The Spanking Writers

A girl being made to shower, under supervision: isn’t that just one of the hottest things? It’s something that features in a lots of my fantasies, scenes, stories, posts. After all, one can readily justify showering a girl on admission to an institution, or prior to her judicial punishment.

It’s a process that’s controlling, shaming and aesthetically pleasing. What’s not to like? But I’m given to wonder whether it has an impact on the effectiveness of the punishment, too. Does being caned on a soft, freshly-washed skin hurt more… And what about after the beating: would a shower on fresh weals be especially cruel? Any thoughts, experiences to share?

There are relatively few Westminster politicians I’ve admired over the years, and the list of those I do is relatively eclectic – Michael Heseltine, say, for sparking so much regeneration in my home city, Liverpool, and for his opposition to Mrs T; Neil Kinnock for his brilliant oratory (if not for much else); Mo Mowlem for the Good Friday Agreement.

In contemporary parliamentary ranks, one individual stands out – Tom Watson, the Labour MP whose dogged work on phone hacking has been brave and important. It therefore amused me no end when entirely inappropriate thoughts were triggered when I read a BBC news article about him the other day. His intern, it seems, had written what was seen to be an inappropriate comment on Watson’s Twitter account, whilst the MP was in a meeting. She then tweeted again, saying sorry, before her boss returned to add:

“I sincerely apologise for the recent tweet. A lesson learned for a young intern. She’s also very sorry. I will deal with the matter offline.”

Dealing with the matter? A lesson learned? Very sorry? I’m sure a conversation was enough, but (much as I feel sorry for the young woman concerned) I did rather smile at other less realistic possibilities…!

I’ve been looking after Emma Jane as best I can these past few days, after she had an operation on her nose at the end of last week (medical not cosmetic – and all went well, before you think to ask!).

Now, a girl with a swollen, bruised nose, who’s not allowed to leave the house for a fortnight for fear of infection? I’m afraid, despite a total lack of any real-life kinky feelings about events, I simply can’t control my dreams. For there she was, standing in my housemaster’s study, having been caught fighting a girl from an opposing school on the games field: punches had been exchanged. Immaculate in her school blazer, she’d been sent to me to be caned.

My mind shifted gear… a girl who’s not allowed out for a long period, hiding away in bed? “Grounded”, in other words – something which must surely be accompanied by other punishments?

Neither brief image – remembered oh-so-clearly when I woke – actually involved any spankings. But here’s the thing – I’m really quite glad. The reality is entirely different: it’s about supporting her as she recuperates. Beating a sick girl doesn’t come into it – so much so that I actually feel guilty about my subconscious attempt to pervert the situation…

Still, that’s without me allowing myself to meditate for too long on her own phrase for her confinement: “house arrest”. Such a lightweight punishment by the courts, I’ve always thought, unless preceded by a very sound judicial whipping – or unless the punishment officer visits her at home to deal with her every few days. And as for the concept of a girl locked away for a period of time in a large Edwardian house, unable to escape its sadistic gentleman occupant… But, you know, there are times when caring takes over from kink.

So, whenever I’ve written about a fictitious girl being punished at home, it’s always been her father or stepfather who’s administered the punishment. But surely a mother would join in too?

I picture a girl having been sent from the dinner table to her room, in disgrace. Her parents had scolded her, perhaps, or laid down some new rules to which she’d objected; she’d lost her temper, shouted at them. They’d sat calmly until she fell silent, and would then have sent her to await her fate.

Her parents would leave her to reflect for a while; it’d be her mother who’d appear at her door. She’d carry a hairbrush, which would be soundly and adeptly applied to her daughter’s bare bottom. “I’m too old for this,” the girl would protest through her shrieks. “Indeed: you should know far better by your age than to behave like that towards us.”

Part of me wants to leave the fantasy there; the rest can’t resist the thought of her then being sent on to her father. But would it be to his study, where he’d be waiting with a cane – or to the living room, where she’d lower her jeans once again and bend tightly over the arm of a sofa, as he unbuckled his belt? Whichever, I know she’d be a deeply apologetic girl even before he started to beat her, and that her thrashing would be accompanied by gentle and caring words: how their advice was only offered for her own good; how much he regretted that she had had to be punished; how much he hoped she’d learn from it; how much he loved her.

Bedtime. She undresses: ever-so matter-of-fact, peeling off her smart work suit and the jumper she’d thrown over it earlier in the evening. She turns to the bed, and reaches for her pyjamas: unexpectedly, his hand clasps her wrist tight, and he turns her to look at him. “You need to earn your pyjamas, young lady.”

He pushes her over the side of the bed, smacking her. The blows intensify in pace and strength, until his hand probes between her legs. “We’ll deal with that in a moment,” he tells her as she squirms under his touch… and he unbuckles his belt.

“Are you a good girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

And he folds the belt double: “Yes you are.” He steps to the side, and cracks it across her, hard: “A very good girl.” More strokes: “I like it that way.” The whipping intensifies, until she’s crying out: “Such a beautiful girl.” More severely still: “So brave…”

–

And then my little fantasy got still ruder: the girl being made to reach back and touch herself, before he made her truly ‘earn’ her pjs in the most intimate ways – then held her very, very tight. But I’m a little too shy to actually write that part!!

Dare I post my weekend dream? Oh, go on, then… Even if it was a bit rude. Sorry, very rude…

A drawing room. A group of men, in smart suits. And a girl standing before them, naked, crying, covering herself as best she could.

“Are you learning your lesson?” A lesson taught over their knees; touching her toes; bent over furniture. With their hands, their belts. With the cane.

“Yes, sir. Please… Let me go”

“See, I’m not sure. Gentlemen: would you place your visiting card in the bowl on the table…” And when they had done so, he held it out before her: “Now, close your eyes. And choose who’s going to fuck you.”

