cabbie turned to the current economic doom and gloom.

“And now Woolworth’s closing its stores. It’s a tragedy,” he commented

“Great shame,” I agreed. “27,000 jobs. Dreadful for the people concerned.”

“And where will people go at the start of the school year? I mean, it’s the only place you can get the black plimsolls my girls need.”

“I know. I have no idea where else to get them.”

Only, I suspect I might have a rather different use in mind for the plimsolls I purchased for the young ladies in my life than he does for his…