The Spanking Writers

We walked past an especially cute young lady in Oxford last weekend, who spoiled her good looks with an excessive amount of makeup. I commented to Haron on my recommended solution: “Strip, scrub, spank”.

“Who are you calling a stripper,” my wife replied with a giggle.

“Well, who are you calling a scrubber?” We paused for a moment, before I added: “Actually, I don’t think she looks like a spanker, do you?”

I’ve since spent most of this week in central London. Wandering along Regents Street between meetings, I spied a rather gorgeous model being photographed holding a placard proclaiming, “Make the most of now” and the Vodafone logo.

No doubt the ad agency has calculated that potential customers will find their eyes drawn to an advert featuring a gorgeous, scantily-clad young woman. And then we’ll immediately swear allegiance for the rest of our days to the particular mobile phone company whose product she’s endorsing. Clever, eh, these advertising folks? That must have taken them all of, I don’t know, ten minutes in the pub one night?

Anyway, I did think the idea of “cute lass holding placard” was wasted on cell phones. How much more interesting it would be had the slogan revealed that, “I’m much better behaved now”, with the logo of a cane company. Or maybe, “I’ve learnt my lesson” above a photograph of a birch; “I won’t do it again” next to a drawing of tawse, or “I promise to be a good girl” accompanied by a neatly-sketched, doubled-over belt.

They might have to smudge the model’s make-up a little to make her face look tear-stained, of course. Or maybe they’d require my services to administer a sharp six of the best prior to the photoshoot, to get that really authentic look… And if any ad agencies are reading, my rates really are awfully reasonable.

I caught this photo in the Sunday paper last week: apparently, the guy’s wife has a wicked sense of justice. Or humour? One of those:

Of course, in my mind, the sign could be modified in something like “I cheated in my test”, and given to naughty college students to wear for a particular stretch of time – just before their flogging in front of the student union.

There are days when a girl just needs some help with her work. I’m incredibly busy just now, and as I split various assignments into pieces of “homework”, I imagine having a strict person who would sit next to me as I work, pointing out mistakes, praising good work, an giving me an occassional smack when my gaze starts drifting towards the window.

The only thing is, I can’t decide whether this person should be my governess, who spends all day with me, making sure that everything I do is just right – or a tutor, who arrives at an appointed hour specifically to help with my homework.

Both are strict. Both have my best interest in mind, even as they smack my bottom for some little misdeed or another. Except, if I have a tutor, he could also appeal to my governess afterwards if my efforts are not up to scratch, and then I’d have both of them to explain myself to.

I can’t really choose. But I’m clearly in need of one or the other…

The online spanking soap opera that was Lowewood Academy may have bowed out to a graceful end, but its real-life counterpart is still very much alive. Thus it was that the Reverend Jenkins found himself putting on his vicar’s dog collar on Saturday morning, and heading off for a day’s teaching and whacking.

No doubt others from the lovely group who attended will post their perspectives on the day – the assembly, complete with uniform inspection; the various classes; the goings-on at the bottom of the garden, both legitimate (the games lesson) and naughty (as a certain girl sneaked out for her cigarettes).

I did enjoy my time in the classroom. First up for me was Religious Studies (biblical quotations*, acted out, before a short essay on whether the bible should be taken literally). By the time I arrived to start my afternoon class, most of the girls were quite hyperactive. “If you’d like, you can spend thirty minutes writing lines in place of my planned lesson,” restored order amidst the mischief, allowing us to start on Sex Education.

Clearly, I informed the girls, the key word for them to remember was ‘abstinence’. But the Headmaster had asked me to teach the new syllabus laid out by the Board of Education, in which girls needed to think of sex using the acronym “L.E.S.”:

• Legal: a short test on the age of consent in various countries
• Enjoyable: each girl wrote down three things they thought they’d enjoy with a sexual partner, and had to act one of their list out with one of her classmates
• Safe. If you’ve never seen eight girls in school uniform unrolling fruit-flavoured condoms onto bananas with their mouths, you really have missed out.

In the midst of the teaching came the Father Smith wing: girls sent out of class to be dealt with for some serious offence or other. Three girls came my way during the day; three short, lovely little sessions (including one with Martha that proved rather surreal given the issue under consideration!)

