The Spanking Writers

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve stayed in a couple of newish hotels that have been converted from railway premises. The first, at St Pancras, hides behind the station’s amazing Gothic façade. The public areas are spectacular; the pokey modern bedroom was disappointing other than for its lovely, heavy leather shoehorn, used to good effect to give Emma Jane a warming bedtime whacking.

I visited the second alone – a stunning conversion of a former railway company head office building in York – yet the hotel room’s accessories were equally appealing; I wished I’d had a young lady to hand to try out the long, particularly-heavy clothes brush. (I like this trend in five-star hotels providing implements, I must confess.)

My room was in what must have been a director’s office. But who would the girls have been, knocking nervously on that heavy oak door in years gone by, knowing that punishment would await inside? Picture two smartly-dressed friends, caught evading their fares back in the 1930s. Letters had been sent to their parents offering a choice: a court appearance for theft, or a private appointment – as outlined in the railway by-laws – to be caned by the Director of Railway Compliance. Replies had been posted opting for the latter, fathers condemning their daughters to twenty strokes each, on the bare.

The friends would already have been punished severely at their respective homes, naturally, both for the fare dodging and for the very fact that they’d been on the trains in the first place. (“You told me you were going to the library; instead, you were off to Scarborough”). They’d surmise that the caning from the railway official, bent tight over his desk, couldn’t be any more painful: how wrong they’d prove to be…

…and how much I want to return to the hotel to re-enact the scene!

Oh, how my mind wandered after reading this little article:

The Girls’ Industrial School in Exeter was founded in 1861, and was located in Bartholomew Street, Exeter. It was known as the Exeter Girls’ Industrial School and Servants’ Home, and its address in 1878 was given as 42 Bartholomew Street West. By 1893, it had moved to Blenheim House, at 32 Bartholomew Street East.

The aim of the institution was to train girls as domestic servants. It accepted neglected and destitute children or others requiring instruction, and taught them the rudiments of household work as well as “habits of order and obedience”. Young girls who had “lost their situations through incompetence” were among those accepted into the school.

The age of admission was between 13 and 16, but… others from outside the City of Exeter were admitted if paid for at a rate of £10 a year and if they had their clothes supplied. The school was managed by a committee of six ladies who met on the first Saturday of each month. The cost of running the school was estimated as £300 in 1878. Mrs Lucy Martyn was the matron in charge.

During 1882 there were 36 girls living in at the school, which was supported by payment subscriptions and donations, as well as money received for needlework and washing done by the girls. In 1892 there were only 18 girls at the school.

Admitting a new girl to the school: scrubbing her; making her put on her new uniform; explaining the rules of the establishment; punishing her for whatever had led her to be admitted to the institution (surely, with the birch)? Oh, how I want to play this as a scene…

So I’m home alone last Thursday night. I’ve polished off the remains of the curry from a lovely dinner with dear friends the night before; the glass of decent white that was (surprisingly) left over has also gone down rather nicely. And I decide to switch on the TV, on which appears a programme about “The World’s Strictest Parents”.

Now, I’ve seen episodes of this before; indeed, Haron blogged about one a couple of years ago. But this really sparked my imagination. The lass, see, was remarkably bright – but had dropped out of school after achieving excellent GCSE results, and had since turned into something of a wild child. And the schoolmaster father of the Greek family with whom she was staying (along with the family’s own kids and a similarly badly-behaved young British lad)? Never raised his voice; just calmly, slowly,  started asking about their lives and what they felt about themselves, and started doing things to make them take more responsibility. It worked a dream.

Only mere words wouldn’t have worked, in my version. For at one point, she’d have lost her temper and been sent to her room. He’d walk in to find her crying; he’d sit next to her and offer her a hug. And once she’d calmed, he’d ask very gently: “Do you know how we’d deal with our own daughters if they behaved like that?”

