The Spanking Writers

Coming very soon to The Spanking Writers…

…nah, that would be telling. But check back here tomorrow morning for an exciting announcement to start the new spanking year.

In the meantime, enjoy celebrating New Year’s Eve – and best wishes for the year ahead.

So, what have we chatted about here over the past year? Here’s a Wordle, picturing the most commonly-used words in my Spanking Writers blog entries in 2011 (and in your comments on those posts):

Yeah,  sounds about right.

I woke on Christmas morning having had two of the loveliest, most vivid spanking dreams I’ve had in a long while. One involved three prefects and a girl; I rather hope to turn that into a story. The other featured a headmaster and a rather recalcitrant fifth-form girl.

She’d been caught by the police, you see, drinking underage in the local pub – in doing so, breaking a sacrosanct school rule. The constables had returned her to the school premises, taking her to the head’s office to explain what had happened. It had been agreed that no charges would be brought provided the matter was soundly dealt with; assurances to that effect had been accepted.

Now a good headmaster always has his ear close to the grapevine, and learnt later in the day that – far from being ashamed of what she’d done – the lass concerned was positively boasting about her exploits and revelling in the hero status that it seemed to confer. Word had it (quite correctly) that she was to be given a public punishment in assembly the following morning – not something of which she was embarrassed, but more a badge of obstinate honour.

And so it was that the headmaster sent for the girl late that night, immediately after lights out. Had her brought to his study. Told her that there was no pride to be had in behaving foolishly, as she stood before him defiantly (yet, he noted, trembling more than a little). Listened as she told him that she saw nothing wrong in what she’d done.

He took the heaviest, most severe tawse from his desk drawer; applied it with concentrated vigour to the girl’s bared backside and upper thighs, as she bent tight over his desk. She took the first few searing strokes without a murmur. Whether it was the pain of the strapping – or his disappointed words at her unfulfilled potential – that brought on the tears, neither of them could subsequently judge.

After the twelfth and final stroke, she reached back and clasped her buttocks, pleading her apologies. “I doubt there’d be much hero-worship from the other girls if they could see you now,” the headmaster observed as he returned the strap to its home and told her to pull up her pyjamas and stand. Nothing clever, nothing brave in standing tearful and beaten in front of him. No act of rebellion in accepting the proffered hug: just a contrite girl, ashamed of what she’d done and inspired to do better from that moment on.

This time last year, I spent my 43rd birthday in London with three beloved partners. It was, bluntly, not the best day of my life, despite the efforts of those around me. In many ways, looking back, I see it as a landmark day: the beginning of the end of a lovely period in my life. This really has been an emotionally tough twelve months.

I’m so lucky to be surrounded by such wonderful people. To those who’ve offered too-frequently-needed shoulders to cry on, I owe the most heartfelt thanks: there are folks in my life who have shown themselves to be very, very special indeed.

I hope that 44 will be better: I’m sure that it will be. A birthday can bring a sense of closure: for me, this one perhaps offers a time to stop looking backwards – the end of the beginning, maybe. It offers me the chance to celebrate how fortunate I am in so very many ways; to look forward and to be hopeful; to feel loved and loving; to believe that I still have time for the best to be yet to come. It’s going to be a happy birthday.

This started as a short blog entry, inspired (as are so many) by a dream overnight last night. It half-turned into a shortish story, written in some haste before my house guest awakes this morning. Whatever it is, I rather like the setting. And, actually, more than a story or blog entry, it really would make a lovely scene…

–

A large, comfortable family house in the Home Counties, some time in the 1920s.

Mother, father, two daughters sit at the dinner table. Only, actually, it’s mother, stepfather, daughter, stepdaughter, a year since the marriage. They’re all smartly dressed: Sunday-best frocks; jacket and tie.

The meal over, he tells the girls to clear the table – “Then I want you to do another hour’s schoolwork before bedtime.” And the stepdaughter loses her temper: “It’s Sunday. I’ve worked all weekend. You’re not fair.” She flings her glass of water to the table; it shatters.

