The Spanking Writers

In my dream I was singing in the school choir. It was a final rehearsal before a concert at an open day; I was awfully nervous.

Just as the choirmaster raised his conductor’s wand to direct us to start, I knew I couldn’t remember a single word of the song. I was in complete panic, while he noticed at once, despite there being fifty other girls in the choir.

“You,” he stabbed at me with the wands. “Sing it on your own.”

Heart freezing in my chest, I explained that I was having a temporary memory glitch. I couldn’t remember the words. He looked thunderous.

“Out of the room,” he hissed.

“Please, sir,” said one of the other girls. “She’ll remember them when we all start singing.”

I promised I would, and unexpectedly he relented. “Very well. You can stay and sing. But after the rehearsal, see me for your punishment.”

I knew I would be caned when I went to see him, but I didn’t mind: I could stay and sing with all the other girls.

I don’t remember whether I did get caned or not. Knowing dream logic, he probably fed me tea and cakes instead. Which would be completely fine with me – and quite nice when I happened in real life as well!

“Oliver!”, now previewing at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, has to be one of the very best musicals to arrive in London for years. The direction is superb; the choreography (by the ever-wonderful Matthew Bourne) simply breathtaking. The set is remarkable, and the cast – led by the brilliant Rowan Atkinson as Fagin – top-notch. Beg, borrow or steal a ticket…

But actually… whilst I’m talking about stealing: there is one flaw in the production. See, it’s that Dickens chap. All of the pickpockets in his book were lads. Why on earth didn’t he write a part for a female thief? No imagination.

I can picture the scene now – before Oliver meets the Artful Dodger for the first time. We’re introduced to Fagin’s motley crew as they cower at the back of the crowd, watching as one of their number, Margaret, is tied to a post and thrashed for stealing a stallholder’s wallet. The punishment officer would sing heartily as he laid on the strokes: ‘The Whipping Song’ would be the most popular in the whole show.

The young woman would be seen with the other gang members later, still rubbing her backside. There’d be no faking the flogging, with the audience just a few feet away, but hers wouldn’t be a speaking role – so a different actress could be brought in every night from the local theatre schools to suffer, whilst fulfilling her ambition of appearing on the West End stage.

Over the holidays we did some blog surfing, and came across “The Primrose Girls”: a multi-author historical spanking soap opera in blog format, set in an American girls’ college.

I thought those of our readers who enjoy Lowewood Academy, may like another fiction blog to get addicted to.

To give you an idea of what it’s like, here’s a passage from a recent post:

“Ouch! One sir.” I counted.

I had very nearly convinced myself I would never again be in this position. Reality intruded and as is customary, it did so rudely.

“Ow! Two sir.” I said.

I strained to keep my fingertips in touch with my toes. The prospect of bending my knees or parting my legs to make the stance any more comfortable was unacceptable on account of my classmates. No doubt several of them were enjoying my spectacle and for those who were not, I do not think they were complaining either.

The paddle slapped down against my bottom again, ringing out like a gunshot while my fleshy cheeks wobbled and bounced. It is amazing how much sting only a few swats can impart.

“Three sir.”

To be fair, I was raised to treat my instructors with more respect than I showed. It is not that I think I was wrong, but sometime in the last year I seem to have forgotten how to disagree without being disagreeable. Not living with my mother anymore probably has something to do with it.

“Four sir.”

And thus it continues, suitably mortifying for the poor girl.

I’m looking forward to reading through the archive, and getting acquainted with the back-story. There’s plenty to sink my teeth into, and – being an American school – it’s quite exotic to me.

Hope you enjoy it too!

The window of my London hotel room looks out onto the office block across the street. Actually, strike that: the street’s so narrow that I’m almost sitting at their desks, joining in their meetings.

There’s a manager’s office. He looks a strict type.

Oh look! He’s just called one of his staff in to see him. She looks uncomfortable: she’s clearly being lectured for some misdemeanour or other.

