The Spanking Writers

As a little festive present to our readers, here’s a new story - inspired by the gorgeous hotel room we stayed in last week in Kuala Lumpur, before we headed to the beach.

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FIVE STARS, SIX STRIPES

She’d sorted the forms, as usual, into the order he preferred. A girl’s profile came first, printed onto yellow paper: date of birth, length of service, department, grade: the basics of her existence within the hotel hierarchy. Then, neatly attached – with a paper clip, mind, never stapled – came each of the three reports that had occasioned that afternoon’s forthcoming encounter. Sorted chronologically, the details of the offence that had led to her first misconduct mark, followed by the second and the fateful third.

He liked the girls’ details presented alphabetically by surname, inside a plain blue card folder, which she placed, as always, on the leather surface of the desk in his suite. It was two in the afternoon now; he’d soon be emerging from his weekly conference call with Head Office, which rarely left him in the best of moods. The girls – four of them this week - were due outside at three. Sharp.

Georgina paused, looking down at the folder. A moment, turning into a minute. The same routine as she’d completed every week since her promotion to the post of Executive Assistant to the General Manager of the Royal International Hotel. His ‘right hand woman’, his ‘help in time of need’, his ‘number one ally’, as he described her.

Only there was one difference. For, this week, her own details were recorded within the sheaf of papers.

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A debate in the Guardian about the prevalence slipperings in Beano cartoons led to an interesting anecdote from a lady in Yorkshire:

I was slippered some 25 years ago very infrequently by my mother and was once caned on the hands at school. We had a painting compettition … and threw paint on one of our competitors creations. The 2 boys I was with got six of the best across their bottoms and I as the only girl got the cane across my hands. It taught me a lesson and I never misbehaved again at school.

The endless variety of offences committed at school never ceases to amaze me. The pupils in my scene version of this would comprise three girls, of course. But one would have to cane them on their hands, for authenticity’s sake. All I need now is someone who can offer a room that can get covered in paint. And two girls to join Haron in the competition.

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I heard a shriek from upstairs this morning, and rushed to investigate.

Abel was in the shower. I have never seen him scared of water before, so I worriedly asked what was wrong.

It appeared that the cold weather of the last few days tempted both of us to have hot baths rather than showers, and so the temperature settings on the shower remained the same as during my reformatory birching scene.

That is, not quite freezing, but still pretty damn cold.

Did he notice this before turning on the water? No, he didn’t.

Awww.

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Ever get those nights where your mind works away feverishly solving some problem or other, stopping you from sleeping? Last night was one such for me: I’ve been working on a presentation for a high-profile conference in the new year, and nothing has quite clicked. Give my subconscious time to work on it whilst asleep, though, and suddenly a wonderful concept and structure for the session fell into place.

Thus, still before five in the morning, I had to get up to scribble down my ideas, lest they be forgotten by morning. And after that, as you can guess, my mind was buzzing.

I climbed back into bed, tired but wide awake. Haron was still sleeping: naked, warm, soft, pretty. I curled myself around her, - and squeezed her backside, still sore from Sunday night’s scene. She protested, in a sleepy “ow - that hurts – do it again” kind of way.

An evil idea came into my mind as I cuddled my birched girl. The Reformatory officers would have held their early-morning meeting with the Governor. As ever, they would discuss any incidents of misconduct the previous day. Young Alice’s would be deemed to have been insolent to one of the staff: this would clearly need to be addressed. An officer would be despatched to her room: at 5 a.m. she would be woken roughly, the sheets pulled from her bed, the girl dragged to her feet.

She would be led through the corridors to the punishment room: she would be made to touch her toes, and thrashed with the heavy leather prison strap. And then, sobbing, she would be led back through to corridor to her bed, and left until the bell sounded some hours later to wake the other girls.

You might be pleased to know that I held Haron until she fell back asleep, then headed to my office to work on the presentation. Only I was distracted and started writing this instead…

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“A particularly fine bonfire the girls have made for Guy Fawkes’ night this year, Headmaster.” The two gentlemen peer from the window onto the merriment below in the school’s courtyard. “Indeed, Deputy Headmaster. I do wonder what they’ve done to make it burn with quite such unusual intensity.”
Suddenly, the Headmaster utters a disbelieving cry, pointing into the crowd of revellers: “Those girls are drinking vodka from the bottle!” He rushes to his cupboard: “I must go down and sort this out. I’ll cane the lot of them.”

But, dear readers, he finds the armoury quite bare, its usual fearsome collection of canes gone missing. The Headmaster turns back to his Deputy. And their eyes turn simultaneously back out of the window, to the blazing bonfire below…

No, Haron, don’t get any ideas…

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Now, who was it who asked for more of my stories on “Love our Lurkers” day recently? Harriet, Evie, you inspired me - with a little help from a certain dear friend, whose misbehaviour last week gave me just the idea.