A moment’s silence, as they take in what’s just happened, before he speaks: “Go to your room…”

He leaves her there for a goodly while, giving her time to contemplate, for anger to give way to remorse – and dread. “I’ll always treat you as my own daughter,” he’d said when she’d moved in, and he’s been good to his word ever since: caring, kind, loving. And when they’ve transgressed – either of them, both of them? He’s treated them the same then, too – across his knee, the spankings equally hard and the cuddles afterwards equally heartfelt.

But there’s one punishment he’s not yet had to use on her…

He climbs the stairs, knocks on the door of the room that his girls share, waits for her open it. She lets him in, avoiding eye contact, standing small and downcast before him.

“I hardly need to say that that was completely unacceptable.”

“I know. I’m sorry…”

“You crossed a line there, into behaviour that leaves me no choice but to punish you severely. I’d like you to go downstairs; apologise to your mother and sister; clear up the mess you’ve made. And then join me in my study…”

She knows at once what he means by that. His study. Where the thick crook-handled cane rests next to the desk. Unused on her – but not, since her arrival, on her sister, whom she’d consoled as best she could after six deserved strokes for being given a detention at school.

She composes herself as best she can after he’s left. Takes deep breaths. Tries to summon up the courage to face what’s to come; finding no courage at all, she heads downstairs anyway. Her mother: distant, matter-of-fact, as she listens to the apology. Her sister, holding her hand and whispering good luck. The table at long last cleared, the dishes washed and dried; the shards of glass carefully packed into a cardboard box.

And then there’s nowhere left to hide.

She knocks, is called in. Hears of his shock, his disappointment: “I thought better of you than that.” Hears how he intends to teach her a sound lesson. Watches, as he positions a wooden chair in the centre of the room, as he then picks up the cane. “Bend over, and put your hands on the seat of the chair. And bare your bottom.” She complies, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry to have let you down…”

“You’ve let yourself down. And it can’t happen again. Won’t happen again: I’m going to give you twelve strokes of the cane.” Twelve carefully-measured stripes, each weal perfectly parallel to the others. Each drawing a sob, some lifting her involuntarily to her feet to clutch at her striped buttocks, dancing on the spot in pain until she can bend forward to take more.

He intersperses his clear count of the number of strokes with an explanation of why she’s there: of how much he loves her; of how he wants her to do well, to make him and her mother proud; of how she must control her temper; of how he hopes she’ll learn from her punishment. And when he’s finished, he holds his sobbing girl close to his chest, taking his pocket handkerchief to dry her tears, and telling her again how much he loves her.

On to the second part of our Spankvent round-up. Such fun – who else thinks we should do this again in 2012?!

Quickly catching up with one remaining account from the first half of advent, from Not An Odalisque (winner of the “best blog” in the 2011 Spanking Writers Awards):

The lover chose the 10th for our Spankvent day, on a weekend we planned to spend away. We stayed, conveniently, at No. 10, The Coffee House, in Haworth (which is a lovely B&B with fabulous coffee and cakes, if you’re ever visiting the area). On the way there, we came up with a role play scene which would play into the Victorian theme of the focus of our visit. We were nearly swayed when the lover found a shop selling ration cards and carbolic soap, but I convinced him to save that for another time (I also ended up with the soap—my overnight bag stinks!). We meandered back to the coffee shop after a less than successful attempt at finding veggie food slightly too late in the evening in the country, and I demolished a packet of shortbread from beside the kettle as we finalised the details.

The coffee parlour, transported back in time, was owned by Mr. Taylor, who’d been on a trip to Manchester or Liverpool—my knowledge of historical coffee shops comes almost entirely from Habermas and French novels, so I’m a little hazy on the details—to source beans. Whenever he went on one of these trips, the housekeeper, Nelly, always made sure the parlour fire was warm and put out a meal before the servants went to bed, in case Mr. Taylor came home late. Since Emily, the newest maid, had started, though, he’d never got home in time to eat a single one of those meals, and she was often asked to throw them away in the morning, not long before Mr. Taylor would clatter into the yard, talking about late nights or bad weather making him stay overnight in the city.

