The Spanking Writers

Abel asked me whether I still had a copy of a particular old story of his. I did, and sent it to him. An emailed response came right away: “I think you should report to my study for having naughty stories on your computer.”

His logic was flawless: I did have naughty stories on my computer, and he had just caught me red-handed with one of them.

I obediently walked up the stairs to his study. He was waiting for me: his office chair had already been wheeled to the centre of the room, and he sat it in with a huge grin on his face. This “I’m about to smack your bottom and really enjoy it” sort of grin.

“Now, young lady,” he said. “Having pornography on your computer is completely unacceptable. Bend over my lap.”

“But sir,” I carefully protested, “it’s actually erotica.”

“That doesn’t make any difference! Bend over!”

I didn’t feel like making any more fuss, and arranged myself comfortably over his knees.

He stroked the seat of my jeans, meticulously emptied my back pockets, and when there was nothing threatening to hurt his hand too much, began to spank me in a steady rhythm. They were firm swats, but not too hard, and worked me up to a pleasant warm glow.

I apologised for my appalling naughtiness anyway. When I was allowed to stand, I’m sure my big smile said “I’m sorry for keeping pornography on my computer.” Or something of the sort, anyway.

It was only a few minutes after I’d gone back to my desk that he summoned me again, this time having discovered that I – gasp! – post naughty spanking stories on the Internet, as well.

Let’s hear it for British Gas, sponsors of British swimming. Donating considerable sums of money to help our swimmers to win Olympic gold? That has to be worth a round of applause.

Pauses whilst readers mentally congratulate said corporation…

Interestingly, their campaign uses the slogan, “From paddling pool to podium”. Even more interestingly, one region’s swimming body  abbreviates this, instead using simply: “From paddling to podium”.

Now they’re talking my language. 2012 hopefuls, lined up touching their toes on the edge of the pool should their times in training prove disappointing – a helpful dose of corporal punishment encouraging them to work harder next time? Perfect.

Actually, though, with my penchant for playing with women who are bright and successful in their vanilla lives, I rather like the idea of a further corruption. Bring on the newest campaign, “From podium to paddle”, whereby British girls who’ve just won gold are spanked soundly should they be less than gracious in victory.

I was re-reading “Eyes of the Dragon” by Stephen King, and found an episode I had completely forgotten. The young prince, Peter, protects a sick horse from being put down, by swearing to take care of it himself. Unfortunately, he goes about it in a very non-diplomatic way, so his father, King Roland, is honour-bound to punish him.

Peter was whipped for interfering in the head groom’s affairs, and although it was no solace to his stinging bottom, Peter’s mind understood that his father had afforded him great honor by administering the whipping himself, instead of handing Peter over to an underling who might have tried to curry favor by making it easy on the boy.

Peter could not sleep on his back for three days and was not able to eat sitting down for nearly a week, but the head groom was also right about the horse-Roland allowed Peter to keep her.

This is the sort of spanking that really appeals to me: not done in anger, but because it has to be. And everybody’s happy, even though you can’t sit down for a week.

After many months of frustration with the world’s slowest PC, I finally gave in last week and bought a replacement. It’s a lovely, shiny new thing with all mod cons – a processor that doesn’t freeze every hour, a DVD player that actually works, wireless connection that lasts for more than two hours without kicking me out. Office 2010 (in the beta version) rather than Office 97 (which even I have to admit was getting a bit dated). Oh, and a webcam…

It did strike me that the festive season may have seen others receiving webcams Рor indeed clever digital cameras or posh new phones. Young ladies, to be precise, who might have been tempted to experiment with the new technology by taking rather risqu̩ photos.

Picture one such poor thing, whose naughtiness would, somehow, be discovered (the voice of her as-yet-unknown-to-her-family boyfriend just a little loud on the webcam, maybe). The girl would be sent to her bedroom in disgrace, to wait. And wait and wait, contemplating her fate, until she was joined for a lecture on her conduct, followed by the inevitable unbuckling of a belt and a lesson sorely learnt.

In my fantasy I am a fag to a dashing, devious young man.

I’m responsible, among other things, for keeping his school supplies in order. I’m supposed to know his timetable, and keep his books and notes close to hand for when he needs them.

I’m also responsible for sharpening his pencils. He is an amateur artist, and has an expensive rosewood box with row upon row of pencils in every colour. I look after them for him. He likes them sharpened to a stabbing point.

When I neglect this duty, or don’t perform it to his satisfaction, he makes me light a fire in his room, and stand in front of it in just my school shirt and white socks. He takes out a red pencil and tells me to bend over, and draws six parallel lines on my exposed bottom. I have never seen whether the pencil leaves a mark, but he assures me that there’s enough red in the lines to make the next task easy for him.

He brings the pencil to my mouth, and I must take it like a horse takes the bit, but gently, without teeth.

He takes a cane out of the umbrella stand and swishes it through the air next to my head. I tremble with effort not to sink my teeth into the pencil, and also with fear of what’s to come.

