The Spanking Writers

The ancient Roman Forum really is a most impressive place, even if one needs to use a fair amount of imagination to picture it as it might have been in its glorious days gone by. (Yours truly, for example, managed to wander straight past the former temple of the Vestal Virgins without even noticing).

Having said that, it didn’t take much for me to conjure up the sort of goings-on that must have taken place amidst these stone columns during the time of the Caesars. Picture the imperial household on the eve of some particularly-important festival (celebrating that oh-so-decadent god Bacchus, perhaps?). Each year, the emperor’s staff would be despatched to find the six most beautiful young women from the city’s slave markets: they’d be bathed and dressed in fresh robes, and brought before him at the end of a celebratory dinner.

He’d take them to his chamber, and lock the door firmly behind them. The following morning, the girls would be lined up in the temple – bound, naked, often somewhat dishevelled – in front of the assembled nobles and senators. Five would be dismissed. The sixth, the emperor’s favourite, would be tied before the altar and whipped – and would then, provided she had borne her flogging with fortitude, be granted the honour of Roman citizenship.

Indeed, it was likely that the girl would soon find herself married to the sons of distinguished noblemen (“If she’s good enough for Caesar…”). One imagines her – now elegant and beautifully-dressed – meeting the emperor again at some future banquet, blushing at the memory of their previous encounter.

As for the five rejected girls*, Haron and I differ in our views as to what would happen. She’d have them sent back to the slave market; I’d have them given to the officers of the Praetorian guard to ‘use as they choose for their pleasure’. My approach may be slightly less politically correct, I accept, but I doubt the Roman emperors paid much attention to that sort of consideration…

* “Ancient Rome’s Got Talent”?

I was choosing jewellery for an evening out when I suddenly imagined I was a maid in a Victorian household, trusted with tidying her mistress’s jewels. I would, of course, be very careful with them – except one occasion, when I wouldn’t be able to resist trying on a fancy garnet choker.

It would be very innocent – but not in the eyes of the housekeeper, who would chance to walk into my lady’s boudoir just then. Caught in the act, I would freeze on the spot, unable to utter a word. The housekeeper would swoop upon me like a hungry falcon, and demand in a quiet, menacing tone that I put the jewels away and follow her to the pantry.

Lips trembling, heart beating violently, I would follow. In the corner of the pantry there would be a tall jar – my lord has brought a number of these from his travels to the Orient – and in it, there would be a number of birch twigs soaking for just such occasions.

The housekeeper would bid me bend over a small table, and unceremoniously bare my posterior. Then she would proceed to whip me with one of the birch twigs, pain slashing at me and making me sob. This wouldn’t be the first time I felt the switch, but it would feel in the moment that no previous beating has been this agonising.

Afterwards, I would thank her meekly, and beg her not to tell my lady about this. Regally, she would agree, on the condition that I don’t give her cause for another reprimand for at least a week. This time my thanks would be more sincere, for I would be sure I could go for a week without causing her wrath.

She would dismiss me with a motherly pat on the head, and I would go back to my work, wincing every time my pantaloons sweep against my sore, striped cheeks.

I wish to file a complaint. Our travels in Italy thus far have taken us to various galleries, the walls of which have been full of paintings of the lives of the saints. Here’s St Nicholas, saving a ship from sinking. There’s Poussin’s gruesome depiction of St Erasmus being disembowelled. St Sebastian pops up, full of a quiver of arrows, at almost every turn.

But – and here’s the thing – almost all of the saints concerned are male. Yet there are so many incidents in the lives of the female saints that would seem worthy of artistic attention.

Take St Kallioppe, who “lived in the reign of the vicious Emperor Decius, an extremely callous and pompous monarch who took delight in barbarous acts”. “Taken to a public square, she was bound to a post and mercilessly flogged.” Surely a perfect subject for a Bernini sculpture, the stone weals ever-so realistic?

Which Michelangelo ceiling depicts St Columba the Virgin – the daughter of a sixth century king and queen in Cornwall, who refused to attend the pagan temple with her parents? “Shocked at her behaviour, they had Columba whipped and then thrown in prison.”

And what about Saint Christina, “the daughter of a rich and powerful magistrate named Urban”, who broke her father’s collection of gold pagan idols and distributed the pieces among the poor. Daddy was unimpressed and had her “whipped with rods and thrown into a dungeon”; surely Titian could have brought the scene so memorably to life?

