The Spanking Writers

Emma Jane’s been keeping her readers posted with some wonderful accounts of the scenes she and I played during my recent visit to Ireland. But I’m going to dive in and blog about the very first scene of the weekend – which, indeed, was the first role-playing scene we’d played together.

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“You wanted to see me, sir?”

The young lady in the door of the Headmaster’s office looked nervous – as well she might have been. (And oh, how delightfully authentic my playmate looked in her grey dress and blue school shirt. For a moment, I was that Headmaster – not a mere role-player).

“Indeed.” I didn’t rise from my desk, but looked up from my paperwork, clsing the folder in front of me (actually the hotel’s brochure, masquerading as important papers for a forthcoming Governors’ meeting). I came straight to the point: “Where were you this afternoon, Miss Woodhouse?”

She’d been at the dentist’s, she told me. She’d had permission. (I’d known this, of course, the plot having been carefully agreed in advance).

“So why did one of my staff see you in the local shops?”

An excuse was quick to follow: “I popped into Top Shop, sir. But only for a moment.” (Trying to disarm me. A confession hadn’t been part of the plot. I thought quickly…). “Top Shop, eh? Then can you explain why you were seen in two other stores, at least half an hour apart?”

She couldn’t. And now I played my joker: a call to the dentist had revealed that she hadn’t ever had an appointment made for that afternoon.

I stood up, and walked across to the cupboard in which I’d stored the two school canes that were to be so well used over the weekend. I opened the door, took them out, and passed sentence: “I’m going to cane you, Miss Woodhouse. Six strokes for your truancy, and a further six for lying.”

And so she bent over the arm of the sofa that the hotel had so conveniently provided, her knickers lowered, and I took up the lighter of the canes for the first half-dozen. Hard – on a cold bottom; clearly hurting. And then I paused, and picked up the second, heavier cane: “Those were for truancy. I view lying as a far more serious offence. And you have lied both with your excuse that you had a dental appointment, and then continued lying to me with your explanations this afternoon. I shall use the senior cane for the remaining six.”

She protested (genuinely, I think!). But I was having none of it, and Headmaster-me was determined to make these really count. She held her position bravely, although the strokes were delivered at full strength, and then it was all over.

“Stand up and adjust your clothing, and don’t let me see you back here again.” And so Emma Jane headed off – almost to the stairs leading out of the room, before turning with the biggest grin on her face and walking back over for a hug.

We went to a county show the other week. Mainly to shop and eat, though I did enjoy looking at the horses. Abel had hoped for a new riding crop, but the crops on offer were either wimpy, or pink, or both.

(Though we did rather like the saddle-fitter’s stall, and had some thoughts on how the display could be utilised):

Anyway, we gave up on the riding crop idea and lazily browsed the usual variety of country show stalls, when Abel spotted a duster: not feather, but lambswool, soft and rather nice-looking. He claimed we needed it to deal with the cobwebs:

So we got it home, and next thing I knew, I was being swatted with the stick end, while Abel used the nice furry dusting part as a grip. It looks thin and harmless, but my goodness, does it ever sting. I’ll be quite happy if I never get smacked with it again.

However, if you turn it around, the soft part is quite nice for soothing the hurt. Whoever made this implement, is a total pervert, I’m telling you. To sell something like this at a county fair, no less!

Sitting on a bus travelling into a city from the airport last week. The lass behind me comments to her boyfriend, “My friend Liz is a festival whore.”

Cue a confused look and a very long, very awkward silence, before:   “I don’t mean she goes there to work as a prostitute. Just that she loves festivals.”

–

A TV advert pops up last weekend for the Neutrogena Wave Power Cleanser. It strikes me that this a high-speed vibrating device seems destined not to be used by its female owners for its intended purpose of cleaning their faces.

–

I spy a notice at a railway station, coming home from a meeting:

Surely I can’t be the only customer to giggle?

–

I attend a training course earlier this week on which the tutor comments, a propos of discussing how to question customers, “What we’re really trying to here, in its simplest form, is ask, ‘Does it hurt?’”

She goes on to suggest that the next questions should reveal, “How much does it hurt?” and comments that, “This is particularly important if the relationship is new.”

Later, she decides that, “We should do some role play.” The case study contained the phrase, “What would happen if the lubricant ran out?”, set in an institution known as the CIM Academy (which might make the very rudest of you snigger).

We were sitting in a restaurant about 20 minutes from our house, when the skies opened, and the rain poured down in sheets. When we’d left the house, it was bright sunshine, so we had no umbrella, and I was wearing sandals.

I love summer rain, but Abel made a miserable face. I tried to cheer him up:

“It’s an adventure!”

“It’s not an adventure, we’re going to be soaked to the skin. Unless… a girl goes out late, walking on the moors, a storm comes in, she has to be rescued. And punished.”

“Yes,” I said enthusiastically. “By a dashing man on a horse.” I had a vision of a gentleman in breeches and a sodden white shirt sticking to his body, looking stormy as he helps the girl mount up in front of him.

“No,” said Abel. “By her father.”

That was an entirely different fantasy trying to encroach onto my Wuthering Heights.

“Dashing man!” I insisted. “On a horse!” White shirt sticking to a muscular torso, long black hair hanging in wet ropes…

“I’m allergic to horses,” said Abel grumpily. “I can’t suspend disbelief that far.”

“Well, I can suspend disbelief far enough to cast you as a dashing man!” I blurted before stopping to think.

His face became very dangerous and, well… dashing. I squirmed, making an apologetic face.

And guess what – I got away with it. Probably because it was funny!

The point remains, though: rain to me is romance, Regency heroines and stormy heroes who spank and ravish them, making up the pain with an abundance of pleasure. Horses are optional, though.

