The mentor programme

Admin Perverting reality 8 Comments

In my dream I was living in London, alone in a poky flat, not knowing a soul. I heard an announcement on the news: girls who were starting their first job in London, and had nobody to turn to for advice, could apply to join a “mentor programme”. There would be a tutorial group meeting every week, in which girls assigned to a particular mentor would share their accomplishments and bear a penalty for any misdeeds. Penalties would include corporal punishment.

Even in this surreal dream, I was a spanko. Although I didn’t particularly want to be answerable to a random mentor, this appeared to me like a great place to get spanked safely and innocently, without venturing into the scary kinky underworld.

When I arrived for the first meeting, I got chatting to other people in my group, and lots of them shared in embarrassed whispers that they were there for the same reason. Not mentoring, but spanking was the main thing that had attracted them.

Unfortunately, the dream never did get to any action, but I woke up very happy to be part of that scary underworld that I had tried so hard to avoid in my sleep.

Reform school, the sequel

Abel Perverting reality 6 Comments

The poor girl from my recent reformatory school dream came back to revisit me a few nights later. Sad to say, her plight had become still worse. After a caning for being caught awake in contravention of school rules, and another by the Headmaster for failing to return directly to her dorm, she would inevitably lie in bed in tears of abject misery.

Another girl would be moved to comfort her: she’d steal across the dorm, hold her friend tight. Only the Headmaster had continued his patrol, and would appear in the doorway.

Caught out of bed, the consequences would be inevitable: “To my study. Now.” His demeanour gave away that the caning that would follow would be especially painful.

“And as for you…” The already-punished girl would be told of his amazement that her previous thrashings that evening hadn’t cured her of her desire to misbehave. “You’ll report to the punishment wing tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”

The punishment wing, where the naughtiest girls were kept for three days at a time: where a dozen strokes were administered at eight in the morning and again at eight in the evening, each day.

Fortunately, one of the masters would take pity on the girl. He couldn’t cancel her detention in the punishment wing, but he could sneak in to give her the occasional furtive, comforting hug. And on her release a few weeks later, he could take her on as a housemaid in his own house, where cuddles and reassurance could be more readily forthcoming. The dream turned deliciously rude at this point, so I’d better stop there…

Wet whipped girls

Admin Startles 6 Comments

At Easter much attention is given in the spanking community to the Czech tradition of whipping girls for good luck. Well, in neighbouring Slovakia they have an even better idea:

Easter Monday is associated with boys pouring water over girls in Slovakia, and in Western Slovakia the tradition also includes the boys whipping the girls with thin willow branches. The tradition was that if the girls wanted to be beautiful, healthy and full of life, they must not try and avoid the water soaking or the whippings.

The Easter whips were made, and still are today, from freshly cut willow branches. It was believed that by whipping the girls with the freshly made whip, all the fertility and life powers from the willow tree would be transferred into the girl. Meanwhile, the water that was sprinkled on the girls was supposed to bring health and beauty.

Somebody must have figured out that a whipping hurts much more on wet skin.

Frankly, the tradition of giving out bags of chocolate holds much more appeal to me.

 (Thanks for the link, Sarah!)

The dreaming spires

Abel Other stuff 44 Comments

The girl at the next table at lunch in Oxford on Good Friday had stepped straight from one of my stories. Clearly a good girl: chunky hand-knitted cardigan, hemp Oxfam bag, the vegetarian option (of course). Pretty, in an understated way. She smoothed out the map of the university’s colleges, discussing the afternoon’s itinerary with proud parents: I might apply there next year, or there, or there…

Her mobile bleeped; she read the text; her father reached out his hand and took the phone from her. He read the message, smiled.

But what if he’d read a different message, from her closest friend at boarding school:

My Dad got ltr from hdmstr about caning. Intercept yr post!

She’d blush, remembering ruefully back to the final night of term earlier in the week and their painful trip to the Headmaster’s study. “Girls in the Lower Sixth should, quite frankly, know better, and I intend to make an example of you. Now, which of you would like to go first?”

Dealing with a juvenile

Admin Other stuff 11 Comments

We were driving along the other day, when we saw a white van inscribed with a logo of a company. The logo said: “Anker”.

What do you think Abel said:

a) That’s not how you spell ‘anchor’,

or

b) Look, the sign’s missing a ‘W’!

And this man is trying to pretend he’s a dignified, responsible schoolmaster. Yeah, right.

