The Spanking Writers

Yesterday I had to go down to London on my own; Abel is due to join me this afternoon. He teased me on the phone about being in trouble for running away from home, and I can’t get the idea out of my head.

I would be a new bride, freshly delivered to her husband’s estate. I had no wish to marry him, I hardly know him! But my parents insisted. Well, I have a better idea: I steal a boy’s suit from a page, and set off to London: to audition for a theatre troupe, perhaps, or even to join a convent. Anything is better than being married off against my will!

However, I haven’t reckoned on my husband’s connections, or on his determination. He has me followed, and comes after me personally, austere and magnificent, cutting across my way on his horse, as I run along an unfamiliar London lane. Oh no! he is clutching a riding whip. Whatever will happen to me now?

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The herd of baby elephants in the hotel room directly above mine had been practising their gymanstics for far too long, far too late at night. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone to the reception desk, to ask whether they might be able to ask my fellow guests to quieten down.

Silence descended within moments, and I was able to fall asleep at last.

To sleep, perchance to dream… Two girls in the room: best friends, on a trip to London. The father of one, staying further down the corridor, oblivious to the post-lights-out misbehaviour. The hotel manager, knocking on his door to mention the problem, accompanying him to the girls’ room to order them to quieten down.

The door shutting behind the manager, the girls’ apologies too late to save them. They’d be told to bend over the ends of their twin beds, to lower their pyjama bottoms. He’d whip his own daughter first – she’d be used to the taste of his belt. And then to her friend, who’d agree quietly that her own parents had told her that she should behave impeccably during the trip, and that they had asked her friend’s father to punish her soundly if she did not. The same dozen strokes, the same tears.

And the same order at the end of their punishment: to put on their dressing gowns and go downstairs to apologise to the gentlemen below for the disturbance they’d caused; to explain that they had been dealt with; to promise that there’d be no repetition.

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Long Acre is one of my favourite London streets - the road from Leicester Square to Covent Garden full of lovely shops, like the quite wonderful Stanford’s (the travel bookshop), Muji or - a stone’s throw to the side - the London Graphic Centre. It’s also perhaps that I associate the walk with heading towards the delights of Belgo, to top up on mussels and frites, or the soon-to-be-gone CCK.I now have quite a different image in my mind, after walking back late-ish the other night from the aforementioned hostelries. Passing one of the clothes stores - Next, maybe? - we noticed a young shop assistant inside the door. On the floor before her were two huge bags, from which spilled garments galore. And, sifting suspiciouly through the garments, receipt in hand, was the uniformed security guard.

It didn’t take much to imagine where this was heading. “You’ll need to accompany me to the security office” would follow the discovery that her late-night working had seen a few extra items slip into her bag. There, they’d discuss the options: “I should call the police, but they’re awfully busy at this time of the evening. And then the management would need to know in the morning, of course - assuming you’re out of the cells by then.”

She’d readily agree to the alternative. A dash round the shop would see the almost-stolen items returned to the racks. By the time she returned, a chair would be positioned in the middle of the room, a cane on the desk.

“Lift your skirt and bend over.”

She’d comply. He’d tug down her knickers.

He wouldn’t offer her the solace of knowing the number of strokes in advance, so that she could find comfort from the nearing end of the caning. Rather, he’d punish her until he was sure that she was suitably repentent. And then he’d stripe her more, to be doubly-assured of her penitance.

She’d stand on the tube journey home, of course. Other passengers would notice her discomfort: observing her smudged make-up, watching sympathetically as she wiped away her tears.

And the following morning, after a painful and restless night, it’d be back into the store - where the security guard would be waiting, barely acknowledging her as she walked in, keeping true to his word that the incident would never again be mentioned.

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Our recent trip to Windsor turned up another opportunity for our kinky minds to corrupt the scenes around us.

I do hope that the schoolmaster in charge of the group of French students gathered in a gang on the benches beside the castle noticed their behaviour. Specifically, that is, that one of the young ladies had reached into her bag to bring out a packet of cigarettes, lighting two - one for herself, and one for her friend.

They’d not have realised that he’d been watching from the window of the Starbucks opposite. They’d have been surprised later that evening in the hostel to be told to stay behind, when the rest of the girls had been sent to bed.