She’d nod, biting her lip, half-willing and half-dreading that he would treat her as one of the family. And he would, of course, telling her to stand and take down her jeans, and to bend across his lap. She’d be in tears again before he started; sobbing by the time he’d finished. More hugs would follow, together with a warning as he pointed to his belt: “If one of my girls ever repeats the same bad behaviour, she knows I’ll take this off and whip her. But let’s hope that won’t be necessary…” (I’ll leave it to you, dear readers, to decide whether it would be or not).

Restless in bed this morning – after a long sleep punctuated by bizarre, stressful dreams (how to put eggshells in the dishwasher so they didn’t get broken, for example) – I found myself thinking about the Manx birch. (Hey, my mind turns in strange – albeit  predictable – directions, you know!).

Specifically, I pondered the duration of a punishment meted out to a girl sentenced to a severe birching. “Sixty strokes, at full strength and without mercy” came to mind. And then I became more creative.

The girl was held before the prison governor, her handcuffed wrists behind her back. He tried calmly to discuss the reasons why she had been brought before him – fighting the guards, perhaps, or repeated insolence and failure to follow orders. Defiant, eyes blazing, she argued back.

“If we can’t have a reasoned conversation, then you leave me with only one recourse to deal with this.” The governor flicked through her papers, on the desk in front of him. “You’ve not been birched before, I see. I think it’s about time you were taught a sharp lesson.”

He turned to the officers present. “Gentlemen: please take her to the punishment cell, and birch her until she apologises for her behaviour. Once you’re sure the apology is genuine, give her another twelve strokes, and then bring her back to me so that I can see if she’s suitably repentant…”

So, obviously, the festive gift for spanko friends is a copy of “The Spanking Collection”, the charity anthology that Haron and I co-edited earlier this year. But I rather suspect that this might find its way into a few kinky Christmas stockings:

Any guesses? It’s actually a special, limited-edition souvenir from the London 2012 Olympics shop, for the diving competition – but you’d be forgiven for thinking that the character’s bending over to be caned.

There are only 5,000 of them on sale – or, at most, 4,998 now: one adorns my bookcase, and another’s going to find its way onto Emma Jane’s desk at work. For who could possibly question such a sweet, innocent young lass for showing an interest in her adopted city’s forthcoming Olympic celebrations?

What, I wonder, if the master’s door is ‘always open’ to the girls in his care? If they know they can turn to him at any moment for help and support? If they do so, frequently, valuing his kindness and sage perspectives on whatever might be bothering them. If they rush equally to tell him of their successes, however small – in which he takes such great delight.

And what if the only time he ever shuts the door is on those very rare occasions when he has no choice but to punish a girl? Never the cane, although that’s within his sanction: always the slipper, always on the bare – hard; painful; shaming, yet followed by kind and caring hugs.

I picture two girls, called to see him, dreading the worst. They stand in the corridor outside his study, waiting for him to arrive.

He tells them he’ll see them separately; ushers the first in; closes the door firmly behind him…

The concept of the good, hard-working diligent maid having to be punished for some misdemeanour whilst serving dinner in a country house has long been one of my favourite fantasies. (Indeed, it featured in one of the very first stories I wrote).

In most of the little scenarios I dream up, it’s the master of the house who punishes the girl – in front of the other guests, or in private later. And when said gentleman is younger and more dashing, the lass in question is his favourite on the staff, and the private punishment is administered in his bedchamber… well, a girl sometimes needs comforting after being disciplined.

Yet what if his lordship is too busy entertaining his guests to have the time or inclination to administer the thrashing personally? I picture him calling over the butler, and pointing to the trembling girl (who, perhaps, has dropped and broken a valuable serving dish – or spoken out of turn to one of the guests, a far more serious offence).

“I assume you’ll punish her for this?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Severely?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“Very good. Then take her away and deal with her. And do not spare her.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Oh, and bring her in later with the port. I’d like to check that you’ve done your job properly.”

He’d take her off to the butler’s pantry, lift her skirt and upend her over his knees. The merciless hand-spanking would be accompanied by scolding: “This is for the inconvenience you’ve caused me.” When he was done, he’d position her standing facing the wall. “Don’t move: I shall return after dessert has been served, and then I’ll punish you as the master requested.”