It would be academic, of course. For once the first of them had forced her roughly into position and taken her, the rest would take their turn. And then they’d beat her again, “for being a whore”, before leaving the now-broken girl to sob, curled up in the corner of the room, whilst they enjoyed their cognac and cigars…

I’ve always rather resented the way the History teachers at school failed to capture my imagination. Despite my fascination with historical events (and not just as a source of kinky inspiration), teenage me dropped the subject as soon as possible. As such, I lack a degree of context when it comes to times past: I’ve read lots about individual periods, but lack structure – how one thing led to another; how everything fitted together.

David Starkey’s “Crown and Country: A History of England through the Monarchy” is about the best thing I’d read to provide an overall span of our history – despite my anti-monarchist tendencies. And last week, despite a self-imposed book-buying ban until Easter, I couldn’t resist picking up a small volume by Judy Parkinson, entitled “Remember, Remember (The Fifth of November): The History of Britain in Bite-Sized Chunks”:

The concept’s simple: one page on each of 150 key events or periods that have shaped our nation. It’s quite brilliantly executed – a true joy to read. And, needless to say, it sparked my kinky imagination. My most recent school roleplaying at Lowewood Academy last week was marvellous as ever, and part of the fun of the event is that it’s relatively light-hearted – from the initial uniform inspection onwards.

In the Rev Jenkins’s Religious Studies class, I made the girls identify former popes (including several dissolute ones, and the bizarrely-named St Hilarius), study how popes are chosen, then elect one of their number to the papacy. Later, in Latin, I asked the class to share any Latin phrases they knew (“to help the new pope as she needed to know the language”). I taught them various useful words (think “school”, “pupil”, “cane”‘, “tears”). And we finished with a verbal test in which said pope was caned for each wrong answer from her classmates. Delightful; funny; enjoyable; a genuine privilege to be invited to take part in such a wonderful event.

Yet it also left me craving far more serious school play, of the sort that “Remember, Remember” could inspire. Girls set homework before the class, made to study (say) ten pages of the book. A test, taken in silence, asking detailed questions. Papers marked in front of them, as they read the next pages of the textbook. A high pass mark: say 17 out of 20, for this would be the top class in their year, whose work lately had been disappointing. And a sound caning – a dozen stripes of the dragon cane – for any pupil who failed.

Or it could be a set text to be used in Detention, at the end of a school day. A hand-caning for each girl would start the hour’s punishment; they’d be given pages of the book to copy, bringing them to me once each was completed. If their work was untidy, the girl’s hands would be caned again and she’d be sent to re-do the work. And if any girl failed to finish transcribing the full number of pages by the time the bell rang for supper, another hand caning would be duly administered.

Time for a strict school, methinks. The sort in which no girl would dare wear her uniform scruffily. In which classes would be academic, traditional, quiet, focused, well-behaved. In which the prospect of being sent to her housemaster would genuinely leave a girl quaking. In which being beaten publicly in assembly by the headmaster would leave a girl truly ashamed. I wonder how, with whom, when. And isn’t it one of the joys of roleplaying that we can devise such different variations on a theme, and love them all?

Concocting schemes for punishing girls, during a ‘Lowewood’ school roleplay at the weekend, I proposed a candelit caning. Picture a row of candles – say, six of them – on a table at the front of an otherwise-dark room. A schoolgirl bends over, takes a stroke, and then blows out a flame – each extinguished candle marking progress towards her misbehaviour being fully dealt with. The number of candles, and the number of strokes for each, could be readily varied according to the gravity of her offence.

Anyone spot the flaw in the plan, though? Yep, when she blows out the final candle, the room would be left in pitch darkness. And whilst that might create the potential for taking-advantage-of-a-girl fun in some scenes, it really doesn’t seem right for a school… But still the idea intrigues!

On the Northern Line, after a work dinner on Wednesday evening, I found myself sitting next to a smartly-dressed gent who was studying handwritten notes from his English language classes. I couldn’t help but wonder what they’d been teaching him, and glanced at the words neatly listed against their Arabic equivalents.

Here’s the extract that caught my eye:

Pretty bad

Very bad

Awful

Utterly disgraceful

I rather liked the idea of the next class, in which he’d doubtless be taught the implements and number of strokes that apply for each level of misbehaviour.

I read a review a while back a marvellous-sounding tome about women in ancient Rome. Sadly I’ve lost the article, so can’t recall the book’s name, but there must surely be a chapter on ‘Discipline and Punishment’?

Take the case of the slave girl, near-naked and chained in the marketplace, who bit a potential new owner as he carefully inspected her. As a senator, he’d take up his right to administer her whipping himself – in full view of the other traders, customers and girls.

Or the case of the emperor’s daughters. He’d hire a new tutor for them, and would tell her to be strict with his girls if they erred. She’d teach them well and they’d study diligently; she’d spared the rod as a result. Yet the emperor would learn that his girls had played truant one day, going to watch some procession in the Forum. “How many strokes of the birch did you give each of them,” he’d ask of the tutor. “They’re good girls, sir; I scolded them and they seemed very penitent,” she’d reply. Needless to say, once the emperor had whipped his daughters, he’d give the tutor the same number of strokes in total as the two girls had taken.

The men in each story, would of course be in positions of absolute power: the senator who’d bought a girl from the market (for he’d surely take her home after whipping her); the emperor ruling without challenge. And in each case, that offers further potential for one’s imagination to run riot – for there’d be little that the slave or the tutor could do were their master to close the door and decide that the flogging was a mere prelude to the pleasures they wished and intended to take…

Perhaps it’s a good thing I didn’t track down the book. I fear the reality might have disappointed, rather…