I’ve just been asked to provide a reference for a former member of my team, who’s starting a new job. On her new employer’s questionnaire:
“Has the applicant undergone any disciplinary action?”
Ahem. If only they knew who they’d sent that to… Especially since the young lady in question is one of my few vanilla friends to know about our extra-curricula activities, and is herself pretty kinky (albeit sadly not with quite the same pervy interests as ours)!
Next up, in our trawl through the court archives of the Old Bailey: young Maria Gurdham, aged 18, who was punished on this day in 1799.
She’d been taken on 1 March in as a servant by John Allingham, landlord of the “Greendragon”, a pub in Hart Street (known these days as Bloomsbury Way). She came with character references “from Princes-street, Westminster.” Yet on the 18th, her new employer noticed that various items were missing from his bedroom.
“We accused her of it”, the landlord explained, but she denied it. Yet her guilt was in little doubt: the items had subsequently been recovered from the local pawnbroker, Samuel Morritt of nearby Long Acre, who swore that he had received them from young Maria.
Up to that point, of course, she must have hoped to get away with her crime. But I’m imagining the conversation playing out:
Allingham: So you still proclaim your innocence?
Maria: Of course, sir.
Allingham: Then how do my possessions come to be at Mr Morritt’s pawn shop?
Maria: I have no idea, sir. You’d have to ask him that.
Allignham: But I did. And he assures me that it was you who sold him the items in question.
Maria: Please sir. I can explain. Have mercy on me. Please don’t send me before the court.
But before the court she was taken, where she was:
indicted for feloniously stealing, two shirts, value 8s. a linen sheet, value 3s. a pair of nankeen breeches, value 3s. a dimity waistcoat, value 2s. a pair of cotton stockings, value 12d.
She was tried before the second Middlesex jury, whose names are recorded for posterity: Thomas Hill, James Ward, Joseph Welch, Matthew Long, Henry Young, Thomas Brown, William Nash, John Morgan, Joseph Leach, James Watts, Hezekiah Denby and Robert Thompson.
They found her guilty, of course, and Lord Kenyon passed sentence:
The prosecutor having consented to take her into his service again, the Court ordered her to be privately whipped , and discharged.
“Having consented to take her into his service again?”!! Do I sense that, despite her criminal ways, Mr. Allingham might have had something of a soft spot for young Maria? If so, might he have stood outside, waiting while she was whipped, before taking the sobbing, remorseful girl back to the Green Dragon to comfort her?
I’ve walked past the seventeenth-century royal Banqueting House on Whitehall numerous times, without ever detouring inside. But a cold recent morning tempted me off the street, and I immediately felt guilty for having ignored the palace for so long. The Rubens ceiling is astonishing – a true masterpiece, quite the equal of anything in the National Gallery on the opposite side of Trafalgar Square.
The curators have thoughtfully provided viewing mirrors: you peer in, and the delights of the paintings can be seen clearly without suffering a crick in the neck. And yet…
Yes, here I was, in a famous royal hall, equipped with an original birching block. I was all for hoisting Haron into position, tying her down and flogging her, when I noticed the stern guard throwing suspicious glances in our direction.
At the end of the room is the royal throne; around its edges, numerous benches. Noble girls who’d offended would be ordered to report to the court: they’d sit, nervously, awaiting their turn.
One by one, a courtier would call a name. The chosen girl would step forward, a lonely walk across the wooden floor. She’d curtsey as she presented herself to His Majesty: details of her offence would be read out. He might ask her a question, seek an explanation, before pronouncing sentence.
The fortunate ones would be despatched down the road to offer up a prayer of apology in Westminster Abbey. More likely, though, the King would award her a birching. “Three strokes” would suffice for a girl needing to be taught a memorable lesson; more often, he’d instruct the guards to award ten, twenty or more.
She’d be led across to the flogging horse, the eyes of the other girls following her. (“My turn next,” terrifying some, whilst others – sitting in agony – squirmed from the discomfort of their own recent thrashing, moments before). Her skirts would be lifted; she’d be tied tightly; a fresh bundle of rods would be selected, and the annointed punishment laid on – hard, so as not to displease His Majesty. Afterwards, she’d walk forward to the throne, and curtsey once again before retaking her seat, painfully, to observe the remainder of the morning’s proceedings.
As I say, the place is worth a visit…
Clearly there’s nothing like an online opinion poll to bring out the natural sadist who lurks within!Thanks – I think! – to all of you who contributed yesterday to deciding my fate after the alarm clock debacle. More of the outcome in a moment, but first I should say a few words about what led me to end up in such a thoroughly ignoble situation.
I really was distraught at what I’d done – I’ve never forgotten to change my clocks before! My only (and poor) defences are that I’d been away all weekend (I would normally do them before bed on the Saturday night) and, by my return on Sunday evening, I was shattered after being dirty stop-out the night before and clearly was not thinking straight. Although I’d changed my watch when I got up on Sunday, the thought of altering all my home clocks never entered my head until what turned out to be 7.33am yesterday!