He could send them straight home, he explained. Ask them to report to the Headmaster, who would inevitably have suspended them for a week with a letter sent to each family. Needless to say, neither girl’s parents knew that she smoked - that she did, and that she’d lied about the fact, would be a matter of grave concern. And the two best friends had confided enough secrets in the past to know that the consequences would be swift and severe.

Alternatively, they might like to know that the hostel’s manager understood that girls on school trips sometimes misbehaved. A leather strap was kept for just these circumstances: would the girls prefer to take their punishment now, and save any mention from being made of the incident on their return to France?

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It’s a very good thing that Her Majesty didn’t wander down from Windsor Castle into the town the other Sunday to do some shopping in her local department store. For, much to our amusement, the shop was adopting a somewhat novel approach to promoting its new range of men’s underwear: two young hunks, strolling around the menswear section floor naked save for a pair of trendy boxer shorts.*

Fortunately, the experiment was also being tested in the women’s lingerie department. (We had to check, of course, in the interest of research). But the cutie they’d selected for her semi-naked parade was rather more covered than the boys, being permitted the modesty of a white nightdress.

We immediately realised why: when she’d changed that morning, the department manager had noticed a fresh set of weals, clearly visible beneath the skimpy knickers that she was supposed to model. He’d questioned her; she’d blushed: daddy had only given her permission to stay out until eleven the evening before, and her post-midnight return had not gone down well.

She’d been sent straight to bed, his “we’ll deal with this after breakfast” ringing ominously in her ears. And after the morning’s marmalade had been carefully tidied away, the china washed and dried, he’d accompanied her upstairs. Her protests would be ignored: “You should have thought of that before you chose to disobey me last night.”

He’d unbuckled then slid out his thick leather belt; she’d slid down her jeans and knickers, and adopted that oh-so-familiar but thankfully-irregular posture: bent over the end of her bed, face buried in the soft duvet, which absorbed her tears as the sharp strokes seared.

The store’s general manager would be less sympathetic, of course: “We’ve paid her to model the new underwear” would be his refrain, and the nightdress would have to be removed. The afternoon’s clientele would be quite united, both in their curiosity at the mortified girl’s marks and in their murmured agreement that she was fortunate to be corrected so by her loving father.

* As a means of improving sales to their male customers, this did have a fatal flaw – most guys heading straight in the opposite direction as soon as the two semi-naked Adonises approached!

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I stayed with Abel in a London hotel yesterday, waiting for him to do his day’s work before we could do something cultural (or kinky, or both) in the evening. He departed at his usual (ungodly) hour, and I delayed going out to get breakfast until the rush hour crowd finished rushing.I went out at about 9.15, and the street lined with office buildings was pleasantly empty. As I cut across a courtyard towards a cafe, I saw the last of the office plankton running for the glass doors and faux-marble vestibules.

In the middle of the courtyard there in a nest of stone benches. They were empty but for one young woman in a smart grey suit. She sat with her legs crossed, dangling one of her sensible shoes off her toes and sucking on a cigarette. She had the glassy stare of somebody far, far away, and a frown of somebody who…

…was waiting for her punishment, actually. Well do I know that look.

It was all law firms and financial companies around there; the woman’s clothes looked expensive enough that she could have worked in any of those. Perhaps, she had screwed up on a big case, setting it back through an avoidable mistake. Maybe she’d miscalculated on accounts.

Whatever it was, her immediate superior - perhaps, the CEO himself - was summoning her to his office this morning. She had a 9.30 appointment, and was told to clear her diary for at least an hour.

She knows what this means. Their company is notorious for their cutting-edge management practices; she had signed a release when they took her on. She knows that all managers have a particular implement of discipline in their desk drawer. What it is, depends on personal preference and physique, but she knows that her own manager keeps an old razor strop with fraying edges.

When she goes in, she will have a stern lecture. She would have to take off her jacket, raise her skirt and bend over his desk. Her underwear would stay chastely on - nobody wanted to be sued for sexual harassment here! - but even the full cotton knickers she wore specifically for the event, would be no help when the strop cracks against her bottom.

She would get six strokes in the first instance. After that, she would be ordered into the corner, where she would have to gather her thoughts before sitting down at the desk and typing out what she thought she had done wrong, and how she would avoid similar mistakes in the future.

Finally, chastened, embarrassed and still in pain from her whipping, she would be back over the desk for the final dose of the strop: six more, to make sure the lesson has sunk home.

