The Spanking Writers

The fate of rulers in our house is a mystery. We keep buying them, and they keep vanishing into thin air. I swear, I have nothing to do with this – other than one or two supposedly shatterproof rulers that cracked in two upon meeting with my bottom, I don’t, on the whole, do anything unpleasant to rulers.

Be that as it may, Abel declared that it was time to solve the problem once and for all: we would go into a stationery shop and buy a pair of rulers: one for his desk, one for mine. From then on, neither of us would need to borrow a ruler from the other, and they would stay put. And definitely not disappear into the toy chest.

Into the shop we went. Abel disappeared down the aisle to look for something else he needed, whereas I stopped in front of the ruler display. There was plenty of choice. We weren’t buying a ruler with spanking in mind, so we didn’t need anything particularly long, or wide, or thick.

Or so I thought.

“Let’s get that one,” said Abel from behind my back. He was pointing at a particularly sturdy-looking plastic ruler. “They’re three for the price of two, you know.”

“Right. But we only need two.”

“Well. I’m sure we could find a use for an extra ruler. Don’t you agree?”

That was how we ended up with another ruler in our toy box. It practically jumped there all by itself.

…Would it be a good time to mention I have no idea what happened to the ruler that was supposed to live on my desk?

No spankings, per se, but I’m sure I won’t be alone in my fascination at my latest discovery –  a “List of Certified Reformatory Schools with name of Manager – 1866″!

Let’s pick just a few. There was the Devon & Exeter Reformatory and Refuge for Girls, Exeter, established on 26th June 1858 and managed by one W. Townsend, Esq,, of Friar’s Walk.

Mr Chapman ran the Suffolk “Industrial Home for Girls” in Ipswich, and Mr Alison looked after the girls’ reformatory at 9 Church Row, Hampstead. Or maybe it’s Charles Wilson’s “Sunderland Reformatory for Girls”, established in Tatham Street in 1860, that catches your eye. “Allesley Farm Reformatory for Girls near Coventry”. Religion must have played a major part, too, in life at the “Catholic Reformatory for Girls, Dalbeth, Glasgow” (Supervisor, Miss E Lawson).

How many of these places still exist, I wonder, and in what modern guise? Can any of you locate your neighbouring establishment (photos welcome!)? And do any of the owners of such buildings still standing, on Googling their house details and finding themselves here, fancy hiring out their premises for a weekend’s role-play?

Forget the Christmas story – the “Sufi Message of Hazrat Inayat Khan” is just my sort of religious text. A collection of his lectures from 1918-1920, it contains the following rather lovely story:

Once a slave-girl, making the bed of a Badishah, felt a wish to experience how it would feel to rest in this royal bed. The great heat of the sun, the breeze coming through the windows in this regal bedroom, the flowers and perfumes sprinkled on the ground, the beautiful fragrance of the incense burning, made her so comfortable that she fell asleep as soon as she leaned against a cushion on this bed. She fell as fast asleep as if she were in the embrace of death.

But presently the king and queen came, and they were astonished at the boldness and impudence of this slave-girl. The Badishah woke her with a stroke of a whip, and one or two more strokes followed after, in order to free the queen from all suspicions. The slave-girl got up in terror, and cried aloud, but it all ended in a smile. Her smile created more curiosity in the minds of the king and queen than her fault had done.

They asked what made her smile. She said, ‘I smiled at the thought that the comfort and joy of this bed gave me an inclination to experience its pleasure for a moment, the penalty of which is given me as these blows, and I wonder, as you have experienced the pleasure of this comfortable bed all your life, what penalty you will have to pay for this to God, the King of all kings.’

On one level, the parable could be read as a warning to those who live over-indulged lives. But I’ll go with the alternative interpretation: that a girl should always fall into bed given the opportunity, especially if she think that a whipping might result.

I’ve had a frustrating time recently browsing self-catering sites on the web, trying to find buildings that would be suitable for reformatory weekends*. The criteria? Large, well away from the road and other houses, well sound-proofed, relatively easy to get to – and affordable. Mmm. Not sure all of those go together.

