All I want for…

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At the end of a meeting on Wednesday, a client I’m unlikely to see for a couple of months left the room wishing me a Merry Christmas. I was rather shocked, even if she did so with a rather wicked grin on her face.

Later that afternoon, casually browsing online, I uncovered a rather fascinating link to what really ought to be, but obviously won’t be, in my stocking from Santa. I’ve long had fantasies about using a spanking machine to have a girl whipped, and was amazed to find one – the Spanker Machine – commercially available at a reasonable price.

I picture myself as a state officer – watching as a girl sobs as the cold, merciless strokes descend. She begs for mercy, yet the contraption offers none, metronomically meting out the pre-determined number of lashes of the ordained severity. Afterwards, I untie her; she staggers unsteadily to her feet; I make her dress, sign the punishment register; dismiss her from the punishment centre.

(Or naughty me doesn’t untie her, but takes full advantage of her vulnerability. How bad has my mind become…?!)

A family trip

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Wandering through the streets of central London between meetings.

‎Parents with their two daughters, clearly on holiday in the big city. (Why are they not at school? Half-term was last week.)

I imagine the one night in the week when the older girl is given permission to go into the town with some of the other girls staying in the hotel, on condition she doesn’t drink.

And when she returns at 4am, clearly drunk and smelling of smoke. (Tobacco? Or worse?). Finding her father waiting for her in the hotel lobby.

Being sent to bed. Told that she will be whipped harder than she has ever been whipped before. But only once she has slept, and sobered up.  And that the punishment will take into account the bad example she has shown her younger sister…

—

Oh yes, and skipping school.

The headmaster’s study, the following Monday morning. Both girls, neat in their uniform.

“I’m sure you both know my views in truancy. And I understand that you told your father that you had my approval to go away…?”

I wonder which of them would be caned first – the older or the younger…?

Not even

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“Night!” The professor looked up from his desk, waving cheerily to the young codebreaker as she gathered her belongings and headed for the door. His protegee. His favourite.

She lived in digs, close to the site. Just a short walk. Cutting across the park: still safe enough, on these dark nights.

Until the hand reached round her mouth, and pulled her to the undergrowth. Until other hands grabbed her, lifted her off the ground. Threw her roughly into the back of the waiting car, and sped off.

—

“So, what is it that goes on on the site,” they’d asked. But she wasn’t one for divulging secrets.

Not even when they slapped her across the face.

Not even when they stripped her. Touched and squeezed, teased and insulted.

Not even when they tied her to the frame and whipped her.

Not even whey they immersed her head in the bucket of icy water to bring her back to her senses.

Not even when they brought in the new girl from the hut in which she worked. The lass she’d been looking after, helping to settle. Not even when they told her that her friend would be whipped, unless she told them what they needed to know. Not even as the lash started to bring screams from the younger woman.

Not even when her friend had been dragged away. Not even when they bent her over the table, binding her tight, caning her until she writhed and pleaded.

Not even when the man moved close behind her. When she heard him unzip his trousers. When he entered her… as they taunted, and told her he’d stop if she would just be a good girl.

Not even when they untied her, and left her broken on the floor, in darkness.

—

And then the lights went on, and the professor was there. Reaching out to her. Holding her. “You’re safe. You’ve passed.”

“Passed?”

“I knew we could trust you. We just had to be sure. I’ll tell you about the new project in the morning. Congratulations: I’m so proud of you…”

The gatekeeper

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On reflection, I think I was a tad unfair to the wartime Bletchley Park girl whom I had caned in my previous post for arriving on site without her security pass.

See, she wasn’t the only one at fault, given the high security surrounding the work being carried out on the premises. Her two friends, who vouched for her? They should have known better. And as for the young WREN in the gatehouse who waived them through…

All four of them, called into the Mansion to face the site’s Commanding Officer. A lecture on the dangers of poor security. Apologies deemed insufficient in the circumstances. An example needing to be set.

“You shall each be given twenty strokes of the birch.” In the cellar. Naked. Each having to watch the other being flogged, as senior officers looked on…

 

The codebreaking girls

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A few years ago, I wrote here about a rather wonderful visit to Bletchley Park – home of WWII codebreakers. I went back a couple of weekends ago, and if anything the place impressed me even more. Mind you, in the interim, they’ve spent a fair few quid on securing some of the buildings from near-collapse, and on state-of-the-art displays.

Various fantasies were muttered sotto voce as our little group wandered round the site – given that it included vanilla company. The wooden rulers on each desk were duly noted. A room empty save for two wooden chairs was clearly where canings took place – a new young recruit made to strip in front of the officers, and touch her toes to be beaten.

And then there was the tale of one lass who’d arrived at the gatehouse one morning without her security pass. Friends had vouched for her: she’d been let in. The alternative, we imagined, would have been for them to call her commanding officer; for him to have to walk in the rain to the gatehouse; for him to confirm her identity. “My office,” he would have said, before setting off walking at speed. By the time she’d caught up, he’d have been waiting, cane in hand.

“Shut the door.”

“Please, sir: I’m sorry.”

“I won’t tolerate lax standards. Nor do I like my time being wasted. Bend over my desk, lift your skirt, and lower your knickers.”

A dozen strokes, I think. There was a war on, after all. Important that lessons were learnt…

Euphemisms

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Staying in a hotel at Heathrow for a conference in the week, I noticed that the various products in the bathroom were rather strangely named.

Anyone guess what “‎Your smoothness” actually was? Shower gel.