When Emily woke in the night, cold and shivery, she knew there’d be a nice fire in the parlour. And when she stood there in her nightgown warming herself, and found that she felt slightly peckish, she didn’t think there’d be much harm in nibbling a biscuit, since she was the one who’d be throwing them away in the morning. And when she became curious about how her master’s special cheese and pickle sandwich tasted, she didn’t think there’d be any serious repercussions. It was nasty, anyway.

Emily heard a noise downstairs. She was mindful enough to make it to the kitchen with a tray, but then she was trapped in the basement, far from her room, hearing footsteps go to the parlour and then descend toward the kitchen. She stood in the dark, clutching the tray, until her master found her there, with the crumbs of his biscuits and dismembered sandwich. He was hungry, he was cold, and he’d ridden a long way through the frosty night. He told her she had five minutes to bring him another tray. Unfortunately, looking for the pickles and the biscuits in the dark pantry, it took her fifteen.

When Emily got to her master’s room, he told her to put down the tray. He told her that she had a choice between a punishment, one stroke for every minute she was late, or dismissal without a reference. Seeing her indecision, he threatened to increase her punishment for every minute she kept him waiting, and instructed her again to bend over his bed. He drew her nightdress up, and she tugged it down. He pulled it up again, more firmly, and she blushed at the thought of what he saw. Emily squirmed through five strokes of the strap, and bit her lip through five burning cane strokes, afraid of waking the housekeeper, who wouldn’t go as far as to give her options.

I imagine that Mr. Taylor then went on to eat his sandwich, but we stopped the scene there. I do know, however, that Emily was so humiliated by the experience that she left Mr. Taylor’s service, and indeed the village. I’ve some photographs of her walking through the heather and the misty rain on the moors, setting out to seek her fortune.

Next up: Nicky Montford bagged the 13th December, but won’t get to enjoy her Spankvent spanking until the new year. (She suggested on Twitter that an extra stroke epr day’s delay might be appropriate; I countered with six!). On the 14th, Leia Ann took 14 strokes with the Canadian Prison Strap – and the 15th fell to Tepees, and the lovely Lucy (of Northern Spanking fame).

Next, on to Poppy St Vincent:

I had been looking forward to the 16th of December for about two months. It was the first day of my week with Dexter and, as such, the start of Christmas. But, this holiday being what it is I arrived in London, tired and grumpy after a shocking week and a five and a half hour drive.

What a welcome awaited me. He had dressed a Christmas tree, opened a delicious bottle of wine and made a meal that still makes my mouth water when I think of it. I was then packed off for a bath and to seek out my Christmas pyjamas.

I returned and found my place in his arms. I did not mention spankvent. I had already been spoiled and felt I could not ask for any more. So when he pulled me over his lap I was unsure at first what kind of spanking it was. He tugged my knickers down and ignored my quiet protests. Each slap was hard but his voice was gentle and cheerful. As he counted I realised this was indeed spankvent and, as such, it was only 16 spanks. Nevertheless as he got to number nine he got harder so I helped by saying “teneleventwelvethirteenfourteenfifteensixteen”. I waited for a moment and his reaction.

I heard, “One” and over he started. I would like to tell you that only happened once but on the second attempt when he got to thirteen I protested too much and I heard the fateful “One” all over again.

It was a beautiful, gentle, slightly sore start to Christmas.

We move on to the 18th: my own turn, taking advantage of various lovely friends being over at my house for Sunday lunch. Four girls, bending over the end of my bed in turn to take eighteen strokes in total, four or so from each of five implement-wielding tops. We pretty much ran through the range of my implement collection – Singapore canes, school canes, straps, birches, more… with the whacks administered pretty severely, as is the wont of the gentlemen concerned! Huge thanks to the lovely Emma Jane, Martha, Cath and Faye for taking part in such good spirit.