Yet I’m not sure whether it’s the artists who are to blame for their male-saint-only policy, or those responsible for the museums in question. Perhaps these fabulous works do exist, yet are kept from the public gaze – proudly displayed on some curator’s office wall, hidden away in some cardinal’s private apartments? Is it too much to dream of our own National Gallery, perhaps, seizing the opportunity to run one of its blockbuster exhibitions: “Flogged, by the Masters”?

I was browsing a supermarket aisle when a little distance from me a young shop assistant dropped a huge armful of plastic lotion bottles. They clattered onto the floor like sudden hail.

A manager jogged past me, and knelt on the floor next to the girl to help picking them up. I couldn’t hear the conversation between the two women, but I imagine it went something like this:

“We have talked about this before, young lady. Your day-dreaming is out of control. This time you have dropped plastic bottles, but what are you going to let go of next time – glass? eggs?”

“I’m really sorry,” the girl must have said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know,” the manager cut in severely. “You’re thinking about that night out you were talking about earlier, instead of focussing on your job. I’m going to help you focus: see me in storeroom 2 just after you clock off. We’ll have a little discussion.”

The girl nodded despondently. She knew what little discussions in the storeroom entailed: an unpleasant few minutes bent over the manager’s knee, being spanked with a wooden brush from the shop’s beauty aisle.

I’m convinced this is exactly how that conversation unfolded.

Haron and I seem to be unusual amongst married couples visiting Rome at this time of year in (a) not being American, and (b) not being accompanied by two daughters in their early- or mid-20s. The city’s full of such quartets – young women who wouldn’t usually be seen dead on vacation with dad and mom, sacrificing their independence for a free all-expenses-covered trip to Europe.

Naturally, we assume that they’d be governed by the usual house rules that had applied when they’d lived at home. Picture the scene at dinner in some grand hotel restaurant: one of the daughters throws a tantrum, not liking the planned itinerary for the following day. Her father waits for her to fall silent, before commenting: “You have every right to express your opinion. But you don’t have the right to speak to your mother or to me like that.” He turns to the others at the table. “Please excuse us for a few moments.”

He’d take her upstairs to their suite. She’d be remorseful now. Apologetic: scared, distant, supressed memories flooding back.

“It seems to me that you need a reminder about how to behave properly.”

“No, daddy. Please…”

But it was, of course, by then too late to prevent the old routine from being replayed. She’d lower her trousers before bending over his knees; he’s take down her panties*. The first spank would be as shocking as ever; his hand would be as painful, as incessant, as it always had been. She’d still fight back the tears, too proud to show weakness – and then they’d still start to flow: more so, perhaps, given the passing of time.

He’d let her wait for a few moments after it was over, to compose herself before she scrambled to her feet and adjusted her clothing. And then he’d hold her very tight, telling her that he loved her and that he knew she was a good girl at heart. Protected and punished, she’d nestle in close.

She’d wash her face, adjust her make-up – and then they’d head back down to join the others in the restaurant, where dessert would be waiting and the others would pick up the conversation is if nothing had happened…

** the family being American, these being a rare case of the word ‘panties’ rather than ‘knickers’ being permissible in this blog

Quite often my dreams place me in fantasy schools, and these tend to be quite strict: with uniforms, canes, prefects – the works. This time, though, I was starting in the sixth form in a new school, and my parents happily informed me that, although it was an old, traditional establishment, I would be glad to know there’s no uniform there.

I was dreadfully disappointed with this. It was hardly a proper school, then, was it?

However, the dream then skipped to me being kept back after the lessons finished, and I was due a caning from the classroom teacher. The lack of uniform didn’t make a slightless difference for the strictness of the school.

I’d still rather have dreamed about something more traditional. I shall have a stern word with my subconscious.

I’ve been toying with a story idea for a few weeks now, and just haven’t been able to find the right voice for it. Rather than lose the idea altogether, I thought I’d share it here instead…

We find ourselves in a mixed boarding school. Corporal punishment is still used, but infrequently – by the headmaster, housemasters and head prefect, in whose study this is set.

