And how did he practice what he preached? Well, the girls sent to his institution were sentenced by the court to a period of detention and “at the master’s discretion, 50 strokes of the birch.”

Rather than flog them on admission, a perhaps crueller system would be in place by which said ‘discretion’ would be exercised. Once the girls sat for dinner each evening, a name would be drawn from a bag and read out. The lass in question would be called to the front, tied down over the birching block, bared and punished. Hard. And then she’d be sent back to sit, oh-so-painfully, amidst her peers on the long wooden benches – doubtless having rather suddenly lost her appetite.

Of course, there’s a logical flaw in the plan, which revealed itself as I jotted down the dream this morning. The scheme would depend, improbably, on their being the right number of inmates admitted for the right sentences for there to be one inmate per day needing whipping. And maybe some girls would never be drawn from the hat – would they be punished prior to release, or would they escape chastisement? I’m going with the latter – as the measure of the master’s “discretion”.

He canes her – long pauses allowing each harsh stroke to register fully. She counts them, bravely, right up to the final, searing twelfth.

He dismisses her: “You deserved that: I hope it’s made you think about your future behaviour. I don’t want to see you in here again. Now, get dressed and go straight to your bedroom. Leave the light on and the door ajar: I may look in on you later when I check the dorms.”

But what would happen later? Would he, perhaps, not appear at all – leaving her fretting in bed, unable to sleep, awaiting a visit that would never come?

Would he put his head around the door, check she was in bed, and simply tell her to turn off the light? Might he, more kindly, offer some brief words of comfort: “Bravely taken… now get some sleep.” Might he come and perch on the bed, ask how she was?

Might he pull back the duvet, and ask her to show him her marks? Or, rather, simply pull down her trousers himself to inspect?

Might his hands stray as he ran his fingers over her weals? Might she respond by arching herself against his touch: “Please…” Or might he simply tell her that she’d better be a good girl and keep quiet, as he climbed on top of her and punished her still more…?

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?

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…!

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.

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.

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!!

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…

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?

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!