And now she’s leaving: walking back across the office floor, past her colleagues, to what looks like the stationery cupboard.

And is that… surely it’s not? Heads turn from desks as the young lady walks back past them, blushing, cane in hand.

He’s standing by the time she re-enters the room: points her to his desk. She bends over, knuckles white as she stretches across to hold on. She’s looking straight out of the window. Straight at me. Looking defiant.

He lifts her skirt, lowers her knickers, measures the cane, administers the first whack.

Defiant, as the first strokes land. Still staring me straight in the eyes.

Defiant, as more lines stripe her. “I can take this, you know.”

Biting her lip at each whack. “I’m a brave girl.”

Tears welling. “It hurts so much.”

Crying openly, as the tally reaches a dozen. Avoiding my gaze.

And then she’s standing, and re-assembling her clothes, and thanking him, and taking the cane from him, and walking back through the stares to return it to the cupboard, and gingerly lowering herself back into her chair, and looking at her screen to see whether any emails have come in whilst she’s been being punished.

–

At least, I think that’s what happens over there…

Yesterday I was waiting for our car to be serviced, sitting quietly with my book and a cup of coffee.

The girl at the counter was talking to an elderly guy who’d just brought his car to be looked at. She asked what was wrong with it.

“Just acting up,” he said. “Acting up, like. I could just smack it, but I brought it to you instead.”

All parties agreed that this was a better solution.

Something tells me that if he tried spanking his car with a bare hand, it would be a true case of “this will hurt me more than you”.

We visited the Tower of London over the Christmas holidays – an easy way to entertain my parents for a couple of hours, despite the crowds.

The black history of the place is all around, from the block and axe in the White Tower, past the place of execution, to the grave of Lady Jane Grey in the chapel.

And then there was the Birching Green*, to cheer us all up. The Tudor nobility, needless to say, weren’t awfully keen on mingling with the lower classes. This extended to the punishment of any crimes that the aristocracy might commit.

Lady Mary Bradgate, for example, was the youngest daughter of the Marquess of Devon. During a stay in London, she and her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Dudley, took their carriage to The Exchange. There, they asked a shopkeeper to see some silk handkerchiefs, which he laid out before them on the counter. They then tried on a number of fashionable hats, one of which Lady Mary purchased.

Within moments of their departure, however, a commotion ensued. As the shopkeeper returned the handkerchiefs to the drawer, he’d noticed that the most expensive was missing. The constable was called and was given a description of the (highly unusual) pattern on the silk, which had only arrived in London the previous day.

Without further ado, the constable set off for the Marquess’s townhouse. By the time the young women had finished their shopping and returned home in their carriage, he was in deep conversation with the Marquess. The girls were called into the library; the situation explained. Both pleaded their innocence. A bell was rung; their maids appeared.

“Would you leave us for a moment, sir,” the Marquess asked the constable. And then the maids were ordered to strip their mistresses and search for the missing silk.

Lady Mary’s guilt was quickly established, and the magistrate called. The option of a trial in the courthouse, followed – no doubt – by a whipping at Newgate was clearly not acceptable for a young noblewoman, and so arrangements were put in place: “You will report to the Tower one hour after sunrise tomorrow morning, and there you will be whipped.”

A sleepless, tearful night ensued. Her cousin and maid accompanied her on the journey, but could offer little consolation. They were taken to the Beauchamp Tower; Lady Mary was made to change from her fine clothes into a plain, rough dress, before the guard arrived to take her out to the Green in front. The whipping frame was already in place; the Yeoman bade her bend forward, and tied her tightly in position, before taking the first of the birches. He called forward Lady Elizabeth, asking her to lift her cousin’s skirt and bare her for her punishment.