And then it was on to the detention sessions after the final assembly. Each girl was allocated to one of the masters, so that her behaviour during the day could be reviewed and addressed. Jemima was first in to see me; she’d instigated the insurrection in morning assembly, when the girls had sung a quite obscene ditty in place of the school hymn. As a result, the Headmaster had determined that they were each to be whacked.

Was it fair that she received six strokes? Naturally, although I was conscious that Eliane (Jemima’s real-life counterpart) has been feeling less than receptive to whackings lately. The scene felt balanced on a knife-edge: she needed, deserved to be punished, to be pushed yet not too far. (But was I cruel to point out after caning her that there were seven girls around the school being caned as a direct result of her actions? Well, a Lowewood teacher sometimes has to point out harsh truths…)

The eight other girl was going to be caned irrespective of the raucous singing. I’d made young Caoilfhionn wait outside the room, listening to her friend’s punishment – and now it was her turn. She’d finished bottom of the class, with -35 house points; had it not been for her, an entire class would have recorded positive scores for the first time ever. I didn’t doubt that she was a girl with potential: after all, she’d won the much-coveted Father Smith Cup for being the ‘most sporting girl’. And that, I explained, made it even more imperative that I dealt with her severely, to punish her – but more importantly to discipline her so that her conduct would be better in future. Indeed, I’d feel that I’d have let the school down if I didn’t succeed in ensuring good behaviour from her next time.

35 negative points? 35 strokes of the cane. On the bare. Hard, accurate, delivered with intent, lecturing her as I went. Remarkably, astonishingly deep and powerful role play: the chaplain correcting Caoilfhionn, never Abel ‘playing’ with Emma Jane - until it was over and we could come out of character and hug each other tight.

I must finish by thanking the Headmaster and his wonderful secretary, Miss Bellend, for inviting us and for organising such wonderful events. You two are at the fulcrum of so many people’s play lives, and we all owe you a lot. I do hope you’re both as proud as you should be of what you do.

* I do confess that one of the quotations in the lesson, about girls cutting switches from their orchard to punish their servants, was entirely made up – but none of the pupils seemed to notice!

A quite fascinating publication popped up on one of my occasional Google searches for interesting articles. “Justice and the Child” by Douglas Pepler was published in London in 1915; the section of particular interest concerned sentencing of young offenders.

“The record,” the author explained, “will show that the magistrates are lenient in the county of London.” The breakdown of the outcome of a little over 3,500 cases before them in 1912 was as follows:

- not settled at time of report: 3
– sentenced to long-term industrial schools and reformatories: 1,179
– birched: 92
– fined: 139
– sent to short-term or day industrial schools: 115
– discharged: 977
– parents bound over: 575
– children bound over: 104
– probation: 144
– sent to workhouse or referred to guardians: 41

That’s about a one in forty chance of a birching, then – although a father bound over because of his daughter’s misbehaviour would no doubt deal with her thoroughly when they got home from court, and I rather doubt the workhouses, industrial schools, reformatories or ‘guardians’ spared the rod.

The author explained that:

“Magistrates are less disposed to order whipping than they were, and, though nothing is more harmful than a free use of the birch, it is undoubtedly a beneficial punishment when employed with discrimination. It is soon over, it is not a public performance, the father can be present if he desires, and it is a sentence which, with that of the fine, could often be followed up helpfully with probationary supervision. No person can be whipped more than once for the same offence…”

He concludes that “whippings should be tried more often” before the magistrates opted for a custodial sentence. I can see Haron being sent to 192 immediately.

We’re about to set off for a day of school play at the Lowewood Academy. This is a familiar road, and we’ve travelled along it many times, but I’m jumping with anticipation. Today in particular I’m anxious to go back to school, because September is very much a back-to-school time for me. Like an itch in a missing limb, the pull of a ghost classroom makes me antsy and wistful at this time of year. I’m so grateful to have Lowewood.

I’ve been preparing for days. I’ve been picking up new school supplies here and there over the last few weeks. I packed my satchel days ago. I’ve made time over the last few days to starch my shirt, polish my shoes, choose the hair scrunchies, aquire a stash of sweeties to share with the girls.

I imagine, I’ll probably get spanked at some point today. Until I get there, I won’t know whether I feel like being good or bad. But really, as I set off to school today, it’s not just about spanking for me.