En route to Ireland last weekend to meet up with Emma Jane, I found myself sipping a coffee in the airport bar. By 6.55 a.m., the gentlemen at the next table were already on their second Guinness of the morning.

And what, I wondered, of girls on the school trip – a skiing expedition, a short trip to Paris to practise their French, an exchange visit with a sister school? Would they too sneak into the bar before their early flight? Might one of them drink just a little too much, and be refused boarding by vigilant airline staff?

The master in charge of the group would be called over; he’d provide the staff with the school address and money to fund a taxi, and would quickly call the Headmaster before joining the rest of the group on the plane.

A caning would be inevitable – six slow, measured strokes on the bare that evening, once she’d sobered up. And then she’d head back to an empty dorm – her friends by now safely abroad – to sob herself to solitary sleep.

Walking down a quiet street, we found ourselves walking behind a young couple. About 10 metres in front of us, the girl stopped and bent down to start fussing with her shoelaces. She was effectively touching her toes for several seconds, bottom in the air.

It was a very nice bottom. We both appreciated the sight.

Then she straightened out and started walking – all too soon, we thought. “Oh, nooo,” whispered Abel petulantly. “Bend over again!”

And what do you know – the girl bent down again, this time, to adjust the cuffs of her jeans. It was as though she was being obedient to Abel’s wishes.

“Can I try?” I said, and whispered towards her boyfriend: “Now smack her bottom!”

But he didn’t.

Ah well. The first try was good enough.

OK, I confess to an I-must-have-a-dirty-mind startle when I read the following headline in the Guardian on Monday:

“W*nking while you write”?

Oh. It says “pens: is”. Phew!

The story went on to proclaim that “e-assessments” would soon replace traditional exams. What a shame, I thought, picturing an invigilator patrolling the hall as the girls sat the first of their A Level papers. He’d notice one candidate behaving slightly strangely; he’d study her discreetly from a distance, before swooping like a hawk and seizing the page of microscopic notes to which she had been referring.

She’d be marched out of the examination and taken directly to the Headmaster’s office. The trembling girl would be made to wait outside whilst the master went in with the incriminating crib sheet. He’d re-emerge some time later; her tearful wait would continue for several minutes more before she was called in.

“I am told by Mr. Jenkins that he observed you cheating in this morning’s History A Level. Do you accept that this is true?”

A long pause. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know why, but…”

“You will, of course, be awarded a ‘Fail’ by the examination board for History. You will no doubt appreciate that their policy is also to fail you on all of your other subjects.”

“Please, sir. No….”

“I have just spoken to them at length on the matter, and as this is your very first paper of the summer – and I have confirmed to them that you have had an exemplary disciplinary record up until this incident – they have agreed to grant you an exemption and allow you to sit your remaining subjects as usual. Provided, that is, you have been soundly punished.”

“Sir…?”

“It is very rare that I have to resort to corporal punishment, young lady, but in this case you leave me no choice. Eight strokes of the cane is the maximum that I am allowed to give you, and on this occasion I feel it to be entirely appropriate. Bend over and touch your toes!”

A short while ago our reader (who may name himself in the comments if he wants to) has offered to build us a whipping bench. You just don’t say no to such an offer, even if ultimately it’s going to bring much pain and sorrow.

The bench has arrived recently, and it’s a rather brilliant, if evil, piece of equipment.

The most awesome thing about it is that it’s made to measure to fit me. Obviously, others can go over it – and will, I’m sure! – but it’s built to accommodate the lines of my body. That just rocks: comfort is very important when you’re in pain, you see.

Also, you can store it in bits when natural disasters (like parents) descend, and then easily put it together again.

The only downside is that having the bench naturally promotes whippings, and I’m just not sure it’s a good thing. *rubs bottom in contemplation*

Sometimes I think I have a cruel streak.

Take the little image that popped into my mind yesterday, while I was supposed to be writing a document for work. The door of the Headmaster’s study swings open; a girl emerges into the corridor, tearful and rubbing her bottom. A line of four, maybe five, of her friends waits outside.

“He wants you to go straight in,” she tells the lass at the front of the queue, then whispers: “Good luck.”

The door shuts. And within a moment, the freshly-punished girl is surrounded by her friends – comforting, consoling, wanting to know what it was like. She’d try not to worry them – “It wasn’t too bad” masking the reality that being caned had been far, far worse than she’d anticipated.

And at that moment, a master would turn into the corridor. “What on earth is going on here?” The line would slink back against the wall, leaving the punished lass looking up at the Deputy Head. “You must know that talking outside the Headmaster’s office is strictly forbidden.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I’ve just been in trouble, and I’ve just come out, and my friends… Well, they were checking I was OK.”

“I find it quite astonishing that a pupil can emerge from being punished by the Headmaster, and flout a school rule within a matter of seconds.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You can join the back of the queue, and once he’s dealt with your colleagues, you can go in to see him again. Explain why I’ve sent you back. And I suspect the Headmaster will teach you what a very dim view he’d take of a girl who misbehaves within minutes of being caned.”  

The other night we imagined a girl who misbehaved in class. The teacher, not normally known for his strictness, got tired of her fidgeting, leaning over to whisper and scrawling notes in the margins of her friends’ books.

“Six with the slipper,” he snapped finally.

Her mood dampened, she rose to walk to the front of the class, but the teacher lifted her palm to stop her.

“You don’t think I should waste any more valuable classroom time on you, do you? Raise your skirt and face the wall. I will deal with you after the lesson.”

And so she stood, alone in the corner, waiting for the bell to ring. She couldn’t decide whether she would rather her knicker displaying shame was over sooner, or that it would last forever, putting off the descent of the slipper.

The bell would ring too soon. And yet, it wouldn’t ring soon enough.