The one – and only – saving grace in the whole affair was that Abel didn’t have any early morning business meetings. It’s one thing to make yourself late through your stupidity, quite another to cause someone else to be. Had that been the case then I doubt any spanking or caning could have assuaged my guilt. As it was, the tube had a rare and exquisitely-well-timed trouble-free morning and I also made it to work on time, albeit after a mad panic! Thus the dye was cast for a readers’ poll to decide my fate!
Whilst I agree with Rob and Evie that an option D – none of the above – would’ve been nice, I’m aware that equally D could have meant ALL of the above, as advocated by littlenic (cheers m’dear!) so perhaps the choice was best left as just A-C! I’m also pleased to report that Simon’s unpleasant “no supper” twist was avoided – a particularly nasty thought! In fact, there are so many potential variations of punishments that I’m sure A-Z could be achieved with the help of SW readers, but that would be something of a pain to adjudicate!
As it is, by totting up the scores and then adding in a couple of verbal votes cast by friends over dinner last night (thanks friends!), the decision of the panel was B: 60 spanks otk. I wasn’t really sure whether to feel relieved or horrified, to be honest. Had I been granted super-delegate” status as Elizabeth suggested then my main concern would’ve been to try and veto C. The thought of a sound telling-off from Abel is, I think, even scarier than a sound thrashing! Anyway, you voted for me to be spanked, so spanked I was.
Abel waited till I was ready for bed before inviting me over his knee. There was no lecture to be given and no clothing to be removed, just a bare bottom presented by a very sheepish girl. However, before he started, Abel added a pertinent little twist, to help make the punishment even more memorable: “You can count them for me, beginning with 6.34.” As in 6.34am. Neat, I had to admit. And really quite humiliating.
So Abel began to rain his hand down at a steady, unremitting pace, and I counted obediently back to him: “6.34, 6.35, 6.36, 6.37.” It wasn’t the hardest spanking he’s given me – not by some way. I’m sure it took account of how bad I already, genuinely felt over the whole affair though, and perhaps also of the particularly dire day at work I’d had since my so-timely arrival that morning.*
A good top will, after all, dispense discipline which fits both the occasion and the individual sub, as well as the crime itself. I certainly felt my spanking, but I wasn’t brutalised or traumatised by it. For some reason, the smack accompanying 6.47 was particularly nasty though! Thereafter, those which marked the quarter-hours were also made deliberately memorable! My whole bottom was covered as I counted, minute by minute, through the hour by which we were late getting up, and by the time we reached 7.33, I was well-reddened and glowing hot!
My apology, having been allowed to rise, was heartfelt, and I doubt very much that I will ever forget to change my clocks again! In fact, I suspect the onset of a certain paranoia in that department from this day forward! I hope that you will also consider my penance to be duly paid – and thank you all, readers, for the part that you played!
* To cut a long story short, I’ve been made redundant just a few weeks after starting my supposedly wonderful new job 
The girl waiting our table in a London cafe was sweet, cute and efficient, but extremely shy. Every time she came by to set down a piece of cutlery or a plate of food, she blushed and apologised with no real reason for either.”Sorry,” she would say putting down a napkin.
“I’m so sorry,” there comes a cup of coffee.
I just wanted to scream: “It’s okay! Honestly! Feeding us is fine, you don’t have to apologise!”
Just we set about demolishing our cake, a young man walked into the relatively empty cafe, and strode moodily to the bar. (In the interests of full disclosure I must say that he was extremely good-looking in an arrogant sort of way.) He showed no interest in ordering, and instead he leaned onto the counter, and stood there, silent and glaring, until our sweet waitress had a spare moment to come and talk to him. When she approached, he spoke to her in Portuguese, his tone harsh, his features frowning. She replied with a blush noticeable even from where we sat, and darted away to serve somebody with their coffee. He frowned, and waited for her to come free again.
This dance continued in front of us. She would spare a minute to talk to the guy, he would glare and growl, she would respond pleadingly, and flit away with a plate of food.
Not understanding any Portuguese, I had to supply my own story.
The moody guy was the girl’s brother. She was supposed to be at home, studying at her local university. She had always wanted to travel and see the world, but her parents said she had to finish her degree first. Then, last Christmas, she announced she was going away with her girlfriends for a few days: a short hop over the border to Spain, that was all.
Except, when the girlfriends returned, she was not with them. Shamefaced, they reported to the girl’s father that she had suspended her course at uni, and has gone travelling. None of them knew where exactly; she had carefully kept her plans to herself.
Not wishing to involve the police, the father hired a private detective, who carefully followed her trail as she travelled around Europe, taking on small jobs to keep cash coming in. Finally, after a few months, he discovered her in London, waiting tables in Soho by day and soaking up metropolitan life at night. The girl’s brother was promptly dispatched to fetch her home without raising a scandal.