Next day: Mr Allen writes:

Our original plan for #spankvent was nineteen hard strokes using a thick kooboo or dragon cane. After the intense canings Cate Stoker received on Saturday afternoon, however, it was decided she was too marked! We decided not to let the occasion pass, so I took nineteen strokes of this cane expertly administered by Cate. She, of course, took delight in choosing that I should take the strokes in head-down position – this was definitely a top the top revenge caning but whilst bloody painful, absolute fun. My vanilla bottom remains profoundly striped, marking the nineteen strokes of #spankvent.

Of course, Cate wasn’t to get away scott-free so I administered nineteen stokes with my two lovely thick custom leather belts that I purchased this year. One belt is thick saddle leather and the other is even thicker bridle leather. This scene marked the end of a lovely relaxed afternoon with Cate – followed by an awesome lasagne.

And then on to the 20th – Emma Jane’s chosen day, on which she received twenty strokes with my cricket bat – as documented here a couple of days ago. Such wonderful fun!

From one lovely Irish girl to another, as we head next across the water to Bandree:

I chose the 21st for my Spankvent date just because it sounds like a serious, important, grown-up number. I didn’t think it would actually happen! But by coincidence, around that time my good gentleman found in a hidden cupboard a cane that he had bought this year as a gift for a friendly Top; and he suggested a trip to present it, and to claim back one that had been given on loan.

…so we made the journey. A story was contrived; the sea captain had been bringing a parcel from Singapore (where else?) to deliver, carried by his maid (me) and she had paused on the way to finger longingly the gold ribbons and pretty lace in a haberdasher’s shop…

Now that the long thin parcel has been handed over and opened, he suggests that the recipient (Mr Carpenter) should try out the contents… So the two gentlemen order the maid to take off her black top and skirt and she stands before them in her chemise, petticoat and drawers; she is commanded to slip off her petticoat and open the back of her drawers; and nervously, bashfully, she complies. She is given a preliminary spanking OTK as a warm-up. Then she is ordered to place her forehead on the table and expose her rear: Mr Carpenter on her left and the Sea Captain on her right – and they commence, one stroke each, by turns. And she has to count: one, one! two, two! – all the way to 21, to punish her for shop-lifting and to remind her to behave for ever more in a mature and grown-up fashion.

Soon the creamy skin of her bottom is is glowing pink and striped with red lines, high and low. When this has been done, she is as contrite and sober as she has ever been; she can keep her job, but there will be no more childish pilfering of pretty shiny things that don’t belong to her…she is a grown-up now!

Jessica provided an entertaining description of Scarlett’s turn, on the 22nd:

And so it was that in those times, St Nicholas, with his trusty sidekick Schwartzer Peter came to London. St Nicholas was laden with presents for good children and Schwartzer Peter had his trusty willow switch for bad children. It was decreed that Scarlett DW had been a bad girl and thus deserved 22 strokes of the willow switch to celebrate Spankvent. These were duly given and laid on well. And now Scarlett is truly repentant and promises to be a better girl next year!

On to the 23rd: Kaelah’s written a delightful blog entry describing the 23 strokes of the flogger then 23 with a short cane that she received from Ludwig. And the, concluding our festive fun, Alias chose the 24th, but…

… unfortunately I didn’t manage to meet up with my Daddy. We don’t live on the same continent and can’t see each other often. So I didn’t get the spanking yesterday. But if I did, it would have been with his belt. The one he wears on his jeans. He would order me to get over the bed. Then he would stand beside the bed so I could see him unbuckle his belt. He would make the buckle jingle ’cause he knows how much that turns me on. He would then pull the belt through the loops of his jeans and double it in half. He would scold me while taking it off. And then he would spank me. He would try to make me cry.

So, I wasn’t spanked, for real, yesterday. He did virtually spanked me though. Among other things

Thanks to everyone who participated. This really has been a lovely festival of kinky friendship around the world, and its been a pleasure and an honour to co-ordinate it. Here’s to Spankvent 2012!

Back on 1st December, the dawn of advent, a group of us on Twitter collectively conceived a little scheme called ‘Spankvent’. Kinky folks around the world selected a date between 1st – 24th of the month, and agreed to do something spanking-related that was appropriate to the day in question.