Her howls echoed around the Tower, and out through the cold morning air to the boats on the river outside, as the strokes reined down. The first rod lasted around fifteen strokes; the second a mere dozen, before a third birch was taken to complete the forty that made up the allotted tally. And then she was untied, led back to change back into her finery, and marched from the Tower for the most uncomfortable of carriage rides home.

–

* Actually, there wasn’t. But there should have been.

Reading my way through “Schools of Hellas”, I have now arrived in Greece. Here they may not have been quite as strict as in Sparta, but they were still kind enough to provide me with some fantasy material:

As soon as (boys) were old enough to go to school, they were entrusted to an elderly slave, who had to follow his master’s boys about wherever they went and never let them go out of his sight. This was the paidagogos – a mixture of nurse, footman, chaperon, and tutor. …   There was only one for the family, so that all the boys had to about together. With unruly boys of different ages… the slave must have been often in a difficult position. He had, however, the right of inflicting corporal punishment… On a vase these attendants may be seen sitting on stools behind their charges, in the schools of letters and music, with long and suggestive canes in their hands.

I have long found the relationship between a Greek boy and the paidagogos fascinating. From time to time, I imagine, the boys would have a tantrum: “You are just a slave! Don’t you dare lay a finger on me!” Then, their father would get involved, and to cement the tutor’s authority, he would be allowed to administer the whipping in the father’s presence.

Then, perhaps, the slave would also be flogged in private, for not keeping the boys under control without a need for paternal intervention.

We watched a rather weird programme on Channel 4 on New Year’s Eve, before I fell asleep in front of the TV and missed the chimes of midnight. Tony Robinson investigated the strange case of a woman in Bath in the 1960s who claimed to have been a Cathar nun, burnt at the stake in the thirteenth century.

As part of his investigation, Robinson agreed to undergo hypnosis, to see if he could be taken back to a former life. I giggled, imaging myself in the psychiatrist’s chair, revealing details of some past existence: “I’m wearing a gown, and picking up a cane from the desk in front of me. The girls are lined up in front of me, in uniform. They know they deserve to be punished.”

And then came the presenter’s own regression. It was 1847, in India. “I am holding a stick,” wearing khaki. “I’m a bit of a bastard.” We could hardly believe our ears – and then came then the best line of all: “All those people’s bottoms sticking up in my direction.”

Apparently, they were prostrating themselves in front of some local dignitary. But we still fell about laughing.

One night last week we took a late train home, and we were both shattered to pieces. Abel was the first to go to sleep, looking as innocent as though he’d never spanked a girl in his life.

Almost. Because pretty soon he started to murmur something, holding an animated (but unintelligible) conversation with somebody in the dreamland.

This was pretty funny and indearing, and quiet enough that I didn’t feel the need to wake him up. I did wonder what I’d do if all of a sudden he started waving his hands, and coming out with things like “You are a very badly behaved young lady, bend over and touch your toes at once.”

Actually, for all I know, that’s exactly what he’d been saying anyway. He just wasn’t loud enough to frighten anybody else in the carriage.

Pandora wrote a lovely post a few days back about Sarah Waters’ book “Affinity”, and I was delighted when ITV gave me an additional birthday gift with Andrew Davies’ adaptation of the book. I must share a few highlights…

It was set in a Victorian women’s prison.

An early scene showed a group of women who’d been sentenced to imprisonment, arriving at the gaol.

The next minute, one of them was pictured having her long hair cut short by a warder.

A moment later, all of the new prisoners were shown in a bathhouse. Naked. Being sprayed with buckets of cold water.

The name of one girl was called out. The prison officers took her firmly by the wrist – still naked, wet, sobbing – and led her down a corridor and into a whitewashed cell.

A uniformed gentleman was waiting, birch in hand. She pleaded for mercy, but none was forthcoming: they tied her to the whipping frame, and reminded her of the court’s sentence: “Thirty strokes.”

(I fear I must confess to having played with the plot just a little, after the bathhouse scene which was genuine. But the programme was still remarkable for its kink potential).