The punishment suite

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…


Travel Advisory

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!

Their first trip

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.

The missing cufflinks

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…”

Sleeping late

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…”

“Privately disciplined”

Whilst we’re on the trail of historical whippings, here’s an interesting tale of one Sarah Priddon, alias Sally Salisbury. Born in Shrewsbury around 1690, she came to London with her parents as an infant:

Her father joined the Footguards, and lived in St Giles’s in the Fields, where he also worked as a bricklayer and a solicitor. At the age of nine Sally was apprenticed to a seamstress near Aldgate. She soon left her parents and worked as a costermonger in Covent Garden, at different seasons of the year shelling beans and peas, or selling nosegays, newspapers, matches.

Aged fifteen, she was recruited by Mother Wisebourn, a brothel keeper, and became one of the city’s most famous courtesans, ending up being “kept by a Peer in Villiers Street”. Yet she “kept in touch with the girls in the employ of Mother Wisebourn”, and was caught there in a raid by the constabulary in 1713.

Sent to Tothill Fields Bridewell, she was brought before the courts. And here’s where it gets interesting, for:

The Justice of the Peace sent instructions that she was not to receive the usual punishment, but was to be privately disciplined by himself.

Whipped, for sure. And then how else might he have dealt with her? I think we can all imagine. Damned pervert!

The case of Colonel Charteris

Dear friends, I bring you news of Colonel Charteris – whose tale I uncovered just the other day. Back in early eighteenth century London, said gentleman was notorious, and “house was no better than a brothel”:

He kept in pay some women of abandoned character, who, going to inns where the country waggons put up, used to prevail on harmless young girls to go to the colonel’s house as servants; the consequence of which was, that their ruin soon followed, and they were turned out of doors, exposed to all the miseries consequent on poverty and a loss of reputation. His agents did not confine their operations to inns, but, wherever they found a handsome girl, they endeavoured to decoy her to the colonel’s house; and, among the rest, Ann Bond fell a prey to his artifices.

The young woman in question had left her post in service as a result of illness and had taken lodgings in a private house. Once recovered, she was seen by a passer-by, who offered her employment in the family of a Colonel Harvey. Duly hired and taken to his home, her new master gave her money and clothes – and then:

offered her a purse of gold, an annuity for life, and a house, if she would lie with him; but the virtuous girl resisted the temptation; declared she would not be guilty of so base an act; that she would discharge her duty as a servant, and that her master might dismiss her if her conduct did not please him.

The following day, she overheard a visitor to the house ask for Colonel Charteris – and, recognising the notorious gentleman’s name, told the housekeeper that she was ill and must leave. She was duly taken before her master, who “ordered the servants to keep the door fast, to prevent her making her escape”, and then “suddenly seized and committed violence on her” before, when she threatened to report him, proceeding to “beat her with a horsewhip” and having her turned out of the house, complaining “that she had robbed him of thirty guineas”.

If ever there was an event waiting to be re-enacted…! “The name’s Bond. Ann Bond…”

The conference centre theft

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…”

Monday morning

A girl arrives in the office on a Monday morning. She is distracted. Tired. Her boss notices, calls her in. Asks why she isn’t concentrating. She bites her lip, mutters something about a busy weekend. Eventually, is made to explain that she was out late on the Saturday night. That she had met a boy. That she had been up late. That she had gone back to his place.

“And did you let him fuck you?”

She looks at the ground.

He grabs her hair with one hand. slaps her face hard with the other. “I asked: did you let him fuck you?”

“Yes , sir.”

And before she knows what is happening, he has her overpowered, turned around, pushed over his desk. His hands are reaching under her skirt, pulling down her knickers.

“Then perhaps you need re-focusing on being at work, not at leisure.”

He enters her, roughly, a hand reaching round to cover her mouth. He fucks her hard, pressing her into the desk. And then, suddenly, his is done, and releases her.

“Get back to your desk. If I see you daydreaming again, have no doubt that I shall cane you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And one other thing. I imagine you might see the boy again next weekend. I shall see you in here again 4.30pm on Friday, so I can remind you of the importance of focusing on work colleagues whilst you are in the office….”

Theatrical spankings

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…