You know, the folks around me on the late train from King’s Cross on Friday evening seemed so impressed at my dedication to work, as I sat typing into my laptop. If only they knew…

The perils of drink
By Abel

Interruptions to class were rare, as if the teacher’s chamber was somehow sacrosanct: “do not disturb” the abiding motto. And the girls knew by now that those occasional knocks at the door – once, twice a term? - were inevitably harbingers of doom, announcing the arrival of a prefect with a message of imminent discomfort for one of their number.

The routine was the same: “My apologies, but Mr. ……. asked me to deliver an urgent message.” And the crisp envelope would be passed over to the teacher; the audience would hang on tenterhooks as if watching some awards ceremony in reverse – no winner of a statuette being revealed here, but rather the pronouncement of which girl was destined to face a most uncomfortable encounter.

And the teacher would shake his head solemnly, scanning the expectant, nervous faces. A pause for effect? A solemn revelation of the verdict: “It appears that Miss ….. is required in her Housemaster’s study.”

Sometimes the girl would be expecting it: all eyes would have swivelled to her as the prefect entered the room. So it was true? And he was going to cane her? And she’d be nervously tidying the pile of books on her desk even before her name echoed through the room, any vain hope extinguished by the sound of the knocks.

And on other occasions?

The moment of disbelief. Did he say me? The questions – what for, or (maybe) how did he know? The burning cheeks, embarrassed at the shocked stares of her classmates. Legs turning to stone, scarcely able to carry her to the door.

That long, long walk along the empty corridors, practising her excuses and her pleas for mercy, trying not to contemplate what would happen were they to prove unsuccessful.

“Miss Barlow.”

Which rather took Jennifer aback, that Friday morning, then shocked her to the core as she realised what must have happened.

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Now you can buy a book of the best entries from "The Spanking Writers".

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A pupil from Rhode Island shows promise and a keen imagination with his homework. In uploading his assignment to a public file-sharing site, he (one presumes inadvertently) provoked some very nice scene ideas. His topic was European History; his theme the treatment of the poor; his fascinating anecdote as follows:

Regulations for the poorhouse in Suffolk County, England in 1588 demonstrate this corporal punishment. The regulations mandate that each “rogue” should be whipped twelve or 6 times, depending on age and health, merely upon entering the house. These floggings and the subsequent punishments e.g. starvation were performed in order to bring the rogues into “reasonable obedience and submission to the master of the poorhouse”.

I’m picturing a stray young girl, fleeing from her troublesome home, being apprehended by the locals and handed in to the poorhouse. She’d be stripped and washed; the master would appear to inspect her, before taking her into his private quarters to flog her before expecting her reasonable ’submission’.

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What had he said? “I want you to go to your room, so that you have some time to contemplate the magnitude of your misjudgement, before I come up to punish you.” Oh, she was contemplating, all right.

He hadn’t whipped her in three years now. Not since that summer afternoon in Devon, in the caravan, after she and Alice had both been hauled back from the pub. “After you specifically promised us not to go back.” But Alice was at Uni now. Not that she’d wish a share of this on her elder sister.

Her father’s footsteps on the stairs, undeniably. Surely she was too old? Surely he wouldn’t…. But when he entered the room, his hands were already reaching to his buckle.

I love it when ideas pop into my head with such clarity, to be polished and further perverted - even if it does then become a battle to transcribe the phrases before they float away.

I wonder what she’d done?

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This morning in bed Abel and I were lazily planning a possible scene later.

“You can be a schoolgirl who has done something really attrocious,” he said dreamily.

“Mmm-hmm. Like what?”

“Let’s say you threw stones at the Headmaster’s…”

I thought he would suggest the Head’s car, and was ready to agree. Instead, he finished the sentence:

“…the Headmaster’s cat.”

Yeah, right. I’m more likely to chuck a stone at the Headmaster himself. Or better yet, Abel, for suggesting something like that!

No imaginary animals were hurt in the writing of this post.

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I discovered a wonderful money-saving technique today, which I feel I must share with other gentlemen whose young ladies are prone to drift into clothes shops.

Haron and I were out strolling. We chanced upon a selection of stylish garments in a sale. She picked out two pairs of trousers to try on… then realised:.

“But I can’t go into a communal changing room like this.”

‘This‘, in case you were wondering, was with a freshly striped backside. Very freshly. Very striped.

So now you know. Whip your girl soundly before heading towards the stores, and your wallet will be as safe as can be.

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