An underling would be sent out to cut birches, whilst dinner progressed. And afterwards, the girl would be brought into the kitchen in front of the assembled staff – for this would be an exemplary punishment. She would be instructed to bend over a large oak table, a footman holding each wrist whilst the butler laid on the birching, just as severely as had been mandated.

Later, she’d find herself  standing, mortified, before the gentlemen in the drawing room, as they raised her skirt and inspected her marks. But would the master of the house be satisfied with the punishment that had been inflicted, or would he determine that further chastisement was necessary…?

To dinner one night last week in my favourite restaurant in the lovely city of Stuttgart. It’s a stylish place; the food’s good (and diet-friendly); the beer’s cold; the waitresses…

Oh my. The waitresses. Three of them, clad head-to-toe in black. All petite, pretty, dark hair tied back. I could have watched them working for hours. Indeed, since the book I’d taken to read was dreadful, I *did* watch them work for hours, and very pleasantly distracting it was too.

I felt sorry for them, too. For the chef/proprietor would make them stay behind after the last customers and the other staff had left, and ask them for their views as to how the evening had gone. “Pretty well, I think,” one would reply, until his raised eyebrows caused them to reflect more critically. The glass dropped; the wine spilled; the incorrect order; the portion of food left to go cold before it was served; the plates uncleared; the slight squabble behind the closed kitchen door.

They’d been given a warning the previous week; they’d each been punished individually, in private, before. This time, they’d learn their lesson together, more publicly.

He’d make them strip – despite their protestations that the floor-to-ceiling windows would allow passers-by a clear view. They’d be made to kneel naked next to one another on the long oak table that runs the length of the restaurant – and he’d strap them until each was in tears.

Two of them would then be allowed to dress and leave. The third – the senior one, the one to whom he was particularly close – would be made to stay behind. She’d learn an even tougher lesson about disappointing him – a further thrashing, and then other means of teaching her discipline and obedience that would make her blush deeply and avoid eye contact with him every time she walked through the restaurant doors in the days to come…

So, what are you planning to do today?

The BBC’s “Breakfast News” ran a fascinating feature recently about a project scheduled for 12th November, whereby folks across the land are being encouraged to video whatever they get up to during the day for inclusion in a film illustrating British life.

As the presenter explained, the organisers are hoping to see “the humdrum things that go on behind the net curtains”. I was thinking about something less dull, myself. For surely no day in Britain passes without numerous girls being spanked, and any definitive documentary really ought to include an clip or two… Sadly, I’m abroad for most of the day – and lacking in female company when I do get back this evening. I do hope others will step in to submit their footage and make sure the kinky community is properly (and, indeed, improperly) represented…

I’m about to set off to run the second day of a course here in Germany, with one additional participant in the audience compared to yesterday.

See, about five minutes after we were due to start day one, a young lady appeared breathless in the room. “Hi. I’m E—-. I’m supposed to be here today, but I’m really sorry: I have to finish a document and send it out to the customer by this afternoon. I’m so sorry. I did try and call the training department on my way in, but… Anyway, is that OK?”

My answer: “Of course: client work has to take priority. Thank you so much for coming and letting me know. Good luck with the document, and we’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

My preferred reply, given that she really was extremely cute and so very apologetic: “So you’ve not managed your time properly; you’ve inconvenienced your fellow delegates; you’ve wasted the money your company’s spent on your training; and you’ve arrived here late this morning and kept us all waiting?”

I spent the rest of the day’s course pondering whether I’d have pulled out a chair and put her over my knees, or whether I’d have taken off my belt and made her bend over the conference room table. Her “please, sir, not in front of the others” would have been entirely ignored; her shudder of shame as I lowered her knickers would have evoked no sympathy. And afterwards, as she cried, I’d have made her stand bare-bottomed facing the wall next to the screen on which my slides were projected as I talked through the opening material – until her sobs subsided and I felt she’d recovered her composure  sufficiently to be allowed to head back to her office.

If I’m distracted during the course today, you now know why… Thinking of which: damn, I need to get ready to go to the client’s office. Have a nice day, everyone; I certainly intend to!