So you see, she knows exactly what’s going to happen as she sits there on the bench, alone. The company makes no secret of the discipline procedure, and she has studied it very carefully. There is no way out.

But in the meantime she sits in the courtyard, alone. She is counting minutes. In too short a time, she’ll be counting strokes.

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Abel called me in great agitation the other day, having discovered the existence of “High School Musical”.

He wanted to know whether there London staging included a paddling scene. I had to tell him I had no idea, but probably not.

He didn’t sound too disappointed, and shared an idea that any future director of this play - or actually, any play that may conceivably involve a paddling of a character in the ensemble - may appreciate.

The role of the punished character should be given each night to the actress who had performed the worst the night before.

The decision would be announced to the cast just before the play is due to start. Thus, any girl who felt she hadn’t danced or sang as well as she could have done, would have a rather unpleasant sleepless night before the following day’s performance.

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I did feel just a tad sorry for the girl I dreamt of the other night. She was standing before the Chief of Police in his office; he was lecturing her sternly. “Quite fair and reasonable punishment… A mischievous complaint, totally without foundation in law…”

Earlier in the day, it seemed, she’d presented herself at the local police station to complain. She lived in the big house, she explained (a daughter, a ward, a maid?) and had been soundly whipped that morning for some misdemeanour. “And it’s not fair, and it wasn’t my fault, and they shouldn’t have the right to do it.”

The constable had taken her into a cell and made her show her marks: six frsh stripes, vivid, neatly and expertly laid-on. And then he’d taken a statement, and recorded the details, and summoned the butler from the House to give evidence. (”Yes, officer, all of the girls in the house are well aware that misconduct will result in a thrashing”). Forms had been filled in, a report filed.

The Chief was most unimpressed. “Wasting police time – a most serious offence,” he continued, explaining that they had mentioned the situation to his Lordship, who was in complete agreement with the proposed course of action.

“Constable?”

Snapping to attention: “Sir?”

The Chief looked from him to the girl, and back again. “Strip her and tie her over the back of the chair, then fetch me a birch…”

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The Great Yorkshire Show is in full swing today, with all the flowers, cattle and local crafts shown off on its huge grounds.

I wonder if in years past it was customary for the great houses to enter the competition for the best maid.

The girls in their tidiest, cleanest uniforms would stand in a line on a raised stage. The judges would call up each of them by turn to ask a few questions. The winner would be determined in a secret, heated debate. Most maids would consider it an honour to be entered into the County Show, but there would, of course, be an odd sullen girl, who would have to be threatened with a switch by the housekeeper, before she could be pushed onto the stage.

“What do you like about working in Ravenwood Hall?” one judge would ask.

She would glower at him: “What would you like about getting up before the crack of dawn, fetching and carrying all day, and being slapped around by an old witch?”

(Somewhere in the crowd, the housekeeper all but explodes with rage.)

It isn’t just a switching that’s in store for her now, but a sound birching at the hands of the butler, with all of the servants present, and the master himself supervising the event.

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Over the weekend we visited our favourite private library, which provides us with so much inspiration and material for our historical posts. We captured a strategically placed table, stacked it with promising-looking volumes and set to research.

On the other end of the reading room, the library regulars were convening over their newspapers, coffee and biscuits.*

“That’s the punishment committee,” Abel murmured in my ear. “They are having their weekly meeting.”

I looked at the tweed jackets and home-knitted cardigans, the tidy hair, the sombre expressions, the tobacco stains on the fingers of the older men, and realised that Abel was right. This had to be the local punishment committee.

As well as receiving parents who came here with their grievances, these conscientious members of the community would go through the local papers, looking for reports of misbehaviour by the young people. They would discuss each instance in a polite debate, decide on the most appropriate measures. The secretary would write up a notice for the culprit, who would have a week to submit any defences or objections.

These would be looked at - and most certainly dismissed - at the following meeting, after which a volunteer from among the committee members would be dispatched to the culprit’s house armed with punishment instructions and a suitable implement. Case closed.

It’s amazing how innocent these people looked in the bright light of Saturday morning, while accomplishing such tasks in plain view of the reading public.

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* You’re allowed to talk and eat in this room. In fact, they sell you the food. I nearly had a heart attack the first time I saw somebody munch a lemon drizzle cake over a 19th-century book, but I guess they trust you to be careful.

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