He meticulously paints six perfect parallel stripes on my bottom, this time with his cane. I can’t scream without dropping the pencil, and so instead my tears flow freely, even though each time I swear to myself that I wouldn’t cry.

When it’s over, I’m shaking and sobbing, but quietly, quietly. He comes around to take the pencil from my mouth, and wordlessly inspects it for teeth marks. Only once, the first time this happened, had he found any. Then, he had caned me again – this time with no makeshift gag to muffle my cries, laying the strokes quickly, a merciless execution. I have never bit down again.

When he finds no marks on the polished wood, he briefly strokes the side of my face, and calls me a good girl.

Then I’m back to sharpening, dusting and polishing. I suspect that this isn’t the worst punishment in his arsenal, and some days I’m desperately tempted to push until I find out what else he can do to me.

Haron woke up to a good six inches this morning – of snow, perverts: I was already at work at my desk. I do wonder: am I the only person in the UK to have looked at last night’s snowfall and wondered what girls could get themselves into trouble for in such wintry conditions? The result of my kinky daydreamings follows below, thanks to my meetings today having been cancelled – allowing me to focus on far more interesting things like writing a new story!

By the way – we’ve set up a new category to bring together all of the stories we’ve published here on the blog (as well as the usual tab at the top of the page which takes you to my “Abel’s Spanking Stories” collection).

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The snow and the birch

Gasps gave way to gossip, shock to speculation, as the girls of Hadlington College filed into their morning assembly. The birching block’s presence on the stage before them was the stuff of legend, of nightmares – making fleeting appearances that left indelible marks on girls’ attitude and conduct. And there it was, atopped by a freshly cut sprig of birch rods, tightly bound.

Who? Why?

The head girl quelled their excited, nervous hubbub with her customary proclamation: “Silence for the headmistress”. Miss Jensen walked between them from the back of the room, climbed the stairs to the stage and frowned down at her charges as if seeking out the guilty party. “We will start with hymn number 184,” she announced, proffering no clues as to the more fascinating matter at hand.

Readings followed – young Charlotte O’Neill of the Upper Fourth reciting her carefully rehearsed poem into a vacuum of bored anticipation; the Lower Sixth’s Caitlin Quinton quoting a dull passage from Keats that merely prolonged the agonising wait.

Miss Jensen herself spun proceedings out – a lecture on dress code (“too many girls are wearing skirts that are far too short”), praise for the lacrosse team’s latest successes, and a warning about conduct in the snowy weather. “It’s dangerous underfoot, girls: easy to slip. I’d ask you all to re-read section 27 of the school rulebook, which you’ll no doubt recall relates to safe conduct in wintry conditions.”

She paused, as if for effect, and looked up disapprovingly. “On which subject… A very disturbing incident took place yesterday afternoon, just after the final bell, when a gaggle of girls were engaged in a snowball fight immediately inside the school gate. They were challenged by Professor Carter, who as you’ll all know is Chairman of our Governors, as he was on his way to a governing body meeting.”

Amidst 250 enthralled pupils listening to the story unfold, a few were starting to panic. “To my great concern, as soon as he walked away, the snowballs resumed once more – and one was thrown directly at him, hitting him on the back of the head. This is not how Hadlington girls behave. I have assured the Professor that this is completely out of order, and that the girl responsible will be soundly punished. Will she please come forward to the stage.”

Heads turned, seeking out the culprit, the soon-to-be-victim. Those involved? Trying to supress blushes, trying not to make eye contact with their friends. (They wouldn’t be able to identify us, would they?). And the guilty party? Panic, fear, hope that she might evade detection…

“I’m waiting. I’m sure you know who you are, and it’ll be even worse for you if we have to go to the trouble of identifying you during the day, rather than you coming forward voluntarily now.” And so Amber Underwood, tears welling in her eyes, pushed past the line of girls around her and walked unsteadily towards the stage. A collective gulp of surprise marked her confession: Amber? Quiet, well-behaved, academic Amber?

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This morning I got a dose of pure kinky pleasure out of reading an entry by Indy about the Cowboy and the Schoolmaster – the two models of dominant character that find their way into spanking stories in the US and the UK respectively.

This part in particular made me squeal with glee:

…the Schoolmaster story isn’t inherently gendered.   The Schoolmistress can surely wield a cane with sufficient skill to bring an unruly student to order, and girls can find themselves on the receiving end, too.   Indeed, even though the vast majority of school corporal punishment was inflicted upon male students in real life, that fact has been purposely and gleefully ignored by many of the finest practitioners of the Schoolmaster story.

Cowboy stories, on the other hand, are gendered by definition.   I suppose it would be possible to write macho gay M/m cowboy stories, too, and no doubt there are a few of them somewhere on the internet.   In general, though, Cowboys handle other men with fist fights, but they deal with their women by turning them over their knees like children. They may want a partner in life, but she is clearly in a subservient role.   In short, the Cowboy is the quintessential Alpha Male.

