The Spanking Writers

On our most recent visit to our favourite library, I picked up a copy of ‘Thomas Arnold’ by T.W. Bamford. Knowing of the legendary headmaster’s stern reputation, I thought there might be something of interest.

The biography didn’t disappoint, containing what must be the best index entry ever:

Flogging 26, 44, 49-54, 57, 67, 71, 85-6, 110-11, 125, 132, 181, 189, 200; see also discipline

Arnold enjoyed “a public reputation as a flogger” in his time as headmaster of Rugby. But the most interesting passage in the book concerned the punishments administered before his arrival:

Wooll, his predecessor, gave only twelve as a maximum, and that reserved for the greatest offence of rebellion. Moreover, under his regime all major punishments were left over until the next day, so that flogging and passion should not coincide.

*Major* punishments, eh? I’m imagining three girls before the Headmaster. He gestures towards two of them: “I shall deal with both of you in a moment.”

And then he turns to their friend, deemed to have taken the lead in their misdemeanour. “You, on the other hand, will come back and see me after chapel tomorrow morning.” She’d be left to wait overnight, dreading her ‘major’ punishment.

Today Google has launched its new feature in the UK: Street View, which allows you to type in an address and browse through pictures of street scenes taken in that place.

A representative of Google was talking about this on the breakfast show, when the news person asked him:

There’ll be people who say, “I don’t want my image on the site, particularly not doing what I was doing in that street on that day.”

Too right! Imagine a queue of girls outside the punishment centre on a quiet morning, burning in quiet shame, when a Google camera car snaps a picture of their predicament for all the Internet to see.

And I won’t even mention the public floggings, now forever associated with a postcode of an otherwise innocuous town square.

Google has no sympathy towards punished girls.

So, we’ve taken the plunge and decided to move further south – much nearer to the centre of kinkdom in the UK. (Well, actually, it’s my work that means we need to move, but the kink dimension is an added bonus!).

I phoned a leading removal company, and asked for a quote to pack up our belongings. (Hey, that could be interesting. “What’s in that case, sir?” “Oh, canes, whips and tawses. And handle that one over there with care – the birches are a little fragile.”).

They called back and gave us a reference number. It’s 06660. Do you think they already know?

The young lady on the end of the call then confirmed that they’d visit us on Monday. “4pm, and it’ll be our Mr. Sean Bean who carries out the survey.” Haron is in raptures of delight, only I suspect their Sean Bean might not be the one she fancies!

A few days ago I found myself in a coffee shop just as it opened at 7.30am.

The only other customers there were an elegant woman in her forties and her teenage daughter. They were silently sipping their coffee and, although they were sitting opposite each other, it was as though there was a concrete wall between them.

I imagined they were about to go to the girl’s school. The Headmistress was expecting them.

According to the school’s policy, a caning could be administered only in the presence of one of the parents. If this meant that it had to be put off until a convenient date – all the worse for the girl.

The mother would have to sign a witness form, after which her role would be simple: to watch in silent disapproval as her daughter took off her skirt, lowered her knickers and bent over the back of a chair. The punishment wouldn’t be unduly harsh, but the girl would remember each of the six burning stripes, as well as the lonely walk to her classroom afterwards.

It would all be finished in time for the mother to get to work by 9: an efficient, clinical execution.

No wonder the pair in the cafe looked so glum.

Haron and I have long giggled when our local ever-so-posh girls public school has advertised its termly open day. I’m the right sort of age to have a daughter who’d be eligible for admission, see. So we’ve oft thought that an amusing afternoon could be had by touring their facilities, pretending that young Clementine might join a year or two hence, and asking in passing about the establishment’s disciplinary standards.

And if one extrapolates the idea even further into the realms of fantasy, it’s not hard to picture the conversation between a would-be parent and the smartly-dressed sixth-former appointed to show them around:

“They say disciplinary standards are high?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do they ever actually use the cane, or is it just there as a threat?”

“The Headmaster uses it occasionally, sir. For the worst offences.”

Smiling, teasingly: “Had it yourself?”

Blushing, stumbling over her words as the memories flooded back: “Yes, sir. I’m ashamed to say I have.”

But we did get to tour a school last week, as Haron mentioned in a recent post. Sadly, the apartment we were hoping to rent in “The Old School” lacked any sort of educational character – the rooms were entirely devoid of any period features. Oh to have arrived and heard the estate agent say, “The bedroom’s in what was the Headmaster’s office,” and to find the living room converted from a classroom.

The Times last week reported that -

- the parents of 25 pupils at an outstanding primary school plan to educate them en masse at home with a private tutor after [they] failed to secure a place at any of their preferred secondaries.

Susan Smith, mother of one of the girls, added: “Of course, this means we can be more flexible on the issue of corporal punishment. A private tutor will have the opportunity to apply firm discipline in loco parentis. No doubt, everybody will benefit from that.”

…Well, she may have thought it.

Driving from the north down to London last week, I spied two lambs gambolling in a field beside the motorway. Daffodils are everywhere. Yippee: it feels as though winter’s behind us, and the new spring is here.

And you know what that means, don’t you?

It’s the time of year when Haron starts to tremble. For the birches must be sprouting fresh new shoots: our first forest perambulation of the new season must be drawing close, and with it as a consequence her first birching of the year.

Reformatory girls must have shivered for similar reasons. Birched in February? That’s have been with the last of the previous autumn’s switches: carefully stored, soaked to bring them back to life, and quite excruciating. Yet compared to a flogging a month or so later, with a birch rod made from fresh, supple, springy switches? I’m supposing that there’d have been a fair few confessions of guilt to the Governor around this time of year, so that matters could be dealt with before the new crop arrived.

This week we’ve been looking for a new place to live. One estate agent called us back with a description of a house which, he said, was great for our purpose.

“Very cat-friendly,” he explained. “It’s down a lane, well away from the road.”

Abel and I looked at each other, grinning. Down a lane… should be good for our spanking needs. If it had a birch tree nearby, all the better!

The next agent did even better, offering us a flat in a converted school.

These people must know who we are. Or, at least, what we are.

The room was set.

The cords had been tied to the bed – soon to adopt its alternative disguise, as the punishment frame for the reformatory girl who’d been caught absconding.

The cane and tawse had been removed from my bag, and hung in full view on the implement rack (aka lamp), to leave the young woman in no doubt as to her fate.

Only, catching up took priority over playing immediately. My friend and I headed for a drink then dinner.

It was only when we returned and noticed that – in our absence – the bedroom’s curtains had been closed and the lamps turned on, that I remembered that the hotel provided an evening turn-down service.

The other night I dreamed about reading spanking comic books. They had their own section in our local bookshop.

One in particular was called “The spanking scene”, and was about a girl who read books only for the spanking episodes they contained. So she falls into one such book, and has to endure all the punishments contained in its pages.

So yes. I dreamed about a book about a girl who read books about… spanking.

It always seems to be about spanking in the end.