THE SPANKING WRITERS

The venue for the last of the many courses I ran this year for my clients was the grandest of all: very hi-tech, with a welcome area for coffee and pastries, then an entrance lobby lined with screens, before the door into the rather marvellous workshop room.

Or, in my imagination, the punishment room.

Girls would be made to strip in the holding area, before being shown through to the lobby.

Each screen would display the name of a girl, her offence, the date of her conviction, and the number of strokes of the cane to which she had been sentenced.

They would be left waiting, some standing alone, others giving one another hugs and comfort.

The screens would clear. A message would appear: “Next offender: please proceed to be punished.” The doors to the punishment room would slide open. And then the screens would clear again, before flashing up the name of the girl in question…

Whilst Emma Jane was talking to folks yesterday about some work stuff, I idly browsed the web on my phone – finding a feature in The Independent on: “English inns: Six of the best from Sussex to Yorkshire”.

Now the idea of a girl being flogged from one county to the next rather appealed – “you’ll tied to the the whipping post in the county towns from Sussex to Yorkshire.” But the article had still further inspiration, for its first recommendation was for:

The Bell at Ticehurst, East Sussex

An orchard once stood on the site of this East Sussex pub, which might explain the silver birch trees sprouting from the floorboards of the bedrooms.

Oh goodness. My interest sparked, my mind wandered. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to book a few days away,” I thought.

Now, many years ago, I wrote one of my favourite of my stories – “Sanctuary Lost” – whilst staying in Wroxall Abbey, during the final stages of its conversion from school to hotel. I reminisced, and uncovered a TripAdvisor review that seemed to echo the premise of my plot, with a girl returning to her former educational establishment:

“Not a great school and an even worse hotel!”

I went to school at Wroxall when it was an all girls boarding school. So it’s safe to say I know the place like the back of my hand. I was so excited to go back and see what had become of the old place…

But, oh, there are so many better options. My interest piqued, I duly typed in: “hotel girls school”. The Independent (on a roll, it seems) presented its six recommendations for School House Hotels last month, of which by far the best from a kinky-historical perspective in the UK appears to be in Cornwall:

The Old School Hotel, Port Isaac, Cornwall

Situated in pretty Port Isaac, the building is Grade II-listed and was first converted from a school to a hotel in the 1980s. Each of the 13 rooms has been named after a subject on the school curriculum. Guests can ponder Religious Studies in a single room; spend double French in a double; or master Biology in a king size.

But by far my favourite, as I continued to browse, was the Great John Street hotel in Manchester – less perhaps for its bedrooms (although rooms that contain “many original features of the Old School House” do appeal) than for its conference facilities.

I work in said city a fair amount, and I now soooo want to find an excuse to host a workshop in the Headmaster’s Office, or the Classrooms (“”rooms with character that can be booked during the day or evening… offering space with no distractions situated on the ground floor of the old school house”). At the very least, I think I know where I’m going to be staying next time I’m in the city!

Such a cute lass with her boyfriend, in the rather ghastly airport restaurant, at an ungodly-early hour the other morning.

No rings. Not married or engaged. Their first trip away together?

During which she will learn quite how he expects her to be a good girl. To be obedient.

To let him use her.

How he will take off his belt, a couple of days into the trip, and punish her for answering him back. How she will resent it; how she will love it.

How, when they mingle with the other hotel guests in the bar late that night, he will invite a newly-met friend to their room. “If you like her, feel free to have her.”

How he will watch. Photograph her as she is stripped, pushed onto the bed, forced to comply.

How, after the gentleman has left, he will take her arse. Roughly.

And how, once he is done, she will curl up in his arms and be told that she is loved.

To Manchester, to give a presentation. Smart suit, freshly ironed shirt – and no cufflinks. Damn!

Easy, of course, to turn it to my advantage with the audience:: “I always take a sleeves-rolled-up approach.”

And easy, of course, to imagine the same thing happening decades before. A gentleman travelling from London to the north: a potential investor in the mills, or a famous politician, perhaps? Dressing. Realising his cufflinks were missing.

Returning home the following evening. Having words with the butler about the maid responsible. “I’m sure you’ll want to whip her. But do also send her to my room once you have finished…”

Young ladies: next time you are struggling to get out of bed in the morning, why not think of this?

A boarding school girl, who’s slept through her alarm. The patrolling Housemaster finds her. Wakes her; makes her get up and bend over to touch her toes. Pulls down her pyjamas and panties. Gives her six hard strokes of the cane, and orders her to get dressed.

Five minutes later, a prefect wanders past, finding the girl crumpled on the bed in tears. “I thought Dr Jenkins told you to get up?”

“Please…  I… I am doing.”

“It doesn’t look like it to me.”

He unzips his trousers: “Well if the cane didn’t work as an incentive…”

Working at a central London conference centre the other day, I realised I’d left my phone in the coffee area when I popped along the corridor to check in on my exam candidates.

As I headed back, I pictured what might happen were I to find one of the cute lasses on the staff pocketing my handset. I’d demand to see the manager, who would be mortified. Would I like them to call the police – or might I be willing to deal with it in-house?

Picture a girl sent to stand in the corner of a spare meeting room for the half hour until my delegates had departed.

Picture her tear-stained face by the time I arrived.

Picture her over my knees. Picture her knickers coming down. Her protests and writhing as the first hard smacks made contact.

Her shame as, once she was sobbing, I made her stand – and strip, and bend tight over a conference room table.

Her howls and apologies as I whipped her with my doubled-over belt.

Then, ‎once she was broken: “That will suffice as punishment, young lady. Now: time for me to enjoy some compensation…”

Ever find yourself distracted by kinky thoughts in the theatre?

Take the musical we went to last weekend, in which the lead actress at one point danced in a rather revealing swimsuit. One imagined the rules being set out after the dress behaviour: “You obviously can’t go on stage marked. So we’ll keep a log of any misbehaviour or mistakes, and deal with matters when the run ends.” And the list would be pinned up in her dressing room, as a constant reminder.

But maybe, I thought, that was too generous. Far better, perhaps, in terms of discipline to merely punish her when needed. The shame of performing with a reddened backside from a spanking prior to the performance, or with stripes clearly visible, would surely incentivise any girl to behave well?

Then, a few nights later, I found myself at a (dire) production of a (dull) American play. At one point, a girl’s father returned home to find her out of bed, up late. In the script, he checked all was well and wished her a good night’s sleep. But how I wished the playwright had opted for the other obvious solution, in which he removed his belt…