The Spanking Writers

Jeremy Clarkson reminisced about his school days in the last Sunday Times:

We all used to be beaten fairly regularly at school until a friend discovered a way of ensuring it would never happen again. Having been caught – oh, I don’t know – walking across the ruins in home clothes, or some such nonsense, he was summoned to the master’s study and ordered to bend over a chair, whereupon he lowered his trousers to reveal he was wearing a pair of black satin girl’s knickers. And then, to fluster the poor man still further, after the first thwack he moaned softly for “more”.

Be assured the next five lashes were more like taps and from then on the beatings stopped.

Seriously, what a wuss that teacher must have been. If I tried this trick with any of my regular teachers, he would calmly grip the cane firmer, and endeavour to thrash me hard enough that any thoughts of pleasure escaped my head.

Oh, wait – they do it anyway…

Waiting for a train late one recent night on a cold, dark Scottish station, I peered with interest into the ever-so-grand ‘Royal Scotsman’, occupying the platform opposite mine. Think Orient Express meets Highlands & Islands: a dining room laid with fine china and crystal, elegant drawing rooms, oak-lined corridors leading to snug compartments with armchairs, beds and crisp linens.

Unfortunately, one of the uniformed maids had failed to clean a bathroom mirror with sufficient diligence that morning. For, in one of the train’s luxurious bedrooms, she could clearly be seen bending over the arm of a chair, bottom bared. A distinguished-looking gentleman in a dinner jacket was lecturing her sternly.

He removed his thick, black, leather belt. And then, quite properly, he moved to the window and drew the curtains, to spare her from the gaze of the watching crowd.

Yesterday we went to see a game of football at Wembley. Frankly, I was there to look at the stadium, which is really cool, and watch Messrs Beckham and Gerrard being awesome.

But I also got a bonus kinky thrill.

Every spectator got this cleverly folded piece of cardboard, that you’re supposed to hold up during the national anthem to make St George’s cross. The name of the thingie? A “clapper banner”.

Because, while folded into a cardboard accordeon,  it’s also used to whack really hard on anything you can – your hand, your thigh, an empty seat – it makes a lot of clapping, cheering noise.

Alternatively, you can try to whack it against the bottom of your nearest and dearest, and see what happens.

It proved to be a really lame spanking implement, actually, but it was fun to try.

I well recall the feeling of guilt when my younger self ever bought anything, ahem, interesting.

Sneaking into the corner shop to buy ‘Men Only’ as a teenager (a confusing-titled yet tasteful photographic journal – to be read by men, rather than only featuring men). Blushing, hands shaking, as I handed over my pocket money and stashed the magazine inside my coat.

Some years later, looking nervously around before darting into the Janus shop in Soho. What if someone sees me? They might think I was into naughty things! Help! (“Ten pounds, sir. Nice selection” “Thank you. Not that I’d be reading this myself. It’s for a friend.”)

Amusingly, similar feelings came to mind the other day, when I was buying… a leather belt. In a perfectly respectable department store. See, I’d forgotten to take one with me on a business trip and I needed one to hold up my jeans.

So there I was, in Marks & Spencer, handing over my selection and parting with the cash… all the time worrying about what the shop assistant must be thinking of me, and blushingly hoping that no-one would notice me making my illicit purchase. (Yes, as it happens, it was the thickest and widest they had on sale. Pure coincidence, I promise you).

I was listening to the radio while doing some work, and heard a discussion about being a step-parent. The listeners were invited to phone in with their ideas of how they think the relationship with a stepchild should go. “How do you discipline your stepchild?” the presenter asked, among other things.

I imagined my ideal stepfather calling in. He would say, “I love Haron, and she knows it. But if her behaviour lets her down, I don’t hesitate to put her over my knee. She knows that too.”

The presented would ask, “Do you have to do this frequently?”

“More frequently than she would like, of course; often enough to do the young lady some good. She isn’t a bad girl, on the whole, but I find that a strict routine and consistent discipline brings out the best in her.”

