The Spanking Writers

The education section in the library provided me with a fun pervertable book meant to help parents choose a school for their kids, “The New School Rules” by Francis Gilbert.

There was this bit about how you shouldn’t go visit a school on an open day, but insist on being shown around when there’re actual students there. This is how you find out whether the teachers are any good.

“In all schools, it was the head teacher who showed us around. Generally, the head teacher was treated with respect, but in one school, a couple of pupils notably forgot to hold open doors for him, it was almost as though he was invisible… His study was set well away from the rest of the school, and I sensed that he didn’t get out much except for parents and inspectors. At the other two schools, the head teachers were treated with much more familiarity and respect: doors were held openfor them, they were greeted as they entered the classroom, the teachers seemed comfortable arouns them but also anxious to please them.”

What the book is then missing is an episode to the effect that the head teacher in the best school was so sharp and observant that, when he noticed a girl at the end of the corridor push another girl, he called her over – by name, because he knew everybody’s names – and told her to hold out her hands there and then. He had a tawse in the inside pocket of his jacket, which he applied with considerable vigour to the the miscreant’s palms. Then he dismissed the sniffling girl with a comforting word, apologised for the interruption, and continued the tour.

The reason for everybody’s respect and anxiety to please him was rather apparent there.

Dark, dark fantasies last night, after I’d woken early thanks to the joys of jetlag and struggled to get back to sleep. (I clearly read too many trashy thrillers on holiday, amidst some good, more serious novels).

The scene was played out in a rural cottage – miles from the nearest road or neighbour. The girl was tied to the chair, as I took photographs then transferred them to my laptop. “Now, let’s send these to your stepfather and let him know you’re here…”

An hour later, I unbound her. She struggled; I slapped her hard across the face to quieten her protests. I stripped her, tied her in position once again for the camera. I checked my mail. “He’s replied, being all threatening. He won’t find us here, though. This time we’ll let him know what he needs to do to ensure your escape. An hour for him to do what I say, or his pretty little stepdaughter will suffer some more.” And the next batch of photos were sent.

An hour later. No reply. The girl tied over a table. The camera recording video this time, as I caned her before emailing the clip of her struggles, her cries, her stripes.

And so it proceeded, this darkest of scenes, as the hourly correspondence continued deep into the night: the tortures becoming crueller, the methods of abuse more intimate and penetrating – whilst, off-camera, the girl was forced to offer favours for food, water.

I have no idea how it ended. And it didn’t matter whether or not there was actually another top at the end of the email link, joining in the fun by replying (or not) to my notes. All that mattered was that the victim thought there was.

Perhaps a ransom was paid. Perhaps I’d been seeking revenge for her stepfather having wronged me in some way. Perhaps I concluded that he would never comply with my demands, and simply left her, chained, in that rural cottage, knowing that they would never catch me…