It’s particular depressing as I have a very clear picture in mind of a scene. I’m supervising a group of girls who are sitting behind tables, working diligently at some mundane task designed to pass the day and break their spirit. (Sewing church kneelers, perhaps?).

But one girl stands before me, head bowed. “That, young lady, was completely unacceptable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will be birched. In front of the other girls.

“Please, sir. No…”

“Be silent.” I point to one of the other girls. “You: go to the porter and ask him for a birch. And you two – fetch the table from over there and place it in the centre of the room, just here.”

And then I turn back to the miscreant, and issue her instructions: “Whilst you, young lady, can take off your clothes and go and stand in the corner, facing the wall with your hands on your head, until I’m ready to deal with you…”

–

* Somewhat to my amusement, I found one property that described itself as suitable for “grandparents of families holidaying in the larger apartments who can enjoy their own space unmolested.” How thoughtful of them to protect their female guests from grandpapa’s wandering hands…

My team at work has been doing some work lately on contracts for our business. We’ve hired a posh lawyer to draft the agreements, and we’ve been merrily (?!) ploughing through them, checking clause-by-clause.

One particular topic provoked a little debate, so a colleague decided to Google the issue concerned. And, lo and behold, he discovered that the very same document that we were reviewing (prepared for us at considerable cost by the lawyer) was freely available on the web.

Needless to say, complaints will follow. Now, the “File Properties” in Microsoft Word shows that the document was created by a lady called Patricia. And, as my wife pointed out, young Trish might end up in rather serious trouble. As the most junior lawyer on the books, newly-qualified, she’d have been rushed off her feet. Rather than miss a deadline for drafting our document, she’d resorted to the quickest means she knew and copied it from the internet.

The matter will be dealt by her superiors with under “Any Other Business” at next week’s partners meeting. She’ll be called in and lectured on her conduct, before being punished: knickers down, skirt lifted, bent over the boardroom table whilst the senior partner administers the twelve strokes that would serve as her final warning.

Regular readers will know that M/M punishments really aren’t my thing (much as Haron finds them fascinating). That said, I can easily corrupt tales of discipline in boys’ public schools, so that schoolgirls are the ones on the receiving end.

One such example comes from “Adventues of a language traveller”, the 1998 autobiography of John Haycraft. The author describes his 1930s education, when “terror was made manifest by corporal punishment, regularly administered by the headmaster on bare bottoms.”

In his study, he had a range of instruments in order of pain: the simple strap, the razor strop, and the ‘little swish’, a short ivory cane, all used with the culprit lying bare-bottomed across the man’s knees.

More outrageous offences, such as stealing apples from the orchard at night, or trying to go home in the boot of your parents’ car, were punished with the dreaded ‘big swish’, the birch, a longer cane which he used standing up to get the necessary leverage. The number of strokes depended on the severity of the offence: two with the strap for leaving a towel in the swimming-pool, up to twelve with the big swish for exceptional offences.

Every Monday, which we called Black Monday, punishment was ritualised especially grimly. Those who had worked poorly the previous week were dealt with during Monday evening prep. Tension mounted as evening came, particularly for people who felt their week’s work had not gone well, everyone listening intently.

First came the footsteps. A classroom door opened, a voice was heard. The door closed, and two pairs of footsteps disappeared down the corridor to the headmaster’s study. The dragon had carried off its first victim.

Within minutes the footsteps came again – the wretched boy summoning the next miscreant. Sometimes several went from one class. Other rooms would be missed out altogether, and through them a great surge of relief would roll.

See: the only boy involved was the prefect calling the girls to their fate. Quite to my taste – and, I suspect, to that of most of our readers.

In 1914′s “The adventures of Kathlyn” by Harold MacGrath, our heroine is the daughter of a great hunter, Colonel Hare. She sails to Calcutta to visit him, and becomes embroiled in a complex plot in which she is required to marry some local ruler, but refuses his advances. She is “led to a cell in the palace prison, whose walls she had but a little while ago viewed in passing, and thrust inside”.

By amazing coincidence, she finds that her father is also in prison – in the very same cell!