It’s been wonderful following accounts of what’s happened, on Twitter, by email and on participants’ blogs. And here, to celebrate Christmas, is the first selection of accounts of what went on…

Spankvent started with Ellen May taking one hundred strokes of the cane on the first of the month, before the virtual baton passed to Eliane. Arriving late in the evening on a visit to Liverpool, she ended up being whacked twice by Sarah in public, in front of La Tasca restaurant.

Sarah took her own turn the following day:

I was so lucky to finally have my own home full of wonderful kinky friends and we’d decided that three strokes from three people using three different implements would be rather fun with me on the receiving end, again, lucky me!

So up to my bedroom/schoolroom I went and happily bent over my school desk while Irelynn flexed the chosen cane before getting down to the job in hand. Three perfect stripes later and we were both rather pleased with the result.

We trooped back downstairs and proudly showed off her handiwork before it was back up the stairs with Masterretep. Little did I guess what he had hidden away! Out of his trouser pocket came his strap: he said that with a mere three strokes he was going to make them count, and he most certainly did!

The final three were due to come from Eliane, but she was happily settled on the sofa with champagne so kindly passed the baton to Sixotb. By baton, I mean carpet beater, a ridiculously ouchy implement I wasn’t even aware I owned (silly me!). Laid across the bed with two pillows underneath to raise my bottom high, those three strokes were so hard and painful they took my breath away before a hug and a kiss made it all better and it was back downstairs for the third round of showing off my various marks.

Many more spankings went on that evening but it was such fun to get the ball rolling with spankvent, a great idea which I hope will become a tradition.

I hope so too, Sarah!)

Ronnie had selected the 4th – but had actually been caned hard enough on the 3rd that she decided that would have to suffice! You can read about her 24 strokes here.

Next, Alyss Abyss:

I chose the 5th because it is mine and the bear’s wedding anniversary… I got ready for bed and sat waiting for B to come up. Nerves were starting to flood me and when he lined up his favourite toys on the bed, I just sat there cowering, hugging my legs under the duvet. Waiting for him to be ready felt like an eternity.

I was to take four strokes with five implements of his choosing from the selection. One for every year of our marriage. To count in years and to ask for more after each set. I knew they would be with force. He wasn’t going to let me off lightly.

A strap and a selection of canes followed. There’s a lovely post about it at Alyss’s blog.

And on to Irelynn:

I picked the 6th of December as my spankvent day because I knew Stephen and I would be holed up in a hotel in Amsterdam that day. I’d left it up to him to decide what to make of that number ‘six’, and he decided that six strokes of the cane per minute, for six minutes, starting at 6pm on December the 6th would be appropriate.

Unfortunately he forgot to remind me to pack a cane to take to Amsterdam with me (although he would undoubtedly tell you that he did remind me – while I was half asleep in bed the night before we were due to leave!) so he used his belt instead. Just before 6pm he had me undress and lie down on the bed, and a minute later our spankvent began! He swapped sides every minute so that my whole bottom got to enjoy being strapped, and afterwards there was lots of lovely cuddling. So a good day all around.

Quai chose to give his sub seven minutes of belting for day seven.

I told her to bend over the end of our bed at the foot and stretch her arms out in front of her head. She rested on pillows for plenty of support. I decided that the first 40 strokes (20 from each side to keep it even) would be her warm up. The rest of the belt spanking would be at full ‘playing’ severity (as opposed to punishment severity).

Again, there’s an excellent blog post in which you can read a fuller description.

Toby joined in on the 8th. There was a webcam involved, and a wooden spoon. The rest can be left to your (and my) imagination!

Judy bagged the 9th:

I knew I was due a birthday spanking from R, so on the evening we were to meet, we were on the phone discussing dinner plans, etc., when I added, “By the way, I’m going to ask you to give me nine with an implement of your choosing. I’ll explain later.” He was confused but happy to oblige.

