The Spanking Writers

I spent a wonderful summer’s afternoon wandering around Stuttgart on Tuesday. The main square was bathed in sunlight; groups of friends played boules. I joined the locals sitting outside sipping a cold beer.

Later, I wandered through the city centre, noticing the groups of younger folk outside the ice cream bars. And an evil thought occurred to me.

For one of the lasses had been spared a switching for her atrocious report at the end of the school term by promising that she’d study flat out throughout the summer. But daddy had gone away on a business trip and wouldn’t be back until late. With the coast clear, she’d be perfectly safe to slip into the town to spend the day with her friends.

Or so she thought.

For the business meeting had been cancelled at the last minute, and her father had found himself walking through the city centre with colleagues. He’d seen his daughter – who’d not noticed him.

By the time she bent over the end of the sofa that evening, after cutting a selection of switches from the back garden, it would not only be the poor report that had earned her a thrashing. There’d be the furtive trip out of the house to consider, too – never mind that she’d sworn blind to her father when he’d returned home that evening that she’d been studying diligently all day…

I saw my first back-to-school display yesterday. I was on my own and in a hurry, so I resisted wandering up and down the aisle, trying to smell fresh pencils and finger note-pads. My school bag is very well stocked, in fact, and doesn’t need topping up. Still, I imagine that some time in the next month I’ll find myself in the back-to-school aisle for quite a length of time, not as much shopping as fantacising.

These displays appeal more to the 10-year-old me than any older schoolgirl that I may play.* I turn quite small, and bouncy, and eager to go back to school in a way that an older teenager would never be. I picture myself in a big school for the first time; but know that this time is still a year off. I know that I must contain my enthusiasm in public, because Daddy will spank me over his knee if I beg for things in the shop, instead of waiting decorously to be offered them.

Maybe it isn’t shopping I actually need right now. Maybe it’s to be 10.

Shopping is good, though, too.

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* Perhaps, it’s because when I really was 10, there was a state-sanctioned notebook allowance per child, and felt-tips came in a box of six colours and no more. I know quite a few young women my age from the former Soviet states who blindly buy boxes of pencils in multiple colours because as kids, they couldn’t.

I’ve been at my desk since before five this morning, working away diligently with just the occasional glance at kinky emails and blogs.

I’ve been rather distracted, though, by the sound of girls’ voices drifting through the still morning air from a garden nearby.

Sooner or later, it struck me, there’ll be different noises wafting on the breeze. For the friends at the summer holiday sleepover would have been allowed to spend the night in a tent, on condition that they behaved themselves and didn’t disturb the neighbours.

When the father of the girl whose garden they’re using is woken at this ungodly hour by their gossip and giggles, he’ll take a very dim view of the situation. And when he reaches the garden and sees empty cider bottles littering the lawn around their tent…?

The lasses will be made to cut their own switches and bend over, before a chorus of strokes rings out – four each for the visitors, six for the young lady of the house. The subsequent short period of soft sobbing will be followed by blissful silence, and I’ll be able to concentrate on my work again…

This cartoon gave me an inappropriate, ungrammatical giggle.

(Taken here)

The same night I dreamt my mafia dream, a vicar also put in an appearance in an entirely unrelated scene. He was peering down from the pulpit as he preached his Sunday morning sermon. As usual, amongst the congregation were the girls from the local Poor School, funded from parish funds, all neatly scrubbed in their uniforms.

Some time after the end of the service, when the church had emptied, the vicar emerged from his vestry to find one of the pupils waiting outside, facing the wall. He took her inside, asked her to explain why she was there, listened with a frown on his face to her confession, and pronounced his agreement with the headmistress’s recommendation that the girl deserved a dose of corporal punishment. And as Chairman of the board of governors, he explained, it fell to him to correct the error of her ways.

Out from his desk drawer would come his trusty plimsoll. Over his knee she would go. Down would come her knickers, and the whacking would continue until long after the lass has started sobbing.

That would be the procedure the first time a girl was sent for punishment. A second offence would mean a caning; no girl had ever been so foolish as to return for a third time.

Somewhere on my web wonderings, I happened upon this picture:

This is a dormitory in a summer camp. Perhaps, a camp where difficult girls are sent for a month to be sharply brought to their senses by disciplinarians trained exactly for this purpose.

Can you picture the girls, lying quietly in their beds after lights-out? Three or four of them can’t get into bed yet, but instead have to wait bent over the footboard, waiting for the lights to come back on.

The head of the dorm will walk in with an implement in hand – a ruler, or a slipper, or a cane, depending on his mood. He will walk up to each waiting girl, silently lower her pyjamas and as silently deliver six strokes: a standard number given for having got into trouble earlier in the day. Each girl will try to stay silent too, but in vain. Whimpers and yelps would echo under the high roof.

The last girl dealt with, the head of the dorm will walk back to the door, survey his work for a second, and quietly say: “Good night, girls.” The light-switch will flick again, and now it will be really   lights-out. Awkwardly and painfully the punished girls would finally climb into their beds.

I dreamed we had a maid.

We treated her fairly, and well, I thought in the dream. She had a lot of work, naturally, and had to do it all while wearing a heavy floor-length dress and a shapeless cap, but it felt right at the time.

I remember Abel beckoning to her into his office, and shutting the door as they both went in, and I thought: “I hope she learns her lesson this time.” I knew she was in trouble, but not what for. And I didn’t feel a tiny bit sorry for her: of course, she deserved it. Of course, she needed discipline.

I don’t think we should ever be allowed to hire a real maid.

After all of my kinky thoughts in Oxford, we had to retire to the pub. Behind the bar, a cute young member of staff was being quizzed by her manager about some confusion with a customer’s food order. “What did you do… why did you do that… that was wrong… you shouldn’t have done that… you should have thought about it more carefully first,” came the litany of complaints.

I was secretly enjoying the scolding, much as I felt sorry for her. And when her boss started a sentence with, “If you ever do that again…,” I was already mentally adding, “…I’ll take you into the back room and spank you soundly.”

In reality, the manager finished, “…you need to come and find me.” But even that was enough to ensure that as the lass came over to take my order, she had tears in her eyes. Awwww… There are times when tops need to give hugs, and sadly times when to do so would be entirely inappropriate!