“Your restitution”? Shampoo.

Even more strangely: “Your whim”- a shower cap.

But then I realised the logic behind the naming madness. For sometimes one might need to phone for additional products to be shipped to one’s room, and it is so much less embarrassing for a girl to have to ask for “Your penance” than for a cane with which to be beaten. (And no, perverts, there wasn’t anything in the bedside drawer for girls to use called “Your pleasure”!)

Grade calculations

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Kay found herself in trouble recently, in a short but lovely scene. She’d taken her report card home in the week, and her guardian had been disappointed in her grades. She’d been told to expect to be punished at the weekend, in the usual way.

Said usual way wasn’t unduly severe: a hand spanking over the knee before bed, followed by six licks of the belt. But it was administered hard enough to make for a very sorry girl being tucked up under the duvet that night.

We then started speculating as to how such regimes might work. I’d imagine that a bright girl would be taking four A Levels, with “A” the highest grade for each. And most report cards also give a mark for effort: in my old school, “4” was the highest score for students applying themselves with the utmost diligence. We thought there’d be an extra score, too, for “Endeavour” – contribution to school life, conduct and so on.

The guardian would be an understanding man: he’d know he couldn’t expect perfection each time, even from such a good girl. So she would be allowed to drop three points in total, without fear of consequences. But any more? It would be one stroke for each and every point dropped – including those first three.

A4 A4 A3 A3 for her subjects, and a 4 for Endeavour. Safety.

B3 A4 A3 B3 and a 3? Six points dropped. Six strokes.

One imagines a girl’s hands shaking, as she opened her report card, and the swift mental calculations as to her fate. See how quickly you could do it:

  • C2 A3 A4 B3 3
  • A4 A4 A3 A4 3
  • C2 B2 A3 A3 2

Fun, isn’t it?

And then, of course, there might be other girls who boarded throughout the term. Punishing them when grades were awarded might not therefore be feasible. But an email to her housemaster could easily be sent:

Dear Mr Jenkins,

I was most disappointed to see Kay’s relatively poor performance reflected in her report card this week.

I wonder if you might cane her for me, to impress on her the need to be more diligent in the weeks ahead?

With grateful thanks…

Disciplinary committees

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A rather formal document received at work from a government body demanded that we:

“Describe the mechanisms you use to determine the severity of issues that arise in the normal course of business and how you determine to which formal committee they should be escalated.”

There was the real answer that the team with which I was working duly produced. And then there was the version I so wanted to write:

“We are well known for the severity of our disciplinary code. Any girl in our employment caught misbehaving will first be interviewed by her supervisor, who may punish her himself.

He also has the option of reporting matters to the Punishment Committee or directly to the Governor’s Committee. The former meets weekly, and determines the number of strokes of the cane that a young lady should receive for her misconduct. The latter convenes as when required, to review more serious incidents, and punishments are administered with the birch, in front of the miscreant’s colleagues.”

Letters from the school

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“My love: you are so sweet, so kind. I cannot wait for you to take me away from this ghastly place. I am yours xx”

—

“I cannot bear to hear of your unhappiness at that school. Meet me, tomorrow, at 6pm. Bring your things. Come away with me.”

—

“Dear Sir,

We have come into possession of correspondence between a local boy and your daughter, in which they appear to be planning to elope.

Needless to say, we have nipped their plans in the bud, but I thought I should draw the matter to your attention.

Yours,

Headmistress”

—

“Thank you so much for mentioning this issue to me. I appreciate your diligence in preventing my daughter from following such a dreadful plan. I do hope that you will beat her especially soundly, and mention to her that I shall do the same on her return home at the end of term.”

—

Tied, face down, on the cast iron bed. Spreadeagled. Pillows under her midrift, lifting her buttocks into the air. The chairman of the governors, standing to the side with the freshly cut and bound birch.

The flogging, with no mercy, until they were sure she was broken.

—

“Dear Father,

I wish to beg your forgiveness for my recent conduct. I have been very soundly punished, and that has helped me to see the error of my ways.

The Headmistress mentioned that you intend to whip me when I come home. I beg for your mercy.

Your loving daughter.”

—

“I am glad to hear that you have learnt your lesson. The merciful thing will be to thrash you as soundly for the damage you risked doing to our family’s reputation, just as the school chastised you for that which you did to theirs.”

—

“Please, my love. I can bear this place no more. Come for me this evening at 10pm: wait at the gates. I shall climb out of the window of the downstairs classroom once the rest of the school has gone to bed. I cannot wait to be with you; to be free. But please: do not write back. I fear the consequences should they intercept another letter between us xxx”

Extra coffee

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The cutest lass served me in a coffee shop yesterday – and I was kind enough not to get her into trouble.

I’d ordered two cappuccinos and some food, and had duly paid the bill. I took the snacks concerned – and her colleague then carefully prepared and handed me one cup of coffee.

I stood waiting. He looked as puzzled as I did. “I’d ordered two coffees,” I explained. Only, it seemed she’d only taken payment for one.

She was hugely apologetic, offering the second cup free. I insisted on paying. But at the same time, I was pondering the consequences for her had I accepted her generosity. The oh-so-severe manager checking the accounts at the end of the day against the number of cups served; finding a shortfall; demanding an explanation. Requiring her to stay behind after the other staff had left. Taking the well-worn plimsoll from the cupboard in the back office, and slippering her hard as she stretched over the arm one of the shop’s comfortable sofas.

Poor thing. Wasn’t she lucky I was so kind?