It was a dark, wet, windy morning… Walking through deserted streets to the local train station at 5.30am yesterday really was a miserable experience. Not a light in a single window; it really did seem as though I was the only person awake at such an ungodly hour.

To cheer myself up, my crook-handled umbrella caned countless imaginary girls as I strolled. (Hey, there was no-one around, OK?). And then inspiration struck. For surely this would be precisely the time at which the prefects in the local girls’ boarding school would conduct a surprise early-morning dorm inspection?

They’d burst in, unannounced, and flick on the bright lights. The girls in the room would be made to climb groggily from their beds; they’d stand watching (and trembling) as the inspection took place.

Some would be sent back to sleep, everything being in order. Others would be found guilty of minor offences – clothes strewn on the floor rather than folded neatly on their bedside chair; wearing non-regulation pyjamas. They’d be made to bend over the end of their bed for a sound whacking with the prefectorial plimsoll.

And the remaining few? Those foolish girls whose bedside tables contained stashes of illicit contraband – cigarettes, alcohol? They’d be made to put on their dressing gowns and go and wait in silence until their Housemaster arrived in his study that morning, knowing that a caning was inevitable.

Emma-Jane posted an interesting entry about a scene that didn’t quite work out for her. After thinking about it, she realised that the reason for it was that she couldn’t quite let go of control as she played:

Having taken a step back now I realise I was not at all open over the weekend. I wanted to play on my terms, to my specific level of play, to my script. I found myself getting irritated when a scene turned differently to how I expected, annoyed to get extras or have an unexpected implement or have to assume a position I didn’t like. I wanted to be in control.

Reading this was fascinating to me, in a way that a forein country is fascinating. Because the things that so completely ruined the scene for Emma, are a basic requirement for when I play.

I want to play on my terms. I want to keep to the level that I desire. (Sometimes it involves playing hard, though most of the time it doesn’t.) I don’t want to be surprised or derailed, unless it’s done very gently – I’m prone to panic attacks, and having one of these in a scene would be very unsexy. When things don’t go the way I like, I get annoyed, but not at myself for wanting to play the way I like, but at the top for not being able to read me better. This might make me difficult to play with, though I don’t think so: all it requires is that the top and I want and like to do similar things.

How interesting that my bliss should be Emma’s bane…

To Amsterdam, and the most fetish-friendly hotel room in the world:

Oh, for some rope and a young lady to tie up and torment, especially as I purchased a wonderful new flogger from Absolute Danny, the city’s top fetish store. Instead, I had to wander the city imagining kinky goings-on. See, there was a huge open-air music festival on huge stages all over the city – orchestras, popular singers, reprising traditional Dutch songs and highlights from the musicals.

The event was televised live that evening. I pictured the conversation over a bottle of wine in some sociable suburban Dutch living room, the TV on quietly in the corner. The host would comment to his friends that, “My daughters are there, you know. A group of girls were going, so I gave them permission. They were so excited. They’ve been there all afternoon.”

Only one of his guests would look surprised, and be forced to say why: he’d been in the city earlier and had seen the young ladies in question sitting, smoking joints outside a ‘coffee’ shop with a group of young men. “I was a bit surprised, Hans, to be honest, that you’d condone that sort of thing,” he’d observe. “I mean, they’re still at school!”

The switches would be cut before the lasses returned from the city centre later than evening. Bottoms bared, they’d be made to bend over besides one another touching their toes, to be whipped both for drug-taking and dishonesty.

I dreamed I was at a weekend-long spanking party with a school theme. It was the second day, and I hadn’t been spanked very much; I seemed to have established a reputation of a good girl.

I decided I wanted to be spanked by the Headmaster, so I said to one of the teachers: “I’m going to the Headmaster’s office, and will say that you sent me. Is that OK?” He was fine with it, so off I went.

Here’s how I put together my caning:

1. I drew a quick indecent drawing, which could have been my original offence.
2. I wasn’t wearing any underwear, claiming my knicker elastic was cutting into my legs too much.
3. I mis-pronounced the name of the teacher who’d sent me, turning it into something rude.

The Headmaster was enraged. I woke-up before he could do anything about it, though. That was disappointing.