After my birthday spanking was duly delivered (and I discovered he thinks I turned about 130) I explained about #spankvent. He seemed delighted to participate and practically skipped off to select an implement. He returned with a well-worn belt in his hand and a gleam in his eye. Over the armchair I went and he quickly laid the first three licks before I called time due to the belt wrapping and landing on the exact same place on my upper right thigh. An adjustment in positioning solved the problem and the remaining hard six landed quickly and efficiently. As R is a switch, I was delighted when he agreed to let me return the favor with nine of my own.

Miss Swoons took the 11th. Again, there’s a lovely post on Alyss’s blog. “Eleven hand spanks, to be counted down, in German” followed by “another eleven for me, bare bottomed this time” – and then an IKEA shoe horn. “Two Spankvent sessions, two partners and two very different experiences; one very happy Alyss.”

Half-way through the Spankvent season of spanking goodwill to all women – and men – we reach the 12th, and Simon Jenkins, whose name Amy Hunter kindly (?) put on the list:

She decided we were going to do a memory game based on the twelve days of Christmas. So for day one, I got twelve strokes of the ruler, day two was twelve hand spanks and twelve strokes of the ruler to the hands, followed by the twelve strokes of the ruler.

Day three was then twelve strokes of three more implements and then I head to remind Amy of days one and two. Day four was then four sets of twelve, and then I had to remember days three, two and one… And so on.

We got up to day ten, and then I got eleven sets of twelve followed by twelve sets of twelve without the countdown. The total I got was around 2500 strokes – had we completed everything planned it would have been 4368! The strokes weren’t just confined to the bottom, but also the back, hands, front and back of thighs and feet. It was very intense session!

Thanks to all of the above for entering so wonderfully into the spirit of the season. More to follow from the rest of the communal celebration! Merry Christmas to you all…

Yes, I know I posted a new story here this morning. But, you know, sometimes one gets ideas that just need to be written – and so it was this morning. So here’s another, very short, very quickly-written story for Christmas Eve. Enjoy!

Nice and naughty

It’s late on Christmas Eve. Dinner’s finished, the silverware cleared. The master sips his port in the library, and rings for his butler.

“Bring in the girls, Thompson.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They arrive, freshly-scrubbed, dressed in their best neatly-pressed uniforms: the parlour maids, the chamber maid, the laundry and scullery maids. He stands and takes the sheaf of paper from the butler, and reads out the first name: “Hattie…”

She steps forward, nervously, bowing her head. “A very good year, Hattie. Thank you.”  And he reaches under the tree, passing her a brightly-wrapped present. She beams with delight, with pride. “You may go to your room. Merry Christmas.”

“Edith.” A younger girl, in her first year in the household. “A good start. Generally…” He lays down the papers. “Yet I’m told there have been times when you’ve not been quite as diligent as you might have been. Thompson: a birch, please, and put the girl in position…”

Twelve strokes: hard, as she bends over – skirt lifted – and clutches her ankles. And then, as she sobs, he passes her gift – “for all the good you’ve done, now the other matters are dealt with and forgotten.”

And so it continues. Each girl presents herself in turn, trembling before his judgement. As he peers down at Thompson’s reports, some are praised – and others first punished.

Soon, only one girl remains. The master turns to Thompson: “I can deal with this from here.” He hands over the largest gift under the tree, with smiling thanks, and sends the butler on his way, locking the library door.

One present remains. ”So, Charlotte…” He reads the paperwork, before setting it down, and then stands before his favourite maid, lifting her face gently to his. “Naughty, or nice?”

One birch…

“I think…  naughty, sir.”

Gently: “In what way?”

“In… not always working as hard as I should, sir. In… in sometimes breaking things, sir… In sometimes not waking up on time. And I snapped at one of the new maids…”

“Then I have to deal with the nicest of my girls in the same way I’ve dealt with the others who’ve transgressed, don’t I?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry…”

And so he beats her. Slowly, talking all the time: how she’s the best of his girls, how she works so hard, how he knows she tries hard. But how she mustn’t let herself down. Is it her imagination, or is he flogging her harder than the others?

