The Spanking Writers

Given how often we write about the things we’ve been up play-wise, it’s lovely to read an account written by a friend of an incredibly hot scene we played a little while ago.

Kami Robertson’s “On the way of exploration” is an excellent blog, and one of her posts last week really caught the edgy nature of our first meeting. Although she and our friend HH had prepared the scene carefully, it was rather a surprise for me to walk into the room and find a delightfully attractive lass tied to the beams, naked and vulnerable.

“Thank you for coming to assess the girl,” was HH’s opening phrase, and I clicked straight into role-play mode. We chatted about how he’d been training her, as she squirmed against her ropes – balanced precariously on a tiny piece of wood.

As Kami puts it:

Then Abel was invited invited to spank me – not that he really needed any invitations.

LOL, quite!

Do click across to her blog if you’re not already an avid reader, and have a browse not only of this post, but of her other writing, which is invariably incredibly hot! 

A couple of days ago the famed Gordonstoun School marked its 75th anniversary with an interesting day of role-play:

The classes of 2009 donned 1930s-style shorts and grey shirts to undertake military style exercises… The cold shower was switched on at 6:45am and pupils had to complete a half-mile run and the first lesson of the day before breakfast.

Later, all 600 pupils gathered on the front lawn for physical exercises, before more lessons and the less strenuous occupation of lying flat on their backs while a teacher read Shakespeare.

A ceremonial public caning followed… (Or should have done!)

My spa trip with Cath the other morning also featured a short spell inside a rather lovely steam room. Guests sat on circular stone benches around the edge of the chamber, surrounding a central pool. Hot steam filled the room – so thick that one could hardly see a thing.

We were the only people inside at the time – and yes, the inevitable spanking did echo rather loudly from the high dome. But we were given to imagine a different scenario, taking place inside a similar room elsewhere.

The young woman had offended the village elders; she was summoned to see them at the bath-house one Sunday after church. A servant met her at the door, and commanded her to strip naked. He then opened the door of the hammam and pushed her inside.

As her eyes struggled to get used to the thick steam and the dim light, she would find herself taken roughly by the wrists and pulled over a towel-clad lap. The first of the elders would lift his hand high, and start to spank her with all his strength. She’d wriggle, scream, plead for mercy – but he would continue until he was satisfied that he had spanked her soundly, before ordering her to stand.

And then the next of the elders would take her over his knee, and repeat the spanking – and so on until the circle of the twelve wise men of the village had punished her in turn, without her ever seeing their faces, before she was evicted from the chamber to find the servant waiting with her dress.

[Cath had an even darker idea, involving a spy being birched until she revealed her secrets, with her head being held periodically under the waters of the central pool to weaken her resolve. But that's just damned perverted, if you ask me!]

A funny spanking reference has popped up on my news reader. In an interview, a Bollywood actor called Purab Kohli was shared one of the important influences in his career:

Your ability to get people in your audience to open up to you is pretty astounding. What do you attribute that to?

…I attribute Koel Puri for spanking my butt in Rock On. That’s what got the beautiful girls all over the world to open up in front of me (laughs).

This must be it! Beautiful girls trust a man who understands their pain and troubles. *g*

P.S. (The whole interview is here, but be careful, the page starts playing music automatically.)

To a rather posh spa with Cath this morning. It featured a number of different pools each filled with hot spring water rich in minerals – think the Dead Sea, only in miniature and indoors. One spends around fifteen minutes in each, the aim being that one’s skin is perfectly cleansed by the end of a couple of hours.

The brochure failed to mention that the origins of the pool ceremony are rooted deep in history. See, it’s an ancient Greek ritual. When a girl was to be punished before the gods, it was important to purify her first. The high priests would therefore take her to the holy pools and make her bathe, to cleanse her. Only then would they take her into the temple, tie her up before the altar and whip her.

You’ll be pleased to know that I did uphold the old traditions, even if the spa staff seemed quite ignorant of them. I’m not sure that they had acrylic canes in the days of the ancient Greeks; a hotel room had to do for the temple, and the fax machine’s cable replaced the more traditional rope to hold her in place, but it worked pretty well

I could have a massive sulk now. Today I was supposed to be with a group of my spanking girlfriends for a girls’ weekend away, but at the last moment I got derailed by flu, and had to stay at home, in bed.

I don’t like sulking, though. Instead, I’m turning this into a fantasy: I’m a daughter of a big 18c family, and all of us had been invited to a neighbouring estate to a big gathering. The adults would hunt and dance, and we young people would do young people things.

Except the night before the event, my governess complained to my mother that I’d been making a fuss about the dress I’m supposed to wear. Mother told Papa, and he swiftly dispensed judgement: if I’m not grateful for the treats I get, I shan’t get any treats at all.

The family has left. My governess and I remain. Instead of picnics with my friends, I get to sit in additional lessons, practise my embroidery and go to bed early. And each night before bed, the governess has the order to put me over her lap, pull up my white nightgown, and spank me with an ebony hairbrush until I’m tearful and repentant.

Papa has promised that, upon his return, he will interview me in his study, and if he doesn’t find my attitude changed, he will send a footman to cut a birch, and administer the punishment personally.

The weekend is dull with none of my siblings here, but I dread its end.

Staying with Cath at the moment; the discussion yesterday morning turned to tennis skirts. Perhaps inevitably, during the day I corrupted the images of cute girls in their tennis whites into a rather interesting scene.

The school’s tennis team was good: one of the best in the country. They’d travelled for miles for the final of an inter-school competition; their opponents had put them up for a night in a spare dormitory.

Rather than going to bed early to prepare for their big day, however, the six young ladies stayed up late. They were caught by one of the prefects of their host school, at two in the morning, singing merrily – a result, no doubt, of the bottles of vodka now empty and littering the dorm.