Restless in the reformatory

Abel Perverting reality 15 Comments

Haron was restless the other night – my habit of sleeping with the window open isn’t always that helpful when the north-east temperatures plunge towards freezing. I started to dream of girls at a reform school, sent to bed at an early hour. The rules would be simple: if they were caught awake after a certain time, they would be caned.

A master wandered through a dorm; too late, a girl noticed him, and pretended to close her eyes. “Report to my study,” he ordered, before continuing his inspection.

Through the chill, dark, empty corridors she crept, terrified. A caning was inevitable – her first in many months, since she’d vowed to stay clear of trouble. The memories of previous punishments came flooding back.

A long wait ensued outside his door: was his tour of the dorms taking longer than usual? Had he forgotten her?

And then, in the distance, his footsteps, drawing nearer. As he approached, she felt herself cower. He showed her in: was brisk, to the point, already fetching down the cane as he explained that she knew the rules and knew the consequences. He made her lift her nightdress, touch her toes: the six strokes were harsh across her cold, bare backside.

At this point, I woke, and whispered details of the dream to Haron. And then the story developed some more as we cuddled. The master had ordered the girl return to the dormitory without further ado. But she’d taken a detour, curled up gingerly on some bench to compose herself. The reformatory headmaster appeared around the corner. Her heart leapt.

“What are you doing here?”

She murmured a panicked explanation: she’d got into trouble; she’d been caned; she was just catching her breath.

“But this isn’t on the way back to your dorm from his study…”

“No, sir.”

“Did he tell you to go directly back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you will follow me.”

And he lead her into an empty classroom, took the cane from the cupboard, made her remove her nightdress and bend over the front desk. “Six strokes clearly weren’t sufficient to teach you the importance of obedience, young lady,” he’d say. The pain of his first cut would make the other master’s whacks feel like gentle caresses; by the time she’d taken all twelve, she’d be sobbing for forgiveness.

And this time, when it was over, she would run straight back to the dorm, clambering into her bed and pulling the sheets over her lest the other girls saw her cry.

Dishonouring Daddy

Admin Perverting reality 8 Comments

Abel saved this cutting from “Private Eye” for me: a sad story of a Labour MP’s fall from grace in the 1930:

Of course, in this story, the MP had given the tickets to his family, and thus justly had to go. In a version in my imagination, an MP with two teenage daughters only found out about them using his private rail pass when the press showed up at the door, demanding explanations.

Being a gentleman, he claimed that it was his fault, and that he had been the one to have given the tickets to the girls. He resigned at once. And then, when the smoke cleared, he gave a big sigh, took off his public face, and walked upstairs, flexing a riding crop between his hands.

There, in their separate bedrooms, the girls fidgeted, preparing their explanations, knowing that no excuse would ever be good enough.

The Greek roots

Admin Perverting reality 2 Comments

On Monday’s edition of the quiz-show “Mastermind” one of the questions concerned etymology. What word, the host enquired, originated from the Greek words for “homecoming” and “pain”?

(As an aside, I have to say I knew the second root at once, but the first one escaped me.)

The word is, of course, nostalgia: that very familiar feeling many of us feel towards days long past. The school days, for instance, or even the past eras we didn’t get to experience in person; the days of Rome, or the Victorian years. We long to go back to them, so that we might experience some, well – some pain.

It’s perfectly natural, you see. It’s in the dictionary.

In which the tawse goes missing… again

Abel Other stuff 5 Comments

One interesting side-bar to our Beamish visit was the tale of the stolen tawse. At the front of the schoolroom, behind the teacher’s desk, hung a long, black, three-tailed strap: not too ferocious-looking (compared, say, to my XH Lochgelly), but heavy enough to do the job. How authentic, I thought to myself, starting to imagine its lifetime of correcting young ladies in some north-eastern school.

Sadly, on closer inspection, it tuned out not to be an original artefact, but a rather more modern version. (They have a wonderful room elsewhere in the museum full of horse leathers. Does their saddler also turn his hand to other traditional crafts, I wonder? And if so, please can I have his address?)

Still, despite its inauthenticity, one of our party plucked up the courage to ask the ‘teacher’ about the implement. (It could never happen, but that small gleam of hope no doubt lurked in her mind: maybe, just maybe, he could be persuaded to demonstrate its use). He tugged at it – and showed that it was firmly tied in place.

“It’s our fifth this year,” he explained. “People keep stealing them.”

I was too shocked, I must confess, to say a word. The thoughts of what might happen to a young lady found to have stolen a tawse during a school trip to Beamish only came later. And I’ve not been reflecting since on how often schoolmasters’ implements must have been stolen over the years, and the consequences for the offenders once caught. Honest.