And here they were: the guy, watchful and seething, and the girl, stumbling and apologising to customers through her last minutes of freedom. “Don’t try to slip away,” were her brother’s first words to her. “You’re coming home.” He put his hands on his waist, hooking his fingers into his belt, and she knew at once that she wouldn’t dare defy him.
She was going home, to face her father’s wrath.
The clocks changed at the weekend, right, costing us an hour of sleep. Everyone knows that, surely?
Dear readers, I need your help. I stayed last night at our friend Martha’s; she set her alarm for this morning, to make sure we got into London today in good time.
At 6.33 this morning, we were discussing who would use the shower first – our ever-so-polite “after you”s reflecting the sub-text of “I don’t want to go and stand under streams of water at this ungodly hour”. And then Martha went pale, before confessing: “OMG, I forgot to change the time on the alarm clock.” See, it wasn’t 6.33 – it was 7.33, already after the time at which we should have been on the tube.
But what is a gentleman to do now? I can see three options for this evening’s little discussion:
a) a traditional six of the best, with the cane
b) sixty spanks, one for each minute’s delay to our plans
c) a sound telling-off.
When we eventually reached the tube, I decided that an element of democracy (or even merely audience participation) was called for. So, dear readers, which option do you think is appropriate? I’ll tally the votes from your comments after dinner this evening, and the majority verdict will determine the young lady’s fate.
I’ve long treated psychometric tests with healthy disdain: it’s not so much that they’re inherently flawed, as that the people administering them in a work environment often don’t really seem to understand the tools that they’re using.
Now I find reason to be interested in them again. A recent post at The Headmaster’s Office blog wondered about the correlation between one’s profile in these tests and one’s tendencies in the kinky world. He and I share the same “Myers Briggs” profile (ENTJ), which made me wonder whether there was something in this. And I noticed that one of the questions in the test asks whether “You value justice higher than mercy”: kinky or wot?
So, in the interests of scientific analysis, I’m wondering – does your profile relate at all to your kinky preferences. It would be fascinating if all of the spankers here shared the same profile, and all of the spankees the opposite. The test’s here, and the most impressive site for interpreting the results, with a description of each profile type, is here – if you feel like playing, do share your results!
Hey, we could even end up nominated for this year’s Nobel Prize for Psychology for our work. (And yes, I know: that’s a very ENTJ statement).
An Easter Sunday wander along an incredibly cold Eton High Street might have been expected to inspire kinky thoughts. After all, the school is synonymous with discipline and birchings.
In the event, it was so cold that we didn’t make it as far as the College itself, turning back towards the comparative comfort of Costa Coffee. As we crossed the road, I happened to glance up – and look what I found:
So, it was deemed that the local girls would benefit from a traditional Etonian-style education, was it? One imagines that the experience must have been fully authentic – the masters strict, the birchings soundly administered at the front of the class.
Further along the street, we came across the village stocks, abandoned in front of (I kid you not) a half-timbered Chinese restaurant.
And around the corner? Could it be – I so wanted to tie Haron to what we guessed to be the whipping post, but it was far, far too cold!
This morning’s breakfast show on the BBC featured an interview with a guy introduced as an “etiquette consultant”.
“An etiquette consultant!” Abel cried at the TV set. “What is that? Who on earth pays him?” He turned to me: “How do you think he makes his living.”
“Well,” I said reasonably, “if the Queen were coming ’round for tea, you’d call him up to ask what to serve her.” (I do know full well that if the Queen arrived at our door, Abel would be calling her ‘Mrs Windsor’ and asking her to help lay the table.)
Anyway, it occurred to me right away that I could, in fact, think of a way an etiquette consultant could earn a living. All he would have to do, would be to buy a cane and set up shop as a personal tutor to ambitious young ladies.
Even as a not-too-ambitious young lady, I could see myself sitting demurely with my knees together, hands folded in my lap, conversing smoothly on non-controversial topics. I would be ever so well-behaved. I would know the consequences of any errors…
Some moments change the way you view a particular location forever. That corner where you had that cuddle with that friend. That shop where you bumped into that famous people. That site where they held the open-air event – now long-forgotten, by all except those who shouted or danced or partied at the time.
Leicester Square was added to my list of memory bookmarks last Saturday afternoon. We were wandering towards the cinema when we heard a loud shriek, and suddenly the paths were filled with hundreds of pillow-wielding combatants, filling the air with feathers.
Between my giggles, I (not surprisingly) adopted a spanko spin on events. Girls in the centre of the fight, caught on CCTV. Police studying the grainy images, cross-checking names. Copies of photographs being posted with stern letters to respectable homes in leafy suburbs. Fathers summoning daughters into their studies; skirts being lifted, belts being removed; parental disapproval being made plain, in return for the authorities’ agreement not to press charges for such a blatant breach of public order.
A later check revealed that it’d been part of World Pillow Fight Day. So there’d have been paddlings in Seattle, strappings in Sydney, and whatever they do for discipline in Shanghai. I’m just surprised that the Lowewood girls were so slow on the uptake as to miss the opportunity to join in in the dorms…