News would filter back the following morning to their master, who would address them sternly in the changing room before the tournament. “I know what happened last night: your duty to your school is to demonstrate today that your misbehaviour won’t compromise your performance on the courts.”

Only, of course, it did, as they crashed to a spectacular defeat – losing every match. The girls stood, heads bowed, as their opponents were presented with the prestigious trophy, and then turned disconsolate to troop back to the dressing room.

“Not so fast. Out onto the court, now. And line up facing the net.”

He’d walk behind them, lecturing. “I’m ashamed of your all for disgracing the good name of the school. As is the Headmaster, to whom I spoke this morning, and who has asked me to punish you.”

He’d turn and beckon to the head prefect from the host school, who’d walk onto court carrying a cane borrowed from one of the Housemasters. Skirts and underwear would be removed; the girls would be instructed to bend over, legs straight, and touch the court in front of their toes. He’d start at one end of the line, swishing the cane through the air to get used to its weight and balance. And then he’d administer six hard strokes to the first of the culprits, before moving along to stripe her neighbour.

The third girl would be the captain of tennis – and a school prefect, no less. The master would pass by: “I’ll deal with you in a moment.” The three girls to her right would each take their six strokes – yelping, clutching their backsides, hoping their friends wouldn’t notice the tears. And then he’d return to the captain.

“Had you done your duty, none of this would have happened – and none of your friends would have been caned. You’ll receive double.”

Twelve of the very best later, the girls were ordered to stand and dress. “Shower* and get changed quickly. I want to see you at the minibus in fifteen minutes’ time.” And the master would beckon their host’s head prefect, who’d been watching with interest from the side of the court, and hand back the cane.

–

Interestingly, when we played the scene in the evening, it wasn’t the on-court canings that were re-enacted. Rather, the tennis captain was called into the Headmaster’s study on her return to the school. He expressed his considerable disappointment: “And whilst you have already been punished as captain of tennis, it falls to me to deal with the disgrace you have brought on the office of prefect. I expect far higher standards than this.” And another sound caning followed…

–

* I could rather enjoy the thought of the six girls afterwards in the communal shower, looking at each other’s stripes and consoling one another, but that would be pervy…!

Today, of course, is St. George’s Day. Sadly, England is rather lax at celebrating its patron saint’s day – other than the occasional promotion of cheap beer in the pubs. Me? I’d have flags flying everywhere, and a public holiday.

Still, I’m reminded that, not too many years ago, the date was marked in girls’ reformatories across England – albeit perhaps not in as manner that would be deemed entirely celebratory. Picture the scene: it’s after breakfast (water, dry bread) in the reformatory on 23rd April. The girls are gathered together around the walls of the main hall. In the centre of the room, the whipping block. A birch rod rests on top.

The governor strides in, and takes a piece of paper from his pocket. He opens it, slowly, reads the name to himself, looks round the room.

“Sarah Fisher, step forward.”

She’s pushed to the front of the crowd; finds herself face-to-face with the Governor. He looks over her, at the assembled girls. “You will know, of course, of the St. George’s Day Birching. How our Prime Minister, Mr. Gladstone, outlawed the use of corporal punishment in the girls’ judicial system. How his eminent opponent, Mr. Disraeli, forced a late amendment to the bill before parliament. ‘Without fear of the sanction of the birch, I fear that girls may run riot.’”

As a result, he continued, once a year the Governor was obliged by law to select the girl whose behaviour in the previous twelve months had fallen furthest short of the expected standards. And to punish her. In public, before the other inmates.

“Miss Fisher: remove your dress, and bend over the punishment bench.”

“Please, sir. There must be a mistake.”

“When it comes to the governance of this institution, girl, I don’t make mistakes.” And he’d proceed to tie the naked lass in position – buckling the leather straps tightly around her wrists and her ankles.

The birching would be severe – a once-in-a-year lesson to the assembled crowd on the need to behave. For, after all, one of them (averting their eyes, peeking at the flogging in fascinated terror) could find herself there next year, howling as the rod cut home, sharply, repeatedly, until the Governor was satisfied that the girl’s chastisement had sent out an appropriate message.

I came across a long-forgotten book during our packing, entitled “Your First Headship”. We picked it up years ago in a second-hand bookshop, wondering what it said about disciplinary matters.

Sadly, it was rather lacking in useful advice. But I did find myself mentally re-writing along it the following lines the other day during a long drive:

Corporal Punishment

It is imperative that, in your early days as a Headmaster, you make it plain to the girls in the school that you will resort to corporal punishment to punish those committing more serious misdemeanours.

We recommend that you make an example of one of the girls within the first two weeks of your Headship. Ideally, you will find a ‘good girl’, not one typically badly-behaved, who has overstepped the mark.

Announce your displeasure at her offence in school assembly, and tell her to report to your office at morning break. By making the fact of her punishment public, you will send out a clear and important message.

Keep her waiting for a few minutes, then scold her severely and express your disappointment. Administer the caning hard – six of your very best with the senior cane, on the bare, with her touching her toes. Have no doubt that news of the procedure that you follow will be disseminated across the school within a matter of hours, just as her stripes will be inspected in the changing room showers in days to come for signs of your effectiveness as a disciplinarian.

By being strict in these early days, you will be kinder to the girls in the longer-term, making it clear that misbehaviour will be soundly punished, and thus reducing the incidence of rule-breaking and the need to administer future canings.

I never failed to be amused by how sellers of spanking toys describe their products on customs declarations.

Say, today we got a box in the post.

It contained, according to the notice, “a wand”.

I didn’t remember buying any Harry Potter merchandise…