THE SPANKING WRITERS

There are some dreams that are just kinky enough to provide nice frisson, but are otherwise completely nuts.I dreamt I was a student in Hogwards, and Lord Voldemort was in charge. There was plenty of punishment around, including caning for the most serious misbehaviour.

In this dream, I was my kinky self. I wanted to get caned.

There was, however, one catch: when you were caught at a caning offence for the second time, you were sent straight to Voldemort, and probably got killed.

Er… not hot. I’d like to lodge a complaint with the ministry of kinky dreams.

We must be corrupting Smudge, who many of you will know from her regular and lovely comments, because she and I were struck by the same startle last Friday.

I’d been heading to work when I found myself driving behind a truck with the registration number “FL06 ABC”. (Well, the final three letters weren’t ‘ABC’, before you track down the driver – but it was the thought of the flogging that caught my eye).

I’d been wondering all day where I could buy the registration “FL06 HER” for my car. And then Smudge emails me:

“I was in a car park and there was this little car parked opposite me. And its license plate’s last 3 letters were ‘oww’. And my first thought, when I realised that? ‘The driver of that car got spanked.'”

Smudge, my dear, Haron and I are duly ashamed for corrupting you. Honestly… (Haron, stop that hysterical laughter right now).

I’m speaking at a conference in Palm Springs next week*, and (as often happens before I have a major presentation to give) I find myself rewriting my speech in my sleep. New content comes and goes; pictures of the audience flash into life; I wake up and scribble down any bright ideas.

See, it’s not just kinky stuff that fills my dreams. But last night the two merged. It was no longer a conference, but a school trip, and I was the master in charge. The group was sitting round a common room in the hostel we’d rented. (I imagine days spent walking up mountains in bracing fresh air, muddy boots left in the porch, steaming mugs of tea on our return). They were all good girls – the elite of the sixth-form; good friends.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. As an argument developed, one of the girls (my favourite, as it happened) raised not only her voice but her hand, slapping her adversary.

I intervened immediately, of course, before things got out of hand. She was sent from the room to wait for me outside my room; the remaining girls were lectured as to how disappointed I was in them. I made them tidy the room, wash up their mugs, and sent them early to bed.

She’d been waiting a fair while as a result before I made it to my room: her face was already tear-stained. I took her inside: her apologies were so heartfelt that scolding was barely necessary. But “you understand that I cannot let this go unpunished” made her nod, and “you realise how fighting would be dealt with were we at school” led to a murmured “I’d be caned, sir.”

“Would you rather I informed your Housemaster on our return, or dealt with this now?”

A pause, plucking up the courage. “Now, please, sir.”

No canes here, on a school trip. I pulled up an armchair, and instructed her to lower her jeans and knickers to her ankles, and bend over my knees. The spanking was hard – very hard: if a girl was to take a caning-equivalent, then each smack had to count. She wriggled, cried, subsided. Stood afterwards, as I held her and told her that it was all over and there was nothing to worry about.

* If you happen to live in Palm Springs, or San Francisco where I’m spending a few days afterwards, and fancy some kinky company, I’d love to meet you!

I’ve been very virtuous these past few days. See, the kind folks for whom I’m running a project at the moment will quite happily lay on a taxi from my hotel to their offices and back each day. Total cost to them – around £30.Or, as the weather’s nice and I’m so considerate, I could jump on the local bus for 90p each way – and take a short stroll in the lovely sunshine.

This morning, we were joined en route by a group of schoolgirls, all smartly-dressed in neat blazers. They discussed the revision they’d done over the weekend – good girls, clearly.

Good, that is, save one of their number. For she, dear readers, took out her mobile phone (banned on school premises), uttered an astonishingly rude word to the person she called (swearing: banned), and managed to combine the immaculate uniform with several items of jewellery (banned) and make-up (banned).

One can picture her face at the start of her first lesson of the day, when she spotted that the gentleman who’d sat next to her on the bus was their new supply teacher*. He’d have to send her out of his lesson to report to her Housemaster’s study, naturally, with a carefully-written note. After all, new masters need to establish their authority, and her tearful look as she winced her way into her desk on her return from her caning would demonstrate his strict approach most clearly.

* No, I was going to an office. I doubt they’d have me as a schoolmaster.