PS The idea of returning later in the year in costume, pretending to be museum staff and shocking fellow visitors, has a certain appeal: “Daddy, why is that lady lifting up her skirt and bending over? Why does that man have a stick in his hand?” “It’s called the cane: they used it to punish naughty girls in those days.”

At the Victorian workhouse

Admin Real-life spanking 19 Comments

On Saturday evening, inspired by the Victorian spirit of Beamish Museum, we girls found ourselves transforming into inhabitants of a strict workhouse.

Rapunzel became Rose, a poor orphan; Martha remained Martha, but became a young delinquent, caught pilfering biscuits from a shop, and I was Louise, and had had to be committed to the workhouse following my destitute mother (who had ended up in a different section).

All three of us had been chosen by the master of the workhouse Mr Jenkins to serve dinner to a visiting chairman of the governors, Sir Ashley Piers. We were supposed to make the best impression on the distinguished visitor, so that he continued to provide charitable support to our establishment, and perhaps even increased the funding. He was also looking to employ the best-behaved girl at his London residence. Although I felt a momentary wistful twinge, I could predict that by the end this would not be me.

Sir Ashley arrived just before the bathing hour, as we girls were lined up in front of the bathhouse, our modesty covered with nothing but the towels we were clutching. Mr Jenkins and Sir Ashley supervised our baths, making sure we cleaned ourselves properly with lukewarm water and carbolic soap, as we would be serving their food and joining them for dinner. Rose and I managed to get through the experience without invoking their wrath, but poor Martha had to endure a spanking when the gentlemen noticed her painted toenails. (A sign of bad character, I think.)

Although we were hoping to be allowed to dress right away, Sir Ashley had a surprise in store for us. He told Mr Jenkins about an interesting practice in other workhouses, where girls got a weekly dose of discipline after their baths. Apparently, a spanking a week improved overall behaviour, and made sure the girls didn’t misbehave at other times, thus earning harder punishments.

First of all, to demonstrate the technique and the necessary severity, Sir Ashley took me over his knee, and delivered a not-too-hard, but still quite stingy spanking. Although I’d done my best to dry off properly after my bath, my skin was still slightly moist, and quite cool from the chilly water, so I whimpered and wriggled quite a lot. That said, when Sir Ashley told me to stop carrying on so much, I tried hard to make a good impression and to take the discipline bravely.

Rose and Martha then received their own spankings. The girls who were not being spanked at the time had to stand in the corridor facing the wall, so I can’t say much about the severity of what they had to endure. I know, however, that Mr Jenkins tried his hand at this new style of discipline as well, and at some point a hairbrush was brought out when his palm began stinging too much to continue.

Finally, the gentlemen retreated, allowing us to dress in our workhouse uniforms. (Rapunzel had brought along three black dresses with white lacy cuffs, which looked like something Orphan Annie would wear.) We hurried downstairs to see to the meal (for the most part prepared in advance, with only some finishing touches and serving necessary).

The girls may wish to speak for themselves in the comments, but I for one went very deep into the head of Louise. She was a meek girl, deeply grateful for the chance to impress a visitor. Any sort of deliberate mischief was out of the question: I really wanted to show the workhouse in the best light, to earn the praise of the master, and to help secure the extra funding from the governor. Thus, any mistakes I made were entirely accidental, and I was genuinely grieved to have earned six strokes of the cane by the time the meal was over. To make my downfall slightly less crushing, the other two girls couldn’t help making mistakes either, so all three of us were due a caning by the end.

I was sent to fetch a cane, and to wait naked for my punishment while Martha received her own six strokes. Rose waited with me. She was visibly nervous: she hoped to be hired by Sir Ashley as a maid in his London residence, and she was worried that her mistake would hurt her chances. I was sure that this wouldn’t happen, as throughout the dinner Rose showed herself the best of the three of us, keeping up small-talk, and displaying impeccable manners, and Martha and I fumbled and stuttered. Surely, a caning wouldn’t imperil my friend’s chances.

I hated leaving her alone and shivering in the corridor, but Sir Ashley arrived to administer my punishment. He was not unduly harsh, as he must have recognised that any mistakes I’d made were not at all deliberate. The cane stung, but I was able to take it more or less bravely. Sir Ashley praised me for this, and promised that the workhouse would indeed not close, but would receive the extra funding we were all hoping for. I think, we girls had made the right impression.

We learned afterwards that Rose was indeed hired by Sir Ashley, and would be leaving with him for London the following day. This was just as well, really, as I don’t imagine Rapunzel would have wanted to stay in our house forever :)