He’s working on an essay for one of his A Levels, but keeps breaking off to look at the piece of paper on the table. It’s a form requesting the administration of corporal punishment, as completed by one of his prefects. It falls within his power to administer the caning – or to decide to award some alternative punishment if that’s appropriate (Saturday detention? Lines?).

The reason for his fascination with this form? The name on it is of a girl he particularly likes, a year younger than him, in the lower sixth. He knows the feeling to be mutual – they came close to going out with each other a year or so before, until she paired up with the captain of rugby. That particular relationship, he knows, came to an end recently; he’s not spoken to her since, but knows she still likes him, as he does her, and he’s been wondering what might ensue…

A pack of cigarettes had dropped out of her blazer pocket earlier that afternoon, right in front of one of the prefects – who’d therefore sent her for punishment. Could he be lenient? Should he be?

A knock on the door, and he asked her in. She: embarrassed, nervous. He: with no choice but to adhere to the school’s strict rules on smoking. She denied being a smoker; saying she’d bought them for someone else; he believed her, but she refused (not surprisingly) to tell him their intended recipient. And the regulations were as strict on those found in possession of tobacco as on those caught in the act of inhaling.

The caning would be on the bare, of course; he averted his eyes politely as she removed her knickers and bent over the table. And then he administered the six strokes, with a senior cane as befitted a member of the lower sixth, as hard as he always did, striping her fair skin.

She had tears in her eyes afterwards, and a hug was the most natural thing in the world. She apologised; so did he; he held her tight. And before long, the kiss they’d postponed for far too long could no longer be resisted…

We’re getting ready to go on holiday, and this means the cat had to go to the kitty prison. I took her this morning. The guy running it showed me to the little room where the cat is staying, and I watched him pour water, unroll the mats and open the meshed window.

“Just letting some air in for her,” he explained. “Some fresh air would be good, right?”

“Sure,” I said.

“It’s what they used to tell us at school,” he said. “In minus five degrees, with the window open above your bed. Bracing!”

“Oh, yes?” I said, keeping a mildly interested face. “A strict school, then?”

“Just the usual,” he said. “A little bit of shivering cold, a little bit of the cane – same as everywhere.”

I didn’t dare ask for specific episodes, so this is where the conversation petered out, but not before he assured me that my cat wouldn’t be facing any such hardships.

I’m ever so relieved. I’d began to wonder.

You know how when you’re standing in the queue for the washrooms on a long-haul flight, you end up scanning the seat-back screens of all of the nearby passengers, seeing what they’re watching?

The other day, I found myself entranced by one particular scene in a glossy Hollywood movie. Cute girl in a car park is arguing with her boyfriend. He picks her up, flings her over his shoulder, and carries her off through the rows of parked cars, stopping…

… at the bench on the grass verge at the edge of the parking lot, where he puts her over his knee and spanks her soundly

or

… next to his own vehicle, opening the trunk and putting her inside.

I was hoping for the former; the director chose the latter. As a punishment, it’s not really one I’d advocate – although Emma Jane’s lovely new car does have a particularly spacious boot.

PS if you’re the lady who was sat opposite, who seemed so surprised by the cute sketch of a striped, bare-bottomed maid bent over a bath tub that accidentally displayed as I looked through documents in Windows Explorer – well, you shouldn’t be staring at other people’s laptops, should you?

This morning I woke up quite miserable because of bad dreams that had chased me through the night. I didn’t think facing actual human beings in this state was a good idea, but I needed coffee, which lay beyond the room where Abel, Catherine and Emma Jane were chatting together.

I walked in, and honestly told them I wasn’t doing great emotionally, and would appreciate some serious cheering up.

“I know what you need – a spanking!” Abel said merrily. “Come over here and bend over.”

Now, in all honesty, I wouldn’t recommend this approach to anybody else. Indeed, it sounds pretty flippant – oh, obviously a spanking is a response to everything! – and I wouldn’t even recommend it to Abel that he try it again.

And yet, he said this with such warmth and care, that I instantly felt like a spanking would really cure all my ills.

I bent over Abel’s lap, and received a dozen or so firm swats. They didn’t hurt any more than I could take, and you know what? I did feel better. Though mostly, I think, it was from laughing with Emma and Cath at Abel’s insistence that a spanking is the answer to everything.

Except, in this case, it really was.