And when he’s done? When she’s calmed herself a little, managed to stem the flow of tears? After he’s stretched out his arms to hold her? Well, then it’ll be the same as last year for his good girl, as buttons are undone and garments removed, as she’s bent over the arm of the leather armchair, as he’s first gentle with her and then so much rougher. Afterwards, he’ll hold her tight; kiss her gently; whisper sweet and caring thoughts. And then he’ll hand her her gift from under the tree, and send her on her way.

I haven’t published a new story here for a little while – so here goes, as a Christmas present to you all (and as a taster for the new version of my “Abel’s Spanking Stories” site, which I promise is on its way very soon). I hope those of you who celebrate tomorrow’s festival, whether religiously or in a secular way, have a wonderful day.

The new tradition

A typical autumnal evening, still early in the St Jude’s school year. It’s dark outside; chill. The leaves have long-since fallen; Christmas is creeping up – but exams loom large before the season of relative frivolity can begin.

Supper’s just been served in the refectory and the prefects have retired to their comfortable common room. Some of them study; others read that morning’s newspaper; a small group discuss the increasingly unruly behaviour of the Fifth Form and the action that might be taken to bring them back in line.

One of the illustrious elite, imposing in his jet-black gown of office, enters their quarters from a tour of duty around the school’s somewhat scattered premises; the others look up. “Evening, Evans: how‘s the rabble this evening?”

“Oh, much the usual. Anyone expecting Miss Swinton?”

Heads are raised, looking around in curiosity. The Head Prefect, Harris, gets to his feet: “Indeed. I wondered when she’d show up. If she’d be brave enough, frankly.”

“She’s outside.”

That’s the way, you see. Mere pupils summoned to meet their prefectorial masters are forbidden from knocking on the heavy oak door of their lair. Nor, in fact, are they permitted to speak to any passing member of the clan on his way into the prefects’ room. No: a girl turns up at the anointed hour, waits, hopes that either her presence will be announced or that her tormentor-in-wait would deign to come and see if she were there. ‘Hoped’, perhaps being the wrong word, for as much as she wants this over and done with, she certainly doesn’t want it to start.

“I do hope I shan’t disturb your evening too much, then, gentlemen,” the senior man observes, walking to the door and opening it. “Inside. Now.”

The girl enters, glancing around her at the unfamiliar surroundings, then scanning the faces of her assembled elders and betters. Harris looms over her: “So are you going to dazzle me with an explanation?”

“I… I was doing what you’d said. I just…”

“I found you in the lower sixth form common room when you should have been in the library for private study. I told you to go there straight away. Ten minutes later, when I walked back past, you were still in the common room.”

“I needed to…”

“You needed to be in private study. And you needed to do what I told you.”

Silence fills the room, the two players carefully observed by their audience, enthralled as always by the theatre of punishment. Quietly, she murmurs: “Yes, sir. I’m sorry…”

Harris continues. “So you quite clearly leave me no choice but to beat you, Miss Swinton. Three strokes for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And shall we say….” He pauses as if mentally scanning through some almanac of offences and their corresponding consequences: “…six more for disobeying me. Although maybe I’ll be kind, and let you off one as I think you’re generally a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Captain of the quiz team, a star on the sports field. With something of a rebel streak, a healthy dose of independence of spirit. A good girl indeed. Until now.

“Then please remove your knickers and put them in your blazer pocket; stand in front of the fireplace, and bend over and touch your toes.”

The beating is administered on the bare, of course, the girl made to lift her skirt once the prefect selects his cane from the rack in the corner of the room. (Each has a favourite: thickness, length, balance. It may only be November, the school year barely two months old, yet they are all already practised in wielding the rattan). Three weals, evenly spaced, evenly timed: twenty or so seconds between each stroke, allowing each to burn home its message before the next cutting impact.

“Stand up, and come over to the desk.” A large, leather book is pulled from a drawer, and opened at the requisite page. Neatly, in fountain pen:

15 November 1953 – Elizabeth Swinton – Lower Sixth Arts – Failure to attend private study – Three strokes – J. Harris.

He hands her the pen, and points to the blank final column. Her hands shake so much that her scrawled name would be scarcely recognisable when compared to her usual signature.