My own experience with both types of story began with mainstream literature: I met the Schoolmaster in “David Copperfield” and the Cowboy in “Firestorm” (a romance novel I read at school looking for the sex bits).

Dickens was a classic, but he convinced me that the only people who got spanked were boys. In Firestorm, I liked neither the heroine, nor the ridiculous macho hero, but she got spanked – and so, I began to believe, could I be. So it’s the gender-stereotype-enhancing romances that helped me reconsile with the fact that I was a spanking-crazy girl. Yet, if I were to choose between the two, the Schoolmaster gets my vote and my devotion.

Now somebody needs to write an essay about the Daddy. And it won’t be me, so any volunteers?

Haron took me to my favourite hotel- restaurant for my birthday last week: a truly exquisite place, winner of numerous awards. Whilst all the staff were incredibly welcoming and professional, the young sommelier was particularly delightful: pretty, bright, and incredibly well-informed as to the wines on her list.

Knowledge like that, we concluded, could only have resulted from years of training under a truly authoritative tutor. We pictured the scene that must have taken place weekly in a cool, dimly-lit cellar somewhere in her native France. Three glasses of wine had been placed on a table before her arrival. The rules were clear – should her assessment of each sample (the grape variety, the country, the terroir, the grower, the vintage) be good, he would offer praise and fill in any details she hadn’t quite got right.

But should she be woefully inaccurate in her analysis? Then she’d know to outstretch her hands for a stroke of his thick leather strap on each palm. That, at least, would be the punishment for the first wine she failed to recognise: a second flawed tasting would lead to two further strokes on each hand. And should she get all three wrong? Then it would be three more on each hand, followed by a bare-bottomed spanking over his knee.

Her education had been painful at first, but her mentor was diligent in his help, generous with his time, and truly proud of her by the time she was ready to move on to her prestigious new role in England…

“Bracing yourself for the start of lessons, Eleanor?”

The mirror reflects, beside my own features, the hawkish face of Jason Morran. He teaches A-level chemistry, and our academic paths never cross, but more and more over the Michaelmas term – my first term at St. Hilda’s – I’d found my hours in the staff common room boosted by his presence. A corner of his mouth is permanently twisted down in a haughty sneer, but I don’t take offence at it; I don’t think he means any.

“Good holidays?” I ask, making banality my armour against the smirk.

“Mmm. Say, Eleanor, can you keep a secret?”

He would sound like one of the third-formers I teach, but for the haughtily ironic ring in his voice, as though he doesn’t mean a word he says. I turn to him from the mirror. “I can keep a secret. What is it?”

“Oh, nothing major. Just a little game we younger types play at the start of term. Last term you were new, and frankly, some of the others think you’re too square, but I think you’ll enjoy it. Interested?”

This tastes of my school days – and I mean the days when I was on the other side of the teacher’s desk. The cool kids wonder if I belong. I’m surprised how much I still want to be cool, and suspect that this means I’m anything but.

“Go on.” I try an indifferent smile.

He takes me by the elbow and leads me to the table in the corner, far away from the chatting elders of the common room. He takes a small detective’s notepad out of his breast pocket.

“A sweepstakes,” he says. “The first spanking of the term. In which form do you think it will happen?”

I’m appalled and thrilled in equal measure. The game is awful. It’s the only exciting thing I expect to happen in St. Hilda’s this term. I hardly have to think before I jump in to join the cool kids.

“Tomlinson has the Fifth for Algebra, which is a bad combination,” I say confidently. “I give it until tomorrow for the heads to start rolling.”

Jason marks my stake in his book; he accepts my pound coin. “I knew you’d like the game,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on the Punishment Book, and will let you know. I’m betting on the Lower Sixth myself; those girls would make St Trinian’s shrink.”

He sweeps the notebook back into his pocket, and pats it with a knowing smile. “Enjoy your lessons, Eleanor,” he says, starting to walk away.

“Jason!”

He stops and half-turns, an eyebrow raised.

“You teach the Lower Sixth. You’re not planning to cane somebody at the slightest excuse, are you?”

The smirk grows into a full, toothy grin.

“Now, would I do that?”

The grin stays for a few seconds, as though in a freeze-frame. Then a wink, and he is gone.

I should have bet on the Third.

The End.

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This story was written in response to Casey Morgan’s “Secret Saturday” challenge, using the prompt “third-grade teacher”.

Look what Cath gave me for Christmas:

The caption at the foot of the print reveals that the staircase in question is the entrance to the Birching Tower at Rugby school.

They had a birching tower?

Now my imagination’s working overtime to conjure up an image of the room to which the stairs would lead. I’m picturing   something old, large, with wood panelling adorning the walls – empty save for a small table and chair in the corner and the whipping block in the centre. How those girls who’ve misbehaved since the school went co-ed must have trembled as they nervously made their way up those stairs and cried as they came back down after their punishment…