Meanwhile, her local suitor appeared before his council of ministers, who agreed to have her flogged. But he…

… went about the matter leisurely. He ate his supper, changed his clothes and dallied in the zenana for an hour. The rascal had made a thorough study of the word “suspense”; he knew the exquisite torture of making one’s victim wait

For the time being his passion for Kathlyn had subsided. He desired above all things just than revenge for the humiliating experience in the ceil; he wanted to put pain and terror into her heart. Ah, she would be on her knees, begging, begging, and her father would struggle in vain at his shackles. Spurned; so be it. She should have a taste of his hate…

Two should hold her by the arms while the professional flogger seared the white soft back of her. She would soon come to him begging. He had been too kind. The lash of the zenana, it should bite into her soft flesh. He would break her spirit and her body together and fling her into his own zenana to let her gnaw her heart out in suspense.

Accompanied by torch bearers, servants and the professional flogger, he led the way to the cell and flung open the door triumphantly. For a moment he could not believe his eyes. She was gone, and through yonder window!

Thank goodness for the valiant officer of the raj who had rescued our damsel in distress, dear readers, for I know we would all have hated to have to read the description of her actual punishment…

I’m puzzled.

Let me explain. I had this rather lovely scene idea a while back: one girl (a maid in a big country house) with two gentlemen: the lord of the manor and his butler.

The ‘house rules’ determine that maids are spanked by the housekeeper for minor infringements and caned by me, as butler, for more serious misdemeanours. For the gravest offences, the girl in question is sent to be birched by his lordship. This only happens rarely – but earlier in the day, I’d had cause to send my favourite maid for such a flogging.

She’d returned to the servants’ quarters some half-hour later: quiet, tear-stained, contrite. And, out of politeness, I’d apologised to his lordship when I’d next seen him next for the inconvenience he’d been caused.

He’d looked puzzled – understandably so, since “I haven’t seen any of your girls today.”

We’d call her forth, of course. She’d confess that she’d hidden away, evading punishment; that her tears had been pretend.

And here lies the dilemma. A caning from me for her dishonesty would clearly be called for, in addition to the birching already due from his lordship. But which way around – cane her then birch her, or vice versa?

Thoughts welcome. And any votes for “let her go and play with the fluffy bunny rabbits in the garden instead” will be disregarded…

Sunday morning, lazing in bed. Our talk turned to reformatories.

On their admission, I suggested, the girls would be lined up facing the wall, hands on heads, and ordered to remain silent. One of their number would be selected by an officer and taken into the adjoining room; the door would be shut firmly behind.

The remaining girls would hear mutters of conversation; a shower running, perhaps; the sounds and yelps of a strapping; more words being exchanged. And then the door would open and the first inmate would retake her place in the line – only by now, naked, shivering and sore. And then the next girl would be selected…

We moved on to darker places: a line of girls, tied down, each having been soundly flogged. The senior officer would call his colleagues to attention, and invite them to select the girl of his choice. Each guard would take his reward for his exertions with the whip, the girls bound in such a position as to be unable to see who was behind them. And therefore, presumably, being unable to look any of the officers in the eye for the remainder of her sentence…

It was a dark, wet, windy morning… Walking through deserted streets to the local train station at 5.30am yesterday really was a miserable experience. Not a light in a single window; it really did seem as though I was the only person awake at such an ungodly hour.

To cheer myself up, my crook-handled umbrella caned countless imaginary girls as I strolled. (Hey, there was no-one around, OK?). And then inspiration struck. For surely this would be precisely the time at which the prefects in the local girls’ boarding school would conduct a surprise early-morning dorm inspection?

They’d burst in, unannounced, and flick on the bright lights. The girls in the room would be made to climb groggily from their beds; they’d stand watching (and trembling) as the inspection took place.

Some would be sent back to sleep, everything being in order. Others would be found guilty of minor offences – clothes strewn on the floor rather than folded neatly on their bedside chair; wearing non-regulation pyjamas. They’d be made to bend over the end of their bed for a sound whacking with the prefectorial plimsoll.

And the remaining few? Those foolish girls whose bedside tables contained stashes of illicit contraband – cigarettes, alcohol? They’d be made to put on their dressing gowns and go and wait in silence until their Housemaster arrived in his study that morning, knowing that a caning was inevitable.