“And now, let us continue.” He points her back to the fireplace, to bend and bare herself once more.

“Frankly, I regard disobeying me as by far the more serious offence.” And he proves it, each of the five strokes administered with unforgiving ferocity. Bravely, she stays in place; he chooses not to notice when – after the second of this second batch – she starts to clutch her ankles rather than touch her toes. No-one comments when they hear her start to cry.

Afterwards, the next line in the punishment book is inscribed into the school’s memory. She is handed a paper handkerchief, which she takes gratefully. She apologises: “I’m sorry for causing so much trouble.” And he places a not unkind hand on her shoulder: “I think you’ve learnt your lesson bravely, Miss Swinton. Now you may go. Please close the door behind you.”

As she leaves, she sees another girl waiting. She recognises her as one of the Lower Fourth – still a relatively new girl, in her first term at St Jude’s. She pauses for half a second, as if she should offer some words of encouragement, but she can think of none to say. She continues on her way; they avoid each other’s eyes, the punished and the to-be-punished

–

That was then – and times, of course, change. The prefects’ right to administer corporal punishment disappeared overnight, thanks to some interfering governmental decree that bound even the best schools to some lowest common disciplinary denominator.

Yet the power to have a girl caned remains. All it takes is a word with her housemaster: “Miss Feversham was caught with a stash of wine in her locker.” “Thank you so much for letting me know.” And later that day, after supper, the girl in question will find herself in the privacy of his study, being just as soundly beaten as her forebears.

What happens next, after her caning, is less formally documented. Actually, to be frank, a search of the school rules would fail to find mention of it at all. But traditions echo down the years, and the practice is – if not officially condoned – given tacit approval by the powers-that-be as they tolerate its continuation.

For, after her punishment, a girl proceeds not to her dormitory but to wait outside the prefects’ room – standing up straight, in silence, hoping that one of them will take pity on her and enquire as to the purpose of the visit.

She’ll be shown in. Stood in front of the fireplace. Made to bend over and bare herself. And the prefect responsible for her punishment will inspect her marks, whilst the others look on, before she is sent on her tearful way.

OK, OK, here goes with the annual Spanking Writers awards, now in their sixth year. As ever, it’s a pretty random collection (some kinky and some not), based entirely on personal prejudice with no formal criteria. But I hope that the recognition makes the winners feel valued, especially as I guess these are possibly now the longest-standing awards in the spankosphere!

Best implements: my wonderful set of six canes from Prysm – so beautifully made, wonderfully balanced, perfect to use

Best spanking story: without a doubt, “The Library” by Casey Morgan – an absolute gem amidst so many highlights in “The Spanking Collection”, the charity anthology I was honoured to co-edit with Haron earlier in the year

Best kinky event: “The Yorkshire School”: an amazing extended roleplay at Easter, involving HH, Emma Jane, Cath and Eliane. (With, here, a very honourable mention to the truly wonderful Fawcett Hall house party: 1811 truly rocked!).

Best music. Nothing even vaguely kink-related here this year, just one amazing album – “The Rip Tide”, by Beirut, the soundtrack to the loneliest week of my life, in Egypt in September.

Best blog post: “It’s only a game”, by Amelia Jane Rutherford: a wonderful, eloquent rebuttal to an email criticising the lovely author (and, by implication, so many other kinky models and bloggers).

Best scene: to adapt from the Oscars – best original sceneplay goes to “Paying off the debt” with Emma Jane and HH. Best adapted sceneplay goes to “The Punishment List” with Kami Robertson.

Best book: without a doubt, “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern. Although “A Lover’s Dictionary”, by David Leviathan, is also hugely special, Neither kinky; both touching on love in original and profound ways.

And, to my mind, the most prestigious award one blogger can give to another:

Best blog: “Not An Odalisque”: wonderfully written, so often exploring topics at the heart of my own scene dilemmas so eloquently and perceptively. Such a clear winner.

2011’s not been the easiest of years, but there have been so many bright spots within it. To this year’s award winners, my congratulations and thanks!