The presenter would agree whole-heartedly with this sound approach.

Me, I would listen to the radio, cringing, hoping that none of my friends from school hear it.

Beautiful Leeds Castle, in Kent, is advertising itself as a wedding venue. Sitting enjoying lunch in their restaurant the other day, we browsed their leaflet. It invited couples to choose from various packages, which included*:

The King

The Queen

The Fairfax

The Reluctant Virgin

The Spoils of War

The Captured Slave

The Droit de Seigneur

and my personal favourite, ‘The Disobedient Daughter’.

* “or should have included”

Last night I was home alone, and it was the sort of windy evening that makes glass rattle in the windows and ghosts howl in the chimney. I was warm and cosy indoors, but I imagined that it would be exactly the sort of night when a court-appointed disciplinarian would appear on my doorstep.

I would know he was coming; I would tremble at every rattle and creak of the old house. And yet, when his knock comes, it would be loud and self-assured enough that I could never pretend it was just the rain drumming against my door. My panicking mind would scream at me to not let him inside, but I would rush to open – so that he doesn’t get frustrated at standing outside any longer than necessary.

A dark figure against the dark sky, he would hand me the disciplinary notice and confirm my name, and only when I nod would he come in.

He would have a long case – his tools of the trade – and a folding wooden frame. As soon as he walks into the house, he takes complete charge, and nothing I say at this point would delay the pain.

Outside, the wind howls.

Needless to say, as we’ve looked recently for a new place to rent, the question of sound-proofing has been foremost in our minds. Forget the location, the décor, the number of bedrooms – our first assessment on arriving at a potential new home has been of the thickness of the walls. That gorgeous new townhouse, set next to the canal? Far too likely that the neighbours would overhear the sounds of whacking.

I was drawn to picture a Headmaster in days gone by. Whilst he’d cane miscreants when strictly necessary, he’d be conscious that the sound of the thrashing would carry through his study’s walls and windows. Being a kindly gentleman at heart, he’d hit on a means of saving a girl from having her humiliation relayed to her friends.

Only, you can picture the reaction of a young lady, walking into his room in trepidation – praying that she might escape without a caning – when she saw the Headmaster tinkering with the gramophone…

I had my first dream about our new house last night. And, guess what? It was as kinky as can be.

We’ve already decided that the largest of the upstairs rooms is going to double as my office and a playroom; there’s more than enough room for the proverbial cat (or cane, birch, tawse, whip, crop) to be swung quite merrily. And if the scenes that we play there are even half as hot as the one I imagined, then there’s plenty of good times ahead.

The doorbell rang. I opened it, wearing a suit, and ushered the gentleman waiting (in his 40s or 50s) and the much younger lady who accompanied him into the living room. He and I sat; she stood in front of us.

It appeared that I was the local disciplinary officer, and she’d been brought to me for committing some dastardly misdemeanour. Corporal punishment, needless to say, was to be administered.

I asked her whether she understood the nature of the discipline that was to follow; she did, and I presented her with a form to sign. “The punishment room is upstairs: follow me,” I explained, and we left her guardian behind.

She was made to remove her skirt and knickers, before I tied her over the whipping bench in the centre of the room. A sound birching followed: twenty strokes, administered hard, before I returned the tear-stained girl downstairs to her companion. We filled in more paperwork, and I let them out.

I’m so looking forward to moving in! Haron, I fear, may not sit comfortably for weeks…

Last night I had a dream I used to have a lot when I was little, about being an orphan girl living in a big family full of fostered children.

Each of us had an appointed night of the week to have a discussion with “Dad” about how the week had gone. Quite often these ended in a rather painful punishment, but last night I dreamt of being praised, and held, and encouraged to do just as well as I was doing. And then I was given a light spanking to seal the idea in my mind.

Because dream spankings don’t hurt, but the emotions behind them are the same, I woke up feeling comforted and cared